#horror stories set in abandoned buildings

[kristipetersenschoonover]

MONSTERS IN THE MILLS in Westerly RI this Saturday!

Super excited to announce that Saturday, September 28, at 7 p.m., I’ll be at the UNITED THEATRE in Westerly, RI for a spooky book talk and signing for Monsters in the Mills with my ToC buddies and friends Jessica Wick, Ricardo Rebelo, Errick Nunnally, Christa Carmen, Brennan LaFaro, possibly Steven Belanger and there are rumors a couple more might show up! Tickets are just $5 and it’s the perfect…

[pathologicalreid]

hysteria | s.r.

in which the BAU is called into a case in rural Appalachia when bodies start showing up in an abandoned insane asylum

margotober masterlist

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst (horror?) content warnings: hanging (staged suicide), enucleation, established relationship, ghosts, insane asylum, rope burn, premonition in dreams, death, pov switches, "the green ribbon", lobotomies, abduction, corporeal vs spirit form, CPR, hospitals, painkillers, first aid word count: 8.8k a/n: hey guys i am literally not one to beg for interaction but like if you could send an ask or gimme a reblog if you liked this it would probably make my day. this fic is just an excuse for me to tell ghost stories! and just like that, margotober is over. man, it sure would be a shame if i had something planned for november!

night one

“This is a joke, right?” You asked, eyeing the rest of the team as they observed the property before you. The dilapidated building that stood in front of you was previously completely abandoned, and now you weren’t entirely sure if the yellow police line was new or if the tattered plastic was a result of a crime of the past.

It looked like one of the haunted houses that Spencer would drag you to, one with a much too high budget that would leave you feeling like you needed to scrub cobwebs from your skin. You were waiting for the sheriff to make his way up the hill that the asylum was perched on, the BAU had made it up in SUVs, but the locals elected to hoof it.

Tugging the sleeves of your FBI jacket over your hands, you tapped your heel impatiently and observed the scenery. The fall foliage was in peak season, orange and red leaves fluttered in the wind, falling from the trees until they hit the ground. To the left was the town, small and hidden within a river valley, and to the right was a field of gravestones. Each life lost in the asylum whittled down to a number, hundreds of weathered rocks marked where a body was buried. Even after all of your years with the BAU, the sight still made you sick to your stomach.

The death count on this property had gone up by twelve recently, a group of college kids had found the first body hanging from the staircase, and it seemed like a semi-routine suicide until the local cops did a full sweep of the building and found eleven other bodies, each hanging in a different room.

It wasn’t until the medical examiner looked at them that they realized they were out of their depth, the oldest of the bodies had been dead before they were hung, which told you that hanging the bodies was the intention of the killer and he was beginning to perfect his M.O. Even more than that, the last two bodies had been enucleated post-mortem.

Being grateful for the method by which a person had their eyeballs destroyed wasn’t an emotion you felt frequently, and it was an odd thing to admit to yourself as you consciously blinked.

Over the curve of the hill, you watched as a couple of locals made their appearance, each of them equipped with a flashlight. The sun was beginning to set. Emily had made the executive decision that this case couldn’t wait until morning, so you took off in the middle of the day. Glancing over your shoulder, you found Spencer’s eyes and he gave you one of his patented half-smiles before you looked back at the foreboding building.

The structure had electrical issues, leading to lights flickering all over the crumbling brick walls. The flashes were starting to play tricks on your eyes because you would’ve sworn that you saw a woman in one of the windows, in a long white dress as she looked down at you and your team.

“You must be the BAU,” the sheriff greeted once he was close enough to your group, he waved before huffing impatiently. “Sheriff Shawn Greenbaum, this here is Deputy Conrad Perkins,” he introduced himself and the man with him. You studied them, trying to gauge information about them based on appearance alone.

Emily nodded, reaching her hand out for him to shake and introducing herself before making the rounds with the rest of the team. “Agents Simmons and Lewis are already at the station getting settled, but the rest of us are interested in getting in the building and taking a look around.”

Greenbaum placed both of his hands on his hips before clearing his throat, “That’s not a problem at all. We’ve got a lock up on those front doors to try and keep people out, we’re hoping it’ll put a halt on any more crime.”

Kicking mud off of your boot, you and JJ shared a dubious look. In your line of work, where there’s a will there’s a way—a padlock would do very little to help keep your killer out of the asylum. Even so, you all followed the sheriff as he produced a key from his belt, leading the way to the front doors. They were made of rotting wood. If someone really wanted to get past the lock, they could probably kick them in.

The smell hit you before you stepped foot inside the building, the stench of mildew wafting through the air made you crinkle your nose as you closely followed JJ into the building. A gentle touch to the small of your back told you that Spencer was behind you, each of you shuffling in single file behind the sheriff.

“The first body was found hanging over there,” the deputy, Perkins pointed straight ahead toward the winding staircase. You studied the peeling wallpaper and looked at the faded signs above the different hallways, barely able to make out the words tuberculosis and adolescent as you strolled through the main lobby.

Since they’d initially assumed it was a suicide, the body had been taken down, so even though you had twelve bodies to start your profile with, you didn’t have a fresh crime scene anywhere. In fact, you’d wager a guess and say there’s nothing fresh about this building.

Cringing as you walked over a pile of wet paper, you listened to Emily as she gave everyone jobs, “Reid and I will keep talking to the sheriff, Rossi and JJ, why don’t the two of you check out this wing here with the deputy, and Luke and Y/N can take the upstairs.”

You looked up and found Luke, following him to the staircase and ducking under the noose to go up the stairs, hesitant to use the handrail as you made your way to the second floor, knowing there was plenty of building for the two of you to explore. Pulling your flashlight from your belt for additional lighting, the sight in front of you was worse than what you had seen downstairs. “Watch your step,” you said absentmindedly, bypassing a bucket filled with what you sincerely hoped was water.

“When was this place built again?” Luke asked you, knowing you had done preliminary research with Spencer on the jet. He produced his own light, slipping his cell phone from his pocket and using the flashlight function.

You checked the ceiling, wondering where the beams were and if any bodies had been found in the hallways, “The 1860s,” you responded, keeping your voice soft so you didn’t disturb anything in the building—living or otherwise. You found yourself wanting to walk to the window you had seen that woman in earlier.

Alvez made a disgusted noise at something, and you refrained from looking back at it, knowing you likely didn’t want to know. “And what patients did they predominantly treat?”

Fiddling with the door handle, you nudged the door open with your knee, coughing at the puff of dust that met you on the other side. “They started with a little bit of everything. The elderly, children, adolescents, epileptics, TB patients,” you listed off. “We even found records of people accused of ‘excessive self-satisfaction,’” you continued, finding the window in question. The only thing you found was the same flickering sconce you had seen from the outside.

“Self-satisfaction?” Luke repeated the phrase curiously.

You tapped the sconce with the end of your flashlight, getting it to stop flickering before you clarified, “Masturbation.”

Expectedly, Luke chuckled lightly at your answer, “How exactly would one quantify excessive masturbation?”

Raising your eyebrows, you studied a strange mark on the cement floor, “I assure you; I have no clue.” You turned around, expecting to see Luke right in front of you. “Luke?” You called out his name, confused when you didn’t see him in your line of sight, you flashed your light around the room, wondering if he had found something. “Ah!” You yelped when a hand touched your shoulder, causing you to drop your flashlight.

Luke cackled from his place behind a bookshelf, “It’s gonna be a long case if you’re that tightly wound the entire time.”

You swatted at him with the sleeves of your jacket, “Asshole,” you muttered, taking the practical joke mostly in stride.

“Y/N?” Spencer called from the first floor. Your voice must have carried down the stairs, or they heard the flashlight fall to the ground.

Glaring at Luke, you shouted back, “I’m fine!” You crouched to pick up your flashlight, blowing dust off of it before you tightened your grip around it, “Grow up, Alvez.”

He rolled his eyes, “Yeah, yeah, so what did they do after they took in a little bit of everyone?”

You hummed, stepping back out into the hallway, and looking into what you assumed were offices—most of the patients would’ve lived on the first floor. “They started to focus on patients with mental disorders in the 1970s. Around the same time that medicine in psychiatry started to make advancements,” you kicked at a piece of cloth on the ground. “It closed down in the early nineties when people finally started acknowledging that things like lobotomies and electroshock are inhumane.”

Luke picked the next room, wiggling the doorknob before he used his shoulder to push the door open, “Woah.”

Stepping in behind him, you saw what he was looking at. Along the wall was a mural of sorts, a landscape that featured a caricature of the sun. Next to it, the words ‘let the sun shine in’ were scrawled in black paint.The colors were eerily vibrant for the age of the building, “Well that’s…” You let your voice trail off, looking at the size of the furniture in the room and ascertaining that it was likely designed as a treatment space for children.

“Do you hear that?” Luke asked, shining his flashlight around the room and looking for the source of the noise.

Fortunately, you weren’t that gullible, “Yeah, right.” You scoffed, turning back and seeing Spencer at the top of the staircase, “Hey,” you said, tilting your head to the side curiously.

He smiled at you softly, “Hey, it looks like it’s about to rain, so Emily’s having all of us head back to the precinct. We can look at the M.E. reports knowing what we know now about the crime scene.”

You nodded, looking into the room to find Luke, still shining his phone in every corner, “Luke, it’s probably just a rat or a tree branch tapping on the side of the building.”

Luke’s eyebrows were pinched together in concern, but he followed your footsteps into the hallway, falling to the back of the group as the three of you walked downstairs, meeting the rest of the team in front of the asylum.

“It’s kind of weird,” you said mostly to yourself, though you were entirely aware of the people who were surrounding you.

Spencer hummed curiously, making sure the sheriff wasn’t watching before he adjusted the collar of your jacket, “What’s weird?” He asked, mimicking the soft tone of your voice.

You looked back at the window where the light had started flickering again, “How all of these people were forced into the asylum by their loved ones, and now the word has an entirely different meaning.”

Holding your mug in both hands, you listened carefully to the crackling fire in the lobby of the hotel. Matt stood up from where he was sitting so that Spencer could sit next to you, and you absentmindedly slung your legs over his lap, thinking about the case. More specifically, you were thinking about the scene.

Spencer set a hand on your pajama-covered thigh, using his other hand to hold his book open as you listened to the other noises in the lobby. There was a storm going on outside, and a certain level of unease blanketed the team, leading to a convening in the hotel. Emily and Tara were going over case files, Matt and JJ were on the phone with their families, Rossi was playing Tetris on his phone, Luke was on the phone with someone, and you were just observing.

Eventually, Luke spoke up to everyone, “Hey guys, listen to this,” he said, holding his phone out and clicking the speakerphone button, “Okay, go ahead Garcia.”

Your eyebrows raised in amusement at the revelation that he was on the phone with Penelope, but you were still grateful to hear her voice coming through the speaker.

“I hope you’re all cozy by the fire because I have found a story about your crime scene that will chill you to your bones,” she prefaced, and you smiled slightly at her embellishments. “Catherine Pence was admitted to the Barnham Asylum for the Mentally Ill in 1978 at the age of 53. She lived a totally normal and insignificant life until she was 50 years old and her mother passed away, at which point, the people in Catherine’s life said she started to behave strangely.”

Snapping his book closed, Spencer set the novel in your lap before pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, “Strangely, how?”

Penelope cleared her throat, “I’m glad you asked, Dr. Reid. She was convinced that her mother was still with her. In fact, she would frequently be confused when other people told her that they couldn’t see her mom. Eventually, she started showing other concerning symptoms, so her husband brought her to Barnham.”

You frowned, sharing a glance with JJ, who had hung up the phone, “What kinds of other symptoms?”

“The file I got my hands on specifically cites paranoid thoughts, but that’s not even the spookiest part,” she continued. “When the doctors did their first examination of Catherine, they decided that whatever she was dealing with wouldn’t be amenable to any sort of treatment. She was a very calm patient who periodically had conversations with her dead mother and voiced paranoid thoughts, but they put her in Block D.”

Block D was the section of the hospital set aside for patients in need of around-the-clock care, which seemed a bit extreme for Catherine.

There was a clicking on Penelope’s end of the call before she resumed, “Anyway, Block D had sixteen rooms and there was always some form of supervision, usually a nurse. All of the doors were locked and there were bars on the window, so it was impossible to get anywhere without someone noticing, or so you would think.”

You settled further into the couch cushions, and Spencer instinctively squeezed your thigh.

“On December 1st, 1978, when the nurse went into Catherine’s room with her breakfast tray, she found the room in absolute tatters. I mean, the bedding was shredded, there was broken glass, everything was scattered around the room, and Catherine was missing.” Penelope said, emphasizing the last word.

Luke, who had previously seemed bored by the story, leaned forward, setting his elbows on his knees, “What happened to her?”

Penelope hummed, knowing she had sucked everyone into the story, “The search started immediately. You don’t just have someone escape an inescapable room and move on with your day. The windows, walls, and floor in Block D were completely intact and there was no sign of tampering with the door. No one could figure out how she got out, much less where she was.”

She didn’t wait for anyone to speak before she continued, “Catherine’s nurse said that she was unusually moody and had been for weeks. She completely stopped speaking and showed no reactions when people spoke to her and it was apparently very sudden, but that didn’t really provide any insight into where she could be. The staff searched the surrounding area thoroughly, but there were no leads. Eventually, they notified her relatives and the residents of the town in case she had somehow gotten out of the hospital.”

Then, on January 12th, 1979, a group of men that the asylum hired to do repair work on the second floor found that there was a door locked from the inside.” Garcia cleared her throat before resuming the story, “They also discovered an unpleasant smell emanating from the room, and when they finally got into the room, there was Catherine Pence.”

You wrinkled your nose in disgust, simply just imagining the smell of the room.

“Her clothes were removed and neatly folded next to her and her arms were crossed over her chest, one below the other,” Penelope continued. “Mysteriously, when her body was removed and taken to the morgue, there was a trace left on the concrete floor that corresponded exactly to the figure of Catherine. No matter how many times or what they’ve tried, they can’t get the mark out of the concrete.”

Your blood ran cold at the memory of the strange shape you’d seen in the asylum, “What?”

Penelope hummed, “The medical examiner considered hypothermia as a potential cause of death, but apparently that winter was unseasonably warm, so he settled on a heart attack.”

“Did they ever consider homicide?” Rossi asked, attempting to seem uninterested.

There was a chuckle on the other end of the call, “Yes, they did, but they never found anything else to support that theory. At that point, the room Catherine was found in hadn’t been opened since 1976 when it was used to contain patients with a contagious infectious disease. Since then, the room remained locked.” You could practically hear Penelope’s smile as she divulged the final detail, “Residents of the town say that, sometimes, you can hear cries for help coming from the building. There are even reports of Catherine’s ghost being seen in the window of the room where she died, she just stands there and stares out the window.”

Everyone sat around in silence for a moment before Luke grabbed the phone off of the coffee table, “Yeah, alright, thanks, Garcia.”

“Sleep well, my pretties,” she crooned through the phone before the call ended.

You felt heavy as if there had been a weight placed on your chest, and in an attempt to rectify it, you handed Spencer his book, “I’m headed to bed.”

He looked up at you curiously, eyes studying yours before he nodded, “Alright, I’ll be up in a little while,” he assured you.

Your body carried you to the hotel room, using the key to unlock the door and somehow making it to the bed even after your mind had completely turned itself off. You didn’t remember falling asleep, but you remembered waking up.

As you sat up in bed, you were having trouble holding your head up, finding that you couldn’t turn your neck to see if Spencer had made it to bed. More than that, the room was pitch black when the two of you usually leave the bathroom light on in hotels. Opening your mouth, no words came out.

Small puffs of air escaped your lips, but nothing else came out. You couldn’t move your hands to your neck—you couldn’t move at all. You wanted to call out for Spencer, and even though no sound came out of your mouth, you saw him before you.

Your eyes widened at his sudden appearance, suspiciously illuminated in the otherwise dark room.

Tantalizingly slowly, his hand reached out for you, touching the skin of your neck with his fingertips before pulling. It felt like he was pulling at a thread, and all you could do was watch as his hand came back with a piece of twine pinched between his fingers and your disembodied head fell to the floor.

You gasped for air, holding your hand to your chest and panting, unable to figure out how to get air into your lungs when you so desperately needed it. There were other hands on you, gently placed on your hip and upper back, the latter rubbing small circles as you choked on nothing but air.

“Hey,” Spencer whispered, continuing his ministrations on your back. “It’s okay, I’ve got you,” he comforted you, trying to get you to even out your breathing.

Carefully, his hand reached up to your neck, sweeping hair behind your shoulder, but as soon as you felt his hand on the side of your neck, you flinched away from him, nearly toppling off of the double bed.

He pulled you back as gently as he could, “Y/N,” he said, his voice stern this time as he turned to flick the lamp on. “What happened?”

You shook your head, appreciating how secure it felt to the rest of your body, before pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes. “It was just a nightmare,” you answered, the sound of your own voice felt disconnected from your body.

“You don’t usually call out my name in your nightmares,” Spencer observed softly, trying to get you to open up more to him, “And you’ve definitely never pulled away from me like that.”

He was right, you had your general recurring nightmares—mostly work related—but you’ve never had anything like this before. You didn’t know how to explain it to him, because how would you explain to your rational, genius boyfriend that you thought you were seeing ghosts?

night two

You felt his eyes on you, Spencer’s big, brown eyes were boring right into yours as you looked at the foreboding structure in front of you. You weren’t even sure how long you’d been watching the stained-glass window, waiting for something to happen, waiting for the ghost to come back.

Sighing, you leaned back in the passenger seat of the car, thinking about the now-cold coffee that you had sitting in the cup holder and wondering if it would be worth the caffeine if it meant you had to pee in the woods at some point in the night.

“You should’ve stayed at the hotel tonight,” Spencer said, his eyes still focused on you.

You pursed your lips, watching the light flicker in the window, “We have a job to do.” That should’ve been enough for him, it had to be enough for you, knowing that at the end of the day, this was just a case and you’d be going home once you found whoever was doing this.

Finally turning his head, Spencer huffed in frustration as he faced the front door of the asylum. “I know you didn’t get back to sleep last night, so you have to be exhausted now,” he told you.

It was nearly midnight now, and you indeed hadn’t gone back to sleep after waking up at two in the morning, but you still agreed to a stakeout when Emily suggested it. Spencer called you out on it then, similarly to what he was doing now, and you were sure he had something to do with you being paired up together. If you ever found out he had voiced a concern about you to Emily, you were going to have issues.

The cool glow of the waning gibbous moon reflected off of the building, the effect only building the eerie feeling in your stomach, winding itself up like a ball of yarn.

With the morning came another body, and it became clear to Emily and the locals that the camera surveillance that had been set up along the perimeter wasn’t doing anything to bring you closer to closing the case. So, she had you and Spencer sitting in a car at the front entrance, each of you armed and on high alert, no matter what your boyfriend thought.

On the other side of the building, Luke and Tara were in another vehicle, keeping an eye on a back entrance that had the potential to be an access point for the UnSub.

Keeping an eye on your window, you squinted as if you could somehow summon Catherine Pence’s ghost. You wished you’d been paired up with Luke again, who at least had seen the mark on the floor, but instead, you had Spencer, who had meddled with your work out of concern for you.

You sighed, reminding yourself that he only did it out of concern for you, wondering how to approach the issue when an all-too-familiar figure appeared in that second-floor window, “Do you see that?” You blurted the question before you could even think about what you were saying.

Instinctively, Spencer placed a hand on his weapon while looking through the windshield of the car, “See what?”

You furrowed your brows, pointing as plainly as you possibly could to the second-floor window where you saw the woman, “On the second floor. Off to the right,” you said desperately, wanting him to see it, wanting him to believe you. “Don’t you see her?”

Spencer’s hand dropped as his gaze went from the building and back to you, “Honey.” You tried to ignore the emotion-filled tone that he gave you, flooding the pet name with an apt amount of concern.

Sitting back in the car seat, “Never mind, I didn’t—” you cut yourself off, “I just thought I saw something.” You tried to play it off, crossing your ankles one over the other and shifting in the seat, trying to keep your ass from going numb.

His eyes were still trained on you, and you tried to ignore him even as he locked the passenger door from the inside. The car remained absolutely silent until you heard a voice come in from the radio, “This is the Death Star calling for the Bat Mobile, over.”

You rolled your eyes at the sound of Luke’s voice, “Don’t call this car the Bat Mobile,” you told Spencer as he lifted the radio to his mouth.

“This is the Bat Mobile, we can hear you loud and clear Death Star, over,” Spencer responded, grinning at the way you groaned in response. The poltergeist of it all nearly forgotten for just a moment.

Placing your head in your hands in frustration as you waited for Luke’s response, Spencer reached over and smoothed your hair back, the gesture feeling oddly domestic for a stakeout. Maybe that was why Emily never paired the two of you together. “Yeah, we aren’t seeing anything out here, are you clear on your end?”

Spencer’s ministrations on your hair faltered for just a moment before he answered, “No, we haven’t seen anything.”

“Tara just got off the phone with Emily, they got the lab results back on those tools we found by the latest victim,” he informed you, “The blood on it was a match.”

You pressed your lips together in a thin line and shared a look with Spencer. Part of you was grateful to finally feel like you’d made some semblance of progress with the case, but the other part of you felt physically ill knowing that the latest victim had been enucleated using an orbitoclast. Her eyes and sockets were pulverized by a lobotomy pick, and it almost made you feel like you needed a word stronger than sadist.

“Did the medical examiner say the injuries matched the patterns of the other two enucleated victims?” Spencer asked into the radio, holding it close to his mouth as he spoke.

There was a pause before Luke responded, “Uh, kind of.”

You frowned, “What do you mean ‘kind of?’”

Another pause, “The M.E. concluded that the wound patterns are the same on the three latest victims, but the injuries on the most recent one were inflicted antemortem,” Luke explained.

Your eyes widened as the weight of Luke’s words joined the pit in your stomach, her eyes had been pulverized while she was still alive. The M.E.’s conclusion matched the one you had proposed when you saw the blood spatter this morning. You held your breath to stop a sound of disgust from escaping your lips, but you knew Spencer saw it on your face.

“Thanks for the update,” Spencer said, turning down the volume on the radio slightly before setting it on the dashboard.

Swallowing thickly, you placed both of your hands in your lap, studying them as if you’ve never seen them before, “Have you ever gotten the feeling that a case isn’t going to end well?”

You caught him while he was about to take a sip of his coffee, his movement paused for a moment before he took a swig anyway, setting the cup in the cup holder and nodding, “Yeah,” he answered, his voice raspy before he cleared his throat, “I have.”

Running your tongue over your molars, you raised your eyebrows at him in curiosity, “What usually happens?”

Spencer sighed, going back to facing the asylum before he held his hand out for you to take, you obliged, setting your intertwined fingers on the center console. “The case usually doesn’t end well,” he admitted.

“When are you going to tell me what your nightmare was about?” Spencer asked, squeezing your hand as he made conversation, trying to keep the two of you awake through the night.

Leaning your head back, you looked through the sunroof of the car, thrilled to see the sun beginning to rise over the tiny town. “I don’t think it really matters, it was just a bad dream,” you told him, clearly aware of why it mattered.

You even knew why it mattered to him. You’d never pushed him away like that before, but as soon as his hand had gone near your neck, you’d completely lost control of your body. “Look, I know I don’t believe in dream analysis—”

“Oh,” you scoffed, cutting him off. “Yes, you do,” you corrected him, “You do this all the time, you talk about dream analysis, and you claim that you don’t believe in it but then you actually get into it, and you admit that you just don’t like what Freud has to say about it. Then you’ll list everyone who has discredited him before you tell me ‘Jung still has his merits.’”

Spencer was quiet, and you immediately regretted your interjection.

Sighing, you wished you could melt into the passenger seat of the car, “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I don’t think that analyzing my dream right now will do any good, but I just… I’m sorry.”

He was still silent.

Chewing on the inside of your lip, you turned your body as best you could in the vehicle, “Do you believe in the afterlife?”

That got his attention. Spencer turned his head to you, concern etched into his face, “Why are you asking me this?”

You couldn’t tell him. You’d break his heart if you told him that throughout the duration of this case, you’d developed a pit in your stomach and started having dreams about dying. “In my dream, it was like… like I was paralyzed, and I couldn’t move my head. I couldn’t speak or anything and when I thought about calling for you, you appeared.” You sniffled slightly, “You reached out for my neck and your hand came back with a piece of twine, and then my head fell to the ground—completely detached from my body.”

The lack of judgment in his expression was what finally triggered the first tear to fall from your eye, but you didn’t wipe it away. Spencer moved his hand and deftly wiped at your tears with his fingertips, cupping your face in his hands, “You’re not going to die.”

“Spence,” you said, your voice strained by emotion.

He shook his head gently, “Nope, not as long as I’m around. You’re not going to die on this case.”

Your chest ached as your eyes studied his, “Okay.”

“But,” he continued, “I want you to take a step back on this one. No more volunteering for stakeouts, no wandering to the second floor of the asylum, and no listening to any more of Penelope’s ghost stories.”

Nodding, you silently agreed to his conditions, holding out your pinky and waiting for him to present his. Interlocking your small fingers, you each kissed your hands, and you took a deep breath. “What do you think we’re looking at, Spence? Is it another witch hunt?”

Names and faces of people like Leland Duncan and James Heathridge flashed in your memory, but if there was an overlap there, you haven’t seen it.

You didn’t feel like the BAU had a very good track record in Appalachia, Shane Wyland and the still unnamed ‘Mountain Man’ were proof enough of that, but you hoped that Wyland was long dead by now, and these crimes were too organized for the Mountain Man.

“I don’t know, baby,” Spencer admitted, and you knew that it hurt him to say that to you, especially now.

Looking out the window, your eyes caught on Luke and Tara as they made their way over to your car. Spencer unlocked the doors as you hurriedly wiped beneath your eyes, trying to hide any evidence of your upset before reconvening with the team.

Luke waggled his eyebrows at the two of you, “Good morning, how was your night?”

Groaning, you stretched out your neck, “Ultimately uneventful,” you told him, knowing that if anything of real interest had happened, Luke and Tara would’ve been the first people you notified.

“Prentiss asked us if we’d do a quick sweep of the inside before heading back to the precinct,” Tara said, jutting her chin in the direction of the building.

You and Spencer shared a look, but now that you were grouped within your team, you felt comfortable enough to slip your hand in his as the four of you approached the building. Squeezing his hand, your eyes flickered up to the second-story window, and seeing nothing, you stepped into the building.

The smell hit you. The strong tang of blood mixed with that of isopropyl alcohol burned at your nostrils as Tara swore at the sight in front of all of you. A body hanging from the stairwell, eyes completely destroyed, and while the body was covered in blood, the floor was completely void of any red.

“She’s cleaning up,” you observed, stepping closer to Spencer and looking at the streak marks that a rag had made on the floor.

Luke raised his eyebrows, “She?” He asked, confused about the sudden change in pronouns while Tara immediately went to call Emily.

Spencer nodded, agreeing with you as the three of you watched the body turn in the glow of the sunrise, “A man wouldn’t care about the mess he’s leaving behind.”

This revelation left you more confused than anything, you had no idea how anyone could lift that much dead weight, night after night. “Oh,” you breathed, blood draining from your face as you looked up at Spencer and Luke. “We were watching the building all night,” you reminded them. “We never saw anyone enter, but we never saw them leave.”

night three

“Alright,” Emily started, fully equipped in her Kevlar, she looked around the entryway of the asylum, “Rossi and Tara will keep an eye out front in case anyone tries to make a run for it. Reid and JJ will take the tunnels beneath the west wing, Simmons and I will take the east wing, Alvez and Sheriff Greenbaum will head north, and Y/N and Deputy Perkins will stay here in the foyer in case anyone calls for backup.”

In the dark building, Spencer gave your hand a squeeze before everyone turned on their flashlights. “Let’s end this,” Rossi said, earning a hum of agreement as everyone split off into their respective directions.

You wished Emily had done you the kindness of letting you be paired with Spencer again, but twice in the span of a single case was seemingly too much to ask for. “You ever seen something like this?” Deputy Perkins asked you, shuffling his feet across the floor.

Shaking your head, your eyes focused on where the newest body had been found that morning. The body was cleared out and the cause of death was blunt force trauma, but once the realization that the killer had been in the building the entire time settled in, the team got to work on figuring out some of the logistics.

That was when the sheriff brought up the possibility of the killer using a long-abandoned tunnel system. The town had assumed they caved in years ago, but a bit of sleuthing had revealed that there were still a select number of tunnels for her to use.

As long as I stay in the foyer, you reminded yourself, no wandering.

The stench of isopropyl alcohol still floated through the air; it had likely sept into the porous flooring that had been underneath the body. You made note of the flickering lights in the surrounding area, making sure not to get any of them mixed up as you rested a hand on your firearm.

“Did you hear that?” Deputy Perkins asked you, looking up the stairs and shining his flashlight on them, trying to see if he could find anything in the eerie abyss of darkness.

Swallowing thickly, you shook your head in response, “No,” you told him, looking to the left and right of you, wondering if one of the pairs that had been sent off was returning. You hadn’t heard anything coming from the upstairs.

He hummed, taking a step closer to the staircase and setting off alarm bells in your head, “I’m sure I heard a shuffling coming from upstairs.” The pit in your stomach reformed as he planted a foot on the staircase and waved you over, “Come on, we should check it out.”

You hesitated, “We’re supposed to be here if someone needs backup,” you reminded him, nearly pleading with him not to abandon his post.

Perkins shrugged at you before taking another step. “I’m going to check it out, and there’s safety in numbers,” he countered before ascending the steps, making it to the first landing before your feet finally moved.

“Fuck,” you muttered as you followed him up the stairs, taking careful steps so that they didn’t creak beneath you. You reached the second-floor seconds after him, but you shone your flashlight around without any sign of him, beaming the light into the familiar room, “Deputy Perkins?”

You stepped into the room, placing a hand on your firearm as you tapped on the flickering sconce again and looked behind you. Your breathing hitched at the sight of the deputy in front of you, he was crumpled to the floor, his legs folded unnaturally, and there was a lobotomy pick that went straight through his head.

Next to him stood a woman, her clothes were tattered and stained with blood, and she came at you, shoving you to the ground and leaving your gun and flashlight scattered on the hardwood. The force of the impact knocked the wind out of you, and you got yourself out from under her while she frantically searched for a missing piece of the puzzle.

She’d used her pick to take out the deputy, leaving her with nothing to gouge your eyes out. You weren’t sure if you should feel grateful as you rolled over and grabbed the closest thing you could, wrapping your fingers around your flashlight and swinging it aimlessly against your attacker.

“No!” She screamed a high-pitched, blood-curdling sound rang out as you hit her on the side with your law enforcement issue flashlight. The object slipped out of your fingers as you sat up and tried to reorient yourself with your surroundings, you couldn’t see your gun, searching for it as she flung your flashlight back at you, the edge of it catching on your forehead as you fell back.

The UnSub straddled your waist, keeping a firm hold on your throat as she held the pick to your eye, having pulled it from the deputy’s head so that she could complete her ritual, “Don’t,” you gasped, “Think—” your voice broke off as vomit rose in your throat. “Think of the mess,” you told her. “You used all the rubbing alcohol,” you reminded her, pleading with her not to take your eyes.

She was seething, very nearly foaming at the mouth above you as instead of stabbing you with the pick, she used the butt of it to crack against your skull. “You took my friends!” She raged, referring to the people that she had murdered, she was collecting them to keep her company.

“No,” you wheezed, shaking your head even through the blinding pain, “I set them free,” you challenged her, resigning yourself to an untimely demise and crying out when she sat you up.

You tried to claw at her, a weak attempt at saving your own life that received a laugh from the UnSub, an almost childlike giggle. “You can be my friend,” she offered, grabbing an already prepared rope from the floor and looping it around your neck before she slung it around an exposed beam, creating a makeshift rig and pulling on it.

Immediately, your hands flew to your neck, trying to stop the rope from suffocating you completely, and it worked for a little while before your feet lifted off of the ground.

After that, you were gone, left standing off to the side as you watched your body hang from the ceiling while the UnSub who would always remain an UnSub to you watched, cackling as she did so. She cackled up until the moment JJ put a bullet in her brain, the sudden death of your attacker leaving your body to drop to the hardwood floor, the hit softened by Spencer and Emily as they caught.

Tossing the rope to the side, Spencer laid you out on the floor and ducked his head to your chest, listening for breathing sounds. He was listening for anything, any sign of life at all.

There was nothing, so he put his hands on your corporeal form’s chest and started CPR, pushing down on your chest in steady motions.

You knelt down to him, watching tears fall from his face as JJ did her best to keep your airway open and Emily frantically radioed for an ambulance, continuously repeating that Y/N is down.

Assuming your hand would go right through him, you placed a hand on Spencer’s back, surprised to find that he was still solid to you. In a sort of daze, you watched him as he tried to save your life, repeating the same three words over and over again, “Come on, baby.” The mantra continued, tears falling onto your shirt.

You felt like you were on fire as if your body was physically burning while you watched life-saving measures be performed on yourself, “Oh, Spencer,” you whispered. “I’m so sorry,” you said to no one but yourself, knowing that he couldn’t hear you.

Looking to your side, you saw her again. The spirit form of Catherine Pence was watching you die in real-time, and you took a shuddering breath as she knelt next to you, expecting her to impart some sort of spiritual wisdom onto you.

Instead, she placed one of her ethereal hands on the back of your head and slammed both of your forms together. The entire world went dark after that, but you could still hear everything going on, searing pain ran through your entire body, from a throbbing in your ankle to an ache in your ribs to a pulsing in your head, but there was no more pressure on your chest.

“Is she…?” You heard JJ’s voice first, and as badly as you wanted to open your eyes, you just couldn’t gather the strength to do so.

There was heavy breathing and a soft weight on your shoulder, two fingers pressed into the pulse point on your wrist, “She’s breathing. She’s alive,” Spencer answered, out of breath. “Oh, my angel.”

A low groan was the only thing you could muster up.

Spencer shushed you, keeping his head on your shoulder and his fingers on your wrist, “It’s okay, don’t try to talk,” he cooed. “You’re going to be okay, the paramedics are here,” he lifted his head then. “I just want to stay with her.”

aftermath

It was far too bright for you, and the low keening sound that you expelled from your throat was the only way you could think to express that feeling. Whoever was in the room with you understood, turning the brightness down for you, earning a hum of approval from you.

“Hey,” Spencer whispered, his voice barely audible as he tried to keep his voice as low as possible.

The universe was taking pity on you, you knew it because you couldn’t feel any pain, which either meant you had finally kicked it or the hospital you were in had given you painkillers.

Your eyes felt like they were stuck together, the way that they get when you wake up from a perfect nap, and it took a surprising amount of energy to part your lips, expelling a deep breath out of your mouth. The action led to a pinching pain in your chest, causing your breathing to hitch, “Ow.”

“Sorry,” Spencer said, though you couldn’t imagine what he was apologizing for. “Can you open your eyes? How are you feeling?”

A grunt was all he received in response, the single noise begging him to slow down. Your eyes opened just slightly, looking at him through slivers as he smiled softly at you. His eyes were red and there was a box of Kleenex on the table next to him, accompanied by his phone and a cup of water.

He sighed in relief once he noticed that your eyes were opening, “Hey,” he repeated, “You look good,” he lied to you.

You rolled your eyes at him and his smile only grew, “Hi,” you croaked, your throat swollen and dry as you tried to reorient yourself. You were in a hospital, but the view outside of your window was of a city, not the tiny town that you had just been in.

Noticing your confusion, Spencer reached out to adjust your nasal cannula, “They transported you to a hospital in a city. The local hospital just didn’t have the capacity to treat you,” he explained. “I’ve been with you,” he reassured you, “The entire time.”

“I’m sorry,” you rasped, but he waved you off instantly.

Spencer grabbed the Styrofoam water cup from your bedside table and held it to you, bending the straw so that you could get some water.

Noting his silence, you tilted your head to the side, ignoring the way your brain felt like it had been scrambled, “Are you okay?”

He pursed his lips while setting the cup back down, “I just remember thinking about how I promised you that you weren’t going to die.”

The antiseptic air made you cringe, your body becoming more and more conscious as time went on, “I wandered,” you reminded him, making sure he knew that you broke your promise first.

“That wasn’t your idea,” Spencer challenged, knowing you well enough to say that without having experienced it himself. His fingers nimbly adjusted the blanket on your hospital bed, “You followed the deputy upstairs, it wasn’t your choice.”

In your current state, Spencer wouldn’t let you take any of the responsibility for what had happened in the asylum and even though you knew the answer, you asked him anyway, “Is she dead?”

Nodding softly, he took your hand in his, “She’s dead, and someday I’ll let you know her name and read the rest of the case, but today is not that day.” He skimmed his thumb over your knuckles, each of them cracked and bloodied from your fight with the UnSub.

You sighed in relief, a single tear receding into your hairline as you closed your eyes again, “How long have I been sleeping?” You asked, squinting over at your patient care whiteboard.

“Two days,” Spencer answered gently, dragging his fingers up and down your forearm, “You were tired, and your body had a lot of healing to do. It still does,” he added the last part, not wanting you to claim being healed. “Everyone’s still here, waiting for you to be discharged,” he continued, “I should message Emily, actually.”

“And Penelope,” you added, knowing she’d rather hear it directly from him than through Emily.

Spencer chuckled lightly, a sound that was as curative as any medicine you could be given, “I’m sure she’ll be waiting for us at the tarmac in Quantico.”

A small smile sprouted on your face, “She’ll be the one landing the plane,” you laughed slightly, interrupted by a fit of coughing. You placed a hand on your chest and winced, inhaling sharply before trying to breathe through the pain.

“What do you need?” He asked you carefully, setting his phone back down after sending his texts.

You shook your head, “Nothin’, just you.”

It was an action that would’ve previously earned a few stares from the team, and at least one wolf whistle from Luke, you and Spencer slipping into the galley together and closing the curtain behind you. Now it was simply the easiest place for you to get some semblance of privacy as Spencer snipped at the old bandaged around your neck.

Your hair was secured atop your head, keeping it out of the ointment as Spencer used his fingertips to carefully cover the rope burn that had been left around your neck. “Does it hurt?” He asked, eyes focused on his canvas while coating the hollow of your throat.

Shaking your head minutely, you closed your eyes, “No,” you told him, a slight rasp still peeking through your tone.

He hummed in response, giving you a small smile as he went back to the tube, putting more ointment on his fingers, “Liar.”

Opening your eyes again, you looked up at him as your face warmed, “Only a little bit,” you altered your answer. At this point, the worst part about the burn was that the nurses recommended keeping it covered, and Spencer was taking his job as caretaker very seriously.

He checked his phone for something before going back to his prior actions, “I think it’s getting better,” he observed, furrowing his brows as he wiped excess ointment from his fingers.

You took his word for it, having been avoiding looking in a mirror at all costs. Seeing the bruises all over your body was more than enough for you. You flinched when someone else slipped into your oasis, Emily shut the curtain behind her, holding out a pack of non-adhesive Telfa pads for Spencer to use on your neck.

“Hey,” you said nervously, wondering if she had another purpose or if she was simply bringing you some first-aid.

Emily smiled nervously; her eyes studied the marks on your throat as Spencer covered them. You expected her to speak, but she just watched in complete silence.

Raising your eyebrows, you looked from her to Spencer, and back to her again. “You should see the other guy,” you joked, earning the slightest smile from the both of them.

“I just wanted to let you know that however much time you decide to take off, it’s yours,” she offered to you, watching as Spencer unwrapped another packet of gauze.

You hummed, “I’m really alright, Em,” you assured her, more than comfortable with the automatic six weeks that you were granted by the bureau. It was the standard set for all agents unless there was an extenuating circumstance that prevented them from returning to work.

Emily’s nervous smile returned, “It wasn’t a suggestion,” she informed you, letting you know that she was more or less forcing you to take the extended time off.

Peering at your boyfriend, you frowned, “You put her up to this.”

Spencer shook his head, “I didn’t. Stop moving so much,” he urged you, trying to stretch the number of Telfa pads he had before he had the chance to go to a pharmacy.

“He didn’t,” Emily iterated, “But he could’ve, and I still wouldn’t tell you,” she added. “We’ll talk more—both of you. For now, I don’t want to see you around the BAU for a while.”

You sighed when she left the galley, Spencer finished his last placement before stepping back. “How do I look?” You asked him, keeping your question mostly rhetorical.

His smile was so gentle that it cracked at your resolve, “Good.”

Looking up at him doubtfully, you leaned against the counter, “You’re a really bad liar.”

“Hey,” he said, carefully wrapping his arms around you and letting you rest the unmarred side of your head on his chest, “You look alive, and that’s good enough for me.”

[strangererotica]

EXPLICIT CONTENT | MINORS DNI

Art the Clown x Reader

Includes stalking, public sex, vaginal fingering, two characters are 💀 by the end of the story, groping, choking

You decide to visit a haunt the week before Halloween with a group of friends, expecting an evening filled with innocent scares and a few lighthearted screams. It’s all in good fun, right? No one ever finds themselves in any real danger at one of these events, do they? So you assume it’s just your mind playing tricks when you notice the clown in the black and white costume, subtly following you and your friends around the park.

Your friends are oblivious; and you wish you were, too. Because maybe then you could enjoy yourself like they are, without the potent mix of dread and excitement competing for first place inside your gut. Everything about this clown should set alarm bells ringing in your head. He’s a walking red flag, some creep in a clown costume, with a black garbage bag slung over his shoulder (what the hell??) The costume looks eerily familiar, but you can’t place where you’ve seen it before. Maybe he’s dressed as a character from some obscure horror movie that came out decades ago, and that’s why you can’t place it. Whoever this person is, he must have nothing better to do than to stalk your friend group at haunt. And while his resemblance to something you’ve seen before is unsettling, what’s truly bizarre is that whenever you lock eyes with the clown, his eyes are always already fixed on you. As the night progresses, you begin to realize that he isn’t stalking you and your friends. He’s stalking YOU and only you…and despite your better judgement, you find yourself intrigued by his pursuit…

You’ve completed most of the attractions, with only a couple left for the night. Next up on your friend’s itinerary is the haunted asylum, a walkthrough attraction that takes place in an ‘abandoned,’ building deep inside the park. It’s filled with medical equipment and gruesome-looking props. Fake blood lines the doorway and floor of the entrance as you and your friends approach the asylum.

A ghoulishly made-up scare actor in a tattered lab coat lunges out at you from a dark corner. Your friends cry out in surprise, their squeals quickly turning to laughter. But your focus is elsewhere, specifically, on the clown whose tall, lean frame is outlined ahead. He’s already inside the asylum, leaning against the doorway of one of the ‘exam rooms,’ down the right hallway. It’s difficult to make out his features in the dim, flickering lights of the attraction; but you know he’s watching you. One of your friends tugs your arm to follow the group down a hallway to the left, but you hesitate.

Glancing back at the doorway to the right, you see that the clown is no longer standing there. You can’t understand why, but you find yourself disappointed that he’s gone. You decide to follow along with your friends, pretending to be interested when various scare actors jump out at you throughout the attraction. Immersed in a haze of artificial fog and flickering lights, you resign yourself to the fact that you’ve lost the clown in black and white for good.

After finishing the asylum, you linger just outside its exit. You make an excuse to your friends about needing a minute after the experience, telling them it was a little too much for you and you’re a little shaken. They’re understanding, and agree to give you some space to decompress while they go grab a snack just down the fairway. Grateful for a chance at some alone time, you pull out your phone and decide to do some investigating. Something about that clown struck you as so familiar, and you want to know why. You type in a description of his appearance, and immediately, an image of the exact same clown you’ve been seeing all night appears on screen. It’s a police sketch, of a man the attached article refers to as “The Miles County Clown.” Your stomach twists as you read further in the article, which describes his crimes in graphic detail. The final sentence informs you that the killer’s body went missing, and hasn’t been found in the year since the gruesome murders took place.

The sound of movement close by pulls your eyes from the screen. With a small, trembling voice, you ask “…is someone there?” Only silence answers you, till a familiar figure emerges from the shadows. It’s the clown, a wide smile stretched across his face. You notice that in addition to his usual black and white costume, he’s now wearing a lab coat over top of it. It’s just like the one the scare actor was wearing at the entrance of the asylum…in fact, it’s the exact same one. Except now, it’s spattered, along with the clown’s face and gloved-hands, in what appears to be fresh blood.

“I-don’t-please don’t-,” you stammer, instinctively taking a step back. Your hands lift in front of you, palms facing outward in a vain attempt at protecting yourself. The clown strides forward quickly, one of his hands reaching around the back of your head and clutching your hair. He whips you around so your body is pressed against his. You wince as the clown tugs your head against him, his body curved around yours from behind. Secured against his shoulder, he has you locked in place. With his free hand, the clown dips inside one of the pockets of the lab coat, retrieving a stethoscope. He fixes the ear tips in place on the sides of his head, pressing the circular metal chest piece against your skin.

You shiver, trembling in the clown’s arms as he pretends to listen to your heartbeat, like a doctor would. When he’s finished ‘examining,’ you, he glides the chest piece lower, releasing it just as his hand slips under your bra. You shudder when he roughly squeezes your tit, his hot breath dusting your cheek. The clown’s sick smile deepens; he assumes your response is one of revulsion. In reality, you find yourself uncomfortably aroused for reasons you can’t explain. The man holding you against him is evil incarnate; you should be terrified right now. He curves his hips forward, grinding against you slightly, enough for you to feel the unmistakable prod of an erect penis poking your ass.

Your heartbeat thunders as the clown gropes you, your nipple perking to meet his palm. He releases his grip on your hair, letting your head land back against his shoulder. While still kneading your tit in one hand, he shoves the other beneath the front of your pants. Your hips jerk as the pad of his index finger finds your clit and immediately applies pressure, rubbing rough circles over the swollen bud. The clown nestles his nose into the curve of your neck, his wet tongue licking up to your ear. Your thighs quiver around his wrist, your breath visible in the chilly Autumn air as you pant quietly. His fingers continue to explore you, spreading apart the soft, slick folds of your cunt, opening you up for himself. He dips his tongue inside the hollow of your ear; the moist feeling and the filthy wet sounds it creates have your clit pulsing against his fingertips. Your back arches instinctively, craving something more, something inside you. The clown indulges your need, pressing two fingers just past your entrance.

Your knees feel weak, not just from the pleasure you’re feeling, but from the sickening realization hitting you about who this man really is. You’re certain he isn’t just a random person dressed up as the killer clown from the previous Halloween. You know this is HIM. You can feel it in the confidence he projects, the ease with which all of this comes to him. And his hands, the hands that choked and stabbed and sawed the life from multiple people, are now knuckles-deep inside your cunt. His tongue languidly probes the hollow of your ear, his hand rocking back and forth between your thighs, fucking you mercilessly. Slippery cum splashes down your thighs, your eyes rolling back as the aching tension in your core begs to be relieved.

Just as you feel the first wave of your climax begin to unfurl, you feel it being ripped away. The clown yanks his fingers from inside you, making you wince at the sting left in their wake. You’re reeling momentarily in disappointment at your ruined orgasm, but the feeling quickly shifts to horror when the clown takes you by the throat, compressing your breath beneath his cum-covered fingers. The world around you fades in and out of focus, your body convulsing against his stoic frame as his hands crush your windpipe along with your last frantic hope of survival…

“We interrupt this broadcast to bring you breaking news from Miles County. Two bodies have been identified this morning in what authorities are calling a double homicide. The murders occurred last night at the local Halloween Haunt held in the old carnival fairgrounds. One of the victims, a male, has been identified as twenty-two year old Carl Holland. Holland was working as a scare actor in one of the event’s walkthrough attractions. Police report that the lab coat Holland was wearing when last seen was missing when his body was discovered. The other victim, identified as (Y/N), was attending the Haunt yesterday evening with a group of friends. Both victims’ bodies appear to have been ‘placed,’ inside the asylum by the perpetrator, as if they were nothing more than props. Unfortunately, due to the macabre set design of the event, the victims’ bodies blended in with the gruesome scenery so well that their deaths remained undiscovered for hours, affording the killer plenty of time to escape the fairgrounds without capture. Police advise local residents to be cautious when going about their daily activities the rest of the week and especially Halloween night, as only one year has passed since the Miles County Clown murders occurred. Authorities tell us that based on the way last night’s victims were mutilated, they believe a copycat killer may be replicating the work of last year’s killer clown. Please use caution when giving out candy this weekend, as you never know who may be waiting on the other side of your door with something more sinister than tricks and treats in mind… This concludes our special report. We now return to your previously-scheduled programming…”

[ckret2]

Chapter 53 of human Bill Cipher not properly appreciating the fact that Mabel is his only friend on Earth:

Mabel has read a book about Bill's home dimension and is prepared to interrogate him all about where he comes from.

Bill is willing to do anything to avoid being interrogated.

(Featuring SEVEN illustrations, provided by 🌈 MABEL 💖)

####

Flatworld, from what Mabel had read, was probably literally the worst place to ever exist. 

The book was a hundred pages of an old-fashioned formal-sounding super boring guy rambling on about the most egregiously evil society Mabel had ever had the horror of reading about.

Society consisted of a bunch of geometric shapes—which in concept sounded half nerdy and half adorable—but they'd made a brutally oppressive government organized by quantity of sides, with infinite-sided circles at the top and three-sided triangles at the bottom, and one-sided lines—women—oppressed into near silence. Career options, educational opportunities, who you could love, were all determined by your sides. Irregular shapes—quadrilaterals that weren't squares, triangles that weren't equilateral, anyone with a side too long or too short—were presumed from birth to be criminally insane. Each generation had sons with one more side than their father—and they had to, because having higher-ranked sons was the only way families could climb out of poverty. When babies were born with too few or irregular sides, poor families abandoned them—or worse—and rich families put them through oft-fatal bone-snapping surgeries to regularize or increase their sides. Knowledge of the third dimension was considered heretical, and anybody claiming it was real was locked in an insane asylum.

There was a lot of mathy stuff in the book about a square meeting a magical sphere and going on educational adventures to the higher and lower dimensions; but most of it passed by her in a blur. When she'd finished reading last night, Mabel had lay in bed for an hour, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about dead baby shapes and fighting the urge to wake Bill up just so she could hug him; until she'd finally drifted off and woken up in her own bed.

At least, thank goodness, the bit about banning colors so lower shapes couldn't contour themselves to look like higher shapes was false. But she was sure that at least part of the story was true. And it had happened to somebody she knew. It was a lot to process.

So she processed it the way she usually did the stories that weighed on her: by creating a self-insert and pulling out her art supplies.

####

"You're drawing fan art of Flatworld?" Bill asked warily.

"I wouldn't call it fan art. I'd say it's more of a... thoughtful artistic critique. I don't think I'm a 'fan' of the second dimension," Mabel said. "No offense."

"Sure."

Mabel had designed a shapesona of herself: a pink heart with a rainbow-colored outline, a big sparkly eye, and skinny black stick limbs like Bill's. If, as Bill had said, colors weren't illegal, she didn't see any reason she couldn't be rainbow. The heart shape was maybe unconventional, but Bill hadn't said she couldn't be a heart yet, so she was sticking with it for now.

She'd honestly expected Bill to come over and interrogate her about her creation long before now. Usually, when she was doing art and he was unoccupied, he was hovering right by her, examining her work and dropping hints—some more subtle than others—that she should draw him next. But she hadn't immediately noticed when he'd silently drifted into the room, and she wasn't sure how long he'd been there before speaking up. He was still leaning on the wall, arms crossed, watching askance from halfway across the living room as Mabel worked with her crayons, as if she were playing with a chemistry set and he was trying to figure out if she was building a bomb.

"Is Flatworld really about your world?" Mabel asked. "Did you tell Edward Bishop Bishop all that stuff? With the circles and all the laws about shapes and stuff?"

Bill mulled over the question, staring into space. Mabel had never seen his face look so inexpressive before—at least, not since his first night as a captive, after he'd gotten all the screaming out and had looked too exhausted to feel. "We talked," he conceded. "I'm surprised you got your hands on it. I suppose Stanford brought it up."

Something in the back of her mind pricked up defensively—what was that supposed to mean, he was surprised she got her hands on it?—but she pushed it back down. "Yeah, he told me and Dipper about it when you guys got home yesterday," Mabel said. "But you brought it up to me first!"

"No I didn't. When?"

"A few weeks ago? You mentioned Edward Bishop Bishop."

"I don't remember that," Bill muttered. "I probably didn't think you'd make sense of it."

"Hey!"

"You didn't make sense of it! Ford had to tell you about it."

"Yeah, but—mean!" She shoved aside her drawing and started on another one, grumbling, "I could've made sense of it if I'd looked it up."

What was up with Bill today? He wasn't usually this much of a jerk. To her. Lately. Plus, she thought they'd really had a moment yesterday! But Bill had had a rough couple days. Maybe he was just tired and cranky. 

A wiser person might just leave well enough alone. But a wiser person wasn't exploding in their brain with curiosity about just how bad Bill's life had really been. There was something itching at the back of her head, had been itching since she'd woken up—something about Bill, something important, she was sure of it—but she couldn't quite put together what it was. She just needed to talk to Bill long enough to figure it out.

"So..." She glanced up from filling in a shape yellow, "were lines really executed if they didn't make noises all the time so everyone always knew where they were and they couldn't sneak up and stab anyone?"

Bill scoffed, rolling his eyes, as if the very idea was stupid. "It wasn't that extreme. Making a peace cry is like a human saying 'coming through' when they're trying to squeeze past somebody. Lines are just taught to do it in public because it's easier not to see a line, that's all."

"If they didn't, were they executed...?"

"No. They were just rude."

That was a relief. Mabel had been worried for her fellow ladies. She was plenty noisy, but she didn't think she could remember to make constant sound any time she was around other people. She turned back to coloring her newest drawing, but watched Bill out of the corner of her eye. "Is it true that rich people killed almost all of their babies by giving them surgery to break their sides?"

The corner of Bill's mouth curled in a sneer. "Do I look like a pediatric surgeon?"

"Um." Not a welcome question. She tried to backtrack to something softer. "So, in the second dimension, the outside of your body is just your outline and your guts are everything inside the outline, right?"

He gave her a wary look. "Yeah."

"So your bow tie is basically in your stomach."

Bill sucked in a deep breath; but quickly caved in to the need to be the most correct person in the room. "More like around my esophagus, but. Sure."

"So, where did you wear it when you were back in the second dimension? Was it on your side? Did you have to wear two so people could see them from both sides—"

"I didn't need a bow tie then."

Mabel stared at him. "What do you mean, you didn't 'need' it? What do you need it for now?"

Bill ignored the question. "You know, I didn't think Flatworld was an interesting enough book to deserve this much attention! Especially not from you. You like fun stories." It felt oddly like he was criticizing her for having read it.

"Well—yeah, but it's about your home! That makes it fun!"

Bill raised his brows.

"Right? Doesn't it?"

"Kid." Bill laughed condescendingly. "Don't give me that. You read an entire book. In the summer. About math. With a downer ending where the narrator goes insane and gets locked up. That's some people's idea of a fun time, but I know it's not yours."

Maybe "fun" was the wrong word—but it was still important. She was glad she'd read it. She'd cared about it. She'd cared enough to know Bill was describing it wrong. "That's not what happened. The square got locked up because he kept telling everybody the third dimension's real."

"Like I said! He went insane!"

"But he's not insane. Everyone says he is, but he's right about the third dimension! It's everyone else who's stupid!"

"So what," Bill said. "The things he knows mean he'll never be able to see the world the way other shapes do, and no matter what he does he'll never be happy with his home. If that's not insanity, what is?"

Last year, she'd heard Bill agree when Gideon called him insane. She'd always wondered. "Is that why you're insane?"

Bill shot Mabel a furious look. That was the wrong thing to say. "Shooting Star—"

(Oh no, she thought, he's using my full name.)

"—what's with the third degree." Bill crossed the room to lean on the other side of the table. He gave her the guarded glare of a guilty suspect facing down a cop in an interrogation room—and trying to figure out whether he could kill the cop before he was stopped. "What do you think you're trying to dig up?"

"I'm not trying to 'dig up' anything," Mabel said. "I just want to learn more about you!"

"Oh yeah, I'm sure you do! Who doesn't wanna know all about me! And right after I trusted you yesterday! Do you think you're the first person to start digging into my history? 'Hey, does anyone know what made Bill Cipher so crazy'?" Bill laughed bitterly. " You're not even the first Pines to try it. Not even the second."

"That's not what I'm trying to do!" said Mabel, right before it dawned on her that that was exactly what she was trying to do.

"Right. I'm sure whatever you learn will make a nice two-page spread in Journal 5. Another secret you and Fordsy can add to your Mysteries, huh? Think he'll draw the dead babies?"

She thought back to Portland—to asking Ford what had made Bill so awful. I think if anyone’s ever had a chance of finding out what made him like he is, it might be you. Mabel shook her head. No. She didn't want to be that. "I'm not Grunkle Ford's spy, I'm your friend. I just—I just want to understand you—"

"Yeah, and the 'friends' who understand you are the most dangerous kind." Bill laughed harshly. "Your uncle and brother couldn't figure me out! And Sixer's been trying for years! So what makes you think YOU can?"

He was calling her stupid. He'd been calling her stupid all day. That was why he was so surprised she'd read the book.

"You—shut up!" She wadded up her latest drawing and flung it in Bill's face. (He snatched out of midair.) "All I did was read a book I thought was important to you, you jerk! I thought you'd like that!"

She hadn't meant for that waver to enter her voice. But she was exhausted from too little sleep and worrying about dead baby shapes and worrying about Bill's fear of death and worrying about what Ford had said about not giving Bill a second chance, and now Bill was being a jerk, and maybe he was just exhausted and upset too, but he was treating her like she was stupid—and there was that pathetic little waver.

But it made Bill pause in his onslaught; for a moment, he averted his gaze. Still, he said, "Maybe if you'd thought to ask—"

"You were asleep! I was being nice! And letting you sleep! In my bed!"

"But—"

"Just go away!" She pointed at the doorway.

Bill's face hardened again. "Fine!" He flung his hands in the air and stomped from the room. "Who wants to hang out with you when you're in such a bad mood, anyway."

Mabel glared at her stupid drawings so she didn't have to watch Bill's stupid back as he left.

Why had she bothered?

When Bill was out of sight, she dropped back onto her chair, pulled her sweater over her face, crossed her arms on the table, and buried her head in them.

####

Bill didn't think to smooth out the paper Mabel had flung at him until he was out of the room.

On one side she'd drawn Bill—properly triangular—with an expression that he thought was supposed to be fear and on the other side several angry-looking shapes, pentagons and hexagons, colored gray and black, being led by a pale figure shaped like a human skull and wielding a scythe; and between them, a bright pink heart, standing in front of Bill protectively, hands on its "hips," glaring down the would-be assailants.

The corners of Bill's mouth sagged down.

####

The bell rang and the shapes began filing out of class, muttering to each other about how they thought they'd done on the test. As the triangle cheerfully left the room, the teacher caught him by the arm again to pull him over. "Just a minute," she said. "I want a word with you."

Oh, he bet she did. Breezily, he said, "Sure thing! What is it?"

"Who was the first triangular president?"

"Wh— Th—" He spluttered indignantly. "There's been like—seven of them."

"Nine. And I'm only asking about the first one."

"How should I know!"

"You knew an hour ago."

He sputtered again. "That was— That was a multiple choice test! And it was an hour closer to when I'd studied! And I can focus better in the classroom! You can't expect me to remember anything in the hallway. You're using intimidation tactics. How could anyone focus under these conditions—"

"I don't know what you're doing," the teacher said, "or how you're doing it. Maybe I never will. But..." She sighed, and the anger seemed to leak out of her, and that only made him more nervous. "But whatever you're doing—you won't be able to do it forever. What will you do when you're out in the real world and you didn't learn anything in school?"

Her pity was worse than being hated had been. At least when he was hated, he knew she only looked down on him because she had something against him. What did he do with pity? With concerned warnings about the "real world"? He'd never heard anybody use the phrase "the real world" as anything but a threat. He hoped he was never out in the real world.

"Who cares! I'll never need any of this!" He should have shut up there. He didn't: "You're just jealous that me and my family make a million times more lying to everyone than you'll ever get trying to teach them the truth!"

His teacher gasped in shock; but before she could say anything, he was halfway down the hall with no intention of slowing down.

The next day, he stayed home, and his mom visited the principal. The day after that, he had a new teacher.

####

He was stupid. He knew that. He didn't know when he'd gotten stupid—if it was because he'd started touring so much and missing classes, or if he'd always been dumb and just didn't notice it before he registered just how often he was using his all-seeing eye to pick up answers that other kids couldn't see. It had crept up on him. But there it was. He was stupid, and he was too stupid to figure out what to do about it.

There was a big difference between being able to see everything, and actually knowing anything. And he might be all-seeing, but an idiot like him would never be all-knowing.

####

A trillion years later, he still didn't remember the name of the first triangular president. And look how far he'd gotten without it.

Lunch was toast and peanut butter. The toaster was the only source of heat he could use without having to ask his captors for access; and peanut butter and bread were the most nutritious foods he could reach without asking his captors to open a cabinet or fridge. He was sick of toast and peanut butter.

He wasn't about to ask Mabel to help him get lunch.

Well. He'd succeeded. He'd known just the right thing to say to get Mabel to lay off and drop the topic. Did he feel accomplished?

He stared out the window as he ate—there were hazy gray clouds on the horizon, beyond the trees, slowly inching closer—and he tried not to look at the picture Mabel had flung at him.

####

Mabel felt dumb about being upset that Bill thought she was dumb.

Because of course he did. Sure, he liked her art and he liked dance music and games without rules; sure, he was a willing student when it came to stuff like making friendship bracelets or artistically mixing sprinkles; sure, he was a weirdo fun guy; but he was also a Smarty McSmartypants, just like Dipper or Ford. And Mabel was the Girl Dipper who brought home C's. And even a weirdo fun Smarty wouldn't want to hang out for long with someone who couldn't keep up with nerd talk. He probably just... put up with her for as long as he could stand pretending he took her seriously, but he'd finally lost his patience...

And shown his true, jerky colors again.

Maybe Ford and Dipper were right about him; maybe he couldn't really change.

Except... there was something he'd said. And right after I trusted you yesterday. When he'd cried in front of her. When he'd told her about his fear of death.

He was being a jerk because he thought she'd betrayed him. But by reading a book?! Why couldn't he ever just explain himself? Did he think whatever was bothering him was obvious, and she was stupid for not figuring it out?

Something she almost but didn't quite remember thudded like a drum inside her brain. Dum-dum-dum. Dum-dum-dome.

From the entryway, Bill called, "Hey, star girl. I—"

He stopped in the doorway. Mabel had taped 28 pieces of paper together, drawn on a door knob, written "DOOR" at the top, and taped it across the doorway into the living room. Irritably, Bill said, "It doesn't work like that. This is obviously paper."

"Bill," Mabel grumbled. "Go away."

"No. I'm gonna say something to you."

He didn't phrase that like he was giving her a choice in the matter; but all the same, she said, "I don't wanna hear it."

"You know that horror story about a bride with a velvet ribbon tied around her neck, and her head falls off and rolls down the stairs when her husband unties it?"

She did. She and Dipper had read a book of scary stories to each other on Halloween a few years ago while waiting for it to be late enough to go trick-or-treating. In spite of herself, he'd piqued her curiosity. She reluctantly turned to look at him. "Yeah? So?"

Bill was leaning in the doorway, head tilted against the doorframe so he could see Mabel around the paper door curtain. "That's why I wear a bow tie."

Mabel blinked. "Wait—if you didn't, your head would fall off? What part of you is your head? How did it come off? Were you decapitated? Did you get decapitated for knowing about the third dimension—?"

"It doesn't keep my head on; it keeps my skin on."

Mabel's nose wrinkled. "Gross! How?"

"Remember how you said my outline is my skin and all my organs are inside the outline," Bill said. "That didn't change when we left the second dimension! We had to get exoskeletons on our top and bottom sides so solids like you can't stick you fingers in our guts. My bow tie keeps it tied in place."

"Whoa." So that was why they hadn't seen Bill's organs before. "Do you ever take it off?"

"Mostly when I'm eating!" He knocked on the doorframe. "So can I come in now?"

Of course. He'd been using information to buy his way back into her good graces. (No—that was what somebody who didn't think Bill deserved a second chance would think. He was making up for earlier by answering one of her questions about him.)

She took a deep breath, turned to face Bill, and said, "You didn't talk to me like a friend earlier."

"I—" Bill grimaced, looked at the ceiling for help, and conceded, "I mean—It's how I talk to my friends, but all right, I know you're not used to that—"

"Nobody should be used to that!" Mabel said. "What would Love Bunny say?"

"Wh—?! I— Th— You—" His voice cracked as it jumped higher, "What do I care what a cartoon rabbit thinks about—"

"What. Would. She. Say."

Bill's face screwed up in agony. He crossed his arms. "Ugh."

"Biiill?"

Eyes squeezed shut, Bill said, "She'd say my breath smells like I've been eating mean beans."

"Aaand?"

"I'm not going to say it. I won't say it."

"And you need to eat your nice rice!"

Bill let out a long, slow sigh.

"Say it!"

"This is my penance," Bill muttered toward his feet. "This is my penance. This is fair." He took a breath. "And... I need to eat my nice rice."

Mabel nodded. He'd confessed his sins.

"I think we're out of nice rice," Bill said, "but I've had the peanut butter of kindness and the toast of remorse. Good enough?"

She considered it. "Yeah. You can come in."

Bill batted aside the paper door curtain and ducked into the room. 

He sat across the table from Mabel and set down the paper she'd chucked at him amongst her others. Mabel glanced at the drawing, embarrassed of it now; but Bill didn't say anything about it.

He just propped his cheek against his hand and started looking over her other art.

Mabel sat there with her hands under her legs, watching his spotlight eyes rove over the table, feeling like she was waiting for a teacher to grade a poster she'd made for class. He saw a stop sign red octagon in sunglasses that was labeled "Bill's parole officer" and snorted. She wasn't sure if it was an amused snort or a derogatory snort. His gaze stopped on her attempt to figure out how Flatworlder anatomy worked, and didn't move farther. She'd probably gotten everything wrong, hadn't she?

She couldn't stand waiting for him to pass judgment on her art. "You think they look dumb, don't you."

Bill took a moment to reply. He didn't look up from her drawings. "I don't think you're dumb, Shooting Star."

"You think I'm dumber than Dipper and Grunkle Ford."

Bill winced. "I don't." At her dubious look, Bill amended, "Only Stanford! And that barely counts, all humans are dumber than Stanford. It doesn't mean I think you're dumb-dumb"

"Could've fooled me," Mabel muttered.

"You bet! I'm good at fooling people. All I have to do is say things I don't mean that make people feel the way I want." His voice was flat and matter-of-fact. "I wanted you to feel like the conversation wasn't worth it. That's all."

She stared at him. "By letting me know you think I'm stupid?!" She chucked a crayon at his face. "You could have just told me you didn't want to talk about Flatworld!" Her voice was getting that stupid waver again. "If I'd known, I would have dropped it! I didn't want to upset you!"

"I wasn't upset, it's just a stupid thing to complain about! It's just a dumb book! It'd—it'd take a real loser to be bothered by talking about a dumb book! I'm not..." He sighed harshly. "I know you weren't trying to get on my nerves, kid. It'd mess up your sticker chart." (Mabel hadn't even realized he knew about her sticker chart.) Almost inaudibly, he added, "M'sorry."

She'd never heard him apologize before.

She let out a slow breath. "Biiill. I don't think you're a loser."

He muttered something she couldn't make out as he flipped his hood on and pulled it down over his burning face. "Forget it. Move on. It's in the past!"

"If you're so embarrassed—"

"Not embarrassed!"

She chucked another crayon at his chest. "Then why are you telling me this now?"

Bill shut his eyes; took a deep breath; and, with a look of solemn dignity, and no small amount of pain, he said, "Because. Teddy Tender says. Our friends can't help us feel better if we don't tell them why we feel bad." He almost, almost managed to say it without sounding sarcastic.

Mabel burst out laughing. Bill pulled his hood lower.

Bill didn't even like Teddy Tender—he thought he was the stick in the mud of the Color Critters—and he certainly wasn't actually trying to follow Teddy's friendship lessons. He was just... saying something he didn't mean to make Mabel feel the way he wanted. And he wanted her to feel better.

No matter what anyone else said, he could change. And he was changing.

"Apology accepted," Mabel said. "Gold star!" She peeled one off a nearby sticker sheet and held it out.

Bill eyed it, like a man so hungry he was too nauseous to eat eyeing a pizza; and then snatched it from her and stuck it in the middle of his hoodie.

Mabel said, "And... I guess I'm sorry for getting all diggy about your home world." Even if she hadn't known it was bothering him, she probably should've guessed, shouldn't she? With how crabby he'd gotten. "I just got all excited and curious and... kinda worried about you after reading that book?" She sighed. "I understand if you don't wanna talk about it. You probably hated your dimension."

"What? He lurched forward with the vehemence of his denial—"Of course I don't hate my dimension!" Mabel leaned away at the sudden rage that had flared up in his eyes; but it died just as quickly and Bill immediately reeled himself back in, sitting back, crossing his arms: "I mean, come on, kid, use your head: you read a book about a culture. We're talking about an entire dimension. Would you hold a grudge against Jupiter if an ant bit you on Earth?"

Even as casually as he played it off, Mabel was sure he hadn't meant anything as calm and measured as claiming it was technically irrational to hate an entire dimension. He meant—emphatically, with his whole heart behind it—that he didn't hate his home dimension, at all.

Then why didn't he want to talk about it? (Then why had he destroyed it? Or was not hating it just another fiction he'd made up because he'd prefer that reality? Or was the destruction itself a lie? He hadn't mentioned it once since they'd started talking about Flatworld. Or did he think she didn't know about that and didn't want her to know? Or...)

Something had been churning in her subconscious since she woke up, and now—watching Bill ball up around himself as he squirmed around the things he didn't want to say—it finally dawned on her. Two words. Another piece of the Axolotl's poem. She tried to hold the words in her head until she could write them down, repeating them over and over—Misses home. Misses home.

Quietly, she asked, "Then... don't you want to remember it?"

His face spasmed, like it was nearly cracking in two—and then smoothed out. His face was blank. He didn't answer for a moment. "The last time I told a human more than two sentences about where I'm from... he gave me the universe's most depressing geometry textbook."

Oh. Maybe Bill was following Teddy Tender's friendship advice. "That's because you were talking to a boring old-timey math teacher, duh."

He laughed wryly. "You may have a point!"

If Bill assumed anybody prying into his history was either looking for the reason something was wrong with him, or publishing a whole book about the super bad parts... No wonder he hadn't wanted to talk to her. "So you didn't dislike Flatworld? You just dislike the book?"

Bill grimaced. "Did you read Eddie's biography?"

"No?"

####

As soon as he'd buckled himself into his seat for the drive to Northwest Manor, Dipper read the summary on the back cover of Flatworld, and then the paragraph-long author biography underneath it:

Edward B. Bishop, born in 1838 in England, was an accomplished mathematician, writer, theologian, and closet occultist, as well as a professor at the esteemed University of Fancyton. He published twelve books, the last of which was Flatworld in 1884. After sentencing his square protagonist to a two-dimensional asylum for preaching of the existence of the third dimension, he himself succumbed to an ironically similar fate: three months after publication, he was committed to an asylum for insisting that two-dimensional alien invaders intended to conquer the Earth and were persecuting him for revealing their existence, a delusion he maintained until his death from sleep deprivation in 1886. His most enduring legacy is inventing the margarita glass, which he claimed came to him in a dream. 

Dipper hissed between his teeth. "Ouch."

####

"Never mind, don't worry about it," Bill said. "But no. I didn't like the book."

"You poor thing! All this time you've been homesick for the second dimension, but the only things humans talk about is the bad stuff!"

"Don't call me that."

"Do you want to talk about the non-depressy stuff instead? Like..." Mabel wracked her brain for something nice she'd read in the book. She winced. "Uh... I'm sure there's something. You could choose the topic?"

Bill didn't look directly at her. He just looked over all her drawings again. "Tell me why you want to know so badly."

It was basically the same question he'd asked earlier—what's with the third degree—but his tone was different. Mabel swallowed hard and repeated, "Because... I'm your friend. It's crazy that we've been friends for like a month and I barely know a-ny-thing about who you are or how you grew up! By now, I'd usually know about a friend's family, favorite subject, favorite animal, opinion on glitter, and biggest life dream! Plus all the stuff humans have in common—like, 'do you breathe?'"

This time, Bill didn't argue with her answer. (He could have called her a liar. A month ago, she had just been trying to find out what was wrong with him. But this version of the truth she'd made up was better.) "You already know I'm pro-glitter in all contexts and my life's work is to throw an eternal party. What else really matters?"

"Those are the two most important questions," Mabel said seriously. Tentatively, she asked, "Did you have glitter in the second dimension?" He'd already reassured her that they'd had color, but it was hard to imagine glitter in such a bleak world.

"Sure."

Mabel heaved a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank goodness."

She looked around at the morning's art production, pulled over the first drawing she'd done of her shapesona, and grabbed a bottle of glue to draw a thin line around the heart.

Bill watched as Mabel carefully sprinkled several separate colors of glitter on the line of glue, like a master chef adding a precise amount of spice to a gourmet recipe, to create a glitter rainbow gradient; and then he slowly sat up and leaned toward the table again. "So, who's this freak?"

Mabel gave him an exasperated look. She decided he'd meant "freak" neutrally; but she'd clearly labeled the heart "ME IN FLATWORLD," she thought it was pretty obvious who this freak was.

But Bill cheerfully went on, "He's the most hideously disfigured shape I've ever seen."

"Hey!"

"I'm not joking, it hurts to look at this guy. At least he's symmetrical, but woof."

"She's not a guy! She's supposed to be me in Flatworld," Mabel insisted. "She's a powerful lady and I think she's beautiful." She paused. "Can a heart be a girl?" Lines looked boring, but Flatworld said that girls were all lines and all other shapes were boys. (Or were they? When they'd talked at the mall, Bill had been very clear that he considered himself a triangle instead of male or female, which scuttled the "all polygons are male" concept. Maybe Edward Bishop Bishop had made that part up?)

"She can be anything she wants," Bill said firmly. "I don't see any gender cops around here, do you?"

Good point. "And when there's no cops around, anything's legal."

Bill laughed. "Hey, I like that."

"Grunkle Stan says it!"

"Wise man." Bill leaned forward further across the table and tapped a finger on the deep cleft at the top of the heart. "Personally, I'm more worried about that agonizing-looking birth defect. I'm surprised she survived past infancy!"

Mabel glared at him, but she supposed she couldn't argue. A heart was a pretty irregular shape. And according to Flatworld, almost all irregular shapes were executed in childhood or else imprisoned in adulthood, since they thought irregular shapes would grow up to be depraved, imbecilic criminals—

"Wait," Mabel said. "Wait. Last year, when I called you an isosceles freak—"

Bill cut in, "It was 'monster,' but go on!"

"Was that, like..." Mabel's voice dropped to a whisper, "a slur on Flatworld?"

Bill fought to keep his face straight as he decided how to respond. He went for the funniest answer. "Yes."

Mabel clapped her hands over her mouth and squeaked, "Nooo!"

"It's actually pretty impressive a human managed to come up with it!"

"I'M SORRYYY, augh I didn't know!"

Over her anguished whines, Bill went on, "It's just a good thing you didn't say 'scalene'! I would've had to wash your mouth out with drain cleaner!"

Mabel had pulled the collar of her sweater over her face. From within Sweater Town, she asked, "Was that the first thing I ever said to you?"

Bill choked back a laugh. "Yeah, it was."

She squealed in embarrassment and slid under the table.

"Heck of a first impression, star girl!"

"i'm sorryyy."

Bill reached under the table to pat the top of her head. "Ahhh, it was funny. Get up here." 

As she climbed back into her seat, Bill added, "I'm getting back at you now, I'm not done making fun of your medical miracle yet. You know what she'd look like as a human? A headless, neckless body with an eyeball shoved six inches down her esophagus." He paused thoughtfully. "Actually... that sounds kinda cute."

"Eww, Bill."

"It is, it's cute. Like a clumsy puppy with a neurological disorder! I guess that's how the hideous Miss Heart here must look to humans!"

Mabel looked over her art again, wondering if she should change her shapesona, considering Bill's reaction to it. 

So, maybe she was creating a freak. She didn't see any shape cops around here. She kept drawing. "I'd be fine," she said. "You like weird freaks! You'd keep me safe."

A stricken look crossed his face. He was momentarily silent as he watched Mabel start another picture. And then, as though he were only considering it for the first time, he said, "Yeah. I guess I would."

His gaze drifted to the wrinkled picture of Mabel's shapesona standing protectively in front of Bill. "Freaks can't afford to tear each other down."

####

(THIS is the chapter that's been giving me hell the last few weeks. Months. Last few months. I'm so glad to finally have it out, and I hope y'all enjoyed!! This chapter probably brings up a lot more questions than it actually answers—and completely different questions based on whether or not you've read Flatland lol—so I can't wait to hear what y'all think.)

[uhohbestie]

There Are Monsters Nearby [Chapter 42]

🏜 Pairing: Grian/Scar

🧟‍♂️ Tags: zombie AU, zombie apocalypse, lovers to exes, slow burn, eventual reconciliation

📖 Summary: The day after Scar breaks up with Grian, the dead come back to life. Knowing that venturing out alone is a death sentence, the sudden onset of the apocalypse forces them to stick together despite their tensions. In the wreckage of the world, they're forced to survive side-by-side, coming to terms with the fact that—try as they might—there's still no one they trust more than each other.

Chapter 42 - The story of There Are Monsters Nearby concludes as Scar and Grian turn away from their past and look towards the future.

📝 Words: 11,088

🔗 Link: Read Chapter 42 on AO3

—

“I want you to get Pop Tarts,” Grian says, his attention cast to the side while Scar works, looking towards the settlement in the distance. It’s a fair ways off, looking more like a grey-brown smudge from where they stand— a collection of RVs and camper vans clustered close together in the lee of a grassy ridge, the surrounding hills fringed in sparse junipers and hardy looking spruce saplings. There’s an open space between them, dotted with small lumps that Scar knows are grazing cattle and a clustered herd of goats.

The ruins of a city lay further off to the east, the handful of buildings not blackened from fire standing empty and abandoned. It’s from there that the zombies have been drifting out, a perpetual source of mindless, wandering horror. Though now, thanks to Scar’s aim and Grian’s tenacious knack for violence, the tide will hopefully have been stemmed to some degree.

“And whatever milk and cheese they’ve got. I saw all their animals, there’s no way they don’t have dairy to spare.”

It’s an endearing quirk that Grian has adopted ever since it became clear his diet was permanently changed. He likes to pick things for Scar to eat now, planning and suggesting his meals with whatever they scavenge, hunt, and barter. He’s never been a good cook, not even before the world fell apart, but it’s been sweet the way he's applied himself to improving, the two times he gave Scar food poisoning already becoming fond memories in their own way.

When the last zombie’s head has been separated from its body, Scar yanks a glove onto his hand and begins gathering them all, shoving each one into a canvas sack that he uses for the sole purpose of demonstrating their worth to any sceptical marks they come across. Once he’s done, he sets the bag down, putting out his arm and drawing Grian in close.

“Good work out there,” he compliments, pressing a kiss to the top of his partner’s head. Grian’s hair is clean and smells incredibly good—like sandalwood and something crisp—everything about him well-maintained, despite the state of the world around them. “You really treated those googlies like you had a score to settle.”

Without hesitation Grian leans into Scar’s touch, the easy return of his affection still a novelty, despite how many weeks Scar’s been allowed and able to enjoy it.

“You weren’t so bad yourself,” he offers, his words mumbled sweetly into the thick flannel of Scar’s shirt. “You’re getting to have a real hawk-eye with your aim, you know.”

“I love it when you say I’m a hot guy,” Scar preens, deliberately mishearing him. “Got a real nice ring to it.”

[ read more ]

—

Chapter 42! 380k words and ten months later, we are so happy to announce that we've come to the end of our story. While there's still so much more of TAMN left that we plan to write and share, this portion is over, and we couldn't be happier. Thank you so, so much for going on this journey with us, and we hope you enjoy the epilogue and ending of There Are Monsters Nearby 💜🧡

You can read the whole fic thus-far in the link below ↓↓↓

You may not rest now, There Are Monsters Nearby (on ao3!)

[teal-fiend]

A tiny who just wants to explore comes across a giant in a state.

content: g/t vore, multiple prey, implied fatal, unwilling prey, digestion, observer pov

–

You slip quietly into the room, your tiny footsteps barely making a sound on the cold, cemented floor. An abandoned warehouse. Or perhaps, to the giants, it was just a storage room. 

Either way, you liked to wander and sneak around places where you probably shouldn’t go. It was part of your borrower instincts, you’d say. Urban exploration is a fairly normal hobby anyway, for both giants and tinies. The point is, you weren’t looking for trouble. 

At first, everything looks normal for a condemned building—echo-y, dim, neglected, just the kind of place you’d been looking for.

But you have the sense that something isn’t right. A gut feeling—you can’t place it. You turn a corner and freeze.

A giant.

Your breath catches in your throat. The figure sprawled across the floor is immense, larger than any living being you’ve ever seen. From your minuscule perspective, the sheer scale of them is disorienting—no animal should be this large—it was like seeing a dinosaur; it should be extinct. It shouldn’t exist. But what really grabs your attention is their stomach.

It’s colossal.

You stare in shock at the massive, swollen curve of their belly, rising up like a hill in the center of the room. You’ve seen giants from afar, but never like this. Not up close, and not... like this.

The stomach is enormous—so much bigger than you, bigger than your car, even bigger than a house. It’s distended, rounded out in a tight, unnatural way that makes you start to realise something is wrong here. Are they sick?

The giant is passed out, their face relaxed in sleep, but their body tells a different story. Their stomach is so grotesquely distended, so unnaturally large, it looks painful.

And the sounds—oh god, the sounds. Despite any survival instinct you have, you inch closer, carefully stepping around their outstretched arm, your eyes fixated on their swollen midsection.

Deep, heavy gurgles reverberate from their gut, like the low rumbling of an earthquake, vibrating through the concrete beneath your feet. It’s so loud, so visceral, like standing next to an industrial machine. The noises make your skin crawl. Listen, as if in a horrible trance, to the groaning and churning of their stomach, struggling with whatever is inside.

And then, faintly, you catch something else.

Voices.

Your blood runs cold. Faint, muffled cries, barely audible beneath the thick layers of skin and muscle, but unmistakable. You edge closer, your eyes locked on the giant’s stomach, unable to look away. The voices are weak, but they’re there. It sets in with a sickening dread. There are people in there.

You take a step back, heart pounding in your chest as you realise what you’re hearing. The giant had eaten them—swallowed them whole, by the sound of it. You glance around the room; it’s still a nondescript warehouse interior. But you theorise the giant chose somewhere unassuming to hide while they...

Your stomach twists as you look back at the giant, their massive belly stretching up above you like a grotesque monument. You can’t help but imagine what it must be like inside, trapped in the tight, churning darkness of that giant’s gut, squeezed into the hot, suffocating space, with no way out. 

You can’t believe what you’re seeing—what kind of person would do this?

The giant shifts slightly in their sleep, letting out a long, low groan. You flinch, stepping back, but they don’t wake. Their face is slightly vexed; it seems like a fitful sleep; this might have been too much, even for them. 

But then, as you watch, their lips part, and a deep, thundering belch rolls out of their mouth. Their expression relaxes; it becomes peaceful even. They continue to lie there, completely unaware of the horror inside them. 

The noise is deafening, shaking the air around you. You cover your ears, the sound reverberating in your chest like a subwoofer, a reminder of just how enormous this body is compared to yours. The belch is loud and lazy, almost careless, like the giant’s body is simply responding to the meal. Their stomach seems to stir, and the deep gurgles return, louder this time, more ominous.

You take a shaky breath, your eyes locked on that unnaturally large belly. The skin is stretched so tight it shines under the dim natural light, and you can see the faintest bit of movement beneath the surface—small bumps, appearing here and there.

Your mind reels, trying to comprehend the scale of it all. The stomach is so large, so engorged, and those voices... There must be at least a dozen, maybe more, trapped inside. You can hear them still, faint and muffled, like they’re buried deep under layers of sound. How many people had the giant swallowed? And how did they catch them? 

You inch closer, trembling with fear and disbelief. From down here, the giant is like a living landscape, their body so vast it’s hard to take it all in. Their belly rises far above your head, towering over you like some grotesque monument. You reach out, not thinking, and place a hand against the tightly stretched skin. 

It’s hot, like an overheated computer, and you can even feel a constant whirring. You can feel deeper and stronger vibrations, which coincide with the audible gurgling.

The sheer size of it makes you feel so small, so utterly insignificant. And inside that massive gut are people—people like you. Only what, a metre or so from where your hand is placed. 

The giant lets out another soft groan in their sleep, and you jump, quickly stepping back again. Their body is so loud—every churn from the overstuffed organ is amplified to an almost unbearable degree. 

Your thoughts race, panic rising in your chest. You have to get out of here. This giant is dangerous—a predator unlike anything you’ve ever imagined. The predator is asleep now, but what happens when they wake up? 

You get the feeling that they wouldn’t still feel hungry...

But the fact that you’ve seen this means that you are a liability. You may be the only surviving witness to a terrifying crime. 

You glance back at the direction from which you came. Your heart thuds in your chest. You can still hear the voices—desperate sounds of those trapped inside the giant’s stomach. But there’s nothing you can do for them. You’re too small, too helpless. You can do more for them by escaping and letting the world know what happened. 

The giant stirs again, grumbling in their sleep, their bloated belly gurgling loudly, and you are once again frozen in place. You pray they don’t awaken. 

Another belch escapes their lips, still so resonant. You have to get out of here.

You take one last look at the monstrous sight in front of you—the giant, passed out on the floor, their stomach swollen beyond belief—and then you turn and run.

[catherinetcjd]

Amityville Horror House

From the 1979 movie, Amityville Horror 5+ bedrooms - 4 bathrooms - attic - basement - driveway - huge yard with a No-Slope Basement on a 2-Step Foundation (Made with the Grid-Adjuster) lightly furnished & ready for you to decorate ...with minimal CC from Honeywell's Bespoke Build Set.

"In 1975, a family of five moved into their dream home — a six-bedroom Dutch Colonial at 112 Ocean Avenue named "High Hopes" — knowing that the house had been the scene of a grisly mass murder just a year before. The family was immediately besieged by dreadful apparitions, bubbling green slime, red-eyed pig heads, levitating beds and sinister cries to "Get out!" Twenty-eight days later, that's exactly what they did, abandoning all their possessions and telling their terrifying story to anyone who would listen." - quoted from: The Real Story Behind the 'Amityville Horror House'

Read more on my BLOG »

Cross-posted to MTS and Simblr.

Custom Content Included - Windkeeper's MM Moon/Eye Windows - Honeywell's Bespoke Build Set

Lot Size: 40X30 Lot Price: $140,066

DOWNLOAD @ SFS

Enjoy! 🦚

[toshidou]

woe to the deer who is courted by the wolf . . .

pairing // könig x f!reader

word count // 7.2k

tags // 18+ ONLY, afab reader, vampire!könig, predator/prey kink, mentions of blood and injury, minor elements of horror (very minor), slightly misunderstood lonely vampire könig, unprotected sex, stomach bulge, rough sex, creampie, biting, blood sucking, blood play

an // after battling with writers block for over a month, who would have thought it'd take a blood sucking giant to free me from the shackles of having no inspiration? anyway this is the most i've ever written in one day, which is only slightly concerning. bone apple teeth!

thank you to @erosology for beta reading this, and forever being my number one hype man ;-;

Pale moonlight peaks through a frame of eerily still clouds, reflecting off the polished black steel planted in the ground at your feet. You can hear the whispers of your friends behind you, a little too old to be snickering and giggling behind the palms of their hands, although you’re entirely too old to have taken their bet in the first place. 

It started off as a simple reunion between old friends, a short trek into once familiar woods to the spot you used to set up base for the night, roasting marshmallows over a concerningly large campfire, sharing cliche horror stories whilst swaddled in blankets. This very night had gone about the same, until someone brought up the old manor. An imposing house that watches over the village that surrounds it, well kept and suspiciously pristine, withstanding the tests of time despite the fact that not a single soul has ever been seen to enter or leave the premises. 

It had been a longstanding dare, an easy way to get someone to down their drink, ‘I dare you to jump the fence and knock on the door’. No one has ever been stupid enough to go through with it, a couple tried, but got as far as the black iron that surrounds the perimeter before they gave up. And yet, here you stand, too many years later, an individual who should be both older and wiser than to commit several crimes for the sake of a stupid bet and childish curiosity, staring at that very same railing. 

You can hardly hear the whispered words of your friends from where they cower behind you, your eyes transfixed on the looming building that seemingly stares back at you from where you remain fixed at the bottom of the hill. Mahogany brick unblemished, barely touched by weather, towers three stories high, trimmed ivy crawling up the walls as though attempting to reach out to the moon that watches over it. Each window is blocked by scarlet wooden shutters, an old-fashioned touch for a house surrounded by new builds; looking at it now feels like taking several steps back in time. 

Not a single spec of light leaks through any crack in the shutters, each room bathed in darkness, the same way it always has. Surely, you think to yourself, surely no one can possibly be in there. Your theory has always been that the house is long since abandoned, its previous owner having died, looked after by a previously employed caretaker who hated to watch a building they loved go into disrepair. And although that doesn’t explain the suspicious lack of activity, it’s the only sane thought that you repeat to yourself as your fingers curl around sturdy black bars, and you begin to haul yourself over the iron fence. 

A moment later, and the dull thud of your feet hitting neatly trimmed grass breaks tense silence, your eyes meeting with several widened pairs through steel bars. It’s the furthest anyone’s gotten, and even now, you feel like you’ve gone far enough. It’s certainly not too late to change your mind, to do the sensible thing and throw yourself back into safety, and just as you’re contemplating backing out of the bet, you feel the hairs on your nape stand on end, a chill down your spine so sharp it causes a physical flinch. When you turn around, you’re met with the very same house, not a shutter or brick out of place, yet something, somehow, feels different. 

It’s like a siren call, luring you from the safety of your friends that remain frozen on the other side, hardly breathing as though they daren’t make a sound, apprehensive eyes focused on your shadowed form as you slowly make your way up the hill. It’s more daunting up close, no longer a silhouette against a twilight sky, now you can see details the distance has never gifted you, the way the wood shutters that plaster the windows are carved with swirls and intricate patterns, how the ivy hides bloomed flowers amongst pointed leaves, speckles of pink and purple that ease the tension that coils your muscles, only bolstering timid curiosity. And now you’re standing within feet of the house, you’re left in awe by the sheer size of it. It never seemed particularly small, not even from the gate, but the front door alone has you gulping down nothing but frigid air. You take a few tentative steps, eyes raking over the magnificent details carved into thick black oak, the centrepiece that catches your gaze being the solid gold knocker that sits just above your head, halfway up the door. 

Two hollow eyes stare back at you, a skull with two rams horns that curl from golden bone, and between its bared teeth lies a ring that rests against ebony wood. It stands out from every other detail of the house, a spine-tingling reminder of where you stand, echoes of the myths that surround this house whispered by your trembling conscience, and yet shaking fingers reach for the ring, curling around cooled metal before lifting it, preparing to knock. 

But you never get the chance, because in true horror movie fashion, you’re met with the slow creak of old hinges as the very door you stand before begins to open, and in the void of black it reveals, you swear you see two pinpricks of red that greet you in the darkness. Your entire body goes stiff, still clinging on to the gold loop of the knocker as though it’ll somehow ground you, yet it does nothing to chase away the overwhelming sense of impending doom that screams at you to turn, to run, to get as far away from this wretched place as your legs can take you.

You turn just in time to hear the worried calls of your friends before the door is yanked wide open, dragging you over the edge of the premises with it and sending you careening onto the floor, sliding against wood and scrambling up only to watch that very same door slam in your face. 

Frozen. Every single part of you remains stock still as you try to adjust to the darkness. Not even the moonlight dares follow you inside, leaving you alone to dart your eyes in the pitch black, searching for some semblance of light you can latch onto. Yet the house offers you nothing, and you can’t help but see red dots every time you dare close your eyes. In the moment of still you’ve been given, your brain reels as it tries to think of a logical explanation for the door seemingly dragging you into the house with no human in sight to operate it, and in your panic, you can’t help but pray that you’ve fallen asleep by the campfire, and this is all an elaborate nightmare you’ll be able to laugh about when you awake.

A creak from behind you sends you hurtling back into reality, a sure reminder that this is no nightmare, not one you can wake up from, at least. Your head whips to the side, terror freezing your muscles solid as you lock onto crimson orbs once again, so bright they can be seen even with the absence of light to reflect off them, your blood curdling in your veins as they remain fixed on you, unblinking. You scurry backwards, the sound of your back slamming against the solid wall behind you echoing through the dark, fingers curling against peeling wallpaper in a last-ditch attempt to find the door handle. 

Your pathetic scrabbling is interrupted by the harsh sound of a match striking against rough material, your eyes drawn to the responding flame it produces, but moreso, the large fingers that dwarf the stick they clutch. 

“What a curious thing you are.”

Each syllable rumbles through very walls, practically shakes the structure of the house, a low timber steeped with an accent you can’t quite place, but certainly isn’t local. You daren’t breathe, let alone move, not even when the ground creaks and shakes with every purposeful, creeping step the stranger takes towards you. The flame grows as the match is brought to a wick, the flame whittling away the wood until all that remains is twisted charcoal, before transferring to the candle, the dying fire roaring back to life, casting a flickering golden glow onto the one holding it. 

You’re met once again with red, but now you can see bleached tear tracks running from shoddy holes cut into black cloth, a mask fit for the monster that wears it, and as they stalk ever closer, you belatedly wonder how they’re going to navigate the stairs that must separate the two of you, certain that even someone familiar with a house must need more light in order to not fall. But they never begin their descent, and it’s only when the flame lies mere feet from you, yet so far out of your reach, you realise there are no steps. You’re face to face with a giant. 

Adrenaline douses you like a torrent of water, your widened eyes alert and stricken with obvious fear, yet you didn’t expect the gentle touch that encircles your wrist, lungs sucking in a stuttered breath as you stare into the hollow red of its eyes. Large fingers draw your arm upwards, moving your frozen limb with ease, until it’s stretched far above your head, your fingers bumping against the smooth wax of the candle the giant passes off to you. Your brain scrambles for words, screams against the shackles of your fear-addled mind, waiting to release a slew of incoherent pleas for your freedom, yet your lips remain firmly sealed.

You feel a weight in your trouser pocket, eyes darting down to see his fingers pushing a box of matches into the gap of the material, only for your gaze to snap back to him as he hunches down, the material of his mask flowing down as his torso towers over you. You’re left caged against the wall, nowhere to run as his face levels next to your ear. It’s silent for a few horrific seconds, until that same spine-chilling voice purrs one single word. 

“Run.” 

It’s as though all your body needed was the instruction, responding immediately as you tear away from him, feet slapping against hardwood flooring as you careen towards what vaguely resembles an entrance way. The flame flickers dangerously, threatening to leave you in the dark once again, your fingers curling around the candle, whispering prayers that it doesn’t snuff out, that it doesn't leave you alone with whatever stalks you in the pitch black. 

You don’t stop running until you reach a hallway, sprinting down the claustrophobic corridor until you finally reach an open door, rushing inside and pushing hefty wood until it clicks in place, sealing you within, safe for now. You hold up the candle to illuminate more of the room, watching as the soft glow bounces off a glinting gold frame and painstaking strokes of oil paint. An obscenely large portrait hangs on the wall in front of you, the image of a handsome man draped in fine purple robes, shoulder length brown hair pushed back with a crown of golden leaves. He sits in a chair, grand and crimson, lined with bronze, legs spread over the expensive velvet, one large hand curled over his thigh, the other propping his head up, his elbow resting against the arm of the chair in a way that can only be described as unbothered, and unamused. But the thing that has you utterly transfixed are the two red irises that stare right back at you, playful and taunting, and hauntingly familiar. 

Surely this isn’t the man under the hood, the one who dragged you into his house and watched you scramble out of his grip the second he told you to flee. Because why would a man so handsome hide his face? Why would someone who looks so young own a house that has stood at the centre of your small village for far longer than you’ve been alive? Nothing seems to make sense, not a single aspect of the past 10 minutes feels real, and you can only hope your friends saw what happened and ran to get help, because you’re not sure there’s a way for you to conquer this man alone. It’s as you’re floundering for answers that you hear a noise from outside the room, instincts taking over as you quickly hide under a small dining table and blow out the candle, praying you haven’t given yourself away. 

You’re not entirely stupid, you know the meaning of red eyes, and although you could attempt to soothe your psyche with whispered lies about contact lenses and make believe, you know better. The thing that chases you is no man, and certainly isn’t human, at least not anymore. And as terrified as you are, there isn’t a chance in hell you’re about to let yourself become this monster’s dinner. 

You sit in the darkness, clutching the smouldering candle to your chest, and wait. Ears alert as you listen for the slightest sound that might give away your hunter, a breath, a sigh, a scratch, you do little more than hope that your hiding spot remains occupied by you, and you alone. 

After a tense few minutes, picking up on no other sounds than the thrumming of your own heart, your fingers slowly make their way to your pocket, gingerly plucking the box out and pushing the case off. Despite the lack of light, and the trembling that consumes your body, you manage to fish out a match, and strike it, holding the newly lit flame to the wick of the candle. 

Bleached tears. Red eyes. Large fingers. Looming body.

“Boo.” 

The scream rips from your throat before your brain can catch up, the candle abandoned as it’s flung towards him in a last ditch attempt to throw him off, knees and hands protesting as they’re dragged along grooved wood, leaving grazes in their wake. The momentary pain isn’t enough to stop you, however, lungs heaving as you tear out of the room, clumsily bumping into walls and ornaments, impeded by the dark, motivated by sheer determination to live. 

Your decision to toss away the candle comes to bite you firmly in the ass the second you find yourself tumbling down a set of stairs, and in a move of sheer instinct your hands attempt to slow your fall, only for the skin of your palm to get caught on a loose nail, slicing the flesh and leaving you wailing as your body finally slows to a stop against the cold stone floor you now find yourself lying on. Every bone in your body hurts, aches, but is overshadowed by the sharp sear of white hot pain as you cradle your torn skin to your chest, warm rivulets of blood oozing down your wrist, tracking rivers of red down your forearm until you hear the steady drip, drip, drip of your blood hitting stone.

A light appears above you, a halo of pastel yellow emanating around black cloth, and within a second, the fight leaves you, slumping further into the floor as you accept your death, hoping none of your friends were stupid enough to follow you only to meet the same pitiful fate. 

“Please,” You mumble, voice finally found, entirely too late, “Just make it quick.” You hear little other than a hushed chuckle in response, a cat toying with its food. 

“I imagine it looks worse than it is, kleine maus.” 

You pause at that, curiosity ebbing through once more. You may not have paid enough attention to languages at school, but even in your state, you know enough to recognise those words.

“You’re German?” You mumble, fear forgotten in your shock-ridden state. The man shakes his head as he crouches next to you, extending his free hand towards the injured one you have secured to your torso, tittering again as you flinch. But you have little other choice than to let him pry your hand away, watching with wary eyes as he examines your sliced skin. He holds the candle closer to the wound, a soft tut passing his lips before he holds the candle towards you, urging you to take it with a gentle nod. 

“Austrian. But close.”

It all feels strange, foreign, as though you’re being lulled into a false sense of security just so he can tell you to run once again, laughing maniacally as he watches you bleed over his floor. The fear returns once you have the candle securely in your grip, eyes locked on the way his fingers curl around the material that hides his face, and begin to remove it. Inches of once cloaked skin is revealed, a defined chin melts away to pursed lips, a smattering of dark facial hair that frames his mouth and curls up his jaw, the material pulled further only to reveal a hooked nose, and two narrowed eyes that reflect the candlelight in a way not dissimilar to precious gems, rich and vibrant. Maybe it’s the shock, or limited blood loss, but you can’t help but marvel at just how pretty he is.

Of course, it doesn’t last much longer, not when survival instincts kick in, the realisation that your bloodied hand is now near the mouth of a creature that lives entirely off the thing that keeps you alive. But the grip on your wrist is ironclad, strong yet not uncomfortably so, a strange juxtaposition between monster and man as he cocks his head at your wound. With a nod, seemingly more to himself than you, you can do little more than cry out as you’re hauled over his shoulder, his arm secured tightly around your waist, the hood forgotten in a small puddle of your blood on the stone flags. 

It’s mere minutes later that he places you down on soft sheets, your body sinking into a plush mattress, left to watch him as he ambles around the egregiously large room, muttering foreign words under his breath as he roots through an ornate chest of draws. You must be in a fever dream, unsure how you went from running for your life, to being patched up by the very thing you were certain would kill you. And yet, here you are, watching as he almost awkwardly sidles to your seated figure, and kneels in front of you, once predatory eyes unable to hold your gaze as he sets out various medical items by your feet. 

“Your hand, may I see it?”

You present your palm to him, watching as his eyebrows knit together, giant hands placing tentative touches against your skin as though he’s concerned about hurting you, the thought of which does nothing to aid your spiralling confusion. But you say nothing, you simply watch as he takes a damp cloth and begins cleaning your cut, fixated on the way his eyes snap to you with every pained hiss and suppressed whine, picking up on the way he ensures each subsequent touch is a tad gentler than the last. It’s not too much longer until he’s wrapping your hand with bandages, making sure the gauze is tight enough to keep your blood in, but not enough to cut off circulation, the type of gentle care you never would have suspected from the giant at your feet. Your curiosity has increased tenfold, not a trace of fear left to lick at your nerves and render you speechless, replaced only by the overwhelming need to know more, to learn everything. 

“What’s your name?” 

It’s his turn to freeze, ruby irises briefly flitting to yours, rounded with surprise, before they snap back down, making himself busy as he gathers up a scattered array of bloodied cloth. 

“I… I have had many. The one most people knew me by was König.” It’s strange, the croon of his voice sounds almost nothing like the one whispered to you in the dark, from low and horrifying, to gentle, almost timid. You’re nothing short of fascinated, leaning forward as you scan over the contours of his face. 

“Why’d you drag me into your house and tell me to run?” 

“Why were you trying to knock on my door?”

Touché. 

Heat licks at the skin of your cheeks at his brazen reminder of your attempted trespassing, your uninjured hand coming to rub at your neck in lieu of a response. After a moment of silence, he sighs, deflating into the plush carpet below. 

“It has been a while since I last had any visitors. Your arrival was… Unexpected. You caught me off guard,” He pauses for a moment, pupils dilating as his fingers curl around the rags he holds in his hand, covered in your blood, “It has been even longer since I have been around fresh blood.” It feels surreal to have it confirmed, that the creature that sits before you is one you’ve seen only in movies and read in far-fetched romance novels. Yet, you feel no fear, that emotion all but vanished the second he halted everything just to care for an intruder's wound.

“My friends dared me to knock.” He cocks his head at that, a single eyebrow arching, bemused at your admission. “It’s been a dare for years, no one ever actually had the guts to do it.” 

“Until you.”

A pause, your head dipping forward in an unsure nod.

“Until me.” 

He’s staring at you unabashedly now, your eyes wandering over the rich details of the bedroom you reside in as an excuse to save yourself from his piercing gaze, an unreadable expression swimming in carmine eyes. 

“I am glad it was you.” 

You hate the embers of arousal that spark at his words, perturbed by your body’s reaction to seemingly innocent words spoken from a man you were sprinting away from less than an hour ago, and yet his eyes do nothing to put out the fire, intense and smouldering. You can’t bring yourself to look away, nor to quash the way your heart flutters as his torso leans closer to your thighs that subconsciously part to make room for him. The action doesn’t go unnoticed, nostrils flaring as sharp eyes zero in on the way your legs spread against silk sheets. 

“And why is that, König?” 

It’s as though you uttering his name opens the floodgates, black engulfing vermillion until only a sliver remains, thick fingers circling your shins as he leers further into the gap your parted thighs created, that same ravening stare that once sent fear trickling down your spine now leaves you gasping for breath for an entirely different reason. 

“Because I haven’t seen something as pretty as you for a very long time, and I don’t know if I have the strength to stop myself again, maus.” 

You couldn’t prevent the whispered whine of his name if you had tried, eyelashes fluttering as you move to curl your fingers in his shirt, giving pathetic little tugs to the soft material of his silk shirt, eyes dipping down to where loose material tucks into black pants. Your back arches, a shameless display of desire as you slide your body closer towards the edge of the bed, and further into his touch.

“Who said anything about stopping?”

Your words remain suspended in the air around you, two sets eyes locked onto each other, blown black with barely-suppressed lust, and yet you don’t dare to make the first move, waiting, wanting for him to shed his timid skin and swallow you whole, become the beast that stalked you through rooms just to feel the thrill of the chase. His hands leave your legs, instead balling up into tight fists against his own thighs, the skin around his knuckles taut as though restraining himself. For a mere moment, you fear he may have changed his mind, that is until he utters the word you craved to hear.

“Run.” 

You ignore the lingering ache in your joints, your thighs burning as you dash from the bedroom with renewed purpose, fuelled by the all-consuming thoughts of what’s to come, excited to finally be caught, a far cry from the unbridled terror that sent you scrambling before. This time, he makes no effort to prowl in the shadows, your heart beat soaring as the loud thuds of footsteps echo from behind, the floorboards quaking under your feet from the force of his steps. 

You know there isn’t a chance he’s running at full speed, but even then he catches you almost embarrassingly quickly, built arms encircling your waist and crushing you against his torso, bringing you to the floor in an instant, leaving you to writhe helplessly between his body and the floorboards. You don’t give in, however, limbs thrashing, nails clawing against whatever they can reach, whether it be the arms that pin you down, or the wood underneath you, feigning an attempt to escape. 

That is until you feel two sharp points dig into your nape, not enough to break skin, but the threat of it leaves you frozen under him, a doe caught in the wolf’s jaws. But you don’t fear the bite like wild prey would, somehow, you crave it, to feel his teeth sink into you, to let him lap at your blood and drain you near dry, anything just to feel like you’re his. 

The pressure of sharpened canines begins to lessen, his teeth slowly peeling back from your skin, although anticipating your body to begin thrashing once again. But you remain subdued, the embers now engulfed by crackling flames that lick at your nerves and set your skin alight. It’s only when his hips shift do you feel the tent in his pants pushing against the top of your thighs, your eyes fluttering shut as you push your ass down to grind shamelessly against his cock. 

“Temptress,” The word is almost incomprehensible through the growl that reverberates through his throat, a sound that gives away entirely how affected he is, rough and wanting. “You should be trembling beneath me from fear and yet…” 

His words trail off, a stuttered gasp replaces your heavy breathing when you feel sizeable fingers trailing down your sides before sliding under your body, cupping your inner thigh. Your heart hammers against your ribcage from the chase, now bolstered by the scandalous touch as his fingers skim past your clothed core, only catching onto the way his fingers curl into the material until it’s too late, hardly leaving you enough time to yelp before he’s tearing you bare below him. The tattered remains of your pants are haphazardly discarded, joined soon by the threadbare silk of your ripped panties, one of your favourite pairs torn in half with hardly an ounce of effort. 

“Yet here you are, schätzchen, quivering with need, dripping for the cock of the one that hunts you.” 

The rough pad of calloused fingers swipes against your exposed cunt, unable to suppress the heady whine that leaks past your agape lips, your forehead meeting the hardwood floor with a soft thump. That single touch renders you limp, muscles going lax as you melt into the glide of his fingers as they tease your folds, slowing on every up-stroke to rub slow circles against your clit. It’s maddening, the pace in which he picks you apart, leaving you to grind on his fingers like a wanton whore just to feel the surmounting pleasure that builds in response to his touch. A tut sounds from above, heavy breath cascading over your nape as his head dips down, lips dragging from neck to the shell of your ear.

“What a desperate little thing you are, maus, you know what we call things like you in my native tongue?” Your head shakes, a breathy ‘no’ muffled into the floor, “Schwanzschlampe, cock slut.” Embarrassment mixes in equal measure with arousal, curling one of your arms under your head to hide your face, the action short lived as strong arms flip you onto your back, one large hand gathering both your wrists together and pinning them above your head, exposed before him in every way. It’s undeniably more intimate in this position, your eyes given little other option than to lock onto his as his other hand continues to tease your dripping cunt, carmine swimming with unrestrained desire pinning you to the floor as effectively as his near crushing grip on your wrists.

“You can’t hide your pretty face from me, liebling, I want to see how much you crave my touch.” He presses his forehead to yours, low candlelight from lamps that line the corridor walls glint off the two long fangs that peak past reddened lips with every word spoken. And it’s seemingly your turn to catch him off guard, your head tilting upwards to push your lips to his, swallowing his surprised gasp down greedily, arching your chest to push against his. The kiss is desperate, messy, a combination of saliva drips down your chin, moans and rumbled grunts creating a symphony that drifts down the winding halls of his home. With a nudge, you ensure his eyes are locked to yours as you part your lips, your tongue curling over his teeth before brushing over the point of his elongated canine. 

With a push, you feel the sting as his fang just barely dips into soft flesh, a drop of blood beading at the surface before you push the muscle to his, locked onto the way his eyes roll to the back of his skull, the growl momentarily starting up again before his lips lock around your tongue, sucking at every morsel of blood that springs from the pinprick cut like a man starved. A man that has most likely been starved of blood directly from the source for more years that you’ve been alive. 

If you thought that you’d unlocked the beast within him before, the taste of your blood brings out an entirely new side. His lips part from yours, the crimson in his frenzied eyes transforming before you, as though enriched from just a taste of warm iron. You watch as his pupils dilate and constrict, each push and pull between black and red prove hypnotic as his eyes slowly begin to refocus, the colour to his irises seem dull in comparison to the bright vermillion flecked with gold that peers down at you, still wild with hunger, driven by need. 

The moment is broken mere seconds later when his head drops to your neck, sharpened teeth dragging along the throbbing pulse at the base of your throat, and just when you expect the bite, you’re left gasping for an entirely unrelated reason as your shirt comes apart against sharp enamel, shredded where it surrounds your naked torso, leaving you entirely bare. Yet all it takes is a singular glance to realise he remains fully dressed, not a single article shed. 

“König,” Your voice comes out strained, practically whining as though prepared to beg, “Let me undress you?” 

He pauses for a moment, eyes flicking up to you from under his lashes before the grip on your arms lessens, his legs folding under him as he rights himself into a kneeling position over your body. He suddenly seems unsure, maybe a little self-conscious as you lean up brushing your fingers over flowing pristine white silk, taking your time as you unfasten each button, never once letting your eyes stray from his. And despite the hint of bashfulness, he keeps his gaze pinned to you, a wary lion caught off guard by brave prey. 

After the last button falls undone, you let the tips of your fingers trace up revealed skin, before pushing the shirt from his shoulders, and watching as it billows onto the floor, exposing a defined chest highlighted by a smattering of scars that tell stories you could only dream of hearing. He’s nothing short of ethereal, otherworldly in every sense of the word, a behemoth of a beast, with the face of an angel. 

“You cover up a lot for a man as handsome as you are.” Your disguised question prompts a flinch, solid fingers clutching into fists at his side, but before you can rush to amend your words, he slumps, resigned to your curiosity. 

“I have garnered a reputation I do not wish to catch up to me. It is safer to keep myself hidden, maus.” You make a mental note if you somehow find yourself in his company after this night to ask him more, a carnal need to know everything that makes up the being knelt above you. But you tuck them away for now, refocusing your attention to the waistband of his trousers, deft fingers wasting little time undoing the silver clasp and dragging down the zip until the front peels open. 

“Good thing you don’t have to keep hidden in front of me, huh?” Your lips tug upwards into a playful smirk, your hands planting on the solid muscle of his chest before you’re pushing him backwards, letting his legs splay out either side of your now free body before easing both his pants and underwear down the corded muscle of his thigh, marvelling at each inch of skin revealed to ravenous eyes. His trousers join the crumpled mess of clothes that lay scattered across the floor, giving him no time to adjust to his new found nudity before your head is ducking down, tongue flitting out to lick a long strip from the base of his cock to the tip. 

Your enthusiasm is immediately rewarded with a faltered whine, watching from under your lashes as his head lolls backwards, trembling fingers coming to cup either side of your face. He’s big, his cock twitching against the defined muscle of his abdomen, thick and long, and nothing short of daunting. Yet you choose to focus on the way your pussy clenches around air at the mere sight of it, overwhelmed by the knowledge that you’ll understand what it is to be split open by him, to be fucked by him. Your tongue darts out once more to press against the tip, the small cut on the surface only just healed over, your spine shuddering at the dulled sting that follows as you begin to take the head of his cock between your lips, mouth stretched almost painfully around the girth. 

It does nothing to dissuade you, however, tears clouding your vision of his blissed out expression as you swallow him down deeper, hardly taking more than two inches before your throat spasms around him in protest, coaxing a throaty whimper from spit-shined lips that has your hand darting down to your clit, fingers rubbing desperate circles into soaked flesh. 

The following whine that reverberates around his cock swiftly gives you away, crimson eyes focusing in on the way your hand disappears between your thighs, before flitting back to the way your watering eyes remain locked to his, hissing out several curses in German at the sight of your lips wrapped around his straining cock. 

“Your mouth… Gott, your fucking mouth,” strong fingers guide your head off his cock, your lips separating from the tip with a lewd pop, strings of saliva and pre-cum connecting your lolled out tongue to his cock. “Need to fuck you, schätzchen, I can’t wait any longer, verdammte hölle—” 

You’re not given any warning before he’s pinning your back to the floor, bringing your knees up to your chest and bending you in half, a feat you didn’t know you were capable of before his strong fingers moulded you into the perfect position to take his cock. Folded like this, you can’t help but feel like a doll in his hands, your height and weight rendered meaningless under the sheer size of the monster above you. Trepidation begins to simmer under the surface of your skin, trying to imagine just how your body could ever make room for him. 

But he doesn’t leave you much time to fret before his head falls to your thighs, thick fingers twitching from where they hold up your legs as his nose buries into your pubic bone. Long strands of brunette block your vision, startling as you register the feeling of something thick and wet pressing against your folds. 

“K-König!” Your cry prompts a responding groan from the man below you as his tongue licks firm stripes up the length of your cunt, glassy eyes drifting up to you as though intoxicated, drunk of the heady taste of your arousal. With a jolt, you’re left helpless to watch as one of his hands slides down your thigh, stuttering through another gasped moan of his name as you feel a single thick digit slide into the wet heat of your pussy, eyes watering at the stretch that merely one of his fingers provides. 

He doesn’t hold up, his lips wrapping around your clit and sucking the second he feels your walls clamp around him, slowly easing your muscles into accepting a second finger, distracting you from the momentary pain by lapping his tongue against your engorged clit. But even so, taking two of his fingers feels like more of a challenge than any cock you’ve taken in the past, eyes rolling backwards as he begins to crook them within you, calloused fingers rubbing against the gummy walls of your cunt in a way that has you convulsing around him, warbled sobs hiccuping past your lips as you feel your first climax rip through your body. 

“One more, maus, I need you to take one more so I know I won’t hurt you.” 

Tears track down your face, still processing the intensity that just wracked your body, but you nod down at him anyway, rewarded with a gentle smile and whispered praise as he cautiously eases a third finger into you, pausing the second he hears a pained hiss after the first knuckle. He hums, placing tender kitten licks against your still throbbing clit, letting you push past tender overstimulation to help pull your mind off the burning stretch, refocusing your attention to the pleasure his mouth provides. 

“Doing so well, liebling, almost there…” His words are whispered against your glistening pussy, eyes firmly fixed on yours as he guides you through, until finally all three of his fingers are pushed to the hilt, cooed praise following immediately after. 

“König, need you, I need you inside of me, please.” Your sniffled plea evokes nothing more than a playful smile from him as he cocks his head to the side. 

“Am I not inside of you right now, maus?” His tone is teasing, words accompanied by a wiggle of the fingers that remain buried in your cunt, coaxing a depraved moan from your already raw throat. 

“Your cock, wan’ your cock so bad,” It takes a second to search for the word that sits on the tip of your tongue, your eyes sparking when it finally comes to you, “Bitte, König.”

It’s immediate, the way his fingers pull from your cunt and secure themselves back around your thigh, darkened rubies glinting with that same predatory stare you’re all too familiar with now. He wastes no time as the tip of his cock bumps against soaked folds, your fingers wrapping around his veined shaft as you guide him inside, mouth parting in a silent cry as the tip pushes past the first ring of muscle and leaves you breathless. 

There is no mistaking that three of his fingers gave you a mere taste of the stretch, belatedly wondering how on Earth he’ll fit amongst the tight walls of your cunt, and the other organs that surround it. But by some grace of God, he continues to move, inch after thick inch swallowed by your cunt as though it were made for him, a perfect match, the monster and his plaything, the predator and its ever willing prey. 

A rush of air finally fills your lungs once the dull slap of his hips meets your ass, unfocused eyes widening as you take in the protrusion of his cock, the bulge obscenely large where it stretches out your skin. 

“S’big, you’re so fuckin’ big, what the fuck—” 

Slurred rambles are cut off with a searing kiss, passionate and fiery as his hips begin to draw back, swallowing down frenzied curses as he slams back into you, setting a cruel pace right from the start. You never had a chance, you should have known, and yet you regret nothing as he pounds into your abused cunt, your cervix meeting the tip of his weeping cock with each forceful thrust, thick veins rubbing against the walls of your pussy and leaving you glassy eyed and cock-drunk. 

Mindless babbles flow from drooling lips, your neck drooping to the side as you hope your eyes convey your needs without resorting to incoherent words. But it takes little more than exposing your throat to him before his lips latch onto the flesh, sucking a line of bruises into your skin before finally settling over your jugular, the only pre-warning of the oncoming bite being the scrape of fangs before they’re puncturing skin, flooding your veins with a venom that has your toes curling, fingernails digging into the muscle of his back and dragging thick red lines against shuddering flesh. 

His pace never falters, hips still careening against yours as his lips suck around the two minute incisions, drinking down your blood with a thirst you’ve never witnessed. Whether it’s the subduing poison that flows through your bloodstream, or the shift of hips as his cockhead nudges the walls of your cunt in a way that has stars blooming behind your eyelids, you find yourself hurtling into another climax, whimpered cries and bloodied nails evidence of your earth-shattering orgasm. 

His lips finally part from your skin with a slick sigh, lips painted the most beautiful shade of crimson that drips down his chin, a line that marks your possession, evidence he’s consumed by you, drunk on you. And it’s as you lean down, your tongue dragging against the bloodied stubble of his chin, lapping up what remains of your scarlet ichor, that he finally succumbs to the pleasure, his cock jolting within you as he releases seemingly endless spurts of cum against your cervix, buried as deep within your body as biology will allow. 

Panted breaths intermingle as his forehead presses flush to yours, lidded eyes, now nearly entirely consumed by gold peers at you, an interesting mix of fascination and something that looks almost fond discernible in his gaze. You still have so many questions, intrigued and just a little bit obsessed with the man above you, yet it’s apparent that your feelings are far from unrequited, and one day, every question that burns at your tongue and begs for answers will be satiated. For now, you’ll bask in his looming presence and tender care, grateful to have found him in the first place, however unfortunate the initial meeting was. 

Just as his lips ghost against yours, the distant sound of creaking has you both freezing in place.

“H-Hello? You still in here?”

“... Scheiße.”

[merbear25]

Experimental w/ Law (NSFW)

MDNI!!! +18

CW: smut, although based on a yandere quiz I took, it isn't yandere themed, bondage, vaginal penetration, creampie, afab!reader, light choking and slapping, slight female degration, rough sex, takes place in an abandoned asylum so there's mention of some equipment being used on reader.

A/n: I was inspired by my results from this quiz on Quotev. Wanted to make something that was more NSFW (of course changing other parts a little bit, too) Idc if the quiz is centered around Halloween and I'm writing this in January! It's always Halloween in my heart <3

Inspo: Your One Piece Yandere Horror Story

Despite having been on your fair share of adventures with the Heart Pirates, you still had yet to be paired up with Law. It was purely by chance that this was your first time one-on-one with him on a mission. You'd already shared pleasant conversations and been able to get to know each other on board the ship. You both seemed to like the other's company.

Having spotted the somewhat small egnimatic island in the distance, Law's curiosity was peaked and interested to thoroughly explore it. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but nonetheless, you'd been slipt up into groups to cover more ground.

Setting his sights on a white building peeking over the treetops, Law suggested the two of you search around its grounds. You saw no reason to protest, so you gladly journeyed along by his side.

When you both reached the building, its decrepit state was more than apparent. You hesitated to follow Law up the short flight of stairs to the main entrance. Looking back at you, he uttered, "Come on." Briefly maintaining eye contact, he broke it and continued through the rickety doors.

A sudden chill krept up your spine and made you hurry towards him.

"Didn't take you for such a scaredy cat," Law smirked over his shoulder.

Your cheeks grew rosey from slight embarrasement. Puffing out your chest a little, you strutted next to his side, "Being cautious is not the same as being scared."

His huff was the closest thing to a laugh you were going to get out of him.

Even though you were both checking the downstairs thoroughly, there didn't seem to be anything worth taking. You came across a few empty rooms with suspicious scratches on the walls that peaked your interest, though. Then, you both stumbled into what appeared to be an office. Thumbing through the files, you turned to Law and informed him of your suspicions, "These files are all of patients." He merely raised an eyebrow at your discovery. "They state each one's reason for being admitted." Looking down at the files you'd grabbed, you felt a twinge of sorrow.

"There's no use getting upset over what happened here," he went back towards the door, "It's all in the past and can't cause anyone any more harm."

"Somehow the room feels colder with you in it," You meekly responded.

Shrugging your comment off, he continued upstairs.

Not far from the railing a rusted sign down the hall caught both of your attention. Without having to bring it up, you simultaneously walked in its direction to check it out.

Forcing the door open, firstly your gaze settled on a dusty metal restraint table, then darted to the needles, pliers, and scalpels surrounding it, having once taunted those who were unfortunate enough to be made a spectacle of.

"This is more like it," he nonchalantly threw out and strolled past the equipment.

Slightly taken aback by that, you tried to regain your composure to avoid any more accusations of being a 'scardey cat'.

He touched the leather cuffs at the sides and your eyes met for a moment before averting his eyes back down to the cuffs. "Get on," coolly instructing you.

Leaving any fear you may have had at the door, you stepped forward trying to redeem yourself and reclaim your bravery. Gingerly easing yourself onto the contraption, your nerves started getting the better of you, shown by the tremors in your limbs.

The sight of your brave face being accompanied by shaking arms and legs was hard for him not to faintly chuckle at - he saw the glare you shot at him as a small price to pay. "It's not going to break," he reassured you while grabbing the side of the table and rocking it back and forth, "See? It's good quality. Not even that rusty."

Internally screaming and cursing this man to high heavens, you were far too stubborn to back out of this now. You laid down and before you could even finish asking 'now what?' he'd strapped your left arm down. "Don't move," he ordered. You watched him intently as he secured the rest of you and promptly locked the wheels in place. When he came up to the right side of you, he told you, "And don't worry. This'll be fun." Without any warning, he fastened your neck to the table.

Goose bumps were appearing from the cool metal prickling your skin and the rising and falling of your chest accompanied them. You barely had time to comprehend what'd just happened before he grabbed a scalpel and was admiring it. While he was tenderly pressing the blade against the tip of his index finger, you taunted him, "If you plan on using that on me, then I'd hope you have a tetanus shot to follow up with." A smirk reappeared on his stoic face and he bluntly asked, "Would you ever have sex in a place like this?"

Trying to convice yourself more than him at this point that you're brave, you huffed, "Sure. Why the hell not?" Your shrug went unnoticed. You decided to ask him the same.

Looking down at your form, a 'Might be fun' traveled past his lips. He hummed softly while tracing the curve of your hip and waist. You couldn't tell if your heart excelerated from the metallic touch or his. Which ever it was, his fingers found their way to your inner thigh. Gently squeezing the flesh that was so carelessly left exposed to the elements, his stare kept fixated on your expression. Trailing further up your leg, Law's fingers followed the lining of your panties. Your lovely cheeks were becoming more flushed and your delicate lips were quivering. With a bit more pressure, he ran his middle finger up and down your folds, which were still being concealed behind thin fabric. Finding your already swollen clit with ease, he ruthlessly toyed with it.

When the longing in your eyes became unmistakable, he eagerly yanked your panties down, swiftly pulling them down to your ankles. Wasting no time, he shoved his middle and ring fingers into you and after a couple of rough, fast paced pumps, his thumb persisted in tormenting your most sensitive spot.

Unable to freely squirm from the rush coarsing through you, you were reduced to whimpers and jerky thrusts in a desperate attempt at meeting his pace. You whined when you felt his hand pulling away from your needy pussy. A swift slap colided with your sweet spot and you drew in a sharp breath.

"Don't get ahead of yourself now." His other hand caressed your face. "I need you to understand who's in control here." Inching his face closer to yours, his focus shifted from your eyes to your lips. "Got it?" You nodded in agreement, but that wasn't enough for him. Your cheek received a firm slap and was hastily grabbed again, forcing your eyes to meet his. "Say 'Yes, sir.'"

You choked out his demand and were rewarded with Law's lips harshly meeting yours. His hand now gripped at your silky locks on the back of your head. As the kiss deepened, the other regained control over the lower half of your body.

Breaking away from your liplock, your breaths were harmonizing in desperate low moans. Your body still squirmed as if it was begging to be pounded mercilessly. Tightening his grip, his hand was now trapped between your clenched thighs, and he sighed in contempt, "Your cunt is throbbing." He tugged his belt loose but his hand hovered around his zipper. "Tell me how much you want it."

Lust overcame you, your chest felt hot, you couldn't deny him even if you tried, "Fuck," your hips bucked upwards, "I want you to fuck my cunt so badly. I need you to punish my throbbing pussy now," a sly smile appeared across your lips, "Please, sir?" You batted your doe eyes at him.

It seemed he couldn't get his pants off fast enough. Practically shredding the top half of his wardrobe off, he then swiftly climbed on top of you. Ripping your top and bra low enough, exposing your perky breasts and erect nipples, he just took a moment to admire their beauty before shoving his face in between their valley and softly twisting their peaks. Licking his way to the top of one, he sucked on it, fully allowing himself to bask in your beauty. He did so all while jostling your skirt up to your waist, leaving your most private areas completely bare.

You were just getting accostomed to his mouth when a sudden pain made you yelp. Law was holding your dainty nipple between his teeth and flicking the top bit with his tongue. Smirking up at you, he lunged himself forward, now towering over you. The tip of his cock twitched as it patiently waited to enter.

He leaned into a kiss and you hungrily plunged your tongue into his mouth, not even noticing a hand reaching over and behind your head. Your neck was forced back down, causing your breaths to be uneven. "This seems to have been loosened." Nipping at your nose he pulled away again, "That's better."

As he was repositioning his hips, you anxiously awaited the sensation you'd been chasing all this time. However, you couldn't have anticipated the sheer shock of him penetrating so agressively. Swirls of pleasure were muddled with pain, leaving only the restraints for you to brace yourself. Inspite of the twinges of pain being plundered into you, your wetness was fully coating Law's thighs.

The grip of the leather around your soft throat was harshly rubbing it. However, the uncomfortable pressure left your mouth parted and your eyes fluttered. Your body was tensing up, preparing you for climax. Your moans were growing louder and your hands struggled to find the much needed support from their leather confinements.

He was gracious enough to fuck you through your first orgasm of the day. It would've been far too cruel to pull out right as you were crossing that finish line. Though, as soon as you finished, he pulled out, leaving your body feeling like a hollow mess - aching to be filled once more. You whined in confusion, since you couldn't really see what he was planning for you.

You then felt the straps around your ankles fall off completely and his strong hands placed them on his shoulders. Before you had a chance to call out to him, he muzzled you with your own panties. Repositioning himself, you ended up being bent in half with his hands on either side of your head, gripping the top corners of the table.

No warning was given. He forcefully pushed past your swollen folds, granting him more dominance over your spasming slit. Your cries were still audible, but he loved hearing them being stifled by your dirtied lingerie. "You're such a slut, huh?" Although he was barely able to hold back his own moans, he couldn't help taunting you when you were in such a tempting state of vulnerability. "Gonna make you cum till you can't fucking see straight." With each seductive word, he showed no signs of letting up.

Tears were streaming down your temples, your hands still failing to firmly clutch to anything, your moans progressing into provacative screams, all of which were leaving Law in a state of pure ecstasy.

"Gonna stuff you full of cum, 'kay?" He'd been pumping so furiously, he could hardly speak, instead tiredly panting out to you. Nodding earnestly, you tightened around his length, encouraging him to drain his balls into you. With just a few more passionate plunges kissing your whomb, he offered every last bit of himself to you.

Catching your breaths was going to take a while. Gathering your barings was going to take even longer. The smell of sweat, bodily fluids, and musk surrounded the two of you and was far from dissipating, since the aroma of lust still had yet to be lifted.

Looking at your tear stained face, Law swept aside the dampened hair on your temple and kissed you with the first gentle one all day.

[dulceackles]

Ambivalent Part two - The brother

Previous part: (x)

Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader

Warnings: angst, strong language, sex, violence, enemies to lovers, alcohol, all that. Mention of dead body, a little bit of horror. English is not my first language, so sorry for typos. Also, it is a Y/N, but I've created a background story and a fictional place around it for creative and storytelling reasons. Will not be describing exterior characteristics, tho!

Summary: Dean used to be really important to Y/N but ever since he suddenly left her without telling her why, she's been avoiding even mentioning him. Now, after years, he's back in town, but not because of her. There's a case. The only things she's certain is that she doesn't like him being back.

Word count: 1.8k

There was this playground that Y/N had spent quite a bit of time playing in when she was a kid. It was worn down and kind of abandoned already. She hadn't seen any kids play in it for years. After all, there were new and more modern playgrounds in the town. But sometimes she came to sit on the benches of the park to drink a coffee or read a book. After all, an abandoned playground without a single kid was way more calm environment to drink a morning coffee than a busy café that was buzzing of cranky adults and their illegally excited kids that just wanted to get to their friends already.

Y/N was just about to take another ship of her coffee when she heard a warm voice she still didn't like, "The café house had no available seats, huh?", It said.

She lifted her eyes to meet with Sam's. He took a seat right next to her on the wooden bench. Y/n tuned back to her coffee, ignoring him and hoping he'd just give up with whatever small-talk he was trying to make.

"Well, good morning to you, too." Sam let out a faint laughter and looked down at his hands.

There was a brief silence between them. Sam wasn't fully sure why he had decided to come over her, as he had seen her sitting alone. Maybe he had wanted to set things right between the two of them, if that was even possible. After all, he had done literally nothing and wasn't sure where all this hatred towards him was coming from.

Y/N had never been that close, not even friends if we're honest. He had known Dean had some girl he frequently visited and with who he kept calling even during the hunting trips. Honestly, sometimes Sam had gotten a bit annoyed with Dean. Dean had always been the advocate of how family came first and how mixing relationships into hunting life but innocent people in danger, but then all of a suddenly he was all over some girl living in a small town in the middle of a forest he met while driving through. Dean had told her he and Sam had a family business of building engineering, which caused them to travel a lot because apparently they were the best in the business. As time had gone, he had become glad that Dean had someone caring outside the hunting life. It really balanced him, and Sam knew how it felt. After all he had had Jess and never ever would have he become in a way of Dean having someone special in his life. Sam, Dean and Y/N had even gone on a couple drink together as Sam had insisted that if Dean was going to keep being with her, he also wanted to meet the girl his brother was so keen into. Sam liked Y/N, and he thought that if they were giving a bit more time, they maybe had become friends even, but then, as fast as the relationship had started, it was over. And Sam had no idea what had happened between them and All Dean told him was that it was done, and he didn't want to talk about it.

"You know, I find this town funny. Under 10000 citizens and still, every morning the coffee shop is full of people like it's an only place open in a metropolis. It's like this town is addicted to coffee." Sam observed, he wasn't sure if she was even listening and to be honest he did feel a little bit stupid talking to himself on an abandoned playground.

"Okay, leave then." Y/N hissed, still trying to ignore him. It did make her a bit uncomfortable that he had walked over to her. She barely knew Sam, but there was a time she had thought he and Dean were like the coolest and funniest people she had ever met. She had hoped, fantasized even, that she and Sam would have become good friends. The first time she had met him, she had been extremely nervous. He was Dean's brother after all, and it had meant lot to her that Dean had invited her to meet with his family. She had wished more than anything that Sam would have liked her, even though she would have never openly admitted to such a desperate behavior. It made her feel stupid of how desperately she had wanted to be part of Dean's life and accepted by people close to him just for him to drop her like an old toy. And now she wanted that both of them knew nether of them had any business with her ever again.

"Yeah, well… We will. After... We have a job here, but after that," Sam struggled again a little bit. He was not used to her being this direct and cold. He had always viewed her as a kind and a little bit shy girl, not cold and unapproachable. "I really don't know what happened between you and my brother, but I am sorry," Sam tried to start the peace negotiations.

"Sure. Go be sorry somewhere else, tho," Y/N stood up and started to walk away. She was annoyed she didn't get to enjoy her morning coffee in peace, but her shift was about to start in an hour, and she had to start making her way towards her workplace. It was friday morning and it was usually busy one. She should head to the cafe early.

Sam let out a frustrated sign and went trotting after her, "Look, all I'm trying to say is that I don't enjoy this ongoing trench warfare between you and us."

"And all I'm trying to say is fuck off, you stupid assclown." Y/N rose her voice at him, and she could fell herself getting uncomfortably anxious. She regretted calling him names immediately, tho, and she could tell he was little hurt by her outburst. But before she have time to gather her thoughts and apologize, she heard another voice behind the two of them.

"Sam...SAM?" Dean calls his brother like he was his dog with a bad recall wandering around a public park. His voice rose the little hairs in Y/N's arm while she turned to look at him walking towards them. For a moment she had an urge to start running away, but she fought that urge. Sam lets out yet another frustrated sign.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked from Sam, but before he has time to answer, Dean turned to look at Y/N, "And what are you doing? Don't you ever talk to my brother like that."

"What am I doing?? What are you two liars doing? I know for a fact there's not a single so significant building being build in this old rotting town that'd need an outsider engineers, so what are you doing here after seemingly disappearing for two years? Just came to bother me for leisure activity?" Y/N spat out angrily. Sam stood next to Dean quietly, he could tell his brother was not very happy with anything going on.

"If you think that us being back here has anything to do with you, then you're delusional about your importance." Dean looked down at her with a dull expression on his face. He could see Y/N's soulful eyes starting to tear up and felt like hitting himself in his calves. He needed to come up with something better right now, but before he had time to take back any of his words, she was already going.

"Jackass! Play with your fucking self while on that decomposing playground, you son of a bitch." Y/N screamed behind to him one last time before nearly running off the old playground.

"That went well," Dean glared at his little brother before starting to head towards impala, "What did you say to her?"

"I feel like the problem is not what I said, but what you said." Sam followed behind his headstrong brother.

"I KNOW, but what did you say?" Dean huffed.

"I don't know, I just tried to make up with her, you know. It's bothering how she looks at us like we killed her dog." Sam rose his shoulders to his ears.

"Well, don't you care about how she looks at you. She's like being a bitch to you because you keep poking her. You're like an easy target. Let's just let her be, do our job and leave." Dean gave Sam a brotherly tap to his shoulder.

"Yeah, and she'll like to curse us to hell for the rest of her life." Sam raised his hands, it wasn't his relationship, but he felt like this needed closure for both of them.

"She'll forget." Dean was slightly shocked how into this Sam was. Sam had met her like, what, two times? Four, if we count yesterday and this one right here.

"It's been two years over an under a year long undefined relationship, Dean! Seems like she has a quite good memory. I'm just saying, avoiding problems is not the same as solving them." Sam rolled his eyes.

"Oh, okay lover-boy. Just remember I was on the field when you were still scared of talking to girls." Dean smirked.

"Coaches don't play." Sam opened the car door and hopped in, "Anyway, called Bobby and here's what he got. This town has higher amount of disappearance cases than any other town of the same size. Most of the missing persons are women and the record goes back to 1940s. Yet there's only been 2 bodies found, the woman in 1947 and now Sandra, but I'm just saying, something iffy has been going on for a long time." Sam decided to let the whole Y/N situation go.

"So what, the Schnabel von Rom-lookalike just got sloppy all of a sudden?" Dean turned to face Sam. This whole thing made no sense to him. Why no other hunter had never looked into this?

"Well, we're about to find out. We should talk to Victor, He was there, maybe he saw something he didn't tell to the police."

"You're right, he goes to this bar every Friday. We should meet him there tonight, have a couple beers, etc. I mean, we can't just show up to his door as FBI because he knows who I am." Dean started the car and hit the road.

"Wait, what, you know this guy?" Sam looked at Dean, confused.

"C'moon this is a small town and I used to visit it frequently due to some "under a year long undefined relationship". I don't know him, I just know about him and he knows about me. But he'll talk, I promise, they are awfully trusty in this town." Dean imitated Sam while quoting him.

Y/N had just changed into her work clothes when she heard her phone ring. It was a text message from one of her closest friends.

Joselyn: girl's night tonight?

Y/N: sure! Mic's bar at 11pm?

It was a Friday night, after all. I mean, Y/N didn't go out that much, but it was a nice once in a while.

"One coffee please!" Her thoughts were disrupted by the nasty snarl of a middle-aged woman, clearly in a desperate need of a morning coffee.

Next part: (x)

[strangererotica]

EXPLICIT CONTENT | MINORS DNI

Springtrap x Reader | Summary: Your uncle has asked you to keep watch over his new investment, Fazbear Frights, and the vintage artifacts his attraction contains. When you begrudgingly accept his offer, things take a turn for the weirder. An encounter in your dreams with a yellow rabbit changes you…for better, or worse?

Heads up: This fic is not for everybody, and that’s okay! It’s a fucked-up fever dream and if the summary intrigues you, come along for the ride. If not, that’s okay too. Things get heavy here. There’s monsterfucking, dream sex, vaginal penetration, some choking, fear, lust, disgust, basically a whole grab bag of fuckery, so if that’s your thing, read on, dear deviant 🫵♥️ PS the end is kind of fire, I love a good twist!!!

To be honest, you thought the idea of opening a theme park ‘attraction,’ based on the mysterious disappearances of children was fucked up. But your uncle was convinced there was a market for such a sick endeavor, that an audience existed whose search for thrills and chills would have them willing to shed money for a chance at experiencing horrific local nostalgia.

Because really, who wouldn’t want to relive the tragedy of multiple kids going missing? You were being sarcastic, of course. But part of that sarcasm stemmed from genuine bewilderment. What was your uncle thinking when he formed the concept of Fazbear Frights? He’d always been into horror as a genre, but as far as you’d understood, his interest was confined to books and film, not true crime. And if the subject matter of the Freddy’s story had involved the tragic disappearance of local adults, maybe Fazbear Frights wouldn’t have bothered you as much as it did. But kids had gone missing, lives had been upended, and your uncle was about to make a profit off of their heartache.

The worst part of all? You’d accepted his offer to work there. The cost of life after college was kicking your ass; you could barely afford your rent as it was, working two part-time jobs. Money was more than tight; you needed extra cash wherever you could find it. And besides, the Fazbear Frights gig would only last a couple of weeks, just until the attraction opened. Your uncle’s job offer had been to monitor the security of the place overnight, with generous pay promised. You couldn’t understand why he’d be willing to pay someone to guard a bunch of creepy old relics from an abandoned pizza parlor, or why additional security was necessary when the theme park itself already had an overnight guard? Your uncle maintained that additional security was needed, and that he only trusted family with the responsibility of protecting such an important investment as his precious, twisted attraction…

Entering Fazbear Frights, your first impression is that it’s really fucking ugly. Granted, it’s supposed to look old fashioned, and maybe the building’s creepiness is simply proof of good set design. However, a sense of unease lingers in your stomach, and you’re almost positive it’s caused by something beyond the decor. The attraction is fully furnished, but won’t open for a couple more weeks while the finishing touches on lighting and sound are tweaked. Those changes are made during the day, when at least a little sunlight can be seen filtering in through the windows, reminding you there’s life outside. For your part, working the night shift, the dark building makes you feel secluded and more than a little creeped out.

You have a flashlight, and mostly functional electricity running through the building. But there’s still much to be desired in the way of making the attraction feel…not haunted. And it occurs to you that that’s the word which describes how you’re feeling: haunted. The hairs on your skin are standing at attention, a cold sweat clinging to the back of your neck, but why? Obviously the setting is creepy, but it’s meant to be. You’re usually comfortable around spooky decor. It’s not as if you’re a scared kid wandering the halls of a haunted house alone…but that’s how you this place makes you feel…

It’s getting late. An outdated digital clock (probably a relic from the late eighties itself) on the desk in front of you reads 3 AM. You shiver as yet another cold breeze whispers past your shoulders. You look around, studying the vintage posters on the wall, wondering how much money your uncle threw away in order to call these scraps his own. The figures staring back at you look menacing, despite their wide smiles. They’re called animatronics, you remember. That’s how your uncle had referred to them. You also recall his mentioning one animatronic in particular, a Freddy’s original he’d managed to get his hands on and would be bringing to Fazbear Frights. You haven’t seen it yet, and to be totally honest, you’re not sure you want to. If the animatronic your uncle purchased looks anything like the ones in the posters you’re staring at, you’d prefer to never encounter such a creature…

Re-entering the theme park feels like walking through the gates of Hell. You’d rather be anywhere else than here. Another night of spending six hours alone in the gloomy replica of a literal crime scene has your stomach twisting. And you didn’t sleep well, either. Your dreams had been too vivid to allow you rest. You’d dreamed of a monster, or something that could certainly be called one…a massive, towering figure with patchy, mustard-yellow fur clinging to its skeletal frame. It resembled a rabbit, or had, at some point long ago. While still maintaining the general shape of a rabbit, its appearance had decayed, warping its cuddly features into something ugly. Its eyes were cold gray orbs that rested deep in its oversized, vacant skull, tendons and ligaments intertwined with wires that wrapped its skeleton, which you later realized, was comprised of metal rather than bone.

Your senses had been particularly keen in the dream. The rabbit’s scent was stale, yet comfortingly nostalgic. It reminded you of an old quilt your grandmother had once given you from the bottom of her dresser drawer, which smelled of love and other ancient, homemade things. She’d wrapped you up inside it, with kisses and promises that the chilly winter night wouldn’t be as cold now, that the quilt had been waiting there in the dresser for years, waiting for someone who needed it…

The rabbit’s fur was coarse, your skin a soft contrast when you wrapped your arms around its waist. It felt like the outdoor carpet that had lined your parents’ back porch, which your feet and rain had pelted countless Summer nights. The rabbit’s fur was cool to the touch, moist with something bittersweet, a musky blend of old books with yellowed pages, their corners turned down and words lined in pencil…

And against your lips, that was also his taste, his tongue the flavor of nostalgia, his large, unbearably strong hands crushing your body against his like he intended to make love to and ruin you all at once. Whether or not he consisted of machine or animal, he was more human than anything else, fully formed with the parts needed to bring you to a state of rapture. He held you suspended, your legs around his waist, fucking up into you with more vigor than his decayed appearance would suggest him capable of. You clutched his back, and then his ears, locking your fingers around them and bracing for impact as each of his mechanical, brutal thrusts punched inside you with a machine’s precision…

You’d woke up in a state of climax, your body drenched with sweat. The sheet beneath you had been ripped from the mattress, balled into tight fists. Your chest heaved, your bare breasts glistening with perspiration. Your cunt was pulsing, fluttering with the aftershocks of a powerful orgasm. Arousal dripped down your quivering thighs, onto the mattress which was soaking wet beneath you.

A shower and breakfast had done little to calm the questions racing through your mind. What the hell was that? Your dreams were rarely as vivid, as visceral, as the one about the rabbit. And as for the sex…it had been the best sex you’d had in a dream, ever. And it had been with what must surely have been a monster…

You hope your six hours at Fazbear Frights will go quickly tonight, partially because you’re still a little unsteady and aroused from your dream this morning. Additionally, you’re looking forward to sleep, because maybe the rabbit will be waiting for you when you close your eyes, again?

Unexpectedly, your uncle meets you at the staff entrance of Fazbear Frights. He seems excited about something, and you’re grateful for a distraction from your thoughts of the rabbit. “Hey kid,” your uncle greets you with a friendly wave. “How’d it go last night?”

“Alright,” you reply. “It’s a little creepy in there, but that’s the point, isn’t it?”

You don’t miss the subtle gleam in your uncle’s eyes, revealing how pleased he is that his attraction is having its desired effect. “That’s right,” he says cheerfully. “Gotta give the people what they want. And what they want-.” He turns his key in the lock and pulls the door open for the two of you. “-Is the authentic Freddy Fazbear experience. Which is why I’m here tonight.” He lets you step past him into the building, and locks the door behind you both. “-To show you the part of my collection that’ll really have people talking. We just brought him in today-you’ve got to see him…”

You grimace visibly. “It’s the fucking animatronic, isn’t it?” you groan, and your uncle rolls his eyes.

“Yes it is, sourpuss,” he teases. “And trust me when I tell you, it’s gonna make this place really feel like Freddy’s, like you’re stepping inside a time capsule or something.”

Your uncle led you down a hallway to one of the doors marked STAFF ONLY . “He’s showing his years of course,” your uncle continued, searching his ring for a different key. “I mean, this animatronic sat abandoned for thirty years; of course he’s gonna look a little rough around the edges.”

Your uncle finds the appropriate key and jiggles it inside the lock. “But just knowing that we, Fazbear Frights, have our hands on the one and only Spring Bonnie-.” He sighs proudly. “-It reminds me how much all of this was worth it, y’know? Now that he’s here, back in his element. Where he belongs.”

Your eyebrow lifts in curiosity; you resist the urge to laugh in your uncle’s face. “You do realize you sound just a little bit crazy, right?” you question him. “Talking about this thing like it’s a real person or something. Don’t tell me-.” You lean in, whispering. “-You talk to it sometimes, don’t you?”

Your uncle pauses before whispering back, “yeah, but, the only time I really feel crazy is when he responds…”

You giggle at that, watching while your uncle pulls the door open wide. “Here he is, (Y/N),” your uncle declares, beaming in the doorway. “The yellow rabbit himself. Spring Bonnie in the flesh-err, I mean, fur…”

For a moment, you assume you must be dreaming. Because you find yourself looking at the exact same rabbit from your dream this morning. He looks different, sat on the floor, leaning against the far wall; but it’s unmistakably him. Your uncle watches your expression, slightly confused. “Is he really that scary?” he asks, his voice hopeful.

You take a step forward, curiosity overriding your apprehension. The rabbit is large, just as large as he was in your dream. Even seated on the floor, you can tell his height is substantial. Tentatively, you reach for the rabbit’s face, stroking his musty-scented fur tenderly.

“D-be careful!” your uncle frets behind you, adding, “that thing was very expensive-be gentle with him-,” but his concerns aren’t necessary. You know this rabbit…intimately well. And once you’re alone with him again, you’ll make sure to take excellent care not to damage him in your…exertion…

“What did you say his name was?” you ask, gazing into the rabbit’s steely eyes. Your uncle clears his throat, obviously perplexed by the care you seem to feel for a decaying animatronic you had no interest in seeing only moments ago. “Uh, Bonnie,” he replies. “Spring Bonnie.”

“Bonnie,” you repeat, allowing the word to sink over your tongue. “That means beautiful, doesn’t it?”

Your uncle nods, still confused, and glances at his watch. “Well, it’s just about midnight,” he says. “Time for me to head out. Come walk me to the door, will ya?” He pretends to shiver. “This place gives even me the creeps at night, to be totally honest.”

You choose to leave the rabbit (for now). “I’ll be back,” you whisper against his ear, quietly enough that your uncle doesn’t hear. He’s waiting for you in the doorway, a warm smile on his face, your fascination with the yellow rabbit a fleeting curiosity to him, and nothing more. Once you’re sure your uncle is gone, you exhale a sigh of relief. Locking the door behind you feels like sealing the world away completely; and in contrast to yesterday, that kind of isolation is now exactly what you want. Your heart thuds against your chest like a horse’s hooves, skipping beats as you turn for the hall.

You’ve bunched your skirt around your waist, your shoes clicking loudly in the empty hall. Heavy rain pelts the tin roof as you round the corner that leads to him. In the doorway, a tall, familiar figure stands. His gray eyes flash cold as steel, locking you in place at the opposite end of the hallway.

Thunder growls outside. The building’s electricity spits in and out, crackling around you like fireflies caught in a jar. Your heart’s in your throat, lips spreading into a wide smile. The hall goes dark, lit only by the steely gaze of the yellow rabbit...

…until suddenly, even his eyes disappear, and you’re left engulfed by an all-consuming darkness.

Lightning flashes, illuminating the hand reaching for you. Robotic, aluminum fingers draped with rotting yellow fur close around your throat, silencing the scream beneath them. The rabbit lifts you by the throat till you’re completely suspended, feet dangling limp and useless beneath you. His sour breath reeks of rotten meat and dried blood, the kind of smell that instinctively alerts you to danger. Your eyes roll back, surrender sinking over you as you accept your fate.

But as quickly as he seized you, the rabbit yields. You feel the cold, filthy tile meet your cheek as you land against it. Through gauzy vision, you make out the metallic feet of the rabbit standing before you, his endoskeleton clearly visible. He takes hold of your hair, and tugs you upright, holding you in place as your trembling legs cannot sustain you. His eyes bore deeply into yours, chortled breath leaving his mechanical chest in a slow, grotesque pant. When he speaks, your whole body shivers.

“You…” the rabbit murmurs, his wide jaw cracking, fleshy tendons stretching. The curdled timbre of his voice betrays the smile on his lips; the rabbit is glad to see you.

“How…long…” he snarls. “…has it been…?” He drags a thick, soiled finger across your cheek, the gesture unexpectedly tender. “…Since anyone desired me…?”

Your chest is heaving, conflicting emotions of every kind overwhelming you. A sick cocktail of fear and arousal throbs in your belly, keeping time with your pounding heart.

“P-please,” you stutter, tears bleeding down your cheeks. “Don’t h-hurt me…”

The rabbit tilts his head to the side, thinking. His hooded eyes wash over you, this tiny little creature in his hands, pleading mercy from him.

“Mmm,” the rabbit hums, his skeletal chest vibrating like a lion’s purr. “You think I’m a monster, don’t you?”

You gasp as his touch glides from your face to your chest, his big paw closing over your breasts. He groans at the feeling of your heartbeat thundering against his palm. “I’d forgotten,” he says. “How a woman’s pulse feels…the proof of her life, beating in the palm of my hand…”

With his other paw, the rabbit clutches the back of your head and draws you closer. The stench of rot, of horror and decay, cannot repulse you anymore…not when his tongue has breached the barrier of your lips, the thick, sinewy muscle undulating against your tongue in a wet bed of perversion. His bulky fingers lodge between your thighs. Immediately, you begin to grind against the textured fur, wetting his mechanical digits with your arousal.

Seized by a sudden courage, you lift your hips in a way that has you poised atop one of the rabbit’s fingertips, his damp appendage resting against your entrance. He obliges your silent request, allowing you to sink over his thick finger, taking him as far as you can.

The thunder inside you eclipses the storm outside. You moan filthy, disgusting praises as he pleasures you, all sense of fear long-abandoned in exchange for the fulfillment of your most hedonistic desires. His fat, coarse digit strokes you like it was made for you to ride, reaching places inside you no part of any man ever has. You’re going dumb on top of him, so dumb you don’t even notice when the rabbit gently eases you onto the ground.

He’s under you now, his back pressed against the wall, his paw of a hand still clutching your cunt, letting you use his fingers to get yourself off. A dark, satisfied chuckle rumbles up from his bony chest. “Just look at you,” he murmurs, his steely eyes heavy with lust. “Bouncing on my lap like a slutty little rabbit, aren’t you?”

His lewd words and husky tone send you over the edge. Your body convulses on top of him, the muscles at your core clenching around the rabbit’s touch, sucking his fat appendage rhythmically as you ride out your high…

“Fucking Christ!” A man’s voice bleats through the hallway like a frightened animal. You whip your head to see him, blinded instantly by the beam of his flashlight. He’s wearing a shirt that identifies him as the theme park’s security, and as your eyes follow up to his face, you’re met with the wide-eyed gaze of unfiltered horror staring back at you. His flashlight shakes wildly in his hand, catching the rabbit’s skeletal leg in its beam. Confusion sets over you…followed by shame. Because the rabbit is now as he was when you arrived there tonight…sat against a wall, unmoving and limp, no more than a broken machine overcome by decay. But unlike earlier, you’re now sat straddling the broken machine, your cum dripping down its tattered fur…your hands locked around one of the animatronic’s arms, lodging his hand between your thighs…one of his fingers buried deep inside your cunt…

The guard clears his throat; you force yourself to meet his eyes. “Th-there was a c-.” He clears his throat again, blinking to focus. “-County-wide power outage, miss…I knew you were um, keepin’ watch over the place for your uncle, and uh-.” He swallows, forcing his eyes from dropping to the place where your body and the animatronic are joined. “-I th-thought you might be spooked in here, alone-.” He glances at the rabbit, then back to you. “-in the dark…”

Frustrated tears burn at the corners of your eyes, your cheeks hot with humiliation. Carefully, you ease the rabbit’s finger out of your cunt, wincing as the metal scratches your skin. Somehow, it didn’t hurt before. You smooth your skirt down, concealing your nakedness but none of your shame.

Standing in the beam of the guard’s flashlight, you summon every bit of the (minimal) pride you have left to tell him, “thank you. That was very kind of you, to come check on me.”

He licks his lips nervously, eyes darting between you and the animatronic propped against the wall. His flashlight illuminates the perverse scene, revealing your cum still glistening on the rabbit’s fur. The fear in the guard’s expression has softened to a pitying disgust.

“I think it’s time for you to go home, miss,” he says. You wipe a tear from your cheek, glancing back at the animatronic one last time, before leaving Fazbear Frights (and your rabbit) behind, forever…

[deliciouskeys]

Cozy Corner Kinktober 2024 prompt #27: Temperature Play

Butchlander; Rated... G? But honestly has horror elements so probably not G. TW: I'm not going to say agere, but some kind of unhealthy mental state is portrayed.

This was originally supposed to be a joke fill of this prompt and ~500 words. Instead, it became >4k words and not funny at all, I'm sorry to report.

Just a quick (needless) note: This is set presumably some time after S4E5 where they get Stan Edgar out of prison for a hot minute, but in some sort of alternative timeline where all the turning points of S4E8 either haven't happened yet, or won't ever happen because of a canon divergence. Aaand that makes it sound more complicated than it needs to be. Carry on.

Butcher isn't sure if there's anything new he could learn about Homelander by going to the compound where he grew up, but it can't hurt to check. Stan Edgar tipped him off about the secret location, a nondescript office building with a largely empty ground floor and sham offices to act as a front in the windows, but underground there is a facility that goes six stories deep. It's close to the landmark Edison Labs in West Orange, NJ.  It's not a long drive from the city for Butcher to make. An afternoon trip-- he can be in and out. Stan assured him there was only one security guard on every floor and Butcher has a bulletproof vest and several guns hidden in his coat, so he's prepared to breach the facility, maybe grill the scientists he finds in there, although he has doubts he’s find many who worked there in the era he’s interested in. But right now the parking lot is completely empty. Odd, because Stan said the facility was still in pretty heavy use, though nothing like the heyday of the seventies and eighties.

It's too risky to park in the lot and be that conspicuous sole car, so Butcher leaves his car far away and walks. Something feels off. There doesn't seem to be a single person anywhere on site, although maybe he's doing something very stupid by just walking up to the facility's door in broad daylight. Maybe he's about to be snipered off of some other building or even the roof of this one.

There's no one anywhere that he can see. He tries the door and it opens, against his expectations. There's a security desk behind what looks bulletproof glass, but it's smashed or melted on one side and there's no one there. There’s caution tape in a lazy X across the elevator which Butcher doesn't even tear away before pressing the only button, the one with the down arrow, because he has no expectation that it will do anything. But the elevator dings and its doors open. And against his better judgement, Butcher pulls the tape off the wall edges and enters and goes straight for the lowest floor. B6.

His instinct says something is seriously wrong. Stan described a very different scene to him. This building looks abandoned and as if something violent happened. When the door opens to the B6 level a strong smell of bleach hits Butcher hard. The place looks empty, but there's still scientific equipment. Butcher can't tell whether it's modern or not, but something about the scene looks like people have been here recently. He steps out cautiously, half expecting a gun to cock and press into the back of his head, but there's no one around. Where's security? He saw a camera on the way in, and it wasn't obvious if it was on or not. There aren't even any cameras visible on this level.

Butcher's not one for getting scared, but there's something decidedly creepy about the place and how empty and silent it is, aside from the hum of some machines that are apparently still on, and the air being circulated through the ducts. Yet more evidence this building is in use, at least occasionally. It looks hastily abandoned, but there's no way it's been abandoned for years. He approaches the wall where there's a framed picture hanging up. Three scientists in lab coats, maybe four, if the woman with the big 80s hair is also one, although she looks like someone from corporate. But what Butcher's eye is drawn to is the child in the middle, dressed in a white nightgown. He stares at the face, at first not even certain whether it's a boy or a girl, but slowly coming to recognize the features that would later morph into the face of the man he's been so obsessed with over the years. It's completely uncanny. It was one thing to hear Vogelbaum wax sentimental about Homelander as a five year old, but it's quite another to actually see a picture before puberty really hit. His expression looks pouty, sullen. He's certainly more than five years old here, which means they had already "gone to work on him" for a few years, whatever Vogelbaum meant by that ominous sounding phrase.

Butcher takes a picture on his phone and looks around for more. He's got his curiosity to find more on the one hand, but he's also quite sick to his stomach. This all feels wrong. The place is hideously depressing, and Butcher's mind is starting to play tricks on him, thinking he hears someone or something lurking, maybe on some floor above. He wishes he'd brought someone else along. He can't believe he's chickening out but he doesn't think he can take any more of this. There's a heavy red metal door that's ajar, almost inviting him to look inside, but Butcher has never had such a strong premonition to leave without investigating any further. He heads toward the elevator, is about to press the button to go up when the elevator suddenly starts ascending, making a ding noise as it passes each floor.

Maybe it's just programmed to return to the ground floor, Butcher tells himself, but there's cold sweat running down his back. He presses the button anyway, sees the elevator reach the ground floor, pause, and then head back down again. It feels like it takes forever. Butcher cannot wait to get back up, leave this claustrophobic stuffy underground hellhole behind, go back to his car and never ever come back here again.

The metal elevator doors open and Butcher steps back when he sees none other than Homelander standing in the elevator.

"Long time no see, William. I'm so flattered you decided to investigate where I grew up!" Homelander walks out, effectively blocking Butcher's path to get inside, so Butcher stands still. 

As scared as he should be to see Homelander catch him in the act of snooping around this lab, he's almost relieved to not be alone in here. He'd prefer to be on the highway, hauling ass back to the city, of course, but this is how it's playing out.

Homelander raises his eyebrows dramatically. "Or at least that's what I assume you were doing. Hm?"

Butcher shrugs. "More or less."

"If you're wondering how I knew you were here, Vought Analytics kindly tipped me off when they caught you on camera. Pretty ballsy, just walking right in." Homelander grins, then takes a look around. "Wow, they really cleaned this place up since I last visited. Although the bleach fumes don't seem to air out very well from this level."

Butcher has no idea what to answer, or where this conversation is meant to be going.

"You want a tour? Or… what, a dramatic reenactment of my childhood, or…?"

Butcher stands still, mulling over whether there's any chance he leaves here alive, and whether what he says has any bearing on that.

Homelander takes it upon himself to start narrating some kind of demented walk-through without waiting for an answer. "Well, here…" He spreads his arms and gestures around. "Is where I spent all my conscious childhood years until they finally started letting me out at sixteen."

"You lived here?" Butcher asks, curiosity getting the better of him.

"Oh yes, all my time. In here. I don't remember seeing the sun or open skies until I was probably ten years old, and very rarely. I had books about the outdoors, I dreamed about it. But I never saw it." Homelander's smile falters, then reanimates itself. "So yes, not only did I spend most of my life on this floor, I actually spent quite a bit of the time just locked away in here…"

He gestures toward the ominous red door. Butcher follows him inside even though he takes one longing look at the elevator, knowing there's no way Homelander would let his captive audience just walk out.

The room seems blindingly bright compared to the rest of the floor, white walls everywhere, reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights overhead. It feels cold and clinical, and Butcher has a suspicion that the white paint is a thin layer over reinforced metal. It's completely empty.

"Yes, this room is where I slept, ate my meals, did my studies, took my shits. And if they felt like it, where I was just abandoned for days when they working on something else and couldn't be bothered with me." Homelander stops roving the room with his eyes and fixes them on Butcher, standing akimbo. "Well? What do you think?"

Butcher wonders if Homelander actually expects an answer. It seems like he's really waiting. "Mate… I think the whole thing is fucked up beyond belief. That's what I think."

Homelander smiles, and the smile almost looks genuinely friendly. "That's what I say! But as a child, I didn't know anything else, you know? They told me I was special and this is what they needed to do, and that this was an acceptable way for me to live, and who was I to argue with them? They didn't like it when I complained about anything. It was frowned upon. Moving on…" 

Butcher is all too happy to obey Homelander's beckoning gesture and follow him out of the claustrophobic little room. Butcher was never a believer in vibes, but the whole place makes him uneasy.

"Here's the table where the scientists who worked on this floor took lunch. They used to talk and joke and laugh, and I think listening to that banter was probably how I learned to sound like I was raised in a normal family. I could watch them out of the window in the door if they didn't cover it up with metal because they wanted privacy. I never got any privacy. There were four cameras in that tiny room, one in each ceiling corner, and my whole life was recorded. I wonder if they kept all those tapes. Must be the most boring footage in the world, so they probably recycled them unless I did something interesting. I should say that every birthday they did allow me to sit with them at the table and have my piece of cake and they'd all pretend we were friends and that we were celebrating my birthday and not their own milestone that they were congratulating themselves for. Back then they might have even been celebrating my real birthday, before the corporate one they came up with in committee that fit the television schedule well. Not that I remember what my real birthdate was. They didn't really emphasize dates or give me access to calendars or anything… I never had a good grasp on how much time was passing…."

Homelander really sounds like he's talking to himself at this point, processing something, face twitching as his efforts to smile keep drooping into a more sinister expression with bared teeth. He trails off and sighs at some point. "I'm sorry, where were we?"

Butcher just stares at him.

"Sorry, am I boring you?" Homelander asks, and his face is cold and collected again.

"Not at all, unfortunately," Butcher answers. "I don't know what the fuck they were doing to you, but it's sick. A company can't own a child."

"Oh it's completely illegal," Homelander says, laughing, and his face is friendlier again, an amiable smile playing on his lips. "But you don't make trillions of dollars without breaking a few people, am I right?"

"Why are you still working for Vought?" Butcher asks, suddenly feeling angry. It feels like anger on Homelander's behalf, which is a new emotion for Butcher and he's not sure he likes it.

"I'm not working for them," Homelander says. "I took over the entire thing. They're working for me."

"Keep telling yourself that. How do you know they're not raising another little supe like you, somewhere out in some other secret facility. Maybe tens of them. Maybe torturing them until only the strongest survives?"

"I- I'd know about that, as a board member."

Butcher hears the falter in his voice.

"Anyway. Sometimes Barb- the head of the lab would let me walk around the lab and sit at this table when the rest of them weren't having lunch and working. She used to give me pen and paper to draw and write, but… I guess eventually they didn't let me anymore when I kept drawing things they didn't like… One of the lab members, Joe, I think was his name, Joe Nesbitt, yes. I should remember them all, but it's not like they wore nametags and didn't always introduce themselves depending on how closely they worked with me. But Joe had this dog he'd bring in. I thought it was the most adorable thing I had ever seen. You have to remember, I didn't ever get to see other children or pets or anything except these labworkers and janitors. Everything else was just from books. Well Joe was bringing his dog in, even though I don't think Vogelbaum or Barbara approved at all. He'd let me play with the dog, which was… pretty remarkable if you think about how little they trusted me to control my powers back then. I wasn't supposed to touch the dog of course. But if I sat on my heels in the middle of the floor, the dog would usually come and want to play, and pounce on me, and even lick me. And I wanted to pet it so bad, but I just kept my hands behind my back to remind myself not to ever touch it. I played fetch with it, even though they weren't happy that I was making the dog run around the room. Eventually they told Joe to stop bringing the dog, that it was inappropriate and distracting to everyone. He was an actually kind guy. I remember they were discussing it, maybe thinking I couldn't hear behind the door of the Bad Room, but the Bad Room only blocked my vision, not my hearing. He said he wasn't bringing the dog in for himself, that he was bringing it in for me. That he thought I desperately needed a pet to take care of, to develop my personality properly. I remember when I listened, my breath hitching, wishing so hard they'd let me have a pet. But they said no, that it was an unnecessary distraction for me too. But he was right of course. A pet would have been so good for me. I should have told them I wanted a pet. I should have insisted. But instead I thought I shouldn't ask for something if they didn't want me to have it."

It's a bit bewildering to hear so much sadness pour out of this cruel, deplorable shitstain of a supe, but it's so hard not to feel something for him. Being here is creepy, and it's bringing out strange memories in this guy.

"I don't know what happened to Joe. I think he ended up getting sick. Died of cancer or something, even before I was twelve. Wouldn't be surprised if working here wasn't good for a mudperson's health, and yet so many people seemed to work here forever and carry on with their pointless little lives just fine."

"Maybe we should go upstairs…" Butcher says, cautious about saying anything that will make Homelander snap out of whatever mood this is, and maybe snap completely.

Homelander smiles. "No, we can't leave before we see the oven."

Butcher has had the sinking feeling all along that this is all one prolonged monologue before Homelander executes him, and now he knows the method by which he will die. Well, it was a good run, he guesses. He eyes the elevator, but there's just no way. Maybe getting lasered in the back is going to be less painful than whatever Homelander has planned for him, but he just can't force himself to make a break for it, his legs feeling strangely leaden. Maybe he's become hypnotized by the story, being able to imagine it all the more vividly now that he's seen the childhood photograph on the wall.

"This is where they burned me, to build up my resistance to heat damage. Probably weekly if not more often. I don't know why they had a window. I guess to watch the progress inside? Not sure they would have seen anything happening other than me crying my little eyes out. All the window allowed me to do was watch how people were just going about their work, except for the couple who were directly involved in baking me in the oven. No one gave a shit that I was suffering."

Butcher raises his eyebrows when Homelander leans down and starts taking off his boots. By the time he's taken off his cape and starts opening the magnetized flap of his top half, Butcher can't help himself any longer. "What the hell are you doing right now?"

Homelander turns toward him sharply. "I want to show you. I want to show you exactly what they used to do to me. It won't hurt me now that I'm an adult. It hurt back then, but it won't hurt now. They got rid of my sensitivities that way."

Butcher can barely follow what he's saying. "Are you … going into the oven?"

Homelander nods nonchalantly. 

"You completely off your rocker? There's no way it's still operational anyway. What the fuck's the point?"

"Oh it's operational," Homelander says. "I saw it in action a few weeks ago."

Butcher is so confused he finds himself literally scratching his head, trying to make sense of what's happening. It feels like that fairytale where someone has to trick the witch into looking into the oven to push her in, except this witch is hopping into the oven himself, fully aware of what he's doing. Or maybe not fully aware, since he seems to be in some weird giddy nostalgic fucked up spiral.

Homelander is already naked by the time Butcher shakes those thoughts away.

"Why the hell do they still have this oven? Doesn't that mean they're still doing this to other kids?" Butcher asks.

Homelander shrugs. "Maybe they use it to bake glassware now. You know, to sterilize it? I have no idea. They were using the Bad Room to store all their old broken and outdated equipment, so who knows. It's empty now though. They cleaned it out pretty thoroughly…" 

Butcher doesn't like the smile on Homelander's face. It looks crazed. And it's not surprising, since he's determined to do something absolutely nonsensical. Butcher really needs to leave this building. There's some terrible energy or feng shui or juju or whatever people call it in here. Butcher felt better energy in the Tower of London as a child.

Homelander walks in through the oven's door.

"Why do you have to be naked for this?" Butcher asks.

"Because this thing gets over 1000 degrees inside. There's literal gas flames that come through the panels. My suit's built against the elements but I don't know if it'll hold up to that."

Butcher just can't help himself anymore. "And why the fuck do you feel the need to get in there, again?" What is he saying? Why is he offended by the idea of Homelander doing something so stupidly reckless. He probably knows he won't be hurt. And what if he is? Since when has Butcher ever worried about a supe hurting himself by doing something moronic? But something about spending his time down here, listening to Homelander's disturbing stream of conscience, makes Butcher feel like he's the designated driver, like he's strangely responsible for whatever happens next.

"I just want to show you." Homelander motions him over. "Shut the door and turn on that button on the side. The numbers above the knob tell you the temperature it's set to reach."

Butcher shuts the door, staring at Homelander's face through the thick transparent window, made of who knows what material. 

"Well? Go on." Homelander's voice sounds very faint and muffled from inside.

Butcher stares at the panel. "1200C" is what the knob is set to. What the hell is he doing? And why is he hesitating? He hits the button, surprised at the immediate swell of guilt he feels. He hears the door automatically bolt locked, and watches as the back wall splits like some heavy duty metal Venetian blinds, revealing a wall of flames right behind them.

Homelander's expression is manic. "Doesn't hurt like it used to," he announces, loud even through the thick glass, and yet when Butcher approaches the door to watch what's going on inside, Homelander is hugging himself and cowering and wincing a little bit, scrunching his eyes shut. Doesn't look painless.

Butcher glances back at the elevator. Well, here's his fucking chance. Even if Homelander is capable of breaking the door open, Butcher might have time to take the elevator and bound across the lot and be long gone before he manages to do that.

He starts backing up, still watching Homelander inside, flames all around him. Butcher doesn't believe in Heaven or Hell, but it certainly looks like Homelander is in one of those two places. Butcher's so close, so close to just turning around, walking towards the elevator, and getting the hell out of there. But Homelander looks up at  him and his eyes widen when he sees how far Butcher has distanced himself. It looks like it finally dawns on him that he gave Butcher the perfect escape while trying to relive his demented childhood traumas.

Butcher can't do it. In spite of every rational thought telling him not to walk back, he walks back to the panel and shuts the oven off. The door remains locked, probably a safety precaution since the inside temperature is still scorchingly hot. Homelander stands near the window, eyes big and round, and it's fucking uncanny but Butcher can't unsee the child version of his face etched into his current features.

Maybe he should leave now. At least he's turned the oven off, right? That has to be enough. "Is the door gonna unlock on its own?" Butcher verifies, hoping the answer is yes and that he can leave with a clear conscience.

"You have to override the safety from the outside. It won't open from the inside after being powered up." Homelander says, and Butcher can't tell if he sounds sheepish because of how quiet and muffled he is behind the glass, or because he's embarrassed about trusting that Butcher will stay and do all the honors.

But Butcher does stay and do the honors, mad as it all is. The door unlocks and opens, a rush of extremely hot air blowing into the rest of the room, fortunately far enough away from  where Butcher is standing that he only feels the air gust and not so much the temperature. Homelander traipses out of the oven, arms still wrapped around his torso.

"Looks like it still hurts from where I'm standin'," Butcher says. Homelander is looking at the ground and says nothing before picking up his suit and trying to put it back on, hissing quietly when anything touches his skin.

"You're an idiot." Butcher can't help himself. He's in complete disbelief. "Why on earth did you think that was a good idea?"

"It hurt more as a child," Homelander declares, as if that answers the question. But he seems to be regaining his composure. No harm no foul with these supes, even if you stick them in an inferno. "I just needed to convince myself that it wasn't as bad as I remember it."

"I'm sure it was as bad," Butcher says. He still doesn't know what happens next. As much as he's calling Homelander an idiot in his thoughts, he might be the bigger idiot for staying down here and saving him from himself. Now he might pay the ultimate price.

"I think that's all I have to say about this place…" Homelander says. "Funny. I killed a lot of the people who could verify that all the stuff I'm saying they did to me is true. Now maybe no one will ever know. And I'm fine with that. You don't have to remember anything I told you here. It's dead and buried in the past and has nothing to do with the present."

"I think it has something to do with the present…" Butcher can't help but counter.

"Doesn't matter. I'm thinking about the future, About Ryan and all that. And how I'll make sure he never goes through anything like I did." Homelander's face twists into anger again. "Did I even need to go through all that? It still hurts. It still fucking hurts. Maybe they didn't inure me to anything. Maybe they just told me they did and I believed them. Maybe it was all one big waste of time that could have been avoided."

"Wouldn't be surprised," Butcher says.

Homelander sniffs something like a laugh without any mirth, walks towards the elevator and presses the button to go upstairs. Butcher hesitates to follow, not quite believing that his ordeal is over.

"Well?" Homelander sound impatient after he walks in and holds the elevator by sticking out his arm, waiting for Butcher to make his way in. "Or were you planning on trying to find secret documents or something?"

"Nope," Butcher mumbles. Maybe he should, but he's not about to stay down there any longer than he has to.

"They took all the important documents once they cleared the place out. They had to do a bunch of cleanup anyway after my visit. Think they took everything important and stashed it away from busybodies like you."

"Left that picture on the wall," Butcher says, not sure why he's engaging in this conversation, but it's surreal to stand with Homelander in an elevator and openly discuss his efforts to get intel on him. "Maybe you should have taken it with you."

"Oh that thing, with Barbara and the rest?" Homelander makes a sour face. "Should have thrown it out. That's a chapter of my life I don't ever want to think about again."

Butcher doesn't know who Barbara is but guesses she must be the woman in the picture. He, for one, is glad he has a copy on his phone. Something about it is haunting but very very evocative, like he sees the man in front of him in a new light, and he didn't think that was possible after all the research and study he's already done on him over the years, and how crystallized his hatred has become.

Butcher is tempted to get down and kiss the ground when they finally walk out of the building, grateful he's no longer six floors down below.

"Don't come snooping around Vought properties," Homelander tells him His tone sounds official, like the voice he uses to give PSAs on TV. Not at all like the broken, slightly stuttering voice that was recounting his childhood down in B6.

Butcher flinches away when Homelander takes off without any warning, pushing off the asphalt and launching himself into the sky with a completely unnecessary sonic boom. He watches him fly towards Manhattan and slowly makes his way to where he left his car, checking his phone to make sure he did save the photo from the lab wall.

For safekeeping. Nothing stranger than that.

AO3 link

[monsters-conquer-the-world]

OOZEPUNK

WHAT IS OOZEPUNK?

Oozepunk is the term I'm coining for the microgenre of urban heroic sci-fi horror-fantasy that first exploded in the mid-80s with movies, shows, and comics like Ghostbusters, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, The Toxic Avenger, Who Framed Roger Rabbit, Hellboy, Street Sharks, and others. Lots of natural crossover with Biopunk and Cyberpunk, aesthetically and philosophically.

Your childhood trauma didn't let you forget Roger Rabbit heavily featured colorful nightmare slime, did it?

A ragtag gang of weirdos (often horribly mutated--more on that soon) band together to save a city that doesn't understand them. Grimy sewers, abandoned buildings and graffiti'd brick walls are lit up by neon lights, streams of mysterious, glowing goo and/or the unearthly lights of futuristic particle weapons--ideally all of the above!

Beyond the "cracked concrete and gutters full of liquid plutonium" aesthetic, Oozepunk prankishly asks "What if catastrophic aberrations of science, particularly DUMPING TOXIC FUCKING WASTE STRAIGHT INTO THE ENVIRONMENT created fucked-up monsters... but they're HEROIC fucked-up monsters!" These catastrophic aberrations of science grant the heroes incredible powers, but COST them their place in human society. (Ghostbusters and Roger Rabbit eschew character mutation in favor of discovering that the undead and olde tymey cartoons are real [and exploitable!], respectively. 'Busters and 'Toon sympathizers alike are treated like insane idiots and/or frauds in their respective universes.)

Oozepunk heroes are challenged not only by strange supernatural beings, but by human society itself. The Ghostbusters battle with local politicians as much as they do the undead. In the recent (and delightful) TMNT: Mutant Mayhem, Splinter warns the Turtles of humans and their obsession with "milking" mutants for their blood--on top of the villainous mutants they're trying to thwart!

Crank up the creep factor in Oozepunk and you get awesome anti-establishment goo-horror like 1988's The Blob, The Stuff, Street Trash, and probably a bunch more. Toxic Avenger is a batshit crazy splatter-comedy (i.e. classic Troma)... and still garnered sequels, a kid's cartoon and toyline!

And there's a Shredder's Revenge-style Crusaders beat-em-up coming out next year??

This looks dope as shit

Ghostbusters and TMNT are the only current, "evergreen" (or radioactive green!) Oozepunk franchises I can think of off the top of my head, but Oozepunk elements are buried in almost all of the stories and settings I love the most. Heroic kaiju like King Kong, Godzilla and Gamera paved the way for our freaky friends, but so did comics characters like Fantastic Four's Ben "The Thing" Grimm, The Hulk and Swamp Thing. Hell, I think I blame SESAME STREET of all things for starting me down the Oozepunk path.

Surprise! I've loved screaming trash monsters with secret hearts of gold since I was a fucking baby, and they've ALWAYS been there for me!

But it's not just Oscar, Sesame Street as a whole is a proto-Oozepunk utopia, years before the big Ooze-splosion of the 80s. Muppets, monsters, talking animals and chill humans all live and work together to scrape by with a little dignity in a gritty-but-wholesome urban world!

Sesame Street, a decades-long reminder that educational childrens' programming can and SHOULD be cool as hell looking and loaded with all kinds of friendly mutant freakuloids.

OOZEPUNK! Whaddya think?

[sugawhaaa]

YEOSANG FANFIC

Dead city::chapter 1

✩°｡⋆⸜₊˚⊹Opened wound

Warnings:: being chained (?) Yeosang gets mad really quickly and yells a lot

Genre:: angst, slow burn,

Synopsis::when on a trip to an abandoned city to take photos you come across a strange man tied in mountains of chains. After conversing with him you become empathic and want to help this man.

A/N::this is my first time writing smth kind of angsty, not like a love story. Yeosang is just a random man and your just a random girl/person (it's never said the gender but it's implied a few times that it's a woman)

Story note!! This is a mixture of the halateez lore and my own ideas. It's not really a lovers type of thing yet it's just an imaginative story :3

An abandoned and decaying wasteland of a city surrounded you. The only thing you could see for miles was a gray sky and desolate buildings. You held your camera up, snapping photos of these abandoned buildings and old materials around. You then stumbled upon a hat, a fedora. It was in rather good condition in comparison to the dead city. You take a photo of it and squat down to get the perfect shot of it. You stand up and look at the clear image on your camera.

You continue to walk through the city as you look through the images on your camera before stumbling upon a strange building. There was a clear pathway to walk up to it so you decided to follow it. As you walk along the path you look around the city. Abandoned houses with the curtains still blowing in the wind, broken glass from the window. What appeared to be a gas station with wires hanging in the window, the white walls stained with dirt.

You finally got to the entryway of the strange building and after looking at it for a while you realized it was an old stadium. You climbed up the steps cautiously as you held your camera that was around your neck. Once you entered the stadium there was a blank area in the center, a large oval shape with thousands of seats surrounding it. You turned on your camera again and snapped a few shots. As you did so you couldn't help but sense someone's presence. You look around the abandoned stadium before turning back to your exploration.

As you climbed up the rows of seats you heard a strange sound. The sound of metal being dragged on the ground. You turn to look all around you but the sound stops. You tread carefully over to where you heard the sound. The sounds started again and you concluded that it was the sound of someone dragging chains on the ground. You turn one of the corners to see a man.

He was dressed in dark blacks and browns. His clothes ripped and his hair was damp. Your jaw drops in shock and horror as you see the chains wrapped around his body. On each of his hands was a thick metal clasp with thousands of chains on each clamp. He had two massive chains wrapped around either side of his chest creating an X shape. His ankles didn't have nearly as many chains, about three on each ankle.

You look up from the chains to his eyes. They're full of cold rage. He looks like a beast that's about to pounce at any moment. You don't know what to say to him. You'd never seen anyone in a situation like this before.

"C-Can I…" you try to come up with something to say but he just continues to analyze you in disgust. His eyes then land on the badge on your chest. He steps back and grits his teeth, his fists clenched. "I'm not here to hurt you," you warn him, extending a hand out to him before stopping. He steps back again and gets into a defensive position. He grunts in response, hearing your words but not trusting them. "I'm just a photographer," you explain as you hold up your camera with one hand. His eyes dart over to the camera then back to your face.

He continues to judge you, whether to think of you as prey or predator. "Do you have a name?" You ask before setting your camera down. The man turns his head confused as he glares at you.

"Yeosang," he states in one clean tone. He then slowly sits down, landing in a puddle of water from the constant rain in the gloomy city. Your expression softens as you squat down to his level.

"Yeosang," you repeat, trying the name on your own tongue. "How long have you been here, Yeosang?" You ask as you keep a good distance from him.

"Months…maybe years," he explains with hesitation in his voice. It seemed like he hadn't talked to someone in a while. It was like he had to think of how to make the words come out of his mouth. Your face contorts in confusion.

"If you've lived for so long all chained up you must be receiving help of sorts," you think to yourself and Yeosang doesn't speak. "Someone has to be giving you food and water or something," you look up at him, awaiting his response. He turns his head with a grunt.

"I hate…them," he says with weakened eyes. You move closer to him to comfort him but he just jumps back, kicking up his knee to his chest as he sits on the cold concrete.

"Sorry," you sigh before looking up at him again. "Who are they?" You ask genuinely and he takes a deep breath.

"Government," he replies with anger. "Government is all I know," he says with a slight shake to his voice. He seems to be frustrated with the amount of words he can say. He needs to tell you more but he can't. He hisses under his breath and grabs a fist full of his chains.

"That's okay, that's a good start," you reply, nodding your head. "Do you know why you're here?" You ask another question. He seems triggered by the question. It seemed you were poking at a mental scar that hadn't fully healed yet. He just grunted and turned away from your gaze.

"Hala," he replies coldly. Your eyes widen at his words. Hearts awaken, live alive. It was the quota of an underground organization that strived to overthrow the government.

You look at him surprised and his shell instantly hardens again. "Go away," he growls as he sees the hesitation in your eyes. "If you don't like Hala, leave," he hisses. "I don't want your help!" He stands back up again and you jump back in fear. He looks down at your expression, your eyes shaking and your body low to the ground, crying for help. Yeosang instantly softens again. You reminded him of his younger self, in a similar position, crying to the ground. His breaths increase and he turns away from you. His chains rattled as he moved.

You sit there, trying to process everything. You grab your camera and make sure it's unharmed.

"Were you part of Hala?" You ask softly as you hold the camera to your chest. You watch Yeosangs back rise and fall as he takes a deep breath.

"I am a part of Hala," he corrects you. He didn't want to think of Hala as something of the past. They were still living, he would find his members, they'd win in the end.

"Right," you nod your head and keep a safe distance from him. You watch as he sighs, his body relaxing. "Are you hurt?" You ask, nothing red marks on his bare arms and back.

"No," he responds quickly and you sigh. You know he's lying but you can't just hold him down as you inspect his wounds.

"Do you want to be…free?" You ask. It seemed like a pretty obvious question. Of course he wanted to be free. He was chained up for so long he forgot how to speak and interact with humans. But deep down you know he's thinking something else as well.

"I…" he pauses before turning back to look at you, sitting in front of you again as the two of you talk. "I want to get out of these," he holds up his chains. "I want to see my family again," he explains, referring to Halateez. "But, I don't know where to begin. If I get out, where do I go?" He looks down at the concrete beneath the two of you.

You nod as you listen to him. He definitely needed to vent a lot. He hadn't seen a human in potentially years and the mental toll this whole situation would've taken on him. He has been chained up, forced to watch the city of life in the distance while starved and alone."What would I eat? Who would I talk to? When you asked if I wanted to be free, you were talking about my chains. I don't want to just be free of these, I want to be free of this world. I want to escape," he explains with a determined look. You nod, understanding his predicament.

"I have only one more question," you look up at him with sympathy. He node gently, telling you to continue. "What did you do to get caught? How did it all happen?" You ask. You know you're pushing boundaries a little but you really wanted and frankly needed to know. He turns to look away from you again.

"It's complicated. Hala had enough of the government and started a serious rebellious act. We hacked into the government's programs, ambushed them, broke thousands to millions of laws and it started working. People started second-guessing the government and we were heading in the right direction. One kid escaped from one of the schools that the government-owned but once they found out he had left because of our influence, they went crazy," he begins to tell his story, your eyes watching him as he explains it. "Groups of officials were on our case before capturing us one by one. The first time one of the members of Hala was captured we promised him we'd come back for him," Yeosang then sighed looking up at the sky. "But he still waits for us," Yeosang then clenches his jaw and looks in the distance to the city. "He's so close. Right there. Tied up in cords in a lab but he's alive," Yeosangs eyes fill with rage and determination.

You have to sit and think for a moment, processing his story. "I know you don't understand but I need him. I need to fulfill my promise," Yeosang stood up, his back turned to you. You watch as he stares often in the distant city of life. You sigh. You want to free him but he was a criminal and you were a goody two-shoes who always followed commands without question but lately, you've been second-guessing the government and its system.

"I want to free you…I really do but I don't even know where to start and…I could die if I set you free and then go back to the city," you explain sincerely. He sighs as you stand to your feet again. "But I'll be back tomorrow. I need to know more," you explain as you walk to stand in front of him. "I'll be back," you smile and he huffs, turning his head.

"It makes no difference to me," he turns back to hide in the shadows. He sits in his pile of chains as he watches you walk off. You become one with the fog as you run back to your house. Once you're out of his view he yells and hits the bleachers next to him. He was so close to escape but so far.

[nycbabyjoey]

Jinkies!

NSFW 18+ Only

Contains ABDL Content

"Jeepers," Daphne exclaimed as she approached the run-down spooky building. "This place is giving me the willies."

"No one said solving this mystery would be for the faint of heart," Velma replied. "But a series of spooky disappearances in a historically haunted town just before Halloween is nothing we can't handle."

Velma and Daphne stood shoulder to shoulder outside the Mystery Machine with their flashlights armed. Mystery Incorporated had gotten a tip a few days ago about tourists going missing in the Halloween destination town of Yawning Creek, Massachusetts.

"The town gets an influx of tourism around Halloween because of the Legend of Yawning Creek," Velma had explained to the gang.

"Zoinks!" Shaggy quivered. "Is that, like, the story where that scary monster hypnotizes people to walk in the creek where they're, like, never heard from again?!"

"The very same," Velma had responded, ambivalent to Shaggy's usual fright towards any mystery that came across their desks.

It was part of the dynamic that had lead to Mystery Incorporated's overwhelming success rate of solving mysteries over the past couple of years and made them world-renowned crime stoppers. Velma was the brains behind the group, analyzing details, collecting clues, and piecing it all together to unmask the supposed "monster" as just another average person with a grievance. Daphne brought the beauty, which allowed her to get accustomed with people, discover their motives, get kidnapped... only sometimes, and help the crew trap the culprit.

The others contributed as well, but it was Velma and Daphne's strong chemistry that landed the two of them here in front of the abandoned building, following a lead they had picked up from the town historian about the disappearances.

Who could've done it? Was it Mayor Bushwell in an effort to stir even more tourism to Yawning Creek in a sick ploy for reelection? Could it be Sheriff Walker, frustrated at the surge of Halloween mischief that the town's spooky origins attracted? Or maybe even the town historian himself, Old Man Jenkins, sending the girls on a wild goose chase so that they didn't catch on to his scheme to show people the true horrors of the town's capitalized-upon history?

The pair hoped that the answers to where these missing people were could be found here - the abandoned Yawning Creek Daycare Center. It was certainly a peculiar crime scene, Velma thought. But she couldn't afford to leave one stone unturned.

"Let's split up," Daphne suggested.

"Good idea," Velma said. "That way, we can cover more ground. Try not to get kidnapped again."

"Hardy-har," Daphne mocked back.

The two went their separate ways once inside the daycare. Velma went right at the reception area and Daphne turned left.

Velma opened the door to discover a large classroom setting that she suspected could fit nearly twenty students. It was quite a big space for a preschool classroom, fitted with shared tables for all the students, a play area with a chest stuffed full of toys like firetrucks and building blocks, and a reading carpet with shelves of childrens' books behind it. Velma always had an interest in reading, even at that young age. She reminisced about sitting criss-cross applesauce on the carpet and listening to her teacher reading The Rainbow Fish for the class, stopping after each page to show all the pictures.

Velma snapped out of her nostalgic thoughts. It was all very nice, but what did any of this have to do with the missing townspeople? A vengeful mother seeking revenge for the city's decreasing options for childcare? Seems farfetched, Velma figured. I have to look for more clues.

As she made a quick motion to reinspect the classroom, Velma accidentally stumbled on an old-fashioned Farm Animal Noises Wheel, which made a sustained "Mooo!" sound, as she fell to the ground. She caught herself on her two hands and her glasses flew off, sliding across the floor to an unknown destination.

"Oh no, my glasses!" Velma bemoaned. "I can't see a thing without my glasses!"

Velma began crawling on all floors around the Pre-K classroom, attempting to feel out for her spectacles. As she felt around, she grabbed something that felt like a small wooden box. She pulled it close to her face so she could make it out with her poor vision. It was a shape-sorter toy! The one where you had to fit the different shaped pegs in the correct holes. Velma used to love them when she was a tyke! Testing her geometrical knowledge and sharpening her brain was a treat to her at that age.

Velma indulged in her nostalgia by picking up one of the square pegs and placing it in the... wait, which hole did it go in again? Velma sat on the playmat, dumbfounded as she was unable to think of the correct option. She was a genius, after all! After a moment, she tried to jam it through a circle-shaped hole, but it didn't work. She went back to her train of confusion, not noticing as a stream of drool flowed from the side of her mouth onto her bright, orange sweater.

Suddenly, Velma's vision returned as a pair of foreign hands placed her glasses onto her face for her.

"Don't worry," the person said. "You don't have to worry about thinking anymore."

Meanwhile, Daphne searched what appeared to be the infant care area. There were large changing tables and shelves full of fresh diapers. Daphne gagged at the thought of having to change diapers. Gross!

Daphne was not the one to get her hands dirty, literally or metaphorically. Even for Mystery Inc., she wasn't the one collecting clues or putting all the puzzle pieces together; that was Velma. Daphne had the people skills to balance out Velma's analytical mind.

In this abandoned daycare, those skills may not have come in handy as much, Daphne thought to herself. There was no one here and even if they're were toddlers abound, she doubted it would make for rousing conversation.

It was these isolated situations where Daphne usually found herself being kidnapped - a typical damsel in distress. But, Daphne knew she was more than that and so she was sure to be checking every corner for anyone or anything that may be lurking.

She made her way towards a sleeping area where the little ones could be tucked in for naptime. However, a realization hit Daphne - these cribs weren't that little. In fact, they were pretty large! Large enough for Daphne herself to fit in. That must be a clue, Daphne figured. She had found a clue! And not gotten kidnapped! She almost couldn't wait to go share with Velma.

Unfortunately, Daphne celebrated far too early as, all of a sudden, a pair of ropes sprung out from amidst the darkness and wrapped themselves around Daphne's hands and feet, causing her to fall to the ground.

"Eep!" Daphne shouted as she hit the cushioned floor. With a thud, Daphne began to scream, "Velmaahhh-" Her cries for help were cut short by a piece of thick, black tape that came out of nowhere and covered up her mouth.

Daphne thrashed around on the ground while her yells were muffled.

"That's a lovely outfit," a voice said from the darkness, causing Daphne to pause in fear. "But I think it's time for a change."

Daphne's eyes widened as her clothes were magically ripped off her body one by one. First, her iconic long-sleeved purple dress flew forward after tearing at the back. She felt her bra magically unclasp at the back before it flew off into the darkness, followed by her panties. She was left completely exposed by the undressing, which ended with her lime-green scarf being pulled from her neck.

Daphne screamed as the invisible force yanked on her hair, pulling her to an upright sitting position. She tried moving her head around to escape the magic's grasp, but she was helpless as it began tying and knotting her hair. Daphne couldn't make out what it was doing until the pulling stopped and two pigtails fell down on either side of her head.

Suddenly, Daphne found herself laid with her back flat against the floor again as the mysterious force grabbed her feet and pushed them up towards her head, laying her ass bare for anyone who came through the door. She felt as something was slipped under it, but she was unable to lift her head high enough to make out what it was. It felt a little like medical exam table paper on Daphne's butt, but it was thicker. Daphne squealed as her legs were dropped and the rope binding them was undone so that the strange object could be folded up in between her legs. As it was fastened together on either side of her hips, Daphne realized what it was - it was a large diaper!

Finally, the rope that was shackling Daphne's hands and the muzzle that was constricting her mouth fell to the ground. "WHAT THE FU-" Daphne shrieked with tears in her eyes, but as her mouth was open a large pink pacifier flew inside, silencing her once again.

The magic force dragged Daphne by the legs out of the sleeping area and back towards the daycare. Daphne desperately dug her nails into the carpet in an attempt to fight back, but the force was too strong and she wailed as her body was tugged back through the door.

Once she was through the door and the force let go, she turned her body over and immediately spotted Velma. Daphne would have ordinarily been humiliated with her situation - this was certainly the worst kidnapping she had found herself in yet - but she realized Velma was also dressed like a giant baby! Her orange jumper and glasses were missing, leaving her in only a diaper and pigtails. Velma had no pacifier though; in fact, she drooled from her mouth with a vacant expression in her eyes. "Dafdee!" Velma celebrated with her arms raised high in the air at the sight of her friend Daphne.

"Velma?" Daphne managed past her pacifier. "Wha happen'd to-"

Daphne's inquiry was cut short as a figure came out of the darkness behind Velma. "Forn?" Daphne managed.

It was Thorn, the friendly rocker witch from Oakhaven. "Surprised, Daphne?"

"Forn, wha aw you doin'?" Daphne lisped her way through.

Thorn used her magic to pull Daphne's pacifier into her hand at a speed so fast it made an audible pop exiting Daphne's mouth.

"Sorry baby, I didn't quite catch that," Thorn teased. "Try annunciating."

"Thorn!" Daphne yelled in frustration. "Why'd you dress us like babies? We're your friends!"

"Fwiends! Fwiends!" Velma cheered, mindlessly clapping her hands together while bouncing up and down on her padded bottom.

"Friends?" Thorn questioned in disgust. "Ugh, classic Daphne. So sure that everyone must absolutely love you! We did get along long enough to stop The Witch's Ghost, entirely thanks to me! But I'm guessing you don't even remember what you said to me after that, do you?"

Daphne shook her head.

"Really? When I asked to join Mystery, Inc.?" Thorn recalled. "You and Velma laughed in my face, saying that there wasn't room for another girl on the team. You guys boasted about how you had the 'brains' and the 'looks' covered and that I had neither to offer. You told me to go run along and play with my 'little band.'"

Daphne was stunned. "Thorn, that's not how we meant it. You took it the wrong way! Besides, you lead innocent visitors to their demise just because of some stupid vendetta against us?"

Thorn cackled. "Nobody's missing!" she revealed. "See, if you and Velma were as clever as you think you are, you would have investigated to see if anyone had gone missing instead of blindly believing some anonymous tip!"

"That was you?!" Daphne realized, eyes wide. Thorn nodded her head with a grin.

"So now you're going to transform me into some mindless bimbo like her?" Daphne cried, gesturing towards Velma who was unintelligibly making noises with her mouth like "buhbuhbuh" while rolling around on the floor in her diaper.

Thorn laughed again. "Oh Daphne, don't give yourself so much credit. I took away Velma's 'brains', but you - you already have about a grade school reading level. There's barely any 'brains' to take! No, you were the 'looks,' weren't you? Always loving your cute little outfits and believing that being the team slut was actually important to solving mysteries! You'll be in only one outfit from now on - your diaper. My spell makes it so you can't wear anything else. And you won't be able to remove it yourself."

Daphne fumed, both at the accusation that she was stupid and at the prospect of toddling around in thick diapers for the rest of her life! She pulled at the tapes, trying to rip them off to no avail.

"It's not a total loss," Thorn mocked. "You'll still be able to accessorize! They make lots of cute diapers with fairy princesses or unicorns or mermaids on them! We'll see how many men are fawning over you in that getup! I'm sure Fred will find it so hot when you tug on his ascot and ask him to change your stinky diaper!"

Tears ran down Daphne's face. "You can't do this! You ca-" Daphne was once again interrupted by the large pacifier flying into her mouth.

"That's better," Thorn said. "Now, one last spell."

Thorn snapped her fingers and Daphne immediately felt her stomach rumble. She grasped it, clenching every muscle in her body to block what was about to happen. She heard a fart escape Velma's diaper, followed by a giggle. Her counterpart was blissfully content with the spell's effects and didn't fight them, audibly unloading a mess in the backseat of her diaper. Daphne's face turned red from strain, praying to avoid the same fate. But at long last, Daphne couldn't take it and destroyed her diaper, filling it from front to back with liquid mush.

"Oh, how cute!" Thorn derided. "It smells like you babies left me two clues! Now, you two are going to change each others' dirty diapers after a quick game of 'humpies'. Then, I'll bring you two back to Shaggy and Fred where we'll introduce them to the newest member of Mystery, Inc. - me! My crime-solving intuition suspects that there may be a spot for a girl on the team after all. Even if that spot involves changing diapers and warming up bottles for this dynamic diaper duo!"

I would have gotten away with it too, if it weren't for you meddling kids and your Patreon!

[902186]

thinking about kurapika and chrollo and parallels and this circle of horrors where they are the victims AND the tools of their fates.

they both think they are neither or more like they don't care about it at all. they don't see themselves as victims, and they see absolutely no other way to live other than this role they took upon themselves. kurapika had such a strong sense of identity and what he wanted to do with his life and understands himself perfectly at all times. he was a part of his clan, but he was more an individual than anything else. kuroro, on the other hand, never knowing, never thinking what his motives are, deliberately not understanding himself and desperately holding on to the spider. he can't be an individual but with others, he can be the spider.

and for both of them, it all started on vengeance. kurapika abandoned himself in order to become a tool, a weapon, to avenge his clan, and to collect scarlet eyes. he stopped being himself and became his people. kuroro didn't know his family, didn't know where he actually came from, didn't know who he was or what he was supposed to be. so growing up in meteor city, he held on to his people strongly. and in order to avenge and protect his people, he would become a tool, a weapon, he would give himself to them. he started being himself as he became his people.

kuroro could be something for his people. and kurapika could be nothing for his people.

kurapika took on the role of judgement for vengeance. kuroro took on the role of villain for vengeance. kurapika acted his part by diminishing everything he was, and kuroro acted his part by filling up his identity with it.

but one thing stays clear and fixed with them throughout it all. they would do anything for their people. for whomever they consider their people. "he'll put his friends before his mission." a weakness kuroro sees in kurapika so quickly and so easily. but the same thing he considers a strength in himself. "i am not your top priority. it is the spider that must be kept alive." as long as his people are alive, his identity will live on. and as long as kurapika is alive, his people’s identity will live on.

"now you will get to experience the pain of losing your home." kuroro (and the spiders) killing the kurta clan set this parallel in motion for himself as the circle began for kurapika. and (speculatively) kurta clan hurting his people was what set the circle in motion for kuroro, too. now thinking about where they are in the story and how their end could be, it is very clear that they are finally ending up in a place where they mirror each other (as they have from the beginning) and they can recognise it in each other and themselves. kurapika ending up empty after his mission and kuroro ending up empty after losing spiders. both of them purposeless and with no self left outside of it. in a way, this is how the circle ends. "i can hear that he accepted death." they walk with death every day with no fear and full acceptance and after losing the only thing they live for, not even something they hold on to because they don't see a point in being alive outside of the fact that they must keep going for their people, for their purpose, and if not then there's no reason to exist, they are meaningless.

kuroro's vengeance left kurapika all alone, with everyone he knew dead, and feeling hollow at the end. by fate, he ended up all alone, with everyone he knew dead and feeling hollow at the end.

and at that point, they will have to start a new page and build a new self for themselves.