#minor and canon typical but it is there

[the-dye-stained-socialite]

A Study of Tattoos

@house-of-mirrors here's my fic for you for the @fallenlondonficswap! I hope you enjoy!

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 1,290

Summary: An academic has an encounter with a spy, and can never go back.

Contains: The great game, Judgements, tomb-colonists, the khanate, permadeath, and brief mentions of zailors and implied intimacy.

Ao3 Link

It has been weeks since I saw her.I was not supposed to open that door. She had been redressing, pulling her blouse back on when I noticed them. Dozens of tattoos covered every available inch of skin, some overlapping even, like the sketching book of a Bohemian who could not yet afford a fresh one. My mind has since become that sketchbook. They fascinate me. I look for tattoos everywhere I go now, hoping to catch a glimpse of more. Sometimes I do.

I have found out more. She was a surface runner. A spy. Staying in the Neath for as minimal time as possible so as to not die, and lose her usefulness. My accidental involvement with her has set off a chain reaction which I do not understand. A chain reaction which I must understand. Ripples have consequences. 

My final term is nearing an end. My professor, a demanding man who always oversees every minute detail, is demanding a long-form research project. I will choose the coding of tattoos to demonstrate my academic expertise.

***

I have made an error. Examples of spy tattoos are hard to find in full for one simple reason: It is vital that they be decoded only by the intended recipient. Even after one is put onto the body and then delivered, it may still be decoded by others to find out a plan. I had to figure out a method that would enable me to find these tattoos.

I bumbled around Wilmot’s End for near to a week. I would pin any spy I could recognize as such with conversation, like an amateur entomologist clumsily practicing on an abundant species. I realize, only now in the aftermath, the flaws in my method. At the time however, I was stumbling through, unseeing, blunt and broad in my brushstrokes.

I did not realize what would be the consequences of my actions. The game I was playing was not long enough. One of the spies began to spread such a storm of scandal that my own professor booked me a ticket to the Tomb-Colonies! As such, I leave today.

***

I have been here a week now, and made friends with a very old Colonist. They are dead now. I watched them crack open, like a cocoon made not of silk, but rather of dusty bandages. Before they died, however, I was permitted to see beneath those bandages. I had been explaining my thesis, and how my attempts at finding samples was what brought me here, when they told me they had something that might help. Indeed they did.

As part of my research, I had studied tattoos extensively. In addition to the time I spent in Wilmot’s End, I had also spent an entire week staking out Clathermont’s parlor, watching those who came and went. When the Colonist unraveled their wraps to show the aged parchment of their skin, I saw tattoos and symbology I had never come across before. I took very detailed drawings, noting everything from direction to color to location.

***

I am back at the University. The Colonies gave me the time and space to think. I took some gifted rags back with me. I wrap myself in them now, and keep a scytale of my notes. Depending on where I choose to wrap them, I can disguise many messages.

***

I have gone through the entire libraries of both Benthic and Summerset. They contain hardly anything about spycraft, and even less about what it looked like before the Fall of London. This place is hindering my research more than helping it. I will go back to the Tomb-Colonies, this time of my own volition. I tire of things happening without my understanding of how or why. I will learn, and I will grow.

One of my classmates is a pawn. He is clearly a spy, but he never operates of his own free will. Is there a way to, in this game? If so, I will find it. If not, I will become it.

***

Once more I am here among dust and moths. A Tomb-Colonist who reminded me of my Aunt spoke with me. I ended up asking her about older tattoo works. She pointed me across the Zee.

“There, in the Khanate. My granddaughter traveled there once. Its people are descendants of those who escaped that last fallen city.” She gave me some of her wrappings, to fill the gaps in my own. I thanked her.

I will spend the remainder of my time here, constructing a false identity with which I may enter the city.

***

I wonder. Was I pointed to the Khanate by chance? Am I still part of someone else’s schemes? Perhaps, like a puppet that resents the one who claims to be her master, I will take up a blade, sharp and precise, and slice off both blindfold and bindings in one neat cut.

***

My disguise is complete now. The Kindly Colonist had parting words for me.

“They will use every last part of you. Death, true death, will not be the end. They will use your memory to haunt and persuade others. They will use your tombstone as a dead drop. They will use your dying breath to pull in another. You cannot love or be loved. Travel safe, and if you do try to escape… Do not do it partway. You cannot have a foot in each world.”

She gave me a small cloth bag. There is a scrap of irrigo fabric inside, which causes a fog in my mind.

***

I have found a captain willing to zail my false identity East. I study the crew’s backs and shoulders, looking for ink.

***

My disguise has held so far. It is a good thing I have learned not to be reckless. My second day in port I saw a junior pawn removed by the White and Golds. I have a growing distaste for them. I played shatar for much of the day. Unlike London, tattoos are kept much more secret here.

***

I intercepted a message today. I danced with a charming woman all night long, and used our intimacy to make a study of her tattoos. The shapes themselves are smaller here, but still just as detailed. They know how to prolong usefulness. The symbols are different as well, though I see similarities reflected in the tattoos of the zailors who brought me here.

***

Last night I dreamt of a chessboard. I was clothed in ruby armor. A man in ivory approached me.

Once within arm’s reach, the world around me transformed into a glittering castle. I could see checkered fighting out of the windows.

Someone guarded him off to the side. He talked carefully and with precision, and explained many things. How he was interested in my development, how I moved across the board quickly for a mere pawn. How he had arranged all of this. His eyes were blue like snow as he dropped carelessly back onto his self-proclaimed throne.

His right hand twisted, and marionette strings tightened against my limbs. I grew furious. I did not want to be controlled. He was not allowed to manipulate my life.

He spoke of bleaching my ruby vestments, and his eyes gleamed. They glowed such a bright light, in fact, that it burned to look upon his shining throne.

My fury kept me grounded. I wanted nothing more than to snuff out that bright white light. I snapped my strings, and all at once, his castle folded and faded, like crumpled notes.

A man who reminded me of someone I once knew rushed up to me. His armor was deep ebony. I looked at my tattooed limbs, and saw that so was mine.

I woke up.

[cirtusmistress]

Hurricane

Authors Note: I wrote this about two years ago and posted it to AO3, and never cross-posted it to Tumblr. But given I want to get back into writing, I may as well start by posting what I got! So enjoy my first fic, two years late.

Ship ~ Brahms Heelshire x GN Reader

Tags ~ Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Reader is Competent, Storm prep, Brahms is Scared of Storms, Touch-Starved Brahms Heelshire, Reader Replaces Greta Evans, Minor Injuries, Doll Brahms Heelshire, One Shot, Gender-Neutral Pronouns

AO3 Crosspost

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“A storm? Like, a thunderstorm? Or is it worse?” You asked. You’d been working for the Heelshire’s for around two months now. And though they’d left you with very detailed instructions on how to care for their beloved son, they had never brought up things such as house care. Honestly, you hadn’t planned on staying this long. Not into Autumn.

“A full on hurricane.” Malcolm answered, setting the last of the grocery bags down. He continued, “The worst one we’ve had in years apparently. They’re predicting outages and downed trees. I can help you secure the windows and doors if you’d like?” He offered. A sweet gesture. An olive branch of friendship. But you knew better than to take it.

During your short time at the Heelshire estate, and caring for Brahms, you’d learned a great many things. The most crucial being that whenever someone stayed around too long and stole your attention away from the doll you cared for, there was hell to pay. In one instance you found the dining room in complete disarray after simply inviting Malcolm in for tea, during a rare social moment for you. The worst case was when a friend of yours stopped by. They were a globetrotter, and seeing as you already had residence found it simpler to just stay with you. A mistake. One night was enough to send Brahms into the worst tantrum you’d ever seen. Multiple rooms destroyed, a window had been broken, and he had stolen your friend's passport. Your friendship didn’t last long after that. After all, who was to believe that a doll could cause so much harm?

“Thank you, Malcolm, but I’ll be fine. I’ve dealt with a few storms in my life, I’ll manage.” You replied. Malcolm studied you for a moment. Likely trying to read you, sniff out any signs of dishonesty. But, there were none. Just that warm smile that could melt anyone's heart. He gave a sigh of defeat and nodded.

“If you say so. Just give me a call if you need anything. I’ll come check on you when the hurricane passes.” With that he gave you a wave and headed back to his truck. You muttered a soft thanks, finally returning to your chores.

Brahms sat in the kitchen where he’d been waiting. Like he was listening to your conversation. You’d grown used to this odd job of yours. Caring for a doll as if it were human. Though you’d always figured there was more to this situation then most believed. You’d heard of people using dolls to cope with loss, the concept wasn’t lost on you. But for a couple well into their later years? And there were just.. Too many small things. Even in the rules. Playing music loud, reading in a loud clear voice, leaving food in the freezer. Food which you knew was going missing.

But the biggest tell was an accident. It had been about a month into the job. You’d actually begun to believe Brahms was a child's spirit trapped in the doll. What with him moving around on his own, and leaving you little offerings, and once saying your goddamn name when he was upset. But then, just by accident as you were putting Brahms to bed, you hit your foot against the wall. It had hurt so badly you thought you’d broken a toe. But what stood out in your mind even now was the sound the wall made. It didn’t make the thud you knew from stubbing your toe time and time again in youth. The wall sounded hollow. There had been an echo. Now you knew some older houses had hollow walls. Normally the cavities between the two layers were used for insulation. But that echo.. That wasn’t a normal hollow wall.

After that you’d started paying closer attention to the house and Brahms as you went about your day. Watching and listening. Countless nights where you’d lay in bed and just listen. You’d hear shuffling, the rare footstep like someone had stumbled. Once you swore you heard breathing. You noticed how many rooms had large paintings or cabinets, your size or larger. For a while you thought you were going mad. There was no way in hell that an elderly couple had been keeping their son in the walls for twenty years. But then you learned of the Heelshire’s deaths. Suicides. So many things pointing to something you didn’t quite know how to feel about. On one hand, you were now basically the sole guardian of a doll who was actually a stand-in for the hypothetical twenty-eight year old man in the walls. On the other, Brahms was now completely alone after twenty years of isolation. Alone, save for you. Sweet, kind, loving you who treated a porcelain doll like a real boy. Who read to him every night and tucked him in with a kiss. You couldn’t just leave him. No matter what Brahms was.

“We’re in for a storm, Brahms. I guess that means we’re having a slumber party downstairs tonight.” You cortled, putting the last of the groceries away. You took note of how little perishables Malcolm had dropped off. Thinking ahead. You wouldn’t be able to cook for however long the power was gone, if it did go that was.

You turned back to the doll, scooping him up and taking him with you. You figured the downstairs office would be the safest place. The windows were relatively small and were less likely to break. It would do for your purposes. You sat Brahms in the corner and got to work moving the desk out of the way. You’d have to lay down blankets and things to sleep on. You doubted the old fashioned Heelshire’s were going to have something like an air mattress.

You spent a good hour doing basic storm prep. Dragging some old blankets and comforters out of wardrobes and laying them down on the floor. Filling up buckets and the tubs with water. Getting crossword puzzles and cards. By the time that was all done, it had begun to rain outside. The calm before the storm you supposed. The last thing on your storm checklist was lanterns. This was an old house, you were certain that the Heelshire’s would have oil lamps somewhere. Naturally the first place you wanted to check was the attic.. But you knew better. After all, if your theory was right you didn’t want to scare the poor man by invading his space. So you settled on checking the cellar first.

Only issue was, you really couldn’t bring Brahms. You knew he was never meant to be alone but taking a fragile doll into a dark cellar was too risky. He’d have to stay upstairs. You were hoping he wouldn’t be too upset.

“Brahms, I’m headed to the cellar. I’ll be quick, I promise.” You hummed. With that, you headed down alone. You had been right, it was dark and musty and damp. You started to wonder if there was mold down here. You flicked on the old dingy light which surprisingly still worked. You began digging through the clutter. Old things like furniture, clothes never worn since the sixties, even some art pieces. It was like a time capsule. You didn’t have time to walk through history though, you needed to find anything that could give light without the use of electricity. Lower and lower you went through the piles, until finally you found something. A pair of old oil lamps and a small can of oil to go with it. You muttered a soft thanks, pulling them out from beneath wicker chairs. But what was behind them gave you pause.

The bricks were singed. Dark burn marks that showed age. Your eyes followed the marks. The furniture in here had covered them, but now they were exposed after your rummaging. They flowed over the bricks going upwards. They almost looked beautiful. But that beauty hid a tragedy that plagued this home. You knew why they’d been hidden with so much clutter.

Your thoughts were interrupted when something crashed behind you, making you scream and jump. When you turned you saw one of the mirrored vanities stored away had been smashed. The mirror shards now littered the floor. And on the steps sat the Brahms doll, staring you down. It took you a moment to catch your breath, realizing your error. Brahms didn’t want you uncovering his painful memories. And he’d made sure you knew that. Gathering yourself, you pushed the lamps aside and began to put all that you’d moved back into its place. Covering those painful memories back up, letting them remain hidden and forgotten. Once finished you picked the lamps and the can up and approached Brahms. Kneeling to his height you gave an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry Brahms,” you spoke with such a genuine tone of sincerity, “I shouldn’t have snooped around. But look! I found the lamps we’ll need!” You held up the lamps, jostling them a little so they clinked together. Of course the doll remained frozen. But just faintly, almost missable under the sound of rain pouring down, you heard panting. Like someone coming down from a rage.

“I’ll clean up the shards, then we’ll head back upstairs, okay?” You’d started speaking to Brahms out loud more after you’d learned about the walls. Feeding your own delusions some would say. You held your word, starting to pick up the larger shards and resting them on top of the vanity. The smaller ones you just brushed away with some loose fabric you found. You didn’t really plan on coming back down here anyways, not after that outburst.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You always found time moves slower when there was a storm. The day seemed to drag on as the storm became worse and worse. The wind had picked up and those raindrops just kept getting larger. It was loud, even on the bottom floor. You had settled on just simple sandwiches for dinner, making sure to put a ‘spare’ in the freezer. And after that you’d just settled in to do a crossword. It was.. Probably the first time in weeks where you felt safe. There was something about the dim lighting and blankets that just felt right. Secure. Warm. Brahms sat under the covers and you’d even given him a crossword book of his own. Slightly cruel, knowing he couldn’t move with you there with him. But at least you’d been talking to him. Funny, you always struggled talking with real people. But this doll turned you into a chatterbox. Maybe it was the simple fact no one was attempting to speak over you. Like someone was actually listening.

Your tranquility was disrupted by a large gust of wind, followed by a crash that made the manor shake. And what sounded like a scream. It had come from upstairs. Something inside you just knew. That crash was in the attic. You were running upstairs before you even had time to think. Up the stairs, and finding the attic ladder down. You were unsure if it had come undone itself or if someone had moved it. That didn’t matter as you climbed up. It was your first time in the attic but you didn’t get a chance to explore. A branch had flown off a tree and crashed through the wall, opening it up to the elements. You could only act, no time for clear thoughts. You grabbed a nearby blanket and started to desperately try to cover the hole, but another gale blew you back. There was nothing you could do to patch it right now, not unless you wanted to risk injury or worse, death.

Your rattled mind returned to the scream you had heard. Or at least you thought you had heard. Looking around you didn’t see a body but there was a bed up here. A tv, a sink.. Someone was living here. You didn’t have time to celebrate your theory being proven. Where was Brahms? Your eyes flitted around, finally landing back on the ladder. Somehow you had missed the very clear bloody handprint on it during your panic. But if Brahms was bleeding.. Oh God, how badly was he injured? Quickly you descended the steps, trying to find any sign of him. You were too panicked to even fear this man who was hiding from you for so long. All you knew somewhere in this house he was hurt and bleeding.

“Brahms?” You called, starting to check every room. Could he have climbed back into the walls? Fearing you discovering him? You checked everything on the top floor and worked down, calling his name in a more desperate tone with each exclamation. But finally you found him. Turning the corner back into the downstairs study. There he sat, in place of the doll. It wasn’t what you expected to see. The mask was shocking at first glance. You were momentarily stun locked. He was bigger than you anticipated, even sitting down. Finally you snapped out of it when he looked at you, and held out his bleeding hand. It had a sizable gash across the palm.

“It hurts,” He spoke in a child-like voice. The voice you’d heard months ago. His head drooped a touch as he spoke, “Can you fix it?” He asked. Finally, after another beat, you nodded. Your mouth felt dry. Too dry to speak. In the kitchen you found the first aid, and took it back with you. He hadn’t moved from his place on the makeshift bed. You knelt beside him, and carefully took his hand in yours. Up close you could see the burn scars that ran along his entire right side. Suddenly his outburst in the cellar made much more sense.. Carefully you applied some rubbing alcohol to the cut. That made Brahms whimper and pull his hand back. The look in his eyes behind that mask was murderous.

“I’m sorry, Brahms, but I have to.. To clean it.” You choke out. Your mouth is still far too dry. You hold your hand out for his again, giving him those warm eyes again. He would trust you wouldn’t he? After all, you had been the one to care for him all this time. He looked at your hand, then back to your face. For a moment Brahms almost seemed entranced by your eyes before conceding and resting his hand back in yours.

“Good boy..” You said, starting to clean the wound. He made a noise akin to that of a moan at your praise. You supposed you were the first person to touch him or give him praise in years. He was likely touch starved. Once the cut was clean, you grabbed the bandages and began to wrap his hand. He kept watching you. His breath was heavy behind that mask.

Finally you were done, and you let his hand go. Brahms examined your work, how carefully you’d wrapped him, and the cute little bow you’d tied it off with. As he studied his hand, you studied him. Despite the childish voice he put on, he was very much an adult. You could see his beard poking out from beneath the porcelain. He was actually rather handsome, you’d admit. The rain picked up again, and the lights began flickering. Brahms jumped and quickly moved closer to you. Before you knew it his head was hiding in your lap. Apparently he was afraid of the storm. Made sense, it had attacked him after all. Carefully you began to stroke his hair in an attempt to soothe him.

“We’ll be okay. Just a little wind and rain, that’s all. Maybe we can play cards? Or I can tell you a story?” You offered. Just trying to find anything to distract him from the weather outside damaging his home. Slowly he nodded, not lifting his head from your waist. Actually his grip seemed to grow tighter. You could feel him inhaling a little too deeply, and his hands started to squeeze your thighs as he held tight. You felt bad thinking how unsurprised that made you. But he had lived in the walls for twenty years.. And you were likely the first person he’d had stick around.

You settled back on to the makeshift mattress, Brahms never letting you go. He shuffled up a bit, so his face was resting against your chest. You kept stroking his hair, picking your brain for a story to tell. Something romantic as you had a wild feeling that was right up his alley. You recounted the story of Pride and Prejudice, not skipping any details of the classic story. Brahms seemed all too enthralled by the tale. He even began to kick his feet in the air when you recounted the climax between Elizabeth and the beloved Mr.Darcy. Just before you could finish though, the lights finally gave out. Brahms tensed up against you and again hugged you tight against him. You let out a wheeze. You needed to get the lamps but he seemed content just smothering you until the lights came back themselves. Finally you managed to sit up as he continued to cling like a baby koala.

“Brahms, sweetheart, I need to light the lamps.” You manage to get out. But that seems to make his grip tighter. He shakes his head, face pulling your shirt back and forth.

“No. No lamps. I don’t want any fire in the house.” He whimpered. Your heart broke a little. That night seemed to have never left Brahms.. You stroked his back soothingly before trailing your hands to cup his cheeks.

“Brahms, we need light. It’ll be okay, I can work an oil lamp-” You were cut off as Brahms slammed you back down against the floor. Even with the cushioning it knocked the air from your lungs. Your hands fell from his face beside yourself as his own gripped your shoulders.

“No fire in the house. Never again.” His voice was no longer that high falsetto. Instead it was deep, aggressive. He sounded his age. You gasped for air, before nodding. Tears had pricked your eyes. You felt a twinge of guilt as you questioned whether or not he’d hurt you.

Finally you found your voice again, “Okay Brahms. No lamps, I promise. Do you want another story?” You asked in a feeble attempt to calm him back down. Lucky for you it seemed to work. Brahms grip on your shoulders loosened, and he returned his head to your chest. He nodded and urged you on to tell your story.

A shaky sigh escaped you. You thanked your lucky stars that you could calm him so easily. As you began telling another story, the rain and wind outside crashed into the manor. You knew Brahms would never harm you. Not you. Not his caretaker. But you began to wonder. How long would this storm last? Suddenly, in the dark, the room no longer felt secure.

[samuelsdean]

The Cure to Injuries

pairing: spencer reid x reader

summary: you most definitely didn’t think that the most effective cure to a bruise is a gentle kiss placed on it.

genre: fluff & angst

word count: 1.8k

author's notes: this is the first fic i have ever written since my stay on wattpad during grade school. so, forgive me for any mistakes & cheesiness that bled into it. spencer is too cute and he deserves more softness in his life. anyway, i hope you'll enjoy what you're about to read as much as i enjoyed writing it. i hope you'll like & reblog if you find this fic good. please do tell me if you want me to write more because i will!

GROWING UP, YOU’VE ALWAYS KNOWN YOU WANTED TO DO SOMETHING TO HELP PEOPLE. The first job you thought of was becoming a teacher. However, you realized that making lesson plans and dealing with naughty kids weren’t your thing. 

The next one was becoming a lawyer. But, you’ve had enough of seeing your dad being buried in paperwork and your family telling you, "You’d be a great lawyer! You literally enjoy debating with everyone."

Then, you thought of becoming a doctor. You were good at science, and you found the human body interesting. That was your dream until you had to see your friends vomit literal bile on the sidewalk and have their stomachs pumped after a night of drinking. After that, you didn’t think you could deal with vomit and other possible human excretions in the future.

Luckily, one sunny day, your brightest idea of what you wanted your future to be like finally came to you. You wanted to work for the FBI. You’ve always been a bit too interested in criminal justice, but at the same time, you wanted to fuse it with your interest in science. So, you’ve decided that becoming a profiler is your end goal.

You just didn’t think about how becoming one could involve getting bruised and battered, possibly even shot at and blown up, and you most definitely didn’t think that the most effective cure to a bruise is a gentle kiss placed on it.

"Ow! It’s good you aren’t the medical doctor kind of doctor because your patient would definitely file a complaint against you." 

You huffed and puffed, as you gingerly sat on the ambulance, accompanied by your co-worker, Dr. Spencer Reid. He shook his head and rolled his eyes at you as he continued prodding you for other injuries. 

The FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit, or BAU, has been your workplace for almost four years now. You never thought you’d get here after you realized that you don’t only need brains to become a profiler but also brawn. Fortunately for you, you were too smart for the FBI to pass up on, and, well, you at least passed your physical exams—albeit barely but still enough to get to where you are now. Oh, the dream!

Where you are right now, despite that, is definitely not the dream. You were presently black and blue after being the one to take down and make the arrest of the unsub who had abducted children in Kentucky as surrogates for her deceased child. Despite your injuries, the day ended on a positive note. All the children are going home to their parents alive, and that’s all you could ever ask for. Well, that, and the incessant flocking of your co-worker, who just so happened to be the person with whom you have harbored romantic feelings for quite some time now.

"What you did was stupid, Y/L/N! You could’ve gotten killed, going in there like you’re bulletproof or something," Reid exclaimed, complete with the hand gestures and the word vomit when he’s excited or worried. "Did you forget what happened five months, seven days, and three hours ago? You got shot in the arm!"

In this case, you’re positive he’s about to pass out from all the talking and lack of breathing.

"You know, Reid," You chuckled in amusement and said, "I’m more concerned about you keeping track of the exact date and time I got injured. Are you sure you’re doing that out of concern for me as your coworker, or is it because you secretly have feelings for me?"

The doctor paled, his pouty lips opening and closing like those of a fish, swimming in the depths of the ocean.

"W-what?! What do you mean I have feelings for you?"

That made your heart twitch, and not in a good way. You knew the doctor couldn't reciprocate your feelings. He just happened to have a phenomenal memory. He can’t help but store random information; he has no choice but to remember. But, you can’t help yourself. A tiny part of you still yearns for him to return your feelings. Oh well, you’d rather have him as your friend than nothing at all. But, a little teasing won’t hurt, right?

"I’m kidding, Reid," you snickered, "I know you know that piece of information because of that eidetic memory of yours or whatever."

"It’s not just because of that, you know," Reid sighed.

That gave you pause. It seemed like your world stopped turning and nothing else mattered. It couldn’t be, you thought, there’s no way he likes you back. You’re you, and he’s this otherworldly guy. You can’t even believe he’s real.

"What?" You chuckled nervously, tugging at your ear gently, "What are you saying, Spencer?"

Spencer sighed and frowned, "I know I was the reason you got shot that day, Y/N. I saw the glint in your eye when you thought the best way to save me from getting shot was to push me out of the way and shield me. And that was a stupid move, by the way."

Your jaw dropped. You were about to say something, but Spencer beat you to it.

"Let me finish first," He said, raising his index finger as if to say I still have a lot to say, "It’s stupid because you almost got yourself killed. I was about to move out of the way when you covered for me and you got hurt! You got hurt, Y/N! How was I supposed to live with myself if you ended up dying that day because of me? How, Y/N?"

"But I didn’t! I’m here, Reid." You’re scowling now and about to rant Spencer’s ear off. " What do you want me to say? That I’m sorry I wanted to save you that day? Because I’m not!"

You know that what you did that day was incredibly stupid of you. What Reid was saying was true. You could have died that day, but you were too selfish to admit that. You were so selfish that you couldn’t imagine living a life without Spencer Reid in it if you hadn't pushed him out of the way and ended up hurting yourself for it. And you have had no regrets to this day about doing it.

"That’s the thing, Y/N," Reid was almost full-on shouting now: "No matter how much you end up getting hurt to protect the people around you, you don’t care! Did you really think I’d appreciate what you did for me if you ended up seriously getting hurt, or worse, dead?"

Your vision is getting blurry from the unshed tears now. You love Reid so much, but he wouldn’t get it. He would never see you as more than just a coworker. More than a friend.

"No, Spencer," you sniffled, looking directly at him now, "I know you wouldn’t have appreciated it if that happened. Call me selfish, but I care for you too much to ever let anything hurt you and regret what I did."

You stood up from where you were sitting and were about to head to the SUV where you could be alone before driving back to the precinct, but Spencer didn’t let you. He held your wrist, pulled you back, and groaned.

"God, you’re insufferable!" He exclaimed, "Don’t you get it? I care about you, Y/N!"

"I know, Reid," you smiled wistfully, "you care about me because I’m your friend."

"No, I don’t." 

This made you stop in your tracks and stare at him intently.

"I don’t care about you as a friend, Y/N. I never did."

"Oh."

Reid sighed deeply and ran a hand through his hair. "Now that the cat’s out of the bag, I don’t expect you to love me back—"

"I love you." This made Reid stop fully. "I have loved you since the day you talked my ear off about Doctor Who. I have loved you since that time I woke up in the middle of the night back in Atlanta and ended up knocking on your door because I couldn't go back to sleep. You told me you'd always be here for me."

"I love you, Spencer Reid."

Before you could overthink your sudden confession, Spencer held your uninjured cheek with his slender hand—and the next thing you know, he is kissing you. 

You couldn't help but gasp. You were startled by the suddenness. His lips were warm and soft, almost pillowy against yours. Warmth blossomed in your chest as Spencer's lips brushed against yours tentatively. The smell of his hair—like the smell of early mornings after a night of rain—was dizzying. He smelled so clean and fresh, like soap, with a hint of the smell of a new book.

You felt lightheaded as he swiped his tongue against your lips, asking for entrance, which you gave him. You could taste the hint of sweet coffee he drank just minutes before the takedown. You could feel the soft tickle of his breath and his fingers as he carded it through your hair while you breathed each other in.

You never imagined kissing Spencer could feel like this.

Regretfully, your bruised cheek was starting to take the brunt of all the snogging. You had to pull away because you were running out of breath, so you tapped his cheek. Spencer wasn't taking the hint at all, which made you giggle—cute. Having no other choice, you held both of his cheeks and pulled away.

"Y/N? What's wrong? Did I hurt you?"

"No, silly," you chortled; he's so cute. "I just ran out of breath, and my bruised cheeks hurt. It isn't your fault. Don't worry." You assured him.

Spencer sighed a breath of relief, which made you want to tease him.

"I know what can stop my bruises from hurting, though."

Eager to please you, the doctor was about to start searching for possible medical remedies to your injuries, not knowing you had something else in mind.

"You could plant a kiss on them." You grinned widely as you saw Spencer's neck start reddening, "I'm kidding, Spence," you said, "You don't have to—"

You didn't expect Spencer—of all people—to be the type of person who would shower you with kisses if you asked him, but he is. He started planting light kisses on the purple blotches on your face—not caring that anyone from the local police to your workmates from the bureau could see you. 

"I love you too, Y/N Y/L/N," Reid said, eyes glistening with unshed tears as he brushed his lips against yours once again.

You never thought the best day of your life would be the day you get injured. You never thought the best cure for cuts, scrapes, and bruises could be a kiss from the one you love the most—Spencer Reid.

[weevil-wallflower]

Scars

Cal Kestis x Reader

Summary: Even a Jedi Knight needs some reassurance from time to time.

Warnings/Tags: Spoilers for Jedi: Survivor, canon-typical violence, SFW, no use of Y/N, minor angst.

A.N.: My fifth entry for Cal Kestis Week 2024! It follows the Day 4 prompt ‘Scars’. I've been meaning to get this one out like four days ago, on the last day of Cal Kestis Week but unfortunately work and studies prevented me from finishing it on time. And yes, another older prompt but I simply had to use this idea! Gif by me!

Also on AO3!

Word Count: ~1,600

The final moments of Cal’s fight with Dagan were a blur of pain and fury. As the duel between Cal and Dagan came to a brutal end, Dagan’s lightsaber struck Cal across his chest, sending a shockwave of agony through his body. The sizzling sound of burning flesh filled the air as Cal staggered, his tunic scorched around the fresh wound while his lightsaber clattered to the floor.

The redhead clutched the wound as he felt the charred fabric of his tunic cling to the cauterised wound. The world around him flipped as he collapsed to the ground, his vision narrowing to the sight of Dagan’s triumphant sneer.

Taking in a deep breath and pushing away the pain for the moment, Cal Force-pulled his lightsaber towards him and used one of Dagan’s own hallucinations against him. He focused intently, allowing the Force to shape his image into that of Santari, Dagan’s late friend. The vision caught Dagan off guard, his defense faltering as he grappled with the apparition of the one person who he trusted most. Seizing the opportunity, Cal's lightsaber blazed with lethal accuracy, piercing right through Dagan's chest. Dagan's pained scream was mixed with a sizzling sound as the blade tore through muscle and bone. Cal twisted the sword, guaranteeing a fatal strike.

Just as victory appeared to be imminent, Dagan used the Force to painfully seize Cal's body, suspending him mid-air. Dagan’s voice, filled with rage and desperation, rang through the chamber as he yelled about Tanalorr, his dream fading away. Cal struggled against the invisible grip, his own strength waning.

BD-1, seeing the peril his friend was in, acted swiftly. With frantic beeps and nudges, the little droid managed to wake Bode, who had previously been rendered unconscious by Dagan. Realising the dire situation, Bode aimed his blaster at Dagan and fired, the shot breaking Dagan’s concentration and releasing Cal from his grasp.

With a final lethal strike to across the chest, Cal sent Dagan crumpling to the ground, his body twitching as the life drained from his eyes. Cal stood over him, his chest heaving with the effort and pain of the fight.

Bode slowly approached the redhead, his expression a mix of relief and concern. “Cal, are you okay?” He asked, his voice tinged with worry.

Cal glanced at Bode, his face a mask of determination despite the agonising pain in his chest. "I'm fine," he lied, his voice strained. All he wanted was to get away from there and be in your comforting arms.

Bode studied him for a moment, seeing through the facade but deciding not to press further. He placed a reassuring hand on Cal's shoulder, squeezing it lightly. "You did good, brother," Bode said softly, his tone filled with warmth. "Go on ahead. I'll stay and survey the area. And see if I can find a manual for that compass or something..."

Cal nodded, a wave of gratitude washing over him at Bode's support. "Thanks, Bode," he replied, his voice a bit more genuine.

With a final look at his fallen foe and a nod to Bode, Cal turned and made his way back towards Pyloon’s Saloon. Hand pressed to the wound on his chest, each step sent a wave of pain radiating through his body but he forced himself onwards, driven by the need to be with you. He knew that in your arms, he would find the solace and comfort he desperately needed.

When he finally entered your shared quarters below Pyloon’s Saloon, stumbling in through the back door—most likely to avoid everyone in the cantina—You were already there waiting for him, your expression one of great concern. As soon as Cal stumbled in, BD-1 hopped down from his back, rushing over to You with worried beeps about the Jedi.

“Cal,” You said softly, rushing over to his side. “Let me take a look at that.”

He nodded, his emerald eyes meeting yours with a mixture of gratitude and resignation. His tunic sported a burnt slash across his chest where the lightsaber had struck him, the fabric singed and charred around the wound. Carefully, You guided him to sit on the bed, your touch gentle but firm. You gently pried his tunic off, being careful not to aggravate the wound further before You began to examine the injury. BD-1 perched on your shoulder, his beeps and chirps a constant stream of worry as he watched You work.

When the wound came into view, You couldn’t help but gasp at the horrible sight, your heart aching for the pain Cal had endured. The wound was a searing, angry red slash across his chest, blackened at the edges and blistered from the intense heat of the lightsaber.

The silence in your quarters was thick with unspoken words. As You worked, Cal couldn’t help but shakily trail his fingers over the fresh slash on his chest, wincing at the pain but also more at the thought of yet another mark added to his already scarred body. Each one told a story of pain and survival, a testament to the battles he had fought. His body was already littered with scars—what was another?

The redhead’s mind swirled with anguished thoughts. How could You, someone so beautiful and kind, love someone like him? How could You look at his scarred body and see anything other than ugliness—to see someone who was capable of more than just war and violence? The doubts gnawed at him, twisting in his gut like a knife.

After cleaning the wound and sealing it with a bacta patch, You looked up at him, your eyes solemn. “This will scar,” You said quietly, your voice tinged with sadness.

Cal forced a smile, trying to lighten the mood. “Well, it’s just another one for the collection, right? Sure to impress you...”

Despite his playful words, the tone of his voice was heavy with sorrow. You could see the weight of his past experiences and hardships pressing down on him, the scars not just on his skin but deep within his soul.

You paused, your hands still on his chest and met his gaze with a gentle, unwavering look. “Cal,” You said softly, “you could be doing anything at all—something as simple as planting a seed in the cantina’s garden—and you would still impress me.”

The sincerity in your voice penetrated his defenses, and for a moment, the pain and fear melted away. He looked at You, really looked, and saw the depth of your care and admiration for him. It wasn’t the scars that defined him in your eyes, but the strength, courage and kindness that lay beneath them.

A lump formed in Cal’s throat as he struggled to find the right words. “You have no idea how much that means to me…” he finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper. In that moment, the weight of his battles felt lighter, the burden of his scars less daunting.

You smiled softly, brushing a stray lock of fiery hair from his forehead. “I do, Cal. And I’m here with you, scars and all.”

BD-1 let out a soft, comforting beep, hopping down from your shoulder to nestle closer to Cal to affirm your words.

Under the soft light of your shared quarters, as the tender moment between You and Cal lingered, You were overcome with a sudden urge to reassure him of your love and acceptance, scars and all. Gently, You leaned in and pressed a tender kiss around the fresh slash on his chest, feeling the tension in his body begin to melt away. Cal’s breath hitched, his eyes fluttering shut as he absorbed the warmth of your touch.

Moving upwards, You kissed the long scar on his upper right jaw, your lips lingering on the raised line, and tingling from the roughness of his short beard. You then moved to the small scar across his right eyebrow, kissing it softly. Eyes still closed, Cal’s mind was rampant with emotions he could barely contain. His heart pounded in his chest as the contact sent a shiver down his spine. Each kiss was like a balm, soothing the lingering pain and doubts that haunted him.

Next, You placed a delicate kiss on the scar across his nose, before your fingers gently traced the path of the old wound. Cal’s hands, which has been tightly gripping the edge of the bed, slowly relaxed, moving up to rest on your waist as if seeking the comfort and stability that only You could provide.

Finally, You reached the small scar that ran across his lower lip. You pressed your lips against it tenderly, feeling the slight roughness beneath the softness of his skin. Cal’s eyes opened, and for a moment, the world seemed to stand still. The anguish in his heart was replaced by an overwhelming sense of love and gratitude.

When You finally pulled away, You gazed into Cal’s emerald eyes and saw tears silently streaming down his cheeks. Your heart clenched at the sight, but before You could voice your concerns, he softly assured You, “They’re tears of happiness.”

A giggle escaped your lips, the sound joyful and filled with relief. “I’m glad,” You whispered, wiping away his tears with your thumb. “Because you mean everything to me, Cal.”

Cal pulled You into a tight embrace, his strong arms holding You close as if You were his anchor in a storm. The weight of his scars felt lighter now, due to a reminder of your love and acceptance. And as You nestled against him, You knew that together, you both could face anything, bound by a love that was stronger than any scar could be.

[samanddean76]

Title: One Way Or Another

Author: SamandDean76 | Artist: Bluefire986

Ship: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester

Word Count: 14,976 | Rating: Explicit

Major Warnings: Rape/Non-Con

Tags: Alternate Universe, Stanford Era, Alpha/Beta/omega Dynamics, Omega Dean Winchester, Alpha Sam Winchester, Hurt Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Canon-Typical Violence, Rape/Non-Con Elements, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-Con, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Mpreg, Transformation, Collars, Dean Winchester Whump, True Mates, Revenge, Or Justice, Alpha John Winchester, Omega Mary Winchester, background John/Mary, Alpha Zachariah, background Zachariah/Mary (past rape), Alpha Dick Roman, Alcoholic John Winchester, Minor Character Death, Eventual Happy Ending, Written for the Wincest Big Bang 2024, Original Art by Bluefire986

Summary: Dean woke up in the hospital, bruised, battered, and a newly turned Omega. His life had been left in shambles, and his only hope was that Sam would leave Stanford and come back to mate the brother that he hadn’t seen in four years. Not since the day of Sam and John’s last big fight.

Sam received the dire news and promptly put his life on hold, so that he could help Dean, the big brother who had done everything to protect him growing up. Knowing that he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he allowed Dean to be put up for auction where he would be sold to the highest bidder.

Together the boys work to unravel the mystery surrounding the disappearance of their father, Dean’s assault, and the long-buried secrets that their pack was desperate to keep hidden away. Knowing that the only way they could live their lives was if the truth was brought out into the blinding light of day.

I am so proud to finally be able to present my Wincest Big Bang story to everyone! @bluefire986 created some wonderful art for the story, that helped to enrich the journey that I sent the boys on. @jld71 was the beta who kept me on track. And my Muse went wild so that I might be able to create an A/B/O alternate universe where challenges are plentiful, and rewards are many. I hope you enjoy it!

Story on AO3

Art on AO3 | LiveJournal

[suppose-i-was-worm]

Angst Central

**This is what happened in Danny's home universe in the Iceberg Siren story. There is angst, there is minor gore, there is some violence. It is along the lines of a fair amount of DPxDC fanfics as far as the Fenton parents experimenting on Danny. Love y'all, be safe!**

Jasmine Fenton often found herself wondering when Jack and Maddie had become the monsters they claimed ghosts were. Was it before she was born? Or had it happened right in front of her eyes, threatening her precious baby brother from the day he turned fourteen?

Or was the threat there before then? Had they looked at her and her brother like experiments from their birth?

Had the portal accident truly been an accident?

No. She couldn’t let herself think like that- they had been good, once. They had taken her and Danny on picnics, had taught them about the stars.

They had ripped into her baby brother with serrated knives- after the first successful autopsy, that is. Sawing off pieces of skin, digging into his organs.

Brutalizing the sweet boy who just wanted to help. Who only wanted to help.

Jazz hated herself sometimes, for going away to college. Danny had insisted on it.

“You can’t let me hold you back, Jazz. I’m only here for another year, it’ll be fine!”

It was not fine. Dani had called her, having not heard from Danny for a few days. She headed home for the weekend and met the young girl outside of FentonWorks.

They found their brother strapped to a table, bleeding out and crying for his parents to stop.

Jazz saw green. She was too liminal to allow her King brother to suffer. Without thinking, she knocked Jack and Maddie out with the Anti-Creep stick and a careful application of Maddie’s martial arts lessons.

Dani had released her original from his straps while she did so, and then picked him up with as much care as she could.

Jasmine Nightingale shoved the pair into the portal and then destroyed her former parents’ life work.

All of it.

~~~

Samantha Manson watched in sick glee as FentonWorks went up in flames. Maddie and Jack had been dragged outside one by one, still unconscious, by a furious Jazz, and then she’d gone back in.

Sam had thought she was going back in for Danny, that some ghost or burglar had been too much and that Jazz had come home to find it in shambles.

She was wrong.

Jazz had come back outside holding a remote, and, once she was a safe distance away, had pressed the big red button.

The explosion from the basement rocked the town, and Sam had to take a few steps back from the heat.

Only in the light of the flames dancing across Jazz’ vindictive expression did she notice the streaks of greenish blood on Jazz’s cheek and down her blouse.

Sam ran forward and grabbed at the older teen’s arm.

“Danny?”

“Safe.” The response came from a voice void of emotion. “Dani took him to the Realms.”

“When will they be back?”

Jazz snarled and threw down her remote, stomping viciously on it once.

“I destroyed the portal.”

Oh. That meant never. That meant never.

Sam felt herself begin to cry, and Jazz collected her into her arms, and the two of them stood together in the flickering light of the fire, crying for their loss. Crying for Danny.

The Fentons wouldn’t know what hit them- the Manson name would ensure that.

~~~

Tucker Foley was angry. Sam and Jazz had met him in the park after the explosion, both of them with tears still running down their faces, and told him what happened.

Told him that Danny was gone, and it was the Fenton’s fault.

Tucker Foley was more than angry.

Tucker. Motherfucking. Foley. Was downright livid. He knew, and the girls did not, that the GIW had been funding the Fentons in their ghost research. Had given them a grant when they ‘apprehended’ Phantom. Had made everyone look the other way every time Danny had gone to someone for help.

His last text from Danny’s phone was awful.

TooFine: want 2 play doomed 2morrow?

Ghost?: sure. Parents are home Ghost?: they promised nasty burger if I got a good grade on the english test Ghost?: guess who got a 85 Ghost?: maybe they’ll stay out of the lab for once

Tucker Foley stayed up late into the night, furiously working at his desktop.

In the early hours of the morning, he hit one last key.

The GIW’s files vanished, their computers fried themselves, and their bases stopped allowing access.

Tucker wished he’d had the motivation to do something before it cost him his best friend. He knew he would probably regret his inaction for the rest of his life.

Letters Unsent

Jazz- I know you’re probably feeling guilty still. It’s been three years for me- I don’t know how long it’s been for you. The realms have a weird time-dilation.

Don’t feel guilty. It wasn’t your fault, it was mom and dad’s. They chose their path, and you don’t have to keep that on your shoulders anymore. In any case, I think I’m happier now than I’ve ever been?

There’s this guy- (don’t you think it’s funny mom and dad were better about me being gay than me being a ghost?)- his name is Jason, but I call him Red. He’s like me, he died before and came back different.

Well, he’s more like the median between me and Vlad, but that’s not the point.

Jazzy, I love him. I miss you and Sam and Tuck, but I don’t think I could survive without him, and it’s only been a few months since we started dating.

I’m happy here, for the first time in a long time, I’m happy.

Love,

Your Brother

~~~

Sam! Sam, Sammy, Samalamadingdong- I miss you! You would love the city I’m living in. The Gothic vibes are there all the way. Every time I see a gargoyle I think of you.

There’s even a superhero called ‘Batman’- He’s totally a furry. My boyfriend agrees with me.

I wouldn’t think bats are particularly sexy, but hey, I won’t knock someone’s kink.

I- I love you, you know? You and Tuck are my best friends. I spent a lot of time hoping a new portal would open and I’d find my way back to all three of you, at first.

By now I’m glad one hasn’t. CW sent me to this dimension, and, while I haven’t discovered my purpose, I’ve definitely discovered the love of my unlife.

You and Jason would get along, I think.

Don’t let me catch you crying over me, Sam Manson. You’ll make your makeup run.

Love,

Danny

~~~

Heya Tuck! Something tells me you rained hell- that something being CW. I know Jazz and Sam did too, in their own ways, but yours is probably the most useful for the Realms. As a King, I gotta think about that before I think about what effects me.

Being king sucks, want to beat me in single combat?

Would Doomed count as single combat?

My boyfriend has brothers, and they haven’t managed to gain kingship from me yet- I’m so bad at this dimension’s video games it’s not even funny.

It probably has something to do with being a ghost.

Good thing Jason is worse at video games than I am.

I wish I could see you again, at least to say goodbye. It’s a good thing that Desiree doesn’t take wishes from paper, otherwise something would go wrong, I’m sure.

Love you, TF.

DP.

[nebulaad]

listen people create OCs for their own enjoyment and that's fine and valid, but sometimes when I'm cruising through a popular OC tag I just have to believe you could be enjoying life more.

[kittysamzkewlz19]

Medusa Ex Makina

Chapter 7: The Witch's Brindle

Rated M for Mature

Warnings: Canon Typical Misogony, Minor PTSD Flashback (Toki)

Author’s Note: So I took a long hecking break from writing and finally came back with a vengeance. More mystery and a bit more character relationship building.

The smell of the ocean breeze brought Makina to a familiar setting, she had this dream a million times over. It was an island with a small coastal cave and a wide open ocean. She could hear the singing of whales and feel the grains of sand between her toes. The singer wore what looked like a velvet red dress that was ripped to knee length with rips and fly away threads. In every version of this dream, she could hear the sound of a piano. It played a sweet yet somber tune, its melody was mesmerizing as she began walking towards it. The sweet song came from the cave, but something felt different. For the first time in this strange recurring dream, she could hear a voice call out for her name. It was raspy, as if it was choking on something. But as she turned around to see who it was, she woke up. Makina sat up in her bed, her heartbeat began speeding up in irregular beats. ‘That dream is starting to get too real,’ she thought to herself. The raven hair singer opened her bedroom window shade, the bright morning sun sparkled down on her. She prayed that Murderface had kept his promise. 

As she walked down to the kitchen she passed by a familiar klokateer, the one she nicknamed Sango. Makina tapped on their left forearm and confessed to him what she had done the night before. “Just don’t tell anyone about it, ok? I just feel a bit guilty about it all.” 

“Don’t fret my lady, my lips will be sealed.” Sango placed their hand on top of Makina’s shoulder reassuring her. The klokateer gently pushed her out of the way so as to get on with their day. Sango looked back at her and gave a tiny half hearted wave. Makina nodded and anxiously began to make a pot of coffee. She knows what she did last night was far too drastic, even for her. Makina knew she could trust Toki with keeping such a secret, but the thought of Nathan getting mad at her was something she feared. Makina looked up to Nathan, as a fire that burned bright and warm in the darkest of times. His bellowing voice and mere stature gave Makina a sense of security. The image of his brutally disappointed face terrorized her mind. Her entire career, no, her entire life would be over before anything could begin to prosper. 

The sound of the drip coffee maker’s pump interrupted her thoughts, as it began making a gurgling noise signaling that the water was finished filtering through. Makina stood on her tiptoes and opened up the top cupboard. She couldn’t see everything that was in there, however a small black mug with the klokateer’s gear insignia caught her eye. Makina began to stretch up as much as she could, but was caught off guard to see Skwisgaar’s arm reach for the mug and handed it to her. Makina’s grip on the mug was loose as the ceramic almost slid out of her fingers. “Oh… Uh, thanks.” Makina said, as a light shade of pink flushed her cheeks. “Nexts times justs asks fors a steps stools.” Skwisgaar replied as he grabbed another mug off the shelf. He poured himself a cup of the coffee she had made and began to leave the kitchen. Makina silently hoped that he liked the brew, as she began to pour her own mug. After finding some leftover sugar packets and powdered cream, she searched for a teaspoon to stir with. 

Her mind began flooding with the strangeness of her dream. Who on earth was that calling to her? She found the spoon and began to mindlessly stir her coffee. “I mean I’ve never heard voices like that in my dream… but it sounded familiar…” Before she could ponder it further, Chester walked into the kitchen. It was oddly refreshing to see him so roughed up and not put together. He stared darts at Makina before pouring a cup of coffee. The raven haired singer sunk lower into her seat, bracing herself for getting chewed out like old times. “Morning, Medusa.” Chester said in a bitterly professional tone as he sat next to her. Makina looked into his eyes, his cold gaze and unfeeling attitude caught her off guard. “Morning.” she sheepishly replied.

"Got a busy day today."

“Since when?”

"Since today o' course. Even if you still haven't signed the contract. I want to get you started on recording, or at least writing your first one." Chester noted as he sipped his coffee. He brushed his fingers in his hair, straightening out the stray hairs. Makina squinted at him with suspicion, Chester was behaving as if yesterday’s altercation didn’t happen at all. “Hey… about last night I-”

"Eh, don't worry about it. I knew that Dethklok would be a right bunch before I walked through the door. No wonder you fit right in." he sneered as he stood up from his seat with the mug in hand. “I’ll see you in the studio in 10 minutes.” Chester declared as he passed by Pickles and Nathan. The Welshman gave a nod to them as he left for the studio. Nathan nodded back as he saw Makina with her head on the table. 

“Rough morning Medusa?” Questioned Pickles in a playful tone. Makina picked her head up, “I’m fine, just need a little perk up.” she lied as she took a sip of her now lukewarm coffee. “Want a bit of booze in your coffee kid?” Nathan asked cautiously, Makina nodded and he went into the cabinet. He grabbed the first bottle he could find, an irish whiskey and poured a bit into her mug. Makina took a sip as Nathan gently petted her hair, Makina tried to hide the corners of her mouth turning up with the mug. She felt like a little kid being soothed by her father. “Did Barker say something to you?” Pickles asked, “No, he’s just a fucking stiff robot. I gotta get ready for some studio stuff. If you wanna watch me flounder, I’ll be in the booth in 5.” Makina jokingly said as she stood from her seat and began exiting the kitchen. Nathan watched as Makina tensed up when she exited the kitchen. Something must have been plaguing her mind.

XxxX

Makina sat on the stool inside of the booth, as Chester put on his headphones. He turned a few knobs and flipped some switches. Curious as to see Makina sing again, Nathan quietly entered the studio and sat on the sofa. "Right, ready for today's sesh?” Makina hesitantly nodded and Chester pressed the record button. ‘How were they going to record without an instrumental track?’ Nathan thought. Makina took a deep breath and began belting out a series of words, singing in a way that Nathan couldn’t understand. Then the room got darker, it was happening again. The green aura, the ghost chain birdcage, the mysterious instrumental arrangement that began flooding the room. ‘How could Barker not see what’s happening around us?!’ Nathan shouted in his mind. The ghost chains began to inch closer to Chester, slowly wrapping around his neck till a shackle formed cuffing him. Nathan watched on, quietly grabbing his neck to make sure none of the chains slithered toward him. But something new began to occur, as she belted out the remaining notes of the chorus, a set of chains wrapped around her head and magically forming a dog muzzle with a chain that connected to Chester’s neck shackle. Nathan’s eyes widened with a sting of dread, in his mind he was desperately trying to connect the dots as to what was happening in front of him and why. 

"Stop, stop now!" Chester commanded, she begrudgingly did as she was told and in a cartoonish puff of smoke, all of the illusions vanished. "What was that? A G-flat for somethin'?"

“Yeah, and?”

"And you're flat, AND off rhythm by a few beats at least!" Chester said with a cocky tone, Makina rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “Oh here we go, this is the asshat I know. Always stopping me before I reach the climax of a song!” 

“I wouldn't NEED to stop you if you were singin' it right! Try again! From the bridge!” Chester instructed. Makina gave an exasperated sigh, made an exaggerated shaking motion with her hands brushing off her frustration, and with a deep breath she began once again. All at once, Nathan was reminded of the fight the two had backstage at Doom-opolis. They were passionate, but with two strong personalities that can counterbalance each other. The hulking vocalist could easily see why the band structure didn’t work out too well for them. 

There was a slight creaking sound near the door, Nathan turned to see the other members of Dethklok wanted to see Makina sing again. He put a finger to his mouth and signaled the boys to walk in without disturbing the performance. The somber melody of Makina’s vocals were hypnotic, but then the room grew darker again. “Do we need to get a guy to fix the lighting?” Murderface whispered. “No the lights are- Oh wait, you haven’t seen the thing Makina does.” Pickles commented softly. “Whats things?” Toki asked in a hushed tone. The two clueless members looked back up at Makina, the green aura began spreading and the chains appeared once again. Murderface pushed his back against the sofa, tensing his muscles at the sight of the muzzle surrounding Makina’s mouth. Toki on the other hand felt a sense of panic, his heart was racing faster than what felt like an inhuman speed, the cage chains that surrounded Makina made him want to jump out of his chair and scoop her out of there. 

"Stop, stop..." Chester commanded once more, the lights and glowing chains disappeared once again. "Emphasis before the chorus. And why'd you go off-key? Are you showin' off or somethin' since they turned up? That's a genuine question coz I don't even know.” Chester remarked as he typed out some notes on his phone. “Ugh, yes it was ‘intentional’ doctor know-it-all. Fucks sake. You know what, I’m gonna take a break.” Makina stated as she aggressively ripped her headphones off of her head and tossed them onto the stool. She stomped her way out and swung the recording booth door wide open and marched right past the others to the studio exit, she took one look at Chester while sucking air through her teeth. She held her tongue and instead slammed the door on the way out. Dethklok looked at Chester who was unphased by her outburst. He put 3 fingers in the air, counting down to one and pointed towards the recording booth window to hear a muffled scream and very loud bang on the studio door. The bash on the door startled Toki a little bit. "Sheesh... is she a singer or a banshee?" Chester placed an elbow on the console and leaned his head into it. “Uh… I’ll go check on her.” Nathan said as he stood up. “Me too.” Murderface chimed in. Toki also followed close behind.

XxxX

Makina was pacing back and forth while mumbling obscenities, scratching her head and biting her arm, screaming into it. “Makis ams yous goods?” Toki called out, she turned around with her forearm in her mouth, forming little streams of blood where her teeth were holding her flesh. Makina had frustrated tears coming from her face. “Amf fife.” She mumbled through her biting. “Let go.” Nathan asked firmly, Makina obeyed with seething rage in her eyes. “I’m not letting you go back in till you calm down. Now sit.” Makina sat on the cold hard ground, holding her knees to her chest.  “Why ams you treatings her like she’s a puppys?” Toki asked as he sat down on the ground next to Makina. “Because she’s a fucking bitch that’s why, right Nathan?” Murderface jeered. Makina held her knees tighter, her body tensed up. “No, she just… I really don’t know how to deal with her any other way. Also, what was the deal with the ghost smoke today?” Makina slowly looked up at Nathan, “Dunno…” she said in a small voice. “Was that always a thing?” Murderface asked apprehensively, “Especially the ghost muzzle, it looked kind of cool on you. Fitting for a bitch like yourself.” 

“Nos, nos chains for hers!” Toki yelped as he hugged Makina tightly. “Nothings bads will evers happens!”

“Easy Toki. Those chains aren’t real and they won’t hurt her or anyone. And if you guys can see them, that’s gotta mean something...” Nathan sighed, “If only Charles were here to figure this out for us.” the vocalist commented under his breath. Makina lifted her head up and leaned hers against Toki’s, who’s body began shaking. She nuzzled him gently and placed one of her hands on his arm, attempting to soothe him. “Toki, if you get uncomfortable with those ghost chains appearing you can stay out here. I didn’t mean to scare you, I just have no control over how they appear. Everything’s gonna be ok.” Toki shakily inhaled and looked at Makina. Her worried yet oddly calming presence helped the rhythm guitarist to refocus his thoughts, he exhaled, relaxing his tense shoulders. “Ams yous gonna bes oks too?” Toki questioned, Makina shook her head. “Knowing Barker’s gonna be a thorn in my side for the majority of my career from now on, it’ll be wickedly tough. But I’ll make it through.” 

“Great to hear Medusa, but that still doesn’t answer what’s with the ghost stuff.” Murderface added with confused annoyance. “Well it only happens when I sing… and that’s it. That’s all I know.” Makina answered, she began to stand up, holding Toki by the hand. “Let’s just get this session over with so I can deal with the other bullshit Barker’s gonna throw my way.” the raven haired singer stated as she went back inside the recording studio to finish up for the day. Nathan lingered behind her and his bandmates, his mind began to wander once more. Why was this all happening to his protege at all?

[agent-troi]

Fictober prompt #9: "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Fandom: The X-Files

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Warnings: minor canon-typical violence and gore

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

Security Questions

Chapter 2: Colony/End Game

“He wants you to be at Memorial Bridge in Bethesda in one hour,” a shaken, battered Scully told Mulder, as the bounty hunter hovered menacingly outside the phone booth.

”Scully, I need time. I need more time than that.”

“Mulder–”

The bounty hunter reached into the phone booth and pressed down on the switch, hanging up the phone. “He’ll have to make the time. He knows what will happen if he doesn’t.”

Scully’s gaze drifted to her gun, which for the first time since her capture was not pointing directly at her. The bounty hunter saw where she was looking, and brought the barrel up to rest against the side of her head once more.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said. “Any resistance, and you won’t see your partner again.”

“If you kill me, you won’t have anything to trade.” Scully lifted her chin and met his cold gray eyes, making a valiant yet fruitless attempt to hide how terrified she was. “I know an empty threat when I hear one.”

A faint trace of amusement appeared on the bounty hunter’s face as he dragged her back to the car, still at gunpoint. “Yes, you do seem to be possessed with an unnatural intuition. Speaking of which, how did you know I wasn’t your partner?”

“You didn’t seem to think it was strange that I’ve been receiving Mrs. Paddock’s calls since our case ended– which by the way was in New Hampshire, not Vermont. Neither of us has heard from her or from anyone who was involved since then.”

He shook his head. “No, you knew before that. You knew as soon as your partner called that he was the real Mulder. How did you know?”

Read the full chapter on Ao3

Tagging @today-in-fic @xffictober2023 @fictober-event

[mommieswithmuscles]

Free Palestine, don't support Neil

No minors and No men

My girlfriend is busy playing League Of Legends with my bestfriend and won't give me my required attention. But also throwback songs are so good. Here's an angsty Abby death fic. For extra impact: play the full song when you get to it before continuing. For max impact: listen to it on repeat before starting to read until after you finish reading.

CW: major character death, grief, metions of sex and smoking weed, graphic depiction of death, eating disorder

Title: Hoodie

It all happened so fast. One second she was on her horse beside you, the next she was laughing, barrelling off. You let your laughter ride the wind as well, galloping on her trail as you admire your wife. Manny officiated the wedding for you, the entire audience including yourself and your bride were tearing up laughing even though he was so delicate with the things he said.

You remember what it felt like as you exchanged vows, rings, then the sealing kiss. Signing the documents Mel wrote up for you both, hand in hand, smiling with equally ruined make up. The sob filled hug you shared after putting down the pen.

It all flashes in that instant the ground caved in. You stopped before the hole, ready to jump down, when all you hear is terrible screaming and screeches. Your arm reaches down but her's can't grasp it. You lean further in, bracing as well as you can as you're as deep into the hole as you can get. A swarm of Clickers surrounds her. You both kill so, so many. You think you're done, you think it's over when you put your gun down to reach for her again.

Her bloody, sweaty hand grasps yours. She uses the corpse of her horse as leverage to get to you. You pull. She starts to surface. Manny rides up and reaches in to help, never far from your trail as the three of you always patrol together. His hands on her hip and arm, guiding her to the surface. She braces on your thigh, the ground, pushes her self up.

Those moments flash in your mind again. Your first touch, first kiss, for time having sex. It all flashes as a bloater rips through the sink hole, and she slips out of your arms. Out of safety. You want to deny she's dead when Manny jumps down, you following him into the hole.

You kill the bloater, Manny shoving corpses around with you trying to find Abby. She doesn't respond when you call for her. Every smile she's ever had and ever given you come to mind. Your first date, your first time smoking weed together, your first time sleeping under the stars with her in the WLF fences with Alice and Bear.

The hole in her abdomen is nothing compared to the disfigurement of her face. You touch it, caress it gently. Hoping, praying it's just the lights and blood playing tricks. Begging it's not as bad as it seems. It's all for naught when Manny helps you haul her corpse onto your horse. As he holds his bloody palm over your mouth to help muffle your screams of anguish into his chest as his arm encases you.

You ride in near silence as your horse trots back to base. Your sniffles and sobs filling the despair between you and Manny. He offers to carry her for you, but you decline. You escort her corpse to the medbay, allowing Mel one final look at her before Isaac calls for a funeral.

You jump into the trench dug for her, resting her body with a final kiss to where you remember her lips and where you remember her forehead, whispering one last "I love you" into her gorey skin. Manny helps take you out of the grave. You're the first to start putting dirt on her. Manny stands with you for support, asking others to give you space as you took your time covering her.

Selfishly, you kept her clothes, and buried her in your bedsheet. It was a wine red silk piece Abby found with you on a patrol that led to a risky escapade. You look at the barren mattress, not ready to redress it yet as her clothes lay rested. You run your fingertips over her jacket. She almost never took it off. Even when it was hot, she had it with her.

Deep breaths. In... Out... You slowly lift the fabric as if it would fall apart if you looked at it for too long. Gingerly slipping yourself inside it. Memories of the few times you wore it flood your mind and eyes. You quiver at the ache it gives you, feeling hollow in a way you used to say was dramatic or for show. You now hate yourself for that judgement. It's the most real thing you've felt. And it hurts more than you could imagine or describe.

Even months after her death you're still wearing it. It still has her pine scent, albeit faded. You've never washed it. Her bloody clothes are also still unwashed, kept in a pillowcase for when you need her close.

You sing softly to yourself.

You sob into the sleeves as you run your fingers over the small burn on the cuff from your first smoke session. She tried to flick the ash off the blunt, but a coal fell. She screamed like it touched her skin, but you laughed and put it out, kissing her wrist with a dopey grin. Matching bloodshot eyes met yours, her horror turning to glee.

Manny took months of care to help you try and eat again after that patrol. Your first meal he had taken her jacket. You were in the shower and didn't want to wash her away, so you left it on the bed. He used it to bargain with you. Here you are years later, starting back on that routine. You try and try and try, but you always have spells where you can't eat because of how much you miss her and how sick eating makes you feel.

Manny's with you again, Mel, Alice, and Bear with you, too. As he holds her jacket, Mel with her hand on your knee. Her toddler was with the daycare center. You remember the look on Abby's face when Mel told you she was pregnant. She was almost more excited than Mel herself. You couldn't help but let tears fall looking at the new bump Mel started showing. You told Abby, at her grave, right after Mel told you. Abby would have wanted to know.

It's grown since then, she's due any day now. Her hand squeezes for support as you finish your first real meal in a long time. Manny hands you Abby's jacket, gently pulling your arms through it before taking your dishes to the sink. Mel lets you know she's proud of you, but you shake your head. It's too much.

"You're still rockin' her hoodie, and chewing on the strings..." She starts, squeezing your hand when you crumble.

To be clear: my girlfriend does no wrong. She's not actually ignoring me I got her addicted to a game that made me angry but I want to get my daily win and am stuck on a hard loss streak my bestie is trying to help me break. She stepped in before I screamed at my monitor and broke my mouse.

[waywardsalt]

damien and linebeck have the minor dynamic of damien being a guy who’s pretty well built and has a healthy bit of fat on him and linebeck having the prestigious title of ‘boniest man on the great sea’

[remytheartist]

Nickie: SUN!

[CRASH]

Sun: n1Ck13-&$&%}*+£¥&&@($/^#+>’l

System: SHUT DOWN IMMINENT!

Sun: 1M 50rRY

————

Part 1 -> Go back

Part 2 -> Go back

Part 3 -> Go back

Part 4 -> YOURE HERE :D!

[samanddean76]

Be Good (HozierNatural 2024)

Hozier Song: It Will Come Back

Author: SamandDean76

Beta: jdl71

Artist: i-already-know-im-going-2-hell

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 12,210

Pairing/s: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester/Rory Gilmore

Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Dean Forester, Rory Gilmore, Bobby Singer, John Winchester, Barbara Forester, Lorelai Gilmore, Original Characters

Warnings: Rape/Non-Con

Additional Tags: Pre-Series Sam Winchester, Pre-Series Dean Winchester, Emotionally Hurt Sam Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester Is Not Okay, Minor Character Death, First Time

Summary: John leaves Sam and Dean at a motel to go on a hunt. After spending a week alone, the owner calls CPS and the boys are taken into custody. The last thing Dean tells 8-year-old Sam is to ‘be good’, and once separated Sam does his best to do just that. But once Sam realizes that he won’t be going back to either John or Dean ever again, his stubborn streak kicks in and he will only answer to the name Dean. Sam gets adopted by the Foresters, who move to Chicago and then Stars Hollow. Where he meets Rory Gilmore.

Dean is left to rot in the system, after being deemed too violent, and eventually ages out. He tries to find Sam but fails as Sam Winchester no longer exists. Dean seeks out Bobby, and ends up moving in with the hunter, working as a mechanic in between searching for Sam.

A lucky break results in Dean finding a small-town newspaper that features the MVP of the Stars Hollow High School hockey team, who bears a striking resemblance to Sam. Dean heads out to Connecticut and finds Sam, safe and sound, but thoroughly humiliated by his crush. Before they leave, they seek the revenge that soothes Sam’s soul. And leaves Dean wondering what the hell happened to the innocent little boy he used to know.

Link to Fic | Link to Art

I would like to give a great big thank you to @i-already-know-im-going-2-hell for creating such amazing art for the story! It was a real treat to be able to work with them! And thanks to jdl71 for being an awesome beta! I also want to thank the mods who ran the @hoziernaturalevents bang this year! They kept everything in order and made a warm and welcoming atmosphere for everyone to enjoy!

[excelsiorfics]

Free To Be

Date: 22 Aug 2021 Author: tepkunset Rating: Teen Word Count/Status: 20,827, 5/5 chapters Dynamic: Julio Richter/Shatterstar Characters: Julio Richter, Shatterstar, OCs, Cameos Tags: Mojoworld, Time Travel, Self-Harm, Minor Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence

Summary: Shatterstar’s life is too good to be true; he has a safe home, a caring boyfriend, and freedom to be who he wants. But now ghosts from his past come crawling out from behind the camera to challenge it.

[chaosandthe-deadblog]

i feel like ive said this before but the self ship community is either the sweetest most accepting community there is or a hell of harassment and pr-shipping which is um. interesting to be a part of👍

[sydzilla22]

Unlikely Friend - Chapter 1

A night where you were supposed to die leaves you stuck with a new roommate and an unlikely friend. So, what will you decide to do with this killer? Will you be friends? Enemies? More? Less? Only time will tell.

I want to mention that while Ghostface in this story is very much a killer, he is not straight from any of the movies. I have changed the character's name, appearance, and personality while keeping some aspects of him the same. While the idea of Ghostface is not my own and is the creators of the Scream movies, the one within my story has been altered to my liking. Please respect that. If you don't enjoy my story, please don't read it. I don't mind.

Feel free to comment any ideas for one-shots regarding horror characters (or others). I always like looking at requests and will get around to them if I like them.

(This is from my AO3, and I am moving it over here because I'm proud of it :D)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

           You didn't know he was there, but he was; he perched himself up in the giant oak tree in her backyard, black laced boots pressed into the bark as he sat on one of the branches that allowed him a perfect view into your bedroom. He didn't wear a flowy costume, and he didn't have a partner. He worked alone; that was how he liked it, and he didn't appreciate some stupid movies portraying it that way. Black jeans with matching black boots adorned his feet and legs, his belt holding the precious sheath for his knife that he was currently sharpening against the tree's wood. He wore a tight black T-shirt with a black jacket with leather sleeves. Yes, he loved the color black. Last but not least, his head was covered by his trademark mask, the one that very few people had the chance of seeing and living to tell the tale. After all, he was Ghostface.

            And you, you were his next victim, but you didn't know that quite yet. You didn't know that as you walked around the kitchen preparing what looked like a bowl of popcorn to watch some movie. He loved movies. He'd been watching you for a couple of days now so that he could figure out your schedule. You worked at a library, and yet somehow, you had a relatively nice house in the middle of nowhere, he hadn't dug into it, but he assumed that your parents left you a nice sum of money—them or someone else.

            He slipped his knife back into its sheath when he was content with how sharp it was and adjusted his gloves back onto his hands; not an inch of his skin was showing. He cleared his throat roughly and let his thumb find the 'on' button of his voice changer; he clicked it and felt the soft vibration of it turning on against his throat.

            It was time.

            He took out his phone and went to the keypad to dial the number he had memorized days before; it was your number. He had found it in your files when he visited you at the library, and you went to the bathroom, not even knowing he was there. He hadn't even had his mask on, you could've seen his identity, but no, your nose was buried in your book even while you were supposed to be working.

            He watched as you heard the sound of your phone chiming throughout the house, and he patiently waited, his eyes trained on your every movement. Finally, without much pause, you picked up the phone and greeted him with a soft:

            "Hello?"

            The sound of deep breathing was all you could hear on the phone, and your brows furrowed in confusion as you debated hanging up the call. That was before you listened to the gentle response to the greeting you spoke earlier.

            "Hello, there…" rang the neutral voice on the other end of the line, with little emotion in their tone. "Would you like to play a game with me?"

            The question slightly put you off, but you were only watching a movie right now, so you supposed you had time to talk to whomever it was on the other end of the line. "It depends on what kind of game it is."

            A chuckle came over the line, and you figured this person liked your response to their question. "Well, it's a straightforward game. You like scary movies, don't you?"

            "I'm not sure what gave that away, but I enjoy scary movies. Why do you ask?"

            "Well, you see, this game is about scary movies. So I will ask you three questions from your horror movie of choice, and if you can't answer all of them, I'll kill you."

            A beat of silence ran through the air as you replayed what they had just said in your head several times and heavily debated hanging up. Your fingers twitched on the back of the phone as you looked out your window and around the inside of your living room; there was no way they knew where you lived, right? They were probably just some horror fanatic wanting to prank someone and thought it was hilarious to get a rise out of you. Well, you didn't know it was funny. As you were about to slam the phone back down on the receiver, you heard the voice on the other end of the line speak your name very firmly. How do they know my name?

            "I wouldn't hang up if I were you. As soon as you do, I'm cutting the powerline, and you'll be alone with me in complete darkness. Does that sound fun?" The voice sounded incredibly menacing, and you could feel a chill run up your spine, but the lack of tone told you that somebody ran it through a voice masker. There could be anyone on the other side of the line; you would never know who. You reluctantly let out a sigh and answered him.

            "All right, fine, I'm not hanging up."

            "I can see that. Now, why don't we get back to our little game?"

            The coils in your stomach sickeningly tightened as you swallowed away your fear, took a deep breath to try, and still the pounding of your hammering heart. "Okay, I'd like to pick the original Halloween movie."

            "Ah, that is a good one…hmm, let's see."

            The silence over the line as he thought up a question was deafening, and you could feel yourself becoming more panicked, but you had watched that movie hundreds of times; you had to know all the answers to any possible question he could ask.

            "I have one for you…what was the original title of Halloween?"

            You could've sworn you had never heard of Halloween ever having a different name, but you racked your brain through all of the media, interviews, and news reports on this movie you had seen and brought an answer to the forefront of your mind. "The Babysitter Murders, that was what the movie originally was titled."

            "Mmm, very good. I guess you know the movie better than I thought you would."

            "I guess I do."

            "Let's see if you know this one. Why can't Michael be killed?"

            You also knew the answer to this one; you heard it at some point when you went to a horror festival a few seasons ago. "They can't kill Michael because he is the victim of an ancient Druid curse, the curse of Thorn."

            "I'm surprised you got that one too."

            You were proud of yourself, and you couldn't help the soft smile that had grown at the corners of your lips; just one more, you could hang up this phone call and get back to watching The Conjuring. "What's the last one, then?"

            "How many different people portrayed Michael in the 1978 film?"

            "Six, that one's too easy!"

            The sound of a chuckle growing louder over the line told you that you were mistaken. But there were six, you were sure of it! Young Michael had two, another without the mask, the leading silent actor, another in the closet, and the stuntman, that was it! Wait, no, no, that wasn't it, and there was one more when he killed the dog. Shit, there were seven.

            "Goodbye."

            The loud sound of someone cutting the power had a scream ripping from your throat as you threw the phone on the counter and grabbed your giant kitchen knife in your hand. You ran up the stairs to your bedroom because you had the best chance of surviving there.