#req tag

[krysalla]

this is a request for how our creepy darling dr crane would realize and deal with Feelings towards the reader please 👉👈 i feel like he’d have trouble reconciling the mental/psychological attraction with more baser, sexual feelings and would end up either being too restrained or too uninhibited

warnings: ummm crane being a creep with no boundaries and a little freak

f!reader

Dealing with Ivy is never a pleasant experience. Her lair is a thick, humid jungle of plants that always change, teasing him as they shift the path to confuse him and lead him astray. She refuses to meet him outside of her hideaway. So, he trudges along the shifting roots and vines to get what he wants. He huffs and he puffs and he curses the bits of leaves and dirt and debris that get on his suit and into the burlap fabric of his mask.

He bats at a plant, pushing it out of his way, only for the damned thing to hit him back.

The compound better be ready.

Finally, the plants give way, done with their game, and reveal Ivy’s lab to him. And, of course, Ivy is nowhere in sight. So he huffs and puffs some more, crosses his arms over his chest as he looks over the lab. It looks untouched, even with an experiment running in the back. Another trick. He won’t be so easily turned away after all he had to walk through to get here. Jonathan digs his feet into the dirt floor. He refuses to leave without Ivy’s samples. He has spent months planning and researching for this new toxin. A new way to descend Gotham City into complete and utter chaos. The streets will be filled with people overwhelmed by their own fear and arousal. He wants them reduced to nothing but animals, to watch them burn their beloved city to the ground with their brains in overdrive from the conflict of the two heightened states. This will be his magnum opus. 

Minutes go by before he hears a noise coming from behind a curtain towards the back wall. The fabric flicks up and you duck beneath it quickly, scrubbing at the front of your denim overalls.

“Oh!” you startle when you notice him. Perhaps this venture won’t be a waste if he can get such an easy fright from you. He always carries a small case of syringes with him, just on the off chance he finds himself bored. It would be so easy, just a small pinprick.

He clears his throat, “Where is Ivy?”

“She’s busy. Something about a pesticide company, I think?” you buckle the left straps of your overalls back into place and smile, “But she told me you’d be here. I’ve got everything ready for you.”

You beckon him with a wave of the hand and he follows you, some nameless nobody, to the room you’d just come out of. You pull back the curtain and reveal rows and rows of samples and plants, all lined up neatly on the shelves. Ivy’s been up to no good recently judging by the various substances.

He reaches into his front pocket and feels the rigid line of cool metal.

“Let’s see… compound 34A…” you wander the aisles, snaking through them while occasionally checking over a few plants along the way with a thoughtful hum.

If only you would hurry up. Ivy could be back any moment and he would like to witness your fear himself for as long as possible. And it would be more beneficial to him if he got Ivy’s pheromone before he injects you. Ivy might not take well to his playing with you, if you really mean anything to her, her revenge would be swift. He taps his foot when you spend a little longer on an out of control plant. You don’t even acknowledge him or his impatience, you just pull out a little notepad from your pocket and start taking notes.

He can’t help the sharp tone in his voice, he doesn’t want to spend a second longer here than he has to. He has big plans and so little time to fulfill them. “Do you enjoy wasting my time?”

“Hmm?” you don’t even spare him a look, focused on examining the wilted leaves of a plant that looks like it's on the verge of dying.

“Who are you? I thought Ivy worked alone.”

“Well, you can’t let plants run amok like that. Fungi will spread, infect other plants, poison the fruit. Diseases run rampant. Ivy believes in the green but it still needs to be maintained and cared for. That’s why I’m here. I care for the green.” You put your notepad in the front pocket of your overalls, “You know, I was very impressed by your work on that last release of fear toxin. It was incredible.”

“Of course it was.” He doesn’t need praise. Doesn’t want it from someone as low as you on the food chain. Jonathan knows how well it went, how seamless his plans went. Even the Batman himself couldn’t stop him and that there is a badge of honor around this city. So, no, he will glaze over the compliment from the girl playing farmer’s daughter, as pretty as you might be.

He presses the latch on the case to open it.

“Self assured, huh? I like that.” You take the compound from the test tube rack and turn to him. You step into his space, close enough for him to feel your breath against the sliver of skin that shows on his neck. He’s glad for the mask, you won’t be able to see the blood rush to his cheeks and ears. Your hand slides up his chest, test tube caught between your index and middle finger, and back down to his front pocket to carefully slip the test tube there, right next to his case of syringes. “I hope this works for you, Mr. Scarecrow.”

He hopes you don't notice the shiver that runs through him.

---

As with most nights, he works late, scribbling notes on his subjects. His current ones are a man and a woman, a couple he'd picked up somewhere in the East End, are a particularly good pair of subjects. He wrote down five pages worth of notes in the three hours he had them naked and writing around on the floor. The man had beaten the woman to death in the throes of ecstasy and then slammed his head against the wall.

Cockroaches, he screamed out, had been crawling over the woman's body and his own.

They expired quicker than he thought they would. He will have to adjust the ratio of Ivy's pheromone to fear toxin.

He places his notepad down and reaches for one of the dozen others that he keeps on his desk. He needs a clean slate. Jonathan works dutifully on correcting the dosage, the chemical makeup of the sample. And his mind can't help but wander. He thinks of the gardener.

The pure pheromone sits still on the rack.

You would make a wonderful test subject.

---

He stands in a familiar corn field. Yes, he remembers it well-- the grueling summer afternoons spent tending to the field under his great grandmother's eye while he swung the scythe to cut down the dead corn stalks. Even during autumn and winter he was not granted reprieve from punishment out in the fields. Yes, this corn field is familiar.

He stands above the field, watching carefully over his crop. He cannot move. His limbs made of straw and sticks. He is wearing his burlap sack. Jonathan has become a real scarecrow.

It's peaceful.

Content with the sounds of birds and the soft beating of the sun against him, he relaxes into his post. Even if his body is strung up like he's Christ on the cross.

The stalks before him rustle. The breeze stops and the birds quiet. Not a dream then, but a nightmare, some terror just on the horizon. It’s safer than a dream. He waits, tied up on his post, and watches the slithering path of the creature in the field. It waits at the edge of the clearing.

It’s no creature full of teeth and venom ready to consume him, just you, the gardener. You emerge from between the green stalks, wearing your silly overalls and a big smile like you're happy to see him. You do not falter. You step to his post and climb up the ladder. Face to face, you stare at him curiously as your hand hovers along the side of his masked face, and he waits with bated breath for your next move.

"Hello, Mr. Scarecrow," you whisper, leaning close to his ear, "won't you join me?"

You untie the ropes around his ankles and wrists, catching him against your chest when he falls forward. It's an awkward dance down his post, your hand gripping onto the tattered burlap of his shirt and your stilted steps as you stop on each rung of the ladder, checking that he is still safe in your grasp.

A crow caws.

Finally, he is down on the ground, placed gently on his back by you.

He wants to feel you on him, even the press of your hand against the burlap would be enough. Never in his life had he wanted so badly to feel the skin of another against his. Jonathan is used to it, but it's all he thinks about, your hands, your lips, your teeth on him, anywhere so long as you touch him. All you do is hover over him, straddling his waist and watching with a gentle stare.

The sky behind you has turned dark and the crows flock to his post. A thousand eyes stare down at him.

You lean closer to his face. He wishes to hold your shoulders and drag you down to him but his body is made of straw. Your hands wander over burlap and straw and rough plaid. If he had a heart, it would be stuttering in his chest.

Mercifully, you kiss him.

When you pull back, your face falls. No longer is the kind, warm gleam in your eyes and a smile of a love-struck fool. There's no burlap. He can feel the air on his skin. His face revealed to you. No longer is he Scarecrow, but plain old lanky Jonathan Crane. He reaches for you, limbs again made of skin and bone and tissue.

You wrench yourself from him in disgust and run back towards the corn.

The crows caw in unison.

---

If he didn't have to, he wouldn't be back here. He wouldn't be storming through Ivy's lair where you play gardener in your overalls and gloves, with your little trowel and watering can. But he needs more of Ivy's compound. Weeks he spent fantasizing and dreaming that same dream of you and now, confronted with the idea that he will see you in the flesh once more makes his stomach turn with fear and embarrassment and that infuriates him. He, the master of fear, should not be so scared of a silly, little girl who wears overalls embroidered with bright flowers. He pushes at the branches a little harder, digs his feet in a little deeper into the mushrooms he steps on, tears the flowers from the bushes as he shoulders his way through the thicket.

As he inflicts his damage, the forest grows crueler, springing thicker walls of branches and makes the mud thicker to trap him. Ivy's children go to work on making it harder for him and it only angers him more and makes him more violent to the green. A vicious cycle, all because of you.

You barrel out from the bushes and shoulder him down onto the ground. He lands hard, knocks the breath right out of him, while you land softly on him, legs splayed around his waist with that same look of disgust he dreamed up.

"What are you doing!"

You hit his chest with the sides of your fists and it hurts, but it feels good, makes him feel alive, and he knows this is not just another dream. His heart beats and his lungs suck in air, and his limbs are flesh and bone. And he grabs you with one hand, just the way he wanted to in his dream, and with the other hand, he rips off his mask. He is the master of fear and he will not let some lackey scare him into submission.

The both of you are covered in mud, and his hands smear it across your face as he brings you down to a kiss.

You shake in his hold and beat your fists along his sides and his chest. He savors each second of blazing contact. In the struggle, you wrap your hands around his throat, pressing down on his windpipe. Who will be the first to break?

His lungs burn and wreak havoc in his chest as they try to pull in as much air through his nose. He holds you tighter to him and you bite his lip hard and draw blood. He lets you go. You whip away from him, leaning back on your haunches. You lick his blood from your lips and spit it back at him.

“Don’t ever touch the green like that again.”

You push his face down into the mud and clamber off of him and wander back into the wood. He follows after, his hand in his pocket, fingers circling over the latch.

#YES i was thinking about that scene in pearl! #jonathan crane x reader #jonathan crane x you #scarecrow x reader #scarecrow x you #my writing #req tag #dc imagine #asks

[pmpkn-pie]

she's the love of my life actually.

#kotlc #stina heks #kotlc fanart #my art #req tag #i had to draw a horse for this.

[sacrificialblood]

prompt lists are evil cause there's always too much good stuff smh

but this "Protecting your lover's sleep as they doze on your lap, making sure nobody bothers them as they entrusted their peace to you." immediately made me think of Bo

alternatively, I just loved the mental image of this "Not accepting that it's time to start the day, and pinning them onto the mattress with either your whole body, a leg, or more risque touches." with any of our big strong men 😂 "pinning them down"? wouldn't be my 5'3 ass 😂

- 🔪

reader is gender neutral!

BO SINCLAIR

He knows you're tired, it's clear as day. Your eyes say it all, unfocused and bleary, can hardly stay open, even when he's talking to you. And he's prideful of having that allure, that no matter what he says, you'll always have your attention fixed on him. He likes that. He loves your love of him. He drinks it in, could bask in it all day and still ask for more.

Bo’s greedy like that.

Still, he has his moments of mercy and his uneasy reciprocation of love.

He doesn’t know how to verbalize his offer when you sit next to him on the couch, barely enough energy left in you to hold your head up straight. He’s never been good with words like that, never been good with kindness, so he places a hand on your shoulder — it jerks you awake, however briefly — and leads your torso down. You take the hint, always been so smart and so fast to catch onto his wants, and lay your head on his lap and curl your legs up.

You thank him as he strokes your cheek with his thumb. And he mumbles under his breath how it ain’t nothin’ even though his cheeks are red and he’s nervous as can be, because you could have easily just refused and marched on off to bed. Instead, you trusted him enough to sleep around him.

It’s not long until you’re out like a light.

There’s not much for him to do while you nap. He reads whatever magazine is on the end table front to back and catches up on all the celebrity gossip that you just can’t seem to get enough of. Not once does he think of getting up. Any jostle, any flinch that could wake you up is out of the question even if that means his legs start going numb with pins and needles. His books on the shelf are off limits until you wake up.

There’s nothing good on cable and he can’t just go pick out a VHS tape or DVD from his massive collection, so he settles on whatever documentary is running on the Discovery channel. He doesn’t pay it much mind, it doesn’t interest him one bit but it’s nice to have the company of another voice.

He lowers the volume on the television until he can hardly hear it. Content that even the loudest of noises won’t wake you.

Not even the dog gets a crack at you, Bo shoos her away with a muttered command and the wave of his hand, and she huffs in displeasure as she turns to find someone else to bother. Someone else being Vincent, of course.

You trusted him with this — isn’t that an important part of a relationship, showing trust and vulnerability? You make it seem so easy. You know what he is: dangerous, manipulative, greedy, a killer and yet you still display vulnerability and entrust him with it.

He’s not good at that but he can try.

Bo rests his arm on your side and with his other arm, he snakes his hand between his thigh and your cheek and just holds you. You’re soft and kind, two things he’s never gotten out of life, and if you can trust someone like him, then it should be easy to show that same trust to you.

Bo tilts his head back against the couch and closes his eyes.

You couldn’t fault him for trying.

JASON VOORHEES

It's still early. The room is lit up with dark blues and greys of the early morning, that space between going to bed late and waking up early. It's the only time you like being up early. The birds have yet to wake up and other wildlife hidden away, waiting for the right time when the sun starts to heat up the earth. In that hour, Jason can still be lulled back to bed, coaxed by your hands and sweet promises starting the day together soon, if he just holds you a little longer.

But he’s shifting, eager to start his day of checking traps and stalking any campers. It’s the on season, odds are you won’t see him soon after he leaves for the day. You’re mornings together are already so short. You will make coffee for yourself and he will push past you and stop only to press the bottom half of his mask against the crown of your head before walking out the front door, not to be seen again until hours past sundown, which with the long days and late sunsets leaves you worried.

There’s nothing that can be done to stop him. Jason is a force of nature. That doesn’t mean you can’t try and delay him a while.

He doesn’t need sleep but he likes sharing the bed with you, like to watch you sleep. His role as a silent protector never ending. You turn to face him and smile.

He’s still out of bed yet, too busy untangling the sheets from his ankles, the flat sheet that you had kicked down in your sleep trapping him in bed a moment longer than usual. He doesn’t notice you staring.

Jason doesn’t ever move unless he wants to be and you expected some resistance when you straddled his lap and pushed him back onto the bed with both of your hands on his shoulders. He doesn’t fight it at all, willingly submits to your whim like he doesn’t want to be up either. There’s no vocal objection to it.

You stare down at him, hands still bearing down on his shoulders like you hold the power here, as if he couldn’t easily sit back up and snap your wrists like twigs. You see nothing in his eyes but exhaustion.

Whatever force that brought him back, that compelled him to kill campers on the lake, on his property, his home, would not let him rest.

“I know, sweet boy,” you sigh, “Just a minute more. I miss you.”

He nods. It’s an acknowledgement, an agreement, a mournful reciprocation.

Jason pulls you down against him, arms locked right around your waist. You’re not sure which sense he still has or if they all died with him. He still breathes air into his lungs that do not need it, he eats food that doesn’t not supply him with energy, drinks water and lies on his back with his eyes closed and his fingers linked over his stomach. He still works against his new nature, whether for your own comfort or out of old habits. Maybe it is for you.

He allows another two minutes of delay.

#bo sinclair x reader #jason voorhees x reader #bo sinclair x you #bo sinclair x y/n #jason voorhees x you #jason voorhees x y/n #slasher x reader #slasher x you #my writing #req tag #anon #🌙

[malikdestiny]

Hi hello!! Could I perhaps get Pokeball-themed userboxes, by any chance? (ex. this user's Pokeball is a great ball / premier ball / nest ball / etc!) I know it's a bit of a curveball ask but I think it'd be fun! :)

oh hell yes you can this ask slaps. here you go!

#req tag #userbox #userboxes #pokemon userboxes #pokemon userbox #pokemon kin #pokekin #pokemonkin #i Love this ask. i didnt do EVERY pokeball but i might come back and do more later. #pokeboxes? these are Pokeboxes? Hahaha im very funny.

[krysalla-archive]

you can absolutely ignore this one but 👀👀 “when one of them is like… i don’t know… hurt or something… and the other one is just like… tending to their wounds… and then just like… wrap them into their arms… thankful that they’re alive…” with mandalorian ani.........

It’s been four years since your home was burned to the ground by a pack of Klatooinian raiders. Four years and in that time you and the few other survivors of your village, mostly children, have been accepted into Clan Dyrrutt and found a home with the group of Mandalorians. You’ve made a home with one in particular, the man who saved you that day when you’d been backed into a corner.You’d closed your eyes, finally ready to give up the fight, you’d done what you could, sent the children back out into the woods to hide, and awaited the blow of their blasters. It never came.

He’s like you.

Anakin wasn’t born a Mandalorian, he was made into one.

You wince under his grip and while you know that this part isn’t supposed to be a breeze, you wish he could be just the faintest bit softer with you. When you look up at him, his brow is furrowed and lips pulled into a thin line. He hasn’t looked you in the eyes once since you stumbled back with the prize from your bounty who had admittedly put up a very good fight. Anakin’s a serious and stubborn man when he wants to be. His hands do not falter while he wraps the deep cut on your upper arm in bandages soaked with bacta, steady and slow.

You still feel like a stranger to the customs of Mandalorians, even after all this time, it feels like you are invading, worming your way into a place that is off limits to you. Never in your life have you ever been so welcomed. Even at your lowest point when you can’t stop doubting yourself, the rules of the Resol’nare feel like coming home, finally linking back with a piece of yourself that has been long forgotten. Anakin had brought you a piece of yourself that you never knew you were missing. Being with him and observing the tenets of the Resol’nare, make you whole again.

He finally releases you and turns away, packing up the small med kit and throwing away the makeshift bandages you placed on your wound on the way home.

“Ani--”

“You could have been killed.”

His voice isn’t that sickly sweet honey you’re used to. There’s no softness, no playfulness as he addresses you. You don’t know what to do. You brush your hand over his shoulders and he bristles. You ignore his warning to back off and you know better than to smother him when he’s like this but you can’t help it. Seeing the man you love so distressed hurts you.

You wrap your arms around his waist and rest your head against his back, and even when he stiffens you hold him tighter, to remind him that you’re still there, that you won’t leave. “Anakin, I’m sorry--”

“No. No. Don’t apologize,” he bows his head and places his hands over yours, “Riduur, I don’t know what I would do if I ever lost you.”

“Oh, Ani." You feel warmth spread over your face from his confession. It’s still hard to accept love, even though you give it freely. You press yourself up by your toes and kiss the side of his neck. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

#anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker imagine #anakin skywalker x you #sw imagine #star wars imagine #my writing #answered #asks #req tag #me including my feeling toward my own conversion to judaism in here? it's more likely than you think!

[ninjasmudge]

For that one shit poopoo color pallet thing you could do the wife left me for narilamb divorce arc

i like to imagine this is the meeting before nari asked them to sacrifice themself

#eyestrain #oof this DEFINATLY needs the eyestrain tag lmao #cotl #cult of the lamb #narilamb #THANKS FOR THE REQ I LOVE THEM #THIS WAS ACTUALLY REALLY FUN #I COULDNT GET MAD INSPO FOR THE DIVORCE PART SO PLS TAKE THIS AS THE BIT RIGHT BEFORE THE DIVORCE #my art #cotl narinder #cotl lamb #cw eyestrain

[crushedsweets]

for the request thing, i don't remember exactly what u said masky and toby's relationship was like in ur au but could you draw them having some attempted father-son bonding?

Idk how I want to portray their relationship in my au just yet but I can promise u it is a ROCKY ONE !!!! At least 3 incredibly violent physical altercations between them (and at least 3 really emotional bonding moments)

#asks #creepypasta #creepypasta fanart #creepypasta art #marble hornets #I hate tagging anything with Toby and other creeeps as marble hornets #ticci toby #toby rogers #sweetart #Masky #Masky fanart #Tim wright #NOT SHIP ART I think it’s obvious (hence the father son bonding) but juuuust in case #reqs

[medusas-graveyard]

Law abiding citizen....?

Okay I finally have a non-adoptee Batfam & Danny dynamic in mind that I actually liek :∆

Basically ultimate enemy compliant but the timeline wasn't changed so everyone he knows is still dead and Danny decides to actually take his monarch duties seriously and occasionally live in the realms because of it. I'm not talking about him doing a 180° on his personality btw but instead Danny who is still laid back, casual, fun, and likes to joke taking care of the realm one at a time; slowly. Bit by bit building up his knowledge to not only protect the realm, but also the humans.

By 20 he moves to Gotham with (unironically) allowance from CW (that probably came from his current net worth) and all is great. He can freely do his job in his home and isn't constantly bothered by the observants so he's basically slacking off and then on cue; rogue attacks.

And he's suuuuuper chill about them too. Like at some point they all collectively blacklisted him from whatever bullshit they're gonna conjure up because of his out going personality. And he's the same with cops. He's basically the same with everyone.

But he's a neutralist.

He won't and will snitch one side to the other, uncaring of either side going after him. If he's amused then, meh.

Enter: joker. He does not like joker. At fucking all. The only person in Gotham he's actively aggressive with.

Cue: Him almost killing joker.

He doesn't remember what happened, exactly. Something about a joker terrorist attack and how he was oh so fortunate to be chosen as the main hostage. The dogshit attempt of a speech the clown let out to.... presumed audience (?) Behind the camera and the sound of a crowbar dragging the concrete (?) Floor. Something about a bird, before getting hit by said crowbar, and the fact that despite all this he has to pretend like a citizen.

And then, more rambling about batman's Robin.

....

The chair just had an oh so convenient blade behind it.

He's pretty sure the clown is dead, based on the carnage he made with his own two hands. Yet he couldn't stop beating and hitting him even as the sound and picture of the Joker ever change to more and more disgusting. Only after someone tackle him to the ground does he stop.

He blinks and look at the vigilante(s) holding him down and contorts his face to his default face, full of smiles even as the Joker's blood splattered on to his cheeks.

#danny phantom #dp x dc #batfam #danny fenton #dp x dc crossover #dp x dc prompt #dpxdc #dpxdc prompts #dc x dp #dc x dp prompt #Danny's just a silly lil guy #might write more on this so feel free for a tag req

[periwinklemoonlight]

for sketch requests, would it be possible to get a hotguy and or a cuteguy?

i think ill actually finish this eventually but for now heres the sketch! cuteguy's gun is (loosely) based off the model by @ink-ghoul !!!

+ bonus art from october i never posted

(textless ver. under the cut)

#my art #grian #gtws #hotguy #cuteguy #hermitcraft #grian fanart #gtws fanart #hc s9 #hermitcraft fanart #gun tw #art req #desert duo #sorry abt the tag again hoffen LMAO

[mtsodie]

tango

#sam and max #sam and max freelance police #sam and max freelance husbands #<- sure ill add the tag here LOL #🎨 #anyways . this was supposed to be a little sketch for a req but i got invested

[puhpandas]

Cassie watching Gregory draw :)

#how r they so brother and sister coded #a drawing req from instagram #fnaf #fnaf fanart #five nights at freddy’s #five nights at freddy’s fanart #fnaf gregory #gregory fnaf #fnaf cassie #cassie fnaf #fnaf ruin #ruin dlc #five nights at freddy’s ruin #fnaf security breach #fnaf security breach fanart #drawing tag #superstar duo #gregory and cassie

[nevvn]

solomama and lucipapa raising a pack of rowdy kids

#obey me #obey me fanart #omswd #obey me swd #obey me solomon #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me satan #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me leviathan #obey me asmodeus #art tag #fanart #prolly my last post before i get busy again jsjdkjsk #or maybe you guys can slide some doodle reqs to help me de-stress (and practice) 👀 #wow it's already 3am i still need to study for our quiz later #and wake up early uueueu

[callibee]

🍷

#guess what fictional character I am obsessed with rn… aha… #the arcana #the arcana fanart #julian devorak #Julian devorak fanart #the arcana julian #uhh idk how to tag this but UHM have this while I work on my reqs hehe<3

[sacrificialblood]

*clears throat*

okay, so, might I suggest...

either "a quick kiss on the forehead when tending to your lover's wounds, grateful they're home safe and back in your arms" with Bo oooor "trailing kisses from your lover's forehead to their lips (or vice versa)" with Vincent (or Tommy?) ❤️

- 🔪

why not all three? vincent and bo under the cut!

THOMAS HEWITT

He’s nervous. Can hardly hide it too. His fingers twitch over his thighs and on a few occasions stopped to grip the meat of his thighs until his knuckles turned white and when he can no longer deal with the pain or the stiffness in his knuckles, he releases himself and continues his twitching. You try to grab his wrists but you don't get very far. He leans away from you.

You huff, a mixture of exasperation and dejection. You don’t know exactly what’s happened to set him off like this but ever since he walked into the kitchen and sat down at the rickety table, he hasn’t so much as acknowledged you.

“Please, Tommy, what’s going on?” you kneel in front of him and take his hands in yours. “You’re scaring me.”

He snaps his head up and looks at you, his hands immediately searching for your. No he doesn’t like that very much. You’re the one person that isn’t supposed to be scared of him. It’s manipulative to pull that card and you don’t want to be another person in his life that uses him and his insecurities to their advantage but you need him to snap back to it.

“What’s wrong?”

He’s careful in his finger spelling, just one word. N-O-S-E.

“Oh, honey, let me see.”

You reach around the back of his head slowly to undo the laces on his mask. He doesn’t put up an resistance. The knot is difficult to untie but you manage well enough.

The dried blood is the first thing you see. His face is covered in it, his cheeks are streaked in it like he dragged his fingers over the flesh, but the most concentrated area is right around his nose and over his top lip. The area surrounding is red and aggravated. The flesh around the hole is mess, the edges of it is cut to hell with ragged edges and the sharp point of the nasal bone. He did it himself. You knew that his nose was finally being effected by the disease, but you’d both hoped that since he was older, it would move slower through him.

“My sweet boy,” you cradle his cheeks in your hands.

He closes his eyes.

You’re not sure if it was his own compulsion driving him to cut away the rotting flesh or if someone said something to him, but you can only imagine how much it would have hurt for him to take the butcher’s knife through flesh, cut through his own cartilage and bone.

He doesn’t react much beyond shrinking in on himself and whining lowly when you pull away from him. You grab the cleanest rag you can find and wet it. Thomas is still on the chair, arms wrapped around himself and his chin tucked against his chest.

You sit on his thigh and wrap one arm around his shoulders, “This might sting.”

He doesn’t look directly at you and you’re glad for that. You have to be strong and if he were to look at you right now, you’re sure you would break down into tears. Seeing the man you love hurt himself, even if it’s to rid himself of a long sentence of suffering still hurts you. You’re gentle with him, as gentle as you can be with the dried blood setting into his skin. When you can finally see his skin, pale from the lack of sun you kiss him.

The rag falls from your hand and tangles itself into his sweaty, knotted mop of hair. The position is uncomfortable, you’re twisted up in his lap, but you don’t dare move, not when his arms finally snake around you.

You’re careful around his nose. You press your lips to both sides of his whole where his nose was, avoiding the delicate and inflamed flesh as best you can. You can feel his eyelashes flutter against you as he closes his eyes and hums. You kiss between his brows, your thumbs following to smooth out the stressed brow, easing away any wrinkles, and you finish your exploration over his forehead. You hold still there for a moment, breathing him in and letting his hands commit to an exploration of their own.

VINCENT SINCLAIR

He doesn’t care much for your choice in music but he surrenders the radio to you every once in a while. If only so he can see you smile. Right now, he’s rejecting handing it over. He likes to work to music that soothes him not drives him into a state of anxiety.

It’s rock music, not as heavy as the stuff Bo listens to, but the discordant instruments and angry yelling still make his ears ring the same. He sure your not working on anything, only asked to choose the music because you wanted to, but he can’t work like this.

He reaches over his desk and turns the dial to the familiar station. His fingers hover over the dial as he waits for an indignant cry from you to turn your music back on. Nothing.

He looks over his shoulder.

You’re not even here.

He huffs and turns the volume down and gets back to work. You must’ve ditched him after you finished your own project. Just as well, now he can finally make progress on his.

“Hey! What happened to my music?”

He flinches and turns to look at you at the bottom of the steps.

“Thought you weren’t coming back,” he signs.

“I was grabbing lunch for us,” you put down the plates on his desk and reach for the dial. “Didn’t we decide it was my day to choose the music?”

“Not we, you.”

You hum. The rock station is back on and it’s already grating his ears. You smile down at him and lift his head up by your index finger under his chin. He can’t feel the trail of kisses you leave from the forehead of his mask to the nose to the fixed lips but he closes his eye anyway, luxuriating in the brief attention you pay to him before taking up on of the plates and moving to your small work space.

Vincent can put up with your music if that’s how you thank him.

BO SINCLAIR

"You’re lucky. This coulda been a helluva lot worse.”

He unties the strip of fabric from around your left bicep and gently peels it away from the wound. You gasp and clench your fists at the pain of it. Bo looks at you, mouth pulled down into a stern frown, and you don’t need him to say it — this is hardly the worst part of it. No, the worst part of it won’t even be the sting of alcohol that he’ll disinfect it with or the knife cutting you up, the worst part was seeing Bo’s face contort into a flurry of wild emotions.

The cut isn’t as bad as he made it out to be while you were standing over the body of the woman that cut you. You could laugh at how dramatic he is but that would only result in a lecture. You let him work in peace. There’s no objections from you, no audibly signs of your pain only the occasional twitch of your hand.

You watch him, every piece of him you can. You drift constantly from his face to his hands to his feet tapping impatiently. He can’t wait to get out of here. He doesn’t like doing clean up.

Bo is full of surprises though.

In the middle of wrapping your arm in gauze, he shifts forward, free hand going to the back of your neck, and presses a kiss to your forehead. You can’t help your giggle. His nose is smashed against your hairline and his shuddering breath tickles. His grip isn’t unkind, he just doesn’t know how to be gentle. He’s not much on affection like this, more of an action type man, but you appreciate the show of it, as awkward as it is.

He pulls away as quick as he can. He fixes himself a straight face and gets back to his work. The only hint anything had happened are his red cheeks.

“Love you too, Bo.”

#thomas hewitt x reader #vincent sinclair x reader #bo sinclair x reader #thomas hewitt x you #vincent sinclair x you #bo sinclair x you #thomas hewitt x y/n #vincent sinclair x y/n #bo sinclair x y/n #leatherface x reader #leatherface x you #leatherface x y/n #slasher x reader #slasher x you #slasher x y/n #my writing #req tag

[malikdestiny]

Sorry, this is the "This user is an alternate" asker, meant more along the lines of The Mandela Catalogue? Sorry if this is too niche or specific ^^;

OH!! yeah sorry we have blaseball brain rot i was like YEAAHHH WE HAVE THIS ONE MADE!! >:]

here you go!

#req tag #sorry nonny that we couldnt use a picture from tmc analog horror makes our hallucinations very bad #hope this conveys kind of a similar thing to what we vaguely know about the art style? #userbox #userboxes #the mandela catalogue userbox #the mandela catalogue userboxes

[pluck-heartstrings]

I believe in flirty bully Moon supremacy.

There should always be more of it.

Once he sees them blush for the first time, it triggers a switch in his internal processor. He gets the urge to see it all the time, even during inconvenient instances while on shift. All personal space goes out the window, nothing else matters but seeing that pretty pink one more time.

#ask pluck #open requests #drawing requests #reqs open #medieval times au #pluck your heartstrings #pluck my heartstrings #fnaf dca au #dca au #dcau #my art tag #jester moon #fnaf moon x reader #moondrop x reader #moon x reader #dca x yn #moon x yn #moon x y/n #fnaf moon x y/n #daycare attendant x y/n #moondrop x y/n #dca fandom #fnaf dca #dca fanart #dca art #fnaf daycare attendant #fnaf moon #dca x reader #moondrop