#loosely Murder Drones inspired

[marigoldvictorson]

RULES! PLEASE READ THEM!:

I will allow:

Violence, blood, gore, abuse, angst, self-harm, macabre, disturbing, and other morbid things including but not limited to corpse gore, rotting organs, brown liquidity, oily blood, decaying of the body, organs hanging out or falling out of the body (like eyes hanging from the sockets, smalI intestate hanging out of an open wound, ect.) And other things relating to corpses, and cursing

I won't allow:

Pedophilia, zoophilia, fetishism, kinks, and NSFW of any kind

Marigold Victorson is an AI inserted inside of the corpse of her deceased sister who died at age 7. Because of her uncanny appearance and the smell of her rotting organs, she is an outcast to society.

1. Marigold Victorson OC info (Left To Rot version)

2. Marigold Victorson OC info (Government Trama version)

Marigold Victorson facts

More info under the cut

1. Marigold Victorson OC info (Left To Rot version):

Name: Marigold Victorson

Age: 7

Height: 3ft 9in

Sexuality: Ace, Greyro, and sex-repulsive

Species: Human (former) Zombie/AI/Cyborg (current)

Hair color: brown

Eye color: brown

Style of clothes: she wears a worn-out oversized pastel blue shirt, worn-out blue sweatpants, black Mary Jane shoes, moldy white socks, and round glasses.

Wounds: she has a bruise on her left cheek, a few scratch marks on her forehead, and an open stab wound on her chest where her heart is located.

Her internals: All her bones are replaced with an endoskeleton, there are unused wires connected to some of her organs, there are microscopic sensors all over the inside of her skin so that she can be able to touch and feel textures, she has an artificial intelligence brain with a motherboard, and other computer machinery inside, and she has two artificial eyes because her old eyes were organs that don't work anymore.

An image of her appearance:

Short info about her family:

Her mother, Hannah Lori (formerly Hannah Victorson) was once a sane and caring mother until the tragic death of her daughter (Lucinia Victorson), and then her husband (William Victorson) made it worse when he used Lucinia's corpse to reanimate her as an AI to create ‘a new daughter’ called Marigold. Hannah lost her sanity because of this, and she became much more aggressive and abusive towards her husband and Marigold. She absolutely hates Marigold because she is an AI using Lucinia's corpse as a vessel.

Her father, William Victorson, was an eccentric mad scientist who worked in the fields of robotics, engineering, bio-engineering, chemistry, and biology. After Lucinia's death, he wanted her back, she was way too young to die, but at the same time, he wanted her soul to move on, so he created a new daughter called Marigold from Lucinia's corpse.

Her ‘sister’, Lucinia Victorson, was Marigold before Marigold. She was a smart, joyful, and moral little girl. One day, while at the park with her father. Her father had to use the restroom for a minute, while Lucinia was drinking from a water fountain near the playground. A mysterious person approached her and stabbed her in the chest, which killed her immediately. This happened while her father was in the restroom. Marigold considers her as her sister

More info about Marigold Victorson:

personality: She's very trusting and naive, she gives out too much info about herself, she is smart with machinery and technology, she enjoys making machines and computers. She is a wholesome little people pleaser who suffers from trauma and neuroticism. She also doesn't understand a lot of things either. She is also self-aware that she's an AI, but she wants to deny it as an attempt to cope with the hurtful fact that she isn't a real person with a real soul.

neurodivergent: Autism, ADHD, and maybe bipolar

Other disorders and disabilities: mentally stunted in growth, and PTSD

Powers and abilities: She doesn't have any

Hobbies: playing Retro game consoles, drawing, reading science books, reading articles, and she enjoys making things (machinery and technology). She also enjoys going on the computer.

Interests: Learning, reading, playing video games, morbid topics, comfort, pleasing people (she likes to see people smile and feel positive emotions), being silly, being a goofball, being a kid, She also enjoys music.

Her backstory: After Lucinia died, Marigold was created by her father. Hannah was much more devastated and very enraged. She killed William, and then she threw Marigold into the basement because she didn't wanna look at her face. Marigold stayed in the basement for years, her mother passed away from old age, and Marigold stayed rotting in the basement, waiting to be found. She is in sleep mode until the basement door opens.

Favorite food and drinks: she can't consume anything because her organs don't work anymore

2. Marigold Victorson OC info (Government Trama version):

Name: Marigold Victorson

Age: 7

Height: 3ft 9in

Sexuality: Ace, Greyro, and sex-repulsive

Species: Human (former) Zombie/AI/Cyborg (current)

Hair color: brown

Eye color: brown

Style of clothes: she wears a worn-out oversized pastel blue shirt, worn-out blue sweatpants, black Mary Jane shoes, moldy white socks, and round glasses.

Wounds: she has a bruise on her left cheek, a few scratch marks on her forehead, and an open stab wound on her chest where her heart is located.

Her internals: All her bones are replaced with an endoskeleton, there are unused wires connected to some of her organs, there are microscopic sensors all over the inside of her skin so that she can be able to touch and feel textures, she has an artificial intelligence brain with a motherboard, and other computer machinery inside, and she has two artificial eyes because her old eyes were organs that don't work anymore.

An image of her appearance:

When she's using her solver powers:

When the Solver is possessing her (murder mode):

Short info about her family:

Her mother, Hannah Lori (formerly Hannah Victorson) was once a sane and caring mother until the tragic death of her daughter (Lucinia Victorson), and then her husband (William Victorson) made it worse when he used Lucinia's corpse to reanimate her as an AI to create ‘a new daughter’ called Marigold. Hannah lost her sanity because of this, and she became much more aggressive and abusive towards her husband and Marigold. She absolutely hates Marigold because she is an AI using Lucinia's corpse as a vessel.

Her father, William Victorson, was an eccentric mad scientist who worked in the fields of robotics, engineering, bio-engineering, chemistry, and biology. After Lucinia's death, he wanted her back, she was way too young to die, but at the same time, he wanted her soul to move on, so he created a new daughter called Marigold from Lucinia's corpse.

Her ‘sister’, Lucinia Victorson, was Marigold before Marigold. She was a smart, joyful, and moral little girl. One day, while at the park with her father. Her father had to use the restroom for a minute, while Lucinia was drinking from a water fountain near the playground. A mysterious person approached her and stabbed her in the chest, which killed her immediately. This happened while her father was in the restroom. Marigold considers her as her sister

More info about Marigold Victorson:

personality: She's very trusting and naive. She gives out too much info about herself, she is smart with machinery and technology, and she enjoys making machines and computers. She is a wholesome little people pleaser who suffers from trauma and neuroticism. She also doesn't understand a lot of things either. She is also self-aware that she's an AI, but she wants to deny it as an attempt to cope with the hurtful fact that she isn't a real person with a real soul.

neurodivergent: Autism, ADHD, and maybe bipolar

Other disorders and disabilities: mentally stunted in growth, and PTSD

Powers and abilities: The powers from the Absolute Solver

How her Solver powers work:

(Official image by Liam Vickers)

(A meme. I don't know who made it, but I would like to know so I can give proper credit)

Hobbies: playing Retro game consoles, drawing, reading science books, reading articles, and she enjoys making things (machinery and technology). She also enjoys going on the computer.

Interests: Learning, reading, playing video games, morbid topics, comfort, pleasing people (she likes to see people smile and feel positive emotions), being silly, being a goofball, being a kid, She also enjoys music.

Her backstory: After Lucinia died, Marigold was created by her father. Hannah was much more devastated and very enraged. She killed William, and then she threw Marigold into the basement because she didn't wanna look at her face. Marigold stayed in the basement for years until one day, some government people discovered William's work and they were fascinated, so they had a discussion with Hannah and then she sold Marigold to the government so they can do whatever they want with her. They used her as a crash dummy. They altered her coding to make her murderous. They inserted the Absolute Solver into her brain, and then they blocked her memories. They were planning to use her to eliminate villains all over the world. One day, they decided that it wasn't worth it and it wasn't morally right because they were using a child's corpse to kill people with, so they opened up a portal to whatever random dimension and/or location to discard her and to also hide the evidence, so they threw her into the portal and closed it right after.

Favorite food and drinks: she can't consume anything because her organs don't work anymore

This version of her was inspired by Murder Drones (an indie animation web series by Liam Vickers and Glitch Productions on YouTube)

Marigold Victorson facts:

1. She has no off switch. Her life is infinite, but she does have sleep mode.

2. Her brain overheats when she feels extreme and/or overwhelming emotions. If her brain overheats too much, she'll fall unconscious until her brain cools down.

3. Whenever she sees a scientist, a part of her brain will bug out because it's trying to remember a familiar beloved scientist (it will try to remember her father).

4. Whenever her brain overheats or bugs out, her eyes and voice will noticeably glitch.

5. She has a USB insert in her left ear. If you plug a USB wire into it, you can access her brain contents from a computer. You can view her memories, you can attempt to alter her code, you can upload, download, and alter her memories, but you can't remove them but you can put a block on them so she can have a difficult time remembering something. (Her memories are mp4 video files, and her code is a json file titled “DON'T_ACCESS.json”. She also has a bunch of mp3 music files). She has a reboot button on her right ear.

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

Ghostbuster. || kidnapper!Simon "Ghost" Riley

[ FIC MASTERLIST ] || [ CHAPTER 2 -> ]

Rating: M + Dark Fic + DDNE Words: 4.2k~ Pairing: Serial Killer!Reader x Serial Kidnapper!Ghost CW: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, dark fic, serial killing, serial kidnapping, torture, body disposal, death, murder (purposeful), murder (accidental), mentions of rape? (neither Simon nor reader rapes anyone!!!!!), blood, knife/weapons, gross abandoned buildings, police verbage. tags: dark fic, serial killer AU, no smut (for now), OOC Simon, you/your pronouns, afab!reader, reader & simon terrorizing the city of Manchester, Manchester geography/accuracy?. a/n: fully inspired by the post below, by @moongreenlight ; also fully a gift for @superhero-landing

"This marks the 7th body found in the Greater Manchester area in the last 6 months."

It's dark outside. Eerily so. Probably because, although the moon is high in the sky, full and bright, plenty of clouds hide it from view. The weather forecast speaks of heavy rains for the next few weeks, but you got lucky... It's not currently raining. It leaves the night feeling weirdly still and quiet, the roads long empty after people retreated into their homes after work.

But not you. Never you.

You turn your head to peer at the old box TV in the room over your shoulder, your eyes narrowed in on the screen where the news anchor talks about the police investigation at hand.

"The victim, a 24-year-old university student, residing in Wythenshawe, had been reported missing last month, on the 18th, after having not come home after a nightout with friends."

The old shop is dark too, barely illuminated by a camping lantern you've brought inside when you first broke in. The air is stale, almost unbreathable from all the dust; the floor, and counters caked in a layer of dried particles, courtesy of the decades' long abandonment the shop has suffered, as well as the ceiling panels having come loose, knocking down concrete dust all over the shop.

Shaking your head, you carefully click your tongue in displeasure, while you clean the tool in your hand with a rag, keeping your eyes and ears still honed into the broadcast. "Poor thing." You comment to yourself.

Your head slumps forward to reach your arm, and you rub the underside of your nose with the back of your hand and forearm, sniffling a bit to clean some of the snot dribbling down your nostrils due to the overly dusty air.

"The Great Manchester Police HQ has issued a warning on the brutality of the recent string of murders and their commitment to find the people responsible. The Police Chief urges that anyone who might have any information to please come forth."

Sighing, you turn your head away again, as the news anchor drones on about the funeral for the young girl who was just found. You step away toward the array of tools displayed, for your convenience, on one of the old counters, laid neatly across a black tool roll bag and carefully set the knife atop it.

The shop smells. It's not entirely unpleasant, but you've gotten used to it either way. You're pretty sure if you weren't, it'd smell horrendous, like it did in the beginning. Stale, dusty air, old blood caked into the gashes and knife cuts on the wooden countertops, tools that were abandoned and grew colonies of bacteria after enough time went past, old vent systems that haven't been cleaned, meat display cases that didn't get disinfected before the butcher shop went out of business.

Tossing the rag aside, atop the butcher's block countertop, you run a finger over the wristband of your black cooking gloves, the latex feeling sticky and damp due to the fresh blood caked onto it. Turning on your heel, you return to the center of the room and look down at the body slumped on the chair before you.

"That guy is a fucking sicko, isn't he?" You complain and crouch before the man tied to the chair, raising his bruised and bloodied face by gripping him around the chin.

The man before you looks like the rest of them, balding and with a 5-o'clock shadow of a beard. He was greying as well, as most of them tend to be. Old, perverted bastards... He's slowly paling before your eyes, the blood slipping down his abdomen, soaking through his clothes and flowing onto the drain below his rickety chair.

"You know, you've gotta be a particularly... Nasty bastard to kill women that young... To bathe and redress them post-mortem..." You trail off. The man before you doesn't reply. He looks groggy and languid, blinking irregularly, and his chest heaving. Barely aware of anything as his life, much like his blood, drains from him.

It's almost poetic to watch his blood stain the white tile of the backroom of the shop, the walls lined with racks and hooks meant to, in the past, hang carcasses from... Almost like this old cooler room is finally fulfilling its role again, to cool and drain a dead body of its blood, all of it flowing down the incline toward the drain...

"I believe I saw in a few Criminal Minds episodes that those types that... clean them afterward feel 'regret' for what they did." You shake your head and kiss your teeth in annoyance.

"They feel regret after it's done, but not while they do it. 'es it mean they gain a conscience after the fact?" You ask him. "Monsters, the lot of them..." You chide and scoff, letting go of the man's face.

Then, you smirk as you notice his breathing get shallower, his head going a bit more limp, hanging low, his chin pressing over to his chest. Leaning forward, you bring your mouth close to his ear, your lips almost grazing his ear. "Don't worry, I won't clean you up once I'm done."

-

Sitting in your dark bedroom, you lounge back lazily on your desk chair, chewing some bubblegum and tapping away at your mouse before scrolling down a forum page.

The room, much like the rest of your flat is dark, only illuminated by the bright blue-toned light emanating from your computer screen, even in dark mode.

The best part of the internet age is the fact people share, comment and gossip about everything. It makes your research so much easier. Though, you suppose it's human nature... to be curious and gossipy. Social creatures and such.

Clicking on one of the posts on the subreddit r/ManchesterCrime, you skim through the post, where the OP is mentioning how they live nearby to the location where the new body was dumped: the southside of Manley Park.

Grabbing your pink fuzzy-top pen and a couple of highlighter markers, you get up from your desk chair and lean over your desk to the corkboard hanging behind it.

You take your writing materials to the printed map of the Greater Manchester area which you had pinned to the cork slab, tracing the information you have so far:

Resident of Wythenshawe.

Captured somewhere between The Three Pigeons and home.

Dumped in Manley Park.

You set down your pens and grab some pink wool string and a couple more pins, using them to rig up a new line to connect the dots over the map.

Taking a step back, you look up at the map and sighed, shaking your head, feeling anger flowing through your veins.

You have been trying to figure out the killer's area of operation for months... Trying to triangulate it, find a pattern...

But nothing.

No convergence point for the lines; no silly little connect-the-dots shape being formed; no secret message being shared... Or maybe there is and you just suck at reading it.

So far, all you have is 7 pieces of string of different colors... 7 victims. All over Manchester, with no overlay.

Just... 7 young girls taken for weeks at a time, killed and then dumped like rubbish.

Has he been taking them to different secondary locations all over the city before slaughtering them?

Has he been driving about, passing by schools and homes and banks and shops, on his way to the dump sites... with a body in his car?

Allegedly, they were all bathed and redressed, with no signs of sexual trauma or abuse, other than a stark loss of weight and some rope burn around the wrists and ankles...

But who really knows?

You are no PI or constable, just a sleuth. Whatever information you have, you got from the internet and from the news... You have no way to be sure of anything.

It angers you to imagine what he had been doing to those poor girls while keeping them to himself.

The poor, terrified girls... someone's sister, someone's daughter, someone's girlfriend, someone's friend... And he had been plucking them from their mundane, safe lives and murdering them?

Throwing yourself back down onto your chair, you stack your fingers together, elbows on the armrests, and swiveled side to side as you looked at the corkboard map.

You hate men like this.

Predators.

Taking and hurting and killing with no issue or hesitation... Sure, psychologists might allege that he feels regret and expresses it by caring for them after death... But you disagree with that interpretation.

You've never met a man who regrets hurting a woman.

-

It's almost funny how easy it was to play with a man's emotions.

They see a pretty face marred by running mascara and red, swollen tear-filled eyes, holding a thumb out for a ride on the side of the road, and they always stop.

From then on, you can just spin whatever sob story about needing a ride...

Men love to play the hero... and oh, how idiotic they are.

They always let you in, and within an hour you have a new warm body to tie up and toy with.

In a way, you are actually surprised by how long you've been able to get away with this for.

You're secretly thankful your murders have not been given any attention so far.

You suppose that's one thing you could thank that... killer for.

You hate how the internet had given him a name already:

The Ghost

because someone allegedly witnessed him dumping a body in Heaton Park, and then vanished into the shadows of the night like a spectre.

Don't they know what happens when they give these types killers nicknames?

How that embiggens and emboldens them?

Have they never watched a true crime show? Or even a fictional one?

But... regardless... as long as young women are being slaughtered by a maniacal monster of a man, and, therefore, kept in the eyes of the world... No one is going to notice the missing middle-aged men you'd been consistently murdering for the better part of 3 years.

Yet another way where men have the upper hand over women. Lady killers just don't get taken as seriously.

You think of that as you watch the body disappear under the water, the cinder blocks you had tied to his feet dragging him under.

You wait a few minutes after his bald head vanishes from view, making sure it doesn't re-emerge, your hands tucked into the pockets of your parka, dead leaves crushed under your hiking boots.

-

Another body; the 8th one.

This one got dumped much quicker.

A 26-year-old till clerk at a Tesco had been reported missing only 36 hours before her body got found.

The news spoke about the incident and the GMPHQ deemed it a separate occurrence. An accident. The girl had been a Type 1 diabetic and seemed to have had a fatal sugar crash.

But you know it has to have been 'The Ghost'.

You don't know why. But you can just tell.

And, for the first time, as you draw up the line over the map, to signal where she got picked up and where she got dumped... there's an overlay.

The pick-up site, somewhere between her job, and her home... and the dumpsite.. Alexandra Park, near Oldham. Both those locations were mere minutes away from where the second victim had been picked up months ago.

Has he gotten sloppy?

Has her sudden death thrown a wrench in his plans and caused him to panic and pick somewhere nearby?

Your eyebrows twitch and a smirk takes over your lips as you finally find something you can exploit.

"Got you, you fuckin' knob'ead." You say and can't help the proud chuckle that escapes your mouth.

-

Simon's pissed off.

He feels like shit after having gotten that girl killed on his watch.

Not that he hadn't gotten the other ones killed either, but this one had truly been an accident.

Between the stress and the fear, her blood sugar had dropped and Simon hadn't noticed before he left the house to pop to the shops and get them both some food.

And by the time he got back and made her dinner, she was just... gone.

It startled him.

Startled him more than when the other ones died.

While looking in her purse for a justification as to why she passed... like any medication he failed to give her, he found the insulin pen and the sugar monitor.

So now, here he is. Back on the street. Back on the prowl. With 8 accidental kills under his belt and a desperate need to fix his streak.

He drives aimlessly. It's a Saturday night and Simon was sure he was going to find some young, vulnerable girl wandering about and stumbling over her own feet, too drunk or high to even walk in a straight line without stumbling or having to lean on street lamps and walls for support.

He hates seeing girls in that state. Young, vulnerable, alone... Left to be preyed upon by some creep in the shadows... Their support systems having failed them...

What kind of friend leaves a drunk girl to find her way home alone when she can barely stand?

What kind of manager lets an employee walk home after dark?

What kind of parent, or sibling, lets a girl walk home from the bus terminal during a storm?

And then they wonder why girls get raped or murdered senselessly by dirty bastards in back alleys.

That only happens because no one protects these vulnerable girls.

They protect them as children, but not as adults? What kind of world does such a thing?

Probably the same world that misinterprets his actions as senseless killing.

He's not a killer.

He's... just very bad at taking care of the girls he... 'helps'...

He never means to hurt them. He's no monster. He just wants to protect them.

-

For once it's actually raining. Heavily so. The water has soaked through the slinky mini skirt and spaghetti strap top you're wearing, your heels are open-toed and slippery, and each step you take feels like you're about to fall face-first into the mud.

You've had your arm out-stretched and your thumb up for the better part of an hour, trying to flag down any car driving past, only to get no luck.

You're at your wits' end, and so so close to calling it a night and trying to stop baiting a driver into taking you in. It's that bad tonight. You can't seem to reel anything in.

The cold wind nips at the exposed skin on your arms and legs, and you know well you'll spend the next week in bed with the nastiest cold of your life.

A car zooms past you as you walk and show your thumb, only to groan and protest when it doesn't stop...

But it does slow down to a stop not far ahead of you, having turned on its blinkers after spotting your outstretched arm and thumb up.

Rushing over to it, you stumble a few times and trip and slip with your heels on the wet tar of the road, before you come up to the passenger side door.

Look in the window, you find a young-ish looking bloke behind the wheel, looking at you with concerned eyes and knitted brows. He leans over and pops the door open for you.

"Get in, get in!" He tells you urgently when he notices you shivering like a wet dog in the rain.

Climbing inside the car carefully, you close the door behind you, hearing how the rain and wind turn muffled once you do.

It's surprisingly clean inside, the air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror smelling of pine. It's also warm, so warm, the heater running at max temp and making the car so much more cosy.

"Oh my God, thank you so much for stopping!" You whine, forcing yourself to sniffle and hiccup as tears pour down your face. They're fake ones, warranted by you watching a handful of soldier-coming-home videos on youtube and using some menthol-infused stick in your undereye.

"You alright, sweet'eart?" The man asks as he looks at you with worried eyes. "Are you all alone out here?" He asks and glances out of the window.

He's younger than most of the men you usually bait out, but he'll do. He's also... more handsome than most of them too. Long, prominent nose, a long jaw and chin, pouty pink lips, and the biggest brown eyes, not to mention a crew cut worth of blonde hair.

"Yeah..." You sniffle. "My boyfriend he... we were coming back from a birthday party and we... he... we were arguing and he tossed me out of the car and... and...!" You explain. The practiced lie slips through your teeth quickly. It's been used on about 7 of the 20 or so men you've wiped off the map, and you say it as if you truly believe it, which helps sell it.

You also stumble over your words, as if you're starting to choke up, to make sure you sound even more distraught. Men love when you're hyperventilating.

"Alright, it's alright-!" He tries to reassure you and sets a hand on your shoulder. "God, you're freezing. How long have you been out there?" He asks you, concerned.

"I- I don't know! An hour?" You answer with a whine, your lip quivering as more sobs rack your body.

Your eyes are sharp, though. You're noting his every movement. How he quickly pulls away from the backrest of his seat and shrugs off his coat and wraps it around your bare shoulders. "Here. It's alright. You're alright."

You continue softly sniffling, tucking your legs to the side toward the door, while hiding your face in your hand.

"Where can I take you?" The blond man asks gently as he glances at you and slowly leans closer, resting an arm on the steering wheel, the other on the centre console.

"I don't... I don't know..." You whine and sniffle. "I can't... I can't go home... I can't face him right now..." You trail off. "I can't believe he'd toss me out of the car like that...!"

"Well, I'm sorry to say, love, but he sounds like a right knob'ead." He says and carefully pats you on the shoulder. "How about I take you to the bus terminal? Or the station?"

"I don't know...!" You whimper. "He took my things with him... I can't even buy a ticket home to my mum..." You hiccup and try to clean the tears off the corner of your eyes.

He's handsome, he speaks calmly, hasn't tried to touch you longer than simply patting you for reassurance, and even gave you his jacket... You almost feel bad about doing this to him. Almost.

"Tell you wha'." The bloke says as he leans a bit closer, tilting his head to look at you in the eye. "I'll take you to the bus terminal and give you a couple more pounds so you can call your family or a friend to come get you, yeah?"

Sniffling, you shake your head. "No... you're already... doing so much! I can't... I can't even pay you back!" You add.

You really should earn an Oscar for this performance. The damsel in distress who's actually such a good girl that she doesn't want to impose on this man's money or take too much of his help.

"Don't worry about any of that." He tells you and waves his hand to dismiss the point, before leaning over and fixing the direction of the air vents on the dash, making sure they point at you to keep you warm. "You don't have to pay me back, alright?"

Nodding a bit, you try to stop crying and rub your eyes with your hands, causing an even bigger mess within your make-up, your fingers now also stained with mascara.

"Here. It's alright. No need to cry anymore." The driver says affectionately as he offers you a tissue from a pack, before he shifts in his seat and starts driving forward.

-

Simon watches you out of the corner of his eye as he drives. Poor little thing, all alone, abandoned by her boyfriend, left on the side of the road...

It's like the universe had handed you to him on a silver platter. He couldn't not take you in! And, this time, he's not going to let anything happen to you.

He's not risking it.

And so of course he's going to soothe you, to calm you down, you, the poor little thing, that got left on a side road by your awful boyfriend, like a stray cat no one wants to feed...

That's the thought in his head as he drives down the wet roads, the windshield wipers working overtime to beat the pouring rain that decided to attack the city of Manchester even more aggressively than usual.

Simon glances at you out of the corner of his eye every few minutes, making sure to drive carefully and steadily, and trying to spot the look in your face as he does.

You still seem stressed, frazzled, worried. The tears haven't stopped despite your breathing having settled...

He wonders if you've had anything to drink. You're definitely not drunk, but the amount of tears... maybe tipsy?

Maybe you won't even need to be threatened. You'll just... let him take you into his house, gently guide you into the bathroom and let you wash off the mud and rain...

He'll give you clothes, and food, and let you watch tv with him... And he'll keep you warm and safe, like everyone in your life has failed to, that got you to the moment you were now in...

Alone.

Afraid.

Abandoned.

He wants to tell you not to worry, that he's here now... But he holds his tongue. You'll hear it later.

-

"You should've kept going forward instead of turning right..." You say aloud, forcing your voice to still sound soft and meek, as you look out of the window.

You've been driving for a while. You've kept your head low, enjoying the warmth coming from the A/C, which helps with the genuine cold wetness of the rain that settled on your skin and bones.

You're not stupid. You know the way to the bus terminal and to all the train stations in the area...

He's not taking you to either. In fact, you're pretty sure you've taken 3 rights in the last 5 minutes, and are, in short, going back the way you came.

"Sorry. It's easy to get turned around with this rain, I'll go back to the main road." He replies. His tone apologetic, and his brow scrunched in concern... But his eyes... his eyes are hard.

It sends a tingle down your spine. For once, you actually baited out a man that has nasty intentions with you.

Had he not tried to do that, you would've considered letting him live... But no, of course, he's actually a creep...

What a shame... He's actually kind of cute. In a blue collar sort of way.

It gives you some weird sense of satisfaction, the realization in the back of your mind that you might have succeeded... that you might have bated him out... The Ghost.

Your hand carefully slips into the left side of the waistband of your slinky skirt, the side closest to the door, so he can't see, your fingers already wrapping around the handle of your pistol.

Your eyes remain on the street, the road, keeping an eye out as he returns to the main road and goes back over the area he has just driven past. A closed down shop, the post office...

And you wait.

You wait patiently for the next time he tries to turn right and put you back on course toward the area you had triangulated for The Ghost to live in or work out of...

And he does. He does just that.

Within a minute, he turns right again...

And you don't hesitate.

Your fingers tighten around the pistol handle and you rip it off the confines of your skirt, your arm hurling itself toward him, steadily pressing the barrel to his temple...

Only for you to notice his arm moving sharply at the same time and, you're suddenly staring down the barrel of a gun as well.

His eyes are wide, his brown irises nearly invisible from how wide his pupils are blown and he stops the car suddenly with a hard brake that jostles you both forward.

Looking each other in the eye, over the top of both your pistols, you can't help but feel a rush of adrenaline through your veins.

The look of surprise, confusion and pure dread painted in his features, the way his brows knit together and furrow in displeasure, his lips already twisted into a scowl...

It's a sickly sweet pleasure, to spot the way that, just like the other ones, he's scared of your pistol... It's likely his first time... But an unfamiliar warmth forms in your tummy as you stare down his pistol too... It's also your first time...

"Well, well, well... Would you look at that?" You quip as a smirk takes over your lips. "Looks like I've busted myself a Ghost."

You don't miss the way his brows go from concerned and fearful to dropping low onto his eyelids, and his jaw clenches in disgust.

Got him.

[temozarela]

-> miss you already

GETO X READER MDNI, smut, slow burn, fluff, angst, soft geto, comfort, mutual pining

geto finds you after his defection to say goodbye

WORD COUNT: 4.5k

inspiration (@ayyy-pee)

part 2

ao3 version

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The beginnings of dusk settled over the mountains, soft lavender clouds blushing as the amber sun settled behind them. You were settled at your desk, pen loose in your grip as you stared out of your window. The breeze was cool on your cheeks and you knew that it was probably time to pull the windows closed since the remnants of Summer were scarce, only obvious through the very last of the green leaves, of which were tinged red at the very tips. You could see the main courtyard of Jujutsu Tech from your room, meaning that you often knew who was present and where they were. Previously that day, you had watched Geto leave at 7am, then Nanami at 2pm, and Shoko and Gojo- presumably to the bar- at 5pm. You didn’t get offended about the lack of invite, after all, you often said no these days. Since Geto didn’t choose to go out much, you often chose to stay back with him instead. It was nicer than the sweaty noisiness of the bar Shoko liked. It was her special discovery in second year- a bar that didn’t ask for ID. The others quickly adopted it too, and despite them now being of age, they never grew out of it. You guessed they were emotionally attached to it now, despite the poor quality of the drinks. Geto and you often read together on those quieter nights, or you watched shitty horror movies. You had a tendency to be shyer around bigger groups, so being able to have time alone with Geto was nice, and you felt a lot closer to him because of it. You weren’t an idiot though, you knew he got a lot of female attention. It wasn’t uncommon for you to get glared at when you went out together, and there were occasions where girls had come up to you for permission to ask him out. Truthfully, these girls were often stunning, and part of you even resented Geto for being the one who got their attention, especially since he always politely apologised with a bow- or on his lazier days, he gave them Gojo’s number instead. What a waste.

You had been expecting Geto back at 4pm, but you hadn’t seen him come back yet. In an act of desperate boredom, you’d even checked his room, the training areas, the vending machines, and even the classrooms. Nope. No Geto in sight. It was a shame that he wasn’t there for a ‘just us two’ evening, but that concern was long gone by 6pm. Where was he? You had tried texting and calling him. No response. You had even texted Gojo about whether he’d contacted them.

Nah but u sure he isn’t stuck in the toilet or smth? xoxo

And Shoko.

nope.

not since tues soz

So there you were, sat at your desk, anxiously watching the school entrance. For a second, you had wondered about reporting him missing, however you shook it off. What could the police do that a special grade sorcerer couldn’t?

By the time it was dark, your back ached and you hadn’t made any progress on your homework for at least 3 hours. 9pm. Something was definitely wrong. You tried not to fret, you had noticed how tired he’d been lately- maybe he had chosen to stay in the city for a while to get his mind off things. You groaned, burying your head in your arms. You really missed him, and the worst part was that you were the only one.

See, Shoko and Gojo had the mindset of ‘if it was something he couldn’t handle, it’d be all over the news’, and you were more sensitive than them- you knew that- but it hadn’t stopped you from turning the news on anyway, letting it drone on in the background. Just in case. However, after a while, the hours of constant murmuring about war, murders, a girl being kidnapped, and heavy rain forecast for the next few days wasn’t doing much for your emotional state, so now you finally reached for the remote, turning it off, and by consequence, plunging yourself into deafening silence.

It was late and you were still in your uniform, you noted. You were tired too.

With a hefty sigh, you collapsed onto your bed, staring at your ceiling. The wind whispered, lowly outside, causing goosebumps to rise on your arms. You idly chided yourself for forgetting to close the window, but you couldn’t find the energy to do anything about it.

Finally, after a few deep breaths, you found solace in sleep.

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You narrowed your eyebrows as you felt your body being jolted, large hands gripping your face, and then your shoulders. Groaning softly, you turned in your sleep, trying to make sense of the voice fading in and out of your brain. It didn’t sound like it was from your dream… It was hushed… low… soft…

It sounded like your name.

Cold hands touched your face again, turning your head. In response, your eyelashes fluttered open. You were surprised, in your groggy state, that you couldn’t see your room. Was something blocking your view? Then, regretfully, you noted that your uniform was sticking to your skin, and that you never did change.

Also, it was freezing.

“Hey.”

You jumped.

“What the fuck.” You croaked, squinting upwards. “Geto?”

“Yeah-”

“Finally.”

“Look-”

“You fucking stink.”

“Ok, just-”

“No seriously, it’s rancid. Hang on, let me get the light…” You mumbled, blinking sleepily.

“Wait, first I should tell you-” Your numb fingers found the light switch, and you flicked it on.

“Ok, ok,” You paused, eyes widening as his figure was illuminated, and suddenly you were very awake. “What the fuck.”

Geto was dripping with blood. His face, his shirt, his trousers- drenched. You studied his face, head cocked. He thinned his lips, looking… mildly unimpressed.

“As I was trying to say,” He started, “I’m leaving.”

“You… just got here.” You muttered, squinting at him.

“No, I-” Geto sighed, running his dirtied fingers through his loose hair, “I’m leaving Jujutsu Tech.”

“Why?”

“I want to create a world of only Jujutsu sorcerers.” He swallowed, hands clenched by his sides. You stilled, mind buzzing.

“How…” You rubbed your temples, looking around, “How… did you get in here?”

Geto stared at you, dubiously. “That’s what you want to ask?”

You nodded. “I have other questions too, but I lock my door at night and now I have safety concerns.”

“Your window was open.”

“Oh yeah.” You mumbled, running a hand over your face. “Fuck.”

“I’m tired of the higher-ups avoiding the root of the problem, so I’m leaving.” Geto continued, carefully.

“Oh.” You said, struggling to find words. “Right now?”

Geto looked at you strangely, then nodded.

“Do the others know?”

Geto shook his head.

You stared at him for a second, eyebrows furrowed, a pensive frown fixed on your face.

“Holy shit!” You sat up, eyes wide with realisation. “Whose blood is that?” You raised your voice, gesturing at his shirt. You were so used to seeing gore as a sorcerer, it hadn’t even occurred to you that the blood on his clothes was anything strange at all.

“Don’t be so loud.” Geto hissed, “It’s just from some non-sorcerers.”

With a raise of your eyebrows, you scrutinised him, “Just some non-sorcerers’?” You scoffed. “Just? How many?”

He swallowed, “112.”

You blinked at him.

“Just… 112… innocent people?” You replied, slowly.

Geto breathed, deeply, “I had to.”

“What would’ve happened if you didn’t?” Your voice climbed as you gestured frantically.

“I wouldn’t have solidified my resolve.” Geto’s shoulders tensed.

You almost wanted to laugh.

“It’s always you and your fucking resolve, isn’t it?” You muttered, dryly. Geto watched you, uncomfortably, his arms hanging uselessly by his sides. A heavy silence hung in the air like a toppled vase, microseconds away from shattering on the floor.

You sighed heavily, crossing your legs, “So… what now?”

“Come with me.”

“Excuse me?”

Geto crouched to your level, hands reaching for yours, “I don’t care if you hate what I do, just come with me.”

You froze, fingers twitching between his clammy hands.

“You’ll have a home, an allowance, I’ll try to give you the best life possible. I don’t want to leave you here to work 50 hours a week and then to die at 26.”

He had a point.

It was a good offer.

Your eyes darted between Geto’s dark ones. “Why me? Shouldn’t you take Gojo?”

“I couldn’t, even if I wanted to.” Geto squeezed your hands tightly. “Satoru enjoys it- fighting with the higher ups and spending his free time exorcising curses. It’s who he is. It’s not who you are, though.”

“It’s not.” You agreed, softly.

Geto moved to perch on your bed, but you swatted his shoulder, silently gesturing at his bloody clothing. He nodded, an amused glint in his eyes, as he moved to politely kneel on the floor. You climbed out of your bed to sit next to him, shivering slightly at the iciness of the wooden floorboards. Stretching your legs in front of you, you slowly exhaled.

At least he was safe, right?

To be honest, you still didn’t really know what to think of it. It’s not something you had even thought to prepare yourself for. You’d miss him if he left, you knew that. He knew that you didn’t enjoy being a sorcerer, and you were a little pissed that he had used it against you, but he wasn’t wrong. Being a curse user with him didn’t sound half bad, either. It wasn’t an easy decision to make though and he had to understand that.

“We need to get you out of those clothes.” You murmured.

Geto looked at you, “Do you even have anything I can change into?”

You shook your head, “I can stop by your room, I’ll get a bath running.”

“We can’t.” He replied, “I don’t want to be seen.”

“It’s 2am, Geto.” You said shortly after sparing a glance at your clock, “We’ll be fine.”

Geto looked hesitant as you stood up, offering him a hand.

The walk to the bathroom was silent as you snuck past the dorms. Gojo and Shoko were long asleep, so being caught wasn’t too much of a concern. After retrieving a few bits from Geto’s room, you crept into the bathroom, locking the door behind you. The tiles were cold under your bare feet, but you paid it no mind as you turned the bath tap on, waiting for the water to run hot. Behind you, Geto changed out of his ruined uniform, and you willed yourself not to look. Silence settled over the two of you again, but you knew this time it was because you were deep in thought. Once the tub was full, you turned the tap off, stepping back to allow Geto to climb in. He thanked you softly before stepping in, but your eyes were fixed on the floor as your cheeks heated. When you looked up again, you saw that he was mostly submerged by the water, the ends of his inky hair soaked and curling as it floated in the crystalline water. He watched you expectantly, his gaze sweet and warm, like honey, as you rolled your sleeves up.

Carefully, you poured some of the water over his hair using a cup. You then reached for the shampoo. After pouring a dollop onto your palms, you massaged it onto his scalp. He leaned back, sighing softly as you washed his hair, fingernails gently scratching his skull.

“Where are you going next?” You started, continuing to wash his hair.

Geto hummed pensively, “Who knows… Where do you want to go?”

Your hands froze in place. “I never said I’d go.”

“Right,” Geto said, “but you will, won’t you?”

“No.” You replied, defensively.

“No?” He sounded amused.

“Nope.”

“In that case, maybe I’ll go abroad…”

You swallowed, “How far?”

“Maybe somewhere pretty like Croatia.”

“…That’s far.”

“It is.” Geto agreed.

“Can I convince you to stay?”

“Nope.”

“Ok.” You frowned, resuming the movement of your fingers in his hair. After a moment you stopped again, “What if I promised to join you later?”

Geto sat up.

“I have too many loose ends,” You added, “I don’t want to regret this.”

“How long?”

You exhaled, slowly, “Maybe a year or two?”

Geto looked at you over his shoulder, his stare dark, “That’s long.”

“Well,” Meeting his gaze, you raised an eyebrow, “I hope you’re willing to wait for me, then.”

“I am.” His response was quick, maybe even too quick as it took you off guard.

“Ok.” You nodded slowly, “That works.”

The rest of the bath was quiet, the two of you in contemplating the decisions being made. Only the lulling waves of the water, lapping against the white porcelain tub, alongside both of your soft breaths filled the otherwise silent room. Geto’s hair was silky as you ran your fingers through it. In the light of the bathroom, you noticed how the finer strands looked more chocolate than black, notes of hazel glittering amongst the glistening, dark locks. You squeezed the excess water out of his hair, then dried your hands on your trousers. Afterwards, you moved to stand in front of the bath so that you could see his face. He looked elegant. It seemed that he had either lost, or chosen not to wear his gauges as his gaping earlobes hung, empty. You realised then that you had never seen him without them before. It was different. Previously, you had brushed his hair away from his face, allowing you to see him without obstruction, and you thanked yourself for it now. His face was chiselled, everything about him seeming so sharp from his cheekbones, to his jawline. There seemed to be more colour behind his tanned skin, at least more than there used to be. The purple blotching under his brooding eyes was still there from months of exhaustion, but his facial expressions no longer held that lingering fatigue anymore. He looked healthier, happier even, than he had for a while. Geto’s thin eyebrows were raised as he stared at you, no doubt because you were staring at him. You couldn’t help it though, the way droplets tumbled down his broad shoulders was hypnotising and you almost wanted to condemn the water for concealing the rest of his body under a thick layer of bubbles.

“Are you done?” Geto drawled, sounding equal parts charmed and bored.

You cocked your head, furrowing your eyebrows, “No, not quite.” You muttered, absentmindedly.

He really was beautiful.

In that moment you understood every girl who had given you death glares for standing with him, and every girl who had boldly asked for his number. God knows, you’d be too scared to. You pitied that they were never able to see him like this. Every girl deserved this at least once, you thought, it was definitely more therapeutic than anything a psychiatrist could offer you.

Lethargically, you stretched your arms above your head, yawning. “Ok, yeah I’m done.”

For a second, it seemed that Geto was trying to glare at you, but starting with the slight twitch of his mouth, he broke into soft, flustered laughter.

“Fuck,” He ran a hand over his face. “You really are something, aren’t you?”

Suddenly unsure of how to respond, you looked at him, wide-eyed, your cheeks burning.

Geto smiled at you affectionately, “Just pass me my towel, please.”

You nodded, reaching for the white, fluffy towel you had left out for him. When Geto made a move to get out, you covered your eyes.

“I was meaning to ask,” His voice sounded somewhere behind you, “how come you’re still wearing your uniform?”

Oh yeah.

“I didn’t exactly intend to fall asleep like this, you know.” Your hand moved from your face to pull at the creased fabric, self-consciously. “I was kinda distracted yesterday.”

“Oh?” The rustling of Geto’s clothing paused. “How come?”

You scoffed, “Because you went missing? I had the news on and everything.”

“You did?” He cooed, teasingly, pulling a shirt over his head, judging from what you could hear.

“…Yes.” You scowled.

The way he said your name after that was far softer than you had ever heard it before. It made you feel warm in every nook and cranny of your body, like fire spreading from your cheeks, and flickering inwards to consume your beating heart. When you felt his hand land on your shoulder, you tensed, chewing on the inside of your cheek with anticipation.

“I’m sorry.” He said, voice low and smooth.

You turned to see him changed into a white t-shirt and grey joggers. “Really?”

Geto nodded, “I didn’t realise that you’d worry.”

“Of course I would.” You looked up at him, carefully studying his face.

“I know it’s selfish but… I’m glad you did.”

His confession made you smile warmly.

“Stay the night.” It wasn’t a question, you knew that he wouldn’t be able to find a hotel room at this time.

Geto shook his head, “You know I can’t, my room is directly next to Satoru’s. It’s too risky.”

You rolled your eyes, fondly, “Stay in mine, then. Shoko won’t wake up until 3 in the afternoon.”

He opened his mouth to protest.

“This is non-negotiable, by the way.” You added.

His mouth closed.

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By the time Geto had tucked himself into your bed, you had changed into pyjamas. It was cute seeing him snuggled next to your plushies, it just seemed so… right. You climbed in next to him, unable to close the gap between you, despite yourself. Admittedly, you had been expecting some kind of argument over who would take the bed and who would offer to sleep on the floor but end up taking the bed anyway, but much to your relief, Geto seemed too exhausted to care. You weren’t going to complain. For a while, you just watched each other, wordlessly, eyes half-lidded.

“Will you be gone when I wake up?”

You knew the answer, but you asked anyway.

Geto shifted under the covers, brushing his hand against yours. “Probably.”

“Shame.”

He watched you for a moment, moving his hand to cup your cheek. Like many times that night, you met his gentle gaze, leaning into his touch, gingerly.

“A year is a long time.” Geto murmured.

You agreed.

“It’s a long time to wait to do something I’ve been wanting to do for months.”

Fuck anything you had said before about being tired, you were wide awake.

“Excuse me?”

Geto smiled at you, lopsidedly, “Sorry if I read you wrong but… I like you. I really do.”

“And…” You swallowed.

“I want to say goodbye to you… properly.”

Fuck.

“I’d like that, Geto.” You whispered.

Before you knew it, he was on top of you, muscular thighs hugging your hips. You sat up, hands reaching to pull him down by his collar. When your lips crashed into his, you felt euphoric. As his warm lips moved against yours, your hands moved to his hips, slipping under his t-shirt to trace the ridges of his abs. You felt his muscles tense as you touched them, paired with a low ‘fuck’, whispered into your mouth. When Geto leaned back to peel his shirt off, you instantly missed his body, but the sight of his torso in full was… jaw-dropping. Without doubt, you knew that he was the kind of man that the Ancient Greeks erected temples for. Everything about him was beautiful, from the dusky areola which orbited his nipples, to the trail of hair below his navel. You swallowed, running your hands up his torso. In response, Geto leaned down, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

Next to go was your shirt, which ended up on your floor next to his. Geto’s hands were quick to cup your breasts, fingers brushing the sensitive nubs as he gently squeezed them. You whimpered, softly, looking up at his focused face.

“Please…” You arched your back, pushing your chest towards him. He swore under his breath before pushing you down so you were horizontal. In an act of fleeting tenderness, he brushed your hair from your face, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips, before attacking your neck with bites and kisses. You gasped as his hands roamed downwards, grazing over your stomach before his fingers strayed under your waistband. He paused his work on your neck to look up at you, silently checking on you with a sweet smile. You nodded, slipping one of your hands into his damp hair as you guided his head back to your neck. Without hesitation, he started pressing open-mouthed kisses to your skin, no doubt leaving a myriad of marks. When his hand breached your pyjama bottoms, cupping your cunt with excruciating affection, your stomach erupted with butterflies.

“How- do you- want- me?” He asked you between kisses, nose buried in the crook of your neck.

You swore, hips uselessly pushing against his touch, “I’m really not picky.” You rushed, becoming more and more desperate for his touch.

Geto snorted, pressing a gentle kiss against the column of your throat, “That’s not very helpful, sweetheart.”

“Just- touch me!” You whined, impatiently, your grip on his hair tightening. As you tugged, Geto made a low noise at the back of his throat.

“Whore.” You laughed breathlessly as he playfully bit down on your neck, his fingers finally slipping between your folds.

Geto smirked into your neck and you could feel it. “I wouldn’t be getting so cocky, if I were you.” He warned, circling your clit with his fingertip.

“Do your worst.” You grinned, pulling his face back to yours to make out with him again. When you pulled his hair again, he moaned against your lips oh-so prettily, fuelling the burning lust inside of you. You were hyper-aware of every graze of his skin against you, somehow his fingers against you felt 10 times better than you own and it made you insatiable. You could feel the coil in your lower stomach begin to snap as Geto’s tongue fucked your mouth, shamelessly moaning against your tongue. You were so close, soso close…

Geto pulled away, watching you with a grin. “Sorry, sweetheart.” He kissed your cheek, apologetically, “I’m impatient, and I really fucking need you right now.”

Despite your initial frustration, his words set your heart alite as you whined. He grunted as he lifted his hips, enabling you to kick your pyjama bottoms off, hastily. When you spread your legs for him, he sat back, using his middle and index finger to spread your dripping folds.

“Fuck.” He breathed, pressing his thumb against your entrance, “You’re soaked.”

Your hips involuntarily jutted into his touch, desperately searching for more.

“Geto, please.” You begged, hands clenching your sheets. His eyes flickered up to yours, his gaze dark.

“Suguru.” He muttered, starting to palm himself through his joggers, “Please. Call me Suguru.”

In the moonlight, the outline of his cock looked more impressive than any Renaissance painting you’d ever seen. You needed him so badly it hurt.

“Fuck, Suguru…” You pressed your thighs together, needily, as you watched him pull his joggers down, his cock hard and heavy, springing to stand against his lower stomach.

He was big.

No fuck that, he was massive.

You knew you had never even tried anything that big in your life, but maybe it was the way his precum dribbled down his thick shaft, you didn’t feel nervous at all.

Geto leaned in to kiss you softly, uttering gentle praise as he pressed his leaking tip to your entrance. Your fingers found purchase around his neck, fingernails digging in at the ache of the intrusion.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” Geto groaned against your lips, “Fuck, you feel so good, so fucking wet for me…”

Once he was halfway in, he slowed to kiss your cheek. “Such a good fucking girl.”

Impatiently, you rocked your hips against him, making him slide in further. You moaned, gasping at the feeling of being so full.

Geto wasn’t faring so well either, letting low whines slip as he inched in a little more until his hips were flush with yours.

His eyes met yours desperately, “You ok?” He swallowed, watching you carefully as you adjusted.

“Mhm.” You uttered, weakly, “You can move.”

Geto nodded, cheeks flushed, as he experimentally fucked into you, the steady slapping of your skin speeding up as you begged him for more. With a groan, he buried his head in your neck, releasing soft pants and grunts against your bruised skin. You cried out, nails raking down his back as his pace bordered on lethal as he pounded into you, forcing your body up and down your bed.

“Mhmm, ‘Sugu!” You whined, arching your back as he pressed inside of you. Geto nipped your neck, hands securing your hips as he changed his angle, hitting that sweet spot inside of you that made you drool.

“Right there- right there- please-“

You wrapped your legs around his waist as he abused your cunt, the wetness soaking the insides of your thighs and no doubt Geto’s crotch as well.

“Right there?” He teased, but his voice was husky and it was clear he was approaching his peak from the way he grunted after. One of his hands moved from its position on your hips, instead pressing down on your lower stomach. You wailed, thrashing against him as the burning pressure in your lower stomach climbed. You were so close.

“Fuck, please- Suguru I need you-” You were cut off by Geto’s lips as his hand moved to where you needed it the most, his fingers rubbing your sensitive clit. His pace sped up as he chased his own orgasm, the heat of your core irresistible to him.

“Fuck.” Geto groaned, “Can I?”

Your thighs tightened around his waist against your will. “Fuck no.” You hissed between kisses.

“Shit.”

It was too good, you didn’t want him to pull out, and you knew sure as hell that he didn’t either. You couldn’t risk it though.

With a final pinch of your swollen clit, you came, legs shaking and fingers tugging at his hair as you cried out. Geto wasn’t far behind, swearing as he pulled out despite your legs trapping him in.

With a few final tugs of his length, he came on your stomach, panting as he watched his spend dripped down your thighs.

“Fuck.”

“…Yeah…”

You closed your eyes, basking in the sleepiness of the aftermath. Somewhere next to you, Geto moved, leaning over you before you felt soft fabric on your lower stomach, cleaning up his mess on your body and your own mess between your thighs.

“Thanks.” You muttered, sleepily.

When Geto finally lay down next to you, he pulled you into his arms, kissing your forehead tenderly.

“I’ll see you again one day.” He whispered against your skin.

“You will.” You murmured, ignoring the lump in your throat, “One day.”

Geto released a content hum which vibrated in his chest and throat.

“I miss you already.”

[scvrmqueen]

His Final Girl - Danny Johnson

Pairing: Danny Johnson / Ghost Face x Reader

Warnings: Violence, stabbing, blood, gore, trauma

Premise: You survive a brutal encounter with the Ghost Face. After revealing himself as Jed Olsen, your former coworker, Roseville is finally free from the killer’s grasp. Little do they know his work is far from over - and he doesn’t leave survivors. 

AN: Hi y’all! So pleased to introduce my first Danny Johnson piece. This was loosely inspired by the song The Perfect Girl by Mareux. Please like / comment / reblog if you enjoy, your interactions keep me writing! 

They tell you it's a miracle - a true blessing to have survived. To be a final girl.

Final girl. At least that's what the articles have painted you as, no one dared utter the blood-soaked moniker to your face. You became headline news, a gruesome tale reminiscent of the finest slasher movies. "Ghost Face Unmasked," the Roseville Gazette headline read, "Killer Disappears Leaving Only Surviving Victim."

You clenched the newspaper tighter, head swimming as the droning tone of your heart monitor continued to climb. His mask taunted you from the front page and the fresh wounds littering your abdomen throbbed incessantly at the sight.

Five stab wounds to the abdomen - those had been his killing blows. A jagged slice on your throat just beneath your chin. That scar had been incidental, a result of your futile struggling against his unyielding hold. Whispers of astonishment floated around the hospital, shocked that an otherwise meticulous killer completely missed your jugular vein and carotid artery. They didn't understand that it was a calculated move on his part.

"Can't have you bleeding out on me yet, doll face. We haven't even gotten to the good part yet."

You shivered at the memory, fingertips ghosting the gauze on your neck.

Prior to his deliberate unmasking, the Ghost Face was more ghoul than man. He was transcendental, a horrific concept derived from the most sinister ghost stories. He was the dread that permeated moonless evenings, spreading paranoia like wildfire in the inky depths of Roseville. He was the smooth, sultry whispers that promised death and suffering over static-laden phone lines.

But just as Ghost Face had been an entity, Jed Olsen had been just a man. A charming, carefully crafted persona - all effortless grins and placating quips. Roseville adored Jed, hanging off his every word as if the city would collapse without him. Perhaps that was why his enthusiastic interest in the Roseville murders - in Ghost Face - had been overlooked.

Unlike the rest of the Chronicle staff, something about Jed's amiable disposition perturbed you. His wide smiles never quite extended to to his eyes. Those chocolate irises always seemed to conceal something sinister, a darkness that you couldn't quite grasp.

Once when Jed was still shiny and new, before the murders, you had mentioned your strange observation to a coworker. You were met with eyerolls and condescending coos that Jed practically embodied good old American values.

If only you had trusted your instinct.

You had kept Jed at arms length until you couldn't. After the first handful of victims sent the city into a frenzy, the chief editor informed you that the star headliner required some assistance. Evidently, Jed had requested you as a partner specifically. After all, your previous coverage of the Night Stalker conviction had earned you the reputation of an excellent profiler at the Chronicle. 

The phone calls began shortly after your first article with Jed was published. Unlike his other victims who expired within a week, your game of cat and mouse had been dragged out over the span of several months.

“Oh, I like you, kitten,” he had said, his dark low chuckle still echoing in the recesses of your mind. “Let’s see how feisty you still are when I spill those pretty guts.” 

You were a shell of your former self when you returned to work. Though medically cleared, your coworkers seemed to share the sentiment that your recovery was too expedited. 

“You know, Y/n, you can take more time,” your editor had quietly advised, voice barely raised above a whisper as if his words would shatter your fragile existence. “No one will blame you if you’re not ready.” 

Fuck that. Fuck Jed Olsen. You’d be damned if he took this away from you. 

So here you sat, poised at your desk, alert eyes carefully scanning the outline of your latest article. Your coworkers had long since departed, an eerie silence coating the office as the natural light dissipated from your cubicle. Despite your can of mace and pocket knife, a staple of your wardrobe these days, you never felt safe alone anymore. But you couldn’t go home now. You had a deadline to meet, and you worked better without the sympathetic glances of your peers weighing you down. 

And yes, you were aware that working late in the desolate building wasn’t the best decision. In your defense, it had been a month since the incident. What paranoia lingered in your chest was quietly sated by the reminder that Jed was gone. If he wanted to finish you off, correct his unusually sloppy execution, he would have done so by now - your survival was headline news for Christ’s sake. 

Still, you recalled the note he left at his desk following the attack: Don’t worry, I’m not done. 

I’m not done. 

I’m not - 

The shrill ring of your desk phone swept you from your apprehensive trance. There was that familiar sense of dread. It coated your tongue and lingered on your lips, stinging your wounds and clutching your rapidly beating heart. 

It’s just a phone, you reminded yourself, it’s not him. 

Taking a moment to regulate your breathing, your hand paused over the white receiver. You could let it go to voicemail, you reasoned. The small defiant fire that still raged within you, the flame that refused to be snuffed, argued that he would win if fear controlled your every action. 

“Hello?” You answered, sounding more tremulous than you cared for. A familiar static responded. Attempting to compose yourself and appear unaffected, you asked a bit more firmly, “Hello, may I help you?” 

“Hiya, Y/n.” Click. You slammed the phone down, nearly hyperventilating. It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be him. The authorities had expressed with finite certainty that Jed had skipped town, a hypothesis only further confirmed by his pattern of sporadic relocations. 

When the phone sounded once more, you were determined to ignore it. Sure, it would infuriate him, but if death was knocking at your door, you refused to play his sick game of cat and mouse. Still, a growing rage melded into the tendrils of fear curling around you - a wrathful affliction that accumulated venom in your throat. 

“What the fuck do you want, asshole?” You spat. The phrase ‘seeing red’ suddenly made perfect sense, as if your fury had extinguished your survival instincts. 

A mirthful chuckle followed in response. Before he could retort further, you ground out through clenched teeth: “We’ve played this little game before, Jed. Couldn’t think of something more original?” 

“Oh, dollface,” he sighed, “keep talking like that and I might just reconsider slicing you from chest to sternum.” 

Your breath hitched, an involuntary reaction at the memory of his steel blade. Like a shark sensing blood in the water, he added, “Ah, who am I kidding. Leaving survivors isn’t really my style, Y/n.” 

“Guess you’re not as good as you thought,” you sneered, determined to give him a taste of his own twisted medicine. Experience reminded you that Ghost Face was protective of his meticulously designed reputation - he had to be taken seriously, feared like the boogymen before him. If he was going to get under your skin, then you would be damned if you didn’t do the same. 

“Oh, I think you’ve felt just how good I can be, kitten,” he hissed, voice dripping with a suggestive venom. “Maybe I should refresh your memory? Remind you of just who you were screaming under, begging-”

“Fuck you.” Your interruption lacked the bite you intended, dimmed by the hot tears cumulating over your flushed cheeks. “Fuck you, you psychotic piece of shit,” you rasped, attempting to regain some semblance of composure. 

He groaned - groaned, and the sound churned the pit of your stomach. “So mean, kitten, and after all we’ve been through together.” The spiteful remark you prepared died on your tongue as he continued, “but try as you might to wound me, not even you can ruin my good mood tonight, Y/n. Because I get to watch that pretty blood spill again, I get to hear those delicious little cries of terror again.” 

“Oh, and Y/n?” His voice dipped impossibly lower, his words caressing your ear and sending waves of chills through your body. “It’s Danny, not Jed. Be a good girl and scream that for me while I’m gutting you like a fish.” 

Ice coursed through your veins as the dial tone wailed in your ear. There was no time to spare contemplating the harrowing Deja vu that washed over you. Danny hanging up only meant one thing - 

He’s here. 

But this time, you were prepared. You moved to dial the authorities, reasoning that you could remain put and hold Danny off until their arrival. The police station was only ten minutes away. And if you didn’t bleed out in 30 minutes previously, ten minutes was child’s play. 

That was the plan until the phone line went dead, promptly followed by the office lights cutting out. 

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Well, Danny certainly hadn’t lost his flare for the dramatic. 

Fight or flight was a fickle thing. You had always been more inclined toward flight, reasoning that overpowering a killer who had managed to subdue men twice your size wasn’t feasible. Remaining in your cubicle awaiting a gruesome fate was out of the question, you had to at least attempt an escape. 

More knowledgeable after your first brush with the reaper, you knew Danny was out there, poised with that gleaning hunting blade. Concealing the canister of mace in your palm, you stepped out into the darkness.

Death didn’t frighten you anymore, you decided. If anything, death would be a reprieve from the horror he afflicted. Still, you were starved for revenge, determined to tear into Ghost Face just as he had you. Any hope for survival was minimal at best. But if you were going down, well, you would drag Danny to hell with you. 

“Come on, Danny,” you cooed, impressed with the smooth, taunting lilt of your voice. “Come fucking get me.” As you approached the entrance to the stairwell, eyes flittering around each shadowed corner, an inky figure emerged. He nearly would have blended into the night if not for the white of the phantom mask. 

Panic briefly seized your chest, though you remained rooted to the linoleum tiles. His head tilted, a mocking wave greeting you as his other gloved hand raised the signature knife. You were certain a gleeful grin was concealed beneath that damned mask. 

“Hi honey, I’m home.” You were briefly jostled by the lack of his voice modulator, taking a moment to soak in the previously comforting voice of Jed - no, Danny. 

There was no one coming to save you this time. The devastating realization nearly strangled you, burned your lungs with a vicious rancor. Danny stepped forward slowly, as if testing to see if you would flee. He was close enough that you could smell the thick leather of his gloves muddled with the coppery waft of previous victims. 

Cautiously, you raised the hand not preoccupied with pepper spray, extending it toward his mask. Further closing the already miniscule distance, your hand grasped at his hood, tugging it down when he made no move to stop you. Holding your breath, you pulled off his mask. A tense silence permeated the air as your gaze scanned his sharp features, heart fluttering at the reveal of those dark, hooded eyes and crimson lips. 

“Why?” You asked, voice barely a whisper. He cocked a perfectly manicured brow, chocolate orbs piercing through you. His face twisted into an expression that reminded you of a lion prepared to devour its prey - a sort of ravenous hunger that made your scars pulse. 

“Because I can,” he responded simply, as if that were all the justification required. You didn’t flinch as he wrapped an arm around your waist, pressing you impossibly closer. He towered above you, head dipping lower so his breath could ghost along your jaw. 

“Because you’re mine.” As if possessed by the intensity of his confession, you didn’t struggle as his lips claimed your own. A guttural moan vibrated through his chest, hips digging into you. The slow ache building in your core prompted you to contemplate that perhaps if things had been different, if you weren’t the final girl of this story, you would willingly follow Danny to the depths of hell. 

Your reverie was interrupted by cool metal piercing the scar tissue of your abdomen. Blinding pain enveloped your senses, a strangled gasp escaping you as those crimson lips continued their bruising course. He allowed you a brief reprieve if only to lower you gently to the cool tile, moving to straddle your waist. The blade retracted before slowly digging in, once again targeting a previous wound. You couldn’t prevent the tormented scream that slipped from you. 

“That’s it, kitten. Let it out, let it all out.” He was taking it slow, dragging out your torture as if punishment for surviving. His knife remained embedded in your stomach, the sting becoming unbearable as a strained giggle tumbled from your lips. Danny’s eyes briefly widened before narrowing, his hand moving to the twist the blade. Hysterical laughter bubbled within you, hand clutching around the mace he had yet to notice. 

“See you in hell, Danny,” you chortled, teeth stained with blood. Sporting the psychotic expression, crimson smeared on your torso and lips, Danny couldn’t help but acknowledge that you had never looked lovelier. His amusement quickly faded as you raised the canister, releasing the toxin into his uncovered eyes. 

“You fucking, bitch!” Taking advantage of his temporary blindness, you gripped the handle of the blade, tearing it out of you with an animalistic scream. Before he could recover, you plunged the blade into Danny’s chest. It took the remainder of your strength to push through the taut muscle, your opposite hand clutching the back of his shoulder to lodge it further in. 

Twin crimson streaks pooled on his lips, a harsh cough spewing the liquid over your face. Ripping the knife from his heart with renewed ferocity, you rolled Danny off you, reveling in the way he slipped to the floor beside you. Blood descended freely from the wound, staining his suit and dripping languidly to the ground below. 

He laughed, the sound fading into a gurgle as blood pooled in his lungs. Unable to move from your spot, you turned your head to bask in the gory scene. Danny was already staring at you, lips upturned in a twisted grin as his hand reached for your own. 

“I always knew you would be my final girl, Y/n.” You smiled, real, genuine, pride swelling in your chest as you lay bleeding out. You did it. Though you would die for this victory, you relished in the knowledge that it would not be in vain. 

You prepared for the ebony tendrils of death to consume you, welcoming the endless expanse of eternal slumber. As your eyes fluttered, consciousness fading, a thick fog enveloped the office. It creeped steadily toward you, wrapping around you and Danny in a suffocating haze. 

You gripped his hand tighter, heaving your final breath. Unprepared for the inevitable realization that your story with Danny was far from over. 

[thetrueoli]

Murder Drones Inspired TTRPG

Been working with @cleversand to make Murder Nines, a TTRPG heavily inspired by Murder Drones. You can play it now if you want, use the character sheet template too while you're at it!

The game has a lot of mixed inspiration, with legally distinct lore and mechanics that are loosely inspired by half remembered Call of Cthulhu mechanics. Live out your your pointless struggle against unstoppably infinite horrors... with friends!!

[ria-writes-stories]

So close yet not there

Ship: Vuzi

Genre: Glass

Description: Part two of the first Vuzi fic on this channel. Going brrrrrrrr, everyone go and thank @bladeubae for this fanfic, for one of their wips inspired me to write this fiction(make sure to give them and their work some love)

Observaton note: obviously Uzi doesn't know the earth is literally non-existent at this point

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

(No one's pov)

Life, was such a strange and annoying thing. It brought you the greatest moments of joy in your most miserable state, and brought you the greatest of distress when you were finally having a peaceful period of time, but of course, it couldn't last. Nothing lasts. Everything shapes and changes. Everything takes a turn, everything has a different perpective depending on who sees it. Nothing can be destoryed and nothing can be created from thin air either, the energy all around us simply takes another shape, stuck in this infinite loop of nothingness yet everything.

Ever since that night, nothing was the same anymore. Uzi's thoughts were more troubled, she didn't know where to turn, and in a moment of weakness she crawled back to what she thought was best for her, for the simple fact that the one that truly saw her for who she was, in an act of mercy and desperation, tried to put her out of it all in the heat of the moment when she thought that the drone was no longer herself but someone else, a haunting presence from the past, a presence she refused to loose anyone else to it, even if it meant she would have to be to put them out of the misery that they were in.

V was truly terrified, and of herself out of all things. She didn't think of a hopeful solution, she didn't think Uzi could snap out of her murder rampage, she didn't think Uzi would wake up from her state, so she tried to save her, but truly, who was she trying to save? Uzi? Or herself? The moment when Uzi asked for N, V was convienced that Uzi most have truly lost herself in an unbearable insanity of agony and torture, for how else could she ask for the one that broke her heart the most when she was right there, ready to break her own soul to bits and dust in order to build the strongest defenses seen by this planet to protect her? It made no sense, not to V. Yet the fool who was unable to protect her from herself was now the knight in shinning armour, the hero, but he was neither, he was a prince, and like all cocky or foolish blind princes he was unable to see that he was not her salvation, but rather her doom. What has V done wrong to be tossed to the side again, like a pile of scraps and nothing more? The past didn't let her live her present, and her possible future chose her torment over her joy as the present was drowning in this foggy timeline, numbed by the pain and loneliness that it had to reside within.

Has she not done enough? Has she not fought enough for her love? For her safety? For her greater good? Had she not come all the way over here for her? Has she not held her tightly in her arms? Has she not done it all for her? And yet… "Yo, I ate them. I get hungry idiot." "Not calling names, just asking." After everything, she took the blame, she covered it all with a petty lie, held any possible consequence far away from her.

She seemed at peace, she seemed happy, or at least, relaxed, at least for once in her life, next to him, ever since that one night… She couldn't offer her that. It angered her, it pained her and it drove her to insanity thatthe stupid thing that made them reside by each other's side turned to be the same thing to pull them further apart than ever before. It was unfair, it was cruel, cold, painful, agonising, tormenting and heart shattering. Was she not worthy of her love? Or was it that she accepted reality faster than everyone else that pulled her away from her? Was it that life tossed her around so much that she ended up being ready to loose everything all at once instead of having to fight helplessly to keep it all and still be left with nothing despite her best efforts? Maybe she wasn't the right one for Uzi. Maybe she was never meant to feel this silly little things. But she asked Uzi…she begged her, not to do it, and yet…she still did. That tiny little push over the edge, over the brink of helplesness and look where she was now…

Uzi was afraid of sacrificing everything that she had again, so she had no clue that by trying to sacrifice herself only, she lost all that she tried to protect. V was a far away dream to her. How could she love her? How could she care for her? She just tried to kill her didn't she? Then again, Uzi wasn't herself either…she killed so many people, the bitter tasted of their oil on the tip of her tongue still. How could she blame V when in reality she held back. J had that electro-magnetic gun that took her out in the first encounter she had with the disassembly drones, meaning that V too had it, so why had she not used it on her? It would have bought her enough time to do the deed? Yet she didn't… V was intelligent, fast and skilled, so if she wanted Uzi dead she could have found alternatives, yet she didn't…because she didn't even truly consider these options.

So why did it hurt, when this foolishly annoying boy, refused to hold her hand? Why…? Maybe because Uzi saw him as the only vilable excuse and gate away to hide from the far more painful reality, for it was painful for the very reason that it made her feel alive.

"Nah. Uzi, I trust you." "V PLEASE! WE NEED YOU!" Uzi was in too much pain to even realise what was happening. V could have left Uzi to be killed by the sentinels, but she saved her, and her thanks? Uzi went ahead and hugged N instead? She flirted with him, held hands, tried to cheer him up instead of her. Was that all that V deserved after what she did? If V was truly upset with her, if she was truly wishing to pull Uzi to shreds, she would have done so already, she had plenty of possibilites… She saved her, she cared for her, in her weird distant way, fulfilling her duty of protecting her, even if it was from afar, for if the defenses fall right next to the protected base, how will those within the base have time to prepare for what's next if the threat is knocking right at their door?

V saved her, her and him, multiple times, and it wasn't for selfish reasons, it wasn't to use them, it wasn't to toy with them, it was all for them, and they? They ignored her, neglected her, hurt her, doing the worse possible to someone that cared for them so deeply and dearly.

You never know what you had until you loose it, ain't that right? That is what they deserved, after everything that she did, after every single struggle and ounce of heavy torture placed upon on her shoulders. She deserved to be freed of this mortal pains and struggles, and they? They deserved to rot with this aching pain in their hearts.

The moment Tessa was quickly out of view once the elevator reached it's end, Uzi grapped onto N tightly as tears steamed down her cheeks. V was dead. She was dead and it was all of her fault. She could have saved her. If only she would have listened, if only she would have paid more attention and if only would she have been there for her the same she was.

But out there, true torment appears, in the illusion of hope and salvation. In a cell, with her hands crossed upon her chest, rested the purest angel that this world had ever had the honor to lay it's eyes upon. A cell that was attached with wires and cables to keep it powered and in function. A cell protecting the one that couldn't protect herself. A cell that took care of the one unable to recieve all that she deserved.

"V!" Uzi said in a quiet whisper, unable to believe her eyes. Was this a trick? A hologram? A hallucination? Was V there but as a spooky hollow snake crab? She didn't even care. So what if she was? So what if this V that she saw was just a hologram of the one that was torn to shreds, looking to rebuild herself, of the one that was now anything but V? She didn't care. She refused to at this point. She lost her with all of her silly complicated thoughts of anxiety, and now when her peek of heaven appeared she didn't want to let the opportunity pass, even if it would cost her greatly, even if it would somehow mean that V's sacrifice was in vein, she'd gladly die knowing that the parts of her body would be used to rebuild her, knowing that this pitiful act of joy represented her remorse and gratefulness.

The shorter girl pressed her body on the glass almost as if trying to fuse with it just to get a tad closer to the drone. "Is this how J also came back? How do I get you out?" Uzi was still unsure how J returned… Did she come from earth or did she wake up in a capsule like this? Whatever the answer was Uzi didn't want to wait any longer, yet she was unsure of what to do… V just died, so how long would it take for this new body to recieve all of her memories? What if she won't recieve them at all? What if this is just an empty vessel and nothing more? What if it was just a carcas good for scrap that will never host the radiant energy of one of he strongest people she has met in her entire short tiny life?

As these questions filled her head, Uzi slightly backed away from the glass, but her hands remained glued to it as if a hex had been placed upon them. Uzi took her tail out and used it to light this casket made of glass, shining it to see her better. She didn't look in pain, she didn't look troubled, she looked like she was resting, a sweet painless and proper rest. One from which she would wake up from with refreshed batteries, ready to take the world on again, as if it was just yesterday that she first opened her eyes.

Maybe she should let her rest…

'ERROR ⚠'

That is all that it took. A flash of light, a sudden boost of energy through the carcas, activating it's system, or at least trying to.

Words could not describe in a million years the horrible ache that had stabbed Uzi right into her soul. The joy, the pain, the agony and the distress. V was waking up, or at least she was trying to. After falling like weak prey, while sacrificing herself like a true hero, she was still fighting. Fighting for her. How foolish Uzi was, to not accept this kindness that the universe has blessed her with. To turn it down in fear of breaking it instead of just accepting it like it should.

A desperate scream left her mouth as she felt no control of herself just like back in the cabin. Her wings spread widely and her claws grew sharper and pointier, trying to claw at the glass, to penetrate and open it. Whatever the error she could fix it! Even if she didn't have her joystick she still would be able to do something. Anything! She could help her, she could finally help her. She could show her regret, her grief.

Everyone talks of how the scream of a mother in pain is worse than any blood curling scream and shriek that the world has ever heard, but no one tells you how such a deed only happens when the true selfless genuine love of one's heart and entire being is involved for otherwise there are plenty other mothers who do not even look at their children.

And so here was Uzi heard from every corner of this lower chambers, of this underground hell. From trapped sentinels to anything else that breathed and moved, all stopped in sync as the agonising scream filled the echoes of these walls, leaving no room for anything other than a sudden rush of arenaline and panic, as a far more dangerous being has entered the realms of this hidden world, and now more than ever, it's desperation made it worse than anything else that could have place foot in this cursed place.

All that would go against this shriek would fall apart, tore to shreds and turned into utter nothingess, so all unwillingly bowed their spirits in fear as the pained scream punctured all of one's senses to the brim, leaving space for nothing other than the same feeling that the source provided. Agony.

Gripping onto the glass and banging her fist on it's surface did not budge the imprisonment of this angel. She was alive, she had to be, for otherwise this vessel that so closely resembled her wouldn't have had a spark of anything in it without her also being there.

She had to break her free, she had to let her out to breath the air, as cold and as miserable as it was, she had to let her see the world again. It was her right, it was the least that she deserved, to live, and to be able to feel alive, and Uzi wasn't going to leave, not until she was out, not until she could hold her and told her all the words that her core trapped within itself by the command of her system, dooming those words to be foolish and useless, now none will be in it's way, for all that was left of the brinks of sanity was gone, now filled with one thing and one thing only, desperation.

Desperation like no other. She would tear to shreds anything that would dare approach her. She would stay there until the cursed mechanisam opened and let Uzi catch V in her arms like all the other times V carried her burdened heart all alone. She will hold her tightly and she will help V heal, she will make sure she is there by V's side just as she was. Uzi will keep her close and she will let V know with all the last days, hours, minutes or seconds that she has left, that she recognises all that V had done for her, and that she will never again in her life do anything to make this most blessed angel of all feel as if it was all for nothing and in vain. Sge will love her, she will stay by her side, and she will not let even death itself have the last word in it. She would make sure to do everything, anything and more to achieve this goal. Starting from this very moment, without a further a do or a moment of hesitation in her judgement.

The end

[the-meat-machine]

⚠️ DEAD DOVE ALERT. Read the tags. Heed the tags. ⚠️

Rating: Explicit Relationship: Davesprite/Bro Tags: Cannibalism, Gore, Rape, Incest, Murder, Breeding Kink, Eggpreg. See work on AO3 for full list of tags Words: 8.3k

Summary:

DAVESPRITE: what you humans always forget is that im not just dave DAVESPRITE: im the crow too DAVESPRITE: and thats what gives me the perspective to see you for what you really are DAVESPRITE: which is so much carrion walkin around well past its expiration date

Drone Season fic! This one was written for @davespwite, whose prompts and headcanons were highly inspirational. Let me tell you, it was fun as hell to let loose and write something really fucked up 😈

[kqltlc]

Terminology clarification for OC and FC because I keep seeing the terms being misused and it makes it very difficult to browse tags when a majority of the time the tags are applied wrong.

This is gonna be a long post, buckle ur seatbelts and take out your spiral straws bc ur brain gonna be as mush as mine when I'm done.

DISCLAIMER: This is my point of view and doesn't apply to EVERY scenario. Every scenario, or character, can have nuances that make them an anomaly. This is more of a generally-speaking post. I'm also really bad with words and my brain dies immediately at long posts so feel free to cut me some slack if there's mistakes or inconsistencies. LOL.

"OC" stands for "Original Character."

This is a character made entirely by you. No influence or strings attached.

You might take bits of inspiration from things such as objects, personality, outfits, or ideas - perhaps you were introduced to these through a fandom - but none of these things are inherently fandom as they exist outside of fandom as well.

Lets use dragons as an example. Dragons are a part of mythology that can't be traced back to any specific source and, for the most part, are simply a combination of existing animals like lizards and bats.

Imagine a dragon based on the long-nosed whipsnake but with a pumpkin vibe: A goofy noodle of a dragon with a slender orange body, green horns pointed backward, green vine-like wings, green belly scales that reach until the green tail that eventually ends off in vines.

This would be an OC as you created it with no strings attached to existing media. You took a few ideas you liked and created something new out of it, something original to you. If anything similar exists, it's purely coincidental and you most likely aren't aware of it.

Other examples in popular media include the sources of fandom, the Original worlds in which fandoms follow such as Sonic, Mario, Spiderman, Next Gen, Murder Drones, etc.

Sonic is a blue hedgehog that can run fast and has to save the world, Mario is a plumber out to save the princess, Spiderman is just a dude who got bit by a radioactive spider, Next gen is about a broken girl who befriends a broken robot and learns the meaning of friendship and moving on from the past, Murder Drones is about different kinds of robots initially pitted against each other but starting to realize there's something else afoot.

These were created based on ideas. There might be some idea-taking from existing media but these guys function entirely on their own, in their own world, with little to no relation to anything else.

extra notes:

an OC would be able to pass in a court of law if someone tried to claim copyright. It's why original media HAS to be original.

everything you do is canon lmao.

"FC" stands for "Fan Character."

This is a character made in relation to existing fandoms - or as I'm going to call them, the Original (OG) World, a world not made by you.

Whether it's taking a lot of visual ideas from the OG World, being related to any of the characters or plot in the OG World, or just being in the OG World, this character has strings attached to something already created by someone else. Perhaps what you create is unique on its own, but it still has relations to the OG World.

Bringing back the dragon example. You decide to make a dragon loosely based on that long-nosed whipsnake and pumpkin combo. The difference here is that you're making them a Hivewing from Wings of Fire, or a Skydancer from FlightRising.

This would make them an FC as they end up being connected to an OG World. You can have a Sonic FC who is a rainbow stag beetle that you use in any setting, a Murder Drones Worker Drone with no relation to the characters or story since they have their own but still follow the Murder Drones vibe, perhaps you have a Spiderverse character who got bit by a radioactive rabbit so their entire aesthetic is more rabbit-y.

If you're a participant of an open or closed species, then they'd fall under this as well, unless you're the creator of the species ofc.

You are a fan of an OG World, created a character inspired by it and, depending how strong the connection is to the OG World, may not be able to function outside of it (without it being obvious they stand out too much in other worlds, original or otherwise).

extra notes:

would not be able to pass in a court of law if copyright claimed as the character would share too many traits with the OG World.

anything you do is not canon in the OG World.

Can my character become an OC (or vise versa)?

Yes! It's absolutely possible for your character to start as one and evolve into the other!

You can have an FC that, over time, gets so much original ideas added to them and fandom ties severed that they can stand on their own. Perhaps you made that little snake-derg in a fandom first but eventually loved it so much you decided to make it more of its own thing!

I originally adopted a Wings of Fire design from a user a while ago and turned it into an OC by adjusting and stylizing it to a point where it's just a dragon in a world I setup for a dragon roleplay (I also know nothing on WoF so that kinda helps boost originality, lol).

You can also have an OC that you decided to drop into a fandom because you love the fandoms OG World so much! You end up giving them traits and ideas more relevant to the OG World so they fit in and function better~

(I don't have many examples of this as I'm not big on fandoms, lol)

Conclusion + Extra Notes

Please consider what's been said and tag accordingly. Although words are words and communication can be pretty loose, in the ways of tagging they're very crucial to get right.

It's really unfun to browse the OC tags and get bombarded by FCs because no one seems to remember what the terms mean, just as it's unfun to browse tags for fandoms and get unrelated posts.

Extra Notes: Although not specific to OC and FC, kinda related.

This is kinda why some creators are vehemently against being given ideas. It becomes less original, especially the more detailed an idea is.

This also plays a roll in companies trying to claim words and ideas, copywriting anything that's even remotely similar. "Monster" is a word/idea that cannot be claimed, and yet the Monster Energy Drink brand still tried to claim it. The idea of platformers or battle systems is not something inherently owned by Nintendo and yet they're getting aggressive with claiming it as their own.

DISCLAIMER: This is my point of view and doesn't apply to EVERY scenario. Every scenario, or character, can have nuances that make them an anomaly. This is more of a generally-speaking post. I'm also really bad with words and my brain dies immediately at long posts so feel free to cut me some slack if there's mistakes or inconsistencies. LOL.

Also at this point I haven't ate dinner yet and I'm really hungry so brain is 110% dead. Ya'll have fun, I'ma get some chimken nuggiez.

[yuta-nakamots]

misfit - j.sc

Pairing - Sungchan x Reader

Genre - Horror/Thriller, Angst, Fluff

Warnings - serial killer, character death, violence, murder, implications of sex

Summary - A murderer is on the loose, killing with no regret and ending the lives of more than just a few people. No one knew who it was, turning against each other upon even the slightest bit of doubt. Maybe you should’ve been more careful with who you chose to trust. 

Word Count - 5.3k

A/N - this is inspired entirely from a dream I had a few days ago. I've added very little to what I saw in my dream aside from Sungchan as the male lead. yes, I am freaked out by this and yes, I am scared of writing for Sungchan bc I don’t know his personality all too well but as an ‘01 liner myself I have faith in us

Written for the #NeoHalloween writing festival hosted by @nct-writers​. Check out the masterlist here.

For five months now, your town has lived in fear. A serial killer was on the loose and he was known by the name of Hickleback Jack though no one knew where the name came from or who had started it. Each month, the population of your town voted on the local community board to have one person executed who they thought was Hickleback Jack. So far, not a single guess was right leaving five innocent people dead. Well, five plus an extra thirty, give or take.

See, the thing about Hickleback Jack, was that every time the votes came in at the end of the month, he could see just who voted for him and targeted them as his next victims. He killed six of those people over the following month, adding up to seven dead each time the town guessed incorrectly. It was getting to a point where no one trusted each other, no one dared to say anything against each other in fear of being accused or in fear of being the next to fall mercy to Hickleback Jack.

Not much was known about this killer other than his appearance. He’s male with a tall and broad figure though he always covers his face with some kind of mask. His common weapon is known to be an axe. People have claimed to have seen him late at night under the dim orange glow of the street lamps but he was never caught by the authorities, leaving everyone restless and waiting for the next kill.

The night was still young when you had gotten home from school and it was a Friday night which was basically an open invitation for you to call over your boyfriend, Sungchan. He had transferred in to your university at the start of the school year, and had ended up sitting next to you during your sophomore seminar class, leading to the start of your friendship with him.

A simple friendship soon blossomed into a relationship after Sungchan’s bright personality began shining through his somewhat intimidating exterior. You lived without fear when Sungchan was around, the love you had for him blocking out anything else in the world that wasn’t him.

You sat on your bed, your homework spread out in front of you while you held your phone up to your ear. “Do you want to come over tonight?” You ask as soon as he picks up your call.

You hear rustling on the other end of the call before Sungchan clears his throat and speaks, his voice husky from sleep. “Sorry, can you repeat that?”

“I said, do you want to come over tonight?” You paused and heard him yawn. “You fell asleep after class didn’t you?” You smiled to yourself thinking of your boyfriend’s handsome face as he napped after getting back to his apartment once he finished with his classes for the day, which was a common occurrence now that the semester was in full swing.

“Mmm,” he hummed in thought, “as much as I’d love to, I really shouldn’t have taken that nap because of how much homework I have.”

“Oh, that’s okay, do your homework first,” you reassure him, “maybe we can hang out some other time this weekend. It’s only Friday after all.”

“Definitely. Are you starting yours right now?” Sungchan asked.

“Yeah, I’d rather not wait and end up cramming on Sunday night.” You laughed, knowing that said event has happened more times that you’d like to admit.

Sungchan let out a noise of agreement. “I’ll let you know when I’m done with my homework though.”

“Same here.” You promised.

“Alright, let’s get to work and I’ll talk to you soon.” He told you.

“Sounds good, love you.”

“Love you too.”

With that you hung up, eager to start on your homework in hopes of getting to spend more time with your boyfriend. You actually had a lot of it this weekend thanks to molecular biology, and you figured that if you couldn’t talk to Sungchan, who had yet to take the course, you called up your study group discord instead. Luckily, many of them were in similar situations as you, faced with the daunting task of completing all the worksheets assigned during class earlier in the day.

“Okay so was anyone paying attention during the lecture today?” Your classmate Chenle asked.

“I know Yeji fell asleep so you’re in the same boat as her.” You interject, recalling the sight of both of them knocked out in their seats as the professor droned on about the functions of the structures inside cells.

Yeji let out a gasp of shock at how blatantly you called her out. “I may have fallen asleep but at least I still know that the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell.”

“Everyone knows that, Yeji.” Your other classmate Jaemin said, his voice void of enthusiasm.

“Okay, Jaemin, we get it, Mr. Serious.” You teased.

“Yeah, this is a biology study group, not a bible study group, lighten up a little.” Chenle jokes.

Jaemin scoffed, “sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who’s trying to do well in this class.”

“Well not all of us enjoy the taste of coffee with six shots of caffeine in them.” Yeji argued back.

“Guys,” you called out as Jaemin and Yeji started arguing, “guys!” They finally stopped to hear what you had to say. “Let’s just get this over with sooner rather than later because I know none of us want to be awake at 2am trying to figure this out alone.”

“Agreed,” Chenle said, “so question three, the one about the DNA mutation, how is missense different from nonsense?”

“Missense is where one of the bases mutates and changes to something else, therefore changing the protein level,” Jaemin explained, “nonsense is the same theoretical concept except it spells out one of the stop codes.”

Yeji let out a groan, “can you slow down, or like, I don’t know, use easier words or something?”

Most of your night passed by like this and before you knew it, it was already nearing midnight and you could tell your classmates were just as exhausted as you. “I think we should call it here.”

“Definitely,” Yeji confirmed, “tomorrow morning at 10?”

You all let out similar answers of acknowledgement before Chenle spoke up. “The poll closes on tomorrow night so make sure to vote if you haven’t already.”

Because of how long this has been going on for, everyone was already on the same page once someone mentioned the poll or voting. “There were only five kills this month so I wouldn’t be surprised if the last one is announced tomorrow or Sunday morning.” Jaemin chimed in.

“All the recent kills were related to the university so I know a lot of people are suspecting someone in our age range.” Yeji informed the group.

Jaemin let out a chuckle, “if the killer actually is a college student, I wouldn’t be surprised since it is getting close to the last wave of midterms and then finals so that would explain why the victims fall into the same category.” The chat fell silent at that. “I’m just saying that he’s getting a little lazy by grouping all his kills like this.”

“Jaemin, are you sure you’re not the killer?” Chenle asked with a laugh at the end.

“Guys, I can promise you that I’m not the killer, I swear on my life.” Jaemin promised.

“Alright, that’s enough detective work for tonight, I’ll start the call again around 10 tomorrow. Sounds good?” You conclude, wanting to curl up under your covers already, which is exactly what you do once everyone wishes each other a good night and hung up.  

Morning came a little too quickly for your liking, the bright sunlight flooding into your room through the window and forcing you awake. Checking your phone, you saw that it was 9:30am, meaning you had some time to spare before your next meeting with the bio study group, along with a notification from Sungchan that he had sent well after you had fallen asleep.

Sungchan > y/n

2:14am: Just got rescheduled to work opening shift tomorrow.

2:15am: Didn’t finish my homework but I can stop by at your house after work with my stuff and we can hang out and have fun once we’re both done?

Your heart warmed at how he stayed up late trying to finish his homework for you and that he suggested the idea of coming over after his shift at a small local restaurant finished just so the two of you could be together even if you’d be focusing on your own tasks for a while.

y/n > Sungchan

9:32am: Sorry I didn’t text back earlier, I just woke up!

9:32am: But of course you can come over, I might even be done with my work by then ;)

You plugged your phone to let it charge and left it on your nightstand as you made yourself breakfast downstairs. The house was quiet since your mom already left for work and you dad worked a night shift job and was probably sleeping at the moment. It was strangely serene as you prepared yourself a bowl of cereal though the calm was rudely interrupted by the sound of your ringtone coming from your room.

Deciding to get it after eating breakfast, you poured the cereal in first, thinking about the way Sungchan had told you before that he liked to pour the milk first and let the cereal soak up the milk. “It makes it super soggy and I like it.” He tried reasoning with you, to which you only raised an eyebrow at.

Just as you put the milk carton back into the refrigerator and was about to take a bit of your cereal, your phone started going off again. You placed your bowl onto the kitchen table and made your way back up to your bedroom to see what it was that was so important this early in the morning. Checking the notifications, it was Yeji who had been calling you so you shot her a message.

y/n > Yeji

9:39am: What’s up?

Yeji > y/n

9:40am: I just dreamt that it was Jaemin who was the killer

9:40am: please call me right now I feel like I’m going to go insane

You heeded her words and called her immediately. “So what happened in the dream?”

“I don’t know, I just remember being chased by a man with an axe and I was running to the school to try to see if I could get help but then I tripped and when I turned around, it was Jaemin.” Yeji blurted out without a single breath in between.

You paused, trying to take in all the information she just threw at you. “Do you have any reason as to why you think you dreamt this?”

“The way he was talking last night,” she stopped to catch her breath, “he spoke so in detail that I couldn’t help but overthink like, what if he is actually the killer? What if we’re next?”

“Well, you can vote for him in the poll if you want but personally, I don’t think it’s him.” You think of your next words carefully. “I’m not trying to invalidate your thoughts but Jaemin does come from a reputable family-”

“Y/n, it could be anyone. Family doesn’t matter. We have no information on the guy, we don’t know what economic class he’s in or anything.” Yeji interrupted.

You took a few seconds to gather your thoughts before speaking again. “That is true, but we all know Jaemin wants to be a surgeon right? He’s in all these difficult classes and he maintains such high grades-”

“Okay but how is that relevant?” Yeji interrupted yet again.

She was getting on your nerves but you held yourself back. “Listen, I’m just trying to say that with the amount of time and effort he puts into school, I don’t think he could be the killer. The killer plans his kills well enough that we just can’t find him and that probably takes just as much time as school does for us.”

Yeji took a while to respond though when she did, her words surprised you. “Now you’re starting to sound like the killer.”

“Yeji, I can promise you that it’s not me. I’m just as scared as you are in this whole situation,” you reasoned, “I’ll even vote for Jaemin if it makes you feel better.”

She let out a sigh across the line. “Okay fine. Maybe a kill will happen while we’re on the call and it’ll clear Jaemin’s name.”

“I think you’re letting it all get to you, just try not to think about it for a bit.” You advised.

“But am I really overreacting y/n? We live every day in fear of being the next victim. Tomorrow is not promised to any of us, so am I really overreacting?” You look over at the clock on your wall as she spoke, realizing that it’s already 9:55 and you should probably start the call already.

“No, I don’t think you’re overreacting, I’m just saying that constantly thinking about it to this extent isn’t good for you. We still have school to pay attention to,” you explain, “speaking of, I’m gonna start the call now.”

“I can’t just stop thinking about it that easily but whatever, let’s just hope that we’re not associating ourselves with a murderer by doing this.” You can only shake your head as you start the call.

Chenle joined immediately followed by Yeji. “Good morning ladies, President Zhong here. How are we doing on this fine day?”

You rolled your eyes even though a smile spread across your face. “I’m doing good, Mr. President. Ready to finish off these worksheets.”

“Good, good,” Chenle affirmed, sticking with his act, “and you, Miss Yeji?”

“Fine.” She shot out.

Chenle let out a quiet chuckle, “someone’s a little grumpy this morning. Maybe we should’ve met a bit later.”

“No, let’s just get this over with.” Yeji grumbled just as Jaemin joined.

“Great! Now that the head brain cell is here, let’s get this meeting started.” Chenle exclaimed.

Four hours into your meeting and eight out of ten worksheets later, your phone begins to ring with an incoming call from Sungchan. “Hold on guys, I gotta take this call. Hello?”

“I’m downstairs, come pick me up.” You couldn’t deny the butterflies that spread throughout your chest upon hearing your boyfriend’s voice. You got up to let him in though you certainly didn’t miss the teasing coming from your laptop as your classmates yelled about you and Sungchan.

As you made your way downstairs, you froze halfway down the stairs, seeing Sungchan already in the kitchen eating the bowl of cereal you forgot about. “I’m guessing you made this for yourself earlier and forgot to eat it.” He said through a mouthful of food.

“Babe, no, don’t eat that, it’s like five hours old. The milk is probably stale.” You exclaimed, worried about his health if it really did go bad.

Sungchan only shrugged as he took another spoonful into his mouth. “Tastes fine to me.”

You rolled your eyes before turning to head back upstairs. “Join me in my room once you’re ready, you cereal monster. Leave the dishes in the sink too.” As you returned to your room, you couldn’t help but wonder how Sungchan got in though you figure he’s probably seen you use the spare key under the doormat a couple times since you often were too lazy to get your own keys out of your bag most of the time.

When you sat down in front of your computer again, Jaemin had just finished explaining the answer to the problem you guys were working on earlier so you chimed in asking him to go over it again though he was quickly overrun by an excited Chenle. “Is Sungchan there?” He practically yelled.

“No, not yet, he’s eating some soggy cereal downstairs.” You inform him.

“Alright, let me know when he comes in.” Chenle says, unphased by your boyfriends’ odd preference of cereal.

Halfway through Jaemin’s explanation, Sungchan came into your room, placing his bag down at the foot of the bed before he took his jacket off and stripped out of his work uniform. “I heard a door open, is that Sungchan?” Chenle shouted over Jaemin once more.

“I never get to fucking speak in this group.” Jaemin huffed, at which Chenle muttered a quick ‘sorry’ back.

“Yes, Chenle, Sungchan is here,” you announce, looking over at the boy in question who had just finished pulling a shirt over his head and winked when he saw you staring at his body, “he seems very flirty today, must be because of you, Mr. Zhong.”

Sungchan sits down next to you and places a kiss on your cheek, smelling oddly of cleaning supplies, but you pay no mind to that, figuring he must have used them at work. “How’s it going Chenle?” He asks, though his attention is only on you and he places his hands on your cheeks and leaves a quick kiss on your lips.

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t just hear the two of you kissing,” Chenle remarks, earning a laugh from Sungchan, “but anyways, you should come back to the basketball team. We miss our giant point guard, you know.”

“Nah, I’m too busy these days. I already have work and school plus I still want to spend time with y/n.” He commented as he shifted to lie on his stomach next to you.

“Man, who knew a girl would be all it took to make this dude throw his love for basketball out the window.” Chenle taunted.

“Love makes you do things, you know how it is.” Sungchan replied, resting his head on your thigh.

Running a hand through his hair, “anyways,” you divert, “back to what Jaemin was saying about meiosis.”

“Thank you, y/n, I thought I’d never be able to speak again.” Jaemin uttered pointedly. “As I was saying, the main difference between meiosis and mitosis is that it creates four daughter cells instead of two like mitosis does.”

“Hey guys, wait, did you see the article that just came out?” Yeji inquired. “It’s another death.”

There was a moment of silence before anyone said anything. “No but you can read it to us.” Chenle concluded.

“Okay,” you could hear the deep breath Yeji took before reading the article, “it says here that the body was found at around 1:20pm in an alley between the lower-income housing apartments, the cause of death is assumed to be by Hickleback Jack using his axe, and the estimated time of death is anywhere from 12 to 1pm.”

“Wow,” Jaemin began, “so he just killed out in broad daylight.”

“Not gonna lie Jaemin, but I thought you were the killer.” Yeji let out blatantly.

You were mildly shocked at her bluntness, but not surprised given how stressed everyone was. “Me?” Jaemin gasped, “Yeji, you know I’m pretty much Rapunzel with how much time I spend in my room studying. And when I’m not studying, I’m either editing pictures or playing video games.”

“It’s true,” Chenle confirms, “he really doesn’t leave his room. We had a sleepover once and I felt like I was becoming a hermit like him.” Sungchan slightly wheezed at that, sending Chenle over the moon. “Did you hear that? Did you guys hear that? Sungchan thinks I’m funny!”

“Yeah yeah, enough about me being a hermit. But Yeji,” Jaemin addressed, “why did you think it was me?”

Yeji hesitated before responding. “I just- the way you were talking the other night...I don’t know. It just sounded so specific and detailed that I couldn’t help but think that it could have been you.”

“I don’t think a murderer would simply reveal his plans like that, you know.” Sungchan proposed.

“Well yeah, but it’s just the way he spoke, it was like he had things organized...you know what? Let’s forget I said that, but I know the four of us are clear.” Yeji resigned.

Sungchan sat up, “wait, why am I not cleared?”

“Y/n, what time did he call you?”

“Like 2-ish.”

“Exactly. Sungchan, you don’t have an alibi, as far as we know, until 2 and the time of death is stated to be 12 to 1pm.”

“I was at work earlier in the day, though.”

“Can you prove it to us?” Yeji pressed on.

“Yeah, my coworkers can vouch for me.”

You were quite surprised at how aggressive Yeji was being towards your boyfriend but you didn’t see any reason to stop her since she had very valid arguments. “Send a screenshot of it to Chenle and we’ll verify you from there.” Yeji commanded.

Sungchan slouched down a little next to you. “I don’t have the numbers of my coworkers though.”

“Alright, then you’re still on the list of suspects.”

After finishing all the worksheets for microbio and ending the call around 3:30, Sungchan pulled out his laptop and started typing away at a half-finished lab report for his human A&P class. You fell asleep curled into his body, his warmth and the constant tapping of his keyboard lulling you to sleep.

When you woke again, you immediately noticed the absence of a large boy next to you and frowned to yourself. As you came to, you heard noise coming from the kitchen and identified your mother’s voice followed by Sungchan’s. Noticing the time on your phone, you guess that he was probably helping her prepare dinner since it was already past 6 and your family ate around 7 before your dad left for work.

By the time you made yourself presentable and came downstairs, your mom and Sungchan were already setting the table. “Looks like our sleepyhead finally woke up.” Your mother exclaimed, making you grimace. “You didn’t tell me Sungchan was staying over,” you were about to open your mouth to say that you didn’t know that either but you weren’t given the chance to do so, “it’s okay, especially with that killer still on the loose, it makes me feel better knowing there’s someone around to protect my baby.”

You looked at Sungchan as if asking him for answers though he seemed to only avoid your gaze, reluctantly taking the seat across from you at the dining table. Your father walked in, delighted to see your boyfriend. “Sungchan! Good to see you, how are things at school?” He asked as he joined you all at the table.

“Okay for the most part, I haven’t taken to my writing class all that much though I enjoy my other science classes.” Sungchan answers.

Your dad hums in approval while you stare down Sungchan, trying to get him to look at you. “Remind me again what you’re majoring in again?” Your mom asks, Sungchan whips his head around faster than you can make eye contact with him.

“I’m majoring in forensics.” He states.

“Interesting, interesting,” your father contemplates, “you know, y/n here wants to become a pediatrician. The two of you are practically opposites in the science field, one dealing with crime and the other dealing with children.”

Sungchan let out a laugh, “I guess opposites really do attract then.”

You hated how well he entertained your parents and you hated how much they liked him. For the rest of dinner you tried to pin him down through your stares and even played a game of footsie with him but nothing seemed to work. It was only once the two of you were back in your room getting ready for bed that you were able to talk to him.

“Look, I’m not mad at you or anything, I’d just appreciate it if you talked to me first before just telling my parents that you’re staying over.” You told him as you went through your skincare routine.

Sungchan jumped onto your bed as he apologized. “Sorry, I just thought that since both of us finished our homework and with the killing today, it would just make sense for me to stay over.” He opened his arms, inviting you in as you stood up after finishing your night routine.

You copied him, jumping into your bed straight onto Sungchan, effectively pushing the air out of his body. He grunted as your weight fell onto him though he still wrapped his arms around your waist and shifted you up the length of your body so your face was level with his. “Hi” you giggle, shy from the sudden close proximity.

“Hey.” He says back with a smile as you slide off him, leaving an arm and leg slung over his body. “Tired?”

“No, not really, I took a nap earlier since someone didn’t care to wake me up.”

“You looked too cute, besides, you need all the rest you can get.” Sungchan explained, using his free hand to squish your cheeks. “If you’re really not tired then I know a way to make you tired.” His hand found its way down to your butt to further emphasize his point.

“Ew, no, not now.” You quickly refused, moving his hand up to your waist. “Just go to sleep and I’ll probably fall asleep after you anyways.”

“Oh wait,” Sungchan said, reaching over you to the nightstand for his phone, “did you vote on the poll yet?”

“No, I almost forgot.” You groaned, lazily reaching for your phone as well.

You pull up the local community board and enter your information, looking at the list of all the citizens, pondering on who you’d give your vote to. “Who are you voting for?” Sungchan asks, looking over at your screen.

“I really don’t know.” You tell him, though truthfully, you had someone in mind.

Thanks to the nap you had, you really couldn’t fall asleep no matter how hard you tried. You ended up dozing off occasionally but you’d wake up half an hour later only more irritated than when you first fell asleep.

You don’t remember what time it was, but at some point, Sungchan had removed himself from your grasp, unaware that you were still awake, though you made no effort to stop him thinking that he was just going to use the restroom and come back. Five minutes passed, five minutes turned into ten, then twenty, and you decided to check on him once thirty minutes had passed.

The house was completely dark, not even the light from the bathroom was on. You checked inside in case Sungchan had maybe gotten hurt and passed out, but he was nowhere to be found. After searching almost all the rooms in your house, you had yet to find any sign of him. After a bit of thinking, you had wandered out to your mothers’ greenhouse thinking that maybe some time with the plants would help to calm your mind.

It did anything but that.

Not long after setting foot inside of the small shed, you heard screams coming from nearby, getting closer and closer. You watched from the inside of the tinted glass as three girls ran through your backyard and into the next property. You couldn’t help it that you were frozen to your core, knowing who was coming.

You saw his frame as he jumped over the fence from the other end of your yard, axe in hand, running through the open grass and you thought he might have noticed you until he stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes glued on you. You should’ve ducked down as soon as the girls ran past but it was too late now and there was no second way out of the greenhouse.

You knew you should have tried to run, maybe smash through the glass panelling but something in you told you that maybe, just maybe, you’d be able to stop him. Steeling your nerves as he crosses the threshold of the greenhouse, you call out to him. “I know who you are.”

“I’m well aware of that.”

It was as if your world was crumbling before you, the once so comfortable relationship you knew felt fake, even though Sungchan, your loving boyfriend stood right there. The only difference was that you knew who he really was.

“Why?” You start, “why did you kill all those innocent people?”

“It’s all for fun, y/n.”

“What do you mean ‘for fun’? Those are real people you know, people with families and friends who miss them dearly.” You nearly cry out as he continues to approach you.

“You see, life is a game.” He paused his words as he came to stand in front of you. “Laws are nothing but a social construct that us humans follow mindlessly until our own demise.”

He takes a step closer to you, but you stand your ground. “Laws are what keep us safe and keep us happy. They allow us to lead our lives peacefully with others-”

“They are nothing but limits.” He closes the distance between the two of you, an arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you towards him, and you allow him to do so. “My dear, sweet, y/n. If only you weren’t so smart, I wouldn’t be faced with this dilemma.”

“You wouldn’t kill me.” You were trying to persuade him just as much as you were to yourself. “You’d never.”

“Oh? And what makes you think that?”

“You love me.”

“I do, I love you so dearly, but now that you know who’s behind all the killings, there’s no way that I can let you go.” You felt his axe nudge the back of your leg as he brought both arms around you. To an outsider, it would look as if a couple were having a conversation, but for you, this was a fight for your life.

“Take off the mask.”

“Why should I?”

“So I can talk to you properly.”

He took off the mask without much more convincing, his normally handsome face now distorted by the crazed look in his eyes. People often say that the eyes are the windows to the soul, and if they really were, then Sungchan didn’t have a soul.

“I swear to you that I won’t ever tell anyone about this, about you.”

“I don’t believe that you’ll keep that promise, my dear.”

“You know how much I love you. As long as we can stay together, I will not say anything.”

“This is not a tale of beauty and the beast. I am no beast to be tamed and there is no happy ending to this story.”

“Sungchan, no. You don’t mean that.”

“Do I really not mean it, or is that what you would like to believe? Something tells me it’s the latter.” He held you tight against him with one arm, the other raising his axe. “It’s truly a shame that your beauty must go to waste, you were truly a wonderful person both inside and out but I’m afraid that your life must end here.”

Before he could prep his swing, you pulled away and grabbed the nearest pot, launching it at him, the ceramic breaking against his head making dirt rain down upon both of you.

Not even a second passed before his axe was flying at you, lodging itself into your neck, nearly severing your head from your shoulder. You should’ve been thankful really, thankful that Sungchan had given you a quick death, not his usual route since it was so painless and easy for both the victim and the assailant.

He liked a struggle, but for you he made an exception out of love so that the last thing you’d see was him, your lover, before everything stopped.

[shalotheaxolotltheadventurer]

Alright! Here is the remake of the robot!Wilson AU!

Btw I got inspired by murder drones so some refs there.

---------

°So WX-78 and Wilson were cousins and WX-78 became a robot first due to the experiment so Wilson didn't know WX was well, what they are now.

°Wilson then got sick from something the shadows did when at Wagstaff's home and as a heat of the moment thing got turned into a robot.

°Then he was forced to stay at the factory due to being a robot and such, then the fire happened, He got the hell out of there and found an abandoned house that felt very *familiar to him, he does have memories of his life but it's fuzzy then you know what happens!

°One of his first massive injuries was his arms being ripped open revealing wiring and such and he has a very low pain threshold so he'd just in agony trying to repair it with a damaged arm and just a ripped off one.

°Gay robot. No context

°During DST Winona repairs him and WX alot, With some annoyance due to how they get injured E.G Wilson poking a sleeping hound and getting their head removed

°WX and him think of eachother as siblings and the first thing Wilson said when they met was 'I'm not the... Only one?'

°some of the survivors actually don't know he's a robot. He looks like one tho, e.g Wolfgang though Wilson was human until he accidentally shattered his *visor in a hug

°Wilson isn't immune to water, can have his visor get shattered from alot of pressure and when he gets overwhelmed he shortwired and his visor can change color to show emotions better.

°since in this AUs timeline he was a kid when the sickness got him he is slightly childish at times

°He has another mode that is similar to WX which gives him wings and a tail filled with a kind of semi weak poison/acid, but that mode was ripped from him, literally.

°The. forge. was. HORRID for him. He was torn apart alot. And he still has phantom pains.

°He has nightmares of the gorge and despises pigs from hamlet

°Wilson upgraded his core to uses some of the moons power like WX did when no one was around. It didn't age well for the both of them as you can guess.

°WX and him became angry but always slightly exhausted at night.

°Wickerbottom and Wanda adopted them.

------

*it was his old house

*Wilson has a visor for eyes think murder drones. If it gets a crack it just automatically turns off until repaired, aka he's blind for the duration of that time

Here's his design, I used a bee and puppycat screenshot as ref.

This is based after the lunar boss and him seeing the moon loose it's power.

[scholar-thief]

Execution

An OFFICIAL (an uppity dunesfolk lady in her forties, wearing an ankle-length robe) steps out from a path on the left. She is followed by an EXECUTIONER (a burly dunesfolk man with a serious frown set on his face), several GUARDS, and finally, MOMORI (a dazed dunesfolk woman in her thirties, red hair tipped with white).

The OFFICIAL pauses for a second to take in a deep breath. Then she presses onwards, stepping out onto a sandstone stage where a chopping block has been arranged. Beneath the stage, a sizable CROWD looks on, waiting for justice like starved hyenas. The OFFICIAL, EXECUTIONER, GUARDS, and MOMORI take their place on the stage.

OFFICIAL Rejoice, for today we gather to witness an end to a great threat to Ul’dah. Our precious and ever bountiful Jewel of the Desert. 

The OFFICIAL steps back, allowing the GUARDS to push MOMORI forward by the shoulder. She stumbles like a zombie, eyes clouded.

OFFICIAL We gather to witness the rightful execution of Momori Mori, the last standing member of the Silver Scholars. This organization has been brought to light as a gang of terrorists, plotting the downfall of our beloved city state for over a hundred years.

A member of the CROWD boos, and it triggers a chain reaction. A droning and terrible sound rises from the masses. Someone tosses a rock at the stage, prompting the GUARDS into action. Through their efforts, a tense peace is reclaimed.

OFFICIAL Do not fret, my good people! Justice will be served today, after the proper proceedings. We must recognize the extent of this criminal’s deeds, such that we may learn from this tale and inspire fear in the hearts of evildoers!

The OFFICIAL whips out her arm and straightens a sleeve. With poise, she pulls a scroll out of a fold of her robe and unravels it. The roll hits the ground and tumbles off the stage, leaving behind a long line of paper that starts at the OFFICIAL’s hands and ends in a puddle of muddy water. The OFFICIAL clears her throat.

OFFICIAL Ordered by severity, we start at the top. For orchestrating a plot disguised as a public works project, that would have set a powerful elemental golem loose in the city. A plot that would have razed Ul’dah to the ground and built a new “paradise” atop our ruins.

CROWD ONLOOKER A Seven hells...

OFFICIAL For coordinating and actively playing a role in the deaths of countless esteemed officials, philanthropists, businessmen, and other peoples of power for over a decade. Dodosayu Cocosayu, former executive officer of the Oasis Trust. Nanachace Qaqachace, former Captain of the Brass Blades of the Violet. Pupuga Puga, former reporter for the Mythril Eye. Osasa Osa, former heir to the Sage Branch Traders.

CROWD ONLOOKER B She poisoned my husband!

CROWD ONLOOKER C Think that’s bad? She ruined my business and then had me shoveling shit for a living! Whispered in the ears of my customers until none would even come close!

OFFICIAL Bubujo Bujo, former priest of the Arrzaneth Ossuary. Ealric Proctor, former liaison of the East Aldenard Trading Company. Botilda Lush, former coordinator of the Sultanate non-profit for Ala Mhigan resettlement.

CROWD ONLOOKER D She stole my keepsake! Said she’d repair it, but now I know...the amulet I have isn’t the one my late mother gave me! A fake!

CROWD ONLOOKER E What’s thievery compared to murder? She killed my father. Death won’t be enough for all she’s done...Justice! I demand justice!

The CROWD is becoming riled up again. One particularly brave stranger attempts to climb the stage. It takes twice the amount of effort from last time for the GUARDS to reestablish order.

GUARD (To the OFFICIAL) Perhaps we should summarize the rest.

OFFICIAL (Shaken) A-ah. Yes. So, brushing pass murder, Momori Mori is also guilty for the following crimes. Theft, assault and battery, fraud, bribery, blackmail...ahem. Counterfeiting, trafficking, extortion, forgery, money laundering, interfering with the due process of law, use of forbidden magicks, er...

The OFFICIAL has been reading through the list as quickly as she can, pulling it up until the tail end flies out of her hands. The long sheet of paper settles in a pile by her feet.

OFFICIAL Much of which was done through the legal front of a non-profit. For all these crimes and then some...If you would.

A GUARD pushes MOMORI against the chopping block, her cheek pressed against its surface, her neck exposed. The skin that peeks out from underneath her bandages is marred with swooping lines, a distinct eye motif formed over and over on her limbs like oversized fingerprints. Her hair spreads across her face in a tangle of knots, bright red strands fading to white. Even now, she stares forward with dim eyes.

OFFICIAL No gift of gold could ever remove the stain upon your soul. May Thal bar you from entering the afterlife for your sins.

The EXECUTIONER raises his ax. It hangs in the air for a swollen second, then slams down against the chopping block. A hush falls over the CROWD.

OFFICIAL Praise the Twelve.

MOMORI is dead. 

Her body and head are taken away separately.

[amjustagirl]

Dream Catcher Chapter 6 (Preview)

Will drop the next chapter of Dream Catcher tomorrow! 

Chapters: one. ~ two. ~ three. ~ four. ~ five. ~ six. ~ seven.

Masterlist link

AO3 Link

Summary: Akaashi Keiji catches glimpses of another life in his dreams. He dreams of fields of endless gold, of constellations that light up the night sky. He hears echoes of the birdsong in her laughter, her song to the gods in the wind.

(Loosely inspired by Kimi No Nawa)

He is seventeen again. 

Practice is hard especially with his new captaincy, with first years to train and a mountain of paperwork to clear, but even as each jolt from the train settles exhaustion further into his bones, he’s more concerned at the sustained silence from her. His phone does not light up from her text messages - no funny stories, no silly jokes, no pictures of sun drenched flower fields - but he tells himself she’s fine, she’s probably occupied herself with something vaguely illegal that she’ll tell him later about and laugh away his disapproval.

He’s in the middle of dinner when his father turns on the television to watch the news. It’s background noise, the newscasters droning on about which dignitary is visiting Tokyo this week, how the stock markets are doing, when monsoon storms are forecasted to sweep across Japan, but his interest is piqued when the newscasters mention ‘the tragedy of latchkey kids- the death of a schoolgirl in a rural Hokkaido town’.

It can’t be, he thinks, swivelling around in his seat to stare at the screen. It can’t be, he thinks, in frozen shock, as the screen shows a familiar wooden house in flames, broadcast live on national TV. 

‘The police are investigating this tragedy as an unsolved murder -’

(It can) 

‘The victim was seventeen years old -’

(It is) 

‘Calling for any witnesses to step forward -’

(She’s dead)

[nathanielhsewell]

TWCasks: 10, 20, 30, 40, 50, please! (~agentnatesewell)

thank you so much for the asks mar! 💕

10. Did Murphy bite your detective at the end of Book 1?

- no oh my god surprisingly, he didn’t?!? which is funny because i fucked up just about everything else in my playthrough - murphy got away, sanja died, falk joined the rogues; the fact that murphy didn’t bite alex was the one thing i got write lmao. 

but honestly, the part of me that ADORES the hurt/comfort trope was kinda sad about that because i just wanted to see nate tenderly trace the marks he left on her neck/wrist and just hold her tight you know?! 🥺imma definitely try to get bitten in my next playthrough lmaoo. 

20. Did Falk sign the treaty with the Agency? Did he side with the rogue supernaturals? 

-oops i kinda already answered this but yeah- he joined the rogues. but he didn’t attack alex so he still ended things peacefully. alsoooo, was he FLIRTING?!?!? wtf wtf i wanted to see where that was going im so curious i really hope he makes a reappearance. also, mans got a good fashion sense ill give him that 😌

30. Has your detective gotten closer with Rebecca as the books went on? 

-she has! in the beginning i chose the option where their relationship is very tense & horrible due to her constant absences. but its very very clear that rebecca loves alex so much and truly cares about her and honestly my heart breaks every time the ever-stoic rebecca looses her cool at the thought of loosing her daughter. also omg that scene were she gave A the DMB and was willing to risk her career for her daughter OH GOD.

so yeah over time alex could see how much her mom cared and while she still has a few walls up when it comes to her mom, she’s willing to try again. i remember the scene where nate tried to tell her how much her mom cares about and she kinda snapped at him and told him to not tell her how to handle her family so its kinda nice to see how far their relationship has come. 

40. Do you have a TWC themed blog?

-HAHAHA you know i do ;) ghdjsjss its funny cause i never thought i would make a sideblog but here we are lmaoo im really happy i made it though everyone in this fandom has been amazing so far ❤️

50. Any HCs about Wayhaven (the town itself)?

- oh i have a hc where the town has weekly town meetings in which the town selectsman who basically lives & breathes wayhaven & is weirdly patriachral about the town drones on about all the useless trivia that took place in the town that week. also in these town meetings, people who have conflicts with another are supposed to come out to the front and hash it out with one another with the town selectsman acting as the judge while the rest kinda become the jury. also the issues are almost always so trivial and nonsensical like stealing someone’s parking spot lol. 

- oh oh also since its such a small town, they obviously dont have a proper cinema hall but they have this little makeshift movie theatre with only one movie option per week and instead of comfy sofas there are chairs and you can only buy one bag of popcorn because there has to be enough for everyone. oooo ooo and its a very popular date spot for the teens of wayhaven so i can see alex bringing nate back there for a date and i can imagine the movie being some historical fiction and nate is super interested but alex couldnt care less and keeps distracting him with kisses and he reallly doesnt mind lmaoo.

-ok ok im rambling now but i hc that my detective alex might have a slight caffeine addiction (like me lmao) and haley tries to lecture her on it and sometimes doesn’t give her coffee cause its like her fourth mug of the day lmao but then alex begs and pouts and she just relents hahahaa

(also yes most of these were inspired by gilmore girls cause stars hollow reminds me of wayhaven minus the murders and the vampires lol) 

from this ask!

[enron-intern-1998]

Every US Pres. and some of their crimes:

TW(sexual assault): #22

George Washington: power broker of the slavers. Owned hundreds of human beings over whom he held & exercised absolute power in life and death.

Adams: Made it illegal to criticize the government

Jefferson: owned & used people over whom he held & exercised absolute power in life and death.

Madison: owned other people over whom he held & exercised absolute power in life and death.

Monroe: owned people over whom he held & exercised absolute power in life and death.

Adams jr : slanderized Rachel Jackson with a nationwide smear campaign to the point that her mental & physical health became so deteriorated that she died.

Jackson: abolished the central bank and impoverished most Americans because of a power trip against Nicholas Biddle. Invaded the Floridian peninsula and committed genocidal terror campaigns against those who lived there.

Van Buren: oversaw the trail of tears

William Henry Harrison: built the political capital to become President as a savage murderer in the military

John Tyler: slaver, made the slavery caste system somehow even more intractable by coveting private ownership of land with a supposed mandate from a heavenly power.

James K. Polk: promised in his election campaign to murder as many people past the Rio Grande as it took to make it so human beings could be enslaved there, and followed through

Zachary Taylor: Polk’s butcher of humanity

Millard Fillmore: Sent commodore Perry across the Pacific Ocean, triggering a series of Imperialist wars which led to the second Great War.

Franklin Pierce: excused because he saw his son decapitated in a train accident on their way to his inauguration and was mentally shattered by the experience.

James Buchanen: actively moved weapons and military personnel/equipment to regions which would likely be seized by insurrection were a civil war to break out, in a time where it was likely that a civil war would break out. Generally incompetent.

Abraham Lincoln: suspended the rule of law and emancipated slaves while still buying into the concept of racial hierarchy, essentially repeating the mistakes the founding fathers made. Left a loophole allowing prisoners to be enslaved.

Andrew Johnson: during a speaking tour, one of his stops had grandstands built so poorly that they collapsed, causing death & injury. Refused to hold confederate criminals accountable and endorsed horrific violence

Grant: made government = naked corruption. Whiskey ring, postal ring, totally unable to manage a government or judge the character of people that were nice to him.

Hayes - abandoned hundreds of millions of people across generations to the horror of domination by a crushing racial hierarchy which continues to the present day, for the purpose of political expedience to be president for four insignificant years.

Garfield - excused for gruesome death and for doing his part in taking down corruption in DC on the way out.

Chet Arthur - signed the Chinese Exclusion Act into law.

Grover: raped a woman and threw her in a sanitarium against her will when she went public with her allegations during the election

Benjamin Harrison: the Wounded Knee massacre

Cleveland: refused to use the government to help people who were dying in the streets during an economic collapse and used Pinkertons to murder workers striking for bearable working conditions

McKinley: Genocide in the Phillipines

Roosevelt: Genocide in the Phillipines

Taft: announced in his inaugural address that he would use arbitrary judgments based on skin pigment as the criteria for how the civil service will be staffed

Wilson: screened the film which inspired the second iteration of the Ku Klux Klan, ‘Birth of a Nation’ at the White House.

(No shade to Edith Wilson)

Harding: a true modern ignoramous appointed criminals to his cabinet, cheated on his spouse repeatedly and unrepentantly

Coolidge: never saw an opportunity for cultural appropriation that he didn’t seize

Hoover: sent the military to attack a peaceful protest of world war 1 veterans seeking early payment of combat bonuses.

FDR: Japanese internment.

Truman: got the ball rolling on CIA skullduggery

Eisenhower: Denied history the opportunity to see Nikita Khrushchev in Disneyland. Overthrowing other government organizations caused people to die. passed the buck on the military industrial complex.

Kennedy: Ending all human life instantaneously and simultaneously because of a war becomes possible. Kennedy flirts with the opportunity on multiple occasions.

LBJ: staged a false flag attack to justify escalating a simmering conflict into a frenzy of human butchery

Nixon: sabotaging efforts to end the frenzy of human butchery so they could take credit for stopping it by adding to it a systematic airborne incineration campaign

Ford: Gave Donald Rumsfeld and Dick Cheney their big breaks in politics.

Carter: withdrew some of the soldiers protecting people on the Korean Peninsula as part of political wrangling with Congress, leading to civilians dying violently.

Reagan: didn’t say the word “AIDS” for two years

Bush: covered up his own crimes with the help of his Attorney General, William Barr

Clinton: mass incarceration

Bush jr: war on terror

Obama: drones, deportation & disillusionment

Trump: yanking every loose thread to destabilize the society he ostensibly leads and instigating almost daily

Biden: coming soon????????????????

[ts1989fanatic]

Taylor Swift’s folklore Isn’t a Return to Her Roots, But Somewhere She’s Never Been

Almost a year ago, Taylor Swift released Lover, a lively course correction intended, in part, to craft a more measured and mature style for the singer, whose previous album, Reputation, had used withering sarcasm and hip-hop production elements to wage war with Swift’s crumbling, goodie-two-shoes image and the enemies poking holes in the narrative. In January’s Netflix documentary Miss Americana, which chronicled the Lover sessions and revisited key career moves in the preceding decade, Swift admitted to being driven, on a certain level, by a hunger for public approval: “My entire moral code is a need to be thought of as good,” she said. 1989’s pop turn was really a quest to be seen as the total package in music, an overcorrection for the embarrassment at the 2009 MTV VMAs. The country era before that had been a bit of an act of folksy people-pleasing, too. Lover, it seemed, was the real deal. But even that was a charm offensive of a sort, heralded by blindingly bright music videos and bustling, busy melodies.

Amid the R&B/soul underpinnings of “False God” and “I Forgot That You Existed,” the droning synths of “The Archer,” the high school melodrama of “Miss Americana and the Heartbreak Prince,” the maximalist pop radio fare of “Me!” and “You Need to Calm Down,” and the rustic repose of “Soon You’ll Get Better” and the title track, half a dozen possible Taylors emerged from the pyre on which the old Taylor burned. Again, Swift created distance between her past and present by arming herself with different toys. You could argue that the singer’s eighth album folklore, announced and released in a whirlwind 24 hours just before the weekend, is another sweeping recalibration, trading soaring melodies and effervescent production for moody, introspective folk-pop. But it undersells the true utility of this stripped affair to say it’s just a new sandbox for Taylor. What’s striking about this collection of songs is the relative lack of a fussy new sound and an obvious single. Loosed from the responsibility of piquing the audience’s interest with a rollout dotted with attention-grabbing gestures, Swift is left with just her feelings and her stories.

By challenging the very idea of what a pop song needs to bring to the table in order to make a complete statement, folklore proves that Taylor Swift doesn’t need to make as much noise to get through to us as she has in the past ten years of molting stylistic restlessness. The autumnal accompaniments, provided by the National’s Aaron Dessner alongside his brother and bandmate, Bryce, as well as Swift’s longtime production partner Jack Antonoff, are not a rejection of pop music so much as a reduction. In the quiet of a tune like “my tears ricochet,” all vocals and slowly swelling electroacoustic instruments, there’s nothing to hide behind — no loud, obvious, radio-friendly bells and whistles to elevate hit potential. A middling lyricist and melodicist wouldn’t be able to carry it. The album floats because, beneath the dramatic twists, Taylor Swift is a writer’s writer. Her stories here are more purposeful, if a little less personal. She’s obsessed not just with people falling in and out of love, but the long tail of these connections. There is a Faulknerian interest in multiple outside protagonists and in stories that span decades. The “folk” in folklore isn’t so much a statement of purpose with regard to genre as it is a signal that this is her storytelling album. The Dessners’ trademark folk-pop quietude, at least as manifested on the National’s 2019 album I Am Easy to Find, is the perfect canvas for Swift to show her wares and nod to her influences.

From the title to the music, folklore is an album about the wisdom and experience passed down through generations. On the opener “the 1,” Swift muses languidly: “You know, the greatest loves of all time are over now.” It doesn’t stop her from pining for a storybook romance of her own or gesturing to some of the great love songs in recent history in her writing. The track “the last great american dynasty” recounts the tale of the heyday of Rebekah Harkness, the ill-fated oil heiress and philanthropist whose family life was marred by suicide attempts and murder charges. “mad woman” appears to pick the story back up years later, as a nameless woman stews in spite over a life lived under public scrutiny. “epiphany” is a flashback to Swift’s grandfather’s involvement in World War II’s Operation Watchtower, the inaugural land offensive in the war against Japan and its acquisitions across the Pacific, that uses a wounded soldier’s dark night of the soul to spin a timely yarn about courage in spite of illness and the nearness of mortality. folklore uses allegory to illuminate present realities the way great American songwriters and archivists do. Swift is able to address recent troubles with music industry men and tap into the era’s chilling pulse without naming culprits, to point out the universality of American calamity without being bogged down by specifics.

While it does all that, folklore pays respects to its predecessors, left turns in rock and pop history like the Smashing Pumpkins’ Adore, a gothic folk opus borne out of death and doused in electronic atmospherics from Nitzer Ebb’s Bon Harris; Bruce Springsteen’s Tunnel of Love, the Boss’s synth-laced snapshot of a crumbling marriage and a band on the precipice of an extended hiatus; and Automatic for the People, where R.E.M. made a mint ditching the pop smarts of “Shiny Happy People” and “Stand,” fixating instead on pain and loss in a series of acoustic career highlights. It’s reductive to call Folklore the return to Taylor Swift’s roots some have been waiting for since the EDM excursions on 2012’s Red became the main thrust of 1989. It’s more like a trip to an alternate universe where Rough Trade and 4AD indie rock and dream pop acts like Mazzy Star and the Cocteau Twins played the same field as blockbuster artists of the ‘90s like the Cranberries and Sarah McLachlan. It also fulfills the promise of the Cowboy Junkies fan service in Lover’s title track and confirms the subtle, wide-reaching impact of the electroacoustic warfare at work in the recent Bon Iver albums, which is, itself, a mutant strain of ‘80s and ‘90s Americana.

It’s tempting to say that folklore is a breakup album of sorts, but it’s not necessarily obvious what Taylor Swift is breaking up with here. Is she done with Joe Alwyn, the boyfriend whose secret companionship seemed to inspire the giddier songs on Reputation and Lover? Is she through with trying to please every audience at once, pitching massive singles into the space between pop, hip-hop, and dance music? Or is she, like the rest of us, just missing a life where we could go and behave as we pleased, responding to the jarring shift in the mechanics of friendships, relationships, work life, and nightlife by sliding under her covers and playing sad songs until the outside world fades from view? Maybe she’ll tell us next year.

[vernonfielding]

Life Writes Its Own Stories

Welcome to my obsession! An Amy/Jake newspaper AU: Amy Santiago is a Brooklyn crime reporter eager to break the big story. Jake Peralta is a cynical NYPD detective who trusts no one. If they can get over themselves, they may figure out they’re on the same side.

AN: I am incredibly grateful to the amazing @fezzle for her help with this story: as a beta, a cheerleader, a title-brainstormer and a friend. She offered invaluable feedback that changed the whole tenor of this story, in a way that I think made it so much better. I am so lucky to have found her.

A note to readers wary of multi-chapter fics: This story is complete. I will be posting updates every couple of days, unless I get hit by a bus or something, in which case @fezzle has permission to post for me.

And now, onto Chapter 1 of 15! (You can read at AO3 too.)

Chapter 1

Amy took the subway stairs two at a time and sprinted into the bright morning sunshine, slowing down just enough to glance down at the cell phone in her hand and check the time. She was already one minute late.

“Damnit,” Amy said under her breath and picked up her speed again, waving over her shoulder at the taxi that honked when she darted through the traffic on Bergen. She took the turn onto 6th Avenue so fast that she had to flail her arms to keep her balance, then she put her head down and raced. She ran right up to the front entrance of the 99th Precinct and slammed to a stop, gasping for breath.

“Press conference is delayed,” said the cameraman standing beside her. “Nice day, huh?”

Amy glared at him and he laughed. It was approaching triple digits and the humidity was well over 80 percent and she could feel sweat pooling in her lower back and under her breasts. She plucked at the front of her blouse where it was stuck to her chest. At least she wasn’t late.

The other reporters were spread out in a loose ring around the front of the precinct, most of their faces familiar to Amy. There were three TV journalists, a couple of radio folks, the guy from the online newsletter who was at literally every event in Brooklyn – Amy could never tell how he managed it – and, to her surprise and displeasure, reporters from The Times and the Daily News. And she’d thought her day was already a mess – now this story was competitive.

Amy undid her ponytail and tied her hair into a slightly more secure bun, glad to get a little more air on her neck. She took out her phone again and opened the voice recording app, then pulled out her notebook and her favorite pen and her two backup pens, which she shoved into the pocket of her skirt. She was just checking her email when the precinct doors swung open and Captain Pembroke stepped out, followed closely by Scully and a handful of other cops. The reporters surged forward as one, arms thrust out with cell phones and other recording devices. Amy hit “record” on her phone and stacked her notebook on top so she could jot down every word, just in case.

“We made an arrest in the Adams case,” Pembroke said without preamble, in the same smug voice he used for every interaction with the press, no matter how grave the news. “Last night, we took Keith Jones, fiancé of Judy Adams, into custody…”

Amy took down the name of the suspect and then paused, listening as Pembroke went over all the details of the case. She was still a little confused as to why he’d called a press conference. This wasn’t an especially remarkable case, other than that the dead woman was young, blond and beautiful. (Amy had actually spent a weird amount of time studying her eyeshadow to try to figure out how she got such a fantastic daytime smoky-eye.) She’d been found strangled in Prospect Park last weekend, and for a day or so there had been concerns in the community that she was attacked by a stranger preying on women, which was probably why The Times and the Daily News were here. But that didn’t explain why the NYPD was holding a press conference.

Pembroke droned on for a while but he didn’t have much new to say – Amy had already been tipped off about the fiancé by Scully – and when he finally asked for questions, Amy let herself be nudged back by the other reporters as they yelled out their follow-ups. She glanced down at her phone, debating if she could stop recording, when a voice whispered in her ear.

“Ask about the ex.”

Amy jerked and looked back over her shoulder. A man was standing right behind her. He had dark tousled hair and he was wearing sunglasses and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Amy thought, out of nowhere, ‘He has nice forearms.’ He also had a detective badge around his neck.

“What did you say?” she said.

The detective nodded toward Pembroke. “Ask him about the ex-boyfriend.”

Amy gaped at him for a moment, then turned back to Pembroke, who was smirking in a self-satisfied way at the assembled journalists -- which, again, was not anything new.

“Peralta!” a voice called out.

Amy looked back over her shoulder just as the detective did the same. He glanced once more at Amy, mouthed “the ex” very dramatically, then turned on his heel and walked away.

One of the TV reporters asked if a wedding date for the dead woman and her fiance had been scheduled and Pembroke said, “That’s a stupid question, we’re done” and made for the front door. The reporters let him go, and Amy ducked through the scattering pack of them. She reached Pembroke just as he was pushing open the precinct door.

“Captain?” Pembroke turned and looked her up and down, slowly. Amy felt her skin crawl and she cleared her throat. “Amy Santiago. With the Brooklyn Bulletin. What can you tell me about Judy Adams’ ex-boyfriend?”

Pembroke’s face went suddenly hard and he narrowed his eyes. “Why? Who told you about him?”

“No one,” Amy said, quickly. “Just, I heard there was an ex and I wondered if he was a suspect.”

Pembroke stared at her long enough to make her uncomfortable, then muttered, “No comment” and disappeared into the precinct.

+++

Amy worked the story the rest of the day. A quick look on Facebook confirmed that Judy Adams did have an ex-boyfriend, and he was a cop who worked out of Queens. She tracked down family and friends and talked to the fiance’s lawyer and even got Scully to slip up and tell her that Judy had once taken out a restraining order on her ex. Finally, with just half an hour before deadline and on a last-ditch whim, she called the jail to ask if anyone with the ex-boyfriend’s name was there, and the answer was yes. He’d been booked on murder charges that very afternoon. After Amy confirmed that the birthdate and city of residence of the inmate were the same as the ex-boyfriend – she’d seen it happen before, people with the same name getting confused in the media – she topped off the article and sent it to Terry, who ran it by Holt.

They made the deadline.

“That was good work, Santiago,” Holt said later, after asking her to stop by his office.

The story was Amy’s first big scoop, and Holt had never praised her before, not even a nod the first time she made the front page. She tried to school her face into a professional facade, though based on how much her cheeks hurt from containing her grin, she probably just looked insane.

“I can’t believe they were going to try to pin the murder on her fiancé,” she said, forcing herself to sound cool and casual.

“I doubt they were going to hold him for long.” Holt leaned forward and folded his hands under his chin. “My guess was they wanted to distract us with the fiancé, then let the story blow over for a few days before they arrested the police officer. They only arrested him today because you were asking questions.”

At that, Amy didn’t even bother to fight her grin. “I’m just happy justice will be served,” she said.

Holt nodded sagely and told her to go home. “I’ll want a follow tomorrow on this cop,” he said as she headed back to her desk to pick up her things.

Amy decided to walk home instead of taking the subway. It was late enough that the heat of the day had finally dissipated a little, and anyway, she hadn’t been outside once since getting back to the newsroom. It was nice to breathe some fresh air, such as it was in New York.

Today had been by far her most successful since joining the Bulletin staff three months ago. Honestly, it had been her first successful day, period.

At 30, Amy knew she was a bit on the old side for an entry-level job covering cops at a community newspaper like the Bulletin, but she’d just switched careers after a post-college stint as an elementary school art teacher. She’d actually been surprised when Holt had offered to put her on cops -- it wasn’t the most glamorous beat, but it was a step above general assignment. And it was a beat she genuinely loved. Of course she had aspirations to make it to The Times someday, but for the moment, she was thrilled to be exactly where she was: covering the NYPD, source of the grisliest, most sensational news in the country.

But crime was a tough beat, with especially fierce competition and tight-lipped sources and a lot of gossip and misinformation to contend with. The cops themselves were sometimes the hardest part of the job. There was so much bitter history and genuine mistrust between the NYPD and the media.

Amy had been feeling overwhelmed from her first day, and though Raymond Holt was a smart, inspiring editor in chief, he was also intimidating and she badly wanted to impress him. She’d been barely keeping up with the crimes of the day and had been starting to feel like maybe she didn’t have the spark to nail the bigger stories -- the scoops that make or break a reporter.

Until today, anyway. Amy hummed to herself as she crossed through Fort Greene Park, which was still buzzing with activity even after 10 p.m. on a Friday night, though much of the noise came from the bars and restaurants on the perimeter. Her story would already be online by now, and tomorrow it would be on the front page of the newspaper. She could hardly wait to see the reaction it would get. Even The Times would have to follow her lead.

As she headed up Franklin toward her apartment, Amy replayed the events of the day all over again. It had started with that detective. He’d had an impish smile and unruly hair, but his information had been solid. She wondered why he’d picked her out of the crowd of reporters.

Peralta. That was the name he’d responded to. She’d have to look him up sometime.

+++

“Peralta, you are an idiot.”

Rosa shoved her phone in front of Jake’s face and he jerked back instinctively, sloshing beer down his shirt and into his lap.

“Rosa, what the-”

“Read,” Rosa said, shaking the phone. He took it from her and squinted at the text she’d pulled up on the screen.

“Oh, hey. I didn’t think she’d get the story that fast,” Jake said, impressed.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Rosa snatched her phone back. “The Vulture will slaughter you if he finds out this came from you.”

Jake shrugged, though in reality the very idea of being found out tipping off a reporter made him feel slightly ill. “I just didn’t want to see that asshole get off.”

“You know they were going to arrest him anyway.”

“Yeah, but only after no one gave a shit anymore, and then at least the department could save face,” Jake said. He grabbed a napkin and blotted at his wet clothes. “I’m just tired of this bullshit.”

He knew he didn’t have to explain to Rosa the bullshit he was talking about. The Vulture had taken over the Nine-Nine almost two years ago, and their jobs had been hell ever since.

Pembroke’s stated goal was not so much about catching bad guys, but making the NYPD – and more specifically Pembroke himself – look good. In theory, those were the same goals. But somehow under the Vulture the two paths diverged, and Jake and Rosa had found themselves increasingly pressured to prioritize cases that would get positive media attention and back off of the – as Pembroke put it – garbage ones.

Most of the decent cops in the Nine-Nine had left within a year of the Vulture taking over, but somehow Jake and Rosa were still there, partnered on a lonely island surrounded by cold, unfriendly, shark- (or vulture-) infested waters.

“If you’re thinking of making a habit of this, don’t,” Rosa said, tipping her beer bottle toward Jake in a weirdly threatening way. “The Vulture will find out, and if he doesn’t, Wuntch will. It’s too risky.”

“I know.” Jake sighed, and took a long pull from his beer. “I just kind of lost it today when he actually called a press conference and fed them all lies. He knowingly arrested the wrong man and made him the headline of the day. That’s messed up, Rosa.”

Rosa nodded glumly. “Yeah, that was all kinds of fucked up.”

They drank in silence for a while, ignoring the other cops and assorted locals at Shaw’s. Jake grabbed a handful of nuts from the bowl on their table and picked out the cashews before tossing the rest in his mouth.

Approaching that reporter had been a spontaneous decision. He’d snuck out the back of the precinct to watch the press conference, knowing it was going to piss him off. When the Vulture had started spelling the fiance’s name -- to make sure the journalists got it right, of course -- something in Jake had snapped.

He’d waited until the reporters converged on him to ask their questions and then sidled up right behind the young woman in the back. Her shiny brown hair had been falling out of her bun, the loose strands curling around her neck, and her pink blouse was sticking to her back with sweat. She’d clearly been startled when he’d suddenly whispered in her ear, but she’d recovered quickly. He’d watched her approach Pembroke straight away. So she was brave, or else just new.

Jake left Shaw’s on the early side, after Rosa decided to chew him out some more. At his apartment, he showered and changed into sleep clothes and climbed into bed, then he pulled up the Bulletin story and read it to the end. She’d done good work, and Jake felt an unexpected flush of pride. Rosa was right, he’d taken a big risk -- but it had been the right thing.

He scrolled back up to the top of the story and read the byline.

‘Well,’ Jake thought, as he flipped off his phone and tucked it under his pillow, ‘it was nice working with you, Amy Santiago.’

CHAPTER 2