#stu ponders

[stusbunker]

Are we still calling it a prequel when it’s not our John and Mary?

[mh2o29]

tfw you have to call your girlfriend's house to talk to her girlfriend (who is also your boyfriends girlfriend) so you can get your boyfriend released from jail...

(click for better quality PLEASE I beg you)

under the tab are other versions of the drawing so click if you wanna see him with no shirt on .....wait what who said that.....

yall i don't even know how to explain this one i was possessed and controlled by the urge to draw stu macher all pretty and posed like this,,,, so i like when men are pretty SUE ME

credits to @atitanbitch for the idea to include Sid and Tatum in the little bubble and @powderedbleach for reminding me about THE ROBEEEE OH and ofc @harleykeenervarient for sending me the photo reference I used in the first place yall rock <3

included below are alternate versions of this drawing that I was having some fun with mwuahaha that includes no shirt, no shirt plus some ~shweed~ and also ofc trans version bc cmon

alright thats all for now.... thats my cue to slink back into the void until I return with another art drop BYEEEEEE

[rawr-mortgage]

i'm glad and thankful for the two-route system of cybird ikemen games cuz your first playthrough is meant for exposing yourself to whatever shit storm happens in a character's route and just going “wow, that's fucked up” or any other appropriate reactions, while your second playthrough is for you to actually digest the content, follow along better, notice little details and such. the best part is you can read it all over again in perpetuity!

having said that, it physically pains me to think of how many chapters i won't be allowed to process fully when the triple lucky time starts becuz Alfons is one of my faves and i want to take my sweet ass time reading his route and prolong the experience as much as possible.

[un-lawliet]

“Fit For an Archon”

— in which the Hydro Archon is fascinated by you

a/n- happy pride month to all my wlw, i wrote this for us <3 im sorry for how long it is (gasp)

word count (7.1k)

You are the worst seamstress in Fontaine.

You’re sure of it.

Your hands seem to repel fabric, your needle poisoning the thread in which you clumsily stitch with and leaving you with a truly horrendous looking frock.

Chiori, bless her soul, had hired you as a a request from your Father, who, in Chiori’s defence, was a fantastic tailor, renowned for his intricate stitching and detailed attires- Truly a renaissance for Fontaine fashion.

And so when he left Chioris business, set to start his own amiss the bustling harbours of Liyue, you found yourself tucked away, working in his place for Chiori, who was currently frowning pensivly down at your work, as if it had personally offended her.

“…It’s bad isn’t it?” You state, looking intensely at your boss who chewed on her painted bottom lip, head cocked, wondering how in Tevat you were your Fathers daughter.

“It’s not…Awful” She tries, although not very well, her gaze fixed on the uneven stitching and the deplorable match of colour.

“Better than last time?” You question, a terrible sense of hope clouding your voice, hopeful that maybe, just maybe you were improving-

“No, no, definitely worse.” Chiori mutters, and your face falls.

She sticks a hand out and touches the skirt you had presented her with, lifting it up.

The seams fall and the skirt halves in her grasp, and you cringe silently, eyes closing in embarrassment.

“Hm.” She ponders, turning to stare at you from over her shoulder, an eyebrow raised.

“It’s…Meant to do that?” You try, shoulders raising in contention, only to be silenced again at the shake of her head.

“Take a break Y/N.” Chiori says, tired under attempts to support your terrible creations.

You don’t argue with her, immediately fleeing the boutique as if you were being hunted down by the God King Remus himself.

The bell on the door dings as you exit, waving goodbye to your co-workers who scoff at your exit, whispering words under their breath that you chose not to render.

You just needed to stick this job out until you had enough income to quit.

But- with the state of your designs and the even worse execution of said designs, you doubt you’d ever make enough to follow through with your intentions.

And really…You barely make ends meet as it is.

Oh God.

You kick a stone and watch as it skims across the tarmac, bouncing up and down until skidding to a stop metres before you.

You hate being a seamstress.

Making it to the manufactured river, you slump down, lazily throwing your legs off of the sides, your boots delicately touching the water surface below.

The same way they always did when Chiori sends you away.

How ridiculously boring.

Fontaine’s a-lot quieter in the evening, most people finding themselves at the Opera Epiclese to watch a spectacle, faces tinged red with excitement.

You prefer it when it’s quiet, when the streets are empty. It means you can lie backwards on the hard ground without too much judgement from your fellow citizens.

Your legs still bent down towards the water, with your back on the concrete dock, you allow yourself a breath.

You hear footsteps somewhere off to your right but pay them no mind. After all, passing judgement is only ever passing, and you’re sure whoever it is will waltz past you, giving you a confused once over before immediately forgetting your face.

You stretch one of your legs and break the surface of the river, feeling the tip of your boot soak up the water briefly, before you’re lifting it back out, shaking it gently to dry it off.

Someone cleared their throat behind you and you sign with the frustration of interrupted serenity.

Can you truly not have anything?

Pushing yourself up with your elbows, you turn your face the perpetrator, eyebrows drawn down to a frown.

You were gonna stare them out until they left you to mope at this stupid river, politeness be dammed!

.

.

.

It’s Focalors behind you.

Lady Furina.

Every retort resting on your tongue is swallowed up, getting stuck in the back of your throat and you choke on your words, chest heaving in shock.

The Hydro Archon stares down at you, watching your struggle, her arms crossed over her chest and a smug smile on her lips.

Her hair sways in the breeze, tickling her leg and she seems to be quite fascinated in the dress encasing your figure.

A long ruffly mess of colour and mesh with a corset that one would barely call fitting, you look like a run away mannequin, pathetically thrown together before your God.

“Lady Furina.” You wheeze, propelling yourself to your feet, dropping into a bow, your skirt following comically behind.

Why is she here? Is she not fond of the Opera house? Archons people wait half their lives to meet her and here you are face to face with God through pure circumstance.

She waves a gloved hand in your direction, dismissing your bow entirely, eyes still drawn to the fabric of your gown.

“Your..attire is quite interesting.” She states bluntly, walking two steps to the left to capture your dress from all angles.

Your face flushes, “Thank you Lady Furina, it’s an honour to be complimented by-”

“Were you supposed to be in the opera?” She cuts you off, turning her body in the general direction of the Epiclese.

“What?” You answer before finding your manners, “I mean n-no it’s my….” You sigh, shoulders slumping, “I’m a seamstress.”

Lady Furina pauses, her head lifting you look at your face, studying it with such precision that you feel yourself bite back the desire to look away.

“..A seamstress?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Oh.”

The pair of you look at each other for a moment before she throws her head back and laughs. It echoes around the empty streets of Fontaine and reverberates right into your ears.

“I suspected as much!” She guffaws, clapping her hands together.

You cock your head, confused, “No you didn’t?” You reply, unable to stop the offence in your voice.

Sure you weren’t good at your job but you liked this dress! And you were definitely not apart of any play!

Lady Furina’s laugh trails off and she stares at you, her lip between her teeth, holding back a grin.

“Tell me!” She begins again, and you shudder at the volume of her voice. “Why is it that you look so sad?”

“Huh?” You question, eyes widening in confusion.

Furina smiles, it brightens her face, before pointing at you then back to herself, “As your Archon it is my duty to right the wrongs of Fontaine, and you appeared so gloomy that I had no choice but to journey off my path to check up on you!”

Shame forces its way through your body and you shake your head, holding out your sweaty palms to face her, “Lady Furina you do not need to trouble yourself with my issues, trust me.” And you shiver against her unblinking gaze, “Please, continue on your way..” You awkwardly laugh, gesturing to the street, dying inside.

Furina blinks at you, “You don’t want to share problems for me?”

You take a step back, bashfully shaking your head, “I mean no offence…”

It’s awkward.

Furina tilts her head, studying you, confused.

She is far too use to Fontainians requesting her opinions on trivial matters so much so that the blatant avoidance from you is baffling.

You scratch the back of your hand in the silence.

Lady Furina watches you, dissecting you with her eyes, trying to go over every woe that past Fontainians had brought to her omnipresent ears.

You chuckle, trying to force her gaze off of you before you melt and join the water behind you.

“You’re not watching the play?” You say, gesturing in the general direction of the Epiclese, pleading silently for her to stop looking at you like that.

She shakes her head, closing her eyes, “I’ve seen it before, it gets quite tiresome seeing the same thing over and over again.”

Oh

“Oh”

Lady Furina grins, her opposing eyes still gracing your face as if you were so easy to figure out.

“Do you…Hate your job?”

You gawk at her.

She smirks.

Jack pot.

“I’m right aren’t I? You can save your praise, I know I’m truly otherworldly when it comes to intuition.” She fans her hand up and down at you, throwing her pretty head back dramatically.

“Must be a gift from Celestia then.” You conclude, turning away from her and sitting back down at your river side.

You’re slightly peeved at her reaction and would rather not disrespect an Archon so early in your life, so you do not face her with your glare.

“Come now.” Lady Furina says, strolling over to you, “I only joke.”

The Hydro Archon was now sitting beside you, kicking her feet in the water.

This truly cannot be real.

You sigh.

Well, if she’s asking, you may as well answer.

What’s another sinner to an Archon anyway.

“Do you ever feel trapped by the wishes of another?” You ask, defeat clouding your senses as you speak.

Lady Furina stills, but you do not notice.

“My Father, asked me to keep on his legacy in Fontaine, he’s a brilliant tailor, I mean, it’s like he was born to be one…”

You trail off, and splash your foot into the water, “And I just- I’m terrible at being a seamstress, I can’t even pretend to enjoy it because I am so utterly rubbish at it.”

She’s watching you, you can feel it. It’s as intense as your emotions, you almost shy away.

“Sorry.” You mutter, “I don’t know why I’m asking. It’s not like you have to struggle with these “mortal issues.”

You laugh bitterly in the silence of your confession.

Lady Furina’s hand slightly brushes yours and you wonder if she notices.

The pair of you sit quietly for a moment, your face growing warmer in the seconds.

You’re about to apologise again, your words on the tip of your tongue before she speaks, ripping the pages from your mouth.

“I always find it fascinating to hear how Mortals think.”

“Hm?”

“How they can voice their feelings so freely, it has always struck me.” Her voice is a lot quieter, you almost mistake her for someone else.

You glance, taking in the side of Lady Furina’s face, her soft features seem burdened, you hope silently that you were not the cause of her worries.

“An Archon admiring her subjects…” You say, slicing through the quiet, “That’s quite comforting actually.”

Lady Furina tilts her head, narrowing her dainty eyebrows quizzingly, “Pardon?”

You smile, and hope it reaches both your eyes and hers. “You care. It’s kind.”

She’s watching you again, her chest rising and falling in tandem to the gentle swish of the water.

You place an arm on your knee and rest you head in your palm, feeling bold.

“It must be lonely being a God.”

And her eyes grow wide, for a split second, before she’s blinking and resuming her facade of impassive control.

“What ever do you mean?”

“There’s no higher being to think about you.” You reply, introspection fluctuating in your words before it slaps you back into reality with a cold hand.

“Uh- Pardon me, I don’t mean to call you lonely I just-”

“It’s quite alright.” Lady Furina says, straightening up, her hair brushing your shoulder and her hand moving from yours. “You did not mean any harm.”

She moves to stand, and you watch, perplexed.

“You have the freedom to quit.” She says simply, “There is no higher deity forcing you to stay.” And she smiles, “All will be ok.”

She leaves as fast as she had arrived and you’re left alone to think.

Strange you think.

You hope you didn’t offend her.

—

When it’s not raining, the sun has a habit of overstaying her welcome.

It’s absolutely roasting in Fontaine, and so when Chiori asked if you would stay behind to finish your garment after work hours, you jumped at the opportunity to relish in the cool breeze of the back rooms.

Besides, you feel less embarrassed working by yourself, with nobody around to mock your gowns.

You flinch as you pierce the skin of your finger, watching as a maroon red slides into your palm.

You wipe it on your dress, it clashes with the colour.

“Do you always make a habit of wearing the most..peculiar garments?”

You jump, dropping your needle onto the sickly pink fabric, you wince as it falls, sure to be lost forever.

“L-Lady Furina?” You gasp, turning your body towards her, your dress swishing in your movement as you try pathetically bow your head in her exuberant presence.

“Yes “tis I.” She replies, her arms opening dramatically but her eyes stay focused on your choice of apparel. “Honestly.” She muses, “It’s no wonder they keep you back here…”

Lady Furina glances around your cluttered work room, taking in the flurry of vibrant coloured ribbons dripping out from their boxes, half finished corsets falling apart at their seams and the tatttered fabric unevenly pinned to a mannequin standing just inches away from her.

You step in-front of her, your eyes wide as you try conceal her vision of your failures, a sheepish grimace on your face.

“Um, we’re closed today, it’s only me in- uh how did you get inside-”

“I am the hydro archon.” Furina’s voice booms out, the exaggerated drawl making you cower away from her slightly, “I merely walked in.”

“I thought I had locked the door?” You questioned, taking a step back from her.

“A locked door is no enemy of mine!” She laughs, regarding you with a look oozing with pride, her chest puffed out and head raised.

“Right..” You mumble, picking at the skin on your fingers, nervously swaying back and fourth.

Your fingers are adorned with pricks from your needle, they would bleed should you continue your childish picking, yet you persist, unable to stop your absentminded jittering.

Lady Furina watches your movement, satisfaction appearing to glow in her eyes.

“Now!” She exclaims, wondering over to the only empty surface in the room, an old blue chair, faded with age.

“I need a new ribbon for my hat.” The chair creaks when Furina sits, crossing her legs and staring at you expectantly.

You think the chair isn’t even worthy enough for you to sit on, let alone the God Of Justice.

“I can..Write an order down for a ribbon for when Chiori returns?” Your voice trails off, thwarted by the dull look she regards you with at your suggestion.

“No, no, no!” Furina shakes her head, her actions reminding you of a child, “I want you to make it!”

“I beg you pardon?” Your eyes widen, and you glance around, taking in all your terrible, terrible works of fashion.

“Me?” You breathe, “Lady Furina, if I may- I clearly lack the talent to create anything, let alone something in which an archon should wear.” You hands shake slightly as she stares at you, willing yourself not to blink or look away in her ever present intensity. “You know this.”

“But I demanded it?” She cocks her head, reaching up to take her hat off, outstretching her arms to look at it intently.

Her hair falls down, it cascades down her shoulders like water and you hold yourself back from counting the waves between each strand, instead choosing to look away.

Ribbons are simple, you remind yourself.

You’re not entirely deficient in the art of fashion, you’re just…Well- you’re just you.

“So?” Furina says, her voices drags you from the inner monologue whispering in your ear, she pushes the hat in your direction, twirling it so you can view its simplicity from every angle.

Your clasp your hands together, head tilted like a dog.

“I’m thinking.. here.” Her finger rests on in the space between the crown and the brim, “A blue ribbon thats doesn’t blend in with the rest of the hat but adversely will not stand out…”

You nod, it’s curt, Furina smiles, it stretches her face and she all but glows, cheeks flushed.

“You’ll do it then?”

You scratch your arm, and sigh.

“It will look horrid.”

“It will look like it was made by you.” She replies, sweetly, her voice like the silk in which she adorned, you take a second to truly feel the implications behind her words and suddenly feel yourself become quite bashful.

Your heart ticks within your chest and like clockwork you reach your hands out for her hat, avoiding her gaze.

“A blue that doesn’t blend in but also doesn’t stand out?” Your voice is whispered, trying to act assertive but failing all the same.

“Indeed, a ribbon fit for an archon!” Furina appears to get louder the more she reminds you of her status, you cringe at her volume but turn so she does not see.

“I’ll try my best.” You hum, glancing at the box you pathetically labelled “Ribbons”.

You reach out and touch the cardboard confines, pulling it towards you and shuffling some fabric under your finger tips.

Red, yellow, green…the most hideous shade of pink ever- Dear God did you supply this?

Furina sits, twirling a strand of her hair as she watches you, taking in the chaos of your dress and your work space respectfully.

You really had such a unique flare to you.

Your dress was terribly put together, fabric seemingly falling off the skirt, which, in Furina’s opinion, was much too puffy for an average day at work.

When she leaned closer, she could see how the seams were pathetically stitched together, a bundled mess of experimentation that clearly did not work, the sheer fact she could see the stitching was enough of a sign to tell her that you had made this dress yourself.

Furina raises a hand to cover her the genuine smile that ripped across her features.

You truly were fascinating to observe.

“You chose to stay here then?”

You look back at her, a small frown on your face.

“Yea.” You say simply, “It’s just easier.”

She scoffs.

“What?” You reply, indignantly, “I’m still getting paid.”

“You’re staying for the money?”

“I’m staying to save up the money.” You retort, “As soon as I have enough I am gone, you’ll see.”

Furina laughs, you can help but feel melodic, almost sad.

You don’t know what else to do, so you smile, watching as Furina breaks eye contact immediately, coughing into her glove.

“I hope I do.” You hear her say, and you try to ignore the giddy sensation that seems to course through your veins and into your heart.

—

“Lady Furina what an i-interesting bow.”

“I know, I know! Isn’t it just fabulous.”

“It’s um rather…big?”

“Yes? Is there a problem?”

“N-no! I was merely voicing that-”

“If there is no issue then I must bid you farewell. I have a meeting with a most important diplomat, I assume you have already placed the pastries?”

“Yes Lady Furina…”

“Good.”

—

On days when you aren’t in the boutique, you write to your Father.

You write pages upon pages of frustrated scribbles, voicing your resentment of his craft and the comparison to your own, writing furiously about how much you wish to be freed from your job and allowed to travel with him to nations far and wide.

In the end you send none of it, opting instead to write false truths about how honoured you are to work in the darkest parts of his shadow, and how gracious you are for his talents.

You lick the envelope seal and pop it thru the post office window, smiling softly at the old lady behind the glass.

It’s raining in Fontaine today, dark clouds pulsing in the sky, above you, soaking the fabric of your skirt.

It always seems to rain after a trial.

You shake your head. Damn, you should have brought an umbrella.

When you pass by a group of children you hear their yells, pitiful pleads of; “Hydro dragon, hydro dragon don’t cry!”

And you smile and whisper it under your breath as you look to the sky.

Your thoughts circle back to Furina, you hadn’t seen her as much, especially not with the growing fears of the flood of Fontaine.

You wonder if it’s true, wonder how she’ll solve it.

You have faith in her, you think.

There’s no way you’ll drown before you can leave to travel.

There’s no way Fontaine’s Archon would let you all perish under the power of Hydro when she herself is the embodiment of the element.

You have faith.

—

There’s nothing you truly dread more than presentations to the Archon and her people.

And there’s nothing you hate more than how Champvallon, who was standing in for Chiori due to her endeavours in Inazuma, was currently mumbling under his breath at your choice of dress.

You had been running late, quite literally, the ends of your dress stained with dirt, dying the pale blue fabric brown and green.

“You’ll have to stand in the back girl.” He grumbled, his moustache dipping slightly into his mouth, pushing your shoulders and making you move behind your fellow seamstresses, grey eyes pinched into slits as he chastised you.

You heard one of your coworkers giggle from behind her hand, whispering to another about your ill fashioned garments matching your deplorable creations of fashion.

You bit your tongue and glanced at the wooden floor beneath you.

She isn’t wrong, you think, thank Celestia that your tailoring would never see the light of day.

Lady Furina and her entourage enter the room moments later, you think Furina appears to glow and wonder if your eyes are playing tricks on you, or if this is some strange phenomenon one achieves when becoming an archon.

You shake your head and join your party’s collective bow.

You and Furina had grown closer, although, the margin of closeness was confined between her passing by the boutique window and waving in when she saw you, smiling cheekily as she took in your plethora of dresses that just appeared to get more ridiculous with time.

You had begun to crave these moments of seeing her, positioning yourself closer to the window, as to ensure you did not miss her.

You don’t understand why.

Maybe you just liked to see her smile.

…“Lady Furina, we at Chioriya Boutique thank you for allowing us to present our garments for you today.” Champvallon declares. You cringe at his sickly sweet voice that deepens in tone as he continues his speech.

The man behind Lady Furina is Neuvillette, you’re sure of it. High and mighty, his stature as impressive as his title.

And under your breath you repeat the pronunciation of his name, dragging out the syllables from under your tongue.

Lady Furina allows a moment to pass before she prompts, “Ah yes! Only Fontaines best is suited for your justice party.”

The presentation from the boutique takes hours.

Furina catches your eye a few times, and smiles, it’s subtle enough that you almost believe it’s not aimed at you. Ignoring the flutter of your heart everytime her eyes meet your own.

The final designs are being brought out when suddenly you see a creation that makes your heart drop.

Sitting on a cushion, is a broach.

An ugly, bedazzled broach that you were sure you had thrown out.

And it was being carried over to the justice team by a worker who stares at it confused.

“And here we have a broach for the Archon herself.” Says Champvallon, who is still yet to turn his head to view your horrendous work.

You’re paralysed, hands shaking trying to think of a way you can remove the jewellery without causing a scene.

“We hope you adore it as much as we adored making-” Champvallons voice trails off and he looks at the cushion, his eyes widening as he finally see’s what he’s presenting.

You hear the party behind Furina collectively stop their idle chatter and stare.

Everyone looks.

Nobody says anything.

“And who is behind the creation of this…thing?”

You want to die. Truly.

Your heart is in your throat and feel sick, raising a trembling hand as you step forward, your eyes stuck to the ground.

You’re sweating, palms clammy as you take a breath, preparing to be fired in-front of Lady Furina and her circle. Shame appears to drip off your brow and onto the crevices of your cheeks.

“It was me Sir.” You mumble, your voice weak, “But it was an accident I swear!”

Looking towards Lady Furina, you bow your head, pleading silently for her forgiveness, “I never meant to offend.”

“You foolish, troublesome girl.” Hisses Champvallon, his eyes narrowed as he walks towards you.

You bite your lip, and apologise profusely although you know it will not matter.

“Lady Furina.” Champvallon says as he reaches your side, plastering an ugly smile on his furious face, concealing his bitter dissatisfaction.

“I will send someone immediately to retrieve your actual broach, please, hand that one over to one of the maids, I will dispose of it as soon as possible.”

“No need.” Lady Furina says, halting the conversation instantly with a raise of her glove covered hand.

She glances at the miserable looking broach and then towards you, you hold her gaze for a moment before she smiles, recognition flickering across her decorated eyes, finishing her examination of your face.

“I’d like to keep it.”

“Lady Furina?”

Holding the broach in her hands, she raises it to her face, almost as if fascinated by the shameful stitching and the odd colour scheme.

“Lady Furina.” Champvallon stutters, moving away from you, “Your kindness knows no bounds b-but surely you would prefer something a little more..well pleasing to the eye?”

You stare at the back of his head as he leaves your side, counting the freckles on his neck to steady yourself.

“It’s unique, it’s different, Fontainians are known for their eloquence, and I as the God of Hydro must always be challenging these trends.”

Furina peers over her hands to stare at your boss, a dainty eyebrow raised.

“You wouldn’t dare to challenge an Archons will, would you?”

Champvallon splutters, his face warming to a putrid red, his arms rising up as if pleading to surrender.

“N-No I merely thought that-”

“Then it is settled.” Lady Furina laughs, leaning back in her chair and glancing at you.

In your daze, you barely register the tiny wink she sends you way, eyes too focused on the way you broach was now sitting snug, amongst the fabric of her outfit.

It stuck out like a thorn grips the side of a rose and you grimace.

It was ugly, inarguably so.

Neuvillette clears his throat, eyes sweeping over your trembling figure.

“It was you who made this?” He ponders, head tilted slightly.

Your eyes snap to his, and you nod, it’s clumsy and awkward and you hate yourself.

“Um, yes your Honour, I made it.”

“It’s very interesting.” His voice is light, as if trying to filter out the tension pulling the conversation to a standstill, “The yellow and the pink are an unusual yet unique combination, very bright to the eye.”

You breathe out a small smile, as Lady Furina nods her head. “Yes, yes, indeed.”

“Thank you Monsieur Neuvillette, Lady Furina.”

You’re bowing again, chastising yourself for never taking the time to learn how to properly bow for an Archon, and then you’re leaving, hands still shaking, but head lifted just a little bit higher.

Furina doesn’t see you leave, too busy tracing the colours of her broach, smiling down at the terrible stitching as if it were weaved in silk and gold.

The presentation finishes with an awkward finality, with all eyes subconsciously darting down to look at your broach on Furina chest, wondering what in Fontaine their Archon was thinking.

—

You don’t know how, but Lady Furina had became a regular in your life now.

Always managing to catch your eye when you’re walking the streets of your home land.

Popping up randomly behind you just to greet you before leaving.

It appeared she worked in patterns, as if she was use to working by a routine.

You almost assume she appears there on purpose, it’s always far too convenient for it to be by chance.

“Y/N!” You hear one day, you’re sitting outside enjoying your lunch break as Lady Furina approaches you.

You hear a bustle and suddenly Fontainians are flodding the streets, clamouring over to her, crowding her.

You smile as she appears to soak up the attention, flaunting her hands in every direction, acknowledging everyone, one by one.

The people don’t seem to think about the prophecy when Focalor herself is before them, too busy trusting her with their lives to care.

You catch her gaze after a moment, and she puffs out her chest, as if trying to impress you.

Your heart aches.

You blink.

…That’s a strange feeling.

“Now now, my faithful subjects.” She begins, “I must take my leave now, I have very important business to attend to!”

You hear the groans of her people, as they beg her to stay, but reluctantly they remove themselves from her and walk away.

It’s just you and her now and she gestures for you to follow her.

You grow nervous, knowing there are watchers.

You hear them whisper behind their hands, hear them questioning why the “crazy girl from the boutique was the centre of the Hydro Archons attention.”

You cringe, but follow her anyway, your steps timid under eyes.

You think you’d follow her anywhere, but that could just be your adrenaline talking, your heart thumping within the confines of your chest.

“Lady Furina,” You say when you reach an empty alleyway, away from the eyes of Fontaine.

You pause, taking in the cracked bricks in the surrounding walls. “This is…Well- I’ll be honest it’s creepy.”

“Huh.” She says, turning to face you, “It’s more private no?”

“It’s a dark alleyway.” You deadpan.

Furina laughs, taking your hand in a wild moment of humour.

Dear God you hope you aren’t sweating.

“Never fear!” She declares, “As long as I’m here, nothing can harm you.”

Her words draw out a feeling that you don’t allow yourself to delve into, choosing instead let her hold your shaky hand without pulling away.

“I never got to thank you.”

“Thank me?”

You blush.

“For saving my career the other day.”

You see Furinas eyes move, as if trying to recall.

“Oh! The showing.”

You nod, “Thank you for…being so kind.”

You smile at her, and her eyes drops to your teeth in one fast, graceful motion before travelling back to your eyes.

“Always.” She replies, as if it was the simplest concept to her, like washing your hands or falling asleep.

Your face is on fire.

Gods your hands are definitely sweaty now.

Lady Furina shakes her head, as if pulling herself together.

“Now! I’m inviting you to tea.”

What.

“Sorry?”

“Tea. With me, together.”

“No, no I-I got that.”

She smiles, “So?”

“Why in Teyvat would you want to have tea with me?” You question, hope blooming in your chest, overpowering your habit of avoidance.

Furina stills, her face filled with confusion that you don’t get.

“You don’t want tea with me?” Shadows seem to cover her face, and you pull your hand from hers to frantically wave them in front of you.

“No no! Don’t misunderstand me! I’d love to, oh my God there’s nothing I’d enjoy more it’s just that-”

“Just that what?”

“You’re an archon?”

Furina frowns.

“What does that have to do with anything? I’m asking you to join me as a friend, not as an Archon.”

Oh.

Oh.

“Oh.”

You know of your less than extraordinary appearance, and the simplicity of your life. You know that imagining anything more with an Archon is a fantasy so baffling that it even embarrasses you.

But you still can’t fight the disappointment resonating in your chest at the stupid word “Friend”.

Furina doesn’t seem to notice your deflation, instead probing you for an answer. Her hand reaching up to hold your arm, tugging you closer to her.

There’s a hopeful, cheeky look in her eye that you think could persuade even the most hellish of Demons to stand down.

“Well? You’ll join me?”

You sigh, and try to throw on a smile.

You feel like a puppet, your grin has to be ugly, repulsive, even so, you maintain it with cracked continuity.

“Sure.”

—

What does one wear to a date visit with an Archon?

You hate everything you own.

You almost rip your nails off in frustration after the fourth attempt to dress yourself fails.

This is terrible, everything is terrible.

Archons why do you own such ugly clothes!

You hear a knock at your door, and you jump, lifting your head to see Chiori staring at you, her unwavering gaze filtered with confusion.

“Chiori?” You ask, trying to hide the mess of your room.

Or well, her room, saying you were technically leaching off of her house until you could save up enough money to move.

She raises an eyebrow, a silent question of your antics, and you sigh.

“I have nothing to wear.”

“Hm.” Chiori responds, her lip going between her teeth as she takes in the mess of your clothing.

“And since when do you care what you wear?”

You scoff, offended.

“I always care!”

“Right…”

—

You think Chiori was sent by Celestia.

No really, you do.

Especially now when you’re twirling infront of your mirror, admiring her artistry on your body.

“It’s beautiful Chirori.” You whisper, your finger tracing the delicate stitching, enamoured by the sheer amount of detail on your gown.

“It’s hardly my best.” She replies, batting your hand away to finish the seam, “But all my other work is being used for the Fashion festival.”

You grin.

“I get the leftovers then.” You say cheekily, daring to wink at her.

Chiori shakes her head, “You get what I feel is right for you, and this…” She gestures to your dress, “Does look beautiful on you.”

Thank you Celestia you repeat in your head, Thank you for finally giving me a break.

—

You meet Furina at the Palais Mermonia.

She spots you as you walk in, and beckons you to a room across the hall.

Tiny Melusines greet you, and you smile at them, reaching down to pat their little heads.

Furina stills as she takes you in, fully looking at you.

“You look different.” She states, and you stop your movements entirely.

“You’re dressed…” Furina trails off, and your face warms.

“Nicely?” You finish, a teasing smile on your lips, “For a change?”

She shakes her head.

“You always look nice, it’s just jarring to see you wear something so well fitting.”

Her eyes trail along your figure, and you flush, your mind unable to comprehend your compliment.

Furina suddenly pulls herself out of her trance and smiles, putting out a hand for you to take.

“Never-mind that now!” She beams, “Desert time! Come, come!”

And you’re alone with Furina, your hand in hers.

She leads you over to a table adorned with confectionery to last over a hundred life times.

“Do you drink tea? Or would you rather Fonta?” She asks, turning her head to glance at you, and you rip your eyes away from your conjoined hands.

“Uh, tea, tea is good.”

Lady Furina looks at you, her eyebrow raised, “Alright, sugar?”

“Huh!!?”

“Sugar? As in, do you want sugar?”

“Oh! Yes of course!”

You pause, and Furina continues to look at you.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Are you taking sugar?”

Dear God, how are you so pathetic?

“Yes please.” You say silently, embarrassment morphing your face, forcing your head to fall to look at the floor.

Furina sets your tea in front of you, before pulling a chair over to sit next to you.

She watches the way your body seems to shrink in on itself, you hand fiddling with the loose fabric of your gown.

You nervous, and Furina scowls.

She doesn’t like this.

“What’s going on hm?” She asks plainly, and you restrain yourself from jumping at her forwardness.

“I-I’m sorry?” You attempt to delay, taking a sip of your tea, burning your mouth.

“You seem..off.” Furina says, her voice slightly drawn out, a frown on her features. “Have I done something?”

“What? No! Absolutely not you haven’t done anything…” You stammer out, a fake laugh breaking the barriers of your teeth as you try to compose yourself.

“Then why-”

Your eyes dart around the table, choosing to make eye contact with the bread than with her.

“It’s just a lot like wow I’m having tea with a God!”

Furina stirs her tea slowly, her eyebrows furrowed.

“I thought we were past this?”

“Sorry?”

“You seeing me as a God?”

You blink, and Furina takes a sip of her tea.

“You..You are a God though, you’re my God?”

Furina thinks the tea turns sour in her mouth.

“Technically, I suppose so, but I believe us to be friends?” She sets her cup down, and looks at you, her cheeks slightly red. “Am I mistaken?”

You clamour to explain yourself, your arms reaching out as if trying to slow time, ignoring the painful tug of your heart at that stupid word again.

“N-No of course we’re friends!” You stammer, “It’s just…Well I-”

“Then there’s no reason for you to be nervous.”

You nod.

And then something happens.

Something switches.

And suddenly Furina isn’t merely looking at you,

She examining you.

“Unless.” She starts, and you feel a truly dreadful sinking feeling within your chest.

“Unless there’s..Something else bothering you?”

And every facial expression you display is analysed before you, every twitch of your eyebrow, the way your eyes widen and the way you seem to stop breathing.

Furina leans forward, an emotion so humanly desperate flickering across her face.

An emotion she is yet to understand.

Your lips part and you truly do not know what to say.

It’s foolish, to ever consider yourself worthy to share a reciprocated love with your God you remind yourself bitterly.

You’re confused, anguished, disheartened by her referral to you as a friend and yet, you do not know what to say.

So you clear your throat.

And breathe in.

“I do not know what you mean Lady Furina.” You whisper, and it’s wrong, wrong, wrong.

And Lady Furina waits only a sheer second, before she’s leaning back in her chair and raising her head.

Somethings off.

“Then let’s us drink together as friends.”

You could swear then, that Lady Furina looked human.

You would stand trial on the fact that you saw her deflate with disappointment in the most mortal like way. You’d swear an oath.

But then you blink and the Hydro Archon blinks back.

And you’re sure you were mistaken.

—

There’s rumours in Fontaine.

There’s rumours everywhere, this isn’t a new concept to you.

But this is different, this rumour makes your blood freeze in your veins.

You heard it after you walked home from the boutique, a group of local Poisson men whispering under their breath.

“Lady Furina isn’t Fontaine’s Archon.”

You pause, turning your head as subtly as you could, creeping closer as to listen to their words.

You’re not a silent stalker and so they see you immediately.

They glare at you as they leave and you’re left confused as they made their way back to Poisson.

The next you hear of them, they’re dead.

Dissolved in the rising water.

You throw up when you see their faces in the paper, along with the heading “Fontaine’s Archon Fails Her People.”

You have faith.

You have faith.

You have faith.

—

Your faith dies with your Archon on the day of her trial.

You don’t go, you never go to trials.

But you know the happenings as if you were there to witness.

You find yourself running towards the Opera Epiclese, tripping over your own feet when the words “Death Penalty” reach your ears.

It’s silent.

Oh so silent.

And then the rain starts, and the tides grow.

And you can’t make it to the staircase of the Epiclese due to the water filling your lungs.

You’re drowning.

Screaming out bubbles of prayers to an Archon that isn’t yours.

Betrayal wrecks through your body and you’re drowning.

You’re drowning.

You’re drowning.

You’re drowning.

—

Furina cries on her watery throne.

Mourning the loss of her people, her home, her facade.

She thinks of you, briefly, thinks of your face, your clothes, your eyes.

Letting herself smile gently, she allows her tears to wash away her role.

It was nice to play a God.

If only she could save them.

—

.

.

.

.

You’re nervous.

You keep pacing back and fourth, pathetically trying to figure out a way in which you can knock on the door of Furina’s house, and speak with her like humans.

After the flood, you found yourself bed bound, your lips tainted blue and breath engulfing you so vigorously that you coughed until your eyes stung red.

The man who saved you kissed your hand when you woke up, crying out that he thought you wouldn’t make it.

You smile at him and thank him.

“I owe you my life.” You had whispered.

Lady Furina was no longer Fontaines Archon.

Gone into a state like hiding from the public, terrified of their outrage.

The nurse that cared for you, informed you of as much, recounting how the Iudex Neuvillette had saved Fontaine, saved you.

And you cried when she left you, tucked up in a hospital bed, weeping over the unknown.

You can’t face her. You conclude.

Not because you didn’t want to but because you had absolutely no idea how to begin.

Would she still regard you with such kindness despite you knowing everything?

How do you convey how you feel for her, when you truly do not know who she even is?

You heart sinks to your stomach and you walk away, hands dropping to your sides. Forcing yourself to move on, and to let fate guide you as far away from Fontaine as it could lead.

You hear a door open, but don’t make the connection until you hear your name being called from behind.

“Y/N!”

You freeze, glancing over your shoulder timidly, staring towards the very God woman you had grown so fond of.

Staring at you humbly on her doorstep.

“Lady-Miss Furina.” You reply, your hands trembling and voice shaking, turning to face her fully.

Her cheeks were flushed as though she made her way to the door in a hurry, eyes narrowed and yet you could not see a trace of annoyance in the depths of her pupils.

“You-” She starts, breathless as if realising that her action of following you would lead to confrontation for the first time, “I saw you.” She pointed up to her arched windows and your face flushes, mortified.

Of course she had.

You say nothing, trying to think of an excuse, anything to dissipate the tension you feel in your bones.

“…You weren’t going to come in?” She questions, her voice small, unbefitting for a woman who use to bellow to the masses with the unfiltered confidence of a Deity.

And you stare, and stare and stare . Your eyes moving over her face, her attire, the stupid bow on her hat.

You’re utterly speechless, profoundly so.

Unable to say anything of value to the woman in which you swore that you-

Furina sighs, her shoulders dropping, hat slipping forward on her head.

Taking your silence for resentment, she accepts your unfettered anger as atonement for her sins.

“I see.” She mumbles plainly, turning to go back inside her house.

And it’s said with such bitter regret and vile disappointment that you find words spilling from the confines of your lips, desperate to call her back.

“I quit.” You frantically say, voice meek.

And Furina stops so you continue.

“Working for Chiori.” You clarify, taking a step forward.

The sun appears to intrude on your conversation, the early morning light presenting itself from behind the brazen buildings of Fontaine, eager to listen.

It makes her complexion golden, the blue strands of her hair, now short, appearing to glow in its wake.

Furina opens her mouth, then closes it, shaking her head defiantly before he’s facing you again, and you’re so close yet so far.

“I needed a change.” You whisper, and she appears to lean closer to hear you, to read the way the words fall from your lips.

You don’t know why this is the first thing you wish to discuss with Furina.

There’s countless other things you could spew, the mirage of questions you have resting in the back of your throat, the confused, recount of events, yet you chose to say none of it for sake of talking about yourself.

You’re selfish, perhaps cruel, but God you just wanted to talk to her.

Furina looks at you, her eyes wide, the sun catches the blue and draws out the sparkle as she looks at you. You drown.

“I’m…I’m glad.” She whispers, “You hated it there.”

“I did.”

You step towards her, keeping your hands still, resting at your sides limp.

“You-” You start, clearing your voice, terrified to overstep, “I mean- Did you hate being an Archon?”

Furina doesn’t move, her cheeks painted rouge with the mention of her role.

Then slowly, subtly, she nods, once up and once down. You almost miss it.

You smile, your eyes crinkling trying to express your endless empathy through one look.

“Then I’m glad you stepped down.”

And Furina wants to kiss you.

She feels it in her mortal soul, amid the beautifully soft way you voice your smile, the desire to be human with you and to make you hers.

She breathes and you watch.

“I’ll miss your silly clothes.” Furina sighs, and you giggle.

“I still wear my silly clothes.” You bite back, and she shakes her head before moving a finger along the underside of your jaw.

“You’re beautiful.” She says, and you take her role of silence, stunned.

Furina lifts her hand, and places it on your cheek, looking down avoiding your eye. “And so boundlessly fascinating.”

“I can’t quite explain it I just-”

You cut her off when you kiss her.

Breathing in her confession and replacing it with your own.

Two mortal souls intertwined as one on her doorstep.

She responds by pulling you closer, trailing her hand to the back of your head and smiling against your lips.

You’re not a seamstress and she’s not an Archon and yet, in this moment that’s okay.

Everything is okay.

feel free to leave a request!

Masterlist <3

artwork credits

A/N- when i say i have been wanting to write this for MONTHS i mean it- i am just so BOUNDLESSLY sick of wlw fics being fetishised and the lack of like a good wlw comfort fic in any character x reader was bothering me ! so thank u to anyone who gives this a try and reads it ! i appreciate you so so so much !!!

ALSO when i say the reader’s fashion is strange or unflattering I HAVE BEEN OBSESSED with insane 19th century dresses so i made a collection of outfits PSA when i say she (the readers) fashion is questionable I MEAN IT <3 i imagine my lovely little failed seamstress makes her own clothes from time to time bc although she’s not good at her job, she still enjoys being creative

if ur interested i made a post of her outfits here :)

thank u so so so much for reading i love u i love u i love u

[slashersidewhore]

Slashers! S/O hurt by a victim pt.2

Slashers x gn!reader

Includes Billy Loomis, Bubba Sawyer, Bo Sinclair, Lester Sinclair

Requested? Yes

Warnings: beefy murder boyfriends, hurt/comfort, minor angst, injuries, blood, fluffy shit

Billy Loomis

It was partially his fault, he was careful but didn’t always think everything through

That’s why you were currently in the clutches his supposed to be victim, knife held to your neck, you could feel warmth from your blood seep down the blade and beneath the collar of your shirt. Struggling only made the situation worse, although you couldn’t help the small gasp as more pressure was applied to your current wound

Feral. You’d never seen Billy’s eyes filled with such a look of utter insanity. He’d done despicable things, ruined lives, played with people like they were just there for his entertainment, but this, seeing you so close to the edge he sent so many others, was the final straw to snap whatever piece of him was remotely still human

He fingers clasped the knife tighter in his grasp, curling around the hilt and wishing he could drive it into your captors jugular

“They ain’t part of this!”

Brows pushed down, mouth pulled in a snarl, he went to take the risk and lunge before a choking sound cut the tension rising in the kitchen in half, your body stumbling towards Billy by instinct, comforted by the way he dropped the knife with a clatter and wrapped his arms around your body, hurried to get you as close as possible

Stu stood at the other end of the tiled floor, half smile glimmering as he stared down at the man he’d just disposed of from life

You curled further into your boyfriends chest, unable to shake the fear you’d felt moments before, still able to feel the cold metal pressing into your flesh. One of Billy’s hands worked it’s way up your trembling back, cupping your face as to direct your eyes to his. They were warm, vacant, yet warm when they landed on your wide eyed expression

“That’ll never happen again, you hear me? Never.”

Letting you push your face back into his neck, the killer began rubbing soft circles on your spine, cold gaze frozen on the still body mere feet away. If looks could kill, the man would have several more stab wounds, each more painful than the last

Billy’s eyes fell to the blade he’d planned on using, head tilting ever so slightly as he pondered how it wouldn’t be out of his way to inflict a few lacerations across the face that even would dare to breathe beside you

Bubba Sawyer

Bubba didn’t like you being around victims, during times where he was killing he got reckless, so dazed in his mind and it constantly worried him that in such a state he could mistake you for another and cause you harm

That being said, mistakes happen

Bubba was standing in a bloody puddle, leaking from the headless body beside him. Loose, brown curls fell in his face as he shook his head held by his rough palms, almost cradling himself. He’d been fooled by one of his potential victims, ending up with him alone with a dead body, and someone missing who knew too much.

The others were gonna rip him a new one, he didn’t even want to think about the look on your face. You’d look at him with such pity, you had yet too thus far, but he just knew that expression was soon to fall on your face. How couldn’t it?

The negative wave of thoughts dragging Bubba down were sliced through by a piercing scream, a chill running down his spine before he realized who’s voice it was who made such a sound, he’d recognize it anywhere

No amount of debris, rickety stairs, tables or chairs could keep Bubba from getting to you, all knocked from his path as the lumbering, masked man ran the fastest his legs would go, chainsaw alive and buzzing in his ear

Bubba didn’t even take a second to pause as he took in the scene, still running full force like his life depended on it. Anguish filled his veins, the victim was straddling your cowering body, arms raised to protect against their assault of punches, they were screaming something he didn’t care to hone in on, focused on getting the offender off and away from you

All he saw was red, on his arms, the creases of his hands soaking into the soles of his boots, digging past the fabric at the knee of his pants as he knelt down, pushing the limp, torn and mangled body from atop of you. Fingers trembling, Bubba paused as you sat up in shock, clothing and skin flushed with blood. Scooting until your body was closer to the man, you crumpled into his embrace, letting you arms fall limp, nose digging into his shoulder. Calloused hands clutched the shirt on your back, tugging you closer, you could feel his soft, unintelligible mutters and whimpers pliant into your collar bone

The two of you just sat there, not wanting to be away from each other for even a second after such a close call

Bo Sinclair

Unlike Bubba, Bo likes you beside him nearly every minute. Yeah, sometimes he’s an asshole, but that’s just one of the traits you’ve come to accept as part of the man you love

It was between the moments where you weren’t stuck to his side, or sitting off within his view, that you realized you were at your most vulnerable, unfortunately we all have a lesson that teaches us such

“Where the fuck are my friends?”

A rough, gritty voice yelled from behind you, catching your moment of silence off guard, spinning around, your heart dropped to your stomach as your eyes landed on what you recognized as one of Bo’s victims standing with squared shoulders, but what made it worse was the fact they were holding a gun

The stranger only seemed to seethe with further rage at the look of your confused face, mouth opening and closing like a fish, eyes wide as the gun raised and their finger went to the trigger

Right as the blaring ring of a shot went off, you were thrown to the side by a heavy weight, body landing on the ground with a dull thud and two large hands blocking the bulk of the impact, hands that were gone from your body a second later, dark shadow leaving frame quick as light as loud footsteps echoed after it

“You son of a bitch!”

You knew that voice, rolling over to gaze at the scene right at Bo tackled the victim to the ground, straddling their body and delivering punch after punch, unable to see his face but hearing the loud curses and violent statements he let fly recklessly

Concern, wide eyes found your similarly large ones, knuckles torn and clothes splattered with red. The mechanic practically folded down into you, forehead coming to press against yours, Bo’s thumbs pressed into the skin under each of your ears, tilting your chin up

“Are ya’ alright baby?”

You could only nod, frightened to think you’d nearly been shot, yet comforted by the warm embrace of the killer, his usual stoic gaze softened, searching you over for any scrapes or cuts. Lips press to the crown of your head, you could lightly hear his inhaling your scent, sighing from the exhaustion of the ordeal

“You’re never leaving my sight again”

Lester Sinclair

Lester doesn’t get himself caught up with Bo and Vincent’s business most the time, in fact as much as a talker the man is, he does like to keep to himself

That’s why it’s a surprise when you’re chilling in the passenger seat of the mans car, mindlessly flipping through a magazine, when an unfamiliar voice enters the warm, afternoon air

“Listen buddy, my friends have been gone for hours and you’re the last person they saw, start talking”

You can see out the pickup trucks window the back of someone facing Lester, their fists clenched as he drops the current task at hand. His gaze darts to you, over their shoulder, and it widens when the stranger whips around, hand on the car door handle, throwing it open

“Get out, I’m taking the car”

Your arm is roughly grasped at the bicep, stumbling over your feet when you’re tossed to the leaf covered ground, wincing at your knee slices against a rock. Eyes squeezing shut at the pain, you didn’t even notice the quick steps of Lester behind you, his shadow looming over yours on the ground as a howl of pain became present. In seconds, the once standing stranger slumped to the ground beside you, cold eyes glazed over, a rather vicious yet precise cut to the base of their throat

“Aw darl’, yer knees all cut up”

Lester mumbled, squatting to your height as he looked over the damage, eyes big and clearly worried. Unsettled, that was the best way to describe the look plastered across the mans face, mouth pulled in a deep frown. Still in shock from being so manhandled out of your seat, you wrapped your arms around his neck, nuzzling the underside of his jaw. Never mind the dirt and sweat that caked his skin, it was comforting at this point

“Never lettin’ someone push ya around like that again, ya hear me?”

His rough palms rubbed the expanse of your back, glancing down at the body still inches away growing colder by the minute

“Let’s take care of that knee”

Requests open!

[slash-me-please]

Hello! Nice day, afternoon or evening. :)

I wanted to see if you could and if you wanted to do a post where the Slashers have a S/o who is very calm, (not a very strawberry girl type, no!)I mean, more like calm, maybe curious and so, as if she were on drugs! And suddenly she has her most sadistic and/or wild side.

(I hope that I have been understood ;"( ) (Oh, you can add whoever, but if you can, especially Stu, from ghostface, Hannibal "The series" and Michael Myers :>)

Please :}

Warnings: Descriptions of murder, blood, sexual tension

A/N: I hope this is what you were hoping for, or at least something close to it. I decided to do a little blurb instead of headcanons, I hope this is okay with you :) I have not wrote for hannibal for a while- so i hope this isn't ooc. I feel like I kinda took on my own idea, I wasn't sure with how to make reader sadistic without going the whole "shes a slasher too" which is a trope I will continue to hate until my days end. I got my inspo from Secretary (2002)

Rebirth

Each day had been unexciting for you, unenjoyable. You had fun in erratic ways- ways erratic for you. Your coworkers saw you as anyone normal, you sipped your coffee quietly at your desk in the mornings- the New York Times crossword of the day clasped tightly in the other hand. You weren't sure you ever wrote any of the answers down as much as you pondered the words on the paper.

Before you met Hannibal, a psychiatrist that your friend Will introduced you to, you spent your nights with a wild look in your eyes. Nothing brought that spice to your life that you craved. None of the past boyfriends ever had the same ideas- they had all been boring. Your first love always teased you about it, laughing about how he must have changed you for the worst. You let him have it, he wasn't correct- you didn't bother wasting the time to correct him. In a way, you had changed. That edge, the sharp curve you had at the young age of nineteen, the one which ignited your fire had long since been extinguished. You searched for a serenity in men that people spoke of- a willing, open man. You'd like to hide what you need from the public eye- and you wonder if that makes you a genius or a coward while your first love bent you over the seat of his motorcycle.

Taking a swig of your coffee, you type away at your desk. Your employer had you entering different numbers and words into some type of document, boring work. Your eyes shift to your phone screen just as it lights up, a text from your newest cover-up boyfriend, Hannibal.

"Please arrive at precisely six p.m. for dinner,"

A simple text, one you could easily follow. Your eyes glanced at the clock, 2:43 p.m. You pressed the power button on your computer.

"Hannibal!" You knocked on the door, it fell open with a squeak. You took it as an invitation, stepping inside and shutting the door behind you. "Hannibal! I'm a little early but I thought maybe you would want help?" Still no reply. You walk through the hallway and into the kitchen. Standing still, you take a breath in and examine your surroundings. It's almost dead quiet, and then you hear a sound you cannot quite describe. Your chins shifts upwards towards a vent and goosebumps erupt on your skin.

A crack resounds, bouncing off the metal walls and ringing in your ears. Then a thump, a loud thump. You're suddenly inspired to make your way to Hannibal's bedroom, the door is shut and you wrap around the handle and breathe in an excited breath. The door swings open, and you gasp. Your boyfriend hovers over your first love, his hand is holding the wooden handle of- what looked like one of the emergency axes that you'd find nestled in the glass box of a professional building. His head is split, blood seeping into the cream colored carpet, also rolling in thick puddles over the hardwood floor.

"Hannibal?" "I told you, six."

Your eyes dilate and you take a few steps closer. He watches you, curious when you start to giggle. "Is this dinner?" He stays silent, you expect it almost, you don't care for his answer anyways. You step to the side, sliding your heels off and stepping forward into the puddle of blood. "There's no need to ruin a good pair of shoes." You gasp, falling onto your knees and setting your hands face down into the liquid soul. You feel it explore the creases of your hands, soaking your pantyhose and you cackle out something evil. "I fucking hated them all."

"When the detectives question you, you'll be heartbroken." He steps closer to you, avoiding the dirtied floor. Hannibal takes pleasure when you nod and lean forwards. "I'm heartbroken." He lifts his hand and brings it to your head, guiding it down to help you press your cheek onto the cold floor. "Go shower, I have to get started cooking."

[dopeasspancake]

For your daily dose of Stuilly depravity:

On a whim, Billy snatched a pair of Sidney's underwear from the dirty laundry on his way out of her house one day. Nothing special, just a soft, light blue cotton bikini cut pair. He told himself it wasn't that weird. Boyfriends do that sometimes, right? Like as a momento from the sex they have not had yet.

He's not sure what possesss him to put them on but he does. And they're comfortable. This probably isn't normal boyfriend behavior but oh well. Nobody has to know but him.

Except he forgets he has them on. He ends up at Stu's later. They start to mess around, as they tend to do. When Stu unbutton's Billy's pants he's confused but not displeased.

Billy is embarrassed and tries to explain what lead to this situation. Upon hearing they are Sidney's used underwear that Billy is now wearing, Stu isn't even listening to Billy's stuttering anymore and practically slams his face between Billy's thighs to breathe it all in.

Billy isn't sure if he should find it hot or troubling that his boyfriend best friend (with benefits) seems to be just as turned on by Billy's girlfriend as he is by Billy himself.

But that's something to ponder on later when Stu's face isn't buried between his legs.

[jurijyuu]

Scratch an Itch Ch. 38: Meeting Again

Link to Ao3

Alastor’s POV

Another perfectly chaotic day on the Pentagram. In the sky, the red star shone a warm bright glow, bathing the cement and asphalt streets in an orange tinge, a mockery of a summer day though most sinners found it just as pleasant. He could spot at least five plumes of dumpster fire smoke in the distance. What a relatively peaceful day in this part of the city.

Fortunately, today’s schedule had to be adjusted at the last minute. Angel Dust was pulled to work and the princess didn’t want to exclude him from today’s teamwork redemption exercise of baking. He still wasn’t convinced that a bit of culinary practice would help cleanse one’s soul and he’d pointed that out to Charlie. If cooking and baking could lead to redemption, then shouldn’t he be the holiest of the crew by now?

A smirk tugged at his lips at his own wit and the princess’s creative reasoning. “It’s all about intention.”, she’d said. Hah! He could only imagine how many good intentions would go into those baked goods once Husker burned a batch and Niffty placed into the batter some of the chopped bugs she kept in a little jar. It would be so incredibly entertaining to watch.

With nothing planned for this morning, he’d taken the free time to check on a few of his contractors and review his peskier contracts. Even after all of that, it was still mid-afternoon and he was left to ponder what to do next. Bespoke leather shoes clacked against chipped cement as he sauntered through the city for something to catch his eye.

Just as well, a small bustling sound caught his attention from a small crowd dining at a local restaurant. The outside was lined in aluminum and red neon and from the faces stuffing themselves by the windows, it looked like a decent joint. His stomach chose just then to remind him that he hadn’t had lunch yet. Why take a break when he’d been enjoying his morning, now early afternoon? Of course, that thinking led to his now empty belly.

The light jingle of the shop bell signaled the abrupt halt of chatter as the more aware diners realized just who stepped into the place. Several seats were immediately vacated, the news of his last rampage at a cafe still fresh on wiser sinners minds. Unfortunately for the staff, they couldn’t leave, though a few went straight to the back before his eyes landed on them.

Several figures stood out within the diner, cloaked in black and wearing cartoonish screaming-faced masks, with little modifications for each individual. Something in the back of his mind itched at seeing them though he paid it little attention. Dark cloaks weren’t uncommon in the hellscape, neither were paper-white masks.

A small cloaked figure came up to him, their stature barely reaching above his waist. 

“Welcome to Billy and Stu’s. Table for one?” They had a feminine voice, almost squeaky. He eyed the area and found a table by the corner, only recently vacated if the half-eaten plate of food was anything to go by.

“Yes. I’d like that corner table, if it’s available.”

“It is now. Let me get that cleaned up for you, sir!” The pipsqueak piped up and ran her little legs to the table, scooping up the abandoned lunch and hastily thrown dollar bills with such swiftness that she was done in less than a minute. With a gesture of her hand, she offered him the seat and placed a menu for him. “I’ll bring your server here in a bit.”

He watched the little one disappear into the back. She was very professional, showing no sign of fear in his presence. He bit back a chuckle as her head looked like it floated on the tables given how short she was. 

Picking up the menu, he looked through the spread. The items had strange names he was sure were references to things that were lost to him. At least they had the mind to write descriptions.

A few minutes later, a taller cloaked figure approached his table and that itching in his mind started to spark a truly bright Edison moment. It started with a scent, so faint beneath sweat and diner grease but achingly familiar. And then it was a voice, muffled by the mask but one he knew very well. 

“Welcome to Billy and Stu's. Can I start you off with a drink?” 

He swallowed thickly behind a carefree smile. Well, this was unexpected, to say the least. What were the odds that he’d run into her here after so long without seeing her? Much more, she sounded pleasant. 

He could almost trick himself into thinking her customer service voice held genuine warmth and friendliness. Each syllable spoken in a polite manner that shook his core with the force of a sledgehammer. 

“How would you say the coffee is here?” He was quick to hide his surprise, slipping into cordial conversation even as his ears strained to pick up any changes in her tone. 

The black-mesh of the mask’s eye holes were too thick to see through. It did a fantastic job of concealing whatever face she was making as he prompted her. No doubt, she wasn’t as happy to see him as her voice made her sound.

“It’s the best diner coffee I’ve had both before and after I died. Not too acidic and we just brewed a new pot so I can get you a fresh cup.” A familiar ache of crumpled static and violent shocks sparked in his chest. He hadn’t heard her regard him so nicely in so long. The corners of his mouth tugged wider, wondering if she was feeling any irritation upon seeing it. Could her professionalism be stronger than her hate for him? If it was, then it wasn’t beneath him to take advantage and see how long she could bear to keep up her professional mask.

“Excellent. Get me a cup. I’ll need a few more minutes to look through the menu.”

“You got it. Let me know if you have any questions.” 

A thrill shot through him, sharp and sweet. Nothing changed in how she addressed him, almost happy, almost chipper, like a good little waitress. If he recalled correctly, whenever she pitched her voice like that, the corners of her mouth tugged up, the motion crunching her eyes a little into a rather adorable smile. 

He could envision it so clearly in his head, she must be anything but delighted to see him. Her eyes wouldn’t be that gentle sparkle she showed him once she’d taken him into her circle. Rather, they would look at him coldly, a silent anger in them. 

A cold gaze and a pretty smile. A shiver raced down his back unexpectedly, his heel digging harder into the white tile under the table in his startle. The image was certainly better than the frowns and sneers she’d sent him. And it had been a while since he’d felt a rush from something so simple as a person’s smile, imaginary as it was.

Reaching into her cloak, he realized that the bottom half was an apron that blended well with the black uniform. From the many pockets he could now recognize, a rolled napkin and silverware were placed on his table before she sauntered away to get his drink, her pace calm and unbothered. 

Unbothered by him?

He just about laughed out loud. Good. This was brilliant. Why hadn’t he thought of entering her place of work before? With how much fun he was suddenly having, he had to the inside of his lip to remain poised. This was…an unexpected treat, one that still shined despite the month he’d spent forgetting about it.

Rosie’s voice screamed at him in his mind, “Leave her alone!” 

He could see his dear old friend in his mind wilting with disappointment as his kind was made up. He mentally apologized. Surely, this much indulgence would be fine? Just a little. He wouldn’t do more than be her customer.

[frenziedslashers]

hey! I know your hyper fixated on TWD, but would you (if you feel up to it ofc) write a lil something for Stu macher?

Specifically, please uh- Stu macher with a Fem!S/o who just reaaaallly loves his voice, and his dirty comments? Like, his dirty talk? She loves it-

I really like your content, and imo, there’s just not enough stuff for my favorite boi, Stu :(

Ofc. I understand if you don’t feel like writing it, so, I hope you have a great day/night!

Dirty Phone Calls;;

A/N: I am literally in love with Stu. You came to the right place, anon 🫶 Sorry if this isn't the best either. I am fighting sleep and my anxiety is high due to a thunder storm going on rn. I also did not proofread this, so good luck lmao

Warnings: Dirty talk, Stu is a flirt, phone sex, masturbation, Stu is a whoreTM

Stu had no idea that you would be this dirty. When he first met you he saw someone who he could corrupt. A white lamb that he could cover in blood and dye the fur for good. Yet truly, you were only a little white lamb in disguise. Shy when he first met you. Yet, open and absolutely devious when he actually had you for himself.

He wouldn't have it any other way, either.

"What are you wearing tonight, baby?" He asked, causing you to smile and roll your eyes. "Stu!" You squealed, making the man laugh into the phone. "Oh come on, I know you like it when I ask you that." He wasn't completely wrong. You loved it when he asked you anything remotely dirty. "You like it when I talk to you all nasty, don't you?" He teased, but you ignored it. A little too embarrassed to do so.

"I'm wearing a shirt, some pants..." "Boo-ring" He howled into the phone. Flopping onto his back on his bed. "What if we played a game? Guess a number between one and ten and if you guess wrong you have to take that shirt off and tell me what you're wearing then?" He cooed, a sly smile resting on his face. You knew from the start that he wasn't going to play fair.

"What if I just told you what was underneath my clothes?" He hummed at your offer. Tapping his chin with a soft sigh. "That's not as fun, now guess a number." It was your turn to hum. Lying on your stomach on your bed. Tapping the side of your head while you pondered. "Three?" you questioned, and he made the sound of a buzzer. "Wrong! It was five. Now, strip and tell!"

You kept your end of the deal. Placing the phone beside you while you pulled your shirt over your head. Lying back down while pulling your phone to your ear. "I'm wearing your favorite bra, how's that?" You asked him, "The red one?" You hummed in agreement at his question. "Fuck, you know I love it when you wear that. My pretty thing, all laid out for me." He sighed, and you shifted your thighs together. Biting your lips at his words.

"You like it when I talk about you like that? What if I told you what I'm thinking? About how I wanna have you underneath me. Pressing your face into the bed while I fuck you good and hard," He rambled, basically telling you everything that came to his scattered mind. If it was said from anyone else you would have cringed and hung up, but something about Stu saying it only turned you on more.

"You want me to keep going?" He asked, rolling onto his back so he could begin palming himself through his jeans. A groan leaving his throat which caused your 'yes' to come out a little more breathy than you intended.

"God, you're so hot. Especially when you sound like that, baby," he sighed. "If you were here with me I'd show you how big of a slut you are. I know you are, you act like you aren't, but you are. Only for me, and I love it. You're always so loud, God, neither of us can ever shut up when I fuck you," he mewled. Reaching down his pants while you snaked your hand down your own.

"Tell me, you like it when I fuck you hard?" He asked, beginning to stroke himself with a soft moan. "Answer me," His voice was a little more stern than before. "Yes, I do, I love it, Stu," you stammered, and he laughed into the phone. "God, you're so perfect," he purred.

"I'd tie you up if you were here. Put your hands behind your back like I did last time. Use you like the doll you are," he teased. You knew he wouldn't actually use you, and so did he. He loved you too much, even if he hadn't told you that quite yet.

"Fuck you 'til the only thing you could do is cry," this time you moaned into the phone. Your fingers brushing over your clit while he continued his rant.

"What are you doing now?" He asked, stroking himself a little faster than before. His breath coming out ragged through the phone. "Are you touching yourself, too?" He asked again, and you nodded. Realizing after a moment that he couldn't see you. "Fuck- Yes, yeah. Are you?" You asked, and he chuckled. "Of course I am," it was a bit of a silly question. Stu had to be the horniest guy you had ever met. Any chance he had to get off he'd take it. Especially if it involved you.

"What if you hurt me?" you asked, rubbing yourself a little faster at the thought. "With the rope?" He asked, and you chuckled. "No, I mean like... Hurt me. On purpose?" Your voice grew softer as you asked the question. "Like hitting you? Are you into that, baby?" He asked, and you let out a small "mhm" of agreement. "Shit, this might be how I crack open all your kinks from now on, kitten," you rolled your eyes at the nickname he gave you. His words were quick to distract you again. Pulling you back into your fantasy realm.

"God, the things I could do to you," Stu shut his eyes while he thought. "I could fuck you rougher than I already do. Leave your thighs black and blue," He purred. "Bring a knife into it, cut that pretty skin of yours," he tittered. The thought of him marking you with a knife oddly enough did it for you. A moan bleeding through the phone that had his hips jerking.

"Shit, I need you so bad," he whimpered, "I need you too, Stu," you cried back. Both of your hands moving quicker than before. "Cum for me," he breathed, and that was it for you. Your body convulsing while you curled in on yourself. The spring snapping within you while you moaned and cried into the phone. Stu doing the same shortly after. Calling your name out while he did so.

The both of you laid in your separate beds. Phones still up to your ears while you came down from your highs. Finally able to focus on each others breathing again. "Holy shit," you breathed out, and he chuckled. "I'm coming over and rocking your boat tonight, baby," he growled, and you snickered. "Better hurry before I fall asleep," you responded, hearing him move around on the other end. "I'm on my way now, did you really wanna try the knife thing?" He asked, waiting as you thought over the question. "Well, sure, maybe..." You stammered, a little worried about the idea. "I won't cut ya tonight, baby. Gotta save that for later down the line," He teased. "Keep your door unlocked, I'll see you soon." "No promises," you sighed. Listening as he laughed on the other end before the call itself ended.

Goddamn Stu Macher and his voice.

[zapreportsblog]

What if Stu really didn’t kill anybody?

Reader and Stu had started going out before the night of the massacre. She was at the party, and she was planning to tell him she was pregnant. She got between Stu and Billy until the older boy pushed her out of harms way. When Sidney pushed the tv on him, reader punched the other girl and tried to fight her. The paramedics had to pull her off of him and take her out of the house. She stayed in the hospital until he could leave and stayed by his side during the entire trial and his sentence whether it was in a mental hospital or prison. She told him she was pregnant and they got married when he was locked up.

Wow this is beautiful

❝what we have❞

✭ pairing : stu macher x reader

✭ fandom : scream

✭ summary : stu macher wasn’t the killing so why was he being punished like his was. Luckily his girlfriend is there for him and now as he heals up she continues to stay by his side, even when he gets locked up

✭ slashers masterlist

It was a chilly autumn evening in the small town of Woodsboro. The leaves had started to turn shades of red and gold, painting a picturesque scene. In the midst of this tranquil setting, (Y/N) found herself facing a life-altering moment.

She had been dating Stu Macher for a few months now, a little while after his breakup with Tatum. They had been happy together, enjoying each other's company and building a connection. However, life had a funny way of throwing unexpected twists their way.

One fateful day, (Y/N) discovered that she was pregnant. The news left her both excited and scared, as she knew it would change everything. As she pondered how to share this life-changing news with Stu, the night of Stu's big house party approached. (Y/N) saw it as the perfect opportunity to talk to him.

The party was in full swing, with music blaring, laughter echoing through the halls, and an excited energy filling the air. But every time (Y/N) tried to approach Stu to tell him about her pregnancy, something or someone would interrupt her. It seemed like fate was conspiring against her, trying to keep her from revealing the truth.

Just as she was about to find a quiet corner to talk to Stu, chaos erupted. Ghostface, the infamous masked killer, made his presence known, plunging the party into a nightmare. Panic and fear gripped the guests as they realized their lives were in danger.

As the nightmarish events unfolded, and people were turning up dead the shocking truth came to light. Billy Loomis, Stu's best friend, was revealed as the killer. (Y/N) stood frozen, her mind racing to make sense of it all. She remembered Sidney running towards her saying Ghostface had attacked her the same night that Billy had miraculously showed up a couple of minutes after the killer almost killed her, and now it made sense. Billy had been manipulating everyone, pulling the strings from behind the mask.

In a desperate battle for survival, Sidney Prescott, the primary target of Ghostface, managed to shoot Billy, ending his reign of terror. But in a moment of confusion and adrenaline, Sidney turned her suspicion towards Stu. How could Billy have faked his own stabbing a few minutes ago if she had seen Ghostface approach him from behind?

As Sidney lunged towards Stu, ready to deliver her final blow, (Y/N) stepped in the way, her heart pounding with fear and determination. She couldn't let Sidney harm Stu, the father of her unborn child. With a swift push, Stu managed to move (Y/N) out of harm's way, narrowly avoiding Sidney's attack.

But in the chaos, a television set came crashing down, hitting Stu square on the head. Pain radiated through his body as he fell to the ground, (Y/N) rushed to his side, her concern overpowering her fear.

The the sirens wailed in the distance, signaling the arrival of the authorities, (Y/N) held Stu's hand tightly.

Stu lay in the hospital bed, his head still throbbing from the injury he had sustained. (Y/N) sat by his side, her hand gently holding his, offering him comfort and support. It was in this vulnerable moment that Stu shared the dark news that had been weighing on his heart.

"The cops, they think I was working with Billy," Stu admitted, tears welling up in his eyes. "They believe what Sidney told them, and it feels like everyone is turning against me. Do you believe it too?"

(Y/N) looked into Stu's tear-filled eyes, her heart breaking for him. She squeezed his hand tightly and softly uttered, "No, Stu, I don't believe it. I know the man you are, and the father of our child wouldn't harm anyone. You're innocent, and we'll fight to prove it."

A mix of relief and joy washed over Stu's face as he heard those words. A tear escaped his eye, this time filled with happiness. He couldn't believe that he was going to be a father, and the thought overwhelmed him with a profound sense of love and responsibility.

"I promise you, (Y/N), I'll be there for our baby," Stu vowed, his voice filled with determination. "Even if they put me away for some years, I'll make sure to be a part of our child's life. We'll find a way."

Moved by his words, (Y/N) felt a surge of emotions welling up inside her. She knew that Stu was the man she wanted to spend her life with, no matter the circumstances. In that moment, Stu reached into his pocket, revealing a small ring box.

"(Y/N), will you marry me?" Stu asked, his voice trembling with anticipation.

Tears of joy streamed down her face as she nodded, unable to find words to express her happiness. Stu gently slipped the ring onto her finger, sealing their commitment to each other and their unborn child.

As Stu recovered from his injuries, the day finally came when the authorities deemed him fit to face the consequences of his actions. Handcuffed and escorted by police officers, he looked back at (Y/N), who stood strong by his side. Their love and support remained unwavering.

In a small, intimate ceremony held in the jail's church, Stu and (Y/N) exchanged vows, surrounded by a small gathering of family, prison guards, and fellow inmates who had come to witness their union. It wasn't the fairytale wedding they had imagined, but it was a testament to their enduring love.

Despite the bars that separated them physically, Stu and (Y/N) were united in spirit. They refused to let the circumstances define their love or their commitment to each other. They knew that their journey would be difficult, but they were determined to face it together, supporting each other every step of the way.

And as they exchanged their vows, promising to stand by each other's side through thick and thin, they knew that love had the power to conquer all, even the walls of a jail cell.

[stusbunker]

They really dropped the ball on the concept of demon omens in later seasons.

[b4mb1isntr34l]

How do you feel about Stu/Sid as a couple?

Stu + Sid as a couple

okay so for starters, i think Stu and Sid would have been better than Sid and Billy.

i think that Stu's very chaotic energy would mesh well with Sid in an opposite's attract kinda way, but more so like platonically?

like, dont get me wrong, i would have definitely preferred a different character for Sid (fuck you Billy you know what you did) but i also think if Stu and Sid were together, they wouldnt last long.

because of Stu having a thing for Sid for awhile, i genuinely do think if they had gotten together he would have went coco loco way quicker. Sid needed someome patient and to be there for her, and Stu doesnt seem like the most patient of characters. hes a teenage boy and very much gives off "they only want one thing," and hed need to absolutely adore someone for that to be different.

overall,

i think that Stu and Sid, (if evil stupid billy wasnt real) could have been best friends. their energy is so good and had they the chance to actually get closer (without stupid ugly billy around) and Stu not being coco loco then they could have been a cool duo.

A/N : i did edit and make tweaks to this so if you read back and notice differences then dont worry that was me 🖤 i made some fuck ups with it and i wanted to take them out or fix them.

i had to ponder alot with this one since i never really thought on it too hard, but i hope i did good anyways

love you guys, thank you sm for requests it makes me so happy

[tawneybel]

Request: “Have you ever thought about doing something for Roman Bridger from Scream 3? Maybe for a fem reader, and probably involving him recording it. He's my special princess I love him so much.”

Imagine Roman recording your first encounter with him as Ghostface.  

“Have anything to say to the camera, ______?”

“You’re my special princess. I love you so much.”

That caught him off guard. Why were you here, anyway?

You had zero clue who Ghostface could be this time. Or even how many Ghostfaces there were. First spree was two dumbass high schoolers. Second was a dumbass college student and one of the dumbass high schoolers’ moms. Maybe the killer was a woman this time. 

Anyone could disguise themselves as Ghostface now. Thanks to that stupid Stab franchise. Hopefully the threequel would never see the light of day. Hell, even you had a motive.

In my opinion, you wanted to tell Roman, there never should have been Stab 1, let alone a trilogy. But you’d be preaching to the choir, you figured. He wanted to direct a romantic comedy. 

If Stab’d been as far away from The Texas Chain Saw Massacre and its sequels had been from the source material, you wouldn’t have cared. Meeting the actual survivors after the cast playing them really cemented your distaste.

There weren’t a lot of female slashers. The ones who were seemed to follow their male counterparts. Pamela Voorhees. Tiffany Valentine. Mrs. Loomis. 

“Oh, so you are a girl.” 

“No,” Ghostface responded quickly. No hesitation. 

“That works.” Without taking your eyes off the camera, you unsheathed a buck knife. “You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”

“Fuck.”

He was probably watching you through other cameras, security cameras, as well. You weren’t actually sure if the one in front of you was a live feed. Maybe he was planning to kill you then send the footage to someone. Or keep it for himself. Either way, sicko. 

Send the footage to someone, you repeated. To other dramatis personae, maybe. Or his partner. If he had one. Considering the set up, you pondered, glancing at the camera, I’m definitely a part of the main cast, right? Even if you wanted nothing to do with the Woodsboro murders, fictionalized or not, you’d captured Ghostface’s attention. 

But I hope you’re capturing my good side. 

Roman silently cursed this time, glaring at the phone. He prided himself on thinking ahead. Unlike Stu Macher, who realized he’d fucked up at the end. Or Mickey Altieri, who’d wanted to get caught. Attention whore. Despite being an actress, or perhaps because of it, you weren’t always eye-catching. Roman felt relieved at how subdued you were around John Milton. No danger of ______ ______ ending up like Maureen Prescott! 

Though, Roman did fantasize about you ending up on a couch with him. A lot. And you guessed correctly that this Ghostface wanted to keep a private tape of you for himself. What Roman really wanted to do was direct one of your mainstream movies. Not a romantic comedy, though. He’d gut anyone who tried to kiss you. 

“That’s a prop, isn’t it?” 

All the blood was flowing to his head. Or, more accurately, from one head to the other. Why did you have to be here? You liked slashers. You were more likely than anyone to figure out who was behind the mask. 

He didn’t know if you liked true crime. Was your latest flick in development hell? Were you between projects? Roman couldn’t remember.   

“Got me.”

You threw your hands up in defeat and set the knife down, carefully so the blade didn’t clink. 

Oh, you wanna play psycho killer? you might have uttered breathlessly at the camera. If you’d wanted to fuck with him. And been more in the loop. You only had your knowledge of fictional killers to go by. And that didn’t guarantee your survival. Anything went with a Ghostface. Rules schmules. Besides, Sidney Prescott was the final girl.

If I make it out of here, you promised, I’m going to consume everything Gale Weathers spun on the murders. Aloud, “What archetype am I?”

“What?” 

When you relinquished the replica Buck 120, your shirt hadn’t been able to contain your tits. Exposing the tops of your pert nipples. Because you weren’t wearing a bra. 

Somehow Roman had missed that earlier. Between your visible thighs and cocky expression. This was the first time you’d dressed so casually in front of him. It wasn’t for him. At least, he didn’t think you’d figured out that the killer was Roman Bridger. Yet. He really liked the way you were biting your lip. This was getting really interesting. 

“Why are you braless?”

“What are you? A paparazzo?” 

Ghostface wasn’t supposed to be that kind of predator. 

“And you didn’t answer my question,” you continued, without giving him time to respond. “There are neo-noirs, neo-Westerns… And now neo-slashers. I’m not someone you can just label a one-dimensional slut and kill off.”

Better to keep rambling, while remaining vigilant of your surroundings. He could just pop out anywhere. 

“Why are you wasting your time with me?” 

He scoffed. “‘Wasting’?” 

“Shouldn’t you be doing this to Sidney Prescott? Or am I just a warm up?” 

He’d had the patience and cunning to get away with murder. To finally and completely execute his revenge on Rina Reynolds for rejecting her own son. Committing half-sororicide was far from his mind. One final sound thought popped into his mind.    

“I thought you weren’t someone to just be labeled and killed off?” 

Something was off. Sure, Ghostface sounded suave. All his predecessors had been, right? Smooth talking was a job requirement. Yeah, they could talk a big game, and the collective kill count was over a dozen. Still, something wasn’t quite adding up about his behavior. 

“You can talk a big game-” But I’d bet a thousand buck knives… “-you and yours scrambled around like idiots going after Sidney.”

“I don’t want to talk about her right now. Or them.”

Roman couldn’t take it anymore. You were messing up his plans. Yet he didn’t really care. Later, he might regret what he was about to do. 

Radio silence. 

You clicked End when you saw the flash of black fabric. The carpet muffled his steps. How thick were the walls that you couldn’t hear him? Unless…

“There’s more than one of you, isn’t there?”

Arms raised, knife and phone in hand, he responded, “Just me.” 

“Well, that’s-” you started, before realizing he was brandishing another piece of equipment. “Oh.”

All Roman wanted to do now was fulfill your (and his) fantasy. You were into this, right? He was pretty sure you were. The way you were flicking your knife was pretty cute. He set the phone down. 

It was like the Grim Reaper was throwing you a bone. The whole situation was ridiculous. But then something clicked. 

“I thought that was a prop,” he drawled.  

“Guess again.” 

To your frustration, blade didn’t meet flesh. You pulled it out and made to stab him again when Ghostface bared his chest. Or would have, had there not been a bulletproof vest. 

“I don’t need to see your tits, too.” 

“Aw, come on, ______. What did you say earlier? ‘Show me yours, I’ll show you mine.’”

“No, I mean, I don’t need to see your pink bits, Roman.”

Without thinking, he pulled his mask off. “How-?”

“I was just guessing by the outline. You’re a show-er, not a grow-er.” You shrugged. “Also, I meant our knives. Drop it.”

Still thoughtless, he relinquished the knife.   

“For someone who works in film, you’re not very good at acting. You didn’t act before becoming a director, right?” 

If you’d known him better, you would have known the answer to that question. You didn’t seem interested in knowing anything about his motivation. Somehow that did nothing to kill his boner. 

“The camera’s still running.”

“Fuck,” Roman repeated. Evidence. 

His arrogance (and horniness) had gotten the best of him. If he tackled you, he’d have to either subdue you via restraints or stabbing. Neither option was appealing. Because he really, really liked being at your mercy. Even if you had tried to kill him, Roman, not just Ghostface.  

“I’m not really sure what your end goal is,” you began, leaving a gap between your sentences in case he had an answer. He didn’t. “But you wanted to direct a love story, right?” 

He chuckled, before realizing where you were going with this. 

“I have a lot of pull around here.

“Put your mask back on and open up that robe again.” 

[get-back-homeward]

The chapter of Royston Ellis meeting the Beatles is so wild.

He first hits on George at the Jacaranda. George responds to this with a casual “oh, you’d love my friends” and brings him to Gambier Terrace:

Also dropping into the Gambier Terrace pit was a special guest, Royston Ellis, “King of the Beatniks.” The bearded bard, who featured in TV documentaries and press articles whenever an offbeat teenage angle was needed, was in Liverpool to read his poetry at the university on June 24/25, and he swiftly found himself drawn into the Beatles’ company. The conduit was George, who (with nothing else to do while John, Stu and Paul were in school) was hanging around the Jac when the wandering coffee-bar poet traipsed in, drawn by hip radar to “the happening place.” Avowedly “trying everything,” Ellis was an active bisexual in this period of his life and he took an immediate fancy to George: “He looked fabulous with his long hair and matelot-style striped T-shirt, very modern, which is why I deliberately spoke to him. I was nineteen and he was seventeen and we clicked right away.”15

George took Ellis, his typewriter and his duffel bag back to Gambier Terrace to meet John and Stu. A rapport was quickly established and Ellis was invited to “crash” for a few days—yet another occupant for the filthy back room.

Then Ellis hits it off with John and Stu and wants them as a backing band:

Ellis says he developed a particular rapport with John and Stuart and that they discussed poetry, art and London. When he left, they spoke of doing it again sometime: “We were talking about how I wanted a band to come to London and back me on my Rocketry performances, and they were thrilled at the idea.” Art school studies finished the following Friday, July 1, marking the end of Stu’s fourth year and John’s third and last because the college was waving him goodbye. The exam results, when they came through on August 1, were just as expected: John failed and was out, Stuart passed the NDD, for which he received a certificate. The option was there for him to do a fifth year and attain the highest available qualification, the Art Teacher’s Diploma (ATD), akin to a degree and entitling him to become a teacher … but both he and John were pondering a period as prospectors, and doing something again with Ellis was a definite possibility.

So much so, Ellis is responsible for the first* two mentions of the band in the newspaper:

As for Ellis, so much was he enthused by the possibility of appearing with them again that he soon got the Beatles their first mention in a music paper. It was the July 9 edition of Record and Show Mirror, where a supercilious little article about “the bearded sage of the coffee bars” ended “he’s thinking of bringing down to London a Liverpool group which he considers is most in accord with his poetry. Name of the group? ‘The Beetles’”

….A born publicist, Royston Ellis knew how to manipulate a follow-up, writing a letter for publication that clarified a point in the first. He expressed his intention to find a group that would join him on TV appearances with Bert Weedon and the Shadows, and reiterated, “For some time I have been searching for a group to use regularly, and I feel that the ‘Beetles’ (most of them are Liverpool ex-art students) fill the bill.”

John and Stu decide to go to London on their own to join Ellis…but then chicken out:

By July 10, at the end of his three-year art school vacation, John had arrived at a key decision in his life: he would try to earn his living from the guitar. “I became a professional musician the day I got a red letter from the art college saying ‘Don’t bother coming back next September,’ ” he later said.31 Cyn would remember, “John decided that this [music] was very definitely the life for him. All the ideas that everyone else had for him of making an impact on the art world faded into the back of beyond with incredible rapidity, and with almost no regret at all. Aunt Mimi was distraught. Her view of his future couldn’t have been blacker at that time.”32

These events coinciding, it seems John and Stu decided to head south and hang out with Royston Ellis. Allan Williams is emphatic on the matter: he says John and Stu “split the Beatles and went down to London.”33 Norman Chapman would remember Stu asking him for a lift through the Mersey Tunnel one day so he (or he and John) could hitchhike to London—“They wanted to go down to London and become involved in this poetry-music scene.” Beat poets led a nomadic life by definition. Ellis lived for periods in all sorts of places, but his main base was still his parents’ house, at 31 Clonard Way, Hatch End, Pinner, Middlesex, a pleasant detached villa with the name Denecroft. This was the address he gave John while staying at Gambier Terrace. When Ellis arrived home one day his mother said he’d missed a visit from his “beatnik friends from Liverpool.” He never knew how many or who had come, but—as insane as it appears—John and Stu (and/or as Ellis always thought—hoped—George) had hitched the best part of two hundred miles, taken the trouble of locating his house in leafy Metroland, not stayed or left a message and then gone home again, never returning or making further contact. It makes no sense, but there it sits, illogical and incomplete.

Allan Williams remembers them being “back in Liverpool within a week, because it didn’t work out,” at which point the Beatles “reformed” as if they’d never been away. With bookings only every Saturday, it’s conceivable they did all this without missing one, and perhaps that was always the intention. However, while three independent witnesses (Ellis, Williams and Chapman) all remember something happening, none of the Beatles ever mentioned it—though in their interviews they talked with candor about everything. So it must remain in doubt, an intriguing puzzle unlikely to be solved.

There are two additional curiosities that may or may not be incidental. One is that, in the last days of July, a group of Liverpool art school students, apparently including John and Stu, went to London (or tried to go) to see a Picasso exhibition at the Tate Gallery. Second, and most fascinatingly, a set of photographs taken at this very time (mid-July 1960) in Stu and John’s studio-bedroom-slum at 3 Gambier Terrace includes several people they knew but not John and Stu themselves—perhaps because they were on the Hatch End trip. It was published on July 24 in the national Sunday rag the People in a sensation-splash headlined THIS IS THE BEATNIK HORROR. It’s as if a man on a flaming pie was pointing down at Flat 3, Hillary Mansions, Gambier Terrace, Liverpool 1. In six months, three Beatles moved in and the fourth was hanging out, the nation’s best-known beat poet had come here to get them high, and now, when a Fleet Street journalist and photographer were looking to substantiate a load of old tosh about dirty beatniks—reportage that could have been cooked up anywhere in the country—they landed in Stu and John’s room.34

Though hugely amusing, the feature had one unfortunate side-effect: because the address was given (a “three-roomed flat in decaying Gambier Terrace in Liverpool”) and some of the occupants (“well-educated youngsters”) were named, the landlord gave the tenant, Rod Murray, notice to quit. On August 15, everyone—Rod, Diz, Ducky, Stuart, John and sundry other bodies who’d joined them—would be out on the street.

—Mark Lewisohn’s Tune In, Ch 15 (May 31–Aug 15, 1960)

And Lewisohn is just like yup nothing to see.

So what the hell happened here? Was it just a school trip? Or was it a deliberate split?

[latenightsundayblues]

Ginger Snaps AU for the soul. Sometimes you just have to be a little cringe

Brigitte and ginger's bonding through teenage angst and obsessing over gore just really reminds me of Billy and Stu, so this has been in my head for a little while. I like this dynamic where Billy desperately doesn't want Stu to move on from their friendship and leave him like his mom did, so he's the one trying to keep Stu's transformation at bay. I hope this isn't too random of a combination lol

Billy Loomis and Stu Macher were best friends since diapers; neither of them would be able to recall or imagine a life without the other. They were conjoined at the hip, especially due to the lack of presence Stu's parents had in his life, and the constant sleepovers they had as a result. He slept on a bed of his own in the Loomis' house's basement by the time he was four years old. Be it pondering the cruel and uncaring way of the universe or acting out gruesome crime scenes, they were absolutely inseparable. You wouldn't find one without the other.

That is... Until the accident. Ever since some freaky dog thing attacked Stu one night during their bi-weekly playground sulking, he started acting quite strange. Unlike himself, and more like the archetypes that surrounded them in school and made their life a living hell (and not in a good way). Billy's heartbroken at the wedge the changes have been driving between the two, but he's determined to find out if unusual hair growth, "hormones" and uncontrollable bloodlust are enough to break the blood pact they've been rigidly obeying for so many years.

Meanwhile, Stu's introduced to the dramatic and rebellious world of high school hookup culture. He's thrilled to get a taste of the experiences that come with blossoming into a handsome young... Werewolf?

[sharpth1ng]

Fuck it, Stalker Stu AU, he stalks Billy. It’s ok they’re both fucked up tho

Hot, honestly really hot, I have also pondered this. At length.

I love the idea of him stealing Billy’s things, little bits of clothing to take home (and jerk off with, lets be real). Billy finding them later and being outwardly pissed but inwardly flattered. Because with anyone else I think he would want to kill them, but Stu stalking him? He’d try to hide it but he’d find it hot.

He knows Stu’s watching? He’s telling himself he’s ignoring it but really he’s putting on a show and Stu’s outside taking pictures. He’s leaving his window open and telling himself it’s for the breeze but it’s definitely not.

And when they interact? Stu knows just a little too much about him, more than Billy’s ever told him. And god, he wants to be creeped out by it but mostly he just wants to give him more.

This has some flavours of an older unfinished ghostfrank fic I was working on. I love a toxic fucking stalking AU, and I love the idea of adding that to this ship as well.