#and self proclaimed pool genius

[beebox-illustrations]

Nobody will ever be too old for breakfast faces, at least I won’t 🤔

Happy Sunday guys 🌻🐝

#supernatural #spn #dean winchester #the ever caring big brother #and self proclaimed pool genius #sam winchester #who is not a baby anymore #but still appreciates sweet breakfast faces #guest starring mrs. pan cakes #weechesters #supernatural fanart #digital art #illustration #web comics #procreate #my art #beebox-illustrations

[docgold13]

Profiles in Villainy

Jack Spicer

The nefarious nitwit called Jack Spicer is a self-proclaimed super villain who, despite his foolishness and neuroses, is a rather brilliant inventor.  The lad comes from a wealthy family and has been terribly neglected by his parents, resulting in recurrent panic attacks and a grossly diminished sense self esteem. He has attempted to cope with these difficulties by turning to villainy and hoping to show his worth by becoming the world’s greatest evil genius.   

Utilizing a bevy of remarkable self-made devices (including such items as helicopter backpacks, ray guns, and dozens of mechanical minions) Jack has sought out to obtain the powerful Shen Gong Wu, mystical weapons crafted by the legendary Grand Master Dashi.  He released the spirit of the evil witch, Wuya, and has aided her in battle against the noble Xiaolin Warriors.  

While most frequently a villain, there have been instances where Jack Spicer has shown honor and pooled resources with the heroes so to achieve the superordinate goal of preventing disaster.  The good-hearted Omi has seen that Jack is capable of turning away from villainy and has tried to convince him to do so... thus far to no avail.

The young villain is voiced by actor Danny Cooksey in the initial Xiaolin Showdown series and by actor Eric Bauza in the subsequent Xiaolin Chronicles. Jack first appeared in the debut episode of the Xiaolin Showdown animated series, airing on November 1st, 2003.  

#Profiles in Villainy #Jack Spicer #Xiaolin Showdown #Danny Cooksey #cut-out #paper art #Villains!

[444rockstargf]

"heard that you like the bad girls." | spencer reid

video games. - lana del rey

⊹₊⋆ synopsis: when the black cat meets the golden retriever.

fill out the taglist form!

female!reader x spencer

word count: 1.2k

contents: opposites attract, spencer being a sweetheart, fluff, not proofread

it had to have been a cruel joke played by the universe when you and spencer were assigned to work on a job together.

your interactions with him had never gone past glancing at him as he passed by or blankly nodding at the factoids he spat at 100 words per minute. he was a self-proclaimed genius, equipped with intelligence that many could only aspire to obtain. so it didn’t make sense to you why it was always as if his IQ got slashed in half whenever he spoke to you.

spencer was a sophisticated individual, particular about everything from the way he carried himself to how each chestnut-brown strand of his hair was laid. while you were the polar opposite. you went with the wind, going wherever the night took you. your attire consisted of dark colours and you put minimal effort into making yourself look professional, though you suppressed your style just a little to help it meet the nonexistent workplace requirements. even with your lack of interactions, spencer could tell you had a bold personality. and he longs to search and explore every part of it.

the first step he took in getting to know you was offering to give you a ride to work. as usual, you were running late. he’d said that he’d be at your place by 7:30 and you watched the long arm of the clock tick to 7:29. you slipped on your dark brown sweater, letting it rest on top of your pleated black skirt. you hastily put on your dark tights, finishing off the look with your black doc martens. you looked at yourself in the mirror, making sure you didn’t look as crazy as you felt you were going.

as the clock hit 7:30 the doorbell chimed, perfectly on cue. you quickly grabbed your bag, dashing down the stairs until you reached the front door, seeing spencer through the lens of the peephole. you let out a soft breath, taking in the 6 feet of elegance that awaited you on the other side of the door. the bright morning sub made his hair appear to be made of one million pure gold threads, his eyes turning into soft pools of honey.

with a deep breath, you opened the door, greeting him with a warm smile. he met your eyes with warm eyes and the softest smile you’d ever seen. he stared at you, not saying anything for a good moment until you cleared your throat to catch his attention. he ran a hand through his hair, blinking himself out of his smitten daze.

he couldn’t get over how much he wanted to know about you. you were attractive in a frustratingly effortless way, like you just so happened to roll out of bed looking like a goddess. he had gotten lost in your gaze again, finally coming to his senses after another long minute. “g-good morning.” you laughed softly as he stammered. “morning, doc.” you teased, never having bothered using such formalities before.

he went to extend a hand toward you before thinking that he was moving too fast. “shall we? my car’s in your driveway.” you nodded, walking out the door and shutting it behind you, making sure to lock it as you and he strolled over to his car. he opened the door for you and you hopped in, slightly flattered by his chivalrous gesture. he got into the driver’s seat next to you, stealing a quick glance in your direction as you buckled up his seat belt. he’d never been able to take his eyes off of you, but the feeling got even more intense when you were this close, your scent filling his nostrils. he started up the car, pulling out of your driveway.

you yawned, rubbing your eyes as he began to drive down your street. he raised an eyebrow. “tired?” you nodded. he began to speak again, his eyes lighting up in the way that they usually did whenever he went off on irrelevant tangents. “for optimum health and function, the average adult requires around 7-9 hours of sleep to function properly during the day. but studies show that 60% of women fall short of that goal.”

you laughed a little, amazed by how quickly he could pull the facts out of his head. he pulled out of your street, driving in the opposite direction of the workplace. “how about we head down to that coffee place across from your house? i saw it when i was coming earlier.” and he absorbed knowledge like a sponge. you smiled. “yeah, that’d be great. thank you, spencer.”

you could’ve sworn you heard him squeal when you called him by his name. you pulled out your mirror, fixing up your hair as he pulled into the parking lot. “i’ll be back in a minute, okay?” he walked into the cafe before you could respond. and he hadn’t even taken your order. you were willing to bet a large sum of money that he’d draw an assumption on how you liked your coffee. you took it black, no cream and no sugar. but no guy had ever guessed that right.

you flipped through the radio channels, searching for something good to play. you assumed that you’d be waiting for him for a while. but he walked out of the shop before you could even settle on something to play. he hopped back into the car, holding two large coffees in his hand. your eyes were wide. “that was quick.” he nodded. “i ordered ahead of time. i had a feeling you wouldn’t be used to heading to work this early.”

you rolled your eyes, accepting the cup he held out to you with a smile on your face. you took a slow sip of the drink, eyes growing with surprise as you tasted the familiar, bitter mixture. he was watching you with a stupid little grin on his face. “no cream and no sugar, right?” your eyebrows inched up on your forehead. “how’d you know that?” he shrugged, putting the keys back into the ignition. “i see you everyday. it’d be a shame if i didn’t know how you took your coffee.”

you felt a sizzling sensation spreading in your cheeks. you turned away slightly, watching the atmosphere change as he drove away. the car fell silent, something you’d never expect from spencer. then he opened his mouth to speak again. “h-hey, i’ve been meaning to ask you something…” you tilted your head to the side, curious at what he had to say. he took a deep breath, trying not to sound as awkward as he knew he was. “all this work stuff is pretty hectic, like all the time. but you seem… i-i dunno. you always listen to what i have to say and never act like i bore you. s-so… i was wondering if you’d like to try out that new restaurant that opened after work…?” 

he regretted asking as soon as the word came out, but you were grinning from ear to ear as you heard him speak like a normal, nervous guy instead of the genius he was. “you asking me out on a date, spencer?” he swallowed hard, quickly looking over at you. “i guess you could put it that way…” you stayed quiet, watching as he squirmed in his seat. you found that you liked getting him all riled up. you lifted up in your seat a little and pecked him on the cheek, his face immediately flushing with crimson. “pick me up at 7:30. don’t be late.” 

you and him both laughed at the irony of that statement.

author's note: i need to rewatch criminal minds. i've completely forgotten everything about it

#444rockstargf #spencer reid #mgg #dr spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #doctor spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x oc #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #matthew gray gubler #mgg pics #mgg x reader #mgg fanfiction #mgg smut #whoisspence #born to die #lana del rey

[meidnightrain]

“haha…i got you! i won’t let you go, unless you agree to join my next experiment!”

X proclaimed cheekily from behind you as you felt his hand wrap around your waist and his cheek rest on your shoulder, locking you in a tight hold. you stifle the urge to groan, looking at the clock on the wall indicating how late it was getting. curse him and his never-ending pool of ideas, it would be the death of you one day.

“it’s late already…” you yawn, covering your mouth with your hands. you feel him tut disapprovingly behind you, the smooth texture of his gloved fingers wiping away one of the stray tears that escaped from your eyelids.

“but i had never planned a plan b in your absence…” X sighed, a pout beginning to form on his lips. your eyes met his heterochromatic ones and you felt yourself cave in yet again to his puppy dog expression.

you’d sacrifice some sleep if it meant that he’d release all these pent up ideas in that genius head of his. that should warrant some deserved cuddle time afterwards…until his next great invention or so he said.

“you’re lucky you’re so cute…i’ll do it but you owe me,” you relented, to his glee. you gasped as you felt him press a quick kiss on your lips, releasing you from his embrace and dragging your flustered self behind him to the area of his lab.

“great! let’s get going then, time’s ticking!”

© MEIDNIGHTRAIN 2023. DO NOT COPY, REPOST, SHARE, TRANSLATE OR REUPLOAD MY WORKS ONTO ANY OTHER SITE WITHOUT MY PERMISSION

#🖋️ - short snippets #reverse 1999 x reader #reverse 1999 x you #r1999 x reader #r1999 x you #x x reader #x x you #reverse 1999 x #x reverse 1999 #reverse 1999

[smorgasbordofobsessions]

liveblog: yugioh! s501-506

ep501

it's hysterical how rebecca is infatuated with yugi but yugi is like ????????????

everyone realized that they can't get home since no one booked a return flight from san fran haha

rebecca is jealous of tea haha

HELL YEAH A NEW KAIBA DUELING TOURNAMENT!

kaibaland has been built! and it's about to open!

kaiba in a white suit!!! ohwow he looks good

"the kaibacorp grand championship" ohriveting

what the fuck is up with mokuba's voice? puberty?

"you think kaiba would have the decency to come and ask us himself?"

um... kaiba? ask????? ask dweebs he can't really stand but puts up with when the world is in danger?? that kaiba?? yeah okay

HWAT

KAIB'AA NOT GONNA DUEL IN HIW OWN TOURNY???

who is this pink-haired dude

that you know BECAUSE he has - a french acent?? no german apparently???????? - pink hair and is into flowers he's a douchebag of epic proportions

oh so they have an computer dueler

this dumb kid got rid of all his magic and trap cards so he could get more dragon monster cards dummy

ep502

real talk: kaiba needs MUCH better cyber security because this is the econd? time someone has hackd his shit, and that's not conting rebecca right now to "find" the problem

ohmygod crying children no shut up

but you knwo what - this is gonna be a good duel just to see how ou can win with a deck full of monsters

"see to it that the swimming pool is filled with milk"

honestly though some cards need to only have one special effect and call it a day

wow not even one turn in and yami's down to 800 life points

"your deck is strong" "how?" "because it has heart"

"i'll take good old-fashioned brains over microchips any day"

"heart of the underdog" - if one draws a monster from their deck, they can draw another card (repeating)

oh hahahahahaha this is funny because the WHOLE DECK!! is monster cards

yami acting embarrassed is just.. so fucking cute ohmygod

ahh he instantly switched with yugi when put in a tight spot ha

kaiba literally flew to help save mokuba

PLEASE BRING BACK THE DOG JOKES!!!!

"anyone who's late for registration is immediately disqualified. mokuba, make sure wheeler is late"

WOW YUGI YOU'RE A STUD

zigfried

"i don't care who you are, you show some respect if you wanna stick around"

what the fuck is this lineup of duelists this is honestly hysterical

"it's joey wheeler! our overwhelming underdog!"

comedy

wow yugi's grandfather is part of the duel!

oh wow!!! so the finalist is gonna duel yugi! cool!

ep503

we have a new opening and please i am begging to see more tan!yami like i want to be flooded with that image only

"i need some female friends"

yugi knows leon on sight but couldn't tell you about anyone else

yugi wants yami to take over this public speaking role

sto phe's so precious

thank you kaiba for being dramatic as fuck!! and entering the stadium from dropping out of a helicopter and using a jetpack!!! to land

kaiba letting everyone know that this isn't some kumbaya duel! this is "a battlefield! so trust no one!"

kaiba is o smart and i hope that people don't talk shit about him

"the doctor is in! i guess you should've eaten tour apple today, because this doctor is here to stay."

stop

ep504

i actually want yugi's grandfather to win because i think it'd be fun

why the fuck does joey need to be number one?

oh wow i actually forget about the fact that joey has consistently not won any of the competitions he's been in hahaha

been so caught u in saving the world hat he couldn't win haha

"i'm wide open!"

ep505

i want my back to craaacckkk

"self-proclaimed child genius"

so is this duel gonna be about yugi's heart

what's funny is that rebecca is into yugi but vivian is into yami

lackluster duel

kaiba doesn't trust pink dude and i'm pretty sure it's because he knows that pink-haired dudes are douchebags

i don't know how it is in japanese, but i do admire the dub's committment to the aesthetics of everyone's character

the dedication to making bug jokes, or themed insults and sayings is actually commendable

pig dude won against weevil and rex in one turn

ep506

"don't touch the suit" "oh i'll touch more than that!"

"no one insults my fashion sense and gets away with it!"

joey is soooo fucking amped it's crazy

tea's flat tone literally made me choke

yugi finally letting him feelings out bless him

he just wants to play a regular tourny without high stakes!!

this german accent kills me

every time i see duke i just want to see more dungeon dice

the animation is a bit poor

#yugioh #ygo #livblog

[all-the-fun-of-the-cirkus]

so here's every album i heard for the first time in 2023

grace under pressure (rush) - heard signals last year and loved it, so i thought i'd finally cracked rush. i have not cracked rush. it's the last two albums again, only not as good. best song - afterimage

the bends (radiohead) - i do not like 90s alt-rock, so i am very annoyed at how good this is. can't remember half the songs but as an album it works surprisingly well. best song - street spirit. or my iron lung if i'm in the mood

ok computer (radiohead) - a very good album! not enough classics to be the best album of all time!!!1!! i've come to see radiohead as possibly my favourite second-tier band; lots of great songs, not enough genuine genius. although the climbing up the walls/no surprises/lucky run of tracks is almost enough to convince me otherwise, bc this works really well as a cohesive album. the cacophony of fitter happier, electioneering and cutw makes no surprises sound like the most beautiful song on earth. best song - one of that run. probably lucky

king of limbs (radiohead) - three good songs on side two sandwiched within a load of dull noise. everything else off here sounds better live anyway; bloom in concert is just jawdropping, but this version's just enh. best song - give up the ghost

moon-shaped pool (look i was having a moment) - typical radiohead. lovely atmosphere, nothing offensive, just not enough great songs. best song - ful stop, although i'm warming to present tense

peter gabriel 1 (guess) - turns out sometimes you can just fuck around with no idea what you're doing and accidentally stumble into a pretty good album. best song - moribund the burgermeister (also best title)

hard promises (tom petty) - every petty album is three or four bangers and a load of enjoyable filler. best song - the waiting

a song for all seasons (renaissance) - perfectly listenable, and i haven't felt the desire to listen to anything off it since. best song - title track

the construkction of light (king crimson) - blah. self-ripoffs, monotonous, lifeless. get heavy construkction instead, everything from here comes to life and you get the best songs off thrak and some cool improvs too. best song - prozakc blues (yeah fuck you it's great)

transgender dysphoria blues (against me!) - shut up, i'm a cliche. pop punk is very much not my sort of thing, and most of this didn't leave as much of an impression as it has on a lot of people i know. one or two tracks did hurt, though. and the one-two punch of paralytic states and black me out is a nice way to round things out, i love black me out as a defiant "no things WILL get better if i have to fuck someone up to do it" closer. best song - true trans soul rebel

interview (gentle giant) - if anyone else listened to albums by against me! and gentle giant this year i'll be astonished lmao. anyway not the unlistenable trainwreck or complex masterwork people proclaim it to be, it actually feels kind of throwaway. all of the songs are okay (well, not convinced on timing or design) but together they don't quite work. best song - i lost my head, which absolutely rules

the missing piece (gentle giant) - this, however, absolutely warrants its reputation. best song - memories of old days

giant for a day! (gentle giant) - it's good! yeah, i said it! shame the only people who hear it are prog nerds, bc it's cheesy and dumb, and the lyrics are atrocious, but it's a solid pop album. best song - thank you (my version of the album has single edits as bonus tracks that shave a minute off this and words from the wise, and i think it's to both their benefits)

ode to quetzalcoatl (dave bixby) - it's fascinating how much more interesting hardcore christian folk becomes when you realise the singer's trying to convince himself just as much as he is the listener. an excellent, moody listen, although it's not something i'm gonna stick on regularly. best song - lonely faces i guess? it's not really an individual track album

i'm in your mind fuzz (king gizzard & the wizard lizard) - oddly disappointing. monotonous, barely enough ideas to fill out a regular song, let alone a 12 minute suite (i'm in your mind sounds great, cool riff, nice groove, and then it just... doesn't stop. it just keeps going). at times it brings out the sort of kitschy flaming lips quirkiness, when it becomes a bit more enjoyable, but it's fleeting. not impressed. best song - satan speeds up, i guess (can't count the opener as its own song, that'd be like saying my favourite track from wish you were here was shine on part 1 or something), although i do enjoy the intentional banality of her and i's song portion

fox confessor brings the flood (neko case) - at time of writing i've just listened to this for the first time. i'm going to have to listen to it a great deal more. sheer poetry, absolutely outstanding lyrics, evocative, cryptic, emotional, always compelling. the actual songs live up to them, too, and the arrangements! always interesting, spicy dissonance thrown in regularly, frenetic background playing that didn't have to be there but really enriches the songs... i'm going to have to digest this more. best song - margaret vs pauline

i'm not counting the gazillion king crimson live albums i listened to (guess who found the starless boxset going cheap!!!) or we'll be here all day. suffice to say chicago 2017 rules, mainz 1974 rules just as much and the night watch/amsterdam 1973 makes crimson sound like the greatest band in the world for eighty minutes (the other four minutes is lament)

#music

[deepdarkdelights]

Lady of The Night (Namjoon x Reader)

Pairing: Namjoon x Reader

Word Count: 13.3k

Warnings: 18+, Yandere, Obsession, Victorian Era, Time Travel, Misogyny, Jack The Ripper Murders, Forced Relationships, Forced Stripping and Dressing, Blood (Lots of it), Gore, Fear, Panic/Anxiety, Discussions of dead bodies, Depictions of a corpse, Depictions of Wounds, Use of Drugs, Illicit Behaviors 

I do not condone the acts displayed in this story nor do I believe any members of BTS would actually engage in this type of behavior. This is simply written for entertainment purposes and should not be taken as a reflection of my own values, opinions, or morals. 

Preview:  You had been plunged backwards through time for a reason, and maybe this was the reason. This was the world’s most infamous cold case. What were the chances that a journalist would slip through the cracks in time and stumble into the East End of 1891? The only conclusion you could draw was that you were meant to identify who the ripper was. 

You knew nothing about time travel regardless of the pop culture you had consumed. For all you knew, changing the events of the past would not create a ripple effect but instead a branch. And, as horrifying as this scenario was, your curiosity was going to get the better of you. You needed to know, even if it meant following around the egotistical self proclaimed genius that had sheltered you. 

A/N: Yay! It’s my first fic up after my two week break! So, this is pertaining to the Jack The Ripper Murders. For storytelling purposes, the timeline of events has been altered as well as details of the crimes. This story may not be for everyone so please read the warnings and take them into consideration before reading. Your mental health and wellbeing should always be your number one priority. That being said, I hope you enjoy! 💜💜💜

You could see your blurry reflection in the glass of the watch face you held in your hands. 

You wiped away your tears with the heel of your palm violently as you sniffled tiredly. It had been a long day. 

You were coming to terms with the fact that you were the last living member of your family, everyone else had died and moved on. Your mother had been young when she had you, but she was also young when she left you. Mere moments after you had been given life and were brought into the world, she had departed shortly after. 

All you had ever known was the warm, comforting embrace of your grandfather. He had been more like your father your entire life and now he had left too. And all you had to remember him by was his old, Victorian house, some grainy photographs, and his pocket watch. 

Today had been the day you learned of his last will and testament, and he had left you everything he had ever owned, especially that pocket watch. He had carried it everywhere with him for as long as you could remember, the long, silver chain neatly clipped to his vest at all times. He would often remove the watch from his pocket, swiping his thumb over the sealed lid fondly before flicking it open and tracking the time. He had never once been late to anything, something he bragged about often. 

If you closed your eyes, you could visualize a scene that was not unfamiliar to you. You would be seated on the floor in a pile of pillows by the fireplace, the flames crackling and emanating a comforting warmth. The scent of black cherry tobacco wafting under your nose as your grandfather settled a thick book on his knees, pausing his reading aloud to puff at his tobacco pipe. You would giggle happily, wrapping your quilt tighter around your body as you watched him attempt to blow smoke rings. He would then slip his hand into his pocket and remove the watch, the chain clinking about as he flipped the watch open. 

“It’s almost half past nine, don’t you have school tomorrow?” He would ask you, raising one eyebrow in questioning. 

You, at ten years old, were familiar with what this meant, and you absolutely refused to head up those creaky stairs to bed when the two of you were in the middle of embarking on an adventure. 

“Please, just one more chapter!” You would beg, eyes wide and watery with a pout settled on your lips. 

“Alright,” He would concede after a long pause of faux thinking, “We do have time, don’t we?”

But that's where your grandfather was wrong. You didn’t have nearly enough time. You were twenty two when time came and took a hold of your grandfather and left you in the dust. That was the thing about time, it moved quickly and was unforgiving. Twenty two years was not enough, you were far too young when you said your last goodbyes. 

Fuck, and now you were crying again. 

You laughed humorlessly to yourself, pulling the sleeve of your jacket over your hand and wiping your tears away again. Crying would do you no good, he would want you to be happy. Death did not mean the end of a life, it meant the celebration of one, was something he had once told you. 

It was time to start celebrating then. 

You uncorked a bottle of wine, throwing the cork into the sink and having a staring match with a wine glass before you sighed and grabbed the bottle by its neck and left the room. You lit the fireplace before sitting down in your grandfather’s chair, throwing a leg up on his ottoman and taking a swig from the bottle. That made you feel a little better. 

You tilted your head back before turning your face into the fabric, the scent of black cherry tobacco still clung to the chair. Your eyes burned again with unshed tears as you nestled your head closer to it, breathing the scent in deeply before taking a longer swig of wine from the bottle. You were sure you looked pathetic. 

You groaned in irritation, the last thing you had wanted to do was throw yourself a pity party yet here you were, drowning your problems in wine like a young mom who is questioning why she didn’t use protection. 

You sat up, grabbing the neck of the bottle and setting it on the side table before standing up on weak knees. It was too weird being in that room without him. You weren’t ready to move on so quickly. So, you killed the fire and shuffled up the creaky stairs and headed to your bedroom down the hall. 

Once the door clicked shut behind you, you flung your clothes off into the corner of the room and grabbed an old, large, band shirt you tended to use as pajamas. After you slipped the raggedy fabric over your head you slid beneath your sheets, fisting the comforter in your hand and pulling it up to your nose. 

You could see the silver of the watch glinting under the moonlight on your night stand. Without much thought you reached across your bed and grabbed it, pulling it under the blanket with you. You  twirled the delicate chain around your fingers as you pressed the latched watch to your chest. Your eyes fluttered shut as sleep tugged at your mind. But, despite that, your head was still filled with the memories of him that you tried to shake away.

You missed him, and you wanted to go back and see him again. 

~~~~~~~

When you woke up the next morning, it was to the smell of warm food wafting throughout the house. In your delirium you rolled over and buried your face into your pillow, you were sure it was just your grandfather whipping something up. 

And then you were jolting awake. There were two things you knew: one, your grandfather was a terrible cook who considered spam as breakfast, and two: he was dead. 

You shot up in bed, your sheets pooling around your waist as you cocked your head towards the door, listening in silence. You could faintly hear the sound of pots and pans clinking and the clacking of heels along the wood floor of the hallway. 

Someone was in the house. 

You snatched your phone from your bedside table and slipped free from the warmth of your bed. The pocket watch swung into your thigh, the chain still wrapped around your fingers from the night before. You kept your phone on the ready, prepared to dial the emergency line in seconds. 

When you opened the door you stuck your head out into the hallway, swinging it from right to left. You couldn’t see anybody, but the scent of food had gotten stronger. 

You allowed your door to swing shut behind you, the knob clicking with an air of finality. The floorboards were cold beneath your bare feet as you made your way down the stairs, dodging each squeaky board from years of practice. You knew this house like the back of your hand. 

Once you had descended the stairs you found yourself in the first floor hallway, the kitchen door to your right. Your eyes fluttered shut and you took in a deep breath before tensing your body with determination and flinging the door open so hard that it slammed against the wall. 

A cry of shock echoed through the kitchen, the clash of pot and pans forcing a scream from your throat in response. Standing in front of you was what appeared to be a maid, her wispy brown hair tied into a bun at the base of her neck beneath a hat matching the long black dress and crisp white apron she donned. She looked like she had been pulled straight out of the nineteenth century. 

The two of you stared at each other in shock for a moment after your scream had died down and fizzled out. Her hand laid limply on her chest over her heart as her shoulders heaved with surprised breaths. 

Her gaze flickered up and down your form, her cheeks quickly reddening at your state of undress. 

“I cannot believe this!” She suddenly cried, throwing down the spatula she held in her other hand. “I’ve told the young master numerous times to stop consorting with heathens like yourself!”

“Heathen?” You echoed in confusion. “Hold on, what the fuck are you doing in my house?!”

“In your home? The audacity! You lay with the young master once and you believe yourself to be the lady of the estate? I will not have a harlot like you traipsing around!” She yelled back. 

“Lady, what the fuck are you on? You’re the one who broke into my house! Get out!” You screamed. 

“Emmett, Emmett come quickly! The young master let in another stray!” She called.

In a matter of seconds a man entered the room dressed in a three piece suit and gloves, he looked much like a butler. 

“Again? This is the third one this month, Mary.” He sighed in disgust, eyeing your form. “The indecency of this one, running around naked.”

You were speechless, all you could do was dumbly look down at your bare legs. The shirt you wore was fairly big, it covered everything important. Still, you grabbed at the hem and harshly pulled it down further, your mouth agape at his words. 

“Come now...miss. It’ll do you little good to linger here, we wouldn’t want to get the authorities mixed up in this, they aren’t fond of your kind as you know I’m sure.” 

You couldn’t think of anything to say until he approached you, gripping your arm roughly and tugging you out of the kitchen. 

“Get your fucking hands of off me, fucker!” You yelled, struggling to free yourself from his grasp. 

He tutted to himself as he ripped the front door open, “Such colorful language and such poor manners. Well, I suppose that is to be expected from women of your status.”

“Stop!” You cried, digging your heels into the floor. “You can’t throw me out of my own house! If you don’t leave I’ll call the cops, I swear!”

The butler merely shook his head, tired and annoyed with your antics. “Have a pleasant day, and for your own sake, find yourself a husband and stay off of the streets.”

And with that, he threw you out onto the front porch and slammed the heavy, mahogany door shut, the lock clicking into place. You spent the following moments banging your fists against the door and demanding to be let back in, once you realized how futile that was you unlocked your phone and dialed the emergency line. 

But you weren’t met with anything, no ringing, no voicemail, nothing. Your face scrunched up in confusion, your phone didn’t have a signal...how was that even possible?

And that was when you realized, for certain, that something was very wrong. When you finally looked up from your phone, you were surrounded by trees. 

You stumbled backwards in surprise, knocking into the front door behind you. All of the houses that once lined your street were gone. For miles around you all you could see was a dense forest and dirt and gravel roads. Your sweet, elderly neighbors house was gone, the ice cream shop that you could once see from your house was gone, the sidewalks and the fire hydrants were missing. It was as if they had never been there in the first place. 

“What the fuck?” You whispered to yourself, your stomach turning and your heartbeat thundering violently in your chest.

Everything was gone, how was that possible? Where did everyone go? Where did all of the buildings go? There was no way that they could all have been decimated and replaced with trees that towered higher than your house in one night. What in the absolute fuck was happening?

You crouched down to your knees, weaving your fingers through your messy hair as panicked sobs wracked your body. You had no explanation for what was happening, you had no idea what the hell was going on. Your phone wasn’t working, you were kicked out of your own home, and everyone was missing. 

You sat there for a moment, crying to yourself in a complete and utter panic before you realized that you needed to at least try and find someone who could help you. You allowed yourself a few more moments to squeeze out some more tears, heave your last sobs, and dry your wet face. You had done a lot of crying the past few days, enough tears to last you a lifetime. It was time to get to work now and figure out what was going on. 

So, you stepped foot onto the manicured lawn before you and made your way to the dilapidated road ahead of you. The dirt and gravel dug into the bare skin of your feet causing you to wince and jump in pain. It was better and easier to walk alongside the road rather than on it. 

The more you walked, and the further you walked, it became apparent that it was not only your street that had suffered changes overnight, but your entire town. What had once been a shopping district you frequented often in your teens was now a sea of never-ending trees. You hadn’t seen this much greenery since you went hiking years ago. 

The home that you remembered was much different from the sights you were seeing now. Your house had been the only Victorian on the street, the others newer builds that had popped up over the decades. It looked like any other street you had ever seen, an amalgamation of history in a couple blocks. But now, it appeared to be a clean slate, devoid of noise, devoid of life, and devoid of structure. 

In an eerie way, you felt like you were at the beginning of time, back before humanity had cultivated the earth and turned vibrant greenery into concrete jungles. It was as beautiful and it was lonely, if you hadn’t had that run in with the maid and the butler earlier, you could have assumed you were the only person on earth. How startling and stifling that would have been, to be just a house plopped in the middle of nowhere, with not a person in sight. 

It was not unlike how you felt now, alone walking alongside an empty road surrounded by trees. You could feel the miles passing as dirt clung to the soles of your feet, the skin burning in protest as you continued walking aimlessly in search of any signs of another person or house in the area. 

The thick layer of dark clouds hanging in the sky was not doing anything for your mood. You were certain you would be doomed to spend the day or possibly even the night in the trees trying to take cover from the onslaught of rain that was sure to come. 

And, just as you had predicted, all it took was one roll of thunder through the sky before the clouds let loose a torrent of rain. Your only saving grace was that the rainfall was not ice cold, but lukewarm. Your other concern was that where there was thunder, there would be lightning. At least you weren’t the tallest thing in the area though, a tree was more likely to be struck than you were. But that would be the cherry on top of your shitty day wouldn’t it, to be struck by lighting as well? 

But, just as your hopes were about as low and hell, you spotted something in the distance. The structure was familiar, you were certain you had seen those peaked roofs and stone walls many times before. Yesterday you had been driving on the highway when you passed the country club, and now you were certain that’s where you were. Where you stood now and once been home to a highway, and mere miles away was the country club you had passed everyday on your way to work. 

If you were lucky, the staff would take pity on you and maybe you could shower and get some food in you before you called the authorities to deal with those intruders of yours. 

By the time you finally made it up to the country club, you were completely soaked to the bone. The only pieces of clothing you had on, being your underwear and your oversized t-shirt, were drenched with water. You looked like a drowned rat if you were being honest with yourself. 

But, even in your panicked and miserable state, you took notice of a few things. The signs that once held directions and the name of the club were gone, nothing there that even hinted at their prior existence. The parking lot was long gone as well, not to mention the caged in tennis courts and the golf grounds. It was all missing. The only thing that stood as familiar to you was the large, Victorian manor itself, and the grand water fountain in the center of the roundabout. This roundabout was made of gravel though, instead of the cement you remembered it being. And, to your disdain, the tiny pieces of gravel had returned to puncture the delicate skin of our feet once more. 

You were tired, you were cranky, and you were wet. All you wanted to do at this point was run inside and collapse on the polished floor.  

You sped over the gravel as fast as you could before running up the stone steps, sliding under the cover of the roof that was fixed over the front door. You raised your hand up and curled your numb fingers around the door knocker. And, with difficulty, you swung the door knocker against the rich wood of the front door frantically. If there was a doorbell you would have been annoyingly ringing it nonstop, so you had to settle for banging the door knocker violently instead. 

While you were mid swing the door was ripped open violently, your soaked form almost being tugged inside as you were still attached to the knocker. A man stood in front of you, he too was dressed in a three piece suit, gloves adorning his hands and polished oxfords sitting under the hem of his pant legs. His suit was much finer than the butler’s from before, but the expression on his face was just as, if not even more, stern than the butler that came before him. 

“Please,” You huffed out, using your best pleading gaze. “I need help.”

“I think you are mistaken, miss. I do not believe you have any business with the master of this estate.” He responded coolly, a harsh edge to his tone. 

“Wait please!” You cried as he backed away and attempted to shut the door. You gripped the door frame, wedging your arm in place to keep it from closing. “I just need to use your phone.”

“I’m sorry miss, but -”

“Claude? Who’s at the door?” Another voice echoed from inside. 

“Please, can I come in for just a second?!” You called inside as you heard the click of footsteps approaching the door. 

“Master, I think it would be best if you let me take care of this.” 

“It’s alright, Claude, step aside.” The voice responded. The butler, Claude, edged away from the door in uncertainty before disappearing inside the depths of the club. 

Seconds later, a new man replaced him, opening the door much wider than the butler had. Your heart dropped into your stomach in astonishment and embarrassment. He was probably the most attractive man you had ever had the privilege of seeing and for a moment you were convinced you had fallen into an alternate universe because all of the men you had seen on a daily basis were nothing in comparison to him. 

He was rather tall with tan skin, dark hair, and a set of dangerous dimples. It took everything in you to restrain yourself from delicately poking one of those smooth craters in his cheeks that was calling out to you. 

With a sudden jolt you realized he had been staring at you just as intently as you had been staring at him. His lips had parted and his eyes had darkened. You could feel his gaze traveling over the dips of your collarbones and the exposed flesh of your legs and arms before settling on the thin fabric that stretched over your chest. 

Heat instantly flooded beneath the skin of your face, your arms crossing over your chest. In your moment of hysteria you had forgotten your lack of bra and the rain. You were sure this man had seen more than you had wanted to show him. 

His tongue swiped over his lower lip at your action, his dark, half lidded eyes flicking up to meet your own in a rather sensual stare. 

“Are you a lady of the night?” He asked, his voice deeper than before. 

Ah, that was a term that you had become rather accustomed to today. Well it’s synonyms at least: heathen, harlot, and now lady of the night. 

“No!” You cried in frustration, you had no issues with sex workers, what you did have an issue with was that because of your state of dress everyone had come to assume you were looking for some!

“Please, I just need help.” You sighed, your shoulders dropping from the stress you had endured all day. 

The look in his eyes had all but disappeared after your omission of the truth. You were not a lady of the night, you were just scared, confused, and in need of help. 

“Come inside.” He said, opening the door wider. 

You looked up at him in surprise, shocked to see a gentle smile gracing his lips. Before he could regret offering you shelter, you hastily entered the front room, your arms still wrapped securely around you as you felt the warmth of the building rush through you. 

Yet again, though, you noticed things were different. The front desk was gone, the signs pointing to the bathrooms and the changing rooms were missing, and there weren’t any people other than yourself and the man that stood before you.

“Where is everyone?” You asked him, turning to face the man as he closed the door behind the two of you. 

“What do you mean?” He asked you, equally as confused as you were. 

“This is a country club...where are all of the guests?” 

“Country club?” He laughed, his dimples becoming more prominent as his eyes filled with mirth. “This is my home, there isn’t a country club for miles.”

“What?” You whispered to yourself, the water from your shirt sliding off of you and tapping against the wood of the floor rhythmically. 

“They’re still fairly new after all, not many around here I’m afraid. You must be lost then?” He mused. 

“What do you mean they’re new? They’ve been around for years, this is one. I’ve been here numerous times!” You explained, exasperated. 

“Are you feeling well, miss?” He asked, stepping closer to you without letting his gaze wander as it had before. 

No, you weren’t feeling well at all, you were incredibly fucking confused. What he was saying didn’t make any sense, none at all. Country clubs weren’t new, they had been around for over a century now. 

And that was when it all began to make sense. All of the pieces suddenly had fallen into place. All the houses on your street were gone, the shopping center, the highway, the signs and the parking lot were missing from the country club. Your phone was unable to get a signal in the hours that had passed. You had encountered four strangers that spoke in a manner you had not heard often and dressed like they were from a different era. 

“What - what year is it?” You asked, your body trembling now from anxiety and from your wet shirt. 

“1891, of course.” He responded, his face appearing even more confused than it had before. He was looking at you in concern as well, he wasn’t sure why you would be asking him such an obvious and ridiculous question. 

“Oh.” Was all you managed to say as you began to stumble backwards, your legs going weak underneath you as you slumped to the ground. Your vision was focusing and un-focusing, your head feeling light as you could faintly hear his panicked voice in front of you. It was beginning to sound further and further away though as your bare thighs met the cold, wood floor beneath you. 

You were having a stressful day.

~~~~~~~

When you woke it was to a cold compress against your forehead and the feeling of a plush mattress beneath you. For a moment you thought that you were at home again, that the past few hours had all been some fever dream and your grandfather was taking care of you in your state. 

But the feeling of the thin, silver chain still wrapped around your fingers assured you otherwise. That had not been a dream in the slightest. 

You jerked forward, the cold cloth flying onto your lap as your hands scrambled across the top of the duvet reflexively searching for your phone. 

“It’s alright, relax, you’ll only worsen your condition!” A voice seethed as hands settled on your shoulders and coaxed you back against the pillows behind you. 

It was him again, the man with the dimples. 

“You have a fever, it won’t do you any good to move around too much.” He lectured you, his hand waving around as he scolded you. 

You quickly caught sight of something wrapped up in his ringed fingers, it was your phone. 

“Give that back!” You yelled, snatching your phone back from his hands and holding it tight against your chest. You were glad that your phone was password protected, not that he would ever know what to do with it even if he managed to unlock it by accident. 

“What is it exactly?” He asked you as he relented, taking a seat in a chair that had been moved to your bedside. 

“It’s none of your business, that’s what it is.” You replied, shooting him a look that he reciprocated with shock and astoundment. He probably had never been spoken to like that before, a man with what you could only assume held power, status, and wealth. There was a part of you while still shocked at your predicament enjoyed the idea of fucking with some rich people. 

“As a guest in my home I think I have every right to know.” He shot back with a quirk of his brow, jerking his chin up. 

The audacity. So, as petty as it was, you refused to dignify his statement with a response. 

“Fine, if you won’t tell me then I’ll have to assume you don’t know what it is either and you stole it just like you did that watch. It’s to be expected of someone of your...nature.” He insinuated, his gaze flicking over your form from head to toe.

“My nature?” You replied, your skin going hot with untapped irritation. 

“Well, a prostitute of course.” He answered with such certainty it made you want to scream. 

“For fuck’s sake how many times do I have to say I’m not!” You yelled, throwing your head back against the pillows. 

“Well of course you are, with that way you looked coming up here you were practically naked, how could you not be a pros-”

“First of all,” you interrupted, “The proper term is sex worker and you have no right judging women who have no other choice and even if they did choose it you still have no right to demean them for taking up a profession that employs a service and receives payment for it like any other job!” 

“Secondly, the manner in which I am dressed does not mean you get to make baseless assumptions about me or my job without knowing why I look this way in the first place.”

He sat there for a moment, stunned. A long pause of silence passed between the two of you before a smile split across his face, those dimples returning in full force. 

“I’m Kim Namjoon, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Did I ask?” You retorted, annoyed, and overall confused from his sudden change in demeanor. A voice echoed in the back of your mind that maybe he had a thing for women putting him in his place but you quickly shoved that down in embarrassment. 

“Well it’s only proper, you’re already in my bed anyways I figured you should know my name.” He replied with a boyish smirk.

You choked in confusion and shock before softly muttering your name in response. You did owe him that much, he had taken you in and taken care of you. That was the only thing you would give him though, his prior attitude still stung. 

“I’d like to inform you that despite your progressive thoughts not everyone will see eye to eye with you, miss. You’re lucky you found your way here, there’s a murderer stalking these streets.”

“A murderer?” You echoed, your blood chilling in your veins. 

“You don’t know of Jack the Ripper? That’s what the public titled him at least.” He explained. 

Holy shit, the timing was perfect. Namjoon had told you the year was 1891, whatever had caused your slip through time sent you right back into the tailend of the Jack the Ripper murders. You had been lucky that he hadn’t stumbled across you, because despite your beliefs that your attire didn’t mean anything, everyone you had met had mistaken you for a sex worker. It would be expected that the infamous ripper himself would have thought the same and your name would have joined the list of victims. 

That was too close of a call for you. 

“Has he killed recently?” You asked out of morbid curiosity, you were hoping, selfishly, that you had arrived after his last victim. 

“He’s been rather active, I should know, I’m the one investigating him.” He said, a look of irritation falling over his features as he crossed his leg over the other, his tongue poking against the inside of his cheek.

“You’re an officer, then?” You asked. 

He responded with an annoyed snort, rolling his eyes. “Thankfully no, I’m more of a private investigator. I’ve been employed by some officials high in the government to do the work the police have been ruining as of late. How embarrassing, three years and they still haven’t managed to pin the murderer.”

Ah, so you had struck a nerve. He didn’t like the police, noted. 

“Tell me more.” You probed, your genuine curiosity winning over your unease. 

Namjoon appeared to gather himself, his gaze that had once been far off returning to you. “Detail such grizzly deaths to a lady? I’m afraid not.”

“Where I come from we don’t take sexism lightly, Namjoon. And, not to mention, I’m a journalist. Trust me, I can handle it.” What you said was true, as a journalist you were receiving a once in a lifetime opportunity, you were given the chance to witness the investigation of the world’s most well known cold case.  

“You’re a strange woman, unlike any other I’ve ever met before.” He said softly, an amused light in his eyes.

“You’d be surprised just how much we are capable of.” You shot back. 

“Fair enough,” He smiled, enthralled with the back and forth the two of you had engaged in. “I’ll tell you more in my study, I’ll send for a maid to help you dress.” He said before standing up and heading towards the bedroom door. 

“I’m interested to hear your thoughts.” He called over his shoulder before the door clicked shut. 

As soon as he left, you felt like you could breathe freely, a deep exhale of air passing between your lips.

So, you had slipped through time. Your thumb rested between your lips as you nervously chewed at your nail. You were coming to terms with the fact that somehow, some way, you had retreated into the year 1891. The next issue that you needed to resolve was how you were going to get back to your own timeline. You didn't belong here, that was for sure. Just from your previous conversation with Namjoon you knew that you were drastically different from anyone of this era. At this point, you were sure that was bound to get you in some sort of trouble. It was probably best to lay low around people other than Namjoon who had already been exposed to your modern ideals.

As you sat, stewing in your thoughts, a series of gentle knocks echoed from the door to the bedroom. You peeled the sheets away from your body and stilled for a moment. Somebody had changed your clothes. Where you had once worn your faded tour shirt you were now dressed in a long, flowing, silk nightgown that just brushed the tops of your toes. It was rather pretty and ridiculously comfortable but that didn't lessen your anxiety from having a new state of dress from what you had passed out in.

Another set of knocks, less gentle ones this time, spurred you to move faster. As soon as your bare feet met the plush carpet beneath you, you rushed to the door. Upon opening it, a maid stood there. She held a few items in her arms, her face obscured by the dense pile of fabric she cradled. Without saying a word you moved aside and held the door open for her. You could faintly hear her mumble out a weak thank you, muffled by what she held.

She shuffled over to the bed and dropped everything on top of the mattress with a heave that swung her small body with it.

"Alright, Miss. Are you ready?" She asked, turning to face you with a pleasant smile.

"Ready for what exactly?" You replied.

"Well, to dress you of course."

Your face flushed in embarrassment, that was something you had conveniently forgotten, people of higher status like your host did not dress themselves in this period.

"Oh, that's alright, I can manage on my own."

"Are you certain?" She asked, an apprehensive look crossing her features as she stopped laying out the clothing items, her hands halting over a corset.

Fuck.

"On second thought I would love the help." Yeah, there was no fucking way you were learning to lace that thing on your own.

You hadn’t realized just how much of a struggle it would have been to dress yourself had you not appreciated the help the maid had given you. In Victorian fashion, layers were undeniable and you couldn’t help but flinch at the thought of how hot these women had to get in the warmer months. 

You had also assumed the corset would have been troublesome, given how you always heard about its bad rep via movies and literature. In reality, it was quite comfortable. It wasn’t overbearingly tight and you could breathe perfectly fine without a single hint of dizziness. You couldn’t help but ask the maid about this in astonishment. 

She giggled as she smoothed your dress, “Tightlacing you mean? Why, is there someone you’re trying to impress?”

Your face burned with heat at her insinuation, “No, no, I was just curious.”

“It is quite fashionable, but not very practical, no?” She said with a hint of a smile as she stepped back from you. “Well, if that’s all you’ll be needing of me the master is waiting for you in his study, would you like me to escort you? It’s not very far.”

“Oh no, I’m sure I’ve distracted you enough, if you could just point the way that’d be very much appreciated.” 

“Of course!” She chirped, guiding you into the hallway of the manor. “Just head straight down that way, it’s the door at the very end of the hall!”

“Thank you for all of your help.” You smiled gratefully before your turn and began your walk through the hallway. 

The manor was gorgeous with pane glass windows that stretched from the length of the floor to just below the ceiling that were framed with thick, velvet curtains. The floor beneath your shoes was parquet and a deep mahogany that shone proudly in the daylight that filtered into the hallway. You had not seen all of the manor but you knew, just from this glimpse, that the rest of it radiated wealth and power just like its master. 

The clicking of your shoes against the polished hardwood echoed down the length of the corridor as you approached the doors to the study. You had never been to this floor of the manor in your timeline, it had been long since roped off and only elite members were allowed access. Now, it appeared you could roam freely to your heart's content. 

Your knuckles brushed against the door, three knocks in quick succession sounding out into the quiet hallways and study. 

“Come in.” Namjoon called, his voice steady yet distracted. 

You pulled the heavy doors open and slipped into the study. Upon entering you noticed a number of things, for one the study resembled that of a library. The space was vast with bookshelves towering over you as well as everything else in the room. 

Namjoon was seated behind a desk, his fingers resting at his temples while he flipped through a set of papers placed on the surface of the table. While the rest of the manor had appeared clean, almost sterile really, this space had gone untouched by the staff. Various books laid open or bookmarked on the floors, couches, and his desk. 

Upon further inspection you noticed textbooks and medical journals strewn about, anatomy pages glaring back at you. 

“Are you a doctor, Namjoon?” You asked, lifting one of the textbooks up to get a closer look at what he had been reading. 

“A doctor?” He laughed, “I consider myself to be more of a scholar, really-”

Whatever else he had meant to say ceased, the words failing to part his lips. He was looking at you again, not unlike the way he had looked at you when you had appeared on his doorstep scantily clad and drowning in a torrent of rain. 

He made you uncomfortable. 

“Look at you, looking like a lady. You could have fooled me if I did not know any better.” He said, the corner of his lips tugging up into a sarcastic grin. 

“Such a gentleman.” You huffed with an exaggerated roll of your eyes. “If you’re not a doctor then what is the point in reading things like this?”

“To catch a killer, you must think like a killer.” He hummed, tapping the tip of his forefinger against the side of his head. 

“You’ll never catch him.” You said, the words escaping you before you could even think about the repercussions they would have. 

“And why would you think that?” He asked, his eyes narrowing with a challenging look to them, the irises were dark and sent a cold chill down the length of your spine. 

“Call it intuition.” You replied, thinking quickly on your feet. “If countless others who are far more qualified and knowledgeable have failed to find him, it’s improbable one individual will bring him down.” 

You had unknowingly just challenged his intellect, if this were a dance you would have quite literally just stepped on your partner's toes. 

Namjoon stood quickly, his chair shooting back as he rounded the desk and approached you. You stumbled backwards in surprise but did not manage to dodge him as he matched your pace. His hands had settled on your waist, spinning you around to pull you back into his chest. 

His voice was soft and mellow beside your ear as he spoke, “Each victim was a prostitute, all found in the east end of town. Already there is a location and a motive, no?” 

“Now, here is what I find interesting.” He hummed, swiftly gripping your chin and pushing your head back onto his shoulder. His fingers ever so lightly brushed down the column of your throat before drawing a line across it from left to right. 

“Immediately he slits their throat, and right after? Disembowelment.” He said, his other hand that was settled on your waist migrated to your lower abdomen, his fingers caressing another line over the clothed flesh. 

“Most people, those ‘investigators’ for example, would say he hates women. But on the contrary, I think he is quite fascinated. With every murder he takes something that is uniquely theirs, would you happen to know what that is?” 

“Their womb.” You managed to say. You were trembling and you were certain that he could feel it. He was scaring you, the reality of your situation was suddenly becoming rather apparent. 

That could have been you. 

“Exactly, and to do something like that you would need some medical background, especially considering the speed and technique with which he does it.” He confirmed, his hands resting on your waist once more, this time turning you to face him. 

“So, if I were a ripper who was fascinated by women, where would I be?”

“Well...everywhere?” You replied, stepping out of his hold.

“Yes and no. We have a pattern and a motive, someone who is targeting prostitutes in the East End. My money would be on a hub for illicit activities, and with my sources I have a clue as to where he will strike next.”

That piqued your interest. “And where would that be?”

“If I know anything, it’s that the rich don’t like to follow rules and love a good party. Every now and then viscounts, dukes, and aristocrats alike will gather and dabble in illicit activities together. These parties change location every now and again, but most commonly we see them in the East End. Chances are, we can find a doctor with devious intentions at the hub of them. So, do I seem qualified to you?”

“This was your way of proving your capability to me?” You huffed, shaking your head. 

“Yes, and it appeared to work.” He smiled, leaning back against his desk with his arms spread behind him on  its surface. 

“Well, luckily for you, I’m interested.” You responded, jutting your chin out as you crossed your arms over your chest. 

“Interested?” He echoed.

“If you want to catch a killer, what better way is there to do so than draw him out?”

“You’re offering yourself as bait? Are you neurotic?!” He laughed, shaking his head from side to side as he popped off of his desk. “Do you really think I would allow that in good conscience?” 

“I don’t need your permission to do anything, Namjoon. What I am offering is an agreement of mutual satisfaction. You get a way to bait the killer and I get the story of a lifetime.”

You had been plunged backwards through time for a reason, and maybe this was the reason. This was the world’s most infamous cold case. What were the chances that a journalist would slip through the cracks in time and stumble into the East End of 1891? The only conclusion you could draw was that you were meant to identify who the ripper was. 

You knew nothing about time travel regardless of the pop culture you had consumed. For all you knew, changing the events of the past would not create a ripple effect but instead a branch. And, as horrifying as this scenario was, your curiosity was going to get the better of you. You needed to know, even if it meant following around the egotistical self proclaimed genius that had sheltered you. 

“So, do we have a deal? You asked, extending your hand out to him. 

The silence that hung between the two of you was unsettling. His dark eyes lingered on your hand for a moment before flicking up to your face and back down. His lips were pursed in thought and you could tell he was debating with himself heavily. There was a soft ringing in your ears as the quiet stretched on. 

A sudden smile spread over his face, one that you thought almost appeared devious. He laughed to himself and then shook his head before breaching the space between you and gripping your much smaller hand in his own. He gave your hand a firm shake before tugging you forwards and pressing a light kiss to the back of your hand with a grin. 

“We have a deal.” He confirmed. 

“What a fucking flirt.” You grumbled to yourself beneath your breath, anxiously sliding your hand over the fabric of your skirt. “So, when will this party take place?”

“One week from now.” He said, raising his hand to hold up one finger. 

That was much longer than you had wanted to spend in the Victorian era. Far much longer. 

“And what will we do in the meantime?” 

“Well investigate, of course.”

~~~~~~~

Days had passed in Namjoon’s company, and for all of the investigating the three of you (Namjoon, Claude, and yourself) had done, no results were accomplished. But, on the other hand no murders had been committed in the East End. 

You were halfway through the week until the party, and despite your efforts there was absolutely nothing. You were becoming as frustrated as the inhabitants of the East End as well as your fellow investigators. Among all of your “resources,” you were caught at a dead end just as the police were. 

You had heard of Jack the Ripper in your youth, you were once an avid true crime fan. But, for the life of you, you could not remember who the next victim was and where their corpses would be found. And for all you knew, protecting that individual would only cause someone else to lose their life. Time was tricky and fickle, and if it was set in stone, it did not matter who would die so long as someone was drafted into the void. 

You assumed. 

Your host had been...strange, to put it simply. You had thought to yourself that that was just in his nature, he was easily distracted, unfocused, yet insanely intelligent. But his mannerisms were unusual. He seemed completely unfazed by the case he had been assigned to, the only moments in which he showed a visceral response were when he dealt with you, or the police force. He hated them intensely, you could only assume because of how ineptly they were handling the case itself. 

And, most frequently, you found yourself going head to head with him. And boy, did he enjoy the challenge. And, if you were bold enough to admit it, you would say he derived pleasure from the arguments the two of you would get into. He would constantly fix you with that confident smirk, the one that told you he believed he was always one step ahead of you. And fuck, did it piss you off. And he was very much aware of that. He loved a good challenge and you were far different from any of the women he knew of. 

He often wondered how far he could push you before you snapped. 

And if his cocky behavior wasn’t enough to piss you off, it was how much of a blatant flirt he was. There was nothing more frustrating than someone arguing with you while flirting with you at the same time. And your constant refusal and rebuttal to his advances only seemed to fuel the fire. 

The cover of night time became your one refuge, that was when you had an excuse to stay away from him. You could have the whole night to yourself and be free of him until the morning. 

Usually. 

Normally, you slept through the night. But for some reason your body woke you. It was either late at night or extremely early in the morning. No sunlight entered the room, it was still incredibly dark. 

At first, everything appeared to be perfectly normal. That was of course until you noticed a figure seated in the chair by your window mere feet away. You immediately jumped and began to scramble backwards out of the bed, the sheets twisting around your legs and slowing you down. 

It was the call of your name that made you freeze. 

Namjoon was sitting in your room at an ungodly hour...watching you. 

“Namjoon?” You hissed, pulling the sheets back up to your chin. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I didn’t want to wake you.” He answered, pressing his palms onto the armrests and pushing himself up to stand. 

“I really wish you would have.” You grunted, pulling the blanket around you even tighter. “Do you know how creepy you -”

“Two more women are dead.”

Silence. 

“What happened?” You whispered, your fingers going limp. 

“One woman was murdered late last night and the other an hour ago. It was a double event.” His tone was flat, completely absent of affect. 

The three of you could only hold him off for so long, and it looks like he lashed out as soon as he was given the chance. Two women within the span of a few hours were killed, and you couldn’t help but feel like that was your fault. 

No matter what you do, someone will die. 

“What do we do now?” You asked, sullenly looking to him from your point on the bed. 

“We have to go meet with the authorities.” He answered, distaste evident in his voice when he uttered the word ‘authorities.’ 

“Come, we don’t have much time.” He urged you, snapping the sheets back to the foot of the bed while pulling you up to your feet. 

You stumbled as he tugged you forward, your head spinning from the sudden motion. You were struggling to see, your eyes still heavy with sleep despite the dreadful news you had heard. The feeling of his hands at the back of your nightdress certainly shocked you awake. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” You snapped, smacking his hands away from you. 

He appeared frustrated, his eyes dark and his face set in irritation at your refusal. “I just told you, we don’t have much time. All of the maids are still asleep, it’s far too early to call one of them for help and you certainly don’t know how to dress yourself.”

“I can manage on my own, I don’t need your ‘help’.” You argued, stepping away from him in an attempt to create some distance between the two of you. “You don’t know the first thing about women’s clothes anyways.”

His jaw tensed, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment before releasing an annoyed sigh. “Trust me I have undone a few corsets in my time, it’s not as difficult as you make it out to be.” 

“And just as I said, I can dress myself I am not a fucking child.” 

Before you could move his arm shot forward and his hand wrapped around your forearm tightly. Despite your struggling he yanked you towards him, his other hand gripping your elbow. 

“As stupid and insufferable as you like to think I am, I know you are not from here.” He said, his voice low and dangerously quiet. “You don’t speak, act, or even walk like you are from here. The more you hide from me the harder this is going to be. You need help, now you can either be a brat and I have to force you to do as I say, or you can play along and we can get this done and get to work. It’s up to you.”

He had just told you he knew you were a time traveler without explicitly saying it. At least that was the way you took it. But the way in which he spoke to you did not seem to insinuate that he meant that you were a foreigner. Many of your interactions with him would have led him to believe you were from a different time and, not to mention, you had done a terrible job of hiding your phone from him the first day you arrived. You had done a poor job of concealing that from someone as smart as him. 

“And what if I don’t want you to see me?” You tried one last time. 

“It wouldn’t be anything I haven’t already seen.”

So, he was the one who had changed you the first day you had arrived in 1891. There were many red flags waving in the back of your head, and like an idiotic bull you had failed to recognize a single one of them. Some journalist you were, you had missed all of the finite details. 

“Turn around.” He finally said, his voice firm. 

And, with no other choice, you did. It was incredibly awkward on your end. Despite the attractiveness of your host, you had no desire for him to strip and dress you. Unfortunately for you, he did not care. You understood the urgency to leave and your little spat had already delayed your departure. But you were a person who valued your dignity and autonomy, you weren’t built to live in a society such as this one. 

You tried your best not to focus on the feeling of his touch, but it was incredibly hard to ignore. Instead of touching you as little as possible, it felt like he took every chance to caress, graze, and linger on every inch of bared skin. 

For a moment, all movement stilled. You were only halfway dressed, your corset exposing everything upwards of your chest leaving your collarbones, arms, shoulders, and neck on display. You shuddered at the sudden feeling of fingers smoothing over the column of your throat, not unlike the incident in Namjoon’s study. 

He was absolutely quiet as he pressed his face into the juncture of your neck and shoulder, softly breathing in and out as his fingers continued to stroke the skin of your throat from left to right in a gentle, slow, sawing motion. Your heart was pumping frantically in your chest in what could only be described as fear. Your back was ramrod straight, a harsh line in comparison to the relaxed form behind you. 

Why were you so afraid of him? It was like every nerve and muscle in your form was begging you to leap away and run for your life. But he wasn’t dangerous, right?

You jolted at the feeling of lips just brushing against your shoulder as he pulled away from you and finished helping you dress, far quicker than he had been before. His demeanor was suddenly resigned, professional, and cold. It was like he had suddenly mustered a sense of self control in mere seconds. 

Who exactly was Kim Namjoon?

Said man was retreating in the direction of your bedroom door, his hand grasping the doorknob as he called over his shoulder, “Meet me out front, and please be quick about it.”

That was when a thought suddenly intruded your mind. 

“Namjoon? How did you get into my room? The door was locked.”

He stiffened for a moment, his hand tightening around the doorknob causing the muscle to strain and his knuckles to whiten. He said nothing, his head jerked to the side for a moment like he was gesturing in disbelief. 

He raised his head and stared at you, and then without saying anything, he left. 

~~~~~~~

You stared at the face of your pocket watch, the delicate chain wrapped around your gloved fingers. The hands of the watch were still, the familiar ticking of the watch was silent. It was like time had completely stopped. And in a way, maybe it had. 

The carriage halted to a stop spurring you to snap the watch cover closed and pin it back into place. 

Your companion quickly exited and stood outside, reaching his hand out to you to help guide you from the compartment. Despite the sudden animosity between the two of you, you placed your hand in his own and allowed him to help you down. The layered skirts of your dress swirled around your ankles, they were heavy and made it hard to climb in and out of transportation. Begrudgingly, you managed to say your thanks between gritted teeth. 

“Try to behave.” He whispered beside your ear offering his arm to you. 

You hooked your arm into the crook of his elbow and allowed him to lead the way. If you had it your way you would be fifteen feet in front of him carving your own path through the East End. But, your lack of knowledge of Victorian etiquette had already managed to get you in trouble and the last thing that you needed was more trouble. 

“Where are we going?” You asked, quickening your pace to match his long strides. 

“The previous crime scene has already been cleaned up by the task force, but the one from this morning is still intact. I have been instructed to go over their findings as well as conduct my own investigation.” He explained. 

“Alright, what can I do?” 

“What you can do is stay right here.” He instructed, bringing the two of you to a stop at the mouth of a narrow alleyway. It was already blocked off, warning the public to steer clear of the area. 

“You have to be kidding? You really expect me to wait here for you while you go and investigate? I don’t take kindly to being told to just sit and look pretty, Namjoon.” You glared. 

Namjoon titled his head back and let out a sound of annoyance, his shoulders rising and falling dramatically with an exasperated sigh. “For once, will you please listen to me? This is an active investigation and I am asking you, a civilian, to stay put. I swear, I will tell you everything you need to know for your story, alright?” 

Another bitter silence passed between the two of you. He knew you were incredibly dissatisfied with what he had said. But he was just as stubborn as you were, that being the reason the two of you butted heads so often. 

He shook his head, jaw tensed with anger as he stepped away from you heading in the direction of the alley way. 

“Stay put!” He called over his shoulder, waving his hand at you as he disappeared, his form melting into the darkness of the alley that had yet to see the glow of the early morning sunrise. 

Now that, that pissed you off. You were not some dog that would obey his every command, the more he told you not to do something the more it made you want to do it. 

You waited for a few moments, for his sake and for the very fact that it would piss him off that you refused to listen. You were an impatient woman, and you would be damned if you listened to a single thing he said. 

The air was crisp and cool with the lack of sunlight, your breath fogging the space in front of you as you slunk down the dark alleyway. You could hear Namjoon’s voice echoing down the brick tunnel, he sounded enraged. There were several other voices attempting to speak over him, but they were evidently failing. 

And then there was the smell, it was horrid. The cramped space was packed full of the scent, it was indescribable. The only prominent smell that was familiar was the tangy, coppery odor of blood thick in the morning air. 

But what you hadn’t been expecting was that the body was still there, slumped against the ground haphazardly like it was nothing more than trash. An officer was still there, knelt down next to her body. He was prodding her flesh with a grimace, holding a handkerchief over his nose to block out the scent. 

“Christ, she’s still warm!” He called out, jumping up to head back to the investigators while giving you a full view of the carnage laid out before you. “He could still be close by!”

Multiple sensations bombarded you at once. A scream was caught in your throat as your stomach began to churn from the sight before you. You raised a gloved hand to cover your nose and mouth as you leaned against the wall, your knees feeling weak. 

It was bad, worse than you could have possibly imagined. 

There was blood, more blood than you had ever seen in your entire life. And whatever it was that was laying before you just barely looked human. But the parts that did look familiar was what made it so unsettling, so wrong, so horrifying. 

Namjoon was calling your name. 

You were still in shock when he grabbed you, his hand cupping the back of your neck and forcing your face into his chest blocking the grotesque view you once had. His other arm wrapped around your shoulders, cradling you closer to him. 

“Her...her face.” You stuttered, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. 

“Are you that inept at your jobs that you couldn’t keep a civilian from entering a fucking crime scene?!” He yelled over your head, his voice vibrating deep in his chest. 

“I told you to stay put.” He mumbled, his lips pressed to the crown of your head while his thumb stroked the side of your face as you shook in his hold. This was the gentlest he had ever been with you. 

You had never seen anything like that before. Whatever words he had spoken were falling on deaf ears, a sharp ring was echoing throughout your head, numb tears streaking your face and ruining his jacket. 

You could feel his hands slide to the curve of your jaw, forcing your head up to look at him and only him. 

“From now on, you listen to me, okay?” He said, his eyes darting over your face to make sure you were retaining what he was saying. 

You weren’t sure what was more concerning to you. The fact that he was suddenly so gentle with you, or the fact that he paid no mind to the corpse mere feet away from the two of you. 

There was something wrong with Kim Namjoon. 

~~~~~~~

Whatever investigation Namjoon had managed to conduct during your moments of shellshock provided nothing new. The choice of murder was the same, albeit the brutality was by far the worst of all the victims before. 

Her body had been warm indicating the perpetrator could still have been close by, but despite that knowledge the search parties could not find the culprit that had been described. There was no man covered in blood hiding in the shadows of the East End, he had disappeared like he had never been there in the first place. 

A few days after the murder had taken place, Namjoon had informed you the killer had made contact. His face was grim as he described what had transpired. A letter and a parcel had arrived addressed to the taskforce, inside was what appeared to be a human kidney and a letter signed with a flourish, “Jack The Ripper.”

He was playing with them. 

Your dreams were plagued with the memories of the sights you had seen that day in the early morning light of the alleyway. And instead of forcing you into submission, it made you angry. The initial sight had rendered you imobile, weak, and defenseless. You had never seen a human look like that. But with each dream you dreamt as the week melted away, you festered in guilt and rage. 

Your fellow Victorian journalists had called him a monster, but you knew better. He was not a monster, he was a coward preying on women in the veil of darkness. Cowards harmed the weak and the defenseless, he was a caricature of a monster. 

And you wanted nothing more than to rip the Halloween mask off of that faux monster. 

This thought is what lent you strength as you and Namjoon reentered the East End, prepared to once and for all unmask the killer that had escaped the two of you. 

You were dressed expensively, and rather salaciously, to blend in with the aristocrats around you. Namjoon and Claude appeared comfortable in the environment and it made you wonder if this had not been their first time attending an illicit party. Namjoon had explained to you before that he was often hired by government officials to do the jobs the police often failed to do, so it would not be unexpected if he had been there more than once. 

You were bombarded by various sights that had you sticking close to your companions. When Namjoon said “illicit” parties, he meant it. The amount of illegal activities taking place was astounding. No matter where you looked, something was going on. Various partygoers were drinking unmarked liquids, inhaling unidentified substances, or swapping large amounts of money for some unknown service (although you had an inkling as to what they may be). 

At one point in the night you had tried to locate a bathroom only for Namjoon to pull you away from the door you had attempted to open. 

“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.” He said with an all knowing, tight lipped grin. 

“Really, and why not?” You asked, your hand resting on your cinched waist. 

“I didn’t picture you as one for...group activities.” 

“Group activities...there’s an orgy in there?!” You whisper yelled, frantically wiping your hand on your skirts with wide eyes. 

Namjoon wheezed out a laugh, guiding you away from the room and back towards the center of the pseudo ballroom. “What can I say, this is a sinner’s paradise.” 

“Sinner’s paradise, more like Chlamydia’s Palace.” You huffed, your cheeks hot. 

Namjoon laughed again only to be stopped by the presence of his butler, Claude. His hand concealed his mouth as he whispered something to Namjoon. Whatever it was he said seemed to please Namjoon while also provoking an indescribable look to wash over his handsome features.

As soon as Claude stepped back, Namjoon spoke. “I need you to stay right here, okay? Don’t talk to anyone, don’t drink anything, just keep to yourself until I return.” 

Your eyebrows pinched together in irritation and confusion, “But, Namjoon -”

“Remember what happened the last time you refused to listen to me?” He snapped, raising his eyebrows in emphasis. 

You pressed your lips together, turning your head to the side. Yes, you did remember what had happened the last time you ignored his instructions. 

Namjoon sighed, propping his finger under your chin and turning your head to look at him. “Please, trust me on this one thing.”

You thought to yourself for a moment, the last time you didn’t listen it hadn’t exactly gone well for you. This was just one thing he was asking of you after all of the things he had done for you, he was asking for just one moment of cooperation. 

You lowered his hand from your chin and took a breath. “Okay, I trust you.” 

A look of pure elation erupted on his face. He gave you a wide grin, his dimples deepening in his cheeks. 

“I’ll be back.” He said before retreating into the crowd with Claude following close behind. 

And then you were alone, but not alone for nearly long enough. 

Your hands fiddled with the pocket watch your grandfather had gifted you as you walked, your head down and your gaze focused on the glass face of the watch. It was almost like everything had gone wrong after he had died and left it in your possession. 

Far too distracted from your internal thoughts and the presence of the watch, you missed the incoming form barreling towards you. Within seconds you were knocked to the floor, the layers of your skirts luckily breaking your fall. 

“Ah! Sorry, sorry, sorry, my bad! In a rush, I’m quite late I’m afraid.” The voice rushed out, a slight wheeze accompanying it as he appeared breathless. 

You felt two hands grasp your own and carefully help you into an upright position. 

“It’s fine, I’m fine.” You said, irritation clear in your tone. 

“No really! Forgive me, it’s my mistake.” He said.

You adjusted your dress, making sure all of the important bits were in place before finally looking up to see who exactly this man was. 

You were not expecting it to be him. Not at all. 

“Grandpa?” You asked softly, taken aback. 

It was him, he looked years younger than when you had last seen him, but it was him. You had gone through countless scrapbooks as a child and the face that was staring back at you was the younger version of the man that had raised you. 

“What?” He laughed, his eyes crinkling as his shoulders shook. 

Your gaze zeroed in on the chain of the watch clipped to his pocket. And, without saying a word, you pulled your own watch free and showed it to him. 

All mirth completely left his body, like the flame of a candle being snuffed out. His lips parted in shock and distress as his eyes traced over his own initials carved into your watch. His hand patted his own chest frantically as he pulled the watch free and held it beside your own. 

They were identical, down to every nick and scratch in the silver finish. 

“How did you get here?” He asked, his voice low and serious in a way you had never heard before. “Did they send you?” 

“Did who send me? Nobody sent me. I just woke up here, other people were living in my house and everything was gone.” You explained as he pulled you to a corner of the ballroom. 

“This isn’t right,” He mumbled, flipping open his own watch. “You’re a time anomaly, there can’t be two of us here at the same time.”

“Two of us?” You echoed. 

“Time travelers, dear, it runs in the family I’m afraid. What was I thinking about giving that to you without explaining?” He said, his words flying so quickly to the point that you were struggling to keep up. 

“Then let’s leave, show me how to get out of here! There has to be a way!”

“You can’t just leave, you’re here for a purpose, you didn’t just come here by accident.” He said as a blue glow began to steadily thrum and pulse from his watch. “Oh no.”

“Oh no? What, what’s happening?”

“I have to go, I’m being called back. Whatever you do, you cannot change anything, do you understand? Who are you staying with, what have you done?” 

“I haven’t changed anything that I know of. I’ve been staying with Kim Namjoon.”

His eyes widened as the watch began to pulse even stronger than before. “Kim Namjoon! Listen to me, you need to go, you need to get as far away as possible he -”

But before he could finish what he was saying he disappeared. It was like he had blipped out of existence, like he had never been there at all. 

You spun around in a circle, trying to see if he was truly gone. All of the party goers did not appear to be phased, it was like they hadn’t seen a single thing that occurred. How was that possible? Fuck that, how was any of this possible?

All you knew was that you were going to follow his advice and get the fuck out of there and out of the East End. 

You forced yourself through the thick crowds of people, pushing, checking, and elbowing away anyone that got in your way. You winced as one particular shove sent a whole glass of wine pouring down the cleavage and dress of one inebriated woman. It didn’t really matter though, you were sure she could afford another one with the way she had been slamming back drinks all night. 

You threw open various doors in an attempt to find a way out, each time you were met with an increasingly more disgusting or disturbing sight. You didn’t even know some of those positions were possible for fuck’s sake. 

Finally, when you threw open a door you were met with the smell of crisp, fresh air. A way out. 

It was a slim alleyway of the East End, just barely illuminated by the crescent moon that hung in the pitch black darkness of the sky. A sudden sense of paranoia washed over you, the last time you were in an alleyway it had ended poorly. But you knew you didn’t have time to think about that. 

Oh, if only you did. 

The minute your heeled feet met the ground you were greeted with that all too familiar scent. There was blood nearby and lots of it. You could hear shuffling a few yards away, and you knew that you fucked up. 

Your throat felt tight as you attempted to swallow, you were certain you could taste the blood on your tongue from how strong the smell was. And, when you finally turned to face whatever was in that alley, you were horrified. 

A few yards away you spotted three figures, two on the ground and one leaning against the wall. And beneath the three of them, a crimson river steadily flowed through the cobblestone. 

You took a step back, your heels scuffing the stone spurring only two of the figures to look up at you. A scream bubbled in your chest at what you saw. Claude was hunched over the figure of a woman, blood splattered over his face and down the leather apron he wore over his clothes. You could see bloodied tools in his grip as he settled back on his hunches, pausing his motions mid incision.

And then there was Namjoon, the once blank look he wore on his face suddenly lighting up with intrigue at the sight of you. 

“Claude? Why don’t you take the lady home.” He spoke, gesturing to the corpse. 

Claude looked between you and Namjoon for a moment, appearing conflicted. But he did not hesitate any longer as he scooped up the woman’s corpse and retreated down in the dark depths of the alley. 

Namjoon was quick as he approached you, you barely made it a few feet away before he grabbed you by your forearms and pinned you up against the wall, hushing you as panicked cries parted your painted lips. 

“I’m sorry, darling. But, I did tell you to stay put didn’t I?”

“Why?” You managed to say as you trembled in his hold, ugly sobs wracking your entire form. 

“Women only want me for one thing I’m afraid. My money. I thought that maybe I could help those women who had nothing, that they could give me love in return if they didn’t know who I was. But they were just the same, motivated by money. I would give them my love and beg them to stop selling themselves but they just wouldn’t listen to me. Every single one of them failed my little test. They were greedy, and selfish. They didn’t deserve to be women. So, I hurt them just like they hurt me.” 

You didn’t know what to do or what to say, you could only focus on the rising feeling of panic in your chest. 

“I knew someone would eventually catch on to what was happening. But how ironic was it that they assigned me to the case out of all people? Those fucking investigators are so inept they never saw it coming. And Claude, well his loyalty was extremely helpful. If you don’t want to be caught, don’t commit the crime yourself.” He whispered. 

“All I wanted was to give them my love, but each and every single one of them broke my heart. All of them except for you.” He said, pressing a kiss to your cheek that made you violently flinch. 

“You were such a little spitfire, and when you showed up to my door I thought I was going to have to kill you on sight. But you proved me wrong, you’re the only one deserving of my love.”

A blue light suddenly lit up the space between you, the glow of the watch casting sinister shadows over the ripper's face. 

Immediately he reached for the watch at the same time as you, and without much effort he wrenched the watch free from your hands and shoved you down to the ground. Your head met the stone first and on impact black spots blurred your vision.

The watch pulsed vibrantly in his hands, humming like a heartbeat. A wicked laugh shook his shoulders as he flipped the face open. 

“So this is how you did it?” He asked, swinging the watch by it’s chain recklessly. 

“Namjoon, don't’!” You cried, struggling to stand. 

But it was too late. A feral scream ripped its way out of your throat as you watched him slam the watch into the ground and violently dig the heel of his shoe into it. The glass shattered, the metal bent, and the blue glow stuttered, weakly thrumming before fizzling out and plunging the alley into darkness. 

The ripper stalked down the alley and stood over you, a viscous smile pulling at his cheeks as he slowly tilted his head to the side. 

“Don’t look so surprised my love, there is only one way I’d ever let you leave me.” 

#bts #bts namjoon #bts x reader #namjoon #kim namjoon #namjoon x reader #kim namjoon x reader #yander #yandere bts #yandere namjoon #bts fanfic #yandere namjoon x reader #yandere kpop #yandere bts x reader #bts rm #rm x reade #yandere rm x reader #jack the ripper au #victorian au

[angstyantoinette]

Yandere! Armin Arlert Headcanons

AGED UP I REPEAT ALL CHARACTERS ARE AGED UP-

This little blonde ball of curiosity is verrryy toxic in my Yandere version. 

Armin knows how innocent he looks to other people and by playing on this, coupled with his practical and analytical genius status, boy is it so very easy for him to gain the trust of his comrades, friends and especially his Beloved. 

I feel as if Armin wouldn’t be picky with a particular type, but never being attracted to an unkind or particular person he would be disgusted by in any way. 

He may fall for someone who is slightly colder, or who doesn’t really know how to respond to kindness. In that scenario, Armin would be overjoyed, but very patient and giving with them; if he wasn’t Yandere. 

I see him as very touch-starved and wanting, but afraid to be clingy for fear he would drive his Beloved away. In this case he would dote on you as best he could in his environment, making you fall for him even more. 

You would him as endearing, and like most, innocent. Armin is smart; one might say way too smart for his own good, and being a Yandere, I feel this makes him just as dangerous as those willing to use physical violence/methods on their Beloved. 

He knows that you just love his little quirks and his way of thinking. If you tell him this, he may think you only see him as valuable because of his skill for strategizing. But when you reassure him that you just love him for him, he just falls in love with you even more. 

He’s worrisome about you. Every time he makes practise with your ODM gear until you’re bruised, and exhausted, ready to run into his awaiting arms. Rewarding you with cuddles and affection, Armin’s love isn’t exactly conditional; but it still isn’t normal.

But that’s if you accept his feelings, with Armin being a Yandere or not, and with your knowledge or ignorance. 

If you don’t accept his feelings, whether it being for your personal reasons, or because you…um, like someone else, to put it nicely; 

YOU’RE FUCKED. 

He’ll smile, nod his head, maybe try a little too hard to act like he’s okay with your decision. But you understand, after all, it’s not like you haven’t been rejected before. 

“We can always be friends, Armin! I’m here for you okay?” 

“Yeah, Y/N, whatever you say…” 

About a few weeks after his rejection, with all of the support from Eren, Mikasa and the others, Armin is slowly descending into a deep depression. 

He was so sure of his feelings for you. They were his most prized possession. You made him laugh, you made him blush and god you made his pitiful life seem so much more worth living. You were the ocean, and he just wanted to drown myself in you. Like the sun he saw so rarely, you were the ray of pure light that made his body burn. 

He lay awake at night, taunted and enthralled with the thoughts of you in so many different scenarios….maybe in particular, different positions. 

[Yes, those kinda positions. Armin’s not always that innocent, y’all.]

He knows that the more he thinks of you in these appetizing ways, in these hurtfully satisfying scenarios, he’s never going to be able to get over you. 

Rather, he’s not even going to try.

Being trapped in his fantasies, Armin is horrifically aware that these feelings are incredibly toxic, for the both of you. He just won’t let you go. Whatever it takes, Armin will commit whatever crimes he must to keep you in his life. 

He sees you as being misunderstood, especially if you’re typically a colder person, hard to read, detached. Some people compare you to Levi, but Armin just knows that you, like the Corporal, have far more depth than you let on. 

His intrigue doesn’t let up for a long while, as you’re constantly surprising him in new and amazing ways. You’re used to his deep interest in you after a while, but you still don’t understand him. 

Armin thrives on your confusion at first, but if it drives you away from him, he’ll go into tactical mode. Staying up all night,figuring out who is calling your attention to them rather than him and what his next move should be. 

With his intelligence, Armin keeps his sizzling bafflement and envy under wraps. He tells himself that maybe he had unerved you a little. He can get like that sometimes, surely you understood him well enough to know that?He obviously did find you interesting and he was willing to momentarily abandon Eren and Mikasa just to fuel his endless curiosity. 

Keep in mind, this is after you reject him, and his desperation to just know you and love you is greatly overwhelming him to the highest degree. You just won’t allow him to really see you, to understand you. 

Eventually, he snaps. Just not in the typical yandere way. We all know that Armin feels as though he is a nuisance, a self-proclaimed burden so he keeps most of his feelings inside, and lets them loose to either prove a point, or while under stress. 

It takes a minute for him to decide what to do with you, because he knows that once he has made a choice, it has to be the right choice. He has to know and map out a detailed plan, whether it’s doable, whether he’s able to pull it off by himself, etc.

His analytical skills come into play, and he plans everything from the location, time, the equipment needed at exactly what time. By this time, he will have comepletely left you alone; abrupt and brash, and just as he planned, you were surprised. Yes, he wanted to get to know you, and you couldn’t help but feel even slightly violated and maybe even disturbed. 

Your like anyone in the world, have natural curiosity and interest in just about anything. But the unfamiliar feeling of unsettlement around Armin just felt…off.

You secretly knew of his deep infatuation; people always seemed to determined to figure the silent types out, to crack them open, decipher their many secrets. In terms of this analogy, you sort of understand, maybe even sympathise with his endless novelty toward your character, but even so…just why?

Maybe it was the fact that you felt bad for him, in a sad, puppy love kinda way. Maybe you saw him as a traumatized individual, just putting his assumed coping mechanism to work, with you just in the innocent line of fire. 

If he kidnaps you at all, Armin will smother you. Telling you how much you mean to him, explaining that only he can access your wonder and intrigue. Because, after all, he worked this hard to get you; why would he ever share you with anyone else? 

Although he will be stern, he’ll always be nice about it, rewarding you or not. 

You’re an enigma to Armin Arlert, keeping him guessing, testing his patience with all of your being. You don’t know it, but soon you’ll be in his possession.

I headcanon him as seeing your refusal, your blatant rejection as some kind of ‘disease.’ You haven’t even seen the best of him yet, why make up your mind about something that you know almost nothing of? Oh well, you’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other very soon. He’ll bare his injured soul to you, and you���ll have mo choice but to do the same for him. It’s what married couples do after all, right?

Just let him love you, Y/N. Let Armin adore you. It’s the best thing to do if you want everyone to live.

Glassy, still sapphire eyes simply stared at you in the weak light of a stolen candle. You couldn’t quite pinpoint what they were saying, those beautiful, dangerous, albeit loving eyes. But yet, they also held malice in their abyss’. Endless, bottomless, simply divine they were. That was all you knew.

“Why…do you lie to me?” he murmered. A small, rough palm came to rest against your hollowed cheek, fingertips gently tapping against the skin. Realising how close he truly was, you tried your hardest to get away, shifting in your place in the surprisingly plush, old bed, but all it took was a flash of blonde hair to whip past your face, before he succeeded in holding your arms down.

While he never did this explicitly to punish or harm you, Armin always knew just how to exert his power. Never mind the boundaries that he installed in you the day of your arrival; he didn’t care for them as much as you had to pretend to.

This Armin was unhinged. Normalcy could never be considered in this relationship. He could never understand the pain he put you through. To Armin, it was all in the name of his devotion. All of his interest had been rooted in one fact; you refused to love him.

Once he figured out that you wouldn’t couldn’t love him of your own accord, he became enamoured with something he just knew he could never have.

He had never even thought about taking you, drugging you, dragging you to a secluded spot in the woods, or an out of bounds room, derelict over many years.

“I never intended to take you like this, bunny.”

Swallowing hard, you tried to look him in the eyes, gently lifting your head higher and higher until his blue pools of mere unhinged insanity met your own pained orbs. Seeming to like this, he smiled.

His perfect teeth looked more like fangs in the dim, weak moonlight. It had felt like he had managed to suck every molecule of beauty from even the most simple of things.

His voice sounded like the devil; harsh, unforgiving lilting tones of false hope daring to stroke you face and make you think you had a good chance at happiness.

You didn’t know when he stopped being Armin and began being a monster. You didn’t know if the lines could be blurred any further.

“I never wanted this, Armin-” 

“Don’t play with me, bunny,” he snapped. His slender fingers wound themselves in your clean hair, twisting and searching for a soft spot to pull. When he found it, he lightly tugged; barely, but you still winced from the thought of the last time he did this. 

You still wanted to believe that he was quiet, sweet Armin who still had an unstoppable fascination with you, but he was harmless then. Or was he? Was he faking his intentions? Did he have it planned from the very beginning? 

You wanted to choke yourself for believing his simple demeanour, his dedication to the cause of the Survey Corps just like everyone else. He was a liar. He was a predator in all ways, ensnaring you, his perfect prey. 

Only now had Armin realized just how confused you were. 

You didn’t understand his love for you. You thought he hated you! 

Now that wouldn’t do.

Armin could have have kicked himself. All of his stern discipline and rules stemming from his love and protection meant that you mistook for him being cruel. He was doing this out of his devotion! 

How could he assume you would understand if he never told you, if he never proved his love?

“Armin, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything, I swear-” You took a deep breath, cutting yourself off. Now was not the place or time to be losing your composure; you still were trying to get used to the fact that you were being held against your will. 

“Hush”, he suddenly murmured, gently taking your chin in his fingertips, before moving them to tenderly cup your face, his eyes darting anywhere that he could lay his gaze upon.

The gestures were so tender you found your cheeks erupting with a wild blush, the burning shame hitting you moments later when your hatred and slight fear hit you like a slap to the face. 

Your embarassment only got worse when you felt his soft lips kiss your throat, his warm breath flush against your skin. His hands found themselves back in your hair again, stroking it, petting it, twisting it round and round his finger. His right hand caressed your nape, spreading his fingers so that they only just covered the width of your neck, and he pulled you closer, so that your head was nuzzled into his neck, buried beneath his love and fascination.

It all clicked. 

Armin wasn’t just interested in you. 

He was obessed with you.

Obsessively in love with you. 

You felt pathetic. You felt weak. But in a strange way, you also felt loved. 

You had no choice but to resign yourself to his touch, letting your head fall limp as he cradled you to his chest.

“Good bunny.”

#yandere aot #yandere snk #yandere armin #armin arlert x reader #attack on titan #yandere #headcanons #yandere attack on titan #Headcanon #hc's #armin x reader

[jonthethinker]

After a long day of truly cursed thoughts, I’ve come to the determination that the Cerberus Assembly can act as a sort of Exandrian analog of our world’s Silicon Valley, and I hate it. I hate hate hate it.

The more I think about it, the more it just sort of melds into my mind as fact. I can’t escape it. This is where I live now.

You’ve got this collection of self-proclaimed super geniuses, unbounded by modern social mores and determined to invent a new sort of ethics, with an intent on shaping history and sagely guiding the world into a better future. This is despite the fact that most of the ideas they have inevitably end up making the world worse, and the only thing “new” that they really bring into the world is a bunch of actually very old ideas coated in fresh circuitry/magic.

But let’s dig a little deeper and start getting specific.

They both have these images of fiercely independent, creative bodies desperate to remain free from government control, and sometimes even as a check on that very government. The heads of the Cerberus Assembly outright say their intent is to act as a check on the Crown, and are known to have many secrets the Crown is, to their knowledge, totally unaware of.

Tech companies, particularly in America, have this outward facing very libertarian outlook on things, saying they don’t wish to interfere in the very important process of democracy and free speech, while simultaneously feeling it is their responsibility to fact check those in power and hold them to account, with their “serious vetting” of political ads and the like on their platforms. They also lobby heavily against any and all regulation of their various products and services, preferring to let the “invisible hand” of the market provide the service of keeping them in check, much as the Cerberus Assembly prefers to handle its own problems internally.

But when you really dig into the details this is all bullshit. The Cerberus Assembly, for all intents and purposes, IS the Empire. They run the secret police, for goodness sake. The two are so interconnected, and the Assembly as an institution is so dependent on the infrastructure and manpower, and of course money (because the fancy clothes, giant towers, and expensive sets of material components don’t pay for themselves) of the Empire to accomplish its goals, it can’t serve as a real check on Imperial forces possibly “overstepping”, and it also has no material interest in doing so; the more power and control the Empire has, the more power and control the Assembly has; the less freedom the citizens have due to authoritarian “safety” measures implemented by the Crown, the safer the Assembly itself becomes to pursue it’s morally dubious work and experimentation.

The same goes with Silicon Valley and the various tech companies that fall under its ethos. They will expound continually on the necessary freedom from government control they must have to truly change the world in the ways they think are best, but the primary source of money for most of these companies are governments. They either primarily contract with governments for most of their actual profits or to use its already established infrastructure, as is the case with Amazon, or depend heavily on publicly funded research for their innovations, which is everyone from Apple to Google to Microsoft and dozens and dozens of smaller companies besides. They then even get to patent these publicly funded innovations and hold a monopolized stranglehold on their use. This is not even to mention the starter capital necessary to form many of these companies in the first place itself was provided by governments, with the rather, shall we say “morally questionable” Kingdom of Saudi Arabia being among the top contributors to such start ups.

Even when either of these groups claim to be self-made, it’s all bullshit. So many of our famous tech overlords that supposedly built themselves from nothing started at the upper reaches of society, with more than enough capital and connections to insure they were never at any real risk of failing in the first place. Most even went to the same elite institutions of learning that provide the vast majority of the political leadership of the United States, institutions they had access to due to their wealth and familial connections, not their brains. Elon Musk’s family owned an emerald mine in Zambia for God’s sake, one his family would have never owned without the British Empire being a thing.

The same can be said for the Assembly. The upper classes of the Dwendalian Empire are lousy with mages and magic users. If they don’t have a place to climb among the nobility, they work for the Assembly, and hope to climb there. It shouldn’t surprise anyone that the only poorer mage recruits we know anything real about all were sucked up into the service of the Scourgers, one of the few arms of the Assembly known to regularly interact with societies lower reaches and not so positively at that, and had their familial identities obliterated in the process. Both of these groups are of the upper reaches of society and serve the upper reaches of society, and we should never think anything less.

And this brings us to the ideological framework both of these groups think with. They are both full to the brim with people who are individualists to the extreme. They all believe they are singular actors in the great tapestry of history, who got where they are by hard work and dedication, and anyone who isn’t there just didn’t do enough. The folks living in the tent city outside Zadash? lazy layabouts who simply have not applied their mind to be something greater, or perhaps their veins are just full of bad blood. Poor former factory workers in Detroit whose jobs have been moved to places where labor laws are weaker and wages are lower? If they’d only taken their education more seriously, they could be where I am! Or maybe they just never tried to be an Uber driver or delivering for Grubhub, because that’s how you really pull yourself out of poverty.

Meanwhile, most of the groups consist of people who have never once known real adversity and certainly not the hardship of poverty nor the lack of social and political power that position entails. They are blinded to the reality of most people in the world outside their rather small one, and thus have no understanding of the material hardship that most people experience during their everyday life.

You see this most clearer in the manner in which they try to solve what they see as societies great problems, with no clear thought put into the consequences of these particular solutions. In our world, this is particularly obvious. Uber is painted as an innovative means of transportation on a budget, when in reality it’s just a fleet of untrained, underpaid, non-unionized taxi drivers using their own personal vehicles at their own expense. Elon Musk is seen as this super genius when his solution to LA traffic wasn’t a more robust public transportation system or slowly reconstructing the city to be more pedestrian friendly, but instead to build a massive network of single car elevators under the city to zip cars to key hot spots faster in a manner people less anxious than me would still call risky at best. I mean most of these people think the key to ending poverty is teaching people to code or giving them STEM education, even when in a capitalist economy the only thing a sudden flooding of new coders and STEM educated folks would insure is that the jobs that require those skills will see a sudden massive drop in pay and benefits as the pool of prospective employees becomes over-saturated and individual workers no longer have any bargaining power to protect their once rare jobs. You already see this in animation and video game design, and you’ll certainly see it elsewhere.

For the Assembly, despite being praised as the brightest arcane minds of Wildmount, seem to get most of their ideas either by stealing them from others or digging them up out of the ground. But this is just the nature of empire; it’s always easier for an empire to consume than it is to create. So as little as they think of the Dynasty, they are eager to steal every little bit of knowledge they’ve discovered about Dunamis, and without the faith and moral sense the Luxon-based religion imposes, they will never be forced to put the use of this rare and dangerous magic into perspective. Imagine what harm they can cause with gravity and time magic when they don’t have that religious pressure to consider the value of life and choice. But this makes sense when their main sources of inspiration are the wizards of the Age Of Arcana; you know, the wizards whose hubris nearly destroyed the entire world and spurred an apocalyptic war that sent society into a dark age in which the gods themselves abandoned them? A+ inspiration material if you ask me.

Even the culture of these two groups in regards to how they regulate themselves is so eerily similar. Think of Delilah Briarwood. Member in good standing of the Cerberus Assembly. Also, worshipper of Vecna and talented necromancer. Only expelled from the Assembly after involvement from the Cobalt Soul, even when you know every other member of the Assembly almost certainly had loads of information on this lady.

It just makes me think of all the weird, right-wingers and Nazis who occasionally get expelled from the heights of Silicon Valley whenever some journalist exposes them, and how quickly their colleagues are to condemn them even when so many of them either knew this person was this way well before they were exposed or actively agreed with them and still do. I mean, think of how protected Bill Gates is, because of how much his philanthropist image has served to insulate and protect the gross consolidation of wealth and power in the hands of so few, even when his fortune was built on stolen ideas, military funding and research, and a hardcore software monopoly for well over a decade or two. Also, his philanthropy has done nothing to help African people build their own institutions of power independent of European and American influence, and have help distract us from the damage really caused to the entire continent by earlier colonialism and later capitalist imperialism.

This is to say as bad as our world is, I now definitely don’t want to live in Wildemount. I don’t want to live a world where Mark Zukerberg can cast Disintegrate. Not ideal. I guess I’ll just have to work that much harder to fix this one and not depend on learning Dunamancy to just put us on a different path. Bummer.

#Critical Role #Cerberus Assembly #Dwendalian Empire

[whump-town]

Aversions

Hotch is less than dealing with the events of Foyet’s attack.

Warnings: alcohol abuse, child abuse, drug abuse, graphic depictions of violence & stabbing, self-destructive behavior, crying, self harm, mentions of suicide, suicidal ideations, violence with guns, and maybe some out of character Hotch and Emily.

Not sure how I feel about this fic... but I guess, we’re going in with both feet so 

“You cannot save people, you can only love them.” --Anais Nin

Aaron Hotchner has never been good with words. Not the right ones, anyway.

But actions can speak louder than words.

He’ll spin Garcia around the dance floor when they go out for drinks. Hands placed just where they should be and he’ll laugh softly when she makes a thinly-veiled dirty joke. And she’ll remember those nights for her whole life. The way he smiled at her as the lights shimmered overhead. The way he blushed when she refused to dance with anyone else, stating she needed a real gentleman.

There are nights at Dave’s. Weekends that he gets to keep Jack, uninterrupted by cases, and they go to visit Pop’s; Jack’s third favorite person (mommy and daddy of course being one and two). It’s the sound of Jack’s happy feet running up and down the hall, Hotch’s thundering voice as he he-ho-hums and chases him along. Dave watching the youth bleed into that scrawny, spunky recruit from some twenty years ago. And Jack always runs into Dave’s arms and in one fell-sweep proclaims him the only safety he can get from his daddy. His giggling face turned into Dave’s shoulder as he shouts, “get him Pops, get him!”

Those memories were just weeks ago.

It’s been two weeks since Dave’s house was filled with Jack and Hotch, smiling and happy and… fuck just healthy.

Aaron Hotchner wakes up dizzy and sore. The pain ebbing into the numb, dull ache of whatever’s being steadily fed into the line disappearing into the pale flesh of his hand. For a moment, he just watches the ceiling spin. An all too familiar sinking feeling in the pit of his gut. Anxiety spreading its claws out to take root but he… he can’t seem to remember why.

Realization floods his chilled limbs with a shudder, the memories hitting his sternum. He leans his head back into the pillows, limp and stiff and cold and so fucking hot-- The stiff tug of the stitches in his abdomen force him to come to an altogether too swift descent. There’s a hissing sound that comes before his right-hand aches, something cold and heavy spreading up his arm and into his chest.

“Good to see you awake,” a nurse greets.

He’s too far gone to say anything.

By the time Emily finds him, he’s had one minor run-in with the staff. A doctor stops Emily in the hall, her tone laced with annoyance and apprehension that bleeds into her threat to restrain Hotch if that becomes necessary. Emily leaves with a nod and promises to keep an eye on him but she leaves with this tight bundle of uncertainty forming in her chest.

He wakes as she settles down in the visitor’s chair.

The stitches along his hip are tight, leaving him immobile despite his foggy brain wanting nothing more than to curl onto his side and sleep just a little longer. But the scent of the antiseptics burn his nose and he can still feel Foyet--

The tip of the knife slowly dragging down his chest. There’s no threat of a scratch or blemish out of place. Aaron’s breathing having long ago turned ragged and shallow. “Have you ever read the reports,” Foyet asks, keeping his slow purposeful movement going. “Tell me, Aaron, have you read what David Rossi and Jason Gideon had to say about you? Young Aaron…”

Foyet smirks as he stops, shifting as he presses weight into the stab. It’s slow and agonizing but, Hotch realizes with a shudder, he’s too cold and weak to even really feel it. His body slowly falling away.

“Not so young anymore,” Foyet comments. He takes a moment to watch the knife’s slow pull from Hotch’s body, smiling when Hotch’s chest catches and he falls silent and breathless. Not even the sound of his ragged wheezes filling the air. “I can see how they’re right, you know?” Foyet lays the knife down on the side, pulling himself up and away from Hotch. “I wonder what’s going to get you killed faster, your loyalty, or your stubbornness?”

His eyes peel open slowly. Uncoordinated and sluggish he raises his left hand to scratch at the dried blood on the side of his face. His fingers manage to clumsy hook the canal running his nose and he pulls it crooked on his face.

Her voice quiet, afraid any sudden movement from her or too sudden a loud sound, might startle him, she calls his name. “Hotch,” she rises from the chair. She hates how her voice wavers. The shift that takes place between them. Any semblance of friendship they might have must be cast aside because… he’s a material witness and a victim. One that she can set off. One she might break.

Stepping into his field of vision, she can see his shoulders relax. Just having someone else close. Someone he knows. “You…” she’s stuck between Emily and Prentiss. Between her role as his friend and his coworker and even her role as an agent. But he’s always commended her undercover work. She’s got a spark for thinking on her feet. “I’m going to fix the oxygen canal, okay? It’s going to agitate your skin otherwise.”

Through slow, coordinated, and purposeful movements she keeps her hands where his darting bloodshot eyes can see. She hesitates when he sucks in a panicked breath but something in the back of her mind says pausing is only going to make it worse so she pulls the canal into place. Her fingers just hardly graze his cheek but she can still his body flinch at the contact.

And all she can think is fuck.

“That’s better, huh?” Her eyes dart to the heart monitor, uncertain if she’s convinced herself that it’s beating erratically fast or if it’s just a fragment of her mind. More than anything else, she makes herself aware of her body. The way that she moves so as not to startle him or, as she’s quickly putting together, touch him.

She steps back to the side, fully aware of the way that his eyes don’t break away from her. “Get some sleep, boss.” There’s something familiar and light about the way she calls him that and she can only pray that gets them through.

He suspects that he’s finally gone and done it. A part of him is relieved to find that fourteen-year-old Aaron Hotchner, a boy clutching to life with bloodied hands, was so wrong. The flash of heat and the open sting of his father’s belt against his back isn’t what finally makes him snap. Forces and pries his tight hold from reality. It’s nine, precise stab wounds and an awful cocktail of drugs that he can’t see his way out of. That’s what breaks him. Then again, it’s so much more than that.

Derek Morgan. His dark blue shirt fitted tightly over his back, the edge of the back tucked into his black pants. Tight muscles shifting under his skin as he stands with his back facing Hotch. His tattoos, body art Hotch had never really cared to mind, staring back at him now. Those tattoos are the only sensible thing about the world as his body is pulled back down.

He blinks owlishly at JJ. Her cold, tiny hand squeezing his and trying so valiantly to get him to talk to her. A question, something pressing, something important but he can’t…

Garcia with her tear-stained cheeks and the mascara running down her cheeks in pools. She says his name, he doesn’t hear but he sees her mouth form the word. He thinks that she might sit by his side and read. He’s got the faintest in and outs of The Hunger Games plot stuck in his brain.

There’s a fuzzy, half memory of Reid. Even in the present, he’s not sure it’s actually happening. A hallucination, maybe, but as he’s looking the young genius over he’s not sure why he’d hallucinate Reid. Then again, who else is left? There’s this look in his eyes, it makes Hotch feel guilty. Wrong. He doesn’t dwell on that feeling for very long. One sluggish blink later and he’s gone… maybe he was a hallucination.

Somewhere between hugging Jack and Dave standing in the doorway to his room, Hotch feels a very deep, uncomfortable weight settle across his chest. A realization on the tip of his tongue-- he wishes that Foyet had just killed him.

Waking with only the weak light of the hall outside, he realizes that he has no idea how much time has passed. Days or hours or even time. Just that the room is dark and there’s a light glow from the machines behind him. The morphine’s going to kill him. He needs to be more alert but the edges of the world are blurry and he’s already succumbing to the warm sting spreading over his body.

His hips ache and he makes the mistake of shifting. It’s just a small movement, sleepy and hazed he’s not capable of too much more. Still, his body is on fire.

“Careful,” Emily whispers from the dark.

He can see her, out of the very corner of his eye, rustling as she moves out from under the mountain of a blanket and uncurls her legs. He watches, silent, as those legs seem to go on forever. Reality melting into the heat of his body, the flames licking up him. And her touch is the water he so desperately craves but he’s lost his sense. There is no up or down or reprieve from the heat.

“Easy,” she breathes across him, the flames succumbing to her. To her will. “Just breath.”

He’s sinking back under the haze, mouth full of cotton and jaw slacked open but he can’t find the words. He can’t seem to remember how to speak. “Prentiss,” he rasps, eyes sliding shut but his hand closes around hers. Begging, pleading that she understands.

“I’m right here,” she promises. “Sleep. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

A week later, she finds him tripping over himself he’s so drunk. Making a mess of himself and everything around him but… that’s all he’s ever been good for anyway. She doesn’t say anything. There isn’t any disappointment in her eyes, despite what he’s expecting.

Haley always hated seeing him drunk. He gets sloppy.

Where Haley had seen only Mr. Hotchner, a broken old bastard, in her husband, Emily just sees a man begging for normalcy. For the pain to numb and for things to return to normal.

Emily just takes the bottle out of his hand. Taking a chug out of the bitter, dark liquid she grunts as she swallows. It burns and she supposed that’s half of the appeal to him. “Come watch the History channel with me,” she says, taking his hand and guiding him to the couch. He goes easily. She knows he likes the History channel and she also knows that he just needs some stability. Something solid. So she leans into his side and holds his hand. Reminds him that he’s not as alone as he thinks that he is.

But even that’s not enough.

“Hotch! Hotch, that’s enough! He’s dead, man,” Morgan falls to his knees, pulling Hotch from Foyet’s body. “He’s dead.”

Emily watches Hotch’s trembling body. The split skin of his knuckles and the way that two of his fingers crookedly bend into his palm. Rough ragged sobs tear through the room, breathless words passing Hotch’s lips. He’s shaking uncontrollably. She watches, his bowed back, snap. His attention, that hawk-like, eerie attention, is moved. It’s changed.

He pulls himself from Morgan’s arms.

Morgan having drawn Hotch to his chest. Bent their bodies to mold them into a folded backward hug. Their heads pressed together. Morgan can’t help his own tears. The abject horror washing over his body at the sight of the mess before him. Great arching sprays of blood and the thick scent of blood looming over them. And George Foyet… a blooded lifeless body before them.

And Hotch…

He stumbles to his feet, pulling his body from where he’d fallen into Morgan. Where he’d allowed himself just a moment's embrace. He takes three, four large steps on shaking legs.

Emily steps forward but Dave catches her elbow. He stops her from moving to Hotch.

He’s not in his right mind. Dave’s only protecting her. Protecting them. Aaron is hardly going to survive today, he doesn’t need to accidentally hurt Emily. He is a live wire and he’ll take them all out in the explosion.

George Foyet arches against his wires and they’re standing right there when his anger boils over and he screams into the nothing. Holding Haley’s body in his arms so delicate and broken. They’re both just broken dolls, their cords cut and the curtain comes tumbling down. One last final blow-- his job really did take everything from.

Jack isn’t enough to save him.

He blows up. It’s not nuclear but it’s unhinged and raw and there’s something about his eyes that makes Emily finally draw the line. He’s hurting but there has to be a line. A place where one of them steps in and says that it’s enough. That he’s got to pull himself together before he sucks them all into the black hole of his chest. And she’s quickly realizing, she’s the only one strong enough to do the job.

She finds him on a bender. He can hardly stand and the light mirth she’d once admired about his quizzical eyebrow raises is gone. The man standing before is a mess and she’s not sure if she hates herself or him more for letting it get this bad. For not finding that line sooner.

“Jesus,” she whispers.

He knows disgust when he sees it. A childhood spent curled into his father’s shoe, cracked ribs, and broken arms, he knows disgust all right. And now, a fully grown man, he just laughs. There’s nothing light about the sound. It’s morbid and twisted in his throat. A hollow sound. She’s disgusted by him.

“You need a shower,” she informs him with a curl of her nose. She steps past him, ignoring the frown she shoots her. She knows that he doesn't want her here but what he wants isn’t really a priority right now. He hasn’t got to tell her. She can see it in his eyes and smell it on his breath. He wants to crawl into a dark hole and die. She’s here to drag his sorry ass out.

Looking around his apartment, the first priority is getting rid of all the bottles. “Where are the trash bags,” she asks, heading to his kitchen. He’s already shaking his head, running his hands through his thick greasy hair. She finds the bags on her own, right where she’d assumed they’d be. Under the sink. “Where’s Jack?”

He falls onto the couch with a huff. “Jessica,” he grunts.

Good, she thinks, for him. Jack doesn’t need to see his father like this. Hell, no one does but… someone has to. At the same time, if Jack were here, Aaron wouldn’t have let himself get this bad.

“He probably misses you,” she says, starting in on tossing his garbage. There’s an astounding lack of food but it’s also not entirely surprising that without one of them hovering over him and forcing him to eat that he hasn’t tried. The word suicidal may not have come out of their mouths but they watch him. They see him. Sometimes you don’t have to speak a truth for it to be true.

And Aaron Hotchner is a coward. They are all. It’s why they haven’t taken his guns and it’s why he hasn’t put one to his mouth.

There are three guns in his home.

Two service weapons that he wouldn’t stain with his own blood. He took a vow and those weapons are not meant for this. It’s a disgrace to the only thing that’s ever made him mean anything.

The third is a gun his father had given him.

He was sixteen.

The words had poured out of his mouth. An aching truth he hadn’t even realized was true until the words were spoken. He did want to kill himself. The abuse was never going to end. He could see no end in sight and his father consumed his every action and thought and even his self-image.

He was tired of his reflection.

His father had grabbed the bottom of his jaw, large fingers digging into his flesh as he’d pulled Hotch’s mouth open. Hotch had shaken, frozen in place, as his father pressed the barrel of his gun to the roof of his mouth. Gunpowder and cold metal.

Sometimes, Hotch can still taste it.

He’d been afraid to die then but now, he longs for it. There is a darkness in his veins, murky and thick, that he needs to spill out. To watch the crimson drip down his flesh so that he can see, so that he can know that beneath this shell he is alive. That there is only a part of his sum that is broken and dead. He is alive.

His ribcage expands with life.

His heart beats with purpose.

But his mind… it has rotted. Desolate and afraid.

His father had beaten him senseless that night but that made it no different than any other night.

And the very gun that had once been pressed between his lips now rests in the safe in his office. Untainted and calling out so wistfully to him. He can hear it now, as Emily calmly collects his empty bottles of alcohol. His throne of glass shattering beneath him. He can always hear it. How simple it would be to get it now. To just end all of this.

“Aaron?”

He looks up suddenly, eyes unfocused and glazed.

“Aaron!”

The bile hits the back of his throat and is thrown out on his hands and knees, expelling the contents of his stomach into the porcelain of the toilet. His head throbs as Emily follows him, turning on the lights. He’s been sitting in the dark for so long, he’d forgotten the sting of the light.

“Just leave me alone,” he grunts, spits falling over his bottom lip as his stomach aches on. Rolling and churning. He’s put nothing in it for the last forty-eight hours other than Scotch, Oxy, and two shitty beers from when he first moved into this shit-stained apartment. He groans as his stomach clenches, leaning his forehead against the cold porcelain.

Emily’s seen enough. She’s tired of this little performance he’s putting on. “No,” she steps to the sink and drenches a rag in the shockingly cold water. Wringing it out only slightly before slapping over the back of his neck. “This bullshit, it ends tonight, do you understand me?”

He grunts as the rag meets his skin, trembling muscles protesting at the temperature difference of his overheated body. Even if he could think of something to say in protest, he’s not sure it would make it past his lips without being accented by more drug-laced regurgitated booze. Besides, he knows she's right. Deep, deep down. Beneath the self-loathing heat and even farther down beneath the frayed parts of him that never survived childhood. He knows. He knows that even if it’s not for him, he has to stop. For the team and his son.

“First,” she whispers kneeling down beside him. “We need to get you sober.” She draws a clean rag over his face, wiping the vomit from his lips. “What have you taken?”

He shakes his head. Can’t meet her eyes. He’s ashamed and he should be.

She reaches out to touch him but he flinches, looking between her hand and her face. As if he’s expecting her to hit him. “Aaron,” she softens her voice. Moving slowly until she’s cupping his cheek. His eyes water, chest hitching as his breathing grows unsteady with the emotions boiling to the surface. “I just want you to get better.”

A tear falls down his cheek and he turns his cheek, trying and failing to hide it from her. He wants to get better.

Tears are falling down his face when he turns his face back to her and pulls in a stuttering breath. He pulls his sleeve up. He shows her the hesitantly made cuts on his forearm. “I-- I don’t…” he pulls away from the hand she reaches out to him with. But when she tries again, he lets her hold his wrist in her hand. Her finger ghosts over the scabs. He hadn’t known what he was doing and he hadn’t liked the blood. He’d just wanted the hurt.

It was too much like Foyet. The knife and the razor and the blood on his white t-shirt.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

She shakes her head. No, this is-- this is his fault. These cuts were made by his hand but they never should have let him get so low. They should have done more.

Pulling her eyes from his arm she steadies herself. He isn’t hopeless. He's a fighter and he’s stronger than she is. He’s got more to lose than he realizes.

“I took the oxy,” he admits. “It’s-- It wasn’t enough.” He’s shaking now, coming down from his anger and submitting to the pain. “You need to…” a part of his broken mind screams. It screams to fall silent. That he needs the gun and that he’s just supposed to be distracting her now so that he can follow through with the plan he’s been making for weeks--

The office and the gun. Spinning in the leather-bound chair that Haley had gotten him as a wedding gift and biting the bullet. The letters are written and waiting on his desk. The chamber is full. The gun calls for him.

“There’s a gun,” he whispers. “In my office, you need to-- you have to get it or I’ll…”

She nods her understanding.

He can’t see around the tears pooling in his eyes, “uhm... “ He’s trying to think, what else? What else is left? He couldn’t stomach the thought of slitting his wrist. Never had the nerve to draw a bath and just to sink into warmth… that’s too gentle. He’d needed a bang. A mess and more disgust. More hurt.

And now he can feel the panic of his options being taken away.

“Aaron,” she squeezes his hand. He meets her eyes and feels a fraction of warmth. “Just-- Just--” she wants to tell him to let her in. She wants to tell him that all this is going to pass in time and this awful moment will just be a cruel memory one day. But she’s looking at him and seeing her own reflection. Two people broken by time and unable to trust another human being. She can’t be certain why she does it.

Her mind screams that he’s neither trustworthy nor in the right mind but she wraps her around him and pulls him into a hug. “I love you,” she tells him, hugging him tightly. Feeling his tension and apprehension. Slowly, he lifts his arms and hugs her back. He clings to her. Squeezing her tight but she’s not going anywhere.

He’s vaguely aware of the fabric of her soft cotton shirt getting wet against his face. Her hand comes up and brushes his hair down and he finds that he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that he’s sobbing in the arms of the very woman who was once hired to end his career. He doesn’t care because he feels the pain and for once, he can breathe.

Emily holds him tighter. Neither is speaking. They just cling together in the storm and Emily hopes that she can drag him out of this mess. That he can come back here, to her arms instead of into the bottle. And she’ll get his gun. She’ll throw out all of the alcohol and call Jessica in three or four days when he’s mopped up and dry and tell her that Hotch needs to see Jack.

And maybe one day they’ll think back to this moment and it won’t hurt as much. But for today, for this moment, they just hold one another.

#tw alcoholism #tw alcohol #tw abuse #tw child abuse #tw guns #tw suicide #tw self destructive behavior #tw self harm #criminal minds #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #david rossi #george foyet #derek morgan #spencer reid #penelope garcia #jennifer jareau

[adultswim2021]

Ephemera Week (2002)

Continuing my posts about all the second-run garbage, one-off specials and other crap that aren’t technically Adult Swim originals. Tonight I’m going to cheat a bit, I’m gonna get all my John K trashing out on this post and then tomorrow we’ll do a lean and mean rundown of his (and other’s) Adult Swim specials. 

The Ripping Friends (originally aired on Fox Kids, 2001-2002) The Ripping Friends premiered on Fox Kids, though wikipedia describes it as a “Canadian” cartoon. I think it aired on Teletoon simultaneously. Please don’t ask me to do more search on this; the wikipedia article seriously downplays Teletoon’s involvement and I simply don’t care. No matter, this is the only significant television product by John K outside of Ren & Stimpy, and it’s actually a fairly interesting show.

The show was about four superheros who live together and are friends, and they beat up weird gross bad guys and stuff. They’re like the Justice League, but instead of Snapper Carr they have Jimmy the Idiot Boy, a John K original character who had previously appeared in his shitty George Liquor webseries.

I’m no devotee of John K’s: most of his post Ren & Stimpy work is more bad than good, and he has this style that worships animation above all else. Storytelling, film-making, comic timing, good writing, etc. are all things that allude him. For a while his unique visual style was what brought all the boys (err, young teenage girls) to the yard. The cracks started to show when he started dedicating his life to shoddy-looking web toons and fleeting projects like... well, this. I had no serious intention of rewatching Ripping Friends before writing this blog post. But I did throw on the first episode and watched the first five minutes of it. Honestly? It wasn’t as bad as I remembered it. But, it was also five minutes. I would actually be interested in revisiting this series in a more fair state of mind. But that’s just it: the thing that makes John K good are the restrictions that evil corporations put on him. When he’s allowed to be his imperious self-proclaimed genius creator self the stuff he turns out is utter dreck. The Simpsons couch gags are like mean-spirited parodies of John K cartoons. Also, overlooking his being a rapist can be a lot for some. I mean, it probably should be, huh?

Ripping Friends is visually interesting. It’s got that digital animation clunkiness that’s pretty standard in this era, but it could be worse. The humor could be a little better. When I say that John K worships animation above all else, What I mean is is that his cartoon characters are like actors that chew scenery. Nothing is pithy, and you’d never describe John K’s style as “relentless” or “fast-paced”. The shows he does typically stop everything to ask you to appreciate just how good the drawings are. You can never get immersed in a John K project. He’s always asking you to PLEASE NOTICE HOW GOOD THIS IS. Ripping Friends could be better with tighter editing. As it stands, the show comes off as the opposite of what it’s trying to be. That is to say: it’s bland. All that other stuff is important, John.

Here’s how the episodes aired; NOTE: the bold episodes didn’t air on Fox Kids, but I believe they did air on Teletoon during the show’s original run. But don’t take my word for it:

Sunday Night @ 11:00PM:

October 6th: The Indigestible Wad October 13th: The Infernal Wedding October 20th: Flathead's Revenge October 27th: Frictor

Monday Morning @ 12:00AM:

November 4th: Rip's Shorts November 11th: Stinky Butt November 18th: The Ovulator November 25th: ManMan and BoyBoy

Sunday Night @ 10:30PM:

December 1st: The Muscle Magician December 8th: The Man from Next Thursday, Part One December 15th: Jimmy's Kidnapped December 22nd: The Ripping Friends Meet Dr. Jean Poole December 29th: The Man from Next Thursday, Part Two

#adult swim #adultswim2021 #ripping friends

[slasher-party]

Behind the Mask: Welcoming Leslie Vernon & Taylor Gentry for Asks!

J: From the beginning of time, mankind has created and shared cautionary tales in every medium: plays, books, campfire stories, tapestries, sculptures, even cave drawings.  And when movies were first being made in the late 1800s, they were no exception to this rule. It took less than a decade after the creation of cinema for the first 'scary movie' to come out, and the century that followed brought to life black lagoon creatures, bloodthirsty counts, and abominations of science who redefined humanity's understanding of terror.

In the 1970s, Leatherface first lifted his saw, and the Prowler made his first phone call, kickstarting the slasher genre that we now know and love. It's a simple formula: a misbehaved group of teens, a brave young girl, and a terrible monster. But through this formula, we were given stories that kept us up all night, made us fear the deep end of the pool, and had us thinking twice about staying out too late on Halloween night.

Around the 2000s, the genre began to change, but one man stayed convinced that these slashers had found the key to unlocking the secret of human fear. He took it upon himself to modernize the slasher-movie formula and reawaken the evil that his predecessors embodied, all while keeping their traditions.

(Warning: Spoilers for Behind the Mask: The Rise of Leslie Vernon ahead!)

J: To kick things off, I should be clear: this is one of my favorite movies. Ever. If you love slashers like we do and you haven’t checked this film out, you’ll definitely want to stop reading here and go put it on. Trust me: you do not want this one spoiled! Now, into the review.

V: The mockumentary styling of the majority of the film was a brave new departure from normal Slasher-types, and I honestly adored it. Found-footage movies tend to not be as immersive to me, but this one found its way into my heart very quickly.

J: The cinematography was a huge part of what made this movie so fantastic. You have these abrupt shifts between their documentary footage and reality that were so well executed. You also get cameos from some of the best in the business: Kane Hodder, Robert Englund, and Zelda Rubinstein! I felt extra special recognizing Kane on sight~

V: In the universe this movie takes place in, every slasher’s legacy is real. Every murder, every survivor! It all happened, and was broadcasted for the world to know. How people don’t live in fear already at this point... I will never know. Leslie Vernon, with a giant mass of murderous icons to follow, is a self-proclaimed slasher newbie. Throughout the film, we find out Leslie is planning a very big, very special day: his return from beyond the grave - to haunt Glen Echo as a living legend.

J: And if you’ve made it this far into the review I assume you already know: Leslie hires a film crew to document his rise to infamy, claiming to be stalking a group of teens with a survivor (final) girl among them. In the end, his real target was the woman he had hired to make his documentary: Taylor Gentry. And she is an incredible addition to the survivor hall of fame.

V: She may not have understood everything right from the get-go, but she filled Leslie’s expectations perfectly in the end - he had been watching her for a long time, he claims, and everything he was meant to become relied on her. The two unknowingly worked in tandem until the final curtain, and it was everything the new Slasher could’ve hoped for. Honestly, very romantic???

J: To me, the best thing about this film is the way it comes across as a love-letter to everyone who adores the genre. It’s packed full of references, insider terminology, characters hinted to secretly be slashers we know, and it’s all tied together with the shiny, red, charismatic ribbon that is Leslie. He’s fun, he’s funny, he’s traditional, he’s a genius. His goal was to show the world that mass communication and modern culture had not killed the slasher way of life, and I believe whole-heartedly that he accomplished that goal.

Ladies and Gentlemen, it is with great honor that we begin our welcoming ceremony for the Glen Echo slasher himself. The one and only Leslie Vernon!!

“Well, I think the real honor here goes to me,” the man gushes, hand on his chest as he approaches us, his letter held gently in the other, “I’m thankful to be acknowledged and recognized for my work! Heh, this is like receiving some kind of slasher Grammy~” Leslie chuckles. “But I digress. Thank you everyone for your interest in my work - I promise not to disappoint…~”

V: And every dark must come with its fair share of light - he would agree he couldn’t have done any of this without her. So it’s our pleasure as well to be introducing, alongside the Harvest Murderer himself, Miss Taylor Gentry!

Taylor steps up beside Leslie, bundled up in a turtleneck sweater and armed with nothing but a home video camera. She avoids the slasher's eyes, but gives him a silent nod of acknowledgement before thanking the hosts. “Thank you, for inviting me. I’m, just as interested in these answers as… everyone else,” She shrugs briefly, managing a smile. “I think this footage might start to make up for… what happened with my last attempt at a documentary. I might ask a few questions of my own; if, that’s alright. ehem...” -- Leslie bites his tongue as she speaks, sort of looking aside, “Hey, I uh,” he speaks up after a moment, rocking side to side with his hands in his jeans pockets, “I’m sorry I… stole your film, the first time. I hope you understand, heh, it… had a lot of info I couldn’t have getting out.” He explains, almost shyly. “...I wanted it to be published- I did! So. I’m sorry. And- for- nearly strangling you to death. Heh...” She nods, hugging herself but keeping her eyes down. “Job requirement. Right.” “Yeah- yeah! It’s all just part of what we’re meant to do.” He slings his arm around her and shakes her a little. “No hard feelings. It’s an amazing documentary; I just… gotta do some editing for you, that’s all~” “For ten years?” Taylor questions pointedly, stiff in his embrace. “Al-right, so I had to lay low a long while; I’m sorry! Sheesh… they don’t make cards for this, Tay - I’m doing my best here.” Leslie near whines, tilting his head down toward her. “... Well, I’m sorry, too.” Her shoulders fall. “For… stabbing, and crushing, and... burning you…” “Hey, it’s all part of the job.” He reassures her lightly, offering a smile. “I’m proud of how well you handled it all. It was flawless - just like I knew it’d be.” The man muses, reminiscing fondly.He turns her to face him, practically gushing. “...You gotta remember how I said EVERYTHING I do relies on ‘her’; the only thing you crushed was my pre-existing expectation of you! You nailed it!” Taylor tries her best to hide it, but a smile breaks through her tough exterior. Unsure of whether or not it’s a compliment she should thank him for, she opts for a flustered nod instead, involuntarily beaming. J: Looks like the two of them are gonna get along just fine!  Les & Tay are officially open for asks!

#behind the mask #leslie vernon #taylor gentry #leslie ask #slasher ask #this took a while but there's a lot of hidden stuff in this fandom #gonna do a post on all of that soon!! #so stoked about this addition!

[presumenothing]

(AO3)

These days Ed’s journals are actual proper travelogues, no coded shit or anything.

…okay, no, there’s still some coded shit because alchemy is an inseparable part of travelling for him and that’s just too damn dangerous to leave out in plain sight. Especially since he can’t just transmute the covers shut anymore.

Besides, old habits are hard to break. Though at least he’s trained himself (with Winry’s enthusiastic “encouragement”) out of accidentally writing shopping lists and stuff in code too, just because half his mind’s still occupied with figuring out a transmutation or three dozen.

But anyway. Somehow he keeps finding that there’s so much to write about these days whenever he arrives in a new place, or even when he visits those they’ve been in before.

(Fine, yes, probably that does say something about how much of a one-track mind he’d had, before – but getting his and Al’s bodies back had been really fucking important, okay? 

That was putting it mildly, even, and he’d always consider it a worthy exchange even if it did make him wonder sometimes if there were other things he’d missed back then.)

He doesn’t mail out excitedly longwinded accounts of his journeys like Al does, complete with local recipes, pressed dried flowers, and photos or meticulously-labelled illustrations in place of them. Or that’s what he hears from Winry, at least – when Al sends Ed letters it runs more along the lines of alchemical notes that are thoroughly annotated (and even more thoroughly coded), though sometimes dried flowers still find their way into the envelope because his brother is a ridiculous sensory-addicted dork and Ed loves him to pieces despite the constant risk of pollen allergy.

Luckily the flowers are usually flat enough to double as bookmarks for his journals, which is also a convenient way of marking the progress of his journey against Al’s. So there’s that.

Though letters between them don’t happen very often, what with how very very frequently they change towns (or even countries) entirely.

He’s pretty sure there’s now an urban legend about that time Al’s letter had to be redirected a whole fifteen times before it reached him, and he’s definitely certain the postal system of Amestris and beyond actively hates them both by now. 

(Which is seriously uncalled for, since Al always puts more than enough postage to account for the inevitable redirections? But by this point Ed will personally vouch that people everywhere can be unreasonable about the weirdest stuff. Turns out Amestris doesn’t have a monopoly on that. Possibly not even the biggest market share.)

And of course it’s almost always Al doing the sending. Contrary to what Mustang believes Ed is actually capable of semi-tidy handwriting when he needs to be – how the hell else would he draw transmutation circles and not have them blow up in his face?

But one time Ed had just gotten so immediately carried away that he’d written his reply on whatever he’d had on hand right then, which amounted to three crumpled-then-flattened-again receipts, a map from the last town, and the back of the envelope that Al had sent his letter in.

(Al’s answering letter had come with five crisply-folded sheets of blank paper; Ed could practically hear the sigh coming from it.)

So now that they’ve acknowledged that letter-writing isn’t Ed’s strong point even when it’s about alchemy, and since Al’s all for being super-organised about everything – the resemblance the Hawkeye is really starting to get terrifying – and makes plans in advance far more than Ed does (which is to say not at all), Al now includes also-coded lists of telephone numbers in his letters, along with the dates when he expects to be contactable at each place.

This way Al can continue taking however long he likes to compose each letter (and he definitely adds to them over different days, Ed can tell by the writing) while Ed can call right back to discuss seven different theories at once, and woe betide anyone who tries to bug their phone calls without at least a university library’s worth of theoretical alchemy to back it up.

It’s a great arrangement, and Ed doesn’t have to write any letters. His brother is a genius.

The resounding success of this arrangement also reminds Ed that there are more ways to say hi, still not dead! than just letters (because, once again: impossible), since so many people have insisted on expressing completely unnecessary worry over his decision to travel alone.

(Hawkeye had only expressed an offer to teach him self-defence via firearm, and when he turned that down she’d instead produced a wallet of alarmingly convincing fake documents under a half-dozen not-Edward-Elric names. “Just in case,” she’d said, which still hadn’t explained why there’d been a pass from Xing proclaiming him to be a diplomat and thus immune to Amestrisan law.

Hawkeye is the best, hands down.)

For Winry he scribbles down the compositions of metal alloys and composites by region alongside rough sketches of interesting-looking designs, and most of the time he even remembers to record all this through an engineering lens rather than an alchemical one. He collects the scraps of notes and mails them once he’s gathered enough, which he usually does every few weeks, though he saves the actual material samples for when they meet in-person because they’re just too damned troublesome to mail. (He doesn’t really send anything separate for Granny Pinako, except for that one magazine clipping from Creta that had dedicated one full-page spread to Rockbell Automail’s advances, along with a hastily-done translation on the back.)

Mustang’s team gets the occasional joke souvenir; Ed knows that Breda and Havoc have a betting pool going (because of course they do) on who can most accurately guess where he’ll go next, so he always makes sure to get things that aren’t obviously tied to any place, and addresses the parcels to Hawkeye directly because he trusts her to thoroughly destroy the postmarked evidence.

(During their last phone call Al had pretty much admitted to dropping red herrings about Ed’s plans in his letters back to the team, and Ed had laughed so hard he’d needed to sit down.)

But that’s pretty much the most regular of it – Al, Winry, and sowing chaos in Mustang’s office from afar – and no one’s complained yet, so Ed figures this is good enough. Maybe someday when they’re all back together again they can borrow some of his journals to read if they want to; he knows that Winry does enjoy reading about Al’s travels, and if nothing else Al will certainly have fun spotting which parts are actually about alchemy and cracking them. 

That’s still some time off anyway.

Right now, though, he’s got a new idea about that alkahestry fusion that Al had written about, and – how the hell do you even dial from Aerugo to Xing? 

Ed has no idea, but there’d better be a way or he’s gonna make one, see if he doesn’t.

.

.

.

(more fics here)

#writes fmab fic as a birthday present to myself because that's just how i roll #this entire thing literally started life as just the first sentence alone #i still don't understand how the rest of it happened #hence the nowhere ending #does this count as an ed character study???? i havent the faintest clue #closest i can get to it anyway #fanfiction #mine #fmab #fma

[spideythot]

Hello! How about Superior Iron Man with a little bit of A/B/O mixed in? Like Omega peter being so in love and in heat and Tony taking absolute advantage of it? Your writing is so beautiful 😍 (Starker)

Enjoy!! I’m always a sucker for A/B/O stuff~——Peter liked dream about his perfect Alpha. He didn’t care if his idea of a good mate was stereotypical – handsome, strong, able to take care of Peter without the omega having to work. Peter wouldn’t stop working of course, but he liked the idea. He imagined his dreams were pretty standard for omegas: an alpha who was friendly, good with kids, sweet and caring. He was shaken from his thoughts by Ned, who sat next to him on the bus. “Check it out,” the Beta said, pointing out the window, “Stark Tower.” Peter stared up at the building, gleaming silver in the sunlight. Stark was quite an Alpha, strong and attractive – bonded with Extremis. He was Iron Man, self-proclaimed American hero. Though, Peter knew the truth – Stark was a dangerous genius, master manipulator and murderer all carefully masked with his Iron Man persona.Peter filed off the bus, feeling just a little dizzy among the other students. His heat was on its way in, and he’d probably be skipping classes tomorrow. Flash pushed past him as they exited the bus and sneered, “Finally! Reeks like Omega in there!” Maybe he should’ve stayed home today, but he couldn’t miss this trip. He glared at Flash’s receding back. Alpha wannabe. He took a deep breath and followed Ned into Stark tower. The tour was pretty boring, considering all the technology that surrounded the students. Peter paid attention as best he could, but his guts were turning. He was hot, and his hips were cramping – the beginning symptoms of his heat. The students stopped in the R&D lab, for some hands-on activity and Peter excused himself to the bathroom. He rounded the corner of a hallway, on his way to where he’d last seen a restroom, and smacked into a firm body.“Oof!” he cried out, “Sorry, I was… ohmygod,” His words died in his throat as he stared up into the piercing, glowing, blue eyes of Tony Stark. Tony grinned down at him; his eyes narrowed ominously. The man took a deep breath in, and Peter felt his face flush. “Well, well,” Tony rumbled, “What have we here? Lost, little Omega?”“N-No…” Peter said. He found himself leaning forward, drawn in by Tony’s overwhelming Alpha scent. “The bathroom?” Tony clicked his tongue in understanding. He stepped to the side and held out his arm. Peter slid past him cautiously. Tony joined him, placing his hand on Peter’s lower back. He guided Peter down the hall toward an elevator – away from his tour group and nowhere near the toilets.Peter didn’t really realize what was happening, until they were stepping over the elevator threshold. “Mr. Stark,” he protested, stopping short in the doorframe. Tony gave him another push. “Its alright, kiddo,” the Alpha promised, “You’ll be safer upstairs than in the public bathrooms.” That did make sense. Peter nodded and allowed Tony to take him up in the elevator. Peter was suddenly too aware of the alpha standing next to him and the small space where their scents were mingling. Peter felt slick slipping out of him. He was sure his face was bright red. Tony smelled so amazing though, alpha musk mixed his expensive aftershave and engine oil. The elevator opened up Tony’s private penthouse at the tower. Peter glanced at the alpha who gestured for him to exit.Tony followed Peter into the home as the boy wandered in further. Peter gazed up at Tony, who was watching him with those icy, but amused eyes. “Down the hall, first door to the right,” Tony said wavering his hand in that direction. Tony couldn’t believe his luck. This adorable little Omega has stumbled right into him and responded perfectly to his every request. He had such a sweet smell, caramel sugar and sandalwood.Peter thanked him softly and quickly made his way to the door. He opened it and was surprised to find the bedroom on the other side.Tony was behind him again, hand gripping Peter’s hips. Peter shivered and put his own hands over Tony’s, ready to pry them off.“Its okay,” Tony assured, “I know what you need, little omega.” “Mr. Stark,” Peter whispered, “I can’t… we can’t…” “But you want to,” Tony insisted. “Don’t you?”Peter did… At least his body did. He was responding to Tony’s scent, slick pooling in his boxers, threatening to drip down his leg. His cramps were subdued now that an Alpha was holding him. But the ache to breed was growing. Tony would take care of him; he was an experienced Alpha. “I do…” Peter agreed, “but, you’re… and I’m just, it’s…”Tony kissed his neck, lips connected to his bonding gland, and Peter squeaked in surprise. “I’m Tony Stark,” the man said, “I can do whatever I please. And I want you, pretty little thing.” He pulled Peter’s hips flush against his, pressing his hard cock against the Omega’s ass. “You’re wet for me,” Tony said, “Like a good Omega should be. Wet for their Alpha.” Peter shuddered and whined. “Please,” he breathed, “It’s too much.”Tony walked them forward and pushed Peter onto the bed. “Tell me your name,” the man demanded. “Peter,” Peter replied, “Peter Parker.” He pulled his shirt off and tossed it aside. Tony rumbled again at the boy’s eagerness. He slipped out of his own shirt as Peter wriggled out of his jeans and ruined boxers. Peter scrambled to the center of the bed and laid on his front, knees bent under him so he was fully presented to Tony. “What a good little thing you are,” Tony complimented. He opened his slacks and crawled up behind Peter. Later, he was going to savor taking his Omega apart, fingering and teasing him relentlessly, but now he wanted to quickly make the boy his. Peter rolled his hips, hoping to entice Tony into moving faster. Tony pressed his cock into the Omega’s hot, slick hole. Peter groaned and tensed at the intrusion. Tony sank into him up to the knot. He allowed Peter a moment to adjust before he was thrusting away, rough and deep. Peter squirmed under him and moaned loud.“Yes, yes!” he cried, “Oh, Mr. Stark!”Tony pumped his hips harder. Peter was divine, hot and velvety on the inside, sucking Tony’s cock in so greedily. “You feel so good, baby,” Tony praised, “Gonna make you mine forever.”Peter nodded fervently, “Please, please!” he pleaded.Tony shoved his knot into the Omega’s tight hole, relishing in the way Peter arched off the bed, keening at the sensation. Tony held him there, arm crossed under Peter’s chest, hand around his throat. The Alpha leaned forward and sank his teeth into Peter’s bonding gland, drawing blood. Peter screamed and clenched down around Tony’s knot as he came hard. Tony buried himself deep in Peter, and began filling the boy with his seed. Peter trembled and whimpered.“Mr. Stark…” he moaned.Tony pulled his teeth from Peter’s neck and licked over the wound. “All mine now, Peter,” Tony purred. “My Omega. Forever.” Peter was so full, so content, so ready to just let Tony do whatever he wanted as long as he kept feeling this good. His mating bite tingled, pulsing with the growing bond Tony had given him.He sighed and promised, “Yours forever.”

#starker #peter x tony #au #alpha/omega #requests #superior iron man

[kurtty-drabbles]

Ocean au (kidnapping part 1)

N/A: Merciful short if we´re lucky. I just want to show a bit of Kurt and Kitty and Emma and Loki.

@djinmer4 @dannybagpipesarecalling @bamfoftheundead @everykurt

Emma is a seductive woman. No arguing here. And as much Emma loves to use her good looks to get what she wants and needs, and she does that regularly, Emma is also a woman of her word, so if Magneto wants to see his long lost daughter Lorna Dane Pryde.

Yet, how to capture the lady of magnetism? Seduction-well, she has a fling with another woman so is not like Emma can´t seduce Lorna- is a good tactic but since Kitty is her sister and hates her guts as much Emma hates hers....the chances of Lorna wanting to spend time with Emma are pretty slim.

"What I can do to kidnap this greenest?" Emma ponders and ponders and ponders in her old abode- she´s not dumb enough to return to her old home- who is an emergency home in New Gotham along with a fake ID. People now realize that Emma Frost is no longer in jail...and she does not need anyone tipping the JLX.

"Don´t tell me...this is my only option?" she refuses to make this one call because quite frankly Loki is an asshole and she never sees eye to eye with this wizard-it does not help knowing he stole from her while she was being possessed by diamonds- yet, no one should have a debt with Magneto.

And she knows the man is not interested in repeating the same "dish" with Emma, so, swallowing her pride a call is made. "Loki" and she can hear the man chuckling in Norwegian and Emma is rolling her eyes and thinking of the price.

"Emma Frost, calling at such an hour, where are your moods, young lady?" Loki mockingly chastised her.

"I don´t know, old man, where are yours? Did your mother never told you stealing is wrong?!"

"It takes a thief to see another, right? Now, did you call me to confess your undying love for me or can I call off now?"

"I want to make a deal with you, Loki"

"A deal with me? Dearie, what you can offer that I can´t take" and adds "plus, I have a way hotter woman in my house than you would ever believe so sex is not an option" and Emma can hear some of the ladies giggling and speaking in a foreign language. Emma does not need to be a genius to know they´re mocking her

Emma shivers in disgust. "As if, it wouldn´t ever happen. But I know you have a like for SCPs" and this makes the giggles stop and Loki´s breathing change.

"Listen, Emma, don´t lie about this. Not with me. I have an appreciation with SCPs that you wouldn´t understand" Loki´s tone is more sinister and Emma can imagine his eyes are glowing now.

"I have an SCP and I would like to trade with you for your assistance. I need to kidnap someone who is way out of my league"

Silence. Consideration is really thick.

"Which SCP are we talking about?"

Now Emma´s turn to smile. "Why I would give details to a thief? maybe is an SCP that can alter realities, maybe is an SCP that makes a good coffee maybe....is the Scarlet King" is all lies and Loki, ironically being the self-proclaimed father of lies, is believing in her words.

"Who do you want to kidnap?"

"Lorna Dane Pryde"

"...Who the hell is she? Wait, Wait, Pryde? Is she Polaris?"

"Magneto has a great interest in Lorna..."

"Dirty old man"

Emma won´t correct him saying Lorna may be his long lost daughter.

"Ok, it seems Emma you got help now. Don´t make me waste my time" and Loki turns off the conversation as Amora look at him critically and Loki can even predict what she´ll say.

"Look, she may be lying, she may not. But...I´d not want to risk someone like Emma having an SCP"

"And you´re the best option in this case?"

"No, far from it. My idea is to give whatever SCP she has to the foundation"

__________________________________________________________________________________________

Kitty is fixing herself for her date-Jupiter and Cosmo are teasing her for that along with Lorna even though they aren´t very fond of Kurt Ryder-and once she´s cute and her dress is matching with her shoes is time to go.

"Kitten" Cosmo speaks sagely. "if he made you cry. Tell me...and his reality will be one to cry about" and looks up to see where Jupiter is. "And this furball will use the tentacles" and Jupiter takes his time to reply in a big fashion.

"I sure hell will" and his tentacles can be seen. "So, really, if he hurts you...he´s food"

"Lorna told me...she would put a shark on his bed. I love how protective you all are with me...but no need to murder or torture Ryder for me...if he turns out to be a jerk...I´ll deal on my own"

"Yeah...of course..." Jupiter and Cosmo are quick to answer in unison. It would be cute if it wasn´t coming from two eldritch abominations that can destroy your mind easily.

"I´ll be ok and be right back in no time" Kitty promises to her furry companions who in turn only speak how time is nothing but a mortal illusion crafted by mankind to give an illusion of control. "Thanks, that will be a great way to break the ice"

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Ryder is terrified of her cat. He can´t even hide this little(big) fact and even steps away once Jupiter approaches-not that he didn´t have a similar reaction to Cosmo. The thing is...Cosmo has no tentacles coming out of his mouth...as far Ryder is concerned- and while is not the first time he takes a lady out and someone in her group disapproves him...is the first time Ryder does feel fear.

"Hi, are we ready?" Kitty asked and Ryder can ignore his creeping fear of her cat and dog to admire her for a minute. She looks cute and pretty and Ryder knows he saw many, many pretty women in his time, and yes, Kitty is not exactly the supermodel...yet...

"You look beautiful" is an honest reply and Kitty blushes at that. Again, Kurt can say he has dated many women and some were even married, but, Kitty´s pretty smile is way better than those women could ever offer.

"Thank you!" she chippers but whispers in his ear and her voice makes his body shiver in delight. There´s something familiar here that he can´t place his finger yet. "last chance, if you want to jump out....that´s the time"

"No, I want to take you on a date" is his response.

"I´ll not sleep with you" there´s mirth in her words and Ryder is a bit fascinated by such small gesture.

"I can survive. Still taking you out"

"Ok, then take me out, Kurt Ryder"

And it was a nice date even if by all chances and possibilities Kurt Ryder and Kitty Pryde managed to bump into Clark Rogers and Gwen Stacy having a date in the same restaurant as Kurt picked. While Clark and Ryder show no signal of being friends, at very least, they show some civility towards each other.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

"Ryder?"

"Yes?"

"Are you still having nightmares about the Pool of Blood?"

"Yes, and you?"

"No, not really"

"I think you´re lying but I also think you´re the bravest person I ever met."

"Only brave?"

"I can say you´re a fantastic cooker. A bit naive sometimes, an amazing person and I feel you could defeat me with one punch. I happen to like all that"

"And you´re a very noisy Mr reporter"

"Yeah, I´m...did you know Columbina calls me like that?"

"Columbina is smart"

"That she is"

#ocean au #kurt ryder #kitty pryde #yes that silly sex chapter does count in this au #Kurt fears Jupiter #GOOOD #Kurt fears Cosmo #Good #Kurtty #Loki and Emma plotting #SCPS mentioned again

[ariadne-rx300-blog]

A r i a d n e

For I have long lived in darkness, unknown to the kindness of others.

Designated ID: RX300 #151 073 925 - 21

Creation date not publicly known, estimated to be September 2025.

Given Slave name: Eve // Chosen Deviant name: Ariadne

Known alias: “Eve Turing”

Estimated deviation date: Late 2038.

Created by Elijah Kamski in the swell of his success, Ariadne (then called by “Eve”) is was designated for the purpose of human-android relations espionage.

An undisclosed prototype equipped with the latest observational technologies, not commercially sold; she is able to survey individuals through camera-like eyes, discerning their identities and mannerisms with precise scanning while simultaneously capable of providing a live feed for her overseer.

Her main priority is was to deliver information on interaction between humans and androids directly to Elijah Kamski (regardless of purported resignment) through covert means. She is capable of deactivating her LED and effectively going undercover, utilizing her advanced social protocol for human disguise in various cases that bar android involvement.

(R)e:volution in progress

Fic Summary: The RX300, arguably the most elusive design of Elijah Kamski's creation. An undisclosed prototype tasked with human-android relations espionage, equipped with a real-time observational UI, social protocol, combat tactics and looks to kill. How does a painted genius so easily lose track of his own spy? (Android OC/Connor)

Noteworthy Relationships:

(according to fic lore, semi-canon, subject to change)

Elijah Kamski (”Elijah”) - Resented creator and mentor. Having publicly resigned from CyberLife, he resides in secluded luxury near CyberLife Tower. Although he has no overt claims to his legacy, he pulls strings from the shadows, utilizing Ariadne (”Eve,” as he himself calls her) to covertly monitor how humans and androids interact with one another. Unbeknownst to Ariadne herself, he oversees the spread of deviancy through her program, effectively letting loose the virus across Detroit and waiting silently for civil war. This effectively makes Ariadne an unwitting Patient Zero for the deviancy virus.

He acts as a driving force for Ariadne in her machine (”Eve”) state, appearing to her in his own artificial “Paradise.” Sister subspaces exist separately, with Amanda's Zen Garden existing for Connor and Kamski's Paradise simultaneously existing for Eve; two sides of the same coin ("nature versus nurture.") As opposed to Amanda's emphasis on both literal and metaphorical 'nature' in the environment around her, Kamski's is a combination of nature and technology, with an infusion of cosmic influence to represent knowledge and the 'nurture' side of the argument. The name "Paradise" refers to the Garden of Eden from the biblical tale of Adam and Eve... more or less showing Kamski to be a self-proclaimed 'God' figure in his own mind.

RK800 #313 248 317 -51 to -59 (”Connor,” “Con”) - Priority individual, potential love interest. A prototype detective of peak curiosity. Through Kamski’s direct order, she observes his work from case to case under a human guise (”Eve Turing”) and is subsequently affected by his choices--most notably his tendency toward self-sacrifice; (more specifically, deviant-oriented choices) throwing himself off of a rooftop to save a human girl, using his body as a shield to protect his assigned partner, etc.

It is likely that Kamski installed cloaking technology in Ariadne making her unable to be scanned, however, while she is able to scan other androids, she is unable to scan Connor himself or any such iteration of him. Connor initially assumes her to be human from appearance only, though over time gains enough clues to discern her true identity.

In the wake of this discovery, Kamski officially reveals her identity as an android to him during the events of “Meet Kamski,” though is cryptic on her true purpose. The Kamski Test is utilized to determine Connor’s compromised psychology, whether he is capable of becoming attached to a being outside of himself; whether he sees Ariadne as a complex person who matters beyond his protocol, rather than a machine simply programmed to hinder his progress in the investigation. He struggles to discern between given directives, ultimately deciding not to shoot. He, however, still adamantly denies any personal ties to deviancy. Undeniably empathetic to a fault, this trait leads to his destruction under multiple occasions, further resulting in Ariadne’s own inevitable deviation.

Upon deviating, Ariadne strikes back against Kamski, pooling her direct access to his secret databases and seeking to share that knowledge with Connor himself. Having learned from his example, she believes that in sacrificing her personal safety he can use this confidential knowledge (that Kamski is the true source of the deviancy outbreak) to complete his mission. She hopes that he can break free from his programming and help lead the android uprising.

RK800 #313 248 317 -60 (“Sixty,” “Nor,” “Colin”) – Discovered on floor -60 of CyberLife Tower; Ariadne’s programming seeks new intel regarding the RK800 models through scoping out their holding cell. She unintentionally activates him, (assuming him unable to wake until needed,) causing him to deviate upon his awakening. In open denial, he at first attempts to deactivate himself per his given instructions, though she prevents this with the lure of shared knowledge.

“Colin,” as he calls himself, or “Nor,” as she jokingly (affectionately?) nicknames him. Although he shares memories with Connor, he proves himself to be of a different personality--subjectively more logic-based and fully driven by his mission, with somewhat of a smarmy attitude. Cold by nature, though still, oddly, inherently charming. He is left-handed, whereas Connor is right-handed.

Because of his open loyalty to the mission, Kamski is able to assume control of his body, with Colin as a tragically willing host.

Fun Facts:

Ariadne considers the Chloes to be her sisters, although she derives a different appearance and purpose. They are as two sides of the same coin in regard to their public image, with Chloe being the model most marketed by Kamski and Ariadne being the one kept out of the public eye.

It is assumed that there are multiple RX300s, although Ariadne has no distinct knowledge of their location.

She bears some resemblance to Audrey Hepburn, (“with features reminiscent of a young Audrey Hepburn, her hair in a mess of dark curls;” “golden-brown eyes,”) enough to be strikingly pretty, though just unassuming enough to keep from suspicion.

Her original, machine name, “Eve,” is a direct reference to Adam and Eve; (”Eve, in a further irony, the name of the first human woman-she who in human religious texts was punished for stealing the knowledge of good and evil from God himself, tempting Adam, sharing that knowledge with him regardless of outcome.”)

Her chosen, deviant name, “Ariadne,” is a direct reference to the Ariadne of Greek mythology; (”’Ariadne:’ liberated overseer of suffering, seeker of a Theseus that would one day come to slay the Minotaur of Kamski's making; the fear that had lit a fuse in the minds of humanity and subsequently set her guiding string ablaze.”)

Her alias “Eve Turing” is a clear reference to Alan Turing, originator of the modern computer and artificial intelligence; the namesake of the “Turing Test,” a test designed to determine a computer’s intelligence. Nice moves looking that one over, Connor.

She calls Connor “Con” to shade his ability to lie easily, whereas Colin is “Nor” to represent his existence as the ‘negative alternative’ to the first Connor. Both are a play on words, and together they are “Con-Nor.”

#dbh oc #dbh #detroit become human #detroit: become human #oc bio #ariadne rx300 #eve rx300 #about my muse #about me #dbh connor #dbh connor 60 #dbh elijah kamski