#floppy cop

[choices-binglebonkus]

Nobody:

Astrid Thorne:

#her and her floppy hat lmao #I love that hat #she always reminds me of pleakley and his floppy hats #choices crimes of passion #crimes of passion #choices cop #choices stories you play #playchoices #choices stories we play #pixelberry #pixelberry studios #playchoices fandom #choices stories you play fandom #choices stories we play fandom #choices meme #choices memes #astrid thorne

[charlotterenaissance]

i haven't written doctor who fanfiction in years but i am dying to write one where donna and the doctor crash land in some hard to pin down canadian city and donna gets a temp job with at&love while the doctor fixes the tardis and slowly realizes that a large portion of the city look like the same five guys over and over again

#because in my headcanon all the kids in the hall sketches take place in the same universe #so donna's working with the cathies and she wonders if it's just her #thinking that her supervisor elizabeth looks similar to one of the hookers on the corner nearby where they're keeping the tardis #or that danny husk looks like the guy who runs the gay bar she accidentally stumbled into one day after work #or that talkative kid she sees at the grocery store who's definitely a kid yet he also looks like one of the cops #who always seems to be around #or his partner who looks like nina the newscaster as well as that weird guy she sees in bushes around town muttering about crushing heads #she's definitely seen the same blonde blue eyed pretty guy a lot #and the curly haired guy with the high voice #and the tall skinny one with floppy hair #okay that broad shorter guy with the intense stare is popping up everywhere #and she knows she's seen the blonde guy with the slight gap in his teeth more than once #i just think it'd be funny #the kids in the hall #doctor who

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Lonely This Christmas

Pairing: Billy Washington (Trigger Point) x f!reader Warnings: Dark and obsessive behaviour, stalking, smut, dubious consent. Word count: ~4.5k

Summary: On a rare occasion when her and Billy both find themselves home for Christmas at the same time, they admit they've always fancied each other. However, as things develop between them, she soon realises that for Billy it's something much more sinister than a harmless crush. Based on this request.

Author's note: For my darling @heimtathurs. I don't have a tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

She walks up the pathway to the front door, the combination of the bitter cold and the handles of the plastic carrier bag cutting into her flesh causing her fingers to sting painfully. The cans in the bag clank noisily against each other as she jostles it from one hand to the other, raising her fist to knock at the door. Her breath comes in hot, cloudy puffs as she shifts from foot to foot, relief flooding through her as she sees the silhouette of her best friend, Lana, appear through the glass in the door.

“Let me in then!” She grumbles, pushing past and handing Lana the bag, once the door is open. “It’s bloody freezing out there!”

It’s December 23rd, and time for her and Lana’s annual tradition of Christmas Eve Eve film night - a ritual that they’ve managed to keep alive since they first met in secondary school, though as the years have passed their taste in films has matured and they can now sit and openly drink beer, instead of needing to sneak a bottle of MD 20:20 back and forth between them beneath a duvet, like they did as teenagers.

The location never changes - always at Lana’s parents’ house - even now that she’s moved out, she always comes home for two weeks over the festive period, and like clockwork the two of them sit on the sofa the evening before Christmas Eve and stare at the TV until they can no longer keep their eyes open.

She shrugs off her coat as she moves through the hallway, into the living room, the warmth from the central heating causing her skin to prickle with the pleasant rise in temperature. Rolling her eyes as she spies the DVD case for Die Hard on the coffee table, she sits heavily down on the sofa, kicking her shoes off and tucking her legs beneath her.

“We watched this last year,” she says to Lana, who follows a few paces behind, having deposited the contents of the bag into the fridge in the kitchen, “It’s not even a Christmas film!”

“It’s set at Christmas, so it’s a Christmas film,” Lana shoots back, handing her a can of Stella, before flopping down beside her and cracking open her own. “And Bruce Willis in that vest? I’m gripped.”

She snorts a laugh, opening her own beer and taking a deep sip, enjoying the way the coolness of the bitter liquid fizzes against her tongue.

“How’ve you been anyway? Your mum and dad not in?”

Lana swallows and pokes at the inside of her cheek with her tongue. “Nah, they’re out for the evening, think they could use a break since face-ache moved back in. I’ve only been back here a few days and he’s already doing my head in.”

She feels her cheeks heat up at the mention of Billy. She’d met Lana’s younger brother when he’d started at the same secondary school as them and, although he was a couple of years below them, she’d always thought he was cute. He was tall, if a little on the lanky side, and his floppy blonde hair and big blue eyes instantly attracted her to him. She’d kept the fact that she fancied him to herself though, feeling it was inappropriate to lust after her best mate’s brother, especially a younger brother.

As the years had passed, Billy’s seemingly permanent cheeky smile had faded into a persistent look of misery. He’d done badly at school, left with failing grades and been rejected each time he’d tried to apply to join the army.

Meanwhile, Lana had flourished, leaving school with a handful of As and Bs. She’d enrolled at college, before enlisting in the army and from there her career in the police force had taken off. She’d moved away from home, had a place of her own and had made her parents proud.

Billy, on the other hand, had struggled with chronic unemployment, eventually falling in with an alt right group who had set him up for a potential terrorist attack. He’d barely escaped the explosion on Cranstead Gardens, and had never really pulled himself back together afterwards. His relationship with his long-term girlfriend, Becky, had broken down and he’d moved out of their flat and back in with his parents, where he’d been living for the last six months.

She hasn’t seen Billy since they left school, but Lana tells her all about him whenever they hang out or chat on the phone. She’s always felt strangely protective of him, where Lana and her parents have given Billy a hard time, she has opted for a softer touch, believing he just needs someone to understand him.

“You can’t be so hard on him,” she says, finger pinging against the ringpull of her can absentmindedly, “he’s been through a lot.”

Lana sighs, grabbing the remote from the coffee table. “You don’t know him like I do. He’s not paying any rent, never tidies up, isn’t bothering to look for work. We can’t help him, he won’t let us, doesn’t wanna help himself.”

“Where is he at the moment?”

“Skulking around upstairs,” Lana nods towards the staircase. “First Christmas he’s not spent at Becky’s mum’s in a long time and he’s taking it…well, I couldn’t tell you how he’s taking it, he never leaves his bloody room.”

She nods sadly, letting the topic go as they settle back into the sofa cushions as the opening credits for Die Hard begin to roll.

“I’m empty,” Lana says around twenty minutes into the film, shaking her beer can. “You want another?”

“It’s alright, I’ll go,” she tell hers, taking her empty and heading towards the kitchen, eager for a break from a film she had no interest in watching last year, let alone again this year.

She chucks the cans into the recycling bin, before opening the fridge and retrieving two more. She yelps as she closes the door, startled by Billy standing there.

“Jesus, Billy–”

“Sorry, sorry…” he mumbles apologetically, a tinge of pink dusting itself across his cheek bones, as he averts his gaze. “Wasn’t tryna scare ya, just came down to make a cuppa.”

She exhales through her nose, a smile tugging at her lips. “S’alright. How are you getting on, anyway? It’s been a while.”

“Yeah…” he says uncertainly, filling the kettle from the sink and then flicking it on to boil. “Guessing you heard what happened then?”

She nods, placing the cans on the side and wiping the condensation off of her hands onto her jeans. “Lana told me. I’m so sorry, Billy, I really hope you’re okay.”

He says nothing for a moment, dropping a tea bag into a mug, followed by a generous pour of milk.

Milk first. Ugh.

“It’s been hard, y’know,” he finally says, “tryna find work, but there’s fuck all out there. What are you up to these days? You’re looking well.”

The sudden shift in focus doesn’t go unnoticed by her, he’s clearly not keen to talk about himself, but she can’t help but smile at the small compliment, feeling herself grow bashful.

“Got a job at a marketing agency,” she tells him, “nothing fancy, but it pays the rent.”

She’s actually a high ranking executive, living in one of the area’s most expensive flat blocks and has a tidy sum saved away for a deposit to eventually buy a place of her own. She’s unsure of why she’s downplaying her achievements, perhaps on some level she feels she owes it to Billy to not rub her success in his face when he’s clearly having a rough time of it.

The kettle boils and Billy fills his mug, stirring the tea bag around with a spoon, before squeezing it out with his fingers, making her wince - that has to burn, but if it does it doesn’t appear to bother him. He discards the used bag on the side, before turning to her. She can see what Lana means about him not tidying up now, it would have taken two steps for him to put it in the bin, and he hasn’t bothered. The laziness almost makes her want to laugh.

“So you and Lana doing your film night then?” He asks, noisily slurping his tea, then fixing her with a soft, yet unblinking gaze.

The intensity of his baby blue eyes flusters her, and for a moment she forgets what he’s asked, feeling the same old butterflies from their school days return. She clears her throat, shaking her head as if to rid herself of the feeling.

“Y-yeah…I’m surprised you remember. You were a teenager the last time we did one of those with you here,” she smiles warmly.

He nods, keeping a hand wrapped around his mug, pushing off of the kitchen side towards her and suddenly she’s aware of just how tall he’s grown, her throat running dry as she feels the kitchen counter bite into her back as she presses herself against it.

She deflates slightly, letting go of a breath she wasn’t aware when she’d been holding, a little disappointed when he brushes past her, lingering in the kitchen doorway.

“I remember,” he says, a ghost of the lopsided smirk she loved so much from their school days playing upon his full lips, “remember what a racket you and Lana used to make pretending you weren’t pissed on that nasty blue stuff.”

She grins, her gaze dropping as she fiddles with the cuff of her jumper sleeve, thinking back to all those years ago. “Sorry, Billy,” she finally says, looking up at him, “we’ll keep it down tonight.”

“No worries, I’ll be upstairs,” he tells her. “Enjoy your film.”

“Billy?” She calls softly after him as he moves to go back upstairs.

He turns, looking at her questioningly.

“You’re looking well too, by the way.”

The dusting of pink that had appeared across his cheekbones earlier now returns in earnest and he gives a simple nod before turning and heading up the stairs.

She deposits his now cold, used teabag into the bin, then grabs hers and Lana’s beers from the side and goes back into the living room.

The rest of the evening passes uneventfully, her and Lana finish off Die Hard, then move onto Gremlins.

On the couple of occasions that she goes upstairs to the bathroom she can hear the sound of Billy playing Call of Duty through his closed door. She thinks about knocking to invite him down to join them, but figures if he had wanted to do that he’d have asked in the kitchen, so she leaves it.

They’re halfway through Jingle All the Way when she feels her eyelids start to grow heavy. She leans forward, placing her half drunk can on the coffee table and turns to Lana.

“I’m gonna have to push off home, babe, I can’t keep my eyes open.”

Lana nods, pausing the film and sitting forward with a yawn. “Yeah, should probably get to bed myself. You gonna be alright getting home? Need me to call you a cab?”

“Nah, it’s only down the road, I’ll be fine walking,” she insists as she puts her shoes and coat back on.

“Alright, well, text me when you get home, yeah?” Her friend says, pulling her into a hug.

“Course,” she smiles, hugging her back and heading towards the front door. “Have a great Christmas. See you for New Year’s.”

Lana waves her off and as the front door closes behind her, she’s about to head back down the pathway when the glowing ember of the end of a lit cigarette catches her eye.

She turns to see Billy leaning against the side of the house, smoking a roll up.

“You off?” He asks, exhaling a plume of smoke that’s made larger by the cold that clings to the puff of his breath.

“Yeah. Was good to see you, Billy,” she says, trying to ignore how her pulse races at the way the soft glow of the street lamp illuminates the sharpness of his side profile.

“I’ll give you a lift, if you want?” He offers, crushing his cigarette beneath his foot.

“You don’t have to do that, I’m only twenty minutes down the road,” she says, suddenly feeling awkward, putting her hands in her coat pocket.

“And you could be five minutes down the road if I drive,” he retorts with a smirk.

She sighs, her gaze softening. Not having to walk home in the cold would be nice, actually. “Yeah, go on then.”

Billy walks around to the front door, opens it and fishes around on the key hooks until he has the set he needs. They walk down the road until they reach a red VW Polo and he unlocks it.

“New car?” She asks nonchalantly, having expected to see his old silver Vauxhall Cavalier.

“Nah, this is mum’s. Haven’t had a car since…well…y’know.”

Since it blew up. Fuck, how could she be so thoughtless?!

“Oh god, Billy, I’m so sorry, I–”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, opening the driver’s side door. “Do you mind just giving me a minute before you get in?”

She nods, keeping her hands in her pockets, watching as feels all around the car’s interior, checking inside the glove box and under the seats.

Checking for explosives.

He finally settles behind the steering wheel, gripping it tightly, attempting to calm his breaths.

“Honestly, Billy, I don’t mind walking…” she says quietly.

He looks up at her, as though just remembering she’s there. “No…no, it’s fine. I want to do it. It’s good for me, I have to.”

“Can I get in now?” She asks, giving Billy a reassuring smile.

He nods, and she walks around to the passenger’s side, climbing in and buckling her seatbealt.

Billy starts the car and they drive in silence for a few moments before he finally speaks.

“You must think I’m such a loser,” he mutters, fingers flexing against the steering wheel.

She turns slightly in her seat, shocked by what he’s said. “I’ve never thought you were a loser. Please don’t say that.”

“I’ve got no job, no car, I live with my mum and dad, can’t even drive without needing to check I won’t fucking blow up first,” he scoffs, “don’t bullshit me.”

“I’m not!” She protests. “You’ve been through so much, Billy, you need to give yourself a break.”

His lips quirk, he pulls a hand away from the steering wheel to pull at the collar of his t-shirt. “S’not just what happened though, brought it on myself dad says. I’ve always been a loser, ever since school.”

“I never thought you were,” she assures him gently, “I actually really fancied you back then.”

Billy draws in a sudden breath, glancing sideways at her as he pulls up outside of her block of flats.

How does he know where she lives? Lana must have told him.

“And now?” He asks, turning off the engine and twisting in his seat to look at her.

It feels as though all the air has left the car suddenly, as they stare at each other. She isn’t sure what possesses her, perhaps the three cans of lager she’s drunk throughout the evening, but she finds herself leaning over the centre console and pushing her lips against his.

He reciprocates, soft and unsure at first, but quickly gains confidence, his mouth moving against hers with more urgency.

She cups his face, her fingers grazing over the stubble at the corner of his jaw that he always seems to miss when shaving and she smiles into the kiss, enjoying its roughness against her fingertips.

Billy seizes the opportunity to slip his tongue into her mouth and she moans softly as it slides against her own.

Their pupils are wide with lust, the windows of the car fogged up when they finally part for breath, keeping their foreheads pressed together.

He strokes his large hand over the back of her head, his voice barely above a whisper. “Can I come up?”

She swallows thickly, not wanting to reject him, but knowing it’s not a good idea to rush things. “Not tonight, Billy, I–”

He jerks away, hurt flashing across his features, rubbing his nose on the back of his hand. “Right, yeah, sorry, was stupid to think you’d want that…”

“No, no, it’s not that!” She says, reaching over and taking his hand in hers, running her thumb over his scarred knuckles. “We’ve waited so long for this, I don’t wanna rush it. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, his shoulders relaxing as he breathes an audible sigh of relief. “Can I text you then?”

“I’d like that,” she looks at him through hooded eyes, “let me give you my number.”

“I’ve got it, don’t worry.”

Oh. Something else Lana must have given him.

“Alright then. Well, goodnight.”

She leans over and pecks him on the lips, then exits his car.

When she goes to sleep that night it’s with a smile upon her face, knowing that her childhood crush feels the same way that she does. In the back of her mind, she knows that Lana will go mad when she finds out, but that’s a bridge she’ll cross when she gets to it.

She is less than enthused when she awakens the next day realising it’s Christmas Eve and she needs to make her annual visit to her great aunt’s for room temperature sherry, mince pies and questions about why she isn’t married with children yet.

Her face lights up when she sees a text on her phone from an unknown number and realises it’s Billy.

She grins excitedly to herself, calling her great aunt and feigning a migraine, before showering and readying herself for her day with Billy.

True to his word in his text, the buzzer to her flat sounds an hour later and he is at her door a few moments later.

It’s awkward at first, as they both stand there sizing each other up, unsure of what to say or do, until he takes the initiative and steps forward to kiss her.

It all feels so easy and natural, as though it’s something they should always have been doing, and when he takes her hand in his as they walk into town she can’t help the way her heart skips a beat at how perfectly her hand slots into his.

They walk around the Christmas market together, hand in hand, drinking mulled wine. For the first time since they were at school together, she sees Billy laugh, a genuine, happy laugh. He makes jokes, a sparkle returning to his eyes and he looks so relaxed, she is finally able to see his potential again, all that he could be if he wasn’t constantly wallowing in self pity, lurking in Lana’s shadow and taking his parents’ criticisms to heart.

When he walks her home that evening, she doesn’t hesitate to invite him up. Gentle affirmations of “I had a nice time today” rapidly escalate to needy kisses as they tug at each other’s clothes. This is the Billy that she wants, and she sees no point in waiting any longer.

His large hands eagerly grasp at her hips as she pushes him down onto the sofa, straddling his lap.

They are a frenzied clash of lips, teeth and tongue, her hands finding their way into his hair, pulling his head back slightly to mouth at his jaw and neck. He groans at the sensation, hips bucking up to meet hers.

When he slides down his tracksuit bottoms and boxers to free the ample hardness that has been pressing against her thigh for the last five minutes, she lifts herself, meaning to remove her tights. She gasps when his long fingers pluck at the crotch, tearing them open and pushing her knickers to the side.

His digits swipe through the wetness of her folds and she shudders against him. “You on the pill?” He asks gruffly.

She nods in affirmation, a whine escaping her as he replaces his fingers with the head of his cock, slowly pressing into her.

The sounds he makes against her ear as he thrusts up into her are lewd, but with every grunt and breathy moan she clenches around him. This is a purely carnal act of desire, fulfilling years’ worth of pent up animalistic need. There will be plenty of time for gentle lovemaking, but right now she just needs to feel him, and judging by the way slams her down to meet each quick thrust, jaw slack and brow furrowed, she is certain he feels the same way.

The throbbing of him inside of her, as he spills deep within her, drives her over the edge and she peaks with a strangled cry, tightening around him in quick successive pulses.

They remain like that for a long while afterwards, resting against each other on the sofa, in the darkness of her living room.

“I’ve wanted this for so long, you’ve got no idea,” he whispers eventually, once his breathing has returned to normal.

“Me too,” she whispers.

“I wanna stay, but–”

“It’s Christmas Eve, Billy, it’s alright. You should get home before your mum gives you an earful.”

They pull unsteadily apart, adjusting their clothes, and she walks him to the door.

“I’ll text you, yeah?” He says.

“Yeah,” she smiles before kissing him softly, “Merry Christmas, Billy.”

“You an’ all,” he murmurs, pulling her into a tight hug and then walking away.

Christmas Day is uneventful. Presents and a roast at her parents’, followed by an afternoon of board games and films.

She gets a happy Christmas text from Lana, and smiles when she gets one from Billy too - the first he’s ever sent her.

By the time Boxing Day rolls around, she’s already thoroughly fed up with her family and eager to be back in her own space. She grins when her phone buzzes with a message from Billy.

She pulls out her phone, thinking carefully about what to send to her best friend, before typing a message.

She arrives at Billy and Lana’s parents’ house an hour later and is given a warm welcome by everyone. It’s strange not being able to interact properly with Billy, considering how close they’ve become so quickly over the last few days, however, he carries himself with a confidence she’s never seen him have in front of his family before.

He stands a little straighter, actually bothers to make eye contact when he talks to people. It spreads a warmth within her chest to see him no longer looking so downtrodden and defeatist, she can no longer sense the anger that used to simmer just below the surface like she used to be able to.

His eyes find hers whenever no one’s looking and she can’t help the smiles that she directs his way.

The leftovers have been dished up and they’ve been sitting around the TV for an hour when she goes upstairs to use the bathroom.

Noticing Billy’s bedroom door ajar on her way back downstairs, she can’t resist a peek inside. She’d never dared go in when she’d come to see Lana when they were younger. She pushes the door fully open, nose wrinkling at the rumpled bed sheets and assortment of dirty socks and boxers that litter the floor, but smiles as she casts her eye over the Oasis poster on the wall and the acoustic guitar that leans against the chest of drawers.

She twiddles absentmindedly with the PS4 controller, when a box that’s been shoved haphazardly beneath the bed catches her eye. She drags it out, pulling out a scrapbook that sits on the top.

Her heart hammers in her chest, her blood feeling as though it runs ice cold as she flips through it. It’s filled with old school photos of her, plus newer pictures that have clearly been printed off from her social media accounts.

Rummaging further into the box she pulls out items she’d assumed she’d either lost or that Lana had borrowed on the occasions she’d stayed over - there are scrunchies, old lip balms, even a pair of her underwear. Disgust causes bile to rise in her throat, a mixture of fear and disbelief quickly spreads its way through her body.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” Billy’s voice says quietly from the doorway, causing her to gasp as she looks up in fright. “Doesn’t matter now though, don’t need that shit anymore, not now I’ve got the real thing.”

“Billy,” she pleads, her voice shaking, “what is all this?”

“I’ve always wanted you, never thought you’d feel the same though. She looked like you, y’know,” he tells her, stepping closer and shutting the door behind him.

“Who?” Tendrils of icy fear spread to her belly, every nerve in her body screaming at her to run, yet she stays rooted to her spot on the bed.

“Becky,” he says simply, “she was the spit of you. Only reason I went out with her, to be honest. I was gutted when she ended things, but she doesn’t matter now. Don’t need some cheap knock off, not when I have you.”

“Please, Billy, you’re scaring me,” she whispers, tears pricking her eyes.

“Everything’s gonna be alright. Job hunting, the bomb, none of it matters because I’ve got you.”

“Listen to yourself, this isn’t you,” she pleads, backing up on the bed away from him as he towers over her.

“You’ve seen how much better I am with you, you can’t take that away. I need you. And I make you feel good too. Look, you just need a reminder.”

He looms over her on the mattress, his hand darting between her legs and she whimpers.

“Billy, no, please…”

She wants to scream, to cry out and make him stop, but the thought of attracting the attention of Lana and her parents and them coming up here and seeing all of this is more than she can stand. So she lays there, lets Billy slide his hand up her skirt and into her underwear, hating the way her body responds to his trust.

“See?” He murmurs again the shell of her ear. “Only I can make you feel like this. Everything is gonna go my way now that you’re mine, you’ll see.”

Her vision goes watery, a combination of tears and building pleasure causing the poster on the opposite wall to blur.

She tenses as his fingers work her quickly towards her climax and she screws her eyes shut, shuddering with a quiet whine as she falls apart.

“There you go,” he coos gently, “I’ve got you now, and I’m never letting you go.”

The way he says it sends a shiver down her spine. Billy is a man with nothing to lose. He means it. He’ll never let her go.

#billy washington #billy washington x reader #billy washington x you #billy washington x y/n #billy washington smut #billy washington imagine #billy washington trigger point #ewan mitchell #billy washington fan fiction #billy washington fanfiction #billy washington fanfic #billy washington fan fic #trigger point

[andhumanslovedstories]

Just watched an episode of Columbo (Last Salute to the Commodore) with pacing so floppy and nonsensical that it looped back around towards the avant garde. Fascinating.

There’s so many unnecessary scenes that go on forever that’s it’s a genuine competition to pick out the most useless one. I think it’s a tie between Columbo teaching another cop how to drive his car and Columbo trying and failing for five minutes to sit crisscross applesauce. He’s at full max lumbo the entire episode. He disregards personal space so much he both sits in another man’s lap and also has another man sit in his. He gets an inexperienced scuba diver to swim a mile in the dark at night on a channel that they just finished discussing is dangerous to swim in, and when the scrubs diver pops up on the other side, Columbo’s like “hey what’s your name.” Columbo!! You made scuba dive for a mile in the dark! He just told you this is his fourth day scubaing!

The final parlor scene takes about two hours and fourteen props to reveal the killer as that guy I remembered from that scene where the best suspect of the episode—a perpetually drunk rich disaster woman whose job is to be sloppy and say “daddy”—has an emotional breakdown in a public yacht club, and then this guy goes back to?? playing piano?? As the entire crowd watches a woman have a mental breakdown while being questioned for murder. At the end of the episode, and this is true!!!, Columbo just gets in a boat and starts paddling across the water while his baffled colleagues watch him go. He boards so slowly and precariously and he paddles for so long before someone is like “dude where the fuck are you going” and then pops up “directed by the guy who made the cult classic, The Prisoner, a piece of media you might now as being good,” and now the ten hour experimental collage of scenes where Peter Falk giving it 11/10 is finally over. It’s probably the worst episode of Columbo I’ve seen, but almost to the point where I might genuinely recommend it.

#Columbo #last salute to the commodore is. not a good one.

[lizzaneia-elizalde]

Yan! Ex boyfriend with reader who's now like unresponsive, so much that she's living like a corpse. not her previous self before he fucked her up emotionally.

-🌼

Yandere! closed off! ex/boyfriend x gn! lover! reader

What if: Reader is now a husk?

Okay, so before I do Lee's fic, I just want to say that I'm gonna start off with the easy reqs, because two of them right now are about all of the yandere men and those take a lot of time despite it's enjoyability. Those will have to wait in the weekends.

This is gonna be short

Lee took off his shoes and sighed.

He just came from University and it was as usual. Unenjoyable and boring.

He walked through his house. It was given by his mother who was still scared of Lee, and wanted him out of the house as much as possible.

Perks of being rich.

He stared at the mirror before his eyes darted to his room when he heard a small rustle.

With a crack of his neck, he went to the room and unlocked it. His once tired eyes were replaced with a spark of satisfaction as he saw you.

You fell down from the bed, your body floppy and unresponsive to stimulus. You didn't look unhealthy, but it's not a telltale sign of the emotional abuse you received from Lee.

His words lashed you like knife to the skin. Small lacerations that brought immense pain throughout your body without being lethal.

He had to do it since you were so defiant.

He told you that your parents aren't finding for you, that your friends were glad you're gone.

At first, you didn't believe him.

But fabrication is as easy as breathing, so he gave "evidences" of your family and friends being nonchalant about your loss. Even some of them saying "good riddance."

You were resistant to believe, but Lee is good.

Too good.

Every mannerism of your friends and family, he learned it and incorporated in the evidences he showed you.

He also had an iron grip in your mind, due to being unstimulated of social interaction.

Nobody is finding for you.

Why can't you see that I'm the only one for you?

Did you know your family laughed when I asked where you are?

The cops won't even bother.

In all honesty, all of these sentences were so light and non threatening. It sounds like a grown man teasing a kid.

But your psyche is so broken that you believed whatever he said.

And now, broken husk you are, lie staring at the wall all day. Your leg chafing at the cuffs and flaking off. It has medical plasters all over it, but it was clearly clumsy.

"Babe, how are you?" Lee asked, guiding your body back to the bed. "I hope nothing happened."

You didn't respond, only leaned on the bed board and looked down. Like a ragdoll.

Lee smiled. He liked you like this.

"Well, it seems that nothing really happened." He chuckled and leaned to your shoulder. "I love you, babe."

Only a single tear was shed from your eye.

But it wasn't even from your feelings,

No, it's just that your eye is dry that it's trying to moisturize itself.

You can't even cry anymore.

And Lee was okay with that.

You're his doll.

Broken as you may,

He loves you still.

At least, he's the one who broke you,

And that's enough for him.

#yandere boyfriend #yandere imagines #yandere male #yandere writing #male yandere x reader #tw yandere #yandere x darling #yandere x you #yandere fic #yandere drabbles #lizzaneiaelizalde

[elizabethswitch]

I know it's meant to be creepy. I know. But the whole 26 September escapade cracks me up every time. I'm fine until they get to the theme restaurant, but as soon as Jack gets lost in the suburbs I start to snicker.

Yakety sax starts up in my head, Jack keeps turning down wrong alleyways, bobbing behind newsstands to hide from the horse patrol, clambers over a 12 ft brick wall like nothing, gets lost again in a cemetery, pouts behind a tree, gets lost again again chasing a scantily clad vampire lady, clambers back over a big brick wall with a floppy toddler, jumpscares a cop with a baby, runs away from that, and somehow hails a cab at four in the morning in outer London. Van Helsing is there.

These aren't badass vampire hunters, this is some Keystone Kops bs. This is Dracula meets the Monkees. I can't. Y'all.

#dracula daily

[sattlersquarry]

superfreaky (steve harrington x fem!reader)

Summary: [AU inspired by Freaky (2020); modern body-swap-with-a-slasher AU] The Hawkins Hacker has been terrorizing your town for years now. What happens when he digs his hooks into you is surprising. It's shocking. It's downright superfreaky.

Word Count: ~7.3k

Warnings: 18+ PLEASE!!!! for language, violence, grief, mentions of alcoholism, mentions of death and serial killers/slashers. all the characters are at least 18 in this (and Steve is the same age as the others). There's no descriptors of the reader except when she and Henry Creel swap bodies (then, you're Jamie Campbell Bower). Also Officer Callahan is your stepbrother in this.

a/n: this is a halloween fic. I'm aware that it's mid-November and everyone on this website has moved onto winter/holiday fics. I'm late! I'm sorry! Blame depression/personal life weirdness/my horoscope.

🔪🔪🔪

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 12th, 2023

Your life kind of sucks.

Just a little.

Currently, you’re dressed in a godawful tiger suit on a Thursday night, shaking your clip-on tiger tail like there’s no tomorrow. You don’t want to be here, but extracurriculars look great on college applications. If you want to get far, far away from Hawkins, Indiana after graduation, this is the kind of shit you have to do to be impressive on paper.

Plus, someone must be the brave soul that dons the Hawkins High school mascot costume on the sidelines of basketball games. The brave soul that gets soda cans chucked at your head by Billy Hargrove.

You turn and scowl when you feel the liquid splash across your back—not that Billy can see through your stitched-on tiger expression.

He and his buddies laugh and laugh, until team captain Steve Harrington chews them out for being assholes. You can’t help it—you inwardly swoon at the sight of him defending your honor. With that floppy hair and those gorgeous eyes and…

You snap yourself out of your wild, romantically charged fantasies about said basketball player when he jogs his way toward you.

“Hey, Y/N, you okay?” he asks quietly. You lift your mascot head and give him a small smile.

“I’m good,” you say. You shrug. “I’m used to it.”

Steve sighs and shakes his head.

“I’m really sorry. I told Hargrove to cut it out when you threw the nachos last week, but he just doesn’t know when to quit.”

The Tiger cheerleaders begin the school fight song.

“I’ve gotta get back into it,” you say. “But, um, thanks.”

“Anytime,” Steve says. He shoots you a smile before jogging back to his teammates. The timeout is over, and he steps back onto the court.

As you flail around next to the cheerleaders, the Tigers sink a three-pointer thanks to Steve and win the game.

Post-game, you shuffle into the parking lot with your best friends Robin Buckley and Jonathan Byers by your side. Jonathan works for the school paper and photographs the games while his girlfriend, Nancy Wheeler, interviews players and attendees on the sidelines. Robin is in band and plays the trumpet. (Sometimes, you wish you’d followed their extracurricular pathways instead of going the mascot route.)

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Robin points out, sensing your disdain as you glare at the tiger head in your hands and the oversize, fuzzy orange slippers adorning your feet.

“I do!” you say. “It’s senior year, fall semester. I can’t flake now. It’ll look bad on my applications.”

“You and those applications,” Jonathan says with a shake of his head. “You’ve been worrying about them since we were freshmen.”

“Obviously! They’re my ticket out of this town. It’s not safe here anymore.”

Robin and Jonathan share a look. They know what you’re referring to: the Hawkins Hacker.

The Hacker is the town's own slasher. He claimed victims every year around homecoming for years and years, until 2016, when he suddenly stopped. However, just last night he killed again. The whole town—including your stepbrother Phil, who’s a cop—are on edge.

“Do you need a ride home?” Jonathan asks, spinning his car keys in his hand.

“No, it’s okay,” you say. “My stepmom’s on her way. And there are plenty of people around. I’m totally safe!”

Famous last words.

Literally. (Almost.)

“You sure?” Robin questions. “Because he’s taking me and Nancy home too, but he’s got an extra seat!”

“I’m good,” you say. You hold up your cell phone. “She texted me an hour ago to say she’d get me on time. I’ll see you guys tomorrow, okay?”

Your friends look a little worried, but you wave them off. Game attendees meander out of the school and head to their cars. It’s a sea of people. You’re fine.

However, the minutes tick by, and the crowd thins out. You watch the away team hop a school bus and zip back to their hometown. You feel the temperature of your tiger suit inch up a few degrees when you see Steve wander to his BMW with a couple teammates in tow.

It’s considerably quieter than it was when you first left the game. You text your stepmom LeAnn once, twice. Then you call her once, twice, three times. A third text, a fourth call. Nothing. Radio silence.

By now, it’s dead quiet. Everyone is gone. You feel an icy chill zip down your spine, like you’re being watched…

You miss your father. He died about a year ago, and he was always on time.

You startle when the phone in your hand buzzes. It’s your stepbrother Phil.

“Hey!” you say. “Where’s LeAnn?”

“Passed out again,” Phil says with a beleaguered sigh. “Where are you? Did Jonathan give you a ride home?”

“No, I told him your mom was coming to get me,” you say. “Can you—”

Beep! Beep! Beep!

You pull the phone away from your ear and groan. It’s dead. Just great.

A streetlight across the parking lot flickers. When your eyes adjust, your heart drops through your stupid mascot feet and to the center of the earth: there’s a man watching you.

You can’t tell, but it looks like he’s wearing a mask. You gulp, panic stretching itself through every fiber of your being.

“Please don’t be the Hawkins Hacker,” you mumble to yourself. “Please don’t be the Hacker. Please don’t be the Hacker.”

The Man continues to stare. Something glints in his hand. It frightens you.

“My stepbrother is on his way!” you yell, hoping to scare him off. “He’s a cop. With a gun.”

That doesn’t seem to bother the man at all. In fact, you see him walk toward you—a slow, Michael-Meyers-esque stride that has you shrieking in fear and stumbling to the school doors.

You yank at them to no avail. You don’t bother looking back and instead run around the school building to the football field. Panting from exertion and sheer fear, you duck under the bleachers and hide behind a big banner.

You slap a hand over your mouth to quiet your panicked whimpers. Why oh why did you trust LeAnn to get you on time, when every night for the past month she’s drank a whole bottle of chardonnay at 6 p.m. and passed out? Why didn’t you go with Jonathan when he offered? Hell, why didn’t you ask Steve for a ride? He’s a nice guy! He would’ve done it!

Now, you’re hiding from a slasher in a stupid rubber gray mask. And if you die and come back as a ghost, you’ll be wearing the Hawkins High mascot suit for all eternity.

You watch the Hackers’ feet as he stands in front of the bleachers and listen as he steps on them. He seems to think you’ve left, and you hear him wander off.

Or, so you think. Actually, he sneaks up behind you and grabs your leg, yanking you out from your hiding place.

You scream and kick at him, hitting him right in the nose and giving you the chance to run.

You don’t get far, though. He tackles you somewhere around the fifty-yard line.

“No! No!” you scream as he raises the knife above you. The knife has a spider carved in the handle with red ruby eyes. “Please! No!”

You push at him, knocking his mask off. His face is gaunt: all sallow cheekbones and purple under-eye bags. His eyes are a dull, washed-out blue, and his blonde hair is scraggly and unwashed.

You hate that his face is the last face you’ll ever see.

He plunges the dagger into your shoulder just a few inches shy of your heart and you scream in pain, the bloodcurdling sound echoing across the football field. The Hacker hisses in pain and drops the knife. He touches his shoulder and looks angry at the sight of blood on his fingertips.

His blood. From the wound that appeared on his shoulder after he stabbed you in the same spot.

Bang! Bang!

“GET AWAY FROM HER!” Phil roars from across the football stadium, gun raised in the air.

The Hacker stumbles to his feet and ambles off. Still prone on the ground, you turn on your stomach and watch him go, shocked at what you witnessed. How did he get stabbed?

You’re in so much shock, you don’t even realize that Phil is by your side until he gently helps you sit up.

“You’re okay!” he says, voice tinged with an urgency you’ve never heard from him before. “I’ve got you, okay? I’ve got you.”

“It hurt him too,” you mutter, a bit delirious. “It hurt him too!”

“Try to stay calm, okay?” Phil says. “You’re in shock. I got you, Y/N.”

You hear him bark into his radio: “This is Officer Callahan! Send an RA unit to the Hawkins High football field! My stepsisters’ been stabbed!”

The rest of your evening is a blur. You get patched up by paramedics and then taken to the police station to give a statement.

LeAnn arrives as you’re sitting with the sketch artist, crying and screaming and apologizing a million times. You forgive her (even though you aren’t sure you want to), and later that night, you hear Phil chewing her out for drinking and forgetting you again.

“She could’ve died, Mom!” you hear him yell as you lie in bed and try to sleep. “If I had been just a minute too late, we would’ve lost her and Allen in the span of 11 months!”

“I’m sorry!” LeAnn sobs. “I just had one glass—”

“One glass, Mom?! Try the whole bottle!”

Despite your anger at her, your heart breaks for LeAnn. You know your dad’s death has been hard on her. She hasn’t been doing too well since he passed, but sometimes you wish she’d realize you weren’t doing that great either. Phil tries to comfort you both, but he’s so busy with work, his pep talks are usually thirty seconds long between bites of a bagel before he’s rushing off to save Hawkins again.

Your phone blows up with texts and DMs. Somehow, the kids at school found out what happened and won’t stop messaging you for details on your encounter with the Hacker. You can’t deal with it. Except, there are some messages that you do respond to:

---

Text Thread with BOBBIN and JONNY B GOOD

BOBBIN: Oh my God!!! Y/N are you okay??? Please text back!!!

JONNY B GOOD: We saw what happened on the news. Please text us when you have a chance. We’re worried about you and thinking of you rn.

BOBBIN: WE’RE FREAKING OUT!!! ARE YOU OKAY???

JONNY B GOOD: Robin, just chill. She’s probably resting.

BOBBIN: Please don’t die and leave me alone to third wheel Nancy and Jonathan!!

JONNY B GOOD: Wooooow.

YOU: Wow is right. I got stabbed and those are your priorities?

BOBBIN: SHE LIVES!!!! YEAHHHHHHH!!!

YOU: Yep, I’m alive. I’m really sorry but I feel like shit. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?

JONNY B GOOD: Of course. We’re here when you need us.

BOBBIN: WE LOVE YOU <3

YOU: <3

---

DMs from steve.anthony.h83

STEVE (steve.anthony.h83): Hey Y/N I saw the news I rly hope ur OK

YOU (y/n.y/l/n86): Hi Steve, thank you for reaching out. It means a lot to me. I’m not feeling too good right now.

STEVE (steve.anthony.h83): Im sry to here that that sux 😞😢💔

---

God, even his text message typos and cheesy emoji usage are endearing. You’re in too deep with this crush.

---

YOU (y/n.y/l/n86): Yeah. But I think I’ll be okay.

STEVE (steve.anthony.h83): Anything I can do 2 help? Maybe I can get u smtg, wats ur fav candy?

YOU (y/n.y/l/n86): Oh, that’s sweet, but you don’t have to do that!

STEVE (steve.anthony.h83): I want too 😃 do u like nougat

YOU (y/n.y/l/n86): I love nougat!

STEVE (steve.anthony.h83): Perfect 😃 Ill bring u sum tmrw after school 🍫

YOU (y/n.y/l/n86): Thank you, Steve ❤️

STEVE (steve.anthony.h83): Feel better Y/N 😃😃

You go to sleep, shaken up but in slightly higher spirits thanks to your conversation with Steve.

🔪🔪🔪

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 13th, 2023

You blink awake hours later, startled at the sight around you.

You aren’t in your room. You’re lying on a mattress on a concrete floor. The room around you is full of weird stuff: grandfather clocks, paintings upon paintings of black widow spiders, and mannequins with nails in their faces like Pinhead.

“What the hell!” you say. You gasp and clutch your neck. “Why is my voice so deep?!”

You stagger to your feet and look around the creepy space. Why are you further from the floor than usual? In the corner, you see a mirror half-covered with a sheet. You yank it off and gasp.

“AHHHH! IT’S THE HAWKINS HACKER!” you scream.

The Hacker screams as well. You reach your hand toward the glass—and the Hacker reaches his hand toward it as well. You pull it away and so does he.

The you in the reflection is the Hacker. Holy shit.

You realize where you are: the old mill. Phil told you to stay away from this place because it’s where drug deals go down, and where Eleanor Gillespie got attacked by birds that one time.

You rush away before you can freak out too much. You head downtown, mind swirling.

This must just be a nightmare. Right? A really, really realistic, terrifying lucid dream.

But when you hit your head on a tree branch (because you’re way, way taller than you used to be) and it actually hurts, you realize it’s not a dream. You’re really the Hawkins Hacker. Somehow, you’ve swapped bodies with a homicidal maniac.

You need to find Phil. He’s been your stepbrother for a decade now and you trust him more than anyone else. He might be able to know what to do—or just be a shoulder to cry on.

You pass an electronics store, and your heart sinks when you see your face—the Hackers’ face—on TV.

“The Hawkins Hacker has been identified as Henry Creel,” the news anchor says, showing a photo of the face that you are unfortunately saddled with now. “He’s most known for killing his mother, father, and sister as a teenager—and also for driving a Jeep Wrangler through a Dairy Queen drive-through window without a license.”

“Hey!” someone shouts nearby, having connected the dots. “You’re the killer guy from TV!”

You don’t even stop to see who’s yelling at you before you run as fast as you can, ducking through alleyways to lose whoever’s chasing you.

You can’t go to the police station now that your face is plastered all over the news and social media. But you need an ally, or allies.

Besides Phil, the people you trust the most are Robin and Jonathan. You sneak into Hawkins High through the gymnasium doors, wishing you had your mascot head to hide under. Then, you take a quick shower in the locker rooms and hide until class change is done.

You slink through the empty hallways and make it to the school’s auditorium. That’s where you, Robin, and Jonathan spend study hall every day.

You open the door to the theater as quiet as a mouse, hiding in the wings for a moment when you overhear them talking about you.

“I hope Y/N’s doing okay,” Robin says with a sigh. She takes a bite of an apple and says through chews, “Why did she blow us off earlier?”

“Give her a break, Rob,” Jonathan says. “She’s probably really shaken up. But it is weird that she even came to school anyway. I wonder—”

“Guys!” you say, stepping onto the stage. “It’s me! Don’t freak out.”

They immediately freak out.

“AHHHHH!!! THE HACKER!!!” Robin screams. She chucks an apple core at your head and it bounces between your eyes. You stumble back and groan.

“COME ON!” Jonathan says, grabbing her hand and dragging her away from your, fear flashing in both of their eyes.

“Wait!” you shout. “Come back!”

You follow them as they run through the hallways and end up in the school cafeteria’s kitchen. A lunch lady shrieks and runs out when she sees you.

“Stop!” you call, following Robin and Jonathan to the back room. “Wait! Please just hear me out.”

Jonathan snatches up a soup ladle and hits you in the spine with it.

“ARGH! Dude, stop!”

Robin grabs a tray of mozzarella sticks and lifts it above her head. The sticks go flying when she whacks you in the head. Repeatedly.

Angry that they won’t stop hitting you, you yank the tray out of Robin’s hand and toss it away. Your newfound strength the body you’ve found yourself in possesses surprises you. The old you would’ve grappled with Robin a lot longer before getting the tray from her, if you even got it at all.

Robin tries to jump on your back piggyback-style to tackle you to the ground, and you elbow her in the stomach.

“Cut that out!” you bark as she wheezes.

Jonathan hits you again with the ladle and you shove his shoulder, a bit too hard. He falls on his butt and winces.

“Enough!” you say. “We’ve hit each other over and over. Can we agree we’re all tired and end this?!”

“No!” Jonathan says, pulling himself back to his feet by gripping a countertop. “You attacked our friend and now you’re attacking us!”

“I’m not attacking you!” you say. “I’m trying to get you to listen. I am not Henry Creel. I am not the Hawkins Hacker. I’M Y/N! YOUR FRIEND Y/N Y/L/N!”

“As if!” Robin scoffs. “I’m calling 911.”

You snatch the phone from her hands and hold it high above your head. She’s tall, but not tall enough to reach it thanks to your longer arms.

“I promise!” you beg, holding your other arm up in surrender. “It’s me. It’s Y/N!”

“Yeah, right!” Jonathan says darkly. He picks up the ladle again, wielding it like a lethal weapon. “Tell us something only Y/N would know or we’re going to the cops.”

“What’s Y/N’s favorite movie?” Robin asks, eyes narrowed.

“I tell everyone it’s Casablanca but it’s The Muppets Take Manhattan!”

“Favorite candy?” Jonathan demands.

“Three Musketeers because I feel guilty that everyone shits on nougat when it’s really not that bad!”

“Who’s Y/N’s biggest crush?” Robin asks.

The face that’s not yours blushes deeply.

“Duh,” you say. “It’s Steve the Hair Harrington.”

Jonathan and Robin share a look. A sense of realization flashes on their faces.

“Handshake?” you offer. You hand Robin her phone back and hold out your hands—or, Henry Creel’s hands—and wait.

Robin and Jonathan slap you five, before the three of you complete the intricate handshake you made up in seventh grade.

“Holy shit!” Robin shrieks, eyes shining. “You’re really Y/N!”

She pulls you and Jonathan in for a group hug and you laugh.

“Oh, thank god,” you say. “If you didn’t believe me, I don’t know what I’d—"

“Hold on,” Jonathan says, pulling out of the hug. “If you’re actually Y/N, that means the Hawkins Hacker is going around school wearing your face!”

“Oh damn,” Robin says. “Is that why you look hot today?”

“What do you mean I look hot?” you say, trying not to take offense to the implication that you don’t look hot every day.

Robin opens Instagram and shows you a photo posted to the student-run Hawkins High Gossip Instagram page. It’s a blurry photo of you (or Henry Creel in your body) walking in the hall past Billy and his asshole friends, who are checking you out. Instead of your usual mousy wardrobe of flowy skirts and cardigans, you’re wearing a tight black tank top, a red leather jacket, and bright red lipstick.

“Hot damn!” you blurt out. “I do look hot! Shit, have I hurt anyone? Or, has he hurt anyone?”

Jonathan grimaces.

“Tommy H. was found unconscious in the chem lab,” he says. “He was mostly fine, except his eyebrows were burned clean off…”

“But if fake-you did that,” Robin says quickly, “you aren’t liable because you weren’t in control of your body!”

“I don’t even know how we body-swapped in the first place!” you lament. “How do I get control of my body back?!”

“Let’s think about this,” Jonathan says. “Maybe it was some kind…spell? Or enchantment?”

“Enchantment?!” you snap. “Dude, be for real!”

“Wait,” Robin says, eyes shining. “I heard about this!”

She opened the internet app on her phone and went to www,theweeklywatcher,com/body-swap.

“No fucking way,” you say. “The Weekly Watcher is not a refutable source!”

“Why not?!” she says, scrolling ferociously until— “Ah! Found it.”

She shows you an article about the mythology of body swapping. At first, you roll your eyes, but then—

“That knife!” you gasp. “That’s the knife he had!”

You point to the photo, featuring the ruby-eyed spider in the knife handle.

“According to this,” Jonathan says, “that knife is an artifact that was used in ancient rituals."

“If you’re struck with the blade when the clock strikes midnight,” Robin reads, “you and your attacker switch places. And you have 24 hours to stab him and switch back.” 

“No, no, no!” you groan. “That means we only have 12 hours left!”

“That’s plenty of time,” Jonathan says. “Where’s the knife? You have it, right?”

“No!” you say. “Phil took it as evidence.”

“So we’ll just steal it from the police station,” Robin says, as if it’s easy and obvious.

“Oh, sure,” you lament. “We’ll just waltz into the police station while I have the face and body of a mass murderer and steal evidence. Easy-peasy!”

“We’ll figure something out,” Jonathan says. “Come on.”

The three of you head toward the exit and end up walking past the woodshop classroom. You do a double-take and watch yourself enter the hallway. Or, you watch the Hawkins Hacker parade around as you.

“Hey, stop!” you shout at Henry Creel. He pauses and turns. A shiver runs down your spine at the dark, evil look gracing your features. Features you’ve seen your whole life, features you’ve struggled to like after years of taunting and bullying. Now, they’re marred with the evil spirit of the Hawkins Hacker.

Yet, goddamn. You look hot with red lipstick. Who knew slashers had good fashion sense?

“Don’t try to run,” Jonathan says, the waver in his voice indicating that his bravery is false. “We’ve got you cornered.”

The Hacker suddenly changes expressions. Instead of a nasty glare, he opens his eyes wide, covers his cheeks with his hands, and shrieks: “AHHHH! IT’S THE HAWKINS HACKER! GET HIM!”

A couple cops run around the corner of the hall and you curse, rushing toward a side door with Robin and Jonathan in tow.

“GET YOUR KEYS!” you yell. “We have to get out of here or I’m headed to jail forever!”

Jonathan struggles to start his car, but he peels away just before the cops can stop you all. After your first-ever police chase, you three lose your tail in the parking lot of the big-box store LeAnn works at.

You hide out in a changing room while Jonathan and Robin find you a disguise—a plastic Halloween mask of Bill Clinton’s face.

“I can’t see or breathe in this thing,” you grumble as your friends lead you back to the car.

“If you get arrested,” Robin points out, “you won’t be able to switch back.”

You bite your tongue from any further complaints, too worried about just that.

“So, what’s the plan?” Jonathan asks, once you all are back in his car. “How can we get the knife?”

“About that,” Robin says. “I think we need to bring in your stepbrother.”

“If Phil doesn't believe us, we're in big trouble!” you protest.

“He’s an ally!” Robin shoots back. “And we need one if we’re going to…oh shit.”

She holds up her phone screen for you and Jonathan to see. You squint through the eye holes of your uncomfortable mask and gasp when you realize what’s going on.

“Fuck!” you groan. “What the hell is he doing?!”

It’s another post from the school gossip Insta. The Hawkins Hacker is schmoozing with Billy and his clique of jerks at the local indoor mini-golf place. You watch in the video as he leans into Billy’s ear and whispers something before sauntering off.

The caption of the post says, “OMG is Y/N Y/L/N like, hot now?!”

“I resent this!” you snap. “Why is everyone under the impression that I’m not hot all the time?!”

“No, no, no!” Jonathan gasps. “Look!”

At the tail end of the video, you see Nancy and Steve follow Henry Creel into the glow-in-the-dark golf course.

“They’re going to get killed!” he says, turning the ignition in his car with shaking hands and reversing haphazardly, almost taking out a mulberry bush as he speeds toward the golf place. “Robin, call Nancy now.”

“She’s not picking up!” Robin says, phone to her ear. “I’ll text!”

Your stomach churns with anxiety. If the Hacker kills Nancy and Steve while he’s in your body and you switch back, you’ll feel guilty forever. You’ll also go to jail. But if you don’t switch back, you’ll go to jail as Henry! This is all too much.

You’re certain the pale face that doesn’t belong to you is green right now as Jonathan drives like a racecar driver to save his girlfriend and your crush from “your” wrath.

🔪🔪🔪

Steve’s not sure what’s gotten into you today.

First, you showed up to school. That was surprising after your attack.

“Hey!” he had said when you walked into woodshop class. “How you feeling?”

You hadn’t responded, but you had looked quite intrigued when he accidentally cut his finger working on his birdhouse.

“Ah, shit,” he’d grumbled. “Do you have a—”

You leaned over and licked the blood clean off his finger. It startled him—and annoyed him when that freak Eddie Munson mumbled, “Whoa, that’s hot,” from across the worktable.

Steve’s cheeks glowed rosy red, flustered at your boldness. But you’d left class before he could do or say anything about it (or give you the candy he brought for you).

And now, after school, you’re standing with Billy and whispering salacious things into his ear. Since when do you like Billy? Billy, the guy that throws things at you? Billy, the guy that wrote “Y/N Y/L/N is an ugly stupid bitch” on the bathroom stalls? Billy, the guy that didn’t give you the time of day until you dressed differently?!

Why doesn’t she like me?! Steve thought, trying to look unaffected as you continued flirting with Billy. He fails, the wrinkle between his brows getting deeper as you continue talking to Billy in a low voice.

“Steve,” Nancy says urgently, rushing up to him. “We need to talk.”

“Can it wait?” Steve says. He crosses his arms. “I don’t want to do anything right now except sulk.”

“Something’s really, really wrong,” Nancy continues, ignoring Steve’s pity party. “Jonathan’s MIA and isn’t messaging me back. And neither is Robin. And Carol claims she saw them earlier get in Jonathan’s car with a tall, blond weirdo.”

“So, maybe they have a new friend,” Steve says. He squeezes the handle of his mini-golf putter and watches you walk toward the glow-in-the-dark course. “I need to go talk to Y/N.”

“No!” Nancy hisses, following him as they cut through the crowds. She tucks her phone deep in her purse. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. The Hawkins Hacker is a tall, blond weirdo. Carol didn’t get a good look, but—”

“But you think your boyfriend and Robin are rubbing elbows with a killer? Nance, that’s bullshit.”

“It’s not!” she snaps. “I think that, somehow, that tall blond weirdo is actually Y/N and that girl that you’re going to go talk to is the Hacker.”

“That makes no goddamn sense,” Steve says. “Body-swapping isn’t possible.”

“Just listen to me! I was reading an article in The Weekly Watcher…”

Nancy follows Steve into the course, whispering her findings and bringing up Y/N’s odd behavior as they navigate the dark room lit up with black lights.

The more he listens, the more it makes sense. You’re not acting like yourself. But it still seems too far-fetched.

“I don’t know, Nance,” Steve says, scanning the room for you. “I think you need to stop listening to Robin so much.”

Swish! The beaded curtain leading into the next section of the course rattles as Henry Creel barrels through.

“Nancy! Steve!” he yells. “Watch out!”

Henry pushes them to the side and grabs Y/N’s hand—huh, when did you sneak up behind Steve and Nancy? The Hacker twists your wrist and you cry out.

“Y/N!” Steve shouts, rushing forward to protect you. Before he can, Jonathan and Robin grab his arms.

“No, no, let them fight!” Robin says.

“Let go of me!” Steve snaps.

He watches, helpless, as the Hawkins Hacker punches you between the eyes and you crumple like sand.

“Whoa, cool!” Henry Creel says, turning around and facing the four teens with an excited glimmer in his eye. “I’ve never knocked someone out with one punch before.”

“Wait!” Nancy says. “Am I right?”

“Right about what?” Jonathan asks.

“Did Henry and Y/N…switch bodies?”

Henry (or, Y/N?) puts his hands on his hips.

“Girl, how did you know?”

It all becomes too much for Steve. He blacks out.

🔪🔪🔪

When Steve wakes, he’s lying on the Byers’ couch. Henry Creel sits on a kitchen chair next to him.

Steve opens his mouth to scream.

“Wait!” Henry says. “Steve, don’t freak out. It’s me! I know I look like the Hacker, but it’s Y/N!”

Across the room, the person that looks like you is tied to another kitchen chair.

“Steve, don’t listen to him!” Y/N laments. “He’s crazy! He brainwashed these three idiots into working for him!”

“Who are you calling idiot, idiot?” Robin snaps.

“Steve, I was right,” Nancy explains patiently, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Y/N and Henry Creel have switched places.”

“No!” the tied-up Y/N shrieks. “Please! Steve, look at me.”

Steve turns his head toward her.

“No!” Henry says. “Look at me, Steve.”

Steve turns back toward the Hacker/potential real you.

“Steve!” the tied-up Y/N groans, trying to sound in distress but actually moaning like a Bridgerton reject. “Steve! Steeeeeeeve!”

“Oh, dry up, bitch!” Robin snaps.

“Jesus Christ, Robin!” Henry says. “Don’t talk to him like that when he’s got my face. That’s rude.”

“This is all too much,” Steve says, jumping to his feet. “I—I can’t be here.”

He darts toward the door, but before he can exit the Byers house, Henry stands and says, “We danced together at our freshman year Snow Ball!”

Steve pauses with his hand on the door handle.

“It was in the parking lot,” Henry continues. “You were vaping and I was leaving early, because truthfully, I was having a terrible time. But I saw you, and you saw me, and we split a snowflake-shaped sugar cookie and talked for, like, half an hour. And then someone propped the doors open and we could hear the DJ, and he was playing that creepy ’80s song about always watching someone, and we ragged on the lyrics for being weird and stalker-y. But you asked me if I wanted to dance, and we did for half a minute, and then my dad came to pick me up and I left. But that was the most fun I had had all semester and it gave me a fat, embarrassing crush on you. And I really, really wish I wasn’t a total coward, or I would’ve told you way sooner than our senior year—and when I wasn’t in the body of a serial killer.”

Steve watches the way Henry nervously wrings his hands—he recognizes it as a habit of yours. For a long minute, he’s not sure what to think.

🔪🔪🔪

For a long minute, you’re not sure what to think.

You just blurted out your secret crush on Steve Harrington to Steve Harrington, and he’s staring at you like he doesn’t understand you.

But then, he gives you a small smile.

“Maybe this is weird to say while you’re in the body of a serial killer,” Steve says, “but I have a fat, embarrassing crush on you, too.”

Your heart soars.

“Pathetic,” the fake-you/the Hacker grumbles. “You’re both cowards. I can’t wait to gut you like a fish.”

“That’s enough!” Nancy says sharply, shoving a sock into the Hacker’s mouth. He glares up at her with your face, but Nancy doesn’t even flinch.

“Now that that’s out of the way,” Jonathan says, “let’s divide and conquer. I’ll stay here to keep an eye on murder Barbie.”

He nods in the direction of the scowling, incapacitated Hacker.

“And I’ll drive the rest of us to the police station,” Nancy says. “Y/N, you’ll stay in the car while we distract your stepbrother and steal that knife back. He should be the only one working, because everyone else is hunting you. Er, Henry.”

“Knife?” Steve asks. “What knife?”

“It’s a spooky, magic dagger and it’s the reason Y/N and Henry Creel are swapped!” Robin says.

Steve blinks once, twice.

“Right. Totally. That makes sense.”

“Let’s go!” you say. “We have four more hours to do this!”

🔪🔪🔪

While Nancy and Robin go to get the knife, you and Steve wait in the car.

It’s a little awkward, due to the circumstances. When you imagined sitting in the backseat of a car with Steve Harrington, you hoped for something a little more amorous. Not you in the body of the Hawkins Hacker.

You start to feel a little brave and even consider reaching for his hand to hold—when you see the fake you running down the sidewalk and into the station.

“What?!” you say. “How’d he get out?!”

“Shit,” Steve says. “You stay out of sight, I’ll try and stop him.”

“No!” you say. “My stepbrother’s in there! I have to go help. You stay here and call Jonathan! Make sure he’s okay.”

Steve frowns but nods, agreeing to stay behind.

When you bolt into the police station, you see Phil with his hand on his holster, glaring at Robin and Nancy. Fake you feigns a frightened gasp and runs behind him when you enter, and Phil pulls his gun and points it at you. You throw your hands up.

“Don’t shoot!” you squeak.

“Kill him!” Henry says from his hiding spot.

“Don’t! Stop!” Robin and Nancy shout.

You see the spider dagger on the ground by your friends’ feet. Before you can try and grab it, Henry does and runs out of the station.

Phil doesn’t even give him a second look.

“Put your hands behind your head,” he says to you, “and walk slowly into the cell.”

“This is a mistake!” you protest, but following his instructions so you don’t get pumped with lead.

“Please, Officer Callahan,” Robin begs.

“We’re telling the truth,” Nancy says, “just—”

“Quiet, you two!” he barks. “You! Keep walking.”

You gulp and step into the cell.

“Do you remember what I got you for Christmas in 2017?” you ask.

“Shut up,” Phil says. You glance behind. He still has the gun pointed at your back, but you see his hands shaking. And his finger’s not on the trigger.

“It was a pack of limited-edition Pokémon cards,” you continue. “Mint condition. With a holographic Charizard. But I didn’t realize I ordered a rip-off pack called Pokeymans, so it was actually a Chumpizard card.”

“How the fuck do you know that?!” Phil demands, voice shaking in tandem with his hands.

“Because I’m not the Hawkins Hacker!” you say. “I’m really Y/N. And…I’m sorry about this.”

With Henry Creel’s strength, you knock the gun out of Phil’s hands. It skitters across the floor, and you yank him by the arm into the cell.

He stumbles against the back wall and you step out, closing the door and locking him inside.

“HEY!” Phil screams, yanking at the bars. “LET ME OUT!”

“I’m so sorry!” you say. “But it’s really me. I have to hunt that bitch down and stab him with the stolen dagger and then our bodies will switch back and things will be normal again!”

“STAY AWAY FROM MY SISTER!” Phil roars, evidently not buying into the body-swap story.

Touched, you clasp your hands to your chest.

“Wait, you called me your sister!” you say. “Not stepsister! That’s so sweet. You’re my brother, Phil. And I’m going to make things right.”

Phil furrows his brow, confused, as you run out with Nancy and Robin in tow.

Jonathan and Steve meet you three out front.

“Your brother can’t drive for shit!” Steve says. “He just almost ran us over with his squad car.” “That wasn’t Phil!” you say. “It was Henry! He stole his cop car. But why? Where the fuck is he going?”

“Earlier this evening,” Nancy says urgently, “I heard you—uh, him—tell Billy that they should throw a homecoming party at the old mill, since they canceled the real dance.”

“That’s where he lives!" you say. "His homebase. It’s where I woke up this morning.”

“It’s his hunting ground,” Robin says darkly. “No doubt he’ll be killing teens left and right.”

“We have to stop him,” Jonathan says.

“No shit, Byers!” Steve says. “Let’s go!”

🔪🔪🔪

When you arrive at the mill, your group agrees to split up.

“Wait!” Steve says, before you dart off. “Hold out your arm.”

You hesitate and do as he says. He attaches his watch to your wrist.

“I always have it set for five minutes ahead,” Steve explains. “So I’m not late to stuff. So we have 30 minutes to find the Hacker, get the knife, and do the switch.”

“Everyone keep your phones close,” Jonathan says. “Move out!”

You divide and conquer, searching the party of wild, drunk teenagers for the evil man wearing your face. Eventually, you find him in an empty back room — towering over an unconscious Billy with an axe in hand, ready to whack the bully in the skull.

“WAIT!” you yell. “STOP!”

The Hacker freezes and turns, giving you an evil smile. You see the hilt of the magical dagger shining in a sheath attached to his belt. 

“It’s you again,” he spits.

“Yes, hi,” you say. “It’s me. And I’m going to ask you to put the axe down before I make you.”

The Hacker cackles.

“Really?” he says. “Even in your pathetic, puny body, I could overpower you in half a second. Plus, this jerk makes your life hell. Don’t you want me to finish him off?”

“No!” you snap. “Because I’m not a monster like you!”

You notice Jonathan in a doorframe behind the Hacker, staying out of his eyeline.

“What’s your problem, man?” you ask, hoping to distract him so Jonathan can take him by surprise. “Why do you kill people?”

“Do you really want to know why?” Henry asks. You nod.

“Well, guess what: there’s no reason. None at all. I kill people because I think it’s fun!”

“You’re sick,” you mutter.

He grins evilly.

“And you’re my next vict—Argh!”

Jonathan interrupts the Hacker’s evil spiel by hitting him in the back of the skull with a fire extinguisher. The murderer crumples to the ground, the axe flying out of his reach.

He doesn’t stay down for long. Thankfully, you’re able to tackle him and snatch the magical knife into your hand.

You raise it above your head, and—

Beep. Beep. Beep.

You gasp and look at Steve’s watch. The timer is done. You’re out of time.

The Hacker laughs and laughs and laughs.

“Shit,” you say, tears of anger and despair welling up in your eyes. “Shit! I’m stuck like this!”

“I win!” the Hacker cackles. “You’ll be tossed in jail, and I’ll be free to keep killing. I think I'll stab your little boyfriend Steve next.”

You’re about to drop the dagger and run, unsure of where to go or what to do, when Jonathan says: “Wait, the clock tower!”

You whip your head over to look at him, brow furrowed.

“The clock tower in the library!” Jonathan continues. “It’s not going off! You still have time!”

Puzzle pieces fall into place.

“Steve sets his watch five minutes ahead,” you say, glancing at your wrist.

Henry Creel’s eyes widen, and then you plunge the dagger into his shoulder.

You feel strange, like you’re floating in the air. Then, suddenly, both you and the Hacker are thrown backward.

When you hazily blink and sit up, you see the Hacker doing the same.

“It worked!” you say, face splitting into a grin.

The Hacker glares at you. You feel a chill down your spine. But before he can do or say anything, your brother swoops in with his gun raised.

“Hands where I can see them!” Phil yells. The Hacker grumbles but obeys. You and Jonathan skirt away from him as Phil slaps handcuffs on the killer and drags him into a squad car.

“Y/N!” Robin shouts, running over with Nancy and Steve in tow. “Are you okay?!”

“I’m okay,” you say. You wince and grip your shoulder. “Except I reopened my shoulder wound, and I think I’m going to have really, really freaky dreams every night for the rest of my life.”

Phil races back over once his colleagues have Henry Creel in custody, fussing over you like a mother (brother) hen. You find yourself seated in the back of an ambulance with a freshly bandaged shoulder.

After Phil steps away to debrief Chief Hopper on the arrest (and to lock the magical dagger away once and for all), Steve wanders over.

“Can I sit here?” he asks, gesturing vaguely next to you on the back bumper of the ambulance. You nod and scoot over.

“How’s your arm?” Steve asks.

“It’s mine again,” you say, “so it feels amazing, despite the stab wound.”

“I’m definitely glad to see you as yourself again,” Steve says, cheeks flushing pink. He looks down at his fidgeting hands, the epitome of bashful, when he adds, “Actually, now that you’re yourself again, I was going to ask if you wanted to go on a date with me sometime.”

Your insides melt.

“Really?” you practically squeal, trying not to sound too eager. “Ah, I mean. That would be cool, or whatever.”

Before you can convince yourself not to, you give Steve a quick kiss on the cheek. He beams at you, but you both roll your eyes when you hear Robin, Jonathan, and Nancy hoot and holler from a few yards away.

Everything will be fine, now. You’ll be fine. That’s what you tell yourself when Phil drives you home and LeAnn gives you a million hugs and says how happy she is that you’re okay. That’s what you tell yourself when you fall asleep after having a lovely text conversation with Steve. That’s what you tell yourself when you have nightmares about being stuck as the Hacker forever, nightmares where he escapes jail and kills you (and everyone you love) once and for all.

But you tell yourself it’s fine, that you’re fine. That nothing is wrong, despite the chill down your spine that can’t quite go away.

🔪🔪🔪

a/n a happy yet spooky ending. is everything really fine? is the hacker really gone for good? maybe I'll write a sequel one day. or maybe I won't, as to not torture y/n any more.

tag list: @hollandweather @starry-eyed-steve @aloneinthehellfire @a-dealwith-god

if any of my mutuals (or anyone else) would like to be tagged in any of my future steve fics, lmk!

#st fic: superfreaky #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n

[johannestevans]

an interesting aspect of criminal minds is how constantly and continuously other people - especially women - acknowledge that reid is a sexually appealing target for men to enact sexual violence on / toward

men in cop shows will irregularly acknowledge less masculine men's sexual appeal as a kind of implicit threat of sexual violence and also as a way to show/display how dominant/masculine they are themselves

like derek hanging a rape whistle around reid's neck is a joke at reid's expense, but that "playful" emasculation is as much about his own status as an alpha male and his position in the pecking order as it is about reid

when women acknowledge it or make jokes about it, like garcia saying that if the two of them go to prison reid is going to be someone's bitch, she's not positioning herself as dominant to reid

she's making a joke about what's a realistic state of affairs

yes, it's a rape joke told at reid's expense, but like. it's also just dark humour at what garcia knows is the REALITY of his situation, and how appealing he is to other men as a target to victimize bc of his relative effeminacy and his prettiness

and i entirely understand some people's disdain for the obsession w reid bc like, yeah, part of the reason fans find him so appealing is bc he's so thin and white, and that's why other characters are often demonised to further show him as a perfect and desirable victim

esp in contrast to morgan as a Black man and to the diff women in the series

but for a show to like. acknowledge a man as someone who'd be a rapist's first target, including over the women in the room, not necessarily by gay men but just bc of a combo of traits is. SO MUCH to me

reid frequently refers to his intellect as the reason that he got bullied, but it's about that and his autistic traits in combination w like... not just a skinny, gangling frame and big eyes and pale skin and floppy hair and his dated, soft clothes, but also just

his gender is nerd. there's a queerness to him. it's partly MGG himself and partly the way MGG plays him, but reid comes off as queer even to straight people - they don't know if he's a closeted trans woman or a bisexual or just a male rape victim

but they know he's queer.

they know he's not A Cis Straight Man, they know that he's doing gender Wrong and Badly

and for this, a lot of people meet him - esp in the hypermasculine environs of law enforcement and also prisons etc - and immediately want to punish his gender transgressions

and they want to punish those transgressions specifically with sexual and/or drawn-out intimate violence

just like they do to real-life gay boys and transfems and any other man or "man" who seems too queer to them

and god esp from a cop show like. so many cop shows are about these dynamics but don't actually acknowledge them in most episodes bc it's icky and unpleasant bc why would any good rapist (eg your average cop) want to rape a man

whereas for all its many many MANY flaws, it's so present in criminal minds from the get-go, and to have it in a regular, recurring char from the start and to have it constantly acknowledged is part of why this show is such catnip to me

#musings #criminal minds #spencer reid

[ssaseaprince]

I had a very cursed realization, and I need to share it with y'all. There is an uncanny amount of similarities between Carlisle Cullen/Charlie Swan, and Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter.

First off, Carlisle and Hannibal are both blonde. They're both described as almost inhuman looking and stunningly attractive. They both have a deep fascination with humanity. They're both doctors. They're both very, very formal and intelligent. They both are incredibly manipulative and are practically worshiped by the people around them. They both have a favourite child that is seen as almost a protégé (Edward for Carlisle and Abigail for Hannibal). They both have extremely tragic back stories.

Now, when it comes to Will and Charlie, there are a ton of similarities between them as well. They've both got that dark brown, longer, floppy hair. They're both very casual, simple people. They both love to fish and be outdoors. They're both cops. They both have daughters that they struggle to connect with.

What the fuck is going on

#And I'm talking about the ship between carlisle and charlie mostly as it compares to hannigram #because holy fuck #what is this #why are they so alike what is happening #this is cursed knowledge #hannibal #nbc hannibal #hannibal lecter #will graham #hannibal nbc #hannigram #hannibal and will #twilight #new moon #eclipse #breaking dawn #charlie swan #carlisle cullen #bella swan #abigail hobbs

[choices-binglebonkus]

Astrid could give me a little tap on the head too…if she wanted…

#not me thirsting over her as a now confirmed murderer #it’s that damn floppy hat + hairstyle + her eyebrows #fuck dude I’m being so gay rn #women in floppy hats 🥵 #astrid thorne #choices stories you play #playchoices #choices stories we play #pixelberry #pixelberry studios #playchoices fandom #choices stories you play fandom #choices stories we play fandom #crimes of passion #choices crimes of passion #choices cop

[howlinchickhowl]

Did ya miss me? I wrote a little something for time travel day. Thanks @gallavichthings for hosting! warning: a version of Mickey has died in this universe, but because of time travel he is also very much alive in the story. if that is not for you then see ya next time :) Whole fic under the cut for this reason.

like the corners of my mind twenty-eight - time travel

He doesn’t know, exactly, why this is the moment he chose today. Of all their moments together, this one was not exactly notable. Almost non-existent really. It’s probably not at all what Mickey had had in mind when he’d shoved the gold chain into Ian’s hand and told him with his dying breath that he could see Mickey any time he wanted, after he was gone.

It’s not like he hasn’t done any of what Mickey intended for him to do. He’s gone back to so many days that were significant for them; watched from across the street as they emerged, flushed and thrilled from the Cash & Grab the first time Mickey booty-called him, hid round a corner and listened for their thundering footsteps running away from the cops the day that Mickey kicked the shit out of Ned in boystown. He’s visited some days that were less significant too; afternoons watching from a park bench while his younger self laid in the grass with his husband and read his book aloud for Mickey to make fun of, evenings spent daringly following them around the grocery store in a hoody with his head down trying not to be seen.

This is different though. This is. He doesn’t know what this is. He’d just woken up this morning with his hand reaching, as it always does, for the empty pillow beside him, and felt the sudden urge to be here.

And now he is, stood at the edge of the field, partially hidden by the end of the bleachers in case someone clocks him, not that he thinks anyone would, even if he does look exactly like himself, even as he is on this day, a scrawny nine year old with floppy bangs and  a face that is mostly freckle, if anyone noticed they’d probably just assume he was a relative. He’s safer today than on days where he visits more grown up versions of himself, but the urge to stay hidden is stronger than logic, so he skulks in the shadows and watches as his future husband pitches a fucking fit at being caught out and starts a yelling match with the ref before whipping his tiny dick out and pissing all over first base.

Nine year old Ian, manning second, ducks his face into his shoulder and fails to look like he’s not laughing. Fully grown Ian doesn’t try to pretend. His future husband is a little shit and he loves him even now, filthy, belligerent, violent as he is, that’s his favorite guy right there getting himself kicked out of little league.

He gets too lost in thoughts of teenage Mickey, recounting this story to Ian like he hadn’t been stood ten feet away, thoughts of how he wasn’t even on Mickey’s radar then, even though they played four weeks in the same league. He gets too lost and he doesn’t notice ten year-old Mickey walking right toward him on his way out of the field, yelling and cussing out the ref as he barrels right at Ian.

It’s too late to hide, and it would look weird now if he did, so Ian stands his ground, raising his eyebrow humorously at one of the more choice insults Mickey throws back over his shoulder.

“Oh yeah you like that perv?” Tiny Mickey asks, talking directly to Ian as he walks up to him. Ian is so taken aback that he can’t answer, can’t even form a single word.

“Yeah I saw you, watching me over there. You got a thing for little boys you fucking freak?”

Ian just about finds it in him to shake his head. He’s never come into direct contact with either of them before, doesn’t even know if he’s allowed.

“Sure you don’t Firecrotch, you just really like little league huh?”

He’s only ten years old, but he’s already so full of swagger and fire, he’s Mickey, through and through, just, very small. Ian remembers finding him so scary at one point, but looking at him now it seems so implausible. Even with his eyebrows raised all the way to the sky and his eyes blown wide to seem more intimidating, Ian knows how scared he is, how lonely, he knows his heart, he could never seem scary ever again.

“I’m just watching over my cousin.” Ian manages to say, finally, nodding his head over at his younger self. Mickey turns to look, clocks younger Ian’s hair and shrugs, turning back to glance over Ian’s own head and assumably figuring it’s a legit connection.

“Cousin huh?”

Ian nods. Mickey runs his eyes all over him, head to toe to chest to face and back up to his head again, worrying his lower lip between his teeth in a way that Ian was so accustomed to seeing that his heart stutters with it. Their eyes meet again and whatever thoughts Mickey is having he shrugs them off and fixes Ian with a jabbing pointed finger.

“Just fucking watch yourself alright?” He says with an air of finality and starts to lope off toward the street. Ian can hear him muttering ‘fucking alien-looking mother-fucker’ as he goes and he sends up a silent prayer, hoping that he didn’t just do anything to fuck up the course of events that would lead to the future he comes from.

#fic #my fic #my writing #howl does a.u.gust #gallavich fic #ian x mickey

[butmakeitgayblog]

Can you rank your favorite looks for Emily from Saint x?

K this is kinda hard because, some-fucking-how in the melee of cuts and angle changes and time jumps, there were whole ass outfits that we just,,, barely got to see. Or didn't even see apparently (😒 still not over that green top but whatever I guess)

So anyway, from least favorite to favorite:

What was this? No seriously, what was this look? Who signed off on this?

(Gifs by ohlexa and heda-in-the-clouds)

It was a fantastic top but the borderline JNCO jeans just took me out 😂

(Gif by sassymajesty)

Not really an outfit, but it deserves its time to shine. It earned its place in the rankings

(Gif by heda-in-the-clouds)

Whatever the hell this look was shot me right back to preteen baby gay days where tiny Andi could really really never understand why pretty young teacher's assistants or volunteers made her tummy feel all floppy. Still does. 7.5/10 would go through another gay awakening just to have her help me with my math homework

(Gif by ohlexa)

I would do illegal and morally bankrupt things for that bellybutton freckle

Idek man. Idk why. She's just really hot there and she looks like maybe some kinda undercover cop or reporter but really she's just an unstable stalker and that's so hot 🎶to me🎶

I'm grouping these together because it's more the vibe than anything. Say what you will, but I am a sLut for girls in just plain t's and jeans idegaf. Hot women that are just rockin the comfy mood? Feelin casual babe? Enjoying a breezy day? Amazing. Sit on my face queen 🙏

///////

Hang on! Gonna reblog in a minute with the rest cuz this stupid website has an image limit 😒

#anon #saint x #emily thomas #alycia debnam carey

[stupidphototricks]

Absolutely no idea why, but lately I've been on a bender of watching David Tennant shows. I'd already seen Doctor Who, Broadchurch, and Staged, but here are some other things I found easily available recently, in case anyone else is on this journey:

YouTube (the normal free version): Takin' Over the Asylum: 23yo David Tennant with floppy 90s hair! From the few clips I'd seen I was expecting something like Saved By the Bell Goes to Rehab, but it's surprisingly good. Blackpool: Bonus David Morrissey! This is a slightly bizarre concept for a TV series, but I actually dug it. It's pretty much your usual musical where people just stop what they're doing every so often to sing and dance, but instead of musical-type numbers they're all singing along to existing recorded pop music, Carpool Karaoke style. David Tennant plays a cop who is a far cry from his Broadchurch character. Hamlet (incomplete): Bonus Patrick Stewart! The video I found had maybe 20 minutes missing from the end, but maybe the rest is out there somewhere. This theater show uses Shakespeare's original words, but the costumes and props are updated. It's really compelling. Much Ado About Nothing: Bonus Catherine Tate! Basically the same Shakespeare treatment as Hamlet. David and Catherine are so good in this, separately and together, and there are a lot of hilarious bits.

Tubi (free): The Decoy Bride: Out of all of these, I found this one the weirdest, just because what is David Tennant doing in a mediocre contrived romantic comedy? But it's cute and not terrible.

Amazon Prime (not free of course, but you might already have it for Good Omens): Bright Young Things: You'd probably watch this more for Michael Sheen (who is fantastic), but it's fun that they're both in it! Casanova (FreeVee, with ads): Bonus Nina Sosanya! The only romantic pairing I've seen of her and David. This is apparently a PBS Masterpiece Theater production, so I was expecting something a little stodgier, but this was often silly--in a good way! This show was right before, and led directly to, David's run in Doctor Who, and you can see a lot of the Tenth Doctor-to-be. Single Father: Bonus Suranne Jones! Not my favorite. Sad things happen, people make bad decisions. Still worth watching imo.

Leave a comment if you have other suggestions! I believe that Staged (which is hilarious) is also free on YouTube, and the first season of Broadchurch is on Amazon Prime right now.

#david tennant #good omens #doctor who

[his-red-right-hand]

His Red Right Hand, Chapter 2

You awoke to an unpleasantly dry mouth, and a distinct feeling of disappointment. Luckily a nurse noticed you were awake and fixed the first problem with some ice chips, and the second was slightly mitigated as the pain meds started to take effect.

The next few hours passed in a haze of doctors - the blade had nicked your kidney but they were able to fix the damage - and the police questioning you. Apparently being The Ghost Face’s only surviving victim made them really want to talk to you.

And if you found yourself engaging in a little creative editing of what had actually happened, well could anyone blame you for not wanting them to know exactly what had occurred between the two of you? You still weren’t really sure of what to make of it.

So, yes, you had stumbled upon the scene by accident whilst trying to make your way home. And then you “Just froze up out of fear I guess.” The wounds on your throat and shoulder were “He was just trying to get a reaction out of me I think. But I was kinda terrified, so...” No conversation, no promises, no aching tension between the two of you that made you feel like you were aflame when you thought back to it.

You weren’t sure when you became such a good liar; must have been all those reassurances that you were doing ‘Just Fine’ over the years. But you nodded solemnly when you needed to, and promised to contact them if you remembered anything else - no matter how small. You refused to feel bad for lying to the cops; it’s not like what you left out would actually help. It just proved exactly how fucked up you were. And he was, but he was a serial killer, so that just felt like a given.

You had about half an hour of nothing to do but stare at the clock, stare at the ceiling; and enjoy your opiates before your next visitor.

A reporter.

“Jed Olsen,” he introduced himself with a charming smile, one dimple crinkling a cheek as he did. “Roseville Gazette. Would you be okay with answering some questions?” He was cute, in that clean cut All American way, square glasses framing his deep hazel eyes, dressed business casual, a small scar cutting across his lips that was probably from some sort of sporting misadventure; and his dark brown hair in that floppy curtains style that was so popular at the moment. You were pretty sure it was the painkillers talking when you were thinking about how much you wanted to run your hands through it.

“Yeah,” you croaked, wincing a little. You pushed yourself up a little with your elbows before reaching out to the cup of water on the side table, taking a few gulps before trying again. “Yeah, sure.” You gestured vaguely for him to take a seat.

The dimple got deeper as he pulled up the visitor chair to the side of your bed. Sitting down, he reached into his satchel, pulling out a yellow legal notepad and a mini tape recorder. That was turned on and placed on the side table, before he reached back into the satchel to get out a biro, uncapping it with his teeth, flipping it in his fingers and sliding the end of the pen back into the lid in a well practised motion. “Promise this won’t take very long.”

He leant over towards the recorder, quickly stating “Jed Olsen, Hospital interview,” before making eye contact with you, leaning back into the chair. “So, tell me a bit about yourself.”

“Not straight to the stabbing, huh?”

“I figured I’d ease you into it.”

That was nice at least, you had a feeling it was the only thing you were going to be talking about for a while. “Not that much to say. Born here, school here, graduated here, I work at Roseville Books.”

“No college?”

“Started doing English Lit at Roseville Community, but dropped out after my first year. Didn’t see much point, and I like working in the bookshop, so...” College implied a level of future you never really felt like you had.

“Big reader, huh?”

“Used to be. Don’t have time for it so much any more.”

“What’s your favourite genre?”

You huffed out a small laugh, a twinge in your side making you regret it a little. “You’re not going to believe this, but horror. I like to read about serial killers and monsters.”

He smiled at you, “Irony is rarely fun outside of stories. So, do you go to parties often?”

“Not really. One of my friends got invited; she’s back at college doing a bookkeeping course for her job. It was a Girl’s Night Out thing. Just like old times,” You can feel your smile turn a little pained as you said that.

His voice turned gentle as he got to the inevitable question. “Do you mind telling me the events leading up to your attack?”

“Everyone was having fun, but I wasn’t really feeling it. I think I’m getting a bit old for college parties.” You let out a self conscious chuckle, rubbing at the back of your neck. “I went out for some air and figured if I started walking then I could make the last bus. I saw a flash of light, wanted to make sure it wasn’t someone creeping on people making out or something. Which was a really dumb idea. Everyone... everyone was already dead when I found them.”

“And that’s where you saw their attacker?”

“Yeah. He was taking pictures of them. Then he saw me. I froze up. He came at me, pushed me up against the wall. Then he stabbed me.” You probably shouldn’t be so blasé about it, but after the amount of times you went over this with the police you had really lost the ability to care.

“Did he say, or do anything else that you can remember?”

“I think he maybe took my picture before I passed out? But otherwise, just the,” you mimed a stabbing motion, popping your tongue as you did; which made Jed chuckle for a few moments, before he calmed himself down and eased back into Professional Journalist Mode.

“So, you’re the only victim to survive a Ghost Face attack. How does that make you feel?”

“I was pretty confused when I woke up, didn’t expect that to happen.” No way you were a good enough liar to fake any sort of happiness or gratitude at being alive. Confused was a good enough stand in for disappointment. “I don’t really think I got lucky, or anything like that. I think that... I stumbled in on something by accident and was enough of an afterthought to him that he didn’t care enough to make sure it took.”

Jed nodded solemnly, refilling your water glass from the jug as you reached over to take another drink, smiling gratefully at him. “Any advice for our readers if they happen to encounter the Ghost Face?”

“Uh... Don’t be an idiot and just stand there, run as fast as you can.”

That got Jed chuckling again; reaching for his tape recorder and putting it back in his satchel. “I think I got everything I need, thanks for talking with me.”

“You’re a better conversationalist than the cops are.”

“I weirdly hear that a lot,” he replied, pen capped and notepad put away as he started to stand. “I’ll call you if I need to check anything, don’t worry, I already have your number - in a not creepy way, the sheriff’s office gave me some basic info about you.”

“I dunno, I think them just giving out stuff about me is a little creepy, but that’s on them, not you.”

He smiled at you, that dimple crinkling; and you could imagine that there were probably quite a few people in Roseville who really wanted that smile directed at them. “Look after yourself, hope you’re starting to feel better soon.”

“Hey, uh, Jed? Can I tell you something, like, off the record?”

He turned back towards you, sitting back down in the chair he’d half gotten out of, there was a look of interest in his eyes, but he didn’t get his notepad back out of his satchel. “Yeah, of course.”

“I didn’t, just freeze up. I saw him, I saw what he did to those people, and I just thought ‘Oh, he’s going to kill me. I’m going to die.’ And I was just… okay with it. It’d all be over with. Fuck, it was a relief.” You leant back in the hospital bed, looking up at the bland ceiling, the stains on the tiles there almost forming a picture in your still fuzzy mind. “I’m not like, suicidal or anything, you know?” You lifted your head up to make eye contact with the journalist again, the words starting to tumble out of your mouth. “It’s just, I felt more alive in those moments when I thought he was going to kill me then I have in…” A pause, the realisation of quite how long it had been now feeling like more of a punch to the gut than the stab wound in your side. “In years. That fucked up or what?”

“I don’t - I don’t think that makes you fucked up.” You could see the fingers of his hand flex, like he wanted to try and reach out, maybe in comfort, but thought better of it. You weren’t quite sure what was brewing behind his eyes, but there was an intensity there that spoke to… Something. The moment was broken by him letting out an awkward chuckle, rubbing at the back of his head as he broke eye contact. “Maybe not entirely healthy, but not fucked up. Anyway, I really should be getting back to the office…” He trailed off, and you felt a little bad for just dumping that on him; he already had enough messed up shit to deal with reporting on the murders, he didn’t need you being a freak at him.

“Yeah, don’t let me keep you. Thanks for listening though.”

“It’s no problem, really.” He responded with a smile, and for a moment you almost believed him. He dug a hand into his satchel, and pulled out a business card, the tips of his fingers brushing against yours as you took it from him. “You ever need to talk again, there’s my number.”

You looked at it, a mobile number as well as his office line, fancy. “Thank you Jed,” you said softly, smiling at him as he gave you a wave goodbye and headed out. Oh, you were tired, but it felt a bit better to get that load off of your mind. And at least one person didn’t think you were utterly insane, which was nice. Maybe you’d just close your eyes for a little bit...

--

Your very well earned nap ended abruptly with the loud proclamation of “I am so sorry!” Pulling a face as you started to sit up, hearing “Were you sleeping? Sorry!” your brain vaguely alert enough to identify the voice as Sarah, long time friend and worst designated driver you’d ever known.

“I was waking up anyway,” you lied as you opened your eyes, shifting your pillows to help prop you up, stealing a glance at the window to see the length of the shadows outside, letting you know you’d managed a couple of hours of rest. “The meds got me all dozy, so don’t worry about it.”

“Are you in lots of pain?” she asked, all big eyes and self recrimination as she sank into the chair that had been left vacant by Jed, still by the side of your bed.

“Right now? No, they got me on the good stuff. And as long as nothing happens to me overnight, I should get to go home tomorrow. Ask me again in about 3 days.”

“I am so sorry though. I shouldn’t’ve gone off and left you alone. It was meant to be girl’s night...” The quivering lip and honest sorrow in her eyes kept you from commenting about how she wasn’t the only one who’d done that, or that she was your first visitor not on business. You especially squashed down the thought about how you were having to comfort everyone else about almost getting murdered. Then again, you only needed comfort for the almost part.

“Hey, you had no way of knowing, I’m the one who decided to walk home. Please stop crying.”

Sarah stopped sniffling quite so much, your half hearted absolution apparently good enough for her, and started to fill you in on what you had missed. Which honestly wasn’t that much, although losing your two days off a week to being stabbed stung worse than the wound itself right now.

After about half an hour of this one of the nurses came by to let Sarah know that visiting hours were over (also delivering a super appetising looking dinner tray), and the tears started again. After a very awkward hug that just about avoided pulling your IV out, and a promise to call her once you got home, you were left alone to pick at your salisbury steak and contemplate life.

You hated contemplating life.

And the food wasn’t much better.

The cruel sting of mundanity after the thrill of your flirtation with death ached deeper than the disappointment of waking up. Having to go back to the life that has killed your spirit so that the flesh was eager to follow felt cruel. How could anything be the same after you felt that spark of life once more?

The answer was simple. That’s what life was. You’d just lost the ability to fool yourself that it was anything else. Life was a grindstone, and you had been worn down to so little remaining.

What’s worse was that you knew you were lucky. You had a job you had enjoyed at the beginning. Your manager being relatively relaxed and probably more than willing to give you time off to recover, but you needed the money.

As you finished digging a hole through the powdery mashed potatoes, you pushed the tray away from you with a small huff of disgust, picking up the fruit cup as the probably most edible thing in this whole place. You weren’t particularly hungry anyway. You never were, going days of barely eating anything except the odd cereal bar, sometimes cup ramen, then being struck with an intense hunger that had you ordering way too much take-out. Then you could pick at that over a few days until you felt hungry for anything again. At least it kept your grocery bills cheap.

Exhaustion echoed in you, bone deep. Maybe all those sleepless nights were catching up with you, or maybe it was the pain meds, your eyelids getting heavier and heavier. Wouldn’t it be nice to just not wake up? You felt yourself drifting off to sleep again, hoping you would dream of a masked man making your dreams come true.

#ghostface #ghostface x reader #fiction #dbd #dead by daylight

[seat-safety-switch]

There are a lot of folks out there who are good at taking pictures of cars. That’s not a talent that I share. Sure, I can take a decent set of photographs, enough for a Craigslist ad, taking pains to obscure the worst of the rust and the missing windshield. Doing the really fancy stuff, magazine spreads, whatever – simply impossible.

Obviously, there are some technique problems to be had. Indulging in every kind of exotic industrial solvent for the last several decades has probably not helped me have a steady hand. Or, to be honest with you, a good understanding of perspective and shadow.

I’ve never been one of those folks who thinks that a better camera makes a better photographer. That said, the world might have passed by my trusty Sony Mavica from the late 90s. I found it in a dumpster a few years ago, and even though pretty much everything is smashed, it still works. Even writes to a floppy disk no problem, you know how those things get.

By far the biggest problem is time. Real photographers wait for the absolute perfect light conditions, which can mean hanging around a venue until the “magic hour” when the sun has just gone down. Personally, I can never keep any of my vehicles in public for that long before the cops get called, so I take a picture quick and then get rolling. Sometimes that picture is of my legs running away from a blurry parking lot. I did sell one of those as a maybe-sighting of a bigfoot, which is certainly the high water mark for my photographic endeavours.

Even though no legitimate magazine will ever feature any of my cars (except accidentally, after I’ve crashed into several of their writers while trying to show off,) I still try to keep practicing. After all, practice makes perfect, and Bad Cars Monthly still needs a steady stream of rusty garbage stuck on the streets of my town to fill the pages. Otherwise I’d have to write more articles to use up that space, and what kind of maniac would read that shit?

[lili-loves-whump]

the difference part 2 surely surely surely also ily and ur writing sm!! been a follower for like ages it feels like and ur posts make my world light up with joy

"haha thank u so much," she chuckles, "I really appreciate the follow."

lili-loves-whump presents:

The Difference Pt. 2

here's 1 here’s 3

"And, uhm, yeah. That's what happened. They snuck a homeless child into their house. Villain thought they were cute, and fed them leftover soup and chicken nuggets from lunch, a huge slab of sponge cake, and left them to shower and sleep in the guest bedroom.

The kid would've only been about 11, maybe 12. Villain had no idea how long they'd been on the streets, what horrors they could have seen. They knew there was a chance a neighbour saw them bring a child into the house and called the cops but they didn't care. They just wanted the kid they'd found to be safe and warm.

As they sat on the couch that night, flicking through channels on the tv, stomach rumbling, they wondered how they'd be able to pay for the child.

Supervillain had taken another cut out of their winnings recently, and without a job, they barely had enough to pay for rent and utilities for themselves.

With a sigh, Villain crept past the guest bedroom door and slipped into the kitchen, pulling the fridge open. A few tiny bottles on condiments, some floppy lettuce, and half a serve of egg whites.

Nothing.

The tiny cupboard Villain used as a pantry held half a pack of spaghetti, a few different spices, and a snack size packet of Pringles. Villain cracked open the packet, frustrated tears welling up to see it was basically empty and full of ants. They slammed the cupboard door closed and tossed the chip packet in the general direction of the bin, groaning when it hit the tiles.

They slumped against the island bench, not noticing the door crack open to the guest bedroom. Pale yellow light shone through, and Villain lifted their head as heavy footsteps padded towards them.

"Mister?" the kid asked, "what's wrong?"

Villain sniffed and wiped a stray tear with their hand. Their eyes felt puffy, and their feelings too big, but they still forced themselves to smile. "Nothing," they muttered, "I'm just trying to work out food for tomorrow."

The child smiled softly, newly cleaned teeth glowing against the bluish moonlight shining from the window. "I don't eat much, because I was never given much. I'll be gone by tomorrow morning, then you can work out food for yourself." They shrugged, and Villain ignored the shiny glint in their eyes as they frowned. "I'm tired. Goodnight, Mister. I really appreciate having somewhere nice to sleep for the night."

Villain didn't stop the kid from walking away, closing the door, and turning off the guest bedroom light, even as guilt and longing stabbed their chest."

#hero x villain #creative writing #trope #villain #lili loves whump #drabble #hero #prompt #writing prompt #homeless hero #child hero