#hiring a hitman just for his sake

[pixiishi]

love this guy and his unsettling smile

ID in ALT text

[acid-ixx]

villain au concept: brutus (again &. again series)

tw: flashing lights for the video

this but with a neglected! reader who had tried to take a shot at fighting and discovering their potential. they're especially good with guns, the very weapon batman has sworn neven to use.

you were born to be a heartless killing machine— if not for your mother shielding you away from the sins she had bared, you would've been more than just a bounty or a target costing millions.

you would've been the topmost hired hitman at the age of ten, but you had only found out about your skill at that age.

simply being adopted into the family had delayed your development; turning you into a human, who yearned for love and attention yet never having it reciprocated. you had brainwashed yourself into thinking that if you could reach the same level as them then maybe, just maybe, you could stand by your family's side.

your father, batman, should've noticed the signs sooner.

that in the manor, it houses a cold blooded beast, too far gone into the world of lusting.

lusting for blood, lusting for condemnation, lusting to satiate their hunger.

the way your eyes lit up whenever you successfully hit a target from miles away, or the way your tantrums and fights with damian leads you to ripping apart practice dummies with murderous intent— they were detectives for god's sake! how could they have merely ignored the heavy thumps that cloak the night?

alfred had tried to address the sudden shift in your behavior. he had tried to point out your calculated stares during family meals, the bandages that began to litter your body, your bedroom doors now bolted; how every night the smell of blood seems thicker and more concentrated in the manor.

you didn't just grow up. hell no, you were an entirely different being.

instead of you being led to the light, you were further drawn to the darkness; the picture perfect scenario of what bruce should've been had he ever not picked himself up and fixed his ways.

but you weren't bruce, fucking wayne. no, you were (last name)'s child, and you would never forgive him for even trying to wipe out your own identity.

the neglect that had built up and the anger that was left of you— you turned it into determination; motivation for you to stealthily sneak through the batcave and steal his devices, transform it into weapons made for just for you.

yet you do not use bullets for justice nor reason just like jason, no. but you had died just like him, lost your hope for the very man who you once thought of your father.

it is all a means for you to quench your thirst.

you couldn't wait to see their faces.

maybe then they'll bond with you through fists and bruises, through gunshots and bullets.

and the best part of it all?

you don't need to ask for anymore for their attention.

not when you have all the other criminals willing to give the world in the palm of your hands.

a/n: do you know of fanon! jason who was said to be an aggressive kid? in this au, it's basically you; drowning in contempt lmao. anywaysz, this is just a concept that i randomly thought about, it's basically a "what-if" you had found out the truth sooner about your mother other than the rumors? (lore still redacted lmao) bec if you did, then the end result is this au hehe. again, in the main series there's a lot of false narratives on your part, i love utilizing the faulty narrator trope.

[agentmarvel]

center image by @/ave661

PART II

hitman!ghost x fat!reader (afab, fem) w/ arranged marriage

mdni - 18+; minors and ageless blogs will be blocked

rating: explicit

word count: 3,010

read on ao3

cw: toxic parenting, implied fatshaming, simon begins his descent into madness, so obsessive!simon

♡

It's irksome, the way Johnny fusses over Simon's bowtie. He keeps turning and twisting it in an effort to straighten it out, but the little perfectionist is just never satisfied.

“s'fine, Soap. Leave it alone.”

“Awa’ an bile yer heid. Damn thing's more crooked than yer nose, LT. Not letting ye get hitched lookin’ like a dafty.”

Simon sighs, rolling his eyes with a sly smirk. He's partial to the nickname, though neither of them served a day in their life. Well, not in the traditional sense, at least. But the semblance is a loyalty forged in sweat and blood; Johnny's been with him for years, a parting gift from Price. 

“He's a good lad, Simon - real salt of the earth type. Bit chatty, but he works as hard as his old man did. Think he'd do well with you.”

Simon thinks he truly understated the chatty bit, but as usual, was not wrong.

“Aye, there we are.” Johnny finally steps back, admiring his work. “Yer tie looks better now; shame we can fix yer ugly mug, though.”

“Oi, fuck off.”

Kyle snickers across the small room, straightening his cuff with a grin.

“Don't be such a git, mate. Not every day the big man gets married. Frankly, with a face like that,  doubted he ever would.”

“You're both fired,” Simon mutters, shaking his head as he moves towards the door.

“Where ye think yer goin'? She's not laid eyes on ye, so I dinnae think she's bolted yet.”

“Better give ‘er the chance then, yeah?”

He slips out the door with an amused hum before wiping his palms against his slacks. Never will he admit it, but a waxing sense of anxiety gnaws at his gut. It’s been years since he’s actually felt… nervous. Not since his first solo contracted kill. Treading unfamiliar territory stirs foreign feelings, but perhaps they’re not all bad ones.

To take the edge off, Simon decides to step out for a smoke. That wasn’t his intent initially, lest Soap bitch at him for disrupting the effects of his subtle cologne, but he’s willing to face the wrath for some nicotine. He pats his jacket, feeling the creased, misshapen cardboard pack in his breast pocket and looks for the nearest exit. It’s just a bit further down the hall.

But something stops him before he steps out. An argument behind another closed door.

“Of course I think you look nice! All I’m saying is that you could’ve put a bit of effort into losing more weight. I didn’t hire a top nutritionist and personal trainer just for you to not need more alterations.”

Simon recognizes that voice. Your father has an unmistakable level of condescension that drips off every word he says.

“And would it kill you to smile? It’s your wedding day, for Christ’s sake! Pretend you’re happy.”

“You’re not in any position to ask anything of me.” The response is acrimonious, venomous, and a voice that doesn’t ring any bells. It’s you. 

“Don’t you dare take that tone with me. I am your father, and you will do as I say.” The already bellicose tone swells as his voice raises, and Simon has half a mind to step in. A sense of fury burns within his chest. He should’ve known that someone with such a flagrant disregard for you behind your back would be just as derisive to your face. It’s crass at minimum, especially in the face of your own fucking child.

The only thing stopping him is the want for things to go smoothly today; a temporary ceasefire to ensure that he can fulfill his obligation.

Still, he feels a tug at his hollow heartstrings. No one deserves to be spoken down to in that manner, let alone on their wedding day. He’s certain you look stunning, and he’ll be sure to tell you as much when he finally gets to see you.

He’ll also be sure to limit contact with your father immediately after the marriage license is filed. Keeping that twat on a short leash ought to keep his beautiful bride in high spirits, yeah?

Before he can think better of his decision, Simon sees himself outside. Getting his fix does little to quell the rage stoked by his albeit unintentional eavesdropping. Before he knows it, he’s gone through half the pack and is about to light another when he gets a text from Kyle.

>>> It's time!

He takes the unlit cigarette from his lips and begrudgingly stows it away. Making his way back inside, his stride slows as he approaches the door to the bridal suite. It's partially open, and from what he can see, your father is conspicuously absent. You remain, however. 

It's hard to fathom how a man could be so cruel to such a creature of allure. In the most fleeting glance as he passes by, Simon's struck with a gravitational pull. You're the moon, he's the tide. At that moment, he wants nothing more than to turn back. He wants to make his presence known and promise you'll never face another day of derision after today. You'll never endure another vile word. A painful, gruesome death would befall anyone who treated you so disgracefully from this moment on. In that singular frame, Simon knows he'd break John's rules for you. He’d break his own rules for you. 

And he's never even spoken to you.

♡

Johnny's waiting for him just a few doors down. As Simon approaches, he sees Johnny’s nose wrinkle.

“Och! Ye smell like the alley behind a fuckin’ pub, ye reprobate. C'mere, ye fuckin’ oaf.”

As predicted, Simon supposes.

It's a quick fix, and Johnny rushes him off to the altar. Simon adjusts his jacket, buttoning it properly before taking a deep breath and pushing ahead. The room goes silent as several dozen eyes abandon their previous gazes to watch him. His confidence doesn’t waver outwardly. There’s no room for that. He keeps his eyes forward as he approaches the pulpit. A familiar face awaits him there in a fresh-pressed three-piece.

“Didn’t know you did weddings,” he laughs, low and clipped.

“Do funerals, too, if you know anyone in need,” John Price hums back with a grin. Simon offers a hand, one Price accepts with a quick, firm shake. “Good to see you, my boy. Been too long.”

“Not long enough if your chin hasn’t caught up with your chops yet.”

“Glad to see time hasn’t dulled your sense of humor.” It’s a dry response, but the creases at the corners of his eyes give away his amusement.

Idly, they chat, waxing philosophical to pass the time. Periodically, John checks his watch and looks into the balcony, but he doesn’t miss a single word Simon utters. Simon’s seen this before; something isn’t quite right, and Price is trying to suss out precisely what it is.

The door at the back of the chapel opens, and a small woman with wiry hair rushes up the aisle as fast as her little legs could carry her without breaking into a jog. She clambers the quartet of steps, looking a bit worse for wear. Sweat prickles her brow, her sunken eyes seeming to recede with each movement. John raises an eyebrow as if to ask her if she’s okay, but she ignores the unspoken concern.

“So sorry to keep you waiting, John. Bride had a little, eh, mishap, but we’re ready to begin.”

Simon opens his mouth to demand more detail, but Price shoots him a pointed look, the aim to keep the dog from barking as he reassures her, “Perfectly fine, Doris. Is the young lady alright?”

“Quite. She's just had a bit of a rocky morning. Nerves and all.”

She shrugs with a timid smile, like that'll placate the intense look of defensiveness on Simon's usually stoic face. He knows she's not being entirely truthful, but to whose benefit? 

Price gives her a curt nod and offers his arm to usher her to her seat. Her frail fingers curl around his elbow, blue veins protruding like a web of thread unspooled. She smiles at Simon sympathetically. They descend the short few steps in stagger, and he can’t help but wonder what it is that she knows that he doesn’t.

It doesn’t matter, he decides. After today, none of this really matters. The setting is a mere formality, born of a desire for flamboyancy and extravagance, neither of which have ever been in Simon’s wheelhouse. His preference for something simple and quiet was aggressively overruled from the start.

His eyes drift over the observers that casually mill about the pews. Only one bears any familiarity, the one patting an old woman’s hand before turning back towards the pulpit, while the rest look more like faceless mannequins, nondescript in the forward echoes of memory. 

John takes his place beside Simon, asking under his breath in close proximity, “Are you ready?”

Simon nods, folding his hands together in front of him and adjusting his stance to face the doors at the back of the aisle. In his periphery, he sees Price signal the woman who sits at the piano. She begins to play something Simon doesn’t recognize. Immediately, those stark moths flood to their seats like a bright bulb.

The doors open after a few measures, a pair of well-dressed ushers securing them in position. Shortly, the two pairs of bridesmaids and groomsmen enter, timely and in sequence. The young women accompanied by Simon’s men are both bright-eyed and all smiles, but the air of wariness is not lost on anyone keen enough to notice. Circumstantially, this wedding is dubious at best, and if they’re close enough for you to ask them to join the wedding party, then they’re close enough to know the truth.

He’s under no illusion that you’re an overtly willing participant in any of this. You were blindsided. Out of the blue - no warning, no inkling - being told over dinner that your father is not the man you always believed him to be, that you’ve been promised to a stranger to improve business prospects, that you’re seen as a pawn rather than a person. Simon feels vaguely guilty for the turmoil, but seeing the lack of consideration for you truncates it. You’ll be better off by his side. That’s not the fanatical part of his brain speaking; it’s factual. 

When he hears the music change from a simple, tedious tune to a melodic version of the traditional bridal march, reality pulls him back into his body. His gaze locks on the doorway. For the first time - the first real time - he gets to see you.

You look god damn gorgeous. There’s no other way to describe it.

The dress is bright white, almost blinding. Crystalline and pearl accents around the neck and waist lines reflect sun rays from the windows, giving you an ethereal glow. Delicate charmeuse drapes some of your curves while tulle hides others (much to his dismay). Simon swears the halo above your perfectly styled hair isn’t a trick of the light. You look like a fucking angel - his angel.

His heart is racing, raging against the cage of his ribs like the bars of a prison cell. It wants to escape, break free and put itself in your hands. The pace of his breathing has quickened, palms beginning to sweat, and a foreign euphoria falls over him like mist. His lips curl into the smallest expression of joy, barely detectable, and John nudges him with his elbow.

“Congratulations, my boy. She’s a beauty.”

A sense of pride swells in his chest at that.

Halfway down the aisle, you finally look up at Simon. In the span of seconds, your expression rolls through a series of emotions; bitter, then a mite of surprise, confusion… then admiration and ire.

You take on a more timid look as you approach, though, fingers wrapped loosely around the inside of your father’s elbow. Despite the narrowness of the aisle, you’re still positioned as far away from him as you can be. The anger is palpable, rolling off you in waves. Just beneath the surface, an indeterminable despair. You don’t want to be here, don’t want to be anywhere near that bastard or Simon himself. He may not have gotten to know you in the traditional sense, but he knows human behavior all too well.

You’re hurt. Betrayed. Defiant.

The iniquity of it all gnaws at his bones as he extends a hand to you. He watches your snake of a father wrenches your wrist with a hollow smile to pull you closer before taking your fingers in his with a brutish grip.

“Do you give this woman to be married to this man?” Price asks, an obscure grit of disapproval at the display thickening his voice.

“I do,” your father answers, tugging your arm forward in an offering of your hand.

Simon takes it gently, savoring the feeling of your soft, manicured fingers sliding across his rough, calloused palm. You lift the hem of your dress with your free hand, taking each step like it’ll delay the inevitable. There’s a tremble in your touch, undoubtedly apprehensive, uncertain, scared.

When you’re settled on the top step, you glance at your father with pleading eyes. His expression is stern and hardened. He mouths an inaudible warning before turning to take his seat, and Simon swears he sees the last shreds of your stubborn will collapse. 

Quietly, you hand your bouquet to the bridesmaid just behind you before placing your other hand into Simon’s waiting one. Tears spring up in your eyes, and he gives you the softest squeeze.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers so softly that even Price almost misses it. Your eyes shoot up to his. “Let’s just get through this, yeah? We can talk about everything when we don’t have an audience.”

You nod.

♡

It all passes in a haze, like Simon’s somehow running on autopilot while still autonomous in part. Both your vows and his were written by the wedding planner with significant input from your parents. An effort to hide the clandestine nature of the nuptials, he supposes. He recites his from recall, trying to place emphasis where needed like code. Yours, however, have him rapt. While he knows the words are not your own, something about hearing you profess your love ignites a spark within him. Hell, he nearly misses his cue for the ring because he’s so focused on absorbing your presence, memorizing every detail of the way you look right now.

One thing snaps him from his infatuated stupor: “You may now kiss the bride.”

He eyes you warily, seeking any sign of discomfort. There are no sirens sounding, no postings of danger, no flashing warning lights. You’ve resigned yourself to the moment’s arrival, and Simon does not hesitate. His hands curl around the roundness of your cheeks, slotting you into his palms like you were made to fit. The tilt of his head falls opposite yours. 

Slowly, he leans forward. Leisurely so as not to alarm you. Your breathing hitches just a hair as he closes in. The tips of your fingers settle against his chest as he reels you closer. His lips barely brush yours, a hint of strawberry as your gloss transfers in brief contact, and you draw him nearer until you reconnect.

It consumes him wholly now, the spark, engulfing his entire being. Flames of desire lick up the base of his spine, rising until your fingerprints are blistering his skin. He’s melting into you, embers glittering as they rise up and away until he’s nothing more than ash, staining every inch of you he may ever touch with a permanent marking that can’t be scrubbed away. Your name is branded on his chest, now and forever. In every way, he is yours.

Price is kind enough to wait until the kiss ends to formally announce the departure of Mr. and Mrs. Simon Riley with a reminder that a reception will occur at a later date. Simon takes your hand in his and briskly leads you back down the aisle, grateful for the guise of a honeymoon flight to stave off a night of questioning and awkwardness.

It’s not a honeymoon that awaits, but rather a lengthy flight back to Manchester. Movers cleared out your apartment this morning, carting it to the tarmac to load. Another crew will be waiting to unload it the moment you touch down.

Simon hopes you’ll be able to get some rest during the flight. You needn’t lift a finger, don’t worry; he’s just concerned for the dark circles hidden under your make-up, the torn bits of skin around your nails, the way your voice rings unsteady and uneven in the moments you’re alone with him.

It’s understandable that you don’t trust him yet. You don’t know him quite as intimately as he knows you. You’re afraid, unsure of what comes next. The life you knew is in upheaval, disrupted by years of lies and deceit. You don’t know what’s real anymore. You doubt everything. Who knew the truth and didn’t tell you? Are your friends even really your friends? Did your parents ever love you, or were you always just a puppet? The strings are too tangled to separate at this point, so you might as well accept your fate and cut them.

You sob into his chest, tears soaking through his white button down. It’s taken so much out of you, hasn’t it? And now you’re here, spilling your guts to a man you don’t know as he holds you, dutifully and steadfast.

One more hour, and you’ll be away from all of this. He won’t lie to you, he won’t hide things from you. You’ll never have to question yourself or the people around you again. You’re getting the life you deserve now.

It’s okay to trust him, sweet girl. Tell him all your secrets, let him in, let him live in your skin, burrow deep in your mind. Simon will keep you safe. At any cost.

part iii

[almacambiondaughterofsaleos]

From Workplace Comedy About Hired Hitman From Hell To Stolas Drama Show

Seriously, Stolitz is basically like Brittney from Smiling Friends who has everything changed for her sake because of the head's biases (but in boss's case he was being brainwashed. However, in Vivziepop case she just fell too in love with him that she basically turned what could have been an interesting wacky workplace comedy about IMP into this melodrama everyone is tired of and wishes could end. It doesn't help that like Brittney Stolas is a selfish pos who doesn't care who he hurts as long as he gets what he wants and is offended when someone calls him out on his questionable behavior.

Where Brittney is supposed to be a villain, Stolas is supposed to be seen as a sweet bean boy who really is good at heart despite all evidence to the contrary. Again due to being the creator's pet nothing ever in the long run will make him suffer for his actions like in "Full Moon" where the narrative wants Blitzo to get more of the blame even though Stolas started this in the first place and expects to get rewarded for being such a "nice guy". You could almost call him a Gary Stu by the way he sucks up the plot to cater to himself and no one else. And in the end he will make this show crash hard or even harder than Star vs did.

[gayhorrorsans]

THIS WAS MADE ABOUT 5 MONTHS AGO, MY WRITNG IS BETTER NOW. I HAVE NOT PROOF-READ OR EDITED THIS. IT WILL BE CRINGEY. SORRY

Initially requested by @dustcrumbs

tw for implied suicide, injury, unrequited love, homophobia and potentially more. Reader discretion is advised

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

Love would never work. That's what Phantom Papyrus always told Dust. 'What's the point in trying when no one will love you.' At first it was whatever, Dust coped fine. However the relentless bashing, the constant mentioning that you weren't even worthy of as much as 'Hello' or 'How are you?' hurt. Like being beat across the head with a baseball bat. And this didn't stop, it never did. Even after Dust met Nightmare. It got worse. Any positive emotion Dust felt to anyone, something as little as respect, his brother would berate him for. That's why Dust never talked. He was always having someone in his ear constantly. Calling him every profanity under the sun. Nothing could help. No medication in the world would keep him productive whilst eliminating his brother. He refused to get rid of the scarf, as much as it hurt him it was the only thing that helped him hang on. 

With the addition of Killer the group felt more like a group instead of just a sort of hitman for hire. He, Killer and Nightmare. Killer was the opposite of Dust in some ways. He was talkative, sometimes too talkative. Dust never cared, he'd just let Killer go on. Sometimes he would flirt for the sake of it. An emotionless being had no clue how much his words would impact someone like Dust. From this point Papyrus had only been calling him mean names, and making fun of him, lecturing him as to how no one to ever exist would ever love him. Dust hadn't said a word to Papyrus since a year after the human stopped RESETing. After Dust read upon schizophrenia during his endless time alone he learnt not to antagonize the hallucinations. Whatever, Dust dealt with it in any way possible. If listening to Killer babble on about whatever made him happy he'd do it. It gave him something to focus on besides the red scarf screaming the same things at him. 

With Nightmare and Killer it never really mattered, he had no attraction to them. After Cross joined, Dust had a lot more of Papyrus screaming at him. Nearly 24 hours a day he was moments from tears. Not because the insults upset him. Not because the fact it was Papyrus. But because it was annoying. Imagine trying to sleep, not being able to because all you hear is constant speaking, screaming in your ear all the time. It would never stop. Twenty-Four hours a day. Seven days a week. It got no better when Error became a sort-of member. Papyrus only got worse. The more time he spent around men, the more Papyrus acted up. Whenever he went out alone, or was around some kind of genderbent AU, Papyrus never spoke. It annoyed Dust, what was so different about them? He had a suspicion Papyrus didn't like homosexuality in any way for a while, but had no explicit proof, nor did he have any proof at all still. He had no evidence to back it up. Plus, he still refused to burn the scarf.

The final member joined. Horror. Dust wasn't there when Horror entered for the first time. Nor was he there the day after. But the third day in he was eating breakfast. Papyrus was being quiet. His soul was calm. It was very early after all, before Nightmare would even leave his room. Then he looked up, seeing a larger skeleton, at least a foot taller than him, maybe two, who easily weighed 5 times Dust's size, was making a coffee. His back turned to Dust. Dust's soul skipped a beat. He was enamoured, no, he was. He was. In love. Horror was, physically sculpted. Strong, built, and looked like he could knock Dust out in a second. With every strength comes a weakness of course, Dust was aware that Horror had quite weak magic, barely being able to use bone attacks, with most of his magic going to teleportation and keeping his body alive.

Horror hadn't noticed Dust's stare. He was still waiting for the kettle to boil. Dust immediately pulled the tassels of his hoodie, hiding his face from Horror and anyone who may walk in. He was, silently hyperventilating. His face bright with purple, a deep mauve. Speckled with little bits of dark purple glitter. Like freckles. Each monsters pattern was unique, Dust's wasn't anything special, but still pretty. As he tried to manage the speed of his soul, Papyrus caught on to what was happening. Safe to say he wasn't pleased. But Dust managed to zone him out as Horror turned around with his coffee and sat down. Dust managed to calm down enough to where the purple had faded to a very light dusting, it could be tossed up to him being embarrassed about meeting someone new.

Horror spoke first, stirring his coffee before leaning back and placing the stirrer back on the coffee set. "So, Dust? Murder?... given couple names... f'er you." He spoke slowly and in small bits, easier to process. Dust didn't ask why, nor bothered thinking about it much. He just loved the way that Horror spoke, mesmerising. Everything from his accent, a deep rustic sounding. Not like Dust used to sound. The two clearly had different surroundings after their timeline. He spoke far deeper than Dust, and Dust had a deep voice. Horror was similar to Nightmare in how he spoke, without the distortion of Nightmares voice. Horror was far less formal, colloquialised terms or contractions were stuff that he seemed to used often. "Either. M-mostly address myself as Dust. Murder's more a... formal name." Dust stuttered, he silently cursed himself. How could he just embarrass himself in front of the hottest hunk he has ever met. He hoped the other wouldn't notice. Horror was just staring at his coffee before Dust spoke, but stared at his eyes, morning eyes. Horror had just woken up not too long ago. He was still tired, but the look he gave Dust made him almost squeal like he fanboying over this man. He controlled himself just barely, pressing his legs together to try use some of his energy without Horror seeing.  "Mm. Murder... Nice ring to it." He smiled, taking a small sip of his drink again, looking back at Dust. "Dust... use that then.... f'er now." He chuckled a bit, causing Dust to have to press his fists together under the table, desperately trying to distract himself and not make some embarrassing sound or giggle that would make him sound creepy. Oh God, what if Horror thought he was creepy? Or weird? What would he do? He tried to not focus on that, instead attempting to smile at Horror, failing miserably, his face was still covered in that shadow. "Mm? Early... you go bed?" Horror gave him a reason to excuse himself, Dust nodded, apologising and walked to his room, running when he was out of earshot of the kitchen. He sat down in his room, locking the door and panting as he sat down on his bed. "Pathetic. You've fallen for someone that easily." His brother started to speak. Papyrus clearly didn't approve of the idea. "It's... he's different. Just stay out of it." Dust actually replied to his Papyrus, for the first time in years. He shouldn't have really. That let Papyrus know that this got to Dust. "A fucking man no less. You know you're a man too? Or did you forget that too." Papyrus laughed at himself, Dust didn't entertain it. "I like him. Shut your fat fucking mouth and stay out of it." Even 2 weeks ago Dust would have never dreamed of insulting any, never mind his own, Papyrus.

"Oh I see how it is. You prefer him over me? Let me guess you won't kill him will you. Well remember why you joined here. To get EXP." "No. That's not why I joined." Dust held his head, his breathing getting faster, he was wishing he never responded to Papyrus. He grabbed the scarf and threw it on the floor, rubbing it into the ground under his shoe.

"I try to help you and you ignore me. They will betray you Sans. You're just some low level, nothing faggot." Dust froze. "What." Phantom repeated himself. "I said. I try to help you and you ignore me. They will betray you Sans. You're just some low level, nothing faggot."

Dust stood up and grabbed the scarf. He marched out, unlocking the door and leaving the castle. He walked past Horror who was still drinking his coffee and outside where the group gathered for a fire every now and again. He poured some gasoline onto the scarf, and lit a piece of string which led to it. In a few seconds. The scarf went bursting up in flames. Causing Dust to squint slightly. He walked back a bit as he heard Papyrus scream, slowly. Very slowly, the screams faded. Then silence. He turned around and nearly fell backwards. Stepping back as he had just walked into Horror. How the fuck did he get there without Dust realising? "O-oh- s-sorry!" He apologised. Horror shook his head and held out a single buttercup to Dust. It was tiny in the giants hand. Dust took a moment to understand what was going on, the world began to shake as he heard a laugh. 

"You really thought you could get rid of me that easily? Your own brother Sans." Phantom floated behind Horror, the giant not knowing because it was a hallucination.  Dust immediately bolted past Horror, running away. Horror looked back to see him gone. The brute frowned. His first attempt at showing affection ruined in a mere instant. He teleported back to his own room and gently placed the buttercup in some powder, then some water to grow some roots. At least the plant could live on.

Dust immediately went back to his room. "Why. Won't you. Leave me. Alone." Phantom laughed at that. "I won't let my brother die due to his own poor choices."

Dust tossed a knife in the direction of Papyrus, the knife sticking itself in the wall. He ignored him. Tried to ignore him. He napped, something he rarely did these days. Papyrus screaming at him to stop being lazy and go get EXP. Dust managed to zone it out. Until he couldn't. Nightmare told Horror to go get Dust for dinner, and Horror turned up outside his door. Knocking.

Knocking.

A set of knocks later Horror groaned, he wasn't so gentle this time, practically punching the door, sending a vibration all through Dust's room (and a very loud noise too). That woke Dust up. Just as Dust was about to complain he realised who it was. He got up and exited the room. "Sorry... was asleep." Horror nodded, letting Dust walk in front of him. It was a long walk from where Dust was to the kitchen. Horror paused Dust, holding his jacket with a finger. He could tell Dust was on edge. He crouched down slightly and held his arms out to him. Just a hug, nothing more.

Dust didn't respond nicely. Papyrus' words from earlier really got to him. He, although very pathetically, pushed Horror. Horror didn't move an inch, but Dust ran after he pushed Horror, teleporting to the kitchen as soon as he could. Horror shrugged, walking to the kitchen at his own pace. He did question why though. Why was Dust acting like that? He seemed nice this morning, why was he all angry and moody. Had he done something? Maybe it was the buttercup he had given him. Had it offended him? He wanted to apologise, not over dinner though. The frail skeleton looked like he could faint any minute when Horror saw him. It didn't matter now. Horror approached the kitchen and leaned into the room, Dust was shaking on his stool. The others weren't looking at the moment. Horror went up to him. "'m sorry." He mumbled, crouching near him, pretending to pick something up off the floor. 

Dust barely responded, simply shuffling a bit. No verbal confirmation of forgiveness came from him. Horror didn't need to apologise, and he didn't even tell him that. Dust was being warped and shifted by Papyrus without even realising. Horror shrugged. "Don't getcha." He stated, grabbing his food and walking away. He didn't lose anything he felt for Dust. But the tiny skeleton was being annoying to him. So he just left.

Dust was shaking. He had just upset Horror. He didn't know how to feel. The world was so busy, colours. Bright colours. The kitchen red and blue. Indigo, violet. Night time sky. Bright. Happy. Joy. Yeah. That's right. Joy. Levelling up. Dust was now faceplanted on the table, giggling to himself, to anyone else he looked creepy, but he was seeing everything. Experiences had become sort of 3rd person. He felt like he wasn't in his own body, seeing someone play out his life. Watching them make choices. He watched as he faded in and out of consciousness, barely able to breathe as he made choking noises. The extremely loud noises drew the attention of the others, who managed to shake him back to reality. Not without difficulty. It was like he had overdosed on something, had withdrawals. He hadn't taken anything. What was it. Was he just that fucked up mentally?

He thanked the others for their kindness, apologising as he stood up and went to his room. The world was dull to him now, even the others, their normal brightly coloured eyes, or in the case of killer, his red knives he carried, were dull. Not as in the sharpness of the knives, the colour. They seemed more pale or more dark. It was truly hard to describe, but Dust wasn't sure what it was anyway. He tried to not focus on how bad he was getting by climbing back into bed. Heading back to sleep at a more reasonable time.

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

Horror hadn't slept. Not because he couldn't, but because he normally doesn't sleep for very long, and the night prior he had slept for about 3 times as long as he normally does. He had gone out in the night to an AU he quite liked visiting. Farmtale. He was good friends with the Sans from their. He had paid him in advance for a special bouquet of purple iris flowers, verbana and asters. It was expensive, and beautiful. Horror gave Farm a hug, before leaving. Tipping him an extra bit before he did. He returned back to the castle and placed them in some water with some auxins to propagate root growth. Then he returned to his own room to grab the buttercup, which due to the magical nature of the auxins - mixed with some magic of course- had already grown roots. 

Nightmare had a garden near the castle. A little greenhouse in it too. He had given Horror permission to grow any flowers he wanted, so long as they were dull or dark colours. Purples and reds were fine, but the yellow buttercup would have broken the rules. So he used a small amount of plant-safe food dye, and splashed red onto it, making it appear to be a blood splattered plant. He would of course inform Nightmare as soon as he awoke to ask if it was fine, but at the moment, the little buttercup sat in the soil and it was pretty.

Horror had also prepared a new gift, that would arrive in the early morning, around 9-10am. He was unsure as to why, he felt this way towards Dust. Someone who clearly wasn't interested, nor even like Horror. Every time they spoke after the first interaction was barely anything. Not to mention they hadn't met a long time ago, it was only the second day. Horror was, somehow, determined to try and win Dust. Although deep down he knew, it wouldn't work. 

He sat in the kitchen, the bouquet of flowers in front of him. He waited for Dust. He presumed the skeleton would expect him to be up at a similar time as the day before. So Horror believed Dust would try come an hour before to get his breakfast. And so Horror waited. And he was right. He was sat there with his coffee as Dust walked in. "Morn' Murder." 

Dust froze up. Despite him allowing Horror to use the name, it still shocked him. Not to mention how he didn't think Horror would even be up. He tried to ignore him, giving in further to his Papyrus. He grabbed some bread and toasted it. He buttered it and sat down at the opposite corner of the table from Horror. Not even looking at him. He knew Horror could snap his neck if he wanted to. He should be thanking him, but again, didn't.

Horror slid the flowers to Dust, smiling as he drank his coffee, finishing it. He watched as the other looked at the flowers, examining them. Then finishing his toast. Horror had placed the flowers in a beautiful vase. It looked as if it came from royalty. It wouldn't be surprising to hear it to be one of Nightmare's old antiques. Dust grabbed it. And threw it back at Horror. Hitting him square in the forehead with it, the glass shattered. Horror didn't move for a moment. Dust froze as well. Horror moved his eyes to face Dust. And Dust was gone. Teleported away immediately. Horror twitched his skull a bit, groaning as he reached his hand deep into his skull through his eye, grabbing a few glass shards that had landed in there. He felt his eye go a bit fuzzy. The glass must have hit and cut it. He stood up and started to clean up the mess. He grabbed a sweeping brush and collected all the glass into a pile, then shovelled it into the bin, taking the bin outside and placing into the larger outdoor bin they had. They would then take that to whatever AU to dump it there or recycle it. But not now. Horror walked back inside and finished cleaning. He looked at the bouquet and sighed. Whatever. He grabbed it and went back to Farmtale.

He walked into Farm's barn, despite it being 3am in that AU. He went to Farm's room, knocked and entered. Farm slept very little through the night anyway. He silently gave Farm the bouquet, handing him another small amount of money to apologise for wasting his time. He then left  after immediately, not allowing Farm to say anything. He finished wiping down and drying any water that was on the floor or counter and it looked like nothing had happened. Horror then walked towards the garden again. He sat down, catching a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the greenhouse. He looked and, didn't react much verbally, but he was seething. Dust had shattered a bit more of his skull, which wasn't the main thing that annoyed him. It was now, the crack has expanded so much, it was now connected to his eye socket. That's probably why Dust ran away so fast. 

He kept his cool, not expressing his anger in any way. He watched the plants move about in the wind a bit and smiled. When he was angry back in Horrortale, he often went to Farm. He did work, but when Farm screamed at him to stop working - or else he would be drastically overworked - he would sit down outside, often with the flowers. Red spider lilies. Farm told him how they signified death to some people, Chrysanthemums too. Horror remembered always questioning him, they were all such pretty flowers. How could someone assign such horrible attributes to a flower? It didn't make sense to Horror, but they fit with Nightmares garden. And they were more than beautiful. They fit so well. Horror looked more out of place than they did. He stayed there for a few hours before he heard someone shout his name. He got up and packed away the chair, folding it up and sliding it into the greenhouse. He slowly followed the sound to the kitchen. 

Dust and the others were sat down, everyone besides Dust were eating breakfast. As Horror walked in, everyone was caught staring at him, besides Dust. Horror looked badass, but that doesn't make a difference when he should have died about 10 times by now with how large his crack had grown. He was flooded with multiple questions, he shushed everyone, saying he would explain to Nightmare shortly, and to everyone else when he saw fit. He turned to Dust after everyone had calmed down slightly, seeing him have a look of sheer horror on his face. Horror shrugged, turning back to the front door as he checked the time, the delivery was due, he waited outside for the delivery. Mail Sans, a nice sans, quite generous and laid back. One of the only people who wasn't scared to deliver things to places like Dreamtale or even Dusttale. Horror tipped him, not a custom to do with delivery services but Horror felt like it. And with how this next thing would go, he wanted to at least have someone happy.

He walked inside and waited for everyone to leave besides Dust. He sat down at the table. He handed the parcel over to him.

Dust was confused, why was he still trying. He didn't like this fool... he didn't... he did. No. He didn't of course he didn't. He wasn't gay. He wasn't... no. Horror wasn't good enough for him. He knew that now. Horror was pathetic, cheap EXP even someone like Dust could feel bad for. Despite that, he felt like... he didn't know. But every time Dust came close to feeling sympathy for Horror, or even love. Papyrus would speak, quickly changing Dust's mind. Like a puppet. He opened the box, finding a knife set. It was, beautiful. Some of the most expensive, high quality knives he had ever laid his eyes upon. There was 5 sets of knives. One was for Dust, it even had a little personalised note on top. A cute little illustration of him and Horror. Each of them had one, but his was dead centre and looked to prettiest. Dust looked at it and opened the knife set for himself. Inside were 8 knives. From small knives, to a decent sized knife Dust would most likely use, to a bread knife and a carving knife. Expensive. Each knife looked pristine, easily worth £150 each. Dust examined the knife. And in an almost robotic motion, felt the handle, grabbed it, and threw it in the direction of Horror. 

Horror would have taken it but dodged to prove a point. He snatched them back off Dust, then grabbed him by his shirt, lifting him up to eye level. He stared at him. His eyes not tired, lazy, nor attractive anymore. They were aggression. Pure aggression. Horror dropped him, turning away and letting Dust do whatever. He grabbed the knife sets and put them back in the box. "never asked.... for love... you could have.... said no." He walked away, directly to Nightmares room. He was uninterested in Dust now. He had tried. Little things like hugs. He had even gone into Dust's room when he wasn't there for the first few days to try introduce himself. Each time with a small box of chocolates. Dust was never there. Horror had tried these past few days. Each attempt was met with refusal. Even non-romantic things. A hug. Dust ran away from a hug. Whatever.

Horror approached Nightmares room and knocked, once he was granted entry, he handed Nightmare a knife set. The same one Dust got, a similar illustration too. It was to thank him for allowing him to come here. He assured Nightmare this wasn't some kind of last minute thing before he quit. However, he sat down and spoke. He wasn't good at speaking, so he signed by pointing at certain things to get most of his words out. He pointed at his crack, specifically the part where Dust had injured it. He then pointed at a vase with some flowers in, then signalled that he gave Dust the vase, by pretending to give Nightmare one, then stood up, in place of Dust, and threw the pretend vase directly where he was just sitting. "m... just wanted... to at least... be friends.." Nightmare nodded in response, thinking. He stood up and thanked Horror for the knife set. He apologised for Dust, insisting he would not only keep a close eye, but were he to personally witness anything, he would do the exact same thing Dust did to him, but 10 times, and with 5 times as much force each time. Infighting in his group was something Nightmare despised. For his own selfish reasons of course, but you can't run a group with constant fighting. Horror accepted the response and bowed his head towards Nightmare to signify respect, then left. 

He walked quite a while to get to his next destination. Nightmares room was very out of the way from everyone else's. He eventually found his way to Cross' room. He knocked on the door, and entered. He smiled as he greeted Cross, handing him a knife set, with the same little illustration of Horror and whoever was handing it to. He sat down on the floor for a quick second, reorganising the box as he had placed all the loose knives in the box, so he didn't want to stab himself, so he placed them all at one side. He also did the same thing he did with Nightmare. Although, didn't mention name, or hinted at who it could be. He repeated this with Error and Killer. Error would have less use for a knife set compared to someone like Killer, but Error could use them for cooking.

After doing this with everyone, he went back to the kitchen, packed up his knives and went to his room. He tossed the box on the bed and immediately went to Dust's room. He knocked on the door. Nothing. That was all he needed to know. Dust didn't feel anything, no remorse, no sadness, nothing. As much as it hurt Horror (and it did), his attraction to Dust, was just that, an attraction. Dust's attraction to him, was an obsession. Horror didn't even know Dust liked him, he had a slight suspicion at the start from the others faint purple blush but whatever. It didn't matter now. It won't ever again. It won't ever be the same. Horror grabbed the knife set, and teleported out. He went to Farm. It was the only AU where he felt comfort. He walked into Farm's kitchen, knowing he would be there. It was nice.

"Hey big guy, how are y'all a-doin'?" Farm chimed, walking up to Horror, who handed him the box, with the knives left stray. Horror got down on his knees and hugged Farm. 

"'m sorry...." He mumbled into the others shoulder. Big ol' softie he was. He could be anyway. He apologised for the knives not being in a proper box and just the crooked old cardboard from the delivery. He apologised for there only being 7, not 8. The 8th was ruined when Dust threw it into the wall.  "Hey hey, you're fine. Ay promise ya." He gently patted Horror's back, this wasn't what he expected today, nor was it last night. He gently looked at Horror, leaning back to do so. He smiled softly,  rubbing his face, "y'er eye?" Horror nodded, he tried to mumble what happened, but couldn't do it coherently, as he kept getting overwhelmed emotionally each time he did so. He mumbled, crying a little, then stopping himself. Farm thought for a second. "Ya tell anyone else?" Horror nodded. "Bring em 'ere, or we go to them!" Horror thought for a second. The only person he had said the name to was Nightmare. Whilst Nightmare didn't exactly dislike Farm, they had no positive feelings with each other. 

Horror grabbed Farm's hand and teleported to Cross, who was able to more coherently say what happened than Horror was, after they left, Horror was able to mumble who did it. Whilst the answer wasn't surprising, it still was slightly shocking. Dust had appeared to be getting better. With his very few interactions with any of the Bad Sanses he knew that Dust was more sane and safer to be around. Clearly not. They returned back to Farmtale and Farm let Horror know that he could stay here any time he wanted, which Horror immediately took the offer on. 

Throughout the week he had numerous missions to complete, none with Dust. Nightmare didn't put them on the same one. But that week showed how strong Horror was. Not only was he just terrifying, which inflicted negative emotions on their own. He could work his magic in multiple ways. Being able to haunt people at night in their AU's by hiding in a crack between their mostly closed curtains, making them paranoid someone was watching them. He could hide under some peoples beds, breathing at times they weren't to make them uncomfortable, which would eventually grow into absolute fear. Eventually Horror finished his first full week. Nightmare was very impressed.

One person who wasn't. Dust. Dust had slowly started to realise that Papyrus was acting that way out of selfishness. Dust was fine and could perform well with a relationship. He, was prepared to apologise to Horror, but because he almost never slept their during the week after what he did, he was unable to. 

------

A few weeks had passed. Dust had seen Horror a few times, but the larger skeleton never even looked at him. It slowly started to dawn on Dust that, he had lost Horror. The person who he was literally head over heels for. He had lost him. All because. He listened. To a hallucination. Dust had lost the man who would have been his lover, if he had common sense. If he accepted Horror's advances. He laughed at himself. No this couldn't be true. It was a dream surely. It was all just a dream. He pinched himself, poked himself, hit himself. It wasn't a dream.

It wasn't a dream

It wasn't a dream

It was real.

He had lost Horror.

No. No, Horror wasn't with anyone. So, over time they could build a bond back up. Right? He grabbed onto his jacket and tried to control his breathing, barely being able to at this point. He tried to bring himself to a more sane position. Papyrus had gone. Once he did his damage, he went. And Dust certainly believed he would never come back. He didn't know why he thought this, he just did.

He paused. He was in the kitchen. Horror had just walked in. He was about to get up. Go apologise. He had finally built up the courage. He was finally going to do it. He didn't expect forgiveness, but he wanted to try. He approached Horror an-. Horror wasn't alone. He was with someone. With another AU. Farm. Of course. I mean, why would Horror wait for Dust to apologise. There were always better options for him. Dust was one of possible hundreds. He was easily in the bottom third of the pile while Farm was easily top 5. And now, he had lost his chance.

He loved Horror. No, he needed him. He had never felt like that with someone ever. Not one other person gave him the same feeling that Horror did. No one could ever make him as happy as Horror. No one could bring him to his knees quite like Horror. No one could intimidate him like Horror. Horror was the best in everything to Dust. And, someone else gets that now. He's happy for Farm, sure. But, were it not for him still loving Horror. He would plunge a knife down his throat in seconds. He doesn't want to hurt Horror though. He wanted Horror in every way. And Papyrus prevented that. Dust went to the garden, pulled a flower out. And went back to the kitchen.

"H-Horror..." He spoke, attracting his attention. Dust held the flower behind his back as he spoke. "I've been... horrible. That puts it extremely lightly. I don't expect anything. But." He pulled out the buttercup that Horror had tried to give him at the start of this entire experience. The suspense was killing him. It felt like he was waiting hours for Horror to respond. Horror did wait a bit, but 5 seconds felt like 2 hours to Dust. Horror reached, and gently grabbed the buttercup. He looked at it, smiling. It was as beautiful as he remembered. The red splatters on it had faded slightly but it was still pretty.

Dust had his eyes closed, not ready for the response. He opened them slowly, met by Horror crouching down slightly. He held his arms out to Dust. To which Dust collapsed into them. He wasn't expecting forgiveness. In a way it hurt more. The love of his life forgave him for something. He wasn't the perfect partner he wanted to be. He wasn't going to end up with him. Bittersweet. He had forgiveness. That was good enough. To want more would be greedy right?. And so, Dust hung on for as long as he could, before Horror gently let him down. He rubbed the little guys head and thanked him, going to sit down with Farm. Dust nodded, and walked outside. He sat down on the steps. He had nothing to say anymore. He found his purpose. And lost it. No matter how hard he tried to convince himself that 'everything would be okay'. It wouldn't be. He was happy, for Horror. He loved him. But, a friendship isn't what Dust wanted. He went to his room, grabbed a pen and paper.

He wrote a note to each individual member of the group. Then he wrote to Horror.

'To My Love. 

I, am sorry. I can't explain to you in words, on text or pages what you mean to me. I feel like until I met you, I lived in a world where I was blind, cold and deaf. When I met you, I could see, hear and feel warmth. Obviously not literally, but that's what it felt like.

You are, the most important thing to me. But being friends isn't going to help me. Do not feel guilty. I am a horrible person for what I put you through. I can't even bring myself to say your name. Hence why this letter is not addressed to you. I'm sorry. I can't say it enough really. I ruined my only chance of happiness in life. I won't have a chance to redeem it. I'm happy for you and Farm. I really am. But, to say I am jealous is to tell a blind person they need glasses. It's nowhere near the truth. I'm sorry for dumping all this on you at once. I let my hallucinations control me.

You, are the best thing that has happened to me. The few moments we had together in happiness were maybe just moments to you, but to me it was a new beginning. I would sit here now and tell you I would do anything for you. Be yours. Be a toy for you. I wouldn't be lying either. However I don't want to disrespect your relationship. 

All My Love, Murder.'

He sent that letter to Farm's house, a red splatter on the back to signify it was for Horror. He did similar things with the rest. He walked out the front door. And kept walking. He walked until walking became too slow. Then he ran, until that became too slow. Then he teleported. He got as far away as he could from Nightmare's castle. He returned to Dusttale, and wrote 2 words on a piece of paper. 

'Thank You.'

He left. He didn't know where he went. He just kept going until he was in a place where no one was. No one, not even Error had probably been this far. He stayed. He really did mean those words.

Thank You.

[treason-and-plot]

They sit in silence for a few moments. Saffron feels as if she is floundering in uncharted emotional waters, and wonders if logic can throw her a lifeline.

“That doesn’t make sense,” she says at last. “Because as I’ve tried repeatedly to tell you, he’s already getting exactly what he deserves by having to play nursemaid to his horrible bitch of a wife for the next year or so. Not to mention the guilt he’s going to be torturing himself with-“

“You don’t seriously believe what he’s told you about his wife?” says Connor, a little knot of scorn appearing between his brows.

“For God’s sake, Connor, he was telling me the truth,” says Saffron. “And there you go sounding all arrogant and horrible again-“

Connor doesn’t apologise this time. Instead he rolls his eyes. Saffron feels something hot and red stab at her temples.

“Let me guess,“ he says witheringly. “He told you she was crazy and psychotic.  Every single married guy in the history of the world who has had an affair has had a crazy wife, Saffy. It’s the oldest cliche in the book. The man’s a cheater, for Christ’s sake. How can you believe a word he says?”

“He turned up to school with a black eye one day because she’d punched him,” says Saffron. “He showed me scratches on his arm where she’d attacked him. I read texts she’d sent him, where she told him that she was going to hire a hitman to kill him. She threatened to do horrible things to his cat. He told me about lots of other crazy stuff she did too. She’s a sick, twisted psychopath. Sometimes I'd almost feel sorry for him!"

“He probably gave himself the black eyes and the scratches,” says Connor after a long pause, shifting position.

“That's totally ridiculous,” says Saffron.  

“I actually don’t blame his wife for wanting to have him killed,” says Connor, as if she hasn't spoken. “I feel exactly the same way.”

“For God’s sake, Connor! Just stop. You’re sounding crazy too. I just want to put this all behind me and forget it ever happened. Okay? Can we please do that?"

“You’re the victim in this situation, Saffy. Like it or not, you can’t just sweep it under the rug-“  

“I am not a victim of anything or anyone,” says Saffron, jumping to her feet. “Christ, I wish I’d never told you!”

She blinks back tears and stomps away, not knowing where she is going, just feeling as if she needs to escape. But from what she isn’t exactly sure.

[sakuralovespossums]

Anton Chigurh x Adopted Daughter Reader

Let’s get this out of the way, canon Anton is a merciless killer who will kill a kid if he wants to. But for the sake of this fic, he’s a bit less brutal.

Warning: Brief descriptions of child abuse, human trafficking, reader has trauma and isn’t the most mentally healthy, Anton being a questionable parent

Anton found you tied up in the trunk of his latest target’s car. Apparently the guy he was hired to kill was a human trafficker who your parents sold you to

When he freed you, you were shaking and traumatized, looking up at him in fear and confusion

Anton believed him finding you was a rare change of fate and you were now tied to him, according to his strange philosophy

So he took you with him

He doesn’t see you as a daughter nor does his drive to take care of you stem from paternal instinct like with normal people. He simply believes he must do so to uphold his belief in fate

You’re just happy to finally receive food, clothes, and shelter. You quickly notice how off putting and quiet he is, but he’s still a lot better than your old parents, so you grow attached anyway

You often ask him lots of questions or talk about whatever (like a lot of kids do) and he gives a short reply in his monotone voice

He never plays with you, so you play or run off by yourself. Yet he’s always sitting or standing nearby

Your more closed off and shy around other people, but more lively and happy around Anton since he’s the only one you trust

He teaches you how to shoot and reload at a young age, in case you need to defend yourself when he’s gone

Your a pretty obedient kid but when Anton needs to be firm with you, he never yells but gives you a look and you immediately obey

You still love him deeply and don’t really care that he kills people. He was the only adult to ever offer you care and safety when every other one hurt you

You’re always close by his side wherever you go, usually holding his hand

As you grow older, you become a lot more vocal but still distrust other people

You always tend to Anton’s wounds whenever he comes back bloodied from his latest job

You’re pretty protective of him and scold him to be more careful. He doesn’t listen tho

When you’re an adult, Anton decides he’s done his part and leaves you

Like just literally out of the blue. No letter, no call, nothing. You just wake up one morning alone in the motel room

You know how Anton is though and come to understand why he left and accept it. You’ll never forget him and will always look back on your interesting upbringing under his wing

People might say you deserved a better guardian who could have given you actual love, but you hated the idea of having anyone else as your guardian

Anton wasn’t an ideal father figure, but he still taught you everything you needed to know to survive in this world

you either become a hitman like Anton or manage to live a normal life within society (you still carry a weapon with you either way)

You: Hey Anton

Anton: …………..

You: Why did you take me with you when you found me as a kid?

Anton: ………..Because you were there

You: ……….alright

………………………………………..I love you

[showtoonzfan]

We need to realize that Stolas will honestly never be in the wrong no matter how hard Vivzie tries to paint it as such, and The Circus proved that. She and the fandom flex about how this show has messy flawed characters who do messy things, in Stolas’s case it was the cheating. At first it was interesting to see how a gay man who was in an unhappy marriage negatively affected his wife and daughter, and how despite the fact that you could sympathize with him, he still did something wrong and needed to acknowledge that. Part of the allurement for most fans was that it was a complicated situation. Beforehand it felt like him and his wife used to have a well relationship, until somewhere along the lines realized he was gay and just couldn’t be happy or satisfied with her, and once she figured that out, their relationship fell apart, causing the entire family to be miserable. It was interesting to see Stolas try to explain to his daughter that he just wasn’t happy and that he had eyes for someone else, cause it’s hard to explain a kid these things. Fans liked the messy complicated drama, until….season 2 came.

I never liked Stolas from the beginning for being just another hyper sexual gay character, but I will always give some credit that his character had potential and was interesting in the sense that he was flawed regarding his family. However, I will never get over how Viv and fans flex about Stolas being this complicated and layered character when season 2 practically erased the flaws he had that made him interesting to begin with.

Because now it was never Stolas’s fault. Now his cheating never mattered, or how he affected his family because he “tried”, and because he tried, he’s not the problem and apparently never was, since Stella never loved him to begin with and never was affected emotionally by the cheating. How do you paint a character as someone who was flawed and complicated regarding the relationship with his family and then say that the entire time, he did what he could for both of them and always was there? When we know he wasn’t. Now he’s a poor abuse victim who instead of admitting to his faults and working to be better for the sake of his daughter, ends up being the one the show sides with where he has his uwu powerful “standing up to his abuser” moment and kicking her out, where a better show (with a better Stella) would have had the wife be the one kicking him out because that would have actually had…gasp, a character facing the consequences of their actions for something that THEY did.

But we can’t have that because Stolas is sad and gay. And I’m so tired of fans saying “lol why do critic blogs think that Stella loved him or had a good relationship with him with how she acted in Loo Loo Land?”- forgetting that the episode itself clearly set up the premise that their family wasn’t ALWAYS miserable and that Stolas had ruined everything once he cheated. By hiring a hitman, you could have argued that Stella used to like him but let her anger get the better of her, only for….again, the trainwreck that was The Circus rewrote everything, cause now you’re telling me that not only were they in an arraigned marriage and never liked each other from the beginning, but that Stella had been physically and verbally abusing him all these years and Octavia’s dumbass doesn’t know because Stolas tried his best to hide his misery with anti depressant pills, despite it not being believable since the show itself has shown Stella being VERY clear and outward about her hatred towards him so….how the fuck did Octavia not know by now? And it hurts that the show wants her to suck it up regarding Stolas’s flaws simply because he’s better than Stella by comparison and that he’s “trying.” Octavia deserves better writing, not something that’s clearly biased for Stolas’s favor. That’s why the show wants you to side with him because not only is he depressed, but he genuinely loves his daughter unlike his bitchy wife so that makes all his selfish and predatory actions in season 1 okay I guess.

And it’ll only go downhill from here. Judging by the leaks, the show has no interest in calling Stolas out ever. The show will make sure every character around him is either butchered or evilly one note just so he can look like the one in the right by comparison, the innocent uwu bean and I’m just so done with it. Stolas could have been such a tragic interesting and complex character, a powerful and selfish demon who was manipulative and used those lower than him for his own personal gain, a heavily smart person regarding all the resources he has to earth and the stars, but NAHH, he ended up being just another Angel Dust in the end that everyone babies and excuses his horrible actions because he’s sad and gay, since no one can fathom the fact that gay characters are allowed to be portrayed as bad too and calling Stolas out on his shitty actions doesn’t make you homophobic.

[persnicketypomelo]

What about writing for the Sherlock fandom ? Moriarty would definetely be interesting. Or something about King Arthur, Lancelot, or the James Bond movies?

Those are just suggestions, of course !!

obsession, kidnap

Yandere Moriarty Headcanons

Let us be clear, Moriarty, though observant, has the social-emotional intelligence of a toddler

What he wants, he gets, regardless of the consequences to others, and when he tires of his toys, he doesn't hesitant to discard them

He cares not for good nor evil, only his own whims

To catch his attention in a way that doesn't wind up in your death, you must impress him in some way

Either by interfering in his criminal network, or making a name for yourself in some way, you attract his attention in a way he cannot ignore

If you prove a nuisance to his business, he will either be impressed, or annoyed and send a hitman out for you

When you manage to best his goons, then he is definitely at least amused

You're not completely incompetent, and pose somewhat of a threat to his livelihood--and not many people are capable of that

He wants to see what makes you tick and how to get under your skin

Moriarty would use the people you love against you, as bait, and he expects a good show to save them on your part

He is not caring, and the minute he feels you become too bland he is not afraid to dispose of you

I think, however, with time, his feelings grow more intense until he believes you’re simply too entertaining to get rid of, but he is so prone to changing his mind that you can never quite know...

He doesn’t feel threatened or jealous of others around you—after all--he is rich enough to hire people that keep an eye on you

They report to him your every action of every day, and should someone lay a hand on you…he has ways of making people disappear

Depending on whether Moriarty feels you are an intellectual match for himself, he might not see you even as a person, really

If he considers your intellect to be significantly beneath him, then he will consider you more as a pet

I see possibilities of him both kidnapping you and allowing you to roam free (albeit the ever present thorn of his existence in your side)

Should he kidnap you, he would allow you to escape, and then repeat the cycle over again, each time with more improvements to your security, watching you improve each time

It provides him light entertainment--akin to trash television--to see what you learn and how you adapt each time

If he doesn't kidnap you, it's because he sees no merit in doing so

Your antics amuse him, and confined, you are not capable of entertaining him

Even if he decides not to kidnap you, he will engrain himself into your life and delight in your frustration over your inability to do anything about it

However, this game of chase between the two of you is destructive, and will eventually end in one of your demises

For your own sake, I hope you can lock him away or kill him once and for all

Otherwise you might suffer an outcome worse than death at his hands

I don't feel like this was my best work, but I'm not sure how to improve it either :(

[berkmansimagines]

The Great War

A/N: I still can't believe the Barry finale was tonight 😭 It was nice while it lasted!

Summary: You're forced to escape a dangerous situation.

Pairing: Barry Berkman x hitman!wife reader

You’ve been feeling off lately. You’re exhausted all the time and dealing with severe nausea. It’s so bad that you almost got sick during a few of your jobs. At first you thought it was just a stomach bug, but you haven’t been able to shake it. You’re starting to suspect that it’s something else…

So on a whim you went to the pharmacy and bought a pregnancy test. You did it alone. Barry is out at his acting class. He has no idea that you did this. You and Barry want to start a family so badly, but you don’t want to get your hopes up.

As soon as you get home, you rush into the bathroom to take the test. After peeing on the stick and washing your hands, you read the directions on the back of the box. It should take about 5 minutes to get the result. You set an alarm on your phone.

“Blue means pregnant,” you continue reading.

You anxiously shake the pregnancy test as if it would get you the result faster. But you know that it won’t. You shrug impatiently and put the test down. Then you look at yourself in the mirror. You put your hands on your stomach, imagining what you would look like pregnant.

You suddenly hear the front door open. Two pairs of footsteps enter the apartment. You instinctively know it’s not Barry. They are strangers who broke in.

“Fuck!” you curse to yourself.

You’re unarmed. The closest gun is in your bedroom. You wish you could get it to defend yourself, but you have no idea what type of weapons the intruders have. It’s too risky. You decide to stay put.

You lock the bathroom door and shut off the lights. You stand completely still by the door, listening to the intruders on the other side.

“The place looks empty. I don’t think she’s here,” you hear a male voice outside the door. “Keep looking,” another man replies back.

The voices are unfamiliar. Whoever they are, it sounds like they’re looking for you. You need to get out of here. You’re about to reach for your phone on the counter when-

BEEP, BEEP, BEEP

Your heart stops. Shit! It’s the alarm you set on your phone for the pregnancy test. You quickly turn the alarm off but it’s too late. Now the intruders know that you’re home.

“Somebody’s in there.”

One of the intruders tries opening the locked door. You take a few steps back. Panicked, you look toward the window. It’s your only way out.

You hastily grab your phone and the pregnancy test, stuffing them into your pocket before you rush towards the window.

BOOM

The intruders shoot a large hole through the door.

“For fuck’s sake!”

You slide open the window and carefully climb out to an adjacent balcony. There’s no way you can go back inside, you have to jump to get down. You’re about ten feet off the ground. It’s high but you know you can make it. You take a deep breath before letting go of the balcony railing.

You land awkwardly on your bare feet. You’re about to fall over but you slam your fist to the ground to give you support.

“Shit,” you wince in pain.

You didn’t break anything but your ankle is definitely sore and your knuckles are bloodied and bruised. You’re just relieved that you didn’t land on your back or stomach.

From the corner of your eye, you see two motorcycles parked close by. You’ve never seen those bikes before and no one in your building rides. They have to belong to the guys who broke in. Then you notice a strange symbol on the gas tanks. It looks kind of familiar…

“Oh fuck!”

You recognize that symbol from a job you had not so long ago. Your handler, Diane, hired you to take out a man named Shane Taylor. Shane was looking into his girlfriend’s disappearance - a crime that Diane forced you and Barry to be involved in. Diane caught wind of Shane’s investigation and asked you to stop it for good. You accepted the job without hesitation. You didn’t want this to come back on you or your husband.

Shane must have been involved in the same group as those guys looking for you. He had the exact same symbol tattooed on his collarbone that they have on their bikes. You saw the symbol when you shot Shane in the chest. You were warned by a Private investigator looking into Shane’s disappearance that some of Shane’s friends might come for you but you didn’t take it very seriously. Now you wish that you had. Those bikers know what you did and they want revenge.

You’re about to run away when you notice the pregnancy test on the ground. It had fallen out of your pocket during the jump. You pick it up and your eyes widen.

The stick is blue.

"Blue means pregnant,” you repeat quietly to yourself.

You don’t even have the time to fully react or take in this moment. You need to go now. You try running but your ankle hurts too much. It turns into a fast paced limp.

You put the pregnancy test back in your pocket and take out your phone. You want to call your husband. Maybe you can get an Uber and meet him or something. You’re trying to figure out a plan on the fly when you see Barry’s car pull up. He just arrived home from acting class.

Barry rolls down the window. He looks at you with concern. He knows something is wrong.

“Y/N! Are you okay?”

You don’t answer him. Instead, you limp to the passenger’s side and get into the car.

“DRIVE!”

Barry has no idea what’s going on, but he trusts you. He books it out of the parking lot and drives down the street, before pulling over at a dark street corner.

“Ok you need to tell me what’s going on,” your husband insists. “Some guys broke into our place!” you frantically tell him.

Barry’s face drops.

“What?!”

“I heard them break in when I was in the bathroom. They had guns, I didn’t. I locked the door and they blew a hole through it. I had to sneak out the window,” you explain.

Barry clenches his jaw.

“Do you know who it was?” he asks.

You take a deep breath and slowly nod your head.

“Yeah, uh, I think they’re connected to one of my past targets. They’re part of the same motorcycle gang. I was warned they might come but I didn’t take it seriously. I’m sorry I brought this mess home…”

Barry shakes his head.

“It’s not your fault,” he says quietly.

Barry looks back down the street towards your building. Then he reaches over and opens the glove compartment, pulling out a gun. You look at your husband, already knowing what he’s thinking.

“Are you serious? You can’t confront them. Let’s just go!” you plea.

Barry double checks if his gun is loaded. He’s so focused that you don’t think he even heard what you just said.

“Babe, I won’t let you do this. It’s a suicide mission,” you keep pushing.

Barry shrugs off your concern.

“I’ll be-” he begins before you abruptly cut him off. “Barry, I’m pregnant!” you reveal, pulling the pregnancy test out of your pocket.

Your husband’s eyes widen.

“I was taking the test in the bathroom when they broke in. If this was any other time I would back you up in confronting those guys, but not tonight. Can you please just stay with me? I really need you right now…. ” you desperately beg.

You’re now stressed to the point that you’re near tears. Maybe it’s the pregnancy hormones. You feel completely overwhelmed. So much has happened in so little time. What was supposed to be a wondrous occasion ended up like this.

Barry’s entire demeanor changes. He immediately scraps his plan. He’ll deal with the guys who broke into your place later. Right now he needs to take care of you and get you somewhere safe. Your husband softens his face and pulls you into a hug.

“Hey. Hey, it’s okay,” Barry tries, “I’m not going anywhere.”

You sigh in relief, feeling your body relax in his arms.

“Thank you.”

Barry kisses your forehead.

“We’re having a baby,” Barry smiles. “Yeah! I should go to the doctor to confirm but the stick was blue. Blue means pregnant,” you explain.

Barry happily nods. He kisses your forehead one more time and then lets you go. He still needs to get you somewhere safe.

“We’re getting out of here.”

Barry is about to pull out from the parking spot when you hear the sounds of motorcycles in the distance. The men who broke in must’ve given up and left. The motorcycles are fast approaching. Instead of racing out of there, Barry turns off the car. Whoever is looking for you thinks you’re long gone. Barry doesn’t want to get their attention. The safest option is to hide in plain sight.

Barry’s body tenses up as the motorcycles get closer. He tightens his grip on his gun. Neither of you are ready for a fight. You hold your breath and put a protective hand on your stomach.

Your husband notices how nervous you are. He reaches over and takes your hand, silently signaling that he’s got you. You squeeze it back. You hear the sound of the motorcycles getting closer and closer and then-

The bikers drive right by your car without noticing you and Barry. After they pass, you can finally breathe again. You and Barry keep an eye on the bikers, making sure they don’t circle back around. You watch the two men speed through a stop sign. Suddenly, a truck barrels through the intersection and violently plows into the two bikers.

You gasp. Barry’s jaw drops in disbelief. You’re both speechless, in shock from what you just witnessed. There’s no way either of them could have survived that collision. After a moment of silence, you finally speak up.

"Huh? Well, I guess that just solved the problem…."

A stunned Barry looks at you. He doesn’t even know what to say.

[cowprintsillies]

sometimes i think.

Other times i imagine generation loss ep1 but if it was real. Ranboo is just some poor kid that is now stuck in some BeetleJuice enthusiast’s cabin until further notice. Maybe Ranboo keeps a diary or something, like those deserted explorers abandoned in the wild who’s journals will later be published for the general public to look at with vague interest before moving on with their day.

Dead Diary, Do you know where i could hire a hitman? For like $20 tops? Slime chased me around the place with a fork of something gross and probably fucking radioactive and i want out. Immediately.

Ranboo is interrupted by the annoyance in question. It’s only 11am, and Slime has managed to badger him nearly the whole day so far.

“What are you doing? Ronald- Ronald!“

Speak of the devil.

“Nothing!”

How the fuck am i meant to last here. The Ghouls are at least more pleasant company, but that’s more because they don’t do too much on their own and i can’t tell if they don’t possess the ability to think for themselves or just don’t like using it. Sneeg is. Weird. He’s not terrible but i think he has this thing going on with this plastic skeleton he named ‘Frank’ and it’s grossing me out fucking weird to witness.

“Ronald! Ronald McDonald!” Slime calls at him from the other room again. Can’t a man get one fucking minute of peace.

Ranboo gets up off the floor defeatedly.

Got to go, I’m getting harassed again. As is the new way of the world. At least i don’t have to do that essay if I’m considered a missing person.

“What do you want, Slime?”

There’s an indescribable noise from his direction.

“I’m stuck.”

Fuck sake.

[moebiusx9]

What are some things that have changed revolving the original 7 masters of Fate Stay Night. That have been altered in Fate/dread

Still working this out so just some brief thoughts:

Shirou is most similar to his Miyuverse counterpart, bit of a "Don Juan" that goes on to become Nameless. He is still the same old Shirou at his core, just more experienced and isn't completely out of the loop as Kiritsugu actively trained Shirou in this timeline before his disappearance.

Rin is the most like her original self but struggles heavily with the pressure put on her by the Association to win this war for the sake of preserving magecraft, so she has something more to join the war for. Hakuno acts like a pillar of support for her till the reveal happens.

Because of the aforementioned fact, Zouken has put a lot more effort into Sakura, and his outright refused Shinji to be Medusa's master at all, thus Sakura is forced to directly compete. She has noticebly developed a BB-esque persona to mask her deteriorating mental state

Illya has the most major visual change in the fact that her actually looks her age as an 18 year old. The Einzberns experimented on her further to allow her body to mature properly, but in turn, her life span is much much shorter than in Stay Night.

Kirei is also very similar to his Stay Night counterpart, but he is also just reveling in the chaos around him as Japan slowly falls apart due to the war for resources across the globe. He takes a more active role for the simple pleasure in watching the despair around him first hand

As for Souichirou (Atrum dies again lmao), I'm not too familiar with him, but I think he'd still be part of his assassin guild, and actively works as a hired hitman. Because of that, he and Dreadkuno have had multiple run ins.

I'm also sort of considering not having Kojirou serve Medea this time around, but thats also in early brainstorming.

[noahtally-famous]

happy halloween to all who acknowledge it! 🎃

enjoy this random halloween drabble? oneshot? I thought up two days ago lmao since I didn't have enough time to plan out the other shawnpher halloween idea

_______________________________________

potential title: in my defense, you scared me; a shawnpher halloween au

"Happy week of Halloween, wonderful viewers, tuning into my brand new video, hosted by the one and only amazing me, myself, and I!" Topher gestures at himself, turning the phone down so that his viewers can get a full look at his dazzling autumn outfit. "For a treat--or a trick--your one and only Tophman will be going into--" he turns around so that the looming corn maze is in perfect view of the camera. "This! Totally haunted, scary as fuck, maze filled with spooktacular frights that this guy is not going to fall for at all! Pretty swell idea, right?"

Stopping the recording and covering the camera with one hand, he leans to the side and hisses, "this is the worst idea ever."

"You wanted something spooky and cool for your Halloween video," Scarlett replies without looking up from her phone. "This is as spooky and cool as all the Halloween lovers can get."

"But I'm not a Halloween lover," Topher whines. "That maze is, like, ginormous. I could get lost in it! My perfect face can't get lost!"

Scarlett rolls her eyes. "You're the one who agreed to it. Seriously," she casts Topher's phone a disdainful look, "is there anything you won't do for your damn vlog?"

Then, as though she said something truly earth-shattering, she strides toward the maze's entrance where several other people are converged.

Topher aims his famous puppy-eyes to the third person of their little group.

Beardo makes a sympathetic wamp wamp noise before shrugging and ambling after Scarlett.

"Come on, man!" Topher calls. Is his puppy-eyes getting old? Impossible!

Hurrying over to them, he huffs. "Rodney would have had my back one-hundred percent if he were here."

"Which he's not. What a coincidence," Scarlett retorts dryly from the front.

Topher gasps. "What is that supposed to mean?!" He turns to Beardo. "Scarlett's done something to Rods!"

"Fucks sake, no--god, I meant he wouldn't be caught dead hanging around one of these scare-traps."

"Rods wouldn't leave me hanging like that, Brainiac. Something's gotta have happened to him. Did you hire a hitman or someone? My man just won't ditch me during my time of need. Scarlett!"

He's too busy wallowing the extremely important chance of him dying via publicity backlash after getting scared on camera by some crazy guy in a costume that he misses the exasperated look his friends send each other.

"It's just an hour, Prissy, don't get your hair in a knot," Scarlett grumbles. "And you dragged me for this too, so you better not flake."

Because Scarlett can be fucking terrifying when she's glaring like that behind her glasses, and Topher doesn't feel like getting his innards pulled out, he says resignedly, "Yes ma'am."

Dealing with jumpscares in a fucking corn maze while on camera is enough stress.

She gives him another one of her glares-from-hell before turning back to her phone. "Ella wishes you good luck, by the way," she says, poking at the screen--probably typing a hasty response back to the only person she ever replies quickly to: her girlfriend. "Says something about you doing fine and shit." She scoffs.

Beardo snickers.

"Dude!" Topher says, betrayed. That's the second time tonight! Man, he wants Rodney here so badly. He just knows the big guy would have his back.

"Sorry, Toph," Beardo mumbles sheepishly.

Easy for him to say. He's just in it to get quality footage for his and Ella's duo-videostream; he can walk away with a paycheck because apparently some fancy smancy producers like their videos enough to promote them.

Topher really wishes he was famous.

They assemble in front of the maze as the sky grows dark and a chill picks up in the air. Surprisingly, there are a hell lot of people, jostling for room; kids ribbing each other, couples already snuggled up or making out, even people videoing their experience like they're doing. Topher scoffs, watching them from the corner of one eye; their etiquette is so wrong, how do they even have subscribers?

"Why would anyone want to unironically do this shitshow in the first place?" he mutters, pulling his thin fleece-jacket tighter around him.

"For fun?" Beardo offers helpfully.

"Thanks, man. This is totally the classic definition of the word fun."

"Topher," Scarlett says, "what have we talked about the world not revolving around you?"

"That it's bullshit?"

Scarlett rolls her eyes so hard he's impressed she doesn't get a headache. Before she can respond, there's an announcement counting down the seconds before they're free to enter the maze, alongside the usual warnings of there being scary ghouls and flesh-eating monsters ready for tasty victims. The shiver that runs down Topher's back is fully due to the breeze, nothing more.

"Aaaand...three...two...one...scram!" the gravelly voice laughs sinisterly as everyone dashes into the maze. "May the best survive this Halloween night!" Paired with a cliche organ sound effect that Beardo can totally do better.

This whole thing is such a scam, why is he even doing this?

Oh yeah, for the views.

After three or four turns, he starts to hear the screams. He's clutching Beardo's arm before he can think about it. His solace is that Beardo did the same, squeezing him to his chest, his video camera bumping uncomfortably against Topher's spine.

"Simple scare effects, and people being scared of superficial ambushes by people in costumes," Scarlett scoffs, hardly flinching. She gives the two boys an unimpressed look. "Come on, or do you want to hang around here when it really gets dark?"

That gets them scrambling away from one another and hurrying after her.

Several feet later, they reach a crossroads--diverging into three parts. Which Topher thinks is convenient considering there are three of them.

"Split up?" Beardo asks nervously, his voice hardly a whisper.

Scarlett nods decisively. "Seems like it. No objections?"

Topher has plenty of objections, but he doesn't want to seem like the scardey-cat of the bunch; not when his friends are up to the idea. Plus he does need footage for his video.

When no one says anything, Scarlett nods. "Splendid, meet you at the other side." She takes the path to the far left, muttering as she does, "thank goodness Max isn't here, he would have lost his mind and his bowels."

Beardo pats him heavily on the shoulder--like that is supposed to be reassuring!--and takes the one on the far right, leaving Topher with the path at the center.

The dark, winding foresty center-path that...was it that dark five seconds ago? And were the trees really that tall?

Okay, deep breaths, Toph. It's just a silly maze, surrounded by a bunch of silly people in scary costumes ready to give you a heart attack. None of it is actually real so get your head screwed on and do it for the 'gram!

He fumbles for his phone, switching it on to recording as he creeps to the start of the path. Videoing himself helps; it emphasizes the idea that nothing else matters except for him and the screen. No creep can jumpscare him into public humiliation when he's in full record-mode.

"Here we are, amazingly beautiful yous. The dreaded dangerous path of the maze I must take alone. Will I survive? You bet I will! God won't kill off a face this perfect and an ass this gorgeous so soon--" a crunch of leaves "--what was that? I mean, that is nothing I can't handle! Leaves? Pfft! What can a bunch of leaves do to, holy fucking shit!"

He's turning the corner when a large shape leaps at him from behind a particularly large tree.

(Okay, so the shape wasn't really large--actually it was a tad shorter than Topher himself, and more so on the leaner side.)

But when Topher takes one look at the thing's masked face, covered in distorted scratches and horrifying renditions of flesh ripped off its face, all rational thought flies out the window. Scarlett's words of the jumpscarers being people in costumes? No recollection. Especially when something long and silver glints in the sky as the figure raises its arm.

Topher screams, all high-pitched and utterly terrified, flailing and stumbling back. His phone flips out of his hand and he curses himself for it because there's a fucking maniac in front of him about to slash him to ribbons. All he can think is not the face!

Like a godsend, a coherent thought hits him, and he puts to use the few self-defense classes his parents had forced him to take due to being related to popular photogenic people.

One leg kicks out, connecting with something.

The figure goes down with a yell that's drowned by Topher still screaming his head off. Dropping to his knees, he gropes the leaf-strewn ground until--aha!--his hand closes on the familiar shape of his phone.

Adrenaline is the only explanation for how he manages to turn the flashlight setting and shine the light on whoever the fuck had accosted him.

"What. The. Fuck?!" is all that comes out of his mouth.

The guy--because for fuck's sake, obviously, it wasn't a creature from the dead, it was an ordinary guy dressed as one--lay sprawled on the ground, clutching his groin.

Huh, guess those self-defense classes Topher barely listened to did pay off--always go for the face or the groin. The only takeaway he got from the experience.

"Dude!" groans the guy who literally jumpscared him, and he's acting like Topher did something wrong! "What kind of a reaction is that?"

"Um, hello?!" All the fear melts into annoyance. "You're the one who thought leaping at me with a--what the fuck is that thing on your hand?"

"A hook!" The guy displays it--in other words waving it around with too little care to be healthy. Topher leans away from it. "It's a prop! Haven't you been jumpscared before, man?"

Not by lunatics who stay too in character, Topher thinks mutinously, because that dumb reaction was filmed and thank god, this isn't a live stream or he would never have heard the end of it...

Fuck.

"Fuck! My video!"

"What?" asks the guy confusedly, still groaning on the ground and clutching his groin. "I almost got incapacitated in a way I never expected to, and you're worried about your video?"

Topher hardly hears him. He swipes at his screen, brushing aside the dirt and leaves, relieved that the screen isn't cracked, and, yes!, the video was intact too. He hates refilming stuff--and he sure as hell wasn't planning on stepping foot here a second time.

"Okay, everything's safe, we can hold the fire! Now..." he focuses back on the guy who should literally be filed for criminal assault after this fiasco. "What were you saying?"

The guy stares. "I was giving you shit for braining my privates, but I guess your video or whatever was more important than my bits?"

Something about 'braining my privates' sounds off, but Topher had gone through a traumatic event, he isn't about to start analyzing grammar. That's Scarlett's job.

Speaking of Scarlett...

"Dude. Dude, dude, dude, chill the heck out," Topher interrupts whatever tirade the other guy is in the middle of. Ignoring his affronted look, Topher sighs. "Okay fine, sorry or whatever, even though it should be me you should be apologizing to--"

"Me? Apologize to you? That's like a zombie asking politely for some brains!"

Oookay...talk about weird.

But unfortunately, Topher needs this guy. He isn't going to spend another second alone in this blasted maze. Not with his nerves so frayed. Plus he deserves an escort after all this shit.

"Cool, great, awesome, uh, zombie-boy." He holds a hand out. "Now are you willing to listen to me?"

The other guy frowns at him. He shrugs and accepts the hand. His fingers are bigger than Tophers, and rough and calloused--probably from doing this goddamn job and scaring shit out of poor innocents.

Topher hoists him up harder than intended. Yeah, he's got a bit of pettiness in him, but can you blame him?

The guy groans, stumbling a bit, his legs joining together at the knees as he winces. "Damn, for a typical streamer, you sure kick hard."

Wow, this guy is seriously gunning for worst conversationalist ever.

Being the bigger person, Topher doesn't deem that with a response for all of five seconds. Then, to satisfy the itch, while picking at his nails, he corrects, "vlogger, actually. And I'm a very popular one, might I add. You should check out my videos, you'd learn a thing or two. Or several."

The guy blinks, adjusts his beanie. "Uh, what the hell are you talking about?"

Standing next to him, Topher sees that he is right in his initial assumption that the guy is shorter than him. He's got maybe an inch. His off-blue beanie is ruffled with leaves and grime and tilted to one side, exposing wayward brown hair; his face still has that absurd makeup on but some of it has rubbed off from the kerfuffle that Topher can spot a faint scruff and startling hazel-green eyes peering at him through the flesh-ripped artistic rendition. His costume looks generic--vest, sweater, jeans, boots--save for the strategically painted rips and tears and blood on them. When he shifts, his hair nudges the back of his neck, stuck to it with sweat and dirt.

Topher has to admit, scares and annoyances aside, he can acknowledge a solid makeup job. And this guy definitely has it.

Also those eyes. Totally photogenic. His heart beats a little faster--probably still from the adrenaline.

"Hey? Are you listening to me? What're you staring at?" the other guy grumbles, shooting him a suspicious side-eye.

Topher wills his face not to burn. Come on, it's not his fault if a photogenic feature catches his eye--he's been scared to half-death, for gods sake, let him salvage a little familiarity!

"Trying to guess a name to that grime-infested face," he retorts instead.

"Infested?" asks the other guy, wide-eyed.

"Your face, idiot. It's covered in dirt."

The other guy touches a hand to his face as though just realizing it. Topher pointedly clears his throat. The air has turned chillier, he wants to go home and park his ass in front of the fireplace.

“Oh.” The guy looks up. “Shawn.”

Shawn. Finally.

“Topher.”

They don’t shake hands, just eye each other warily.

“Say Shawn,” says Topher conversationally. “How about as compensation for nearly killing me, you get me out of this place?”

“You’re kidding,” Shawn shakes his head incredulously. “You’re the one who kicked me in the nuts. If anyone deserves compensation for anything, it’s me!”

“You’re the one who’s such a shit scarer.”

“You’re the weirdo whose first reaction is to kick someone!”

“Right, I’m the weirdo here.” Topher eyes him skeptically.

“Uh, duh, clearly. You were scared, dude, admit it.”

“Not a chance.”

On cue, a series of maniacal laughter and screams ring the air. Topher jolts.

“Yep, not scared,” snickers Shawn.

Topher flips him off.

But Shawn’s on a roll. “I get that you were scared of my getup—hook-handed ghouls are the perfect type of scare—but those screams? They weren’t even on our path. Damn you do scare easily.”

“Oh, is that what you’re supposed to be?” Topher shoots back. “I was thinking a zombie given how dumb you look—like a pile of rags.”

“A zombie?” Shawn’s eyes open wide. “You’re kidding me, man! The only time I’d willingly pretend to be the undead is when they destroy the world and humanity in it.”

Of course that’s what Shawn fixates on in Topher’s response. And he’s not even going to think about how Shawn had said when. Makes sense that a guy like him is also obsessed with something that’s only in the movies—not that Topher watches those kinds of stuff; thinking about the apocalypse leads him down a troublesome path of lack of hair care products, facial scrubs, and cameras. Talk about drab!

“You’re super mega weird, dude,” he tells him.

Shawn gestures around them, encompassing their entire situation. “No offense, dude, but my concerns are justified. I’m not the guy freaked out by people in costumes.”

For fucks sake.

Honestly, being the stubborn shit he is, Topher could’ve gone on for hours, but at that moment, the light from his phone screen catches his eye and he remembers that he’s still recording. What will his viewers think of him arguing with one of the staff members when they expected a spooky Halloween video?

“Okay whatever, you’re this super stoic guy that Halloween can’t come near to, that’s awesome. Now can you fucking get me out of this maze?”

“Dude, I can’t just leave my job and go with you—“

“Man, you could’ve killed me. I’m pretty sure you’ll be doing those people a favor.”

Shawn frowns, opening his mouth to say something that Topher knows is not a yes Topher I would love to and Topher really doesn’t want to deal with that.

Bribery. People like bribes, right? What can he give in return—something Shawn won’t be able to resist.

“I’ll get you apple cider?” He offers. The only autumn-themed drink he can think of that this place will sell.

Shawn’s expression doesn’t change and Topher resigns himself to a solitary trek in the maze filled with more jumpscares. He tries not to look too disappointed—plays it up for the camera—and rubs his arms as he goes to turn back the way he came when Shawn speaks up.

“That’s the wrong way.”

Topher scowls, turns to face him. “Well the expert isn’t being much help here. Guess I’m gonna have to wither away and die here surrounded by cornstalks. My viewers will hunt you down, mark my words.”

Shawn rolls his eyes, mutters “jeez you’re so dramatic” which Topher is about to take great offense to, if not for what Shawn says next.

“Fried dough too.”

Topher pauses, bewildered. “What?”

“Apple cider and fried dough. This place has the best ones. You should try one too, my recommendation.”

And, well, this is really one of the most absurd situations Topher has ever been in.

But as long as it means getting the hell out of here, he’ll pay for anything Shawn wants. He’ll even give him a shoutout and cameo in his video.

“Fine. Once we’re out, apple cider and fried dough are on me.”

Halfway turned again, he sees Shawn squinting at him.

Oh, what now?

“Are you sure this isn’t a date or something?”

Topher chokes, the cold air burning down his esophagus as he wheezes. Shawn, the bastard, doesn’t even move to help despite being the cause of Topher’s current predicament; only watches in puzzled suspicion.

“What? No of course it’s not! Why are you even—that’s ridiculous—I mean—I don’t—you can’t just say that in front of the camera—“

God, his face feels so red, he sounds deranged. Is he suffering from a stroke?

He should definitely edit this part out.

Shawn watches him for a second longer before nodding. “Cool. ‘Cause all the secrecy was giving me the wrong impression. Kind of an odd first date, eh? That’s what Jasmine would say if she were here.”

Wait.

What?

What is even happening right now?

And then, as though everything isn’t confusing enough, Topher thinks, is this a date?

Does he want it to be one?

Hell no! Not with zombie boy and his mismatched clothes, his shitty scare tactics, his absurdly detailed makeup, his apish social skills, and his stupidly photogenic eyes.

Never. Of course not.

Then why was he stuttering and stumbling around like a baby foal? Topher is never out of control, no matter what the circumstance. He’s had to reject countless admirers before. Why is this any different?

Is it the adrenaline? It’s got to be the adrenaline. There’s no way he’s having a…crush. On someone so...opposite.

He’s overthinking this. Shawn was just messing around, and Topher’s reading way too much into it.

"This is not a date," he hisses at the blinking red light on his phone. Just in case his viewers aren't aware.

Amidst his dilemma, Shawn pushes aside a branch that’s in the way of the opposite direction Topher had been going, calling over his shoulder, "I'll protect you from the big bad ghouls hanging around,” he flashes his hook, “but if there are any zombies you’re on your own, man.”

Okay, yeah, no.

That's fucking it.

This guy.

Topher has no idea if he's serious or not; ribbing around or being sincere; either way, if none of the other creepies in the maze kill them first, he'll kill Shawn himself.

Once he gets out of this maze.

And, he supposes, once he gets Shawn that fried dough and cider.

Because there's no way Topher's going to ruin his public image thanks to some zombie-obsessed guy preaching shit about this entire ordeal.

Buy his silence or whatever.

[fukuokadivision1]

Sanyu's Thoughts on Katsushika Division

Akihisa Mashiro

"So, this guy is apparently a famous hitman or something? People hire him to kill whomever they need to be killed? ...I guess its a good thing that he's not exactly on Chuohku's payroll then, since I know there are plenty of people that they'd want to have silenced. I wouldn't be surprised if I were included in that list. Guess that makes me special..."

Touya Kisaragi

"...Is it bad to say that this kid scares me? Not physically. I'm not saying I'm scared of what he could do to me. No... he scares me because... I empathize with him. And... in another life, I could have easily ended up like him. I'm not saying that I condone his killings or anything, but... hearing what he with through as a kid, I can't help but feel sorry for him, because the same things that happened to him, also happened to me. Not to his extent, but... I know what it's like to be used as nothing more than a toy or an experiment. There's no way to describe that pain, and... it sometimes never fully goes away..."

Rintaro Himura

"All of these guys are bad, but this guy might be the worst of the bunch. I mean, the hitman and Touya have a reason for killing people, however skewed it might be. But this guy... he commits arson and bombs buildings just because he can. I guess that's what a pyromaniac does, but still... he couldn't find another way to get off with his flame obsession? You like fire that match that you have to burn freaking buildings to the ground with people inside of it? ...Yeah, I'm sorry, but there's no excuse for that. None at all."

Death Row Block

"So, all these guys were on death row, or something? Or... I guess they kinda still are since Chuohku's holding their leashes. But, does the Prime Minister honestly think she and Chuohku can tame three criminals who have no problem taking people's lives? Let me answer that question for her: the answer is 'no'. And I hope, for her sake, that she realizes that before its too late. Not because I care what happens to her, but because I know that once these three get their hands on her, Death is going to seem like a mercy before they finish with her."

[wirewitchviolet]

I am so done with clips of terrible people.

"So earlier this week, I saw a video from Greg Smith, or Skullshelf Statuary as he calls himself, entitled 'Are Women the Real Fascists?' and after watching it in full, I have to say I didn't find any of his arguments to be particularly persuasive. So as you've all seen me do several times before with his videos, I'm going to spend these next two hours playing quotes of his inflammatory hate speech, and nitpicking them like I'm a college professor hoping he will try a little harder next time."

I'm not trying to call any one person out here, but I would like so very much to never see anything like the above again. I don't even mean I don't want to watch a big long video essay along these lines. I literally don't want to even see a link to one, or an article along these lines. I want to live my life in such a way that I am blissfully unaware that Skullshelf Statuary even exists. Can we please all collectively work on that?

The most obvious case against this sort of thing is that at the end of the day, you're amplifying hate speech. You could make the argument that it's not like the target audience for this sort of thing are the sort of people who are going to internalize Nazi propaganda, and actually I'd like you to commit right now to whether you want to make that argument so I can keep you intellectually honest later. Accepting that as true for argument's sake though, you're still shifting the Overton window by accepting whatever ridiculous propaganda statement today's disingenuous scumbag is lazily dressing up like some sort of intellectual argument. It WAS some statement so plainly false and hateful it didn't merit even merit acknowledging it, but here you are, acknowledging it, treating it like a serious platform worthy of discussion, and having that discussion. You're personally shifting the window there. Also particularly when you repeatedly name this creep and play clips of him, you're really encouraging recommendation algorithms to funnel more people to his channel. The one he posts all these rambling propaganda pieces to as probably his sole source of income, and not just for people watching/reading your takedown piece, people in general are more likely to have it shoved on them now.

This brings us to my most selfish reason for grumbling about this. I personally do not want to ever see this. Like, I have done my time. We are coming up on the 10 year anniversary of a statistically significant percentage of the people who get paraded out in these things having a quite specific and violent obsession with me personally. Nazi scumbags who have made big public displays of trying to find where I live, find compromising photos of me, hiring detectives to follow people who were going to meet up with me, weird sexual stalking crap, trying to crowdsource how to hire a hitman on an unlisted message board... hell I've literally stood like a foot away from people at conventions who were trying to work out how to identify me knowing I was going to be attending and how to ambush me or whatever. Some of these are big names too. Like, every day I see reporters and comedians and such dunking on internationally famous sad little fascists that used to talk to me pretty regularly back when they could do convincing impressions of functioning human beings, and it is not terribly great for my PTSD to just get ambushed with their photos under headlines or in video thumbnails.

And even with the ones I don't have a personal history with, I mean, the playbook never changes. Not a single one of these people has had a single original thought since flunking out of humanity. It's just an endless sea of interchangeable losers who got taken in by other losers with a bunch of BS about how their lives would be perfect and magical if not for These People being their secret enemies who hate everything they like, like everything they hate, and secretly control everything. And really it's all just... so incredibly dumb and baseless that even when someone buys into it, it's not like there's a single reasonable argument that props any of it up, so they always just resort to the exact same stupid projection and rhetoric where they just make a person up to get mad at and you just get So. Damn. Sick. Of. It. It never changes. Oh and of course if you're one or more of the many flavors of people they hate and want to see dead, any time they're talking you can see and hear that murderous hate, and it just really isn't pleasant. Like, you ever catch a spider the size of your whole hand crawling along the floor and you freak out and toss a tupperware container over it, and then it's just flipping out and doing speedy little laps around the perimeter? Like you can be reasonably sure there's no way it's going to get out of there and pose an actual threat to you, but it's still gonna make you anxious having it skittering around all agitated at the corner of your vision while you're trying to brainstorm how to safely get it out of your house entirely. It's like that.

Of course, you could also make the argument that while obviously someone like me is overly familiar with this whole song and dance, the average person on the street has probably never even once watched a nazi ramble on for 4 hours trying to work out how to phrase a call for genocide in a way that sounds reasonable enough to be socially acceptable, and perhaps such people need to be shown an example in the wild and have all this BS picked apart. Well first of all, HA! I GOTCHA! Admit it! You totally took it for granted that the sort of person who's going to sit through some hour long leftist think piece dismantling a nazi's incoherent arguments isn't the sort of person who'd actually be susceptible to the propaganda being dismantled, didn't you! You made a note of it to yourself three paragraphs ago, and it's too late to try and wiggle out of it now and assume we aren't just preaching to the choir with these sorts of things! You can't go turning around now and claim it's impressionable folks new to all of this wandering in here!

And really, if you didn't take that for granted, you probably should have. Hour long video essays and big long articles (like, you know, this one) aren't exactly casually absorbed media you just stumble across. I mean, OK I do, otherwise I wouldn't be griping about this, but like... I'm a trans woman with a long history of activism and journalism and such. Most of the people who produce this stuff I'm griping about are people I know and am on good terms with, and the rest are like, one personal connection out from there honestly. Hell I once helped David Futrelle with the research for one of those We Hunted the Mammoth articles, and I don't ever want to just resolve the problem of seeing these things by blocking people because when they aren't doing this sort of thing there's a chance they'll do some big hour or three long video on, I dunno, the Siren games and how they force you to consider situations from the differing mindsets/perspectives of all the various playable characters and save me from eventually having to record that myself. Point is, I'm the sort of audience you have for this sort of long-form video essay. You need to have at least some kind of pre-established parasocial relationship or something for someone to even sit still long enough for that level of analysis, and it's not gonna be their first rodeo.

And honestly, even if it was? Like, I dunno, some random soccer mom who does not engage with the news or social media or the one guy in her town with the absurdly large truck covered in bumper stickers and flags just decides OK tonight I am going to sit down and spent an hour or two randomly engaging with this big intellectual takedown of a fascist scumbag? You have to ask yourself, is some rambling windbag just trying to fill airtime and get his check from youtube even worth it? Like if the goal is to wake people up and force them to come to terms with how we share the world with some truly awful and dangerous people and it's surprising how much power and influence some of them have, you want to focus on the ones who actually use that to put innocent lives in danger. I don't care if someone is blissfully unaware of a guy who can barely put a sentence together and clearly didn't actually watch the movie has a take on that new TMNT movie being compromised by whatever weird conspiracy theory he's pushing, but if you're shining your harsh light under a real heavy rock like that person who lurked on various TERF forums for a year collecting shockingly monstrous quotes, or you want to put together a supercut of all the times that one woman who hosts all the nazi rallies has just looked directly into a camera and begged anyone watching to start walking around shooting trans women on sight, or you want to add some sort of commentary to that leaked group chat video from the anti-abortion group where they're being so candid and casual with their cartoonishly evil brainstorming I need a better phrase than just "mask off" to describe it. Like, mask off, plus all flesh peeled away from their flaming demon skulls or something. Anyway yeah, if you want to urge people to take a good long look at THAT sort of thing, by all means carry on. Nohing good's going to come from giving attention to just the vapid blatherings of losers who lost their critical thinking skills though.

Oh and I keep forgetting to beg for money at the end of these. I'm seriously close to the living on the street line, and my health is too poor to last in those conditions.

[occult-roommates]

The landbitch

One night, Charlie got called by the landlady when she dropped the new she was raising the rent again. No, she can't do that! Where's that solidarity between people of the same species? They're both vampire after all.

Charlie: Margrit, please... Margrit: We are not on a first name basis, you will call me Misses Fairchild and nothing else. Charlie: I can't really call you misses considering you're divorced.

Well, Charlie did not help her case at all with that comeback. Great, now she gotta announce that to the other roommates.

To think she used to have pity of that woman. Her story on how she became a vampire is a bit tragic. She was born in what is now modern day Austria in 1884, exactly a century before Charlie, and moved to the States at only 20 to marry a man twice her age. To be fair, it was mostly in a gold digging move. The 1930s rolled around, and she caught him cheating on him with a woman who was born the year they got married. She threatened a divorce, and as revenge he tried killing her by hiring a vampire hitman. The hitman failed to fully suck her blood out and instead turned her into a vampire. Still alive, she got to divorce, but now the Fairchild no longer wanted anything to do with her, and her family back in Austria rejected her for being a vampire. She still had enough divorce money to buy an apartment building in the art district though, and she's been the landlady of the place ever since...Oh and all of that was for nothing, cause the old husband croaked less than a year later.

However, Margrit has long since reached a point where Charlie could no longer feel bad for her.

Charlie: Bad new folks, the rent increased again. Dawud: Are you kidding me? Rudi: Ah for fuck sake, I just got a raise at work! Dawud: Well, personally, and I'm just saying, but I am the only one here with like, a full time job that pays more than 15$ an hour. Like, I know these are though time, but you guys need to step up. Akva: Easy for you to say, you were pretty much given your job when you moved here and got trained for free. My pay is shit but I can't find anything else, and flight school is freaking expensive. Kino: You could ask your new girlfriend to move here. Akva: I don't think she would wanna do that, she has a nice apartment all to herself, unlike us who barely have enough and just forgotten what having a bit privacy is like. I mean, she's a video editor, do we even have space for her desk here? Why don't your girlfriend move here uh? Kino: I broke up with Lilah yesterday. Through text. Charlie: Kino, you can't keep breaking up with people through text! Kino: Why not? And also, we would have more place to sleep if you agreed to share your room too while all five of us plus my baby are cramped in one bedroom. Charlie: Well speaking of baby, you barely take care of him, I'm his main caregiver. Which great, not only are you not arsed to be a parent, but it's an extra financial strain on the household.

Having run out of argument, Kino simply made a random move that was similar to the C part of the YMCA dance. It seemed out of nowhere, but it was because it is the equivalent on Sixam of giving the middle finger.

Rudi: Talking a lot of shit anyway for someone who doesn't have a job. Kino: Well yes, but I'm paid by the government agent who sent me here like...an amount of money I will not disclose. Rudi: Say it! Daniele: STOP FIGHTING PLEASE I DON'T LIKE IT! Akva: Dan, shut up, you literally don't have a job and you were raised rich... Daniele: I do have one, I'm a tailor at my aunt's fashion workshop, but I don't work that often and she doesn't pay me cause we're family. Dawud: That's kind of a dick move on her part actually...Wait when we think about it, your family has well enough money that you don't need to live here, what are you even doing in this apartment? Yes, you were kicked out by your parents, but you also lived with your aunt your entire teenage years. Daniele: My family is rich but I don't have much money to my name and I wanted to leave as soon as I turn 18 but currently I'm wondering if I should not just go back... Charlie: Nobody is gonna move out of this place, we can't afford to lose anyone. If anything, we need a new member! Rudi: We clearly don't have place though, and will the landbitch even let us? Akva: Legally, every household is allowed to have a maximum of eight people, and as long as that maximum hasn't been reached, you cannot deny someone to move under a roof. However, as soon as there's eight people, you cannot accept anyone else, which is why anyone who can get pregnant needs to go on birth control if there's eight people in a household. Also, it's not because you have to allow maximum eight people that every house or apartment is made to accomodate that eight people. Dawud: ...That's messed up what the hell... Kino: Yeah, I don't wanna go on birth control against my will! Charlie: What, so you can get pregnant with another baby you won't take care of? Rudi: The idea of having an extra roommates wouldn't be so bad if you didn't had a fucking private bedroom while the rest of us plus the baby were all sharing the same room!

The roommates kept on arguing, which almost escalated into insults. "Thankfully", their next door neighbor knocked and told them to shut the fuck up, it's almost 11 pm. How was little Joseph even sleeping through that? Silly them, they shouldn't be mad at each other, clearly they should be pissed at Miss Fairchild for putting the rent so hard they need to be seven roommates to make it, and that's not even including basic stuff like food etc...But well, if getting a seven roommates is what it would take, like, they have someone of each species except a fairy so it would be the perfect opportunity to get a fairy under this roof.

And now, for totally unrelated reason, Audrey eating a burger.

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