#what if you were my god and i followed your compulsion to kill and eat until you were satisfied

[transmechanicus]

The transgender contrast of loving your parents but also for Trust Reasons longing for an additional external authority figure you can count on more unconditionally to support or protect you that totally doesn’t risk becoming a kink

#my stuff #haha yeah i’m so loyal and trusting and will serve you unto death #this in no way is derived from the agony of being misgendered by my parents all my life #which is ongoing btw bc ‘there’s nobody we know that i trust to talk about your transition with’ #LIKE HM MAYBE YOU SHOULD THINK ABT WHY THAT IS #MAYBE ITS BC THOSE PPL ARE IGNORANT CUNTS THEN #anyway haha what if you were my superior officer and i killed for you like a dog #what if you were my god and i followed your compulsion to kill and eat until you were satisfied #what if you kept me to yourself and looked after me in private as i do you in public #what if my loyalty was rewarded #what if i had no obligation but duty to you #what if you made it all ok

[abraxos-the-phantom]

Scum Disciple Deleted

-scenes. Here you go @vodkassassin. Unformatted and mostly unedited save for some awkward phrasing I fixed as I skimmed through it. I have a habit of merely taking out scenes rather than straight deleting them when I don't think they work out so if you see it on the fic shhh I probably just found a better place for it, but for the most part I think these are unused

TLJ + MF; Flashback/Illusion

[Log: File:Save_??-???.?.????.log]

“You know, for a man so keen on maintaining the preference of a dignified cultivator, you are fairly quick to disband such things as you see fit,” Tianlang-jun mused.

Ming Fan threw a dirty look to the former Overlord of the Demonic Realm over his bowl of beef stir fry lily bulbs. It was a specialty in this region, boasting a sweet lily bulb due to the length of time the farmers around the area spent cultivating the plant. In other words, it was delicious and a welcome change to the guilt trip galore that was eating Lou Binghe’s cooking.

Oh to eat that delicious snow congee without feeling the compulsion to throw it all back up-

Well, no use dwelling on such things.

“Most of anything could be considered vulgar when in close proximity to you,” Ming Fan quipped, taking a generous helping of the stir-fry between his chopsticks. “If you had as much sensibility as you had sensuality, I guarantee that people would be more fond of you. Unfortunately, it is too late for me.”

“Hoh? Is that so?” Tianlang-jun’s lips curled in a smirk in spite of the fact that Ming Fan had no interest looking his way, regardless of the other demon happened to do. Some odd five or so years have taught Ming Fan that there were times when the best move for dealing with the other was simply ignoring him.

Ming Fan maintained his bland tone as he briefly paused to speak, “Yes.”

Tianlang-jun shook his head, “Honestly. Are all disciples of Cang Qiong like you, or are you just the special one.”

Said disciple only gave Tianlang-jun a significant dirty look, “You’d have to actually behave yourself to get to know another disciple of Cang Qiong.”

“Eh,” the Heavenly Demon leaned back against his chair with his hands crossed behind his head. “Too boring.”

Ming Fan made a noncommitting sound as he finally ate the last of his order, letting out a satisfied sigh as he leaned back in his seat.

“Ming Fan, a question if you are so gracious enough to grant me such a thing.”

Ming Fan only raised a brow, “You may ask, whether I answer is not on the table.”

“Why?” Tianlang-jun paused as he attempted to think about his question. “Why do you maintain this relationship of ours? It’s not as if you’re on any obligation to maintain basic relations for a political reason, and you hardly ask me anything so you aren’t after my wisdom. With Lou Binghe going in and out Cang Qiong Sect, it’s not as if I can threaten your Sect any more than I could try and fight with my son.”

Ming Fan crossed his arms, humming for a moment tilting his head just enough to convey thoughtfulness he turned to look the demon lord in the eye, “If you were to be confronted with a former enemy of a war without meaning, what would you do?”

Tianlang-jun hummed, “I wouldn’t care.”

“Exactly,” Ming Fan pointed out. “Now what would you do if you discovered you were on the wrong side of that war?”

“…I still wouldn’t care.”

“Would you?” Ming Fan hummed, “Well, that’s your choice.”

“So is that all? You pity me?”

“Not quite,” Ming Fan shrugged, idly arranging the finish plate on the table. “More like my recompense of sorts.”

Tianlang-jun’s expression was unreadable as he stared, quietly adding, “You realize that I’ve killed hundreds of cultivators like you. Your age, younger- older. It didn’t matter, they were obstacles in my path and I removed them.”

“Of that I do not doubt, but these days- the line between righteous and mad is thin,” Ming Fan snorted. “I stand at the meager in-between myself. But what else can I do? I am but a mere mortal, attempting to right his wrongs.”

Ming Fan took a final sip at his tea, “Sometimes, that is all one can do without going well and truly mad.”

Tianlang-jun chuckled, “I suppose that’s true.”

The hours seemed endless after that, a moment in time felt like hundreds upon billions as the two simply- existed.

“So,” Tianlang-jun said after an eternity’s moment. “What are you doing here Little Cultivator?”

Ming Fan blinked, “Is this not one amongst our many meetings?”

The world seem to blur around him like ink amongst a pool of water. Fading into implied images as the sky and trees distorted. The sounds of the earth quieted to a hushed whisper. Ming Fan’s eyes casted around in confusion as the lively village dulled into a dead silence.

“It isn’t,” Tianlang-jun leaned back, smirking. “You’ve spent so long with me that I am now here with you- in limbo. I’m flattered Fan-er.”

Ming Fan narrowed his eyes, scowling, before looking away, “Definitely. Tianlang-jun never called me that to my face.”

Ming Fan twisted away from the…demon for some time to think.

TLJ + MF - Actual Flashback

“You look like you went a round and three more with a golem,” Tianlang-jun tsked at him.

“Are you going to lecture me about coming out while I look like I lost against said golem or are you going to sit your ass down and have some tea like we agreed?” Ming Fan snapped, wincing as he sat.

Tianlang-jun whistled wolfishly. “Why, I never took that War God to be the kinky type.”

“Don’t be so obscene,” Ming Fan rolled his eyes. “He landed me flat on my ass almost a dozen times. Of course sitting down would be a pain.”

“You know there’s this flower that-“

“No.”

“But I hurt just looking at you,” Tianlang-jun whined like a particularly annoying brat. “One tiny little adventure to look for a flower that heals bruises instantly, it’s a Lotus of a blue hue, I hear those people from the far West have been using it for some time.”

“And then Liu Qingge will have me spar against him, again, and this hellish circle will repeat itself. I am only saved by the fact that my cultivation is not as advanced as one of a Peak Lords, otherwise I would be healed by the end of the week and my pain begins anew,” Ming Fan shook his head. “I appreciate your concern, I really do, but no.”

“Aww, well since you’re being so polite about it…” Tianlang-jun sighed and sipped from the tea. “Mn- this is good. Where did you get it?”

“Shang-shishu taught me how to prepare lemon tea before the fruits go out of season, apparently there is a sweetened-cold version of this as well, but he has yet to refine the technicalities of the ingredients. I worry for him, he always seems so busy.”

“He looks like a rodent who accidentally ate a pepper, though I suppose in this case it would be a block of ice what with Mobei-jun being his lover and all.”

“I did wonder how that happened, and worried a brief time. An Ding Peak’s disciples had said that their master would occasionally come home bruised and barely able to walk, they were rearing to go to war with the Northern Demons far before everything else happened.” Ming Fan sighed, “Well, it isn’t any of my business. I’m sure they’re dealing with the situation in their own way.”

“True that, those An Ding Peak children…physically they are weak, but it is always the weaker ones that surprise you the most. Especially when angry,” Tianlang-jun smiled as he mused. “Afterall, hornets don’t seem like much at first glance. That Mobei-jun has his work cut out for him, ah, speaking of. What of those two? Surely the boy is tip-toeing these days.”

“He tends to keep to the bamboo house, and we tend to stay far away from the bamboo house, especially at night.” Ming Fan raised his hand to drink. “That is all I will say of the matter.”

Ming Fan sighed, rubbing a hand against his eyes, “I am getting far too old for this.”

“Oh please, you’re not even a century old.”

“Hm, and yet somehow I am still significantly more mature than you. Have you reached the regression stage of life Tianlang-jun? I must say, I’m rather peeved that it’s a mental deterioration rather than a physical one for you demons.”

“Hoh?” Tianlang-jun leaned forward, smirking. “Wish to test how youthful I can be Little Cultivator?”

Ming Fan raised a hand idly pointing at the silks of Tianlang-jun’s clothes, startling the heavenly demon as he wondered just what the other had found on his clothes.

Then Ming Fan flicked up, hitting the former Demon Lord up the lip and under the nose, causing Tianlang-jun to recoil, sputtering from the unjust attack. The audacity.

“I’m sure you’d at least warm the bed,” He deadpanned, sipping at his tea without a care as Tianlang-jun sputtered indignantly.

NMJ/MF - Original Re-meeting for ch 52; added here for my convenience (cus i don't wanna make another post)

“Gather everyone who can fight!” One voice called. “Sect Leader Nie is being surrounded by a pack of hell hounds! They need help.”

Ming Fan was out and running before anyone could even blink- with only Liu Qingge and Tianlang-jun holding enough time to react by following him.

-

“Shit-“ Mingjue cursed, swinging around Bàxià to hurl one attacking hound over to the side. “Meng Yao- you alright?!”

“Could use-” Meng Yao grimaced as he had to back off to avoid the snapping jaws of another hound. “Some help.”

“Reinforcements should be on the way!” Mei Lin cursed venomously under her breath. “Just where the hell did all these damned dogs come from?!”

“We’re being overrun!” Lang Fengyi yelped as he narrowly avoided claws.

“Fuck-“ Mingjue gathered his energy, willing it to fill him once more. “Get ready to run! I should be able to distract them long enough to-“

“Don’t worry about that.”

The disciples of Nie turned to find a man arrogantly walking through the field, the hounds yipping in fear and running from him, as well as another man clad in white and silver who eyed the hounds back.

Tianlang-jun stood before the disciples of Qinghe Nie with a bright smile, “Relax now, everything will be fine.”

Liu Qingge huffed, drawing his sword, “Says you. We have to make sure he’s not overworking himself remember?”

There was a distant rumbling- an ominous presence that washed over them to the point where all the hounds began to shudder and shake in fear as they too yipped around fearfully.

Descend with great speed. Swift and merciless. Run my enemies. Leave none left alive. May death greet you well.

Formation formed.

Ming Fan dropped his sword with militaristic precision, tilting all the swords generated by his power towards the ground in varying angles.

Heavenly Wrath Formation.

Tianlang-jun looked up in the surprise, “Don’t tell me that’s-“

“It is,” Liu Qingge scowled.

“Who-“ Nie Mingjue began- before all hell broke loose.

Liu Qingge’s expression was thunderous as he swept past rows of demonic hounds, tilting on hand and waiting-

Another man dropped from the sky not a second later, catching Liu Qingge’s robes and righting him before swinging his legs on the man’s waist to get around and jab another hound in the back- Tianlang-jun was swift to join the fray, allowing the shorter cultivator to move around him to get at all the lucky hounds who managed to move away from Ming Fan’s deadly aim fast enough.

While Tianlang-jun added to the deadly partnership with his own flare, it was the pair of Ming Fan and Liu Qingge that showed the obvious years of partnership between them- for the two had years of spars and night hunts to guide their blades where they need be.

Heads flew, limbs joining them as the immortals of Cang Qiong Sect and Tianlang-jun of the Heavenly Demon Line slaughtered the feared and the rowdy- leaving those of Qinghe Nie in awe.

“..Wei…” Meng Yao said, knees beginning to grow weak. “Wei Fan?!”

The man abruptly froze, glancing towards their direction before seeming to move on instinct- the War God sensing the sudden change and using his arm to propel him outward, allowing the man to fly across the air and land his sword true through the skull of the hell hound that was just about to take a chunk from Nie Mingjue’s side.

Ming Fan, not upset as he was, barked at them venomously, “Just what do you think you’re doing?! Fucking move! You’re in a battle field! Fight damn you! Are you not of Qinghe Nie?!”

“Teacher Wei!” Mei Lin cried- openly actually, crying.

“Oh for the love of-“ Ming Fan cursed. “I’ll take your crying and yelling and cursing later, lift your sabres and fight!”

“Xiao-Fan!”

Ming Fan turned, grunting as he launched his sword in the Heavenly Demon’s direction and skewering the hound. “What?!”

“Lower your blood pressure!”

Ming Fan felt his blood pressure rise out of sheer spite. “Fuck you!”

“A-Fan,” Liu Qingge growled. “You just performed one of the most powerful formations while silent. Calm down.”

“I can’t!” Ming Fan caught himself with a scowl. “But I’m not upset!”

“For the love of-“ Liu Qingge turned to Tianlang-jun. “Can you handle the rest?”

“Yeah I got it,” Tianlang-jun batted away a hound with his bare fist. “Just take care of our pissed off little horse first.”

Liu Qingge wasted no time, grabbing the now fuming Ming Fan, his nose beginning to trickle with a line of blood and generally causing the already shocked disciples of Qinghe Nie to panic.

“Hey,” Liu Qingge’s voice was soft as it was firm. “Calm down. Calm. That’s not a request.”

“I’m trying,” Ming Fan hissed. “You try doing this in the middle of battle.”

“Alright back up plan,” Liu Qingge turned to the still shocked Nie Mingjue. “You. Make yourself useful. He needs a distraction.”

“Wha-“

Liu Qingge shoved Ming Fan into Nie Mingjue, the taller man abruptly catching the man by the waist to steady him before something else caused him to loose balance.

Forgot one: Deleted Extra feat. Yang Yixuan + MF; written with it's og formatting since notes preserved my italics somehow

Cold wind swept past the ravine.

Shaking trees and rustling branches provided the background noise for the twittering creatures who lived in the back mountains. Within this quiet land was a surrounding of high elevation mountains spanning all around the mountain side.

There, Ming Fan sat quietly. Watching the creatures bellow- there were no humans for miles save for those few people within the Ancient Sect, and they were hardly just human anymore.

“So, you’ve finally decided to get off your ass.”

Ming Fan stiffened.

Yang Yixuan’s arms were cross across his breast, idly looking down from the view of Qing JIng Peak.

The landscape had changed much since Ming Fan had last come here, it was greener. With the trees far taller than when Ming Fan had last seen them, the older trees cut down by the ravages of war and time- but new ones taking their place. The silence too, was new. With no disciples Cang Qiong Mountain was a far quieter place than it had been during the height of its Sect Years. Some ascended, some peacefully settling into their next life, and some sticking around. Going to and fro the place carrying out errands and enacting a firm hand where the average Cultivator could not handle. The war had put a damper on such things, what with their stance of neutrality, bu it was no less somewhat of a sobering surprise that those of Cang Qiong Mountain had seen what was happening and judged it would be better to remain quiet.

He knew why of course, it was more practical in the long run for a mythical Sect, they were not here to force the future into their own hands- merely to counter the monsters of the yester years. Still. He wondered.

“You’re thinking so loud I could practically here it,” the former head disciple of Bai Zhan peak, the former Peak Lord himself, continued with a raised brow. “You’re normally quick to empty your mind and dump it onto others.”

Ming Fan scoffed softly, “Normal is a poor basis to use to pass judgement at the moment, even a Bai Zhan Peak buffoon like you should realize such.”

“…”

Ming Fan pursed his lip, anger simmering.

Settle.

Settle.

Settle.

“I’m sorry, that was uncalled for.” He said softly, allowing his fist to slack from their death-like grip.

“You just lost your brohter,” Yang Yixuan said bluntly. “You were a raving asshole when Liu-shifu dragged you here. Pretty much spat at Luo Binghe’s feet and insulted just about everyone.”

Ming Fan restrained the urge to flinch at every word.

“I’d be more than a little troubled if you didn’t act like that after losing your brother.” Yang Yixuan continued with a shake of his head. “It’s good to know that our illustrous Ming Fan is still a human.”

“Have I not proven that time and time again?”

“Dunno,” Ming Fan turned his head, the Bai Zhan Peak’s former sole disciple’s voice turning uncharacteristically soft. “You were doing a pretty good impression of acting like an immortal before.”

#Scum Disciple's Adventures Into the Unknown World #SDAUW #BTS I guess #Are there actually behind the scenes for writing idk #I'll see if I have time to write one since I do have a lot of notes from when i planned this fic #and maybe some bits of the history referenced in SDAUW #MDZS x SVSSS Fanfic #One that is tbh really out there in terms of concept ngl lol #Scum Disciple BTS

[bonniebird]

Klaus’ True Love (Part Two)

Klaus Mikaelson x Immortal!Fem!Reader

Summary: A thousand years ago Klaus lost her. The only girl he ever truly loved but now he's found her again, he's not letting her go without answers.

Part One

Part Three

Part Four

“So you found the spell, what do you want from me?” Klaus asked furiously. He’d been called to the boarding house, pulled away from his watch over you inspecting his art, to deal with inferior creatures that seemed unable to function without him.

“Bonnie isn’t powerful enough to use the spell.” Elena said defensively, stepping in front of Bonnie when Klaus bared his fangs at her.

“Well I’ll have someone find you a stronger witch.” He snapped before vanishing leaving them to wonder where he was keeping you.

 ***************************

 “You look different now.” Klaus smiled when you jumped and turned away from the painting in front of you.

“I don’t want this spell lifted, I don’t want to lose Elena and Jer… Aunt Judith.” Your fingers reached out to brush the paint and he gently caught your hand.

“You never could keep those hands to yourself.” You looked up at him as he swallowed and twisted his fingers into yours, before you got uncomfortable enough to pull away, he dropped your hand and hurried over to the corner of the room. 

“I managed to save your flower for you… when we first settled in Fell’s church you said you’d never seen something that could rival the beauty of the sun setting over the sea.” He pulled back the panel that had stood against one wall, revealing a large pot of dirt with the same flowers that grew around your window pane at home,

“Aunt Judith thinks it’s odd the flower seems to grow just for me.” You muttered, forgetting to fill in the vampire on what it was you meant but he seemed more engrossed in watching you finger the delicate purple petals.

“I named it after you, it has become very popular.” He smiled at you and moved away, leaving you with the plant.

 ********************

“Thank you.” you whispered. Despite the kidnapping and threats against your siblings Klaus seemed… oddly indifferent to upsetting you, unlike Damon who almost tore your throat out the first time you met.

“A small gesture for a love I lost.” He muttered. You ran your fingers across one of the many sculptures and pulled your hand back, he was right, you learnt by touch and the desire to hold everything you saw was almost a hidden need.

“How did I get like this, clearly what you have told me is true enough for my sister and her brood of vampires to believe you.” You ask, settling down on the end of your bed as you waited for his answer.

“It is a very long story (Y/N) one that I will not know all of until you remember yourself.” He hesitated for a moment before beginning to speak.

 ********************

“What have you done, she had no part of this… have you become so blinded by your need for power that innocent people must die?” Klaus hissed at his father hysterically as you didn’t resurface from the lake beneath him.

“You are a savage animal, what I did was mercy compared to a life with you.” Mikael spat back. He didn’t notice the flower you’d dropped being crushed beneath his boot but the desperate hybrid’s fingers plucked it from the ground and cradled it in his hands.

“Father, how could you do it?” Rebekah yelled bravely as she tore through the woods, following the sounds of her brother’s despair. He raised a hand to slap her but Elijah appeared just in time to take the blow.

“I will not be questioned by my own children.” He hissed, storming away, leaving the siblings to comfort one another.

Your gasp for air was sad and desperate, drawing the attention of the Mikaelson patriarch. He watched you pull yourself from the lake, sitting for a moment to take stock of what happened to you, before making his presence known. 

“I never thought we ourselves could create another.” His ramblings made no sense to you as he held your chin up so he could look at your face closely.

“What have you done to me?” You sobbed. He frowned before lifting you to your feet by your arm.

“You must eat; do not worry I will find a witch to keep you safe from my wife’s bastard.” His voice attempted to be soft and comforting but made your skin crawl. You didn’t dare cry out for help, assuming he would have killed Niklaus for attacking him and showing such defiance.

**********************

 “So he used compulsion to keep me under his control, why didn’t it wear off when he died?” You asked. Before you could panic Klaus was on his feet gently placing his hands on your shoulder. 

“The witches, he forced the Gilbert’s, Lockwood’s and Bennet’s to protect you and the tradition was passed down, I have no doubt your Aunt knows something of your secret but hasn’t the heart to say anything… admittedly from me but not only did that guarantee your obedience, it erased any oddity of your ageing.” He took his hands away as you shook your head and pushed his arms.

“Aging oddity, I remember my birthdays and Elena’s birth… we fought over who could hold Jeremy first, my mother told me off on my sixth birthday for pushing Elena off a chair.” You yell at him frantically, pacing the room. He reached to comfort you but you shoved him away as tears fell down your cheeks.

“They are not real memory’s, the power in the land here keeps everyone human from seeing the truth.” You let Klaus wrap you in his arms as your legs gave out underneath you.

“But… No, I… you’re not taking those memories from me by undoing that spell.” You say firmly pounding your fists against the vampire’s chest.

“They will still remain (Y/N), if they didn’t everyone in Fell’s Church would know that you haven’t aged for a thousand years… all it will mean is, you will remember me and your real parents.” His voice cracked a little as he felt you give into the longing to rest yourself against him.

“But what if they don’t?” You whispered. He didn’t reply as he kissed your forehead and sat you back on the end of your bed.

“I will find a witch powerful enough to make sure they do.” He beckoned you to follow him and led you to a car with blacked out windows, indicating for the man in the front to take you wherever you wanted to go and shut the door without another word to you.

 **********************

 “Elena!” You ran up the Boarding house drive, wrapping your arms around your sister and began sobbing into her shoulder.

“Listen to me even if you forget… we forget, we love you, when Mom and Dad died you were with us and you lost them to and everything with Jer… you’ll always be our sister.” You smiled and wiped the tears from her cheeks before embracing Bonnie. 

“I’m sorry if I’d have known what Grams was doing…” You hugged your best friend and smiled.

“You always do what’s right Bonnie; you can’t fix something you don’t know is broken.” She grinned at you.

“Well this is all very touching lady’s but I have to prepare my home for an invasion of narcissistic immortals so if we could move it inside.” Damon snapped from behind you. you shared a silent smile with Stefan as you fell in step with him.

Three hours later Klaus and two other vampires appeared in the doorway dragging a woman they claimed to be causing trouble for several vampires. You reluctantly agreed to sit where they told you and Bonnie began hovering over the witch’s shoulder to make sure she was doing the spell correctly.

She began chanting something over and over, the room seemed to heave and shrink around you until it vanished entirely and there was just a plain door with a bolt in front of you. without hesitation you opened the door and let what was behind it wash over you.

 *****************************

 “(Y/N) …. Oh god please be ok, please… don’t leave us.” Elena’s tears felt like cold droplets of ice on your skin and for a moment you couldn’t move.

“Drink this.” The blond woman that Klaus had come with was kneeling on the other side of you, holding a slightly warm baggie of blood.

“Rebekah.” You muttered, taking the bag and tearing it open drinking whatever you hadn’t split.

“Drink the witch, she’s no use for anything else.” Damon muttered when your hungry gaze fixed on your sister.

“What happened to her?” You asked as Rebekah helped you away from Elena and over to the now dead witch.

“Some spells kill us if we’re too weak.” Bonnie’s voice was wavering, no doubt the whole dead witch and vampire subject was hitting her a little harder than she liked to let on.

“Well as long as she’s dead and it stops me from devouring you all.” You muttered. You went to sink your new fangs into her neck only to have Klaus stop you.

“You drink from her like that we’ll have a town with no blood supply.” He stepped between you and the witch, sinking his teeth into her neck, before pulling away and indicating for you to feed from the marks he’d left.

Your gaze on Klaus lasted longer than needed and it wasn’t until he sat next to the witch and pulled you into his lap that you noticed everyone else had moved to the next room. His lips found yours in a kiss that held a deep longing and need that you felt your heart would explode if it lasted much longer.

“I hope you know I will never be without you again.” He whispered, brushing tendrils of hair from your face as he looked up at you. you placed a gentle kiss on his lips, smiling to yourself when he moaned and curled his hands into the chair to stop himself from touching you.

“I feel horrible.” You muttered, ruining the moment when your fangs extended and refused to vanish again.

“You haven’t eaten properly for a long time; magic supplementing is a form of witchly torture so you’re going to be starving.” He shifted so you could feed without leaving his embrace and without much prompting you sank your teeth into the witch’s neck.

He moved your hair out of his way and had to sink his fangs into his lip to stop himself from moaning at the sight of you feeding, feeling the rush of power the blood was giving you.

#klaus mikaelson x reader #klaus mikaelson #the originals #bonniebird

[thatweirdoleigh]

Frozen Love

#February2021promptchallenge

Prompt: “I’m going to take care of you, okay?”

Oneshot / kinda based on daydreams about an oc 

Procrastination is a bitch, but here you go!

Little editing. WE DIE WITH PRIDE. Sorry if this is scientifically impossible. or just impossible to read.

Warnings: Mentions of abuse, implied Hypothermia, some swear words Feel free to @ me if I missed any.

Italics represent thoughts

Kol x Reader

Her tears felt like fire against the freezing air. It had happened. He did it. He finally fucking did it. Her boyfriend, now ex, had finally snapped and showed his true colors. Her bloodied lip and quickly bruising face a testament to his cruelty. He confessed that he was cheating and that he liked it. He called her a worthless excuse for a lover, then threw her back out in the snow without so much as a coat. The winter temperatures had continued dropping below freezing for the past several weeks and as shivers raked across her spine, she quickly realized she would surely freeze if she didn’t pull herself off the ground.

Ok Y/n where can you go?

Taylor is already stressed.

Dave will be angry.

Klaus will outright kill me if I go to Cami or Marcel.

With a groan, y/n pushed herself off the brick wall and up from the ground. Her stomach twisted in knots, as she resigned to her fate. Pulling out her phone only to find it dead, she cursed at the sky. Damn it. And so she walked, vigorously rubbing up and down her arms, hoping to whatever god would listen that she was going the right way.

 Kol groaned as he stripped off his coat. Tugging a hand through his hair, he informed his brothers that he was going to go shower off the blood and then crash, and that he wouldn’t be joining them for there celebrations. Klaus only waved his hand, mumbling that there wouldn’t be one, he himself being eager to join his very pregnant wife in bed.  

Although neither party were on particularly friendly terms, Marcel and the Mikaelsons were not actively trying to kill one another. This however, did not persuade a group of extremists from attacking the Mikaelsons in the name of “freeing Marcel from their compulsion”.  Marcel was not compelled.

They were exhausted. This was the 4th attack in a week and it was only Wednesday. So Kol trudged up the stairs, careful not to track mud across the carpet (Rebekah would have his head), stripped his clothes and got in the shower where he allowed the hot water to relax his aching muscles.

 Kol opened his eyes, consciousness slowly swimming back to him, as shivers ran down his spine. After having scrubbed off all the blood in the shower, Kol had gotten in the tub figuring he deserved the joy. Must’ve fallen asleep. He acknowledges. The water now cold, Kol gets out, and dries his hair but not after putting on gray sweatpants and his favorite sweatshirt, the one that y/n had gotten him for his birthday. His lips involuntarily curl into a smirk at the thought of his best friend and secret crush.

Regardless Kol yawns and flops onto his bed relishing in the warmth of his room, grateful for the modern invention of indoor heating.

I’m hungry. Should probably go eat s’mthin.

Just as sleep starts to wrap around Kol like a warm blanket, the door bell rings.

He frowns against his pillow and listens intently for the front door, trying to figure out who would be here at this ungodly hour. He is rewarded with a familiar voice pleading with something he can’t quite place, “Please Kol, just open the door”. Y/n?

And so Kol makes his way out and into the entryway, exasperated and sleepy, trying to figure out why his best friend would grace his doorstep at this time of night.

“This better be good” he said playfully as he swung the door open. However both his mood and face dropped quickly as he saw the state of the woman he loved. Her eyes were glossy as if she could she right through him, her eyelashes were clumped together where her tears had frozen, her lips and nails were a concerning blue, complementing the purple and black that marred across her cheek and she was shaking as if a gentle breeze could push her over.

“The hell? y/n?” he pulled the door wider, shock and panic starting to take hold.

“Sorry” she murmured, seeming genuine in her apology, “didn’t know where else to go”. And with that she collapsed into his arms.

“Fuck!”

  When y/n woke up, it was not with a sudden gasp from her usual, frequent nightmares, or with the same clarity that one had after a good night’s rest. No, when y/n woke up her senses swam back like molasses. The first thing she notices is, its warm. She is wrapped in something warm and soft. Blankets, she concludes. The second thing she notices is the taste of copper and how thick it feels in her throat. Kol. gave hes blood i guess….Kol. She hums his name gently as she gets the vague feeling that she is forgetting something.

“Y/n?” Following the voice, the next thing she notices is the body pressed against her back. She hums again as she rolls further into its warmth. Her eyes flutter open and she is greeted with the face of her best friend and the man she has secretly loved while her boyfriend messed with her mind, filling it with lies. Lies claiming the she could never be loved. She smiles, “Kol”.

           Pulling her closer to his bare chest, y/n now wearing his sweatshirt in an attempt to keep her warm, Kol gave a breath of blessed relief at the sound of her voice, “you had me worried, you were so cold, I didn’t think you were breathing.” He gave a half hearted chuckle. Y/n hummed happily as she snuggled backwards closer into the warmth of his body. Kol shuffled the blankets higher over her shoulders and took and careful breath.

“So do you wanna tell me why you appeared on my doorstep half frozen and bruised, without a jacket, in the dead of the night?” His words had an edge to them that he hadn’t intended, as he desperately tried to push away the image of her face marred by black and blue.

y/n stilled, suddenly wide awake, as her memory of tonight’s events came back in a flood. The pain, the heartbreak, the cold, all of it.

“y/n?” She choked back a sob, as the hatred of her boyfriend’s words starting echoing in her mind.

You’re useless and a waste of my time. Guess I was wrong, you can’t be loved. Not even by me!

“y/n”

The crash of the beer bottle was jarring but what was more jarring the punch thrown shortly after the bottle hit the wall.

“Y/n.”

His fist was in her hair now as tears streamed down her face. “Let me go!” she begged. “You’re hurting me. Let me go! Please!”. The door opened and she landed in the snow, as she was thrown out into the icy cold. “AND DON’T COME BACK YOU USELESS BITCH”. The door slammed shut.

“y/n!” Kol was now hovering over top of y/n, desperate to break through her distress. She took in a sudden breath and then a sob as she clung to him. Kol swore under his breath as he started rubbing up and down her sides and legs trying to get her to calm down.

“hey, hey. Its ok. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. You’re safe. I’ll take care of you. I’m going to take care of you okay?”

Another breath, “Okay”.

“okay?”

“Okay.”

Several minutes passed before either spoke again. Y/n because she was to overwhelmed to speak and Kol because he was terrified he would scare her again. As y/n’s breathing evened out Kol laid back by her side and wrapped her leg over his hip as he pulled her closer to him. The intimacy of the gesture caused y/n’s guilt to bubble through into the silence.

“I’m sorry.” Kol was taken back by this.

“For what? Crying? Princess, Its OK, I shouldn’t have asked, I should have just let you sleep and then waited to talk in the morning.”

Y/n’s throat swelled tighter at the sincerity in his voice. “F-For being weak. For being a coward. For showing up on your doorstep at ass o’clock at night!” She said thickly.

Kol pulled back to look her in the eyes and he saw the pain and anguished guilt in her eyes, and all he could think of was how much he wanted to make it all go away.

“Baby girl, I love you, but you’re scaring me. What’s going on? Why were you outside? Why didn’t you have a jacket? How and where did you get the bruises from?”

“J-JJ kicked me out for being home late. A co-worker volunteered me for overtime. H-He hit me and confessed he was c-cheating.” She explained her tears were flowing freely now.

Anger flashed behind Kol’s eyes, and he pulled her tighter against him, like he was using his body as a shield from the outside world.  “I’m gonna kill him,” He vowed lowly. “How dare he. How dare he fucking treat you like that”.

Y/n froze, not because of Kol’s vow, that was to be expect of any Mikaelson, but because of something else Kol just said.

“Wait, you love me?”

Now it was Kol’s time to freeze. His anger quickly over-taken by shock and the fear as he realized his slip up. He avoided her eyes in shame.

“y-yeah” his heart stuttering, “yeah I do. “ he whispered.

“Oh thank god. “

And then she kissed him.

#kol mikaelson x reader #february2021promptchallenge #kol mikaelson #elijah mikaelson #klaus mikaelson #rebekah mikaelson #kol x reader #kol x y/n #kol mikaelson fluff #im kinda proud of this #please be nice i'm more confident with poetry #leigh wrote a fic

[miss-kittys-magical-library]

60. “have you always been this beautiful?” + 68. “You owe me a kiss.” for sean/reader plssss?

Glitter in The Air (Sean X Reader)

A/N: This is just pure Sean Falco bubble gum cotton candy fluff just for Joz ☺️☺️😍

You held your finger above the mouse and debated which road to take:

Add him. It's only been four years, but he's bound to remember you.

Forget it. It’s been four years, how would he ever remember you?!

Without a second thought you clicked add friend on the Facebook name “SeanFalco92.” You typed out a little note just in case.

Hey, Sean.

I'm sorry about what happened at the University. You're a bit infamous. Not every day the quiet Irishman gives it to the campus police. That fire hydrant was ugly anyways.

Y/N, The Dark Room Princess

Then you switched off the internet to prevent yourself from nervously checking every ten minutes to see a response. So you poured yourself a cup of coffee and put your headphones in. It was gonna be an all-nighter on your grad school thesis.

Your computer made a loud ping noise that startled you from sleep you didn't realize you had fallen into. You raised your head and looked at the time “11am.” Thank God, still a few hours until you had to turn in your thesis. Then you were free to never worry about university again, until the loans rolled in. You groaned.

Still you adjusted yourself and your glasses to read the message that had come up alongside the friend request acceptance.

Hey! Yeah it's totally been awhile. How have you been? I felt the wrath of my parents when they bailed me out. Due for a bit of community payback for a few months. Sorry “Service.” Next time I won't get nicked.

Not quite sure about the dark room reference, but was thinking you should meet me at the carnival on Friday. I know I shouldn't be on campus, but I had tickets before everything went down. Care to be my reason for still showing my face after all that humiliation?

Sean

You shook your head and laughed. He definitely didn't remember you, and you weren't exactly sure what he was up to. Who turns down an opportunity to spend the night with Sean Falco?

You took your time replying. Showering. Eating lunch. Printing your thesis and assembling it. Not wanting to appear eager in your reply. He pinged again.

You there? It looked like you were online. Sorry, didn't mean to appear so needy or forward. I just thought it’d be nice to be reacquainted.

You cocked an eyebrow, cheeks flushed a bit and finally returned a response.

Yeah. I would like that. I live in the Madison apartments. Get to Union station (I'm guessing you lost your license?) and we’ll take the Gold Line back to campus. See you at 7.

Sean's comeback was immediate.

It's a date!

Your face grew even hotter. Fuck, it's a date.

-----

You couldn't help but be nervous as you paced around the front steps of your apartment complex. You felt confident in the cute outfit you rushed out and bought impulsively. Or how you bit the bullet and got your hair done too after you delivered your thesis. You claimed it was in celebration of the rest of your life and nothing to do with the tall, lanky Irishman now headed your way.

“Sean!” a bit startled as you turned around in his direction.

Curly hair a bit wild, his jeans looking industrial but you knew they weren't bought that way. The purple tee-shirt he wore somehow made his leafy green eyes positively stunning. His hand was outstretched with a flower held towards you.

“T’ought I might go a bit old-fashioned t’night,” you took the --- from him. “Maybe a bit o’ congratulations for finishing your t’esis paper.”

Glad your hair covered your ears because you knew the tips were bright red. You never remembered his lilt being that strong or noticeable. Maybe for some strange reason it was his nerves too?

“A Peony? Sean, these are my favorites! How’d you know?” you smelled it briefly before you tucked it away behind your ear. Pleasantly surprised. “Thank you.”

“I may have creeped around your photos a bit, hope ye don't mind?” Sean raised his hands and crinkled one of his eyes shut.

“This is my first flower from anyone, so I'll take some light stalking in the meantime. We should hurry though, the train leaves in ten minutes.”

The two of you side by side. You sat turned to face him, back towards the window of the car. Sean faced forward and stole sideways glances while you talked.

“So what does a young lady with a Masters in Art History do fer livin?”

“I want to restore old paintings at the Met in New York, but I'll probably be stuck here in Portland till I'm thirty. What about you, think you can bypass a degree and still be a photojournalist? Maybe and Irish Ansel Adams?”

Sean laughed, “How did you know any of that?” He looked directly at you with a gleam in his eyes.

“You really don't remember me do you?”

You took a chance and slid your hand into his to prevent him from picking at a loose thread in his shirt. Sean easily enclosed it without hesitation.

“Mostly!” Cheek hidden in his smile. “I just thought something about ye clicked in my brain. Can't figure out why, but was hopin’ going out with ye would jog my mind. Is t’at ok?”

There was no time to answer. Soon enough you were back on campus. You talked Sean into some french fries and corn dogs before tugging at his hand excitedly.

“Ok, the Ferris Wheel! Let's do that first? We should be able to see downtown, and it'll be dusk by the time we get on.”

Sean hesitated as his eyes glanced up towards the top. A flash of nerves behind his eyes, but he gave up and shrugged. Obediently following you in line while he ate, a bit sullen.

Surely the guy who just fought a fire hydrant and a cop wouldn't be scared of heights, you thought. Then you flashed back to that day Freshman year and Sean's panicked voice in the dark. His ragged breath and palms that sweat through your tee shirt as he held onto your shoulders.

You shoved a cheese fry in your mouth as the line staggered forward slow and steady. The conversation had died quite suddenly, but you knew you had to take the chance. Cheesy romantic comedy as this all was, who doesn't want to be with a hot guy alone stuck on a ride?

“Uh y/n?” The giggle was back in Sean’s voice now as you broke from your reverie. “You've got some..” His thumb swiped at the corner of your mouth before he lifted it to his own. “Cheese.”

“Thank.. you?” The tension was silent and awkward.

Then, as the two of you simply stared at each other, Sean let out a sound somewhere between a strangled laugh and a snort. It was infectious, and you instantly joined in. That type of laughter you aren't sure how people achieve, but it leaves you breathless and annoying to everyone in your sight.

“I don't know.. why..I licked.. my thumb,” he wheezed around the most childlike giggle. “It was like a weird compulsion.” The way he said the word came out like “way-rd,” and instigated more laughter from deep inside you.

It seemed to ease Sean’s apprehension as the two of you began to board the ride, though. A calm coming over him as you both quieted down. He white-knuckled the bar as it clicked into place over your laps. Eyes wide as it lurched into motion.

You brushed your fingers tentatively over his clenched fist. Sean had a glazed look in his eyes as you slowed and stopped multiple times. You inches towards the top. He really was frightened.

“I've just gotta get over this. I'm confronting my fear is all.” He sounded so serious with a hint of pride, you stifle a chuckle with a bite of a lip.

Sean peered slightly over the edge of the car and looked downwards. Then it halted suddenly and he grabbed your hand and covered it with his massive one. You squirmed around to hold it properly as he squeezed his eyes shut. The car swung back and forth a bit on the precarious side, even for you. One last time, and it would start spinning in its giant lackadaisical circle.

Forward. Pitch to a stop even harder than the last few. This time Sean buried his face in your shoulder, and you relished this surprising role-reversal. But then he looked up at you in the most serious manner.

“Have you always been this beautiful?”

At the same exact time you said:

“First claustrophobia now heights”

You both sat up straight and gaped.

Again simultaneously.

“How d’ye know I'm claustrophobic?!”

“Did you just call me pretty?”

For the moment, Sean was no longer afraid. Your sentiment about his fear distracted him long enough that he loosened up immensely. Long fingers scratched at his mess of curls while deep in thought. Your eyebrows knit together in confusion, heart beating wildly in your ears.

Sean tugged at his chin with a forefinger and thumb. Obviously deep in thought as he gazed off into the sky. It was like a lightbulb finally popped on over his head.

“Jesus (jaysus) Dr Bacher’s photography course. Freshman year!”

You smiled, “By Jove I think he's got it!”

“T’at’s how ye know me. We got right stuck in that darkroom door. It was like a pitch-black tube really. Man I bloody well panicked.”

“I thought you were screwing with me at first! Your hands were so sweaty my tee-shirt was wet from where you were groping me. I kept thinking how every single girl in our class would've killed our professor to be stuck with the hot Irish guy. All that heavy breathing, my teenage brain thought it was sexual tension.”

“I was 18 wedged in a small space with a cute girl. It was claustrophobia, but it was also sexy.”

You bit the inside of your cheek and smiled. The two of you ignoring the ride and it's slow rotations. Still holding hands.

“I don't think I imagined that..” you struggled with the next line.. “parts of you were totally poking into me.”

Sean's mouth dropped open but he repeated his prior sentiment. A bit higher pitched. “I WAS 18 IN A SMALL SPACE WITH A HOT GIRL!” His lilt was more pronounced.

“Who gets a fear.. boner,” you rolled back into the hysterics from earlier on the ground.

Sean's face a deep crimson as his mouth tightened into a straight line. He looked away, but you knew he was playing along. Those eyes betrayed him with a hint of a smile.

“You told me if I got us out you’d take me on a date.”

“I said I'd kiss ye if we got out alive. Never knew how long it’d be til someone found us.”

“You did!” you agreed excitedly. “The door just needed hoisted up and back on the track. Which I did! Then we stumbled out and I practically threw myself in your arms for that kiss.”

“Wait, did we?” Sean turned back to you as the Ferris wheel slowed to another stop. Neither of you remembered it moving.

“No. Stupid ass Derek Sandoval was in the classroom waiting for you.”

“Oi! Watch now, he's still my mate.” Sean's turn to tease now.

“I bet he is.”

The two of you sat back in the car. Your fingers still entwined but the fright had melted away. Sean let out a long steady breath as he really looked out on the carnival and the multicolored lights as they danced around you. The stars blanketed the sky.

“Sean?”

His face heavenwards. “Yeah y/n?

“I think you owe me a kiss,” your words soft, almost a whisper.

Sean’s gaza came back down from the clouds. The music and noise from the crowds seemed to fade away as your breath caught in your throat. Without a second thought, he let go of your hand and put his arm around you. That soft mouth leaned over and almost melted with yours. Your bodies enveloped in a hug as Sean slid the tip of his tongue between your lips. Your own darted forward to fight with it.

Then the car hulked into motion again and you broke apart. A smirk on Sean's face revealed a dimple, and you joined in with a grin of your own.

“Well, that was worth a four year wait.”

Tag list: @joz-stankovich @robertsheehanownsmyass @magic-multicolored-miracle @elliethesuperfruitlover

#robert sheehan #sean falco #sean x reader #fluff!! #sean x request

[flyingupward]

critical role - vox machina chapter 2 - adventures in vasselheim

all sentences taken from episodes 17-23 of the first campaign of critical role. feel free to change pronouns, phrasing etc. to fit your needs!

“I feel uncomfortable. It must be the emotion.”

“She bets for all of us.”

“You know what I love about these fights? They’re just beautiful.”

“It’s okay, buddy. This isn’t the first time you’ve been knocked unconscious.”

“Where do I mark off my loss of pride?”

“We’ve had a really emotional day, can we just sleep?”

“That’s not even chicken, that’s just a piece of wood.”

“It seems a shame to have a family and not take advantage of it."

“What is family for other than to take advantage of?”

“We haven't had an awkward parental confrontation in what feels like months."

“You left during the family meeting.”

“Most people just say thank you!”

“I judged him, apparently, and I don’t remember doing it.”

“There’s nothing you can’t ruin.”

“I used it in that fight that you didn’t want to fight in.”

“While you were gone, everything happened, by the way.”

“I’m eating so much sugar compulsively out of nerves.”

“Can you just call us people, please?”

“Do you have a name other than husband?”

“I made a holy hand grenade.”

“He looked kind of like a dick if you want my personal opinion.”

“I am very very nervous that somebody’s going to die when we fight this thing.”

“I haven’t finished my training montage yet.”

“Oh, this is wonderful. You’re all gonna die.”

“Can we all get inspiration from seeing ________ just massacre?”

“Leave none alive, my boy.”

“I think we’re going to have to have a talk circle right now.”

“Can we make an agreement: I kill you, you kill me?”

“Somehow you made that less sexual than I could have ever imagined.”

“Your good fortune is a plague upon your friends.”

“Welcome to the shit.”

“We can both hold the monster.”

“I believe that you squishy people should be back here!”

“No plan is a good plan.”

“All I needed was fried chicken.”

“What a glorious moon are you amongst the stars of your treasure.”

“I’m called Burt Reynolds and I take great offense to that.”

“I’m never going. I’m going to just have a snack.”

“I would like to move away from this group of soon to be blasted with dragon fire people.”

“I built a thing and it blew up! Kind of on purpose!”

“I’m sorry! I’m a genius! I’m sorry! God, I’m clever!”

“You leave when Burt Reynolds tells you to leave!”

“Way to not die.”

“By the way, your lips taste like bubblegum.”

“I take my social cues from other people, I’m sorry.”

“Everyone talks about spontaneous combustion, but I never believed it.”

“Just let me step into a bucket. Please let me step into a bucket.”

“It’s like a cruise ship goth club.”

“It’s not impressive, that’s mythic.”

“That’s the thing, you’re beating math.”

“He’s sometimes hard to follow. You don’t want to fuck with him.”

“Ninth time’s the charm.”

"I would like to cast all my spells in succession for the next ten minutes"

“At this point, can I be amazed that he hasn’t helped us in any way, shape or form?”

“Math has no power here!”

“I think you pissed it off when you set it on fire multiple times in a row.”

“And with that, I must inform the internet of my majesty.”

“How is that like, being married to a god?”

“It’s hard to accept love from others when you hate yourself.”

“My sister is going to kill me, specifically.”

“There’s time to mourn the dead… and carpet… later.”

“He’s just slow because he’s processing and dealing with the rage and anger and the memories of betrayal that he has experienced.”

“I feel like we’re this close to starting the apocalypse.”

“Somewhere deep beneath the Vatican, there’s some monk who is running around screaming as all of their artifacts are cracking in half.”

“Little busy right now. On fire.”

“I am accustomed to failure.”

“I’m not stabbing you the worst I could.”

“Why are you smiling the whole time?!”

“I don’t know if explosions in small, earthen tunnels is a really good idea.”

“And you, you might be the most annoying person I’ve ever met in my life. *suddenly kisses*”

“Everybody else is getting a fucking hug.”

“He almost died. How did you do?”

“Guys, I’m thinking this might be, like, a cult.”

“You saw Harry Potter. The Hippogriff will jack you up, bow back.”

“It wasn’t a guy with a cat hat, it was a demon.”

“You just got mad at me for pretend marrying your brother.”

"We slept in a tent! In the woods! With the loudest librarian on God's green earth!"

“I’ve thought about that a little bit and then tried not to think about that a lot a bit.”

“We’re getting you a leash!”

“I’ve always wanted to see a volcano anyway.”

“Are you haggling with the fabric of time and space?”

“That was the day that __________ set himself on fire.”

“You know you don’t have to breathe all of it in every time.”

“Your future is as important as it is fragile. Protect it.”

“Oh cool, is this like a Cirque du Soleil thing?”

“I like the comma there. The comma really brought it together, like a haiku.”

“You are always a part of our journey no matter where we go.”

“You’re my favorite… Everything, I guess.”

“You’re this close to a breakdown from Grease.”

“It seems an enormous amount of alcohol has given you some perspective. I’m very proud of you.”

“I was gone for like a day!”

“I, of course, encourage your violence.”

“It’s all right, we didn’t touch in my family.”

“I realize what I’m doing and I stop.”

“That’s going on your tombstone.”

“Maybe make a friend, like a new friend, like one who isn’t us.”

“See The Matrix now, bitch!”

“I eat barstools for dinner.”

“Why do I always get busted?”

“I’m proud to have finally found my match.”

“If someone were to be an idiot, where would you take them to hold them while other people decided just how much of an idiot they were?”

“I noped myself on that one.”

“People like me because of my hair.”

“We should respect it… And also make fun of it when he’s gone.”

“Guys, his fucking eyes are glowing.”

“We are officially drunk in two different cities!”

“You know you can just be chill sometimes.”

#MEME | incoming #long post #OKAY HELLO YES IM HEADING TO THE MOVIES BUT PLEASE SPAM ME WITH THESE #I WILL LOVE YOU FOREVER

[janekfan]

Stipulations

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26366131/chapters/64217887

(Kind of heavy? Maybe? If you've experienced some of these themes? Or all of them? At once? I just love to project all over these characters soooo...sorry Jon. You must bear the brunt of my emotional ills :D

Basira is an interesting character to me. Like she's been kept in the dark, Jon has lied and been weird and is "eating" people's fears and I get it? But 177, oof. Take your victim blaming elsewhere! Especially considering she's used him for his powers before and is hypocritical when it comes to Daisy. So yeah. Got feels. Here they are all spilled over a page :D )

Weary, the avatar of the Beholding slipped between shadows in the Institute’s dark corridors, lingering at the door behind which were the key to relieving his acute suffering. He didn’t even notice that his trembling fingers were gripping the handle so tightly they ached, or that his face was pressed against the rough surface of the wood until a sharp sound from behind jolted him out of his ravenous longing.

“Jon.”

Basira. Judging from the livid expression on her face, she’d been repeating his name and was not well pleased with what she saw if the hand on her gun was any indication.

“Step. Away.” And the only reason he did, he could was the whisper of fear the Eye could sense, and he was drawn to it like a moth to a flame. “Stop.” Whatever was left of Jon obeyed, his own fear of her very real consequences overriding the desire to takefeedriptearsatiate hunger pangs so deep and ingrained that a part of him he couldn’t remember what it was anymore to not feel starved. Who was he without this need?

Who was he that Basira needed to be afraid of him?

“Ba--”

“Shut up.” He did, with the muted click of teeth and a dry swallow. Without the singular focus of what lay behind the door he felt shaky, weak. Like at any moment his legs would give way and he’d be left here on the floor. It happened sometimes. “What are you doing?” What was he doing? She turned from him. “Nevermind. Come with me.”

“Wh’where?” The fierce glare over her shoulder made him flinch and he followed her without any more questions into his office.

Oh.

“Sit down.” Gratefully. The last time she’d had him stand and, well.

“B’Basira.” He tried again, ashamed of the pleading note that crept into his voice. He wasn’t well. He. He didn’t want to do this but even so, her disgusted disappointment was cutting. He didn’t need to Know to know that she thought him pathetic, that she thought if only he was stronger they wouldn’t have this problem, this inconvenience. This was the only thing he was good for. If he could turn his powers into a tool for them then it proved there was still something human in him, right? Basira was helping him hold onto it, that’s why she asked this of him, because it was helping. From a folder under her arm she pulled a mugshot, sliding it across the desk. Jon didn’t look. He didn’t have to.

“Where is he?” He tried to resist, like she was the one who held the power of compulsion and not him, but he wanted to help. More than anything, he wanted to help fix what he’d done. The headache behind his eyes worsened when the Eye opened, demanding payment he didn’t have to give and dredging up what he needed to Know like drawing water from a depthless well. Static rose in a tide, angry, loud, greedy and he didn’t, there wasn’t enough left, like wringing blood from a stone.

Feed your god, or your god will feed on you.

Basira’s lead pooled on his tongue and fell from his lips and it tasted like ash and ink as the static finally overwhelmed him, rising in a wave, deafening, roaring, punishing him for daring to demand Knowledge for free.

Later. Minutes. Days. Weeks. Years later Jon woke to the rasp of a statement slipping under his door and he descended on it like a vulture, ugly and clawing, weeping with this taste of relief, no matter how small. He read it again and again, the metaphysical equivalent of licking his plate clean and when the static faded and the green was gone from his eyes, Jon jerked back to awareness with a sharp gasp, nauseated with dread realization. Curling up right where he was, Jon covered his face in both hands, stifling his noise and hiding his tears even though no one was left but him.

Hollow in his very bones, like a bird, Jon wished more than anything to fly away from this prison, to somewhere, anywhere, that did not hurt. He wandered familiar halls as an apparition of hunger, subsisting on sips of air and the dust of infinite statements and it felt like punishment. To be kept alive by the Beholding even as it killed him letter by word by sentence by paragraph by--

The tea kettle. Cold. Like him. Frozen and shivering and missing so badly his heart throbbed painfully in his narrow chest. Jon ended up here more often than he wanted to admit. It was a comfort. Security. The last remnant of someone who tolerated him, proof someone had once known him enough to care for him.

Someone else he’d thrown away.

Despite their strained relationship, he was so thankful he still had Basira, that she hadn’t left him in this place alone, even though he knew she couldn’t leave because of him. But he’d always been selfish; there was no reason would that change now. But he could make it up to her. If he was good, if he was helpful, she would reward him and that was more kindness than he deserved. Because he wasn’t supposed to have statements anymore. He was beating this “addiction” she called it. If he could be strong, she wouldn’t have to keep them under lock and key and she knew he wasn’t. He was lucky she was there to do this for him. To protect him when everyone else had gone.

On the days where he couldn’t make it to the tea kettle, Jon lay as still as possible in his office, the migraine caused by demands he didn’t have the resources to spend and spent anyway so bad it took up all the space he had left for worrying about other things. On those days, the hunger was almost quiet, body too full of aches for any one part of him to direct his attention.

Then he lost his ribs. No. Not lost. He had one. Gave the other away. For Daisy. For Basira and he walked into the earth with every intention of rescuing a very important person. The Buried, the Choke, took all the hungry away and replaced it with fear and when he found Daisy and hooked their fingers together in the damp filth of this place, this eternal coffin unending, he never let go.

And still he failed her.

Until he was saved by the familiar hum and hiss of the tape recorders burrowed into his ears and refused to be ignored and they walked out.

Mostly whole.

Daisy. His salvation. His chance to prove he could still be good, passed triumphantly into Basira’s waiting arms. Despite himself, Jon knew he was beaming as much as he still could, hoping for a morsel of praise, the yearning for it almost as debilitating as the emptiness inside him. There was nothing, as he knew there would be, as Basira whisked Daisy away for medical attention and assessment which of course, was a much higher priority than soothing the ego of a monster. The room reeked of the Lonely, made his skin itch and his blood burn because he recognized a familiarity, had laid unconscious claim to it as an assistant. He was the Archivist. It was his job to protect his assistants and though he’d done a piss poor job of it thus far, it didn’t stop him from wanting to unleash his latent power on such a brazen entity that dared touch what was his. He would very much enjoy taking it apart when the time came.

Shaking his head to clear it of these new and aggressive thoughts, Jon stumbled away to clean up, ready to retreat into his sanctuary and rest for a little while until he could be useful again.

It was no longer the kettle he visited. It was the door.

Locked.

Barred.

Basira had forgotten him in favor of Daisy. Of course, she needed her. And didn’t need him for leads and without that slim hope he might get a statement out of it, he found himself going a bit mad with hunger. He Knew where they were in the building, none of them could leave it for long, and the last ounces of his dwindling control were funneled into stopping himself begging for her help.

Basira didn’t, she wouldn’t like that.

Calm. Quiet. Useful. Out of the way. He could be those things. She liked those things.

Jon couldn’t leave the door. Not now when the proximity quelled the myriad whispers overlapping in his mind like a thousand trains of thought. If he listened hard enough, curled up close enough, he could hear them tucked away in their folders and envelopes nestled in boxes, rows of boxes, so many boxes he could eat and eat until, until maybe--

“What are you doing?” With sore, heavy eyes Jon looked up into Basira’s harsh and unforgiving stare and wished for a glimpse of understanding or kindness. “What have you done to your hands?” His hands? It wasn’t him examining his torn up fingers, skin slowly knitting back together, it wasn’t him feeling the twinges of splinters dug in under his broken nails or noticing the smears of red, ruby, rust blood adorning the door like an animal tried to claw their way out. But it was him. Wasn’t it? Trying to claw his way in.

And he didn’t remember doing it.

“I...I, I d’d’dunno.”

“You “dunno?”” She didn’t believe him. And why would she when all he’d done is lie. Like a cat, he was lifted by the bunched up collar at the back of his neck, pushed, stumbling, down the corridors and held at arm's length. Even so, the warmth from her hand, the electric shock her touch sent racing down his spine was heady and distracting. He hadn’t been touched in so long and far too soon it was over as she shoved him into his chair in his office in his wing in his cage of his own making before backing away and locking the door behind her.

Quiet, quiet, quiet.

If he was quiet she would let him out. He just needed to be patient. That’s all. He was selfish, taking time away from Daisy when she needed it most. Basira did the right thing, protected him from himself. He was lucky to have someone who cared like that, to make the hardest decisions for him and so sorry that he kept causing her problems.

He curled beneath his desk, the small space comforting and contained, keeping all his pieces together as he lost hold of them one by one. So tired, so sick, he tried to sleep and it just wouldn’t come where he was huddled around the aching empty abyss in his body. It was all he could think about, a statement, just one. Please. Anything, a taste. Pacing like a caged tiger when he had a rare burst of frenetic energy, laying on the floor of his office when he collapsed, tugging listlessly at the handle of the door. Crying, crying, crying in his hiding spot but always silent. It wouldn’t do to be heard. Unseen and not heard. That was the best way. And then she would let him out.

She always let him out.

#TMA #The magnus Archives #Jon sims #basira hussain #Daisy Tonner #Jon and Daisy are friends #Bad mental health #PTSD #mental instability #flashbacks #police brutally #starvation #self harm #scratching #manipulati

[crackedoutgiraffe]

The Stars in Your Eyes

THIS IS PART 2 OF TO THE MOON AND BACK

Part 2: Chapter 1 Part 2: Chapter 2

A/N: I’m thinking of starting a one-shot “series” based off of songs, send me a message with any songs you want to see!

Warnings: Fluff

Word Count: 4,898

9/30/2015

A string of murders across the country led Hotch to tell Rossi and Morgan to fly out to Seattle to investigate. The victims had peculiar face paint when they were found.

Reid was at his desk reading books insanely fast when you both noticed Hotch and Garcia enter the bullpen. He gave you a look telling you to follow him. You both stood from your desks and made your way to the conference room.

“Is it the same unsub?” you asked as you and Reid rushed in.

Rossi was looking over some files when you entered, “yeah.”

“Two murders on two coasts in two days,” Morgan flipped the pages in front of him. “This guy is on a mission and he’s not going to rest until he completes it.

Hotch entered on the tail-end of Morgan’s thought, “neither will we.”

“But we’re still down two profilers,” Garcia looked around the room with a sour look on her face. JJ was on maternity leave and Kate quit.

“Our six brains against his one,” Rossi pulled out a chair and sat down.

“Everyone take a few minutes to review the case and we'll meet back in 20 minutes,” Hotch grabbed one of the files from the table and left. The rest of you followed in his footsteps, grabbing files and leaving the room.

Reid went to sit at his desk and you sat on the floor next to it. For some reason, you always worked better on the floor than at a desk. The twenty minutes flew by and you all returned to the conference room.

“We know for a fact that victim number one was bound and gagged,” Morgan read a page of the file, “but it doesn’t look like number two was.”

“Windows in both residences were tampered with,” Reid noted.

“So he knows how to get in and out undetected,” you finished his thought for him.

Garcia piped up, “ok, so that’s impressive because aluminum foil is super crinkly.” The team looked at each other with different looks of confusion. “I’m sorry, I’m not a profiler, I’m trying my best.”

“No, it’s a fair point,” Rossi leaned forward in his chair. “He snuck up on a tweaker who probably hadn't slept in a couple of days.”

“M.O. said this guy is good at hunting,” you leaned back in your chair.

Hotch flipped through the pages with a confused look on his face, “Cause of death?”

“Cardiac arrest, but Dr. Mertz in the crime lab can’t pin down how,” Morgan sighed and rested his face in his hands.

“He might hide it under the face paint,” you held your hand out to Reid under the table. “What we’re assuming is a ritual might be a forensic countermeasure,” Reid interlocked his fingers with yours.

“What do we know about the face paint?” Rossi asked.

“Traditional greasepaint used by clowns,” Reid like to talk with his hands so he had to let go of yours, “but, applied to resemble a Pulcinella.”

Garcia pulled her phone out, “ok, I totally know what that is, but I’m going to google it in case someone doesn’t.”

“Sorry,” Reid leaned forward. “The clown archetype that we recognize today actually dates back to a 16th-century stage tradition called commedia dell’arte, where actors wore masks to resemble their characters. The Pulcinella was a trickster character, usually without a voice. He used a horn to make funny noises.”

“Maybe the victims tricked him, and he’s remaking them in death how e saw them in life,” Rossi added.

“So this is a vendetta by the unsub and not a compulsion,” Hotch’s phone started to ring as he finished his sentence.

“It’s gonna make this guy really hard to profile,” you sighed.

Hotch picked up his phone, “Alright, Dave, keep working on victimology. Morgan, stay on the M.O. Reid and Y/N, dig deeper into the ritual. I’ll be right back.” He stood from the table and left the room. You figured he had to talk to some of the applicants to replace Kate.

The group of you left the room. Morgan headed to the crime lab. You grabbed a map from down the hall for Reid to work on. When you wheeled it back into t bullpen Rossi and Reid were already hard at work.

“Thank you,” Reid gave you a quick kiss on the cheek before grabbing a marker. Rossi stood up and opened the file in his hand, “well this doesn’t clear up much. Vic number one was a divorced dad who got custody of his kids.”

“And two was the local drug supplier,” Reid paced in front of the whiteboard.

“What connects these guys?” You sat on Reid’s desk.

Rossi sighed, “nothing.”

“And we would never have made the connection if it weren’t for the face paint,” Reid looked incredibly confused. “Which begs the question, why do it at all?”

“To taunt us, feel superior,” you added.

“It’s obviously a message,” Spence started to rummage around his desk. “My assumption is has something to do with the mouth.” He picked up the book that was next to you and flipped to a seemingly random page. “Look at this,” he showed Rossi a picture from the book, “the colors of the Pulcinella are oddly inverted. Traditionally the character has a black face and a white jaw, he’s painting it the other way around.”

“You said that this character was the precursor to today’s clown because he couldn’t speak, right?” you hopped off the desk and stood next to him.

“Yeah that’s right,” he glanced at you.

“So he was also the first mime, too,” you pointed at a few of the pictures of the board.

Reid turned to look at you, “very much so, which means he himself might have an injury to the jaw.”

Morgan came into the room and joined the three of you, “our unsub can’t eat solid food.”

“How do you know?” you turned to him with a look of confusion.

“Dr. Mertz found a nutritional supplement in the stomachs of the victims,” he pointed to the board, “what have you guys figured out?”

“Y/N, can you get Hotch and Garcia, I think I know what’s happening,” Reid grabbed a few papers and books from his desk and went to the conference room.

You did as he asked and got Hotch and Garcia to go to the conference room. When they got there Reid was standing at the front of the room while Morgan and Rossi were sitting.

“What is it, Reid?” Hotch sat down in the chair next to Reid.

“The unsub has a feeding port in his stomach,” he said such a gross sentence very nonchalantly.

“He has a feeding port in his stomach?” Garcia looked disgusted.

“The nutritional supplement that Dr. Mertz found in both victims would be ideal for someone who couldn’t eat normally,” he was very cute when he talked with his hands. “So if the unsub sustained an injury to the jaw, it would also suggest that he is unable to speak.”

“Hence the Pulcinella mask,” Rossi leaned back in his chair. “It’s his way of communicating.”

Garcia was listening very intently, “what is he trying to say?”

“Well let’s work our way back to that based on what we know,” Morgan picked up the file in front of him. “We know this guy travels thousands of miles in two days. So he probably doesn’t sleep. He’s able to sneak into a suburban house or a drug den undetected. He overwhelms his victims silently and then injects them, and then as they lay there dying over the course of an hour, he simply sits over them and leaves them a highly symbolic message, but it’s a precise message. His victims are seizing up right in front of him, but this guy does not miss a brushstroke. This is a man who’s been around death before. It doesn’t faze him. Who else would leave this type of message?”

“Drug cartels,” Reid’s face lit up. “Cutting the tongues out of snitches and the hands off of thieves.”

“The mafia,” Rossi leaned back, “sleeping with the fishes and all that.”

“Oh my god,” you picked up your file, “he’s a hitman,” the team shot you confused looks. “Think about it only a contract killer could be this good.”

Morgan nodded, “his message isn’t for us, it’s for his customers.” With this final revelation, everyone sighed.

There was a knock at the door behind you. You turned around to see Anderson standing with a file in his hand, “Sir, they discovered a new body.”

“Thank you, Anderson,” Hotch followed Anderson out of the room.

You leaned back in your chair, “do you guys want to go get lunch?” Everyone agreed except for Garcia who had to help dig up for information on the newest victim.

Once Garcia left you all quickly decided on a restaurant and piled into your car. You got to the restaurant and enjoyed an incredibly normal meal for your insane life. Rossi paid and you all made your way back to the BAU. As you pulled in Rossi got a call from Hotch saying that we are ready to give the profile. The four of you made your way upstairs and to the bullpen. Hotch got you caught up on the new information. The group of prospective agents was called in and you all prepared to deliver the profile.

“The unsub that we're looking for is a contract killer who is doubling back to kill his former customers,” Morgan started. “This man is highly skilled and well-trained. Under no circumstances should he be engaged without back-up.”

“So is this a case of organized crime tying up loose ends?” one of the agents asked.

“Organized crime's got nothing to do with this, at least not in the traditional sense,” Rossi warned

You could see the gears turning in Reid’s head, “in 2013, the Bureau took down the Silk Road network. Our initial assumption was that it was an encrypted online market for illegal drugs, which it was, but upon further inspection, we were stunned at the breadth of goods and services being traded online. Weapons, child porn, even hitmen.”

“And the payment scheme was escrow based, in which the buyer would put down half as a deposit and the other half when the seller delivered,” you clarified. “We've now confirmed that all 3 victims hired the unsub over the past year through a similar escrow system.”

“So why is he killing his old clients?” the same recruit asked.

“Hitmen

don't leave a message unless you pay them to,” Rossi always had an answer. “The exception is to leave a warning for customers or competitors.”

“This unsub suffered some sort of injury to his jaw or voice, most likely as a result of something these customers did,” Reid said. “The Pulcinella mask is his statement on revenge and justice-- betray the oath between customer and contractor and you pay the price.”

“Now, normally a man with this kind of defect would attract attention,” Morgan started. “The fact that he hasn't indicates that he has deep pockets and a network of resources at his disposal.”

“Share this profile with your local divisions and with law enforcement. Search for escrow payments to match the unsub to his clients. One of those clients will be his next target. Thank you,” Hotch finished. With that, all of the starry-eyed recruits fled from the bullpen.

Morgan and Garcia fled the room as well, leaving you and Reid to fend for your selves. The two of you sat at your desks for an hour without saying a word. You eventually got up from your desk and went to sit by him. You sat on the floor and rested your head on his lap. He used one hand to flip through the pages of his book and the other to pet your hair. You felt your eyes starting to close when Morgan and Garcia frantically ran into the room.

“We found the next victim,” Morgan held up a piece of paper. Hotch and Rossi came down from their offices, you and Reid both stood up and went to meet them.

“Name and location?” Hotch said as the five of you rushed to the elevator.

Garcia waved her phone at you, “already sent.”

The doors of the elevator closed on a smiling Garcia. You all quickly jumped into your SUV’s and drove to the beat-up garage in Baltimore. Hotch told you that there wasn’t going to be much time to get ready hen you got there, so you had to get your vests on now. Reid and Morgan put theirs on while you kept your eyes on the road. When they were done, Reid helped you squeeze into yours while keeping at least one hand on the wheel.

You pulled into a parking lot with ten cop cars and two SWAT units. Morgan quickly sought out the SWAT team captain to coordinate your entry “how do you want to do this captain?” You all shook the captain’s hand.

“We’ll breach and clear,” he pointed to the building behind him. “When it’s locked down, the site is yours. Sound good?”

You all nodded in agreement. The captain started to walk back toward his team and you all followed, drawing your weapons. The SWAT team threw the doors to the garage open and worked there way inside, “Police!” one of them yelled.

“Don’t shoot, do not shoot,” a voice called out from behind a car.

The captain found the car and raised his weapon, “come out with your hands up!”

“That’s gonna be real hard, real hard,” the voice yelled. “Look!”

You were the first to go around the car to see what was happening, “Morgan, get everyone out of here,” you holstered your gun and looked back at Morgan with a worried look on your face.

“What is it?” Reid furrowed his brow and moved closer to you. “Grenade!” he shouted when he finally saw what you were staring at.

The SWAT team started to yell at him to drop it but he yelled that he couldn’t.

“Put your weapons down!” Reid lowered his gun and approached him, “you mean that literally, you literally can’t drop it.”

“Yeah,” his temper was short.

“What’d he use? What’d he use?” Morgan repeated with more ferocity each time.

The man nodded his head toward the cart next to him, “over there.”

“It’s dried and set,” Reid was holding the man’s hands in his own, “he glued over the pin-hole.”

“Do you have any acetone?” you knelt down at his side to examine it yourself.

“That won’t work, that won’t work,” the victim kept repeating this to Reid over and over.

Morgan picked up the bottle the man gestured to, “Y/N, he’s right. It’s an industrial acrylic. It holds car parts together.” The SWAT team was leaving to set up a perimeter but you four were going to stay.

“Look, you gotta do something, ok?” the man kept pushing his hands closer to you.

You tried your best to stay as calm as possible, “we’re going to do everything we can.” Reid was frantically looking around for a solution.

“My hand is cramping, just do something, all right?” the man yelled at you this time.

“Y/N, four cars,” Reid was still looking around the room.

“Each car has a battery, right?” you stood up and looked at him. “Each battery has an electrolyte solution of 62% water, 38% sulfuric acid.”

“Y/N, that won’t work,” Morgan sighed.

“Why not?” Rossi was definitely confused at this point.

“Because the acrylic will still stay bonded to the metal,” Morgan grabbed the man’s hands to help keep them still.

“Absolutely true, but it will also create a saponification effect on his flesh,” Reid explained. “The grenade will literally slide out of his hand like a wet bar of soap.”

“Of course, there will be an intense burning sensation on the skin, and the smell will be horrendous,” you pointed out.

“You can't--you're not burning my hands! You're not gonna do it!” he shouted \.

Stay still!” Morgan shouted back

“Hey, listen, pal. We have two geniuses working to save you so just shut up,” Rossi said sternly.

Reid ran to find a turkey baster and quickly got some of the solution from the batteries. You, Morgan, and Rossi all put on gloves to protect your hands.

“Sit down,” Morgan snapped at the man.

“This is gonna hurt, but you'll survive. Is everybody ready?” Reid came to meet you with the solution.

“Yeah,” you were the one tasked with grabbing the grenade as it slid out of his hands. “Just watch your aim. All right, my hand's on the lever.” Reid started to dispense the solution on his hands. It was difficult to listen to the man screaming, but you knew it was for the best. After a while, the man’s hands detached from the grenade and it slid right into your hands, “I’ve got it,” you shouted.

Morgan wrapped his hands in a towel and tried to soak up the acid, “Are we safe Rossi?”

Rossi examined the miniature bomb in your hands, “yeah the lever’s st-” he paused, then you heard it. The click that it was armed. “Run!” Rossi shouted.

Your instincts took over, you threw the grenade as far as you could and high tailed it out of there. Right as you ran through the door you heard the explosion. The five of you ducked behind a police car and covered your heads.

“You guys ok? Anyone hurt?” Reid asked as everything settled down. “You ok?” he asked while wrapping you in a hug.

“I’m fine,” your breathing was heavy but that you were fine.

Rossi grabbed the man you just saved from being blown up and shoved him in the back of a police car. The rest of you hopped into your SUV and headed back to Quantico. Morgan grabbed the ‘victim’ and dragged him to an interrogation room.

Before you went to your desk, you took a trip to the bathroom to clean yourself up a bit. You were splashing some of the cold water onto your skin when you saw Reid walk in.

“Are you okay?” he had worry in his eyes and on his face.

You turned around and leaned against the sink, “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into a tight hug.

“I’m not,” you sobbed into his shoulder. “I don’t want to live without you.”

“You’ll never have to,” he placed a soft kiss on the top of your head. The two of you stayed like that for well over an hour. Morgan texted you to come to the bullpen right away. You cleaned up your tears, grabbed Reid’s hand, and made your exit.

“Ok, so, a week ago, this guy stumbles into the Atlantic City E.R.,  having been shot in the jaw,” Garcia started as you walked into the bullpen. “Can't give them his name 'cause of the whole shot in the mouth thing. But his fingerprints lit up the Rome police database like a Christmas tree.” “Italian,” Rossi interjected. “That explains the pulcinella influence.”

“Yeah. They were able to get a name-- Giuseppe Montolo, but by the time Jersey P.D. got there, Montolo had been patched up and made his escape,” Garcia finished.

“And now he's on some type of payback gig,” Morgan started. “He has no idea who double-crossed him, so now he's killing every customer that he suspects might have done it.”

“I tried to use Al's username and password to flush out other clients, but they don’t call it the Darknet for nothing,” Garcia seemed distraught that she couldn’t anything.

“Then we let it go,” you chimed. “We're not going to catch him that way.”

“What other way is there?” Garcia asked.

“Montolo changed his M.O. drastically with the last victim,” Hotch pointed out. “He went from up close and personal to collateral damage. Al blows himself up or we kill him. Either way, it's a win-win.”

“If he made that dramatic a shift, it was a mistake,” Reid noted. “That's how we catch him.”

“All right, then let's do this old school,” Rossi stood from his seat. “Morgan, you took Al’s confession. Walk us through it like you're the unsub.”

“I got my victim on the ground, and I have the syringe in my hand,” Morgan started to walk around the room. “I have total control over him. This is my moment. I'm gonna make him pay for what he did. But Al said he got a text. I don't like what I see. Now I have to change my plan. What was on that text?”

“Someone tipped him off,” you shook your head. “He wouldn't deviate that much otherwise.”

“But that would mean that,” Garcia paused.

Hotch nodded, “we have a mole.”

“There's a lot of new faces around here want to join the BAU,” Rossi looked around the room at the people hanging around.

“I don't think it's a federal agent,” Reid narrowed his eyebrows. “I think it's someone in local law enforcement.”

“Based on what?” you turned to face him.

“The clock,” Reid pointed to a clock hanging on the wall across from him. “According to Al, the unsub left 5 minutes before we showed up. That's a narrow window. Too narrow for him to wait around for an embolism, but he had to figure out a way to deal with his last victim. Montolo changed his M.O. at the last moment because he learned about us at the last moment.”

“So the last on to hear the cavalry was coming is the Judas,” Rossi nodded. “That means a local cop.”

“Or SWAT. You said Wilson pulled his men off the scene?” Hotch asked.

“He said he wanted to box the unsub in,” Rossi reminded. “But maybe he really wanted to ensure he got out.”

“We profiled that the unsub would have support and resources,” you pointed out. “An ally in SWAT would give him both.”

Morgan sighed, “we go after a captain, we need more than a profile, we need proof.”

“The security perimeter they set up, they would have recorded every license plate-- Garcia,” Hotch turned to the perky blonde.

She rushed over to the laptop she had set-up, “yes, sir. Ok. Cross-referencing last name Wilson. Uh, ok. I got a Ford Taurus. It is registered to Betty Wilson, wife of Captain Phil Wilson.”

“Quite a plan these 3 have,” you scoffed. “He waved his own wife through the checkpoint. And she secured the hit man's escape.”

“Montolo has them both working under duress,” Morgan shook his head. “Wilson has to be a customer.”

“Which means he's also a target,” Hotch sighed. “Dave, you get to the wife’s house.”

Rossi quickly got up and headed for the elevator. Within 20 minutes he called saying that Montolo had taken Phil. Hotch sent Reid and Morgan to drive around until we can get them an address. Garcia ran to grab some equipment that Hotch needed to call Phil.

“You ready?” Hotch asked Garcia, who was setting up the phone call.

She connected aa wire and started to type on her computer, “Almost. Setting up caller I.D. Spoofing and... Dialing.”

Hotch turned to you and handed you the phone, “ok, all you have to say is, ‘It's me. Can you talk?’ And I'll take it from there.”

You held the phone to your ear and tried to change your voice a little, “It’s me, can you talk.”

“Yeah,” you could hear the shakiness in his voice.

You handed the phone to Hotch, “not on speaker,” you whispered.

“Captain, this is Aaron Hotchner with the FBI. We're going to get you out of this. Just drive normally and follow my prompts. Can you talk? Yes, it's fine, or not right now. Did you enter the address in the map apps on your phone? We're getting the address from your phone, sir. My team is going to beat you there. You're gonna drive him straight to us. Sir, you are the last errand. He's going to kill you.” Hotch shortly set the phone down. You all waited around and held your breath waiting for a call from Morgan. Rossi had called Hotch and left his phone on so we could hear his conversation with the wife.

“3 years ago, I had two miscarriages, back to back, just like that,” you could hear a crying woman. My O.B. prescribed painkillers, and after a while... My...dealer wanted me to do things. He wouldn't leave me alone. That's when I read about Silk Road. I could buy the drugs anonymously, and... And more than that. I kept it all a secret until he showed up at our door. Then I didn't have a choice. When I told Phil... He said he still loved me. God, I'm so sorry.”

“You get all that?” Rossi asked.

“Yeah,” Hotch answered. “Relay that to Morgan and Reid. As soon as Montolo lands, he's gonna kill Wilson. There'll be no time to intercept or talk him down.” As Hotch was talking, you noticed he was staring at one of the new recruits.

Shortly after Rossi hung up, the phone started to ring in the bullpen, “oh, dear, Captain Wilson is calling us, he’s calling home,” Garcia said as she saw the caller ID.

“I can try to fake it,” you stuttered to Hotch.

“All right, everyone quiet,” Hotch announced. “Stay off your phones. No one makes a sound. Lewis, you're up,” a pretty black woman started to approach the desk you had set-up at.

“H-hello?” She picked up the phone. “What is it? Is everything ok?”

“Hotch,” you heard Morgan’s voice through your earpiece. “He just landed.”

“Phil?” She continued. “Just do what you need to do and get home, ok? Sweetie, I can hear it in your voice. What is it?”

“Morgan, do you have a shot?” Hotch asked.

“Do you have a visual?” you assumed Morgan asked one of their SWAT members. “Hotch, this is negative. Wilson's in the way.”

“Honey, talk to me, baby,” the new agent was really good. “Tell me where your head is at. I know. I'm so, so sorry about all of it, but just keep your head down and we'll get through this. Ok? Do you hear me, baby? Just keep your head down.” You saw both Hotch and the new agent pull the phone away from their faces. The new agent set the phone back on the receiver.

“What happened?” you asked.

Hotch set his headphones down, “someone fired.” You hated this part of the job. You weren’t able to know who was shot and who was shooting, for all you knew Reid could have been laying a puddle of his own blood.

You waited in agony for a few minutes before Garcia’s phone started to ring, “It's Reid,” she answered the phone. Reid, what happened? What happened? What happened?”

We got both of them,” you heard Reid over the phone and let out a long sigh of relief. “Alive.”

“Yes!” Garcia practically screamed.

“Good work,” Hotch smiling was a nice sight to see. “We'll see you back here.”

“Look, I just want to say, even if I don't get the position that this was the best job interview ever,” the new agent was smiling from ear to ear.

“Penelope Garcia,” Garcia stretched her hand out to the new agent. “You're marvelous. She's marvelous.”

“I’m Dr. Y/N Reid,” you went to shake her hand.

“Reid?” she furrowed her brow. “Are you and that other agent siblings?”

“We’re married actually,” you gave her a warm smile.

“Agent Lewis,” Hotch interrupted. “I believe I asked you to wait and that was about 36 hours ago.”

“It was completely worth it,” Agent Lewis was still smiling.

“Maybe we could have that sit-down now?” Hotch asked.

“Yes, 2 a.m. is my jam,” she started to walk toward Hotch’s office. You turned around and started to pack your stuff up. You hadn’t even realized it was that late.

“Sir?” Garcia stopped him.

Hotch turned around to face Garcia, “Yes.”

“Do I have to organize the other applicants to follow her?” Garcia whispered.

Hotch smiled, “no, you can tell them the position's been filled.”

You liked agent Lewis and smiled at Hotch’s answer. The two of them went to his office and closed the door. Garcia grabbed her equipment and headed back to her office.

The bullpen was quiet, which is an odd sight. You laid your head down on your desk and closed your eyes. You made a promise with yourself that you wouldn’t fall asleep. Unfortunately, you were woken up by Reid who was crouching by your side and playing with your hair.

“Let’s go home,” he smiled at you when he saw your eyes open.

You yawned, “please.” Standing from your seat you grabbed your car keys from your pocket.

Reid grabbed the keys from your hand as you got to the elevator, “I’m driving,” he smirked. You pouted at his chivalry.

When you got to the car you snuggled into your seatbelt to try and fall asleep again, “I love you,” you whispered as you fell asleep. Before you were knocked out you heard a small scoff and an ‘I love you too.’

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer #Criminal Minds #criminal minds fic

[cryxmercy]

Death Becomes Her  {POTW}

Serendipity comes in the strangest forms. 

When: Current time, very late evening Who: Mercy and @mor-beck-more-problems​ (Morgan) Where: Morgan’s dream of the day she died

TW: blood, gore, implied character death, body mutilation, injury, body horror

The black sockets where Coraline Adams’ eyes once were stared at Morgan from the pavement. She opened her mouth, slowly, stiff and weighted by the iron melded into her flesh. Blood fell over her scorched lips and rushed down her chin. “Are we the same?” She asked.

Morgan could not speak. There was no compulsion to eat, nothing dragging her forward into the dark red muscle exposed around Coraline’s cheeks or the glisten of her nix scales on her arms. Nor was there any fear to run away. Morgan’s body had forgotten movement altogether. She could only stare as Coraline’s ruined body asked her again, “Are you like me?” The burns spread on her face, ripping apart from her mouth and outward. Red exploded from the body, showering Morgan in blood. The world spun and without warning, the ground was suddenly beneath her. She was on Main Street again. The pole was in her stomach, so sharp it made tears start fresh. She wriggled in place, harder than she had been able to in life. Maybe this time… 

“How is this balanced?” Coraline Adams was next to her, hairless brow wrinkled with curiosity. “Don’t we deserve more than this?” There seemed to be more she wanted to say, but Morgan felt a strange prickle on the back of her neck, like someone was watching her. “Hello--?”

The black water stretched out endlessly on all sides. Still as glass, yet Mercy could feel it lapping at her ankles. There was no sun, no moon, no stars. And yet there was light. It came from everywhere and nowhere all at once. There was no land. No mountains or shorelines in sight. Yet Mercy could feel sand and rocks beneath her feet. There was only a distant fog that drifted slowly.  She wanted to move. To walk, to run… to flee. 

Never run from anything immortal, a familiar voice whispered in her ear. It only attracts their attention. 

Mercy smelled burning flesh. ‘Are you like me?’ 

Mercy turned towards the new voice, but there was no one there. “Like who?” Then the world shifted in a rush of sound, and the lake was gone. Concrete was beneath her feet now. Feet that were still soaking wet, and left dark, inky footprints when she finally started to walk. The streets were empty. Foggy, like the lake. Mercy walked for awhile, but stopped when figures appeared up ahead. They were talking with each other. One was impaled. The other was burned. None of this frightened Mercy, and she approached calmly. Too calmly perhaps.

“The gods don’t care what we deserve.” She looked at the woman with the pole through her middle. “You should pull that out.” 

Morgan turned as much as her body would allow, straining through the smoke on the empty street for a sign. This was wrong. She wasn’t supposed to be here, she was supposed to be home, she was supposed to be fine, not trapped here again, and this--what was it?--didn’t belong in this nightmare plane with her. Then a voice spoke and a tall woman emerged from the smoke. She towered over the shadowy wreckage like a statue. This was stupid, Morgan didn’t even have any gods. And if there were any, she was growing confident that they didn’t care at all when it came to the undead. She looked down at the rebar in her stomach, then back at the woman, so strange and hard along her face, even otherworldly. She reminded Morgan of old paintings she’d studied in school, icons of Roman goddesses and pre-raphaelite witches. She wasn’t familiar enough to have come from her subconscious, but where was she from, then? “I can’t,” she replied, as if it were obvious. “I’m kind of stuck to the ground. And bleeding everywhere.” But that was beside the point, right? “Who are you? I don’t even know you.”

Mercy wasn’t supposed to be here either. Foggy streets in modern times were hardly ever the background for her dreams. She wondered if she was alright, back in her bed at Arthur’s house. Or if she tossed and turned in her sleep. She wondered idly if she would wake him with her restlessness. But the dream pulled her back in. She looked down on the unfamiliar woman with the same neutrality she always wore for the dead and dying in her dreams. But this wasn’t her dream. Was it? Maybe it was, and she didn’t know it. She’d seen more traffic accidents than she could remember. Maybe this was one she’d forgotten? But why? She didn’t know this woman. Nothing about the accident stood out as extraordinary. Other than the woman - pretty, with soft brown hair and kind eyes - who wasn’t dead. When she should be. “It happens.” Mercy moved to squat beside the impaled woman, snagging a finger in the fabric of her bloody shirt and pulling it to one side to peer at the wound. “Mercy,” she answered. “Do you want help?”

Morgan hissed and wriggled as the woman examined her wound. “Don’t!” She turned again, looking for Remmy or Deirdre, but there was only Coraline Adams, her bloody mouth gone slack, the raw scorches on her forehead wrinkled with distress. “You don’t even know who I was,” she said to Morgan. And at last it occurred to her that she didn’t even know what Coraline sounded like. So whose voice was she speaking with? Morgan flopped back onto the pavement. There was something painfully ironic about being confronted by someone named Mercy. “You wanna help? Are you gonna un-kill me, Mercy?” She asked, laughing dryly. “Or un-kill her?” She sniffled and gestured her head towards Coraline. “Are you gonna care about any of us for the gods? Are you my subconscious’ supernatural avenger?”

Mercy glanced at the woman’s face, wanting to tell her it could hardly hurt much worse, but did as she asked and let the wound be. She followed her gaze to the other figure standing nearby, burned and bloodied and hovering far too close to be anything other than a figure of horrible importance. Mercy had had too many dreams to think otherwise. The question was, why was she dreaming of this? Of an impaled stranger and her scorched watcher? She turned back to the woman stuck on the pole as she sagged to the pavement. It was ironic indeed, the thought that ran through the woman’s head about Mercy’s name. She was likely the first person in a very long time to understand without being told, and she didn’t even speak it out loud. Most did. In the end. When they cried for mercy. So an eyebrow raised slightly at her other comment, Mercy’s first reaction other than neutrality. “I’m not a necromancer. But did I kill you?” She frowned, looking at the burned woman. “Did I kill her? I’ve killed so many....” Mercy shook her head and frowned. “That’s not how gods work.” She looked at the impaled woman again. “Your subconscious? This is my dream.” But she sounded very, very unsure. 

All at once, Morgan was so confused her mind forgot to conjure any pain. She propped herself up on her elbows, trying to place the woman. She was good with faces and she’d passed through a lot of places, but she couldn’t pin down anything about her or why she would invent someone like her who wouldn’t just give a straight answer. “Raising from the dead isn’t the same as un-killing, we know that.” She said. “What do you--? I died, Mercy! I died stupid and helpless on the street and my friends had to watch! There’s no fixing that, anymore than there’s any chance of fixing Coraline!” She looked at the burned nix again, tears welling up. “I don’t know what I’m doing, what I think finding out who killed her is going to change. She’s still going to be dead, and she’s still going to wind up nowhere and forgotten, and everyone else this alchemist asshole hurt is still going to be hurt. There’s no magic undo button for any of this. So what counts for mercy or balance there, Mercy? What do we do for her?” Morgan was so worked up in trying to force answers out of herself she only then realized Mercy’s question. “What do you mean your dream? Are you--real? How are you--?” Shit. “Fuck, I’m not even supposed to be asleep! Zombies don’t sleep! What is this?” She began to thrash around the pole in her, grimacing with effort. She couldn’t stay here, wherever here was. “Am I dead again?”

Mercy let herself be observed, not minding the other woman’s perusal. She was just as confused at the stranger’s presence in her dream as the stranger seemed to be. “I guess that depends on your definition of death,” Mercy said a bit too casually. “I’ve died many times. And I’m still here.” Too many times, she thought. She wrung her hands, which didn’t shake as they had started to do in the waking world, and looked from the impaled woman to the burned one and back. “I’m just wondering why you’re in my dream if you’re dead. Usually, it’s someone I’ve killed. Or someone I know that’s died. Never a stranger.” 

Mercy wasn’t unsympathetic to the woman’s plight. There was a reason she was here after all. But as she spoke, Mercy frowned. It still didn’t make much sense, but death was something she knew well. As was revenge. “People are only forgotten when we stop telling their stories.” She looked at the woman as she spoke. “And if this person - this alchemist - who hurt her is still out there, in the real world, then you find them, and you make them pay. Pain for pain. Suffering for suffering. Life for life. Death for death.” The Fury shook her head, blonde hair obscuring part of her face. “It won’t bring them back, but it will avenge them. That is what you do for her. So that no one else suffers her fate.” Mercy frowned again as more questions followed. “I’m dreaming. This is… my dream. I’m… aren’t I?” She looked around. “Yes, I’m real. I’m… I live in White Crest… I’m… at my- at Arthur’s house… in the guest…” The impaled woman started to thrash, and Mercy turned to watch as something registered. “If you’re a zombie, then just pull yourself free. It’ll grow back.” She shook her head. “The truly dead don’t dream. Are you in town too? Is this… are we… dreaming together?” Mercy didn’t like that idea. Not one bit. 

Well, at least Mercy’s way of measuring justice and balance matched up with Morgan’s. Equivalent exchange didn’t have to be pretty to be fair. But a life for a life didn’t answer what to do about someone who had taken more than their share. What did you do for someone who had taken two, maybe even four or eight lives? For parts, for the fun of it. Morgan didn’t see how Mercy’s presence wasn’t connected to this place her mind had built for guilting. 

“This is my death, my personal crime scene, my recently acquired baggage,” Morgan said, gesturing to each in turn. “Maybe you brought the gothic fog with you, or maybe it’s my brain saying thanks but no thanks, I was too busy dying to remember how many cars were piled up in the traffic accident. Either way, I think the majority says you’re creeping on my turf. And, you know, maybe I would just ‘pull myself free’ if I wasn’t stuck.” She tried again, grimacing as blood began to burble out of her back and stomach. “White Crest. That’s...yeah. That’s here. You’re here, in White Crest in my hea...oh. Right. Um, yeah, I’m...there too, on the east end of town. At home. Or at least, I better be. If I am somehow fucking cursed after dying, I swear to the fucking stars--” She gave up on freeing herself once again and fell back to the ground. “This is some big, fucked up magic.” She mumbled. “I don’t know what’s happening, but I already have to worry about whether or not my girlfriend and I are going to make it home each night, and there are two bodies killed by a fucking alchemist psycho that are somehow my responsibility! If you’re okay can you just, help me or leave? Shit, you are okay, right? My brain’s not...hurting you? Making you sick? I don’t know how this works.”

Mercy knew many ways to make people suffer. She knew how to keep someone alive for days on end. She knew how to draw out a death, until they were begging for it. She knew more ways to kill than most people even knew existed. So she would’ve told Morgan to make this person suffer by taking them apart piece by piece and selling them off to the highest bidder. But that was just what Mercy would do. 

“Keep your death. I’ve got plenty of my own.” It wasn’t said unkindly. Mercy was simply... confused. “Our memories keep things we don’t always remember. But no… I think you’re right. This is you. But why am I here?” Mercy had little time to contemplate the thought as the woman - Mercy still didn’t know her name - tried to wiggle off the pole again. To no avail. “Fucked up is right,” Mercy agreed. The woman’s list of problems was… hell, it sounded like she’d had a shitty few weeks. Mercy could empathize. 

“That sounds shitty. And… I really hope it gets better. Look me up in the real world if you want revenge on that bitch. Though if it makes you feel any better, I was drowned by a demon-squid, died… went to some fucked up limbo… before coming back a few hours later just before Dr. Oblivious wanted to autopsy me. She did put me in the fucking freezer. Like a turkey. Can you believe it? And then my- ex-fiance-… my… friend. Arthur. Whatever the fuck you call someone you almost married 200 years ago… we went on a fucked up magic carpet ride through my memories to undo a spell to save a baby werewolf from certain death, and got all sorts of mind-fucked on that one. Oh... and I was blind for almost a month before that.” 

Mercy gave the pole a tap with her hand. It wasn’t budging. “You want me to cut you loose?” She pulled a rather large, curved knife from her boot. “‘S’just a dream, right? And I’m… fine? I honestly don’t know at this point.” Mercy waved the knife again, offering her help to get Morgan off the pole.

Mercy’s story was so unbelievable, even with all of Morgan’s knowledge, she wondered again if this wasn’t some interdimensional limbo, or some mind spell gone horribly wrong. But the energy of the universe did not look at her the same way it had before. It would hold her just enough to keep her here, striving against everything else in the world, but no more. Something much bigger than her existence was bending the world to its will, catching them up in its grasp. Which meant Mercy, in all her strange, improbable glory, was real. Morgan gaped for words, mouthing absently like a fish until she managed to sputter, “I...don’t know how to unpack that. Except, my subconscious definitely doesn’t have the imagination to invent...all that. I...wait, so this means you’re someone who can...find people? Or kill them, or--?” It was too strange, too unlike everything in her miserable mortal life, for something like this to just fall into her lap. She looked at her with open faced bewilderment and hesitantly reached for her hand instead of her knife. She moved some inches off the rebar before something snagged on her insides. The pain was so sharp and sudden she was beyond screaming, beyond help. “W-what--what’s--” Then her wrist erupted with pain and she fell back, no longer to the hot pavement of the street but an endless freefall, the world turning darker and darker around her. “Mercy!” She cried. But the only face she saw through the dim was Coraline Adams, still burnt and smiling her sad, toothless grin.

Mercy felt the tug of reality pulling at the edges of her consciousness. She’d had too many dreams not to recognize the signs that this - whatever it was - was all coming to an end. For now at least. But perhaps not it was also a beginning. Of something unexpected. Serendipitous, even. In a strange, twisted way. “Then don’t. Not yet. Later… when you’re not stuck in your own head, think about it then.” Mercy tucked the knife away when it was clear it wasn’t needed. She still squatted next to Morgan, watching her with a curious but intent expression. “Yes,” she nodded. “I can find them. And kill them. And whatever else they might deserve.” And from what Mercy had gathered from this very odd conversation, the person that woman on the pole was looking for deserved all that Mercy had to offer. And then some. 

She idly wondered if people knew what a Blood Eagle was anymore. Perhaps she should find out. 

But the dream was ending. Mercy stood, the bloody glass on the pavement crunching beneath her feet, glinting like rubies in blinking of the traffic light. Mercy could only smile softly - and a bit sadly - as it all faded away. The burned woman and the impaled… the dead and the dead again… all gone as Mercy too, was swallowed once more by the dark. 

~ 

#wickedswriting #chatzy #potw #p: morgan #p: death becomes her #//let me know if I missed any tags up top!

[mersuperwholocked-lowlife]

Broken

Word Count: 2,367

Characters: Damon Salvatore, Stefan Salvatore, Katherine Pierce, Elena Gilbert, Reader

Pairings: Damon Salvatore x Platonic!Reader

Warnings: ANGST, almost death, fluff if u squint

A/N: TVD requests r open

Masterlist

There was a knock on your bedroom door at 3 in the morning.

What the hell, you thought as you went to open the door. You weren’t asleep, but you were reading. 

“Stefan, what happened?” you asked, looking at his worried figure.

“Katherine’s alive,” he was out of breath, an anxious look on his face.

“It worked? Damon brought her back to life?” you asked, in shock.

“She was never dead. She faked her death,” he replied.

“Oh my god! Well, how’s Damon doing?” you noticed his face drop slightly.

“Not good. He’s in his room, getting drunk as we speak. He started killing people again,” Stefan sighed.You sighed, shaking your head in disappointment.

“Okay, I’ll go talk to him.” you nodded before you walked to Damon’s room.

A few years after your family kicked you out, the Salvatores took you in. You were grateful, and you expressed your gratitude by helping them out as much as possible. Even though you’ve never seen or met Katherine, you knew she was bad, so you had to help Damon.

“Damon?” you said softly, knocking on his door.

“Get out,”  he slurred.

“I just wanted to talk. Are you okay?” you asked.

“One word of advice, don’t let Stefan tell you how I am. I probably know better about myself.” he said, back turned to you.

“Okay. But answer me. Tell me what Katherine said.” you said, walking to him.

“She said a lot of things. Nothing important.” he took a chug at the bottle of Bourbon. 

“If she didn’t say anything, then what hurt you?” you said, pulling the bottle away from him. He only pulled it back.

“Nothing, (Y/N). I’m fine.” he sighed.

“Damon, if you need anyone to talk to, you can talk to me,” you said, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“I see what you’re doing,” he chuckled softly.

You were slightly confused, as you frowned.

“What?” you asked.

“Pretending you care about me. I can see it in you. You’re judging me.” he said, getting up from his bed.

“Hey, I’m not pretending. I do care about you, Damon.” you said, getting up after him.

You followed him closely, while he stopped, turning to you.

“Yeah, right, and I’m not a vampire,” he scoffed.

“Damon, why won’t you listen to me? Did Katherine do something?” you asked.

He ignored you.

“You know, it’s kinda funny, actually. You judging me. It should be the other way around.” his face fell into a look, one that made you uncomfortable.

“Damon, what are you talking about?” you asked softly.

“All I’m saying is stop pretending,” he said, taking another chug.

“I’m not pretending to care about you.” you shook your head, stating firmly.

“You’re pretending you’re better than me. I know Stefan told you that I killed. I mean, at least I can keep my family in my life,” you felt a shiver down your spine as you frowned, feeling upset.

“What?” he kept saying weird things, you thought it was a side effect of the alcohol.

“You’re broken, (Y/N)! You’re more screwed up than me! At least I have a brother, I have people to call a family. You have no one,” he laughed bitterly.

Tears rushed to your eyes as you let out a shaky breath. You tried to convince yourself it was the alcohol, but he was right, and you knew it. 

“(Y/N) (Y/L/N), the most broken person of us all. Too broken for her own family,” he said, taking another chug.

You couldn’t hold your tears in much longer.

You ran out of his room, heading for the door. 

“(Y/N), how’d it go? What happened?” you heard a voice, it was Elena.

“Nothing happened. I just need to get some air,” you said, holding back your shaky voice.

Stefan immediately noticed, rushing to you.

“(Y/N),”  he sighed, putting his hands on your shoulders.

“Stefan, I’m fine. I’m just going out to get some air,” you said, pushing him aside and leaving.

He ran upstairs to his brother's room.

“Damon, what the hell did you say to (Y/N)?” he yelled.

“Nothing. We had a friendly chat,” he replied, ignoring the worry in Stefan’s voice.

“No, not nothing. Damon, (Y/N) was crying. You damn well know (Y/N) doesn't cry in front of anyone like that, so what the hell did you do?” he said angrily.

“I just told her the truth. Not my fault she couldn’t handle it,” he said.

“What the hell is your problem?! Did Katherine hurt you so badly that you turned your back on your family?!” Stefan pulled Damon up by his shirt.

“(Y/N)’s not family. She never was, and she never will be. So, why don’t you just leave me alone, brother.” Damon hit Stefan’s hand, walking past him.

---

You hadn’t seen Stefan or Damon in almost a week. You had no communication with Elena, or Bonnie, or Caroline. You couldn’t hide it, you were hurt. You were disappointed in yourself. Damon was right. You were broken. Maybe that’s why your family abandoned you. You were kidding yourself when you thought Stefan and Damon could become your family.

You poured yourself another shot before hearing a knock on your door.

You knew who it was, so you decided to ignore it.

“(Y/N), I know you’re home. Open the door before I break it.”  you heard Damon’s voice from the other side.

You drank your whiskey as you heard the noise of your door breaking off.

“Love what you’ve done to the place.” Damon smiled cheekily.

You continued to ignore him as you poured yourself another shot.

“Why can’t I enter?” he asked.

“Hellooo? Earth to (Y/N)!!”, Damon yelled, his voice sounding much more cheery than you last recalled.

You continued to ignore him.

“(Y/N). (Y/N). (Y/N).” you heard Damon say.

It took all your might now to punch him in his face. Instead, you inhaled.

“(Y/N), stop being this way! Who else am I supposed to annoy?!” he said.

“Leave me alone,” you said softly.

“Oh, she speaks!” Damon said cheerfully.

“Yes, and she will bruise your face.” you mocked.

“Oh come on! You’re not still mad at me for last week, are you? I was drunk (Y/F/N)!” he said.

“It doesn't matter,” you replied.

“Let me in. We can talk about this. One adult to another.” he said, sounding calmer.

“You don’t get it, do you? I don’t want to talk to you! I don’t want to be your family! Why can’t you just leave me the hell alone?!” you yelled, walking to face him.

“(Y/N). I’m sorry. I am. I was drunk and upset. Katherine hurt me.” he said.

“And you hurt me!” you yelled in response.

“And I said I’m sorry!” he sighed, throwing his hands up.

“You don’t understand, Damon. My family abandoned me when I was 13 years old! I was alone for so long. Then, I met you and Stefan. You took me in, treated me like family! I looked up to you, Damon. You took my worst insecurity and mocked it. All because your ex-girlfriend came back to you.” you now had tears streaming down your face.

“I’m so, so sorry. Please forgive me,” he begged.

“Just leave me alone, Damon.” you cried softly, walking away.

---

Somehow, word spread that you didn’t have the Salvatores by your side anymore. Stefan always tried to talk to you, or see you, but you refused to see him. Maybe it seemed petty, but you couldn’t face him. Not right now.

Currently, you were home alone, reading a book. You had just fixed the door that Damon had broken. 

It was raining and pouring outside. There was a loud knock at your door.

“What the…” you said, slowly getting up and walking to the stairs.

There was another knock. You opened the door and saw Elena. She was covered in rain, shivering, and crying.

“C-Can I come in?” she asked.

“Yes! Of course! Come here!” you pulled her in and shut the door behind her.

You got her a few towels and sat her down on the couch.

“T-Thanks (Y/N),”  she shivered.

“Anytime. Now tell me, why the hell were you out during a storm?! You could've seriously hurt yourself!” you scolded her.

“I-I wanted to see you. We all miss you a lot,” she said.

You sighed.

“Stefan and Damon sent you?” you raised an eyebrow.

“What?” she asked.

“Kid, tell them that I need space from them. I just need to be alone.”  you sighed.

“But it’s been so long!” Elena said.

“I know.” you sighed.

“You hungry?” you asked her.

“Yeah, a little,” she replied.

“C’mon. I’ll make you something to eat.” you smiled as the two of you walked to the kitchen.

She sat at your table waiting for you as you cut some fruits. You saw her getting up from the corner of your eye, but didn't say anything. Something was off with Elena. You couldn't sense what it was. You saw her near you. You didn't feel safe anymore.

“What is it, Elena?” you looked up.

“I’m not Elena,” she said.

You stared at her, confused.

“Did you hit your head or something?” you joked, but she stood there staring at you.

“Katherine,” she said.

“Yeah. Sure.” you rolled your eyes.

“I know what you look like, kid. Can't fool me,” you said.

You saw black veins on her face and her fangs.

“Oh my…” you backed up, eyes going wide.

“I’m Katherine. I haven't had the pleasure of meeting you, (Y/N). The broken child.” she said, as she backed you against the wall.

“What are you doing here? How do you look exactly like Elena? What's going on?” you asked, confused.

“Technically, Elena looks like me. I came before.” she spat.

You felt uneasy, as you placed your hand on the anti-compulsion necklace Damon gave to you. Soon after, Katherine ripped it off your neck. 

“Hey, now. That's not cool,” you said.

“You are gonna go to your roof and stand there. When I tell you to, you’re gonna jump off and kill yourself.” she looked into your eyes. You knew what was happening. You were being compelled. You felt tears in your eyes.

“Please don't,” you begged.

“Before you do, you can call Damon, and Damon only. Tell him I said hello,” she said, handing you your phone.

You slowly dialed Damon’s number and put the phone by your ear. You shut your eyes tightly and inhaled.

“(Y/N)!” you heard Damon exclaim.

“Hey, Damon.” you cried shakily.

“What’s going on? Are you crying?” he asked, concerned.

You let a few tears fall down.

“It’s not important. I just thought you should know, K-Katherine says hi,” you said shakily.

“(Y/N), no. Stay away from Katherine!” he exclaimed.

“It’s too late for that!” you cry-laughed.

“Katherine, you bitch! Leave (Y/N) alone!” he yelled.

“Tell me where the moonstone is. She’s all yours.” Katherine smirked.

“I can't do that,” he said, his voice breaking.

“That’s your choice. (Y/N), go to the roof, jump when I tell you to. Damon, you have about 10 minutes to change your mind and save your best friend. Clock’s ticking.” she said and hung up the phone.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked.

“Why does it matter to you? You don't care about Damon. Damon doesn't care about you. I’m relieving you. You don't have to live anymore. You don't even want to live.” she smiled.You didn't reply as you shakily climbed onto the top of your roof. It was cold and still raining. You heard Damon’s voice.

“(Y/N)! Get down! Now!” he yelled.

“I can't, she compelled me.” you cried, tears blurring your vision.

“Give me the moonstone, Damon,” Katherine said.

“I don't have it! Just please, let her go!”  he yelled.

“You know who does. Tell me, and don't lie,” she yelled back.

“Tyler Lockwood!” he yelled.

“Tyler?” she laughed.“(Y/N), on the count of three, jump,” Katherine said.

“Hold on, you said if I told you, she’d be free. Now let her go.” Damon said.

“Damon, you know I don't keep my word.” she rolled her eyes.“Don’t, please!”  you cried.

“Damon, come in!” you screamed.

“One, two, three!”, Katherine exclaimed before running off.

You fell forward before you felt a pair of arms holding you back.

“It’s okay, I got you,” Damon said, holding onto you tightly.

You let out a loud sob and held onto Damon.

“It’s okay. You’re safe.” 

---

Damon handed you a blanket which you wrapped yourself into. You still had tears falling from your eyes. There was an awkward silence between the two of you, while Damon closed all your windows and doors, lighting a fire.

He walked to you, sitting next to you as he pulled you into his arm, resting your head on his shoulder.

“Katherine was right,” you said quietly.

“About?”

“Me. So were you.” you sniffled.

“No. I wasn't. (Y/N), I was drunk, I was mad. I can't believe I said that. I’m so sorry. And it’s not true.” he said.

“You’re right, Damon. And so was Katherine,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“What did she say?”  he asked.

“She told me that I-I don't want to live anymore. She’s right.” your voice broke.

“What? No, (Y/N), don't say that.” Damon said as his eyes watered, putting his hands on either side of your face.

“Damon, I’m tired of everyone rejecting me! My family rejected me, I’m going to end up alone anyway,” you cried.

“(Y/N), I will never reject you. Listen, I love you so much, (Y/N). I care about you so much. You keep me strong. I can’t live without you.” his voice broke.

You looked up and saw him crying. You wrapped your arms around him tightly, putting your head in the nape of his neck.

“I’m so fucking sorry.”  he said shakily.

“No, I’m the one who should be sorry.” you cried.

“You're my best friend, (Y/N). Please don't make me live without you. Please.” he cried.

“I love you too Damon.” you buried your head in his chest.

The both of you laid on your couch, and before you knew it, you two fell asleep. You needed each other, more than you knew.

#the vampire diaries #the vampire diaries imagines #the vampire diaries fanfiction #TVD #tvd fandom #tvd fanfic #tvd fic #tvd imagine #Stefan Salvatore #stefan salvatore imagine #stefan salvatore angst #stefan salvatore x reader #stefan salvatore x platonic!reader #damon salvatore #damon salvatore imagine #damon salvatore angst #damon salvatore x reader #damon salvatore x platonic!reader #elena gilbert #elena gilbert imagine #katherine pierce #katherine pierce imagine #katerina petrova #katerina petrova imagine

[eyesfixedonthesun22]

Give Me Something

Summary: Bucky’s worried you’re a bit burnt out. When you give him the silent treatment, it sends him into a full blown panic.  Pairing: Established Relationship of Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Warning(s): Swearing. Angst. Mentions of cheating. Mental health issues. Word Count: 2,258 Notes: This is my entry to @bvcks 4.2K writing challenge. My prompt was “I need to know you’re alright, even if you’re not. Give me something.” Thank you so much for hosting this and letting me enter, Chelsea! This is one of my first attempts at something angsty. Thank you to my darling, @supersoldiersruined-me, for giving this a look over to make sure it wasn’t complete trash. I’ve tagged the same people who get tagged in She’s So High. If you have no interest just let me know. :) Gif credit to @a-nakins

Bucky had woken before you, just like always. Before throwing the covers off, he steals a quick kiss to your temple. You shuffle and smoosh your pillow a bit after he leaves but remain sound asleep. His morning shower passes uneventfully. He finds himself grinning when he sees the pinkness of the skin on his chest in the steamed bathroom mirror. You always teased him that he liked his showers just shy from scalding.

Slipping on his training gear, he attempts to open and close the dresser drawers as softly as possible. He steals a final kiss to the top of your head before pouring his coffee and heading out for the day. It wasn’t uncommon for your day to start later than his; but he was surprised that you weren’t at least stirring when the brewing coffee smell permeated your shared apartment.

He knew you’d been working hard with your training. You’d had a couple really difficult missions recently. The past week each time he saw you spacing out and asked if you were okay, he was met with the response. “I’m just tired”.

Bucky makes a mental note to order takeout before coming back for the evening. Maybe it would be a nice stress relief for you. Upon second thought, he also schedules a massage at your favorite parlor for your next day off. Clearly, you were pushing yourself too hard.

**************************************************************************************************

Bucky’s morning run with Steve was pleasant enough. He had a couple hours of paperwork and mission debriefing before a session of hand-to-hand with Sam. Feeling like he’d had a productive morning, he realizes how hungry he is. He rounds the corner to the communal kitchen for lunch but collides with Clint.

“Cool it there, hot stuff.” Clint huffs, mock annoyed.

Natasha can’t help a chuckle at the two of them. They make small talk as they walk through the buffet.

“Where’s Y/N? She wasn’t in our morning survival class.” Nat asks as they settle in to their usual spots at the tables.

“I assumed she just slept in. She’s been really tired lately.” He shrugs and digs into his lunch with gusto.

“Yeah she missed some weapons demos too.” Clint adds.

Bucky pauses the rapid shoveling of food into his mouth; slowly lowering his fork down.

“She had a full morning schedule?” Nat and Clint nod. “What else was on her schedule this morning?”

“Steve had mentioned something about meeting up with her for some leftover paperwork from that mission in Chile.”

Something prickles at the back of his neck. He knows missing a couple training sessions and paperwork isn’t the end of the world.

He pulls out his phone and texts you first. “Hey babe. How's your day going? You feeling okay? Nat and Clint said you missed training.” Following his intuition, he fires off a similar text to Steve asking about your whereabouts.

Everyone goes back to eating. Clint and Natasha exchange hesitant glances, sensing Bucky’s unease with the situation. By the time lunch is finished Bucky is compulsively checking his phone every thirty seconds.

“Why aren’t they responding, guys?” Bucky pleads.

“I’m sure it’s fine, dude. Just give them a call.” Clint suggests.

Before the sentence is completely out of Clint’s mouth, Bucky is already punching the call button from his contact favorites. Your phone rings endlessly before going to voicemail. Steve is next. No response from him. Bucky swears the ring is cut short and deliberately sent to voicemail. He tries you once more, but it yields the same result. The second call to Steve rings twice before it clicks over.

“Steve, where is Y/N? She’s missed training all day and I’m kinda worried.”

“Uhhh hey Buck.” He sounds distracted and muffled.

“Where is she?” he says cutting straight to the point. Normally he’d find the runaround from Steve amusing. He doesn’t often participate in pranks, but you manage to rope him into many tricks at Bucky’s detriment.

This time it doesn’t feel like a prank. Steve is avoiding him. Something had changed in the tone. Bucky had a sick feeling in the pit of his gut. Something was very wrong. After a long pause Steve responds again.

“She’s-”

Silence.

“Steve, I swear to god if you don’t fucking tell me where my girl is, I will beat the ever-living shit out of you.”

“She’s safe.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” His mind races. You didn’t have any missions planned for today. If you hadn’t attended training, then there was no way for you to have gotten injured. Safe from what?

“Tell him.” He hears your voice feebly in the background.

“Tell me what? Y/N?! Why aren’t you answering me?”

“Bucky she’s okay. Come on up to your guy’s apartment.”

**************************************************************************************************

On the elevator up, his mind is racing. An affair? No certainly not with his best friend. Then again, isn’t everyone blindsided by an unfaithful partner. You were pregnant? No. You two were religiously careful, on top of your birth control. You want to break up? Dead family member? Friend in crisis? What could it possibly be and why were you confiding in Steve and not him?

Bucky feels like he’s on autopilot walking up to the door. His feet have carried him, but he has almost no recollection of the steps. He knocks on the door, feeling overly formal considering you both live in the apartment. He hopes that his desperation doesn’t make them sound more like pounding.

No one answers for a minute, so he tries again.

“Y/N/N? Steve?”

His palms are clammy and numb. He reaches for the knob only to find it locked. His heart kicks into overdrive. He’s ready to knock down the door when he has an epiphany. Friday!

“Friday! Status for Miss Y/N?”

“Miss Y/N is currently located in your shared personal living quarters along with Captain Rogers. She is showing normal vital signs. Captain Rogers is the only person to have entered the apartment since your departure this morning. Shall I alert them to your presence?”

Before he can demand Friday to unlock the door, he hears a subtle click. Steve opens the door and slips out into the hallway.

Bucky doesn’t think just moves. In milliseconds, he has Steve pinned against the wall; his metal forearm pressed close to his windpipe.

“Tell me what’s going on. NOW!” He says surprised at the lack of composure and malice in his own voice. This is his best friend and he’s ready to rip him limb from limb.

“She’s okay Bucky!”

“Steve!” he growls pressing further and raising his fist, ready to strike.

Sensing his best friends’ desperation. “I’m trying to respect her privacy, Buck!” Steve says, finally pushing Bucky off him.

Bucky comes to his senses after hearing the tone in Steve’s voice. Steve isn’t a threat but the desire to punch his best friend is still nearly overwhelming.

“What the fuck is going on, Steve!?”

“Buck, I’m sorry. She’s gonna have to tell you herself. I can’t and won’t come between you two. All I’ll say is that she called me earlier this morning for help. I helped. I’m gonna go now.”

The rage Bucky felt for Steve was new and unfamiliar. He knew he was trying to help but it didn’t quell his desire to obliterate something. Watching his best friend leave with no more answers allowed the panic to rise once more.

He pounds on the door without abandon. “Y/N! Please, doll. You’re killing me out here. I need to know you’re alright, even if you’re not. Give me something!”

Though you were the one shut away, he felt like a caged animal. Pacing and standing watch in hopes the door would creak open. Bucky had resolved himself not to leave this door until you come out.

**************************************************************************************************

In the hour that had passed he had gone through the gamut of emotions. He’d gotten into arguments with Friday as she refused to unlock the door; your orders. He’d put three holes in the wall which he was sure Stark would chastise him for. Finally, he had crumbled to the floor in tears. He would sit in front of this door until he knew you were okay.

He’s drafting another text to Stark, asking for a way to work around Friday’s lockout, when a small piece of paper slips from under the door. I don’t want you to see me like this.

Frantically he fishes into one of his numerous pockets searching for a pen. He quickly scribbles back. Y/N, darling. I’m so scared. Please let me help.

He pushes the note back in the sliver of space under the door and once again resumes pacing. Your response doesn’t take long but he feels the waiting is taking years off his life.

Promise you’ll still love me?

The letters on the page swim. Abandoning the paper, he knocks on the door, lighter this time.

“Doll, there isn’t a single thing in this world that could make me stop loving you. Please, I’m begging.”

He hears the door click and then a small sliver of your shared apartment is available to him. He pushes the door open slowly in hopes you don’t change your mind and shut him out once more. Before he was ready to storm the door, but now he feels frozen by fear; unsure of what will greet him.

The apartment is dark. It looks just the same as he left it this morning. No coffee had been drunk since his cup. The remote for the tv still in the same spot he left it after watching the news. Your shoes hadn’t moved from the mat. No signs of struggle, break in, or anything of the sort; not that Friday wouldn’t have alerted him already. He checked the surroundings with meticulous precision as he cautiously approaches your bedroom.

Standing in the doorway, he sees you laying on his side of your shared king bed buried in the duvet. Your eyes are red and puffy, with dark circles below them, staring at the wall blankly.

“Can I come in, Doll?” Though it pains him to be separated from you, he knows he must ask your permission.

Your eyes move from the invisible spot of interest to finally meet his as you give him the smallest nod before he comes to sit on the edge of the bed.

“I’m so sorry, Bucky.” You begin to sob as you reach for him. He lays down on the bed beside you. You bury your face in his chest. He can feel his shirt getting saturated from your tears.

“Darling, please. Tell me so I can fix it.” He whispers while stroking small circles into your back. It takes you awhile before the tears subside enough to speak.

“You can’t fix it, Buck. No one can.”

“I will do whatever I need-”

“I’m depressed…” You gauge his face for a response. “I have been for a while but this past week I’m having a really bad episode.”  You’re not sure what to expect. He kisses your forehead gently before stroking your hair behind your ear.

“Why didn’t you tell me, darling. You had me worried sick.” He’s nearly shaking with relief.

“I didn’t want to worry you. You have all your own stuff. You don’t need mine as well.”

His expression hardens. You’re expecting the hammer to fall. He certainly doesn’t deserve to deal with your mental health issues when he is finally starting to feel like his own recovery is successful.

“Sweetheart. You can’t hold all that in. We’re a partnership. What hurts you hurts me.”

“That’s why I didn’t want to-”

“No. Lemme stop you before you even go there. You’ve helped me through all my stuff. Let me support you through yours.”

“You’d do that?”

“Y/N, I’m in this for the long haul. I’m not one to bail when things get tough. I was ready for much much worse. I almost decked Steve.”

“I’m sorry.” You chuckle lightly at the image of the two best friends. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I know, baby.”

“I’m sorry I called Steve before you.” He waits for your explanation. “I knew he went with you to some of your therapy appointments. I thought maybe he could help me figure out how to tell you.”

Bucky’s heart sores at the compassion his best friend has shown towards his girlfriend.

“I think I owe him an apology.” You giggle softly again, but he can tell your heart isn’t fully in it. “So… what feels wrong today?” he asks.

“Everything… and nothing.” He looks at you with more understanding than you expected.

“I get that, darling. Want me to set an appointment with the team therapist?”

“Yes, but not for today. Can we just watch a movie and cuddle right now? I’m sure I’ll come out of it in a day or so.”

“Of course we can.” He kisses your forehead again. “Have you eaten today?”

“No” you admit, disappointment clouding your features.

“Hey. I don’t mean that accusatory. Let me put in a frozen pizza. If it looks good you can nibble on it. But you do need to at least drink some water. Can you manage that, darling?”

You nod your head. You know Bucky can’t fix the depression. You know self-care isn’t always going to be this cute and cuddly; but right now, that’s okay. Right now, it’s what you need.

#chelseaswritingchallenge #bucky x reader #bucky x female reader #bucky x you #Bucky Barnes x reader #Bucky Barnes x female reader #bucky barnes #bucky angst #my writing #my fics #Give Me Something #masterlist

[thiccymama-blog]

Jeff the Killers backstory but I'm rewriting it to make it correct

Alright before I get a bunch of triggered people, understand that I saw this was a big complaint of the Creepypasta community. I just wanted to rewrite it. Please just enjoy it.

One of the earliest memories they shared together was playing with the cat. Liu and Jeff had a cat growing up. It was a grey tabby that didnt live to long, Lui doesnt know what happened, but the cat was dead in the backyard one morning.

Its throat was slit and blood coated its soft fur. Its eyes were gone, later to be found in the cereal box.

This continued to happen after that. Cats in the neighborhood would disappear and then reappear dead in the Woods backyard. Jeff seemed nonchalant about it, saying it was probably a raccoon or something.

His parents were mortified and tried to find out who did it. They kept insisting that there was a dog or some animal going around killing the cats.

Lui didnt think so, but he didnt say anything.

The reputation they had in their small town blew up. No one wanted them there and they saw no reason they should stay, Jeffery and Lui's dad got a new job and they needed to move anyways.

The two brothers had very different reactions to moving, Lui wanted a fresh start but didnt want to leave all his friends behind. Jeff however didnt mind. In fact, he never seemed to care unless it was directly affecting him.

They moved to a larger town on the outskirts of a forest. Their mom and dad seemed to have rekindled their loveless marriage once they began to move un. Talks of dates and nights out on the town were all they talked about. Lui was happy about this, his parents have always had such a rocky relationship and seeing them like this made his heart explode with happiness.

One thing that made the boys equally nervous was the prospect of going to a new school. The reality of it seemed to finally catch up with Jeff, due to him being snappy and immediately going to his room once he was done packing to break stuff.

The morning of their first day was the start.

Their mom cooked them breakfast, smiling and wishing them luck on the way out. Lui replied enthusiastically, but Jeff grumbled and started ahead.

Lui looked nervously at his brother as they started the walk to school, he cleared his throat, "So, how are you liking the new house?"

"Its a house. What do you want me to say about it?" Jeff replies staring straight ahead.

Lui wanted to talk more, but the aura that was coming off of his brother made him shut up.

During the day, Lui was quick to make friends. He was a fairly attractive kid with a good GPA so it made sense. Jeff on the other hand was blatantly ignoring everyone who tried to talk to him other than the teachers who he charmed fairly easily.

Lui began to finally feel relief when lunch time rolled around. He had people to sit with and that was all he wanted. Lui sat next to a pretty blonde girl and had a polite conversation.

Jeff on the other hand... well, he wasnt liking all the attempts people were taking to get him to talk.

"Do you think you're some kind of hot shot? Going around and being nice to the new kids? Do you want a fucking medal?" Jeff demanded the SBO who sat there and looked down at her hands. "No one likes you, nor the idea of being your friend. I don't want you to talk to me, look at me or even associate yourself with me ever again, you hear me cunt? You could cut yourself for all I care." He hissed at her.

She moved her brown hair back and scanned him. "I was trying to be nice, I thought you would appreciate it... you didnt have to be so rude."

Jeff moved his black hair back in frustration, "Obviously I dont, there's nothing for me to appreciate, my family just moved into a hillbillies dumpster and now some freckle faced fuck with muffin top is trying to talk to me. What the fuck is there to appreciate?"

He was satisfied as tears welled in her eyes. She didnt reply and walked away, leaving Jeff alone with his sandwich.

After school, Lui was in a chipper mood, walking with a spring in his step while Jeff stalked behind him.

"How was your first day?" Lui finally asked him.

Jeff shrugged and continued walking behind him.

A short while later they came across two kids walking down the street. Lui greeted them, but they seemed hostile after walking past Jeff.

"Did you take something from my pockey?" One of the kids demanded, grabbing Jeff by the front of his shirt.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Jeff lied easily. "I just brushed against-"

"Put my brother down!" Lui yelled.

"Or what?" The one holding Jeff asked.

Lui started towards him, "Just please put him d-"

A scream rang out as the kid holding Jeff let go and instead clutched his stomach. Lui could faintly see the glow of metal in the sunlight.

Jeff immediately began to run towards their house, leaving Lui. The other boy feverishly dialed the police.

Lui sat with the bleeding boy until the cops showed up. He had a big choice to make, sell out his brother or take the blame. He didnt want to go to jail, but the idea of Jeff in jail made him upset so he took the blame.

"I'm sorry officer, he just has my brother by the scruff of the neck and I was afraid for his life so I... i stabbed him."

He other kid provided no reliable information as he was on his phone facing the opposite direction talking to his girlfriend.

Their parents were informed later that Lui was going to jail. Jeff breathed a sigh of relief. He wasnt going to jail. Not yet.

Jeff's parents were devastated and couldnt believe it.

The woman in the area organized a party for the Woods, a sort of pity party where they would all eat and support each other. It was a kind gester for Jeff's mom, seeing as she was the kind if person who needed to vent her problems rather than hold them in.

The weekend came fast, Jeff doing the minimum in school and going home to plan on which cats in the neighborhood he could get first.

Of course he'd be more careful this time, keep them in the woods rather than his backyard.

But his plans were cut short by his mother proclaiming that he'd be joining her at the mourning session. He saw no point. Lui wasnt dead and his dad didnt have to go, so why did he have to go?

"There's a cute girl who lives there... she's really nice, a 4.0 student and she's on the track team. You should meet her." His mom tried to bargain.

"Like I want to go meet some girl," Jeffery scoffed, "you should really just go by yourself."

She shook her head, "You're coming. You never get out of the house, Jeff. I'm honestly a little worried about you."

The arguement ended an hour later with Jeff letting out a heated "fine" and stalked off to his room to go get dressed.

To spite his mother he wore a white sweater and black pants. She wanted him to wear something nice, she had said so as he stomped up the stairs. But he pretended not to hear her.

The group started at three o'clock, his mom yelled for him around 2:55.

When he arrived he was pleasantly shocked to see the SBO who had tried to befriend him open the door. She also looked shocked but let them in nonetheless. There were plenty of parents in the living room, all giving his their condolences.

God, how Jeff hated Mormons. They find a reason to celebrate everything.

"Kaylee, why dont you go outside with Jeff and the kids?" A mom suggested the girl with freckles.

"I uh, I would love too."

So she lead him outside. He had his shoulders slouched and a cold look on his face.

"So how was your week?" She tentatively asked him.

"Shitty."

She recoiled at the word. He found himself enjoying taunting her.

There were a couple other kids their age there. Jeff decided to take a stab at making friends and flying under the radar, so he made small talk and charmed the lot of them.

Freckle faced seemed weirded out.

After finishing a particularly funny story about him and his brother, Jeff decided to leave the group and search for a bathroom. An idea crossed him mind. An awful idea.

"Say, Kaylee, you wouldn't mind showing me where the bathroom is, would you?"

She looked up to him shakily, "I would love to."

She took him back inside where he went into to the bathroom and grabbed a small scoop of the liquid kind unfortunately, he would have much rather preferred the dry version as it's easier to mix with drinks.

He left shortly after, the living room lively with people who had no idea what he was about to do.

Normally he didnt like being this compulsive but the idea of people writhing in pain delighted him.

He sneaked into the kitchen. No one. He slowly lifted the lid off of the drink dispenser and went to pour it in.

"What are you doing?" Kaylee demanded from the hallway.

He turned around quickly and split the bleach on himself.

"Nothing, I'm doing nothing!" He said hastily.

Kaylee ran into the kitchen and out the lid back on the drinks, one of the boys from outside following close behind her.

"What's going on?" He asked.

(Gore warning)

"He was trying to put something in the drinks, but he spilts it on himself."

Jeff began to panic, backing up close to the lit oven. "I did nothing of the sort!" He yelled in retaliation.

The adults had yet to realize what was going on. Brandon began to close in on him and Jeff backed up more onto the oven and suddenly it was very hot.

Too hot.

The front of his sweater was on fire.

The first thing the three teens did was scream. Kaylee tried to put it out with the liquid dispenser but it fell and spilt all over the kitchen floor.

Soon flames began to spread as Jeff flailed around.

The room was slit with flames and Kaylle was shouting "Stop, Drop and roll!" Repeatedly but Jeff paid her no mind.

He couldn't breath and he couldnt take off the sweater. He watched in a sick sort of panic infested fascination as it spread to his skin, making it red.

He looked up and saw adults rushing over with water to out it out, but it was too late, Jeff was gone.

He was gone for a couple of weeks. Coming in and out if existence. He finally woke to bandages all over his arms and his legs.

Doctors and family were in the room, including Lui who looked like he was worried sick.

After explaining that he passed put after the burns and such, he was then told that some of his skin was beyond repair. He asked them what they meant.

They carefully took off his bandages and his skin was patched baby pink, white and his normal skin tone.

"Oh." Was all he said at first. "Its oddly beautiful."

The doctor and his family looked relieved to hear him say that.

He went home a few weeks later. The details on what happened that night were blotchy seeing as Brandon passed out and hit his head and Kaylee was vague on details.

(Gore warning)

"He he he! I'm so beautiful..." Jeff's mom heard, waking up form her slumber.

She saw a light in the hall and got up to investigate on why Jeff was up so late and whispering. She opened the bathroom door and looked horrified.

He had slit his cheeks wide open in a grotesque smile.

He snapped his head towards her as she walked in, "I'm beautiful." Was all he said.

His mom didnt say anything, only started in shock. He walked over to her and placed his hand gently on her cheek.

"Do you want to be beautiful?"

That was when she screamed. Her husband and Lui rushing to her aid, but the knife through her stomach killed her.

They saw Jeff in the bathroom, covered in his own blood and his mothers.

His father wasn't quick to react, but Jeff was and soon his father's blood decorated his body as well.

Lui took off down the hall to his room, but was stopped by Jeff tackling him.

"You'll be beautiful too, maybe prettier than me. We can only hope though!"

Kind of sucked, but I spent forever writing it. I realized I spelt liu's name wrong but i honestly dont want to go back and correct it.

#creepypasta #creepy #jtk #jeff the killer #lui #jeffery woods #liu woods

[rebiirthday-archived]

Letter .01 ———

@makishou

          The letter is written on several informal scraps of notebook paper. The frilly edges have been methodically shed  --  When Beyond had originally finished the first copy of this letter, he had forgotten to rip those annoying bits off;   as he went to, a tear had formed in the margins causing him to copy the pages over onto papers he tore the edges from before writing. For as casual as the envelop   &   parchments seemed to be, the calligraphy displayed between the lines was a stark contrast, yet an imperative clue as to who the author was, exactly.

          Not the man with insanity behind his eyes, nor the one who skittered across the floor like an animal  --  That man would have awful penmanship   &   anyone who received a letter from Rue Ryuzaki would expect illegibility. But this was not a letter from the unprivate detective. These words belonged to Beyond Birthday;   a distinction with more declarative boundaries than the faint, thin blue notebook lines.

          14.10.03

          Naomi Misora ———

          You must think yourself incredibly clever for your testimony. I hope it was satisfying at least, getting to call Ryuzaki all those horrific names, getting to explore the vastness of your derogatory lexicon to call forth exactly what feelings he elicited in you; yet among none of them did you name fear. I found that incredibly interesting ... Didn’t you, as well? Looking back on it all, were you not very afraid to have realized who had been working aside you all that time?

          No, of course not  --  & I assure you, you shouldn’t have if you did. In truth I’m not a very violent man which may have you surprised. I never did intend to harm you, the least unjustly. Yet about that time you attacked me in the alleyway, I can hear you counter. Yes, well, for reasons I can’t divulge this early in my narrative, I knew no harm would come to you & as I said, I never intended it to.

          But I’ve forgotten -- A year has passed now, just about, & you most likely do not dwell on these details as I do. You, along with my predecessor, have most likely forgotten the key-points, the justification, the meaning, the action, the brazen ardor of it all. It eats at me, I’ll have you know. I’ve been consumed by many things in this relatively short life of mine  --  Fire being the least painful of it all.

          But you don’t care about any of it, of course; why would you? I’m just another criminal you’ve put away, yes? So, why is it I write to you ...

          Well, mostly because my dear friend, L, hasn’t returned any of my calls to his private line which leaves only you as the remaining attestor to my most recent ruination. Though even if that brilliant detective did indulge me with a response, his knowledge would not compare to yours, I think. You were there &, as with many things in life, there is only so much frequent monotonous check-ins & a clinical FBI report can convey. You would agree, I’d imagine, with the fact that there exists something between us that lacks definition  --  yet most importantly it lacks witness.

          What shall we call this, Naomi? Even if you are so predictably unwilling to admit its presence, especially in the quiet ambiance of your own mind, you are aware of it in a way I wish I had been aware of you. 

          You had undone me, which is quite the victory. You & I have succeeded where our darling detective did not. That is something to revel in, isn’t it? But you’re too kindhearted of a soul to imagine a world where you could be proud of something that involved the harm of others, isn’t that true? You put the world’s best criminal away when the world’s best detective could not & yet you haven’t celebrated that fact because three people died  --  & to you, that is failure.

          Do you see what I mean, Naomi, when I say there exists something between us? Aside from all those ghastly words you used to describe me, there are other, more pleasant things you could say which would have been inadmissible in a court of law.

          Even though their blood was on my hands, as you see it, you enjoyed it  --  The case. You had fun, Naomi, with me; solving the clues I left behind, catching such a crafty killer. I will celebrate it all enough for the both of us, this intangible thing, your victory. I am not a sore loser, as you can see. At least not when I have justly lost to someone I can stand.

          But enough scene setting for this part, yes? You see, I’m privy to the fact that your eyes will glaze over while reading this. My words will be discarded in a junk drawer somewhere  --  You won’t throw these papers in the trash, but they’ll lack significance. I’m counting on that, in a way; your lack of response, your lack of reply. Despite the thing between us you will remain distant & uncaring, as is your way & valid right. I won’t strive for more than perhaps the chance at self justification  --  If that is what I’m truly after here. A priest could ask me to confess why I’ve channeled my energy into this pursuit & even if I did fear God I’d have no answer for him. So let’s go with the pretty statement; I only wish to explain myself to someone who will read these words without attachment. 

          If I start at the beginning, however, none of this will make sense. A funny fact but I can imagine you understand why someone like me cannot tell stories linearly. Instead I’ll tell you first about someone you most likely, & justifiably, have a library of questions for.

          L. 

          I won’t feign intimacy where there isn’t  --  You can trust every word on these papers & each page that follows. Only in my young adulthood can I now look back on my childhood & adolescence with the realization that my delusions created intimacy where there could never have been. To be intimate on any level with a soul like his was a privilege I only came so close to. I’m sure in the same way you will never admit to such a thing, neither would he; but all the same, something more intense did exist between him & I.

          L had been just a boy at one time; a concept you’ll have difficulty grasping, I’m sure. He had always been brilliant, of course, but a boy nonetheless. 

          He was nine years old when I first met him. He’s two years my senior  --  Does that surprise you, as well? Did you expect him to be older? He’s only twenty-three right now. His birthday is at the end of this month.

          I’m sure your mind is reeling with the details you’ve just learned  --  Or perhaps the realization that I know these details. I knew him, once. What feels like an eternity ago, though that sounds a bit too dramatic for my taste. We grew up together, so to say, in that house I keep blathering on about. No one believes such a place exists, where gifted children are everything but kidnapped into a lifestyle so dreadful, it drove the first boy taken into this home to suicide & the second to kill others. But again, you don’t care about that yet.

          L likes his coffee strong  --  Brewed with an extra scoop if he’s having instant. He never counts the sugar cubes he places in the brew but he always takes a sip once beforehand; the immediate regret is always visible yet he does it anyway. Every time. The highest number of cubes I ever observed him dropping in was eighteen. He often sits with his knees clung to his chest; only when he’s in private company do his arms actually wrap around the frail bones. When he is intrigued or thinking, he will lean forward in such a way that lifts his bottom from the chair; his toes will clutch the edge of whatever he is sitting on & his thumb will compulsively migrate between his lips. The nails on every other hand are neglected & often overgrown, but his right thumbnail is cracked & abused; even when he tastes blood, he will not stop.

          The sugar in his coffee isn’t the only sweet he craves. His  --  Our adoptive father prepares & orders a vast amount of treats to curb his cravings. Despite it, he’s never gained a pound of fat in his life. He boasts frequently that it is because he uses his brain so much, but he & I both know it is because we play tennis together regularly on the makeshift court in the parking lot outside the home. Briefly, he played competitively. If you search thoroughly his alias, Hideki Ryuga, you will see that he was the UK national champion at one point.

          I’ve deviated from what I aimed to convey in my nostalgia, however I’ll leave those last words in. I wanted you to conclude something  --  Did you see what I was leading you towards, Naomi? Any similarities to someone, perhaps?

          I will write again soon, though I’m sure that is negligible to you.           ——— B.

#❤ Be a hurricane then — B x Naomi. #makishou #🕒 Cages all look the same from the inside — Prison Verse. #how long did i work on this? three days? #i'm proud of it

[schoolcalidity]

Better to be Jews than Christians

Better to be Jews than Christians

Anton de Montoro and the Spanish Converts

By Jeffrey Gorsky

(adapted from a chapter in my history: Jewish Blood, the Tragedy of the Iberian Jews.)

The 15th Century Castilian Anton de Montoro was the most representative poet of the Spanish "conversos". A convert to Catholicism, he flaunted his Jewish heritage. He dramatized the plight of his fellow converts, victims of discrimination and violent persecution. He wrote about something unique in Jewish history—a community of thousands brought into Catholicism through force or compulsion, trying to fit into their new Christian world.

The conversions came at the end of one of the most successful Jewish periods in human history. For centuries, during the "convivencia", Jews prospered from unprecedented, if limited, tolerance from Muslim and Christian rulers. The Jews exploited new opportunities for power, riches, and cultural and scientific encounters. Their success led them to call their land Sepharad, a name from the book of Obadiah that implied that Spanish Jews were the successors to the Jews of Israel.

This world ended in 1391. A rogue priest named Ferran Martinez incited mobs to riot throughout Spain with the slogan "Convert or die". When the violence ended, further State and Church repression followed. After 20 years of repression, a third to half of the Spanish Jews had converted.

These "conversos" quickly achieved enormous success. They obtained high public office, rose to the top of the Church hierarchy, and married into the aristocracy. But their success bred resentment. During 60 years of civil war and instability, they became handy scapegoats. They inherited the hatred and resentment traditionally directed against Jews. This led to violent anti-Convert riots, mostly centered in Southern Spain.

By the reign of Enrique IV (half-brother to his successor, Queen Isabella), most conversos had been Christian for two generations or more. This new generation had much less solidarity as conversos than their previously converted forefathers. The instinct of Jews and early conversos to side with the King for protection led the first generation to side almost unanimously with King Juan II and his principal minister Alvaro de Luna—but Luna sold them out. When Juan's son Enrique inherited both the throne and civil unrest, conversos were on all sides of the new civil wars: some stuck by the King, some sided with his brother Prince Alfonso, while others supported the untrustworthy minister Don Pacheco even after he showed he could be as treasonous to conversos as he was to the King.

The new political loyalties of the conversos reflected their assimilation and adoption of Old Christian manners. But while the conversos rejected Judaism (whether through free-will or compulsion) they were still distrusted and discriminated against by Old Christians. This blocked full assimilation. Conversos developed their own perspective and customs. This soon became an important force in Spanish art and culture.

The converso perspective first erupted through humor. The court jester, or truhan, became a feature of the Court in the 15th Century. The jesters were largely or wholly conversos. This may have been in part due to the Jewish cultural acceptance of humor. It also reflected the conversos marginal status—it was easier for Old Christians to make fun of these former Jews, and they in turn could look more skeptically and satirically at Castilian society.

A school of poetry developed during this period, with the poets called the Cancieneros, or songsters. While these poets wrote in a wide variety of styles, much of their poetry was burlesque, jester poetry written to entertain and gain the patronage of the royal court and grandees.

Many if not most of these poets were conversos. Among them, Anton de Montoro stood out as the cancionero poet who most openly admitted to his Jewish heritage. He dramatized the plight of the converso, and protested the killings and discrimination conversos suffered in Castile.

Born a Jew around 1404 in or near Cordoba, Montoro probably converted around the time of the anti-Jewish legislation of 1414. His Jewish name was Saul, and his mother remained Jewish.

He became known as the "Ropero", or clothes peddler. Trade had a low status in Castilian society, and this trade was particularly low. A tailor could service the aristocracy, and anyone with money would have clothes made-to-order. A seller of used or ready made clothes only serviced those too poor to buy fashionable wear.

He became known as a poet late in life. His first known poems date from the 1440s, when he obtained the patronage of the dominant aristocrat of Cordoba. He became one of the most successful poets of his day, engaging in poetry duels or correspondence with other well-known poets, and leaving a reasonably substantial estate.

Montoro may have stressed his low class and Jewish background partly as a pose. Like jesters, the comic cancioneros poked fun at themselves. Juan Baena, for example, a prominent converso poet, pointed to his physical ugliness and short-stature.1 Montoro's low-class occupation and Jewish background allowed, like a physical defect, for self-deprecating humor.

Montoro often satirized his Jewish descent. In a poem to his wife, he notes that they were well matched as conversos, and that he won the match because she was considered unworthy for any reputable Christian:

"You and I and to have but little worth, we had better both pervert a single house only, and not two. For [wishing] to enjoy a good husband would be a waste of time for you, and an offense to good reason; So I, old, dirty, and meek, will caress a pretty woman."2

As a comic poet of his era, he could be bawdy even by our standards. One of his poems is called, To the Woman Who Is All Tits and Ass (Montoro a Una Mujer Que Todo Era Tetas Y Culo)3. In Montoro to the Woman Who Called Him Jew, his response to what a woman meant as an insult is to refer to her as a sodomite, implying that the mouth that sent out that insult was used to perform oral sex.4

In several poems, without entirely abandoning the satiric voice, he bitterly protested the mistreatment of the conversos. After the attacks on the conversos in Carmona, he addressed King Enrique IV: "What death can you impose on me/That I have not already suffered?"5

The massacre of conversos in his hometown of Cordoba elicited a lengthy and complicated poem to Alonso de Aguilar, the aristocrat who after befriending the conversos deserted them during the attack and then allowed them to be exiled and barred from public office: "Montoro to Don Alonso de Aguilar on the Destruction of the Conversos of Cordoba". The poem begins as a fulsome panegyric to Aguilar, possibly reflecting Montoro's need to continue to live under Aguilar's protection in Cordoba. Only after eight verses of praising Aguilar does Montoro turn to the massacre, noting that after this disaster "it would serve the conversos better to be Jews than Christians."6

By verse 19, he praises the Grandee, and abjectly begs mercy for the conversos: "We want to give you tributes, be your slaves and serve you, we are impoverished, cuckolded, faggots, deceived, open to any humiliation only to survive." In the next verse, Motoro describes himself as "wretched, the first to wear the livery of the blacksmith" (the man who started the anti-converso riots). He pleads for the grandee's mercy, while he remains "starving, naked, impoverished, cuckold, and ailing."7

It has been suggested that this poem is an ironic attack on his former patron. Yet there is no apparent irony in the poem. The main attitude seems to be helpless despair in wake of the destruction of his fellow converts.

His best-known depiction of the plight of the conversos comes in his poem dedicated to Queen Isabel:

"O sad, bitter clothes-peddler [ropero] who does not feel your sorrow! Here you are, seventy years of age, and have always said [to the Virgin]: "you remained immaculate," and have never sworn [directly] by the Creator. I recite the credo, I worship pots full of greasy pork, I eat bacon half-cooked, listen to Mass, cross myself while touching holy waters-- and never could I kill these traces of the confeso.

With my knees bent and in great devotion in days set for holiness I pray, rosary in hand, reciting the beads of the Passion, adoring the God-and-Man as my highest Lord,"8 Yet for all the Christian things I do I'm still called that old faggot Jew.

The epitath at the end of the verse, "puto Judio" is a generic insult, not an imputation of homosexuality—it is the worst insult in the language: "behind the sodomite, bearer of pestilence, is the outline of the converso. They are joined in the worst popular insult that could be hurled: 'faggot Jew!.'. 9 "The English translation of "puto judio" cannot fully convey the pejorative sense of this masculinization of "puta," which figures the Jewish male subject both as a whore and as the passive partner in the homosexual act. " 10

The poem ends with a chilling prediction of the soon to be established auto-da-fe: He asks Queen Isabella, if she must burn conversos, to do it at Christmastime, when the warmth of the fire will be better appreciated.

Montoro evaded the Inquisition. He died soon after writing the poem, probably before the Inquisition came into force. He showed his lack of respect for the Church by leaving it only a nominal sum in his will. His wife was not as fortunate: she was burned as a heretic before April, 1487.11

As an artist, Montoro represents both a dead-end and a harbinger. He was a dead-end because with the imposition of the Spanish Inquisition and the purity of blood laws, conversos after him could no longer proudly point to their Jewish roots. That attitude would lead to being burned to death as a heretic. Converso artists turned instead to secrecy and indirection. It is no coincidence that the two most important works by conversos, La Celestina and Lazarillo de Tormes (both classics of world literature), were both initially published anonymously.

He was a harbinger in that the attitudes he and other cancioneros embraced: irony, irreverence, and the use of low class characters to attack the pretensions of the higher classes, would soon inspire a much more important genre. Picaresque literature came out of the cancionero tradition.12 The picaresque novel, in its turn, was to become part of the foundation of modern literature.

1

Francisco Marquez Villanueva, "Jewish 'Fools' of the Spanish Fifteenth Century",

Hispanic Review

, V. 50, No. 4 (Autumn, 1982), P. 393.

2 Yirmihayu Yovel, "Converso Dualities in the First Generation: The Cancioneros", Jewish Social Studies, V.4, N. 3 (1998), P. 4-5.

3 Montoro, Antón de. Poesía completa. Ed. Marithelma Costa. Cleveland: Cleveland State University Press, 1990., Poem No. 12

4 Ibid, poem No. 10

5 Marquez Villanueva, P. 403.

6 Montoro, Antón de. Poesía completa, P. 23

7 Ibid, P. 29-30

8 Yovel, P. 5-6

9 Barbara Weissberger "A Tierra, Puto!", in Queer Iberia, (Duke University Press, 1999), p. 294

10 Ibid, P. 316

11 Marquez Villanueva, P. 397

12 Victoriano Roncero Lopez, "Lazarillo, Guzman and Buffoon Literature", MLN 116 (2001), P. 237.

This article is adapted from a chapter in my draft history: Jewish Blood, The Tragedy of the Iberian Jews, about the Spanish Heine, Anton de Montoro, who dramatized the plight of the forced converts in 15th Century Spain.

[kitsune-translates]

SCI 谜案集 [English Translation] Case 1: Number Killer

Previous

Number killer 16 Academic　

Zhan Zhao and Bai Yutang have only come up with a speculation, but to prove that Xu and Zhang actually killed someone, they still need evidences.

In addition, professor Xu and Dr Zhan are both highly regarded in academia. Why spend all these efforts to kill an ordinary student? And what does it have to do with Zhan Zhao, is what Bai Yutang cares about the most.

The two of them decide to stay put and watch how it unfolds first. Bai Yutang gets Zhang Long to dig deeper into Professor Xu and Dr Zhang's background.

The tech team has set up pinhole cameras on level 13 and Xu Qing has arranged for surveillance around the school. After which, the police left the University.

By the time Zhan Zhao and Bai Yutang return to S.C.I. office, the sky has already turned dark. 

Jiang Ping is busy on his computer. He has scanned the paper pieces Wang Chao and the rest brought back from Wu Hao's place and is working on image recovery analysis.

Gongsun comes out of the autopsy room with a piece of bread in his mouth and holding Li Feifan's autopsy report. 

He has found a grey spot on Li Feifan's neck and signs of skin damage, likely caused by a taser.

This further supports Zhan Zhao and Bai Yutang's theory. 

Zhao Hu asks in alarm, “Gongsun, were you eating while doing the autopsy?”

Gongsun turns around to look at him, chuckles chillingly and leans closer to say in a hair-raising tone, “Eating what?”

Zhao Hu yelps, “Oh my god” in fear and runs off.

The entire team decides to overtime in S.C.I. since none of them felt like sleeping.

Zhan Zhao has been on his computer typing the moment he returned to his office. Bai Yutang makes a round in the office and follows into Zhan Zhao’s office.

“Have you not seen the sign outside?” Zhan Zhao points at the ‘Do Not Disturb” sign outside of the door.

“I saw.” Bai Yutang sits down opposite Zhan Zhao, “Doesn’t it say ‘Welcome’?”

Rage! Zhan Zhao decides to ignore him and continues typing.

“What are you writing? Horror novel again?” Bai Yutang moves closer.

“When have I ever written novels? Those were research papers.” Zhan Zhao stresses.

“Hmm…” Bai Yutang picks up some books on Zhan Zhao’s desk at random, “Look at these book titles, <The Nature of Psychopathic Tendency>, <Reason and Barbarism>, <Dissection, Dismemberment and Disposal of bodies>…”

Bai Yutang throws the books back onto Zhan Zhao’s table like they were cockroaches, “Are these not horror novels?”

Zhan Zhao rolls his eyes at him vigorously, “Get out! You are distracting me.”

Bai Yutang leans in even closer, “What have you been working on? You have been writing a lot this couple of days.”

Zhan Zhao continues to type without looking up, “It’s about OCD. I have published a few pieces on the <International Journal of Psychology> (1) and gotten pretty good responses. My editor wants me to write them into a book.”

“OCD?” Bai Yutang slouches onto the desk and puts his hands against his chin, “What’s the difference between OCD and mental illness?”

Zhan Zhao would very much like to throw the mouse at his nose, “The only thing you can tell the difference is between a living man and a dead person!”

Bai Yutang grins at Zhan Zhao's annoyed expression and starts to look up and down the desk and the bookshelves, "Is that the <International Journal of Psychology>?" He points at a few thick magazines on the bookshelf. 

"Yep." Zhan Zhao takes a quick look and nods. 

Bai Yutang collects the magazines from the bookshelf and starts to flip through, “<Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and Psychological Suggestions>?”

Zhan Zhao gives him another look, “Yep, that's the one.”

Bai Yutang reads silently for some time before asking, “Cat, is this in English?”

Zhan Zhao frowns, continues to write and ignores him.

“Why do they look like English words separately, but don't read like English in a sentence?” Bai Yutang falls back into his seat holding the magazine, “The effect of suggestion on a normal individual is minimal, but for OCD patients it could be extreme. However, most people in the world has OCD on the subconscious level.”

Bai Yutang finishes the sentence with an open mouth, “Is this even human language anymore?”

Zhan Zhao crinkles his nose and looks at him as if he is illiterate, “In writing it is. But coming from your mouth, it doesn't sound so much like it anymore.”

Bai Yutang shrugs and continues, “For an OCD patient, once one is able to find the root for his disorder, suggestion can be used easily to change the patient's subconscious...” He shakes his head, “what does this mean?”

“It means what it says.” Zhan Zhao takes a sip of his tea and looks out of the office door, “Don't you have anything else better to do?”

But Bai Yutang seems fascinated by the article, he asks Zhan Zhao, “You mean, by using suggestion on someone with OCD, it can cause hallucinations?”

“Yep.” Zhan Zhao nods, “For those with a weaker will, it can directly disrupt his line of thoughts and beliefs. Or even cognition breakdown for the serious cases.”

"Oh? Prove it!" Bai Yutang points at his own nose, “Cause a breakdown.”

Zhan Zhao looks at him, tilting his head and then shakes his head, “You don't fulfil the criteria.”

“What criteria?” Bai Yutang asks.

Zhan Zhao finally shifts his attention away from his laptop and stares at Bai Yutang, “It needs to be someone with weaker willpower, less logical and poorer in communication skills.”

Bai Yutang considers, “So someone more cowardly, absent-minded and stupid?”

Zhan Zhao thought about it in a disgusted expression but nods anyway.

Bai Yutang grins in satisfaction, “Then that's easy.” He yells out to outside, “Zhao Hu.”

...

Zhan Zhao spots Zhao Hu running in cheerfully from afar and asks Bai Yutang in surprise, “What do you want to do?”

Bai Yutang smiles, “There is no need to cause a breakdown. Just confuse him will do.”  He pulls Zhao Hu in the office and seats him down in front of Zhan Zhao. 

He closes the door and draws the curtain. 

Zhao Hu look confused. He looks up at Zhan Zhao and then Bai Yutang, “Cap? What's going on?”

Bai Yutang winks at Zhan Zhao, meaning ‘this one fulfils the criteria’.

Zhan Zhao sighed in resignation and looks at Zhao Hu in pity. 

Bai Yutang raises his chin at Zhan Zhao in challenge, “If you can't do it, then you are lying.” 

Zhan Zhao looks at Bai Yutang's incredibly smug expression and clenched his teeth before looking at Zhao Hu, thinking, ‘Well, do it for science.’ Poor Zhao Hu has now become an experiment. 

“Zhao Hu, are you really Zhao Hu?” Zhan Zhao closes his laptop and asks Zhao Hu seriously. 

“Huh?” Zhao Hu blinks, “Dr Zhan, what do you mean?”

Zhan Zhao wears a grave expression, “Are you really Zhao Hu?”

Zhao Hu shudders uncontrollably and turns his head to ask Bai Yutang, “Cap? What's wrong?”

Bai Yutang holds back his laughter and says sternly, “Answer the question.”

Nodding in fear, Zhao Hu says shakily, “Y.. Yes.”

“Based on what evidence?” Zhan Zhao continues to ask. 

“...? My... personal ID?” Zhao Hu reaches in pocket to fetch his wallet. 

Zhan Zhao slams the table, “What evidence do you have that proves you are the same Zhao Hu as yesterday?”

……¯□¯……

Zhao Hu opens his mouth stupidly, “Yesterday... Yesterday and... Today... There's a difference?”

Zhan Zhao says, “I recall your grandfather has passed away?”

“... Ah. Yes...” Zhao Hu nods but he isn't following Zhan Zhao's train of thoughts anymore.

“Are you sure you had a grandfather?” Zhan Zhao asks. 

……¯□¯……

Zhao Hu has begun to get confused, “That... Didn't I just say it? He…he passed away, already.”

Zhan Zhao slams the table forcefully again, “Who can prove it?”

Zhao Hu almost jumps, “I... I can prove it, and my parents...”

Zhan Zhao sits back down and take a sip of his tea, “You mean, you have memories about him?”

“Yes! Yes!” Zhao Hu nods immediately.

“Then what if the memory is fake?”

....

“Fake?” Zhao Hu's eyes are looking like they have spirals in them (2), he looks at Zhan Zhao guilelessly.

Zhan Zhao continues slowly, “Think about it. What if, your grandfather has never existed. You and your family have been implanted with memories about your grandfather. Can you say for sure your grandfather has existed?”

Zhao Hu widens his eyes and looks at Zhan Zhao in shock. 

Zhan Zhao continues, “This is like people claiming aliens exist, but where’s the evidences?”

“... I... I don't know?” Zhao Hu moves his mouth, not knowing what to do. 

“Maybe you are an alien?” Zhan Zhao stares into Zhao Hu's eyes. 

……¯□¯……

Zhao Hu looks like he just got strafed by AK47. 

Bai Yutang waves his hands on the side, meaning, ‘That's enough, he is already plenty confused.’

Zhan Zhao refuses with a firm look, thinking, ‘This is just the start. I have to let you know what I'm capable of today.’

“Maybe, your whole family are aliens, just that you have been implanted with human memories and believe you are humans instead." Zhan Zhao smiles meaningfully, “Or maybe, Zhao Hu of yesterday has already dead. And the person here today is not Zhao Hu, but someone implanted with Zhao Hu's memories. Can you prove me wrong?”

After a moment of silence, Zhao Hu howls “Ahhhhhhhh”, leaping out of his chair and out of Zhan Zhao's office. He grabs onto Wang Chao walking towards him and wails, “Who am I?! Who am I?! I don't want to be an alien!!”

...The whole office, freezes collectively... 

Bai Yutang might have hurt himself laughing against the bookshelves.

Zhan Zhao folds his sleeve up elegantly. A tiger who doesn't roar would be mistaken as a sickly cat. He sits back down and opens his laptop to continue writing.

After Bai Yutang has laughed enough, he left Zhan Zhao's office. Not long after, he returns with a whole stack of files and drops them in front of Zhan Zhao.

Zhan Zhao looks up and sees that they are the files of the victims of this ‘Number Killer’ case. 

Bai Yutang asks meaningfully, “Cat, see if these folks fulfils the criteria for OCD and psychological suggestion.”

Zhan Zhao blinks and looks at Bai Yutang in understanding, “Oh, mouse, that's genius.”

Translator’s Footnote:

(1)    I am very surprised International Journal of Psychology actually do exist.

(2)    In case anyone need visualization of the spiral eyes: 

Next

#sci mianji #sci谜案集 #SCI 谜案集 #next chap is a bit long it will take a while

[thatssomental-blog]

Too Coward for the "Coward's Way Out": Living with Passive Suicidal Ideation

TW: This article may be hard for some to read, but is intended to assist others who may be dealing with passive, or active, suicidal ideations. The following text contains details of suicidal thoughts (without intent) and mentions self harm (briefly, and without detail), in addition to depression and it’s relationship with suicidal thoughts. 

So many people label suicide as the “coward’s way out”. If that’s true, then why is it that I feel like a coward because I could never follow through? Passive suicidal ideation is defined as wishing you were dead or that you could die, but having no intention to take your own life. Whereas, active suicidal ideation means one is not only struggling with these thoughts, but may have full intention, or a plan already in place, to take their own life. Passive suicidal ideation is still a risk factor among patients with depression and suicidal thoughts, and just because you are not planning your great escape from this world now, doesn’t mean you should skip out on your therapy sessions. All that being said, it is very real, your thoughts are just as valid, and you are not alone in feeling the way that you do.

Before I continue, I would like to specify that “wishing you were dead or that you could die” isn’t a reference to how you feel waking up in the morning, before you reluctantly drag yourself to work/school, it is in reference to a very real, deep desire to stop living, that may come or go, or may stay with you incessantly, even on your best days when everything seems hunky-dory. I am specifying this, because as someone who suffers from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, the mental illnesses that myself and others suffer through daily are not meant to be #relatable, just because you like things neatly organized or hate your job/school.

My own struggle with suicidal thoughts is a plague that I can't seem to get rid of. I suffered from them long before I even knew what suicide truly was. I was about 14 when the first thought came along, and I clearly remember it. I was putting away the clean dishes and took a knife from the dishwasher. I stood there for about five minutes straight, just staring at it, and thinking that I could just slash my wrist open and the numbness I’d been feeling for weeks would all go away. I scared myself with that thought, put the knife away, and didn’t do it; I couldn’t do it, and I wouldn’t have done it. I can’t remember any other thoughts as vividly as that single instance, but sometimes they were there, and sometimes they weren’t, and every time I had them I could never bring myself to act on them.

Health care is necessary for a healthy life. In the US healthcare is expensive, whether you have coverage or not. Health Insurance, especially with Mental Health included, is hard to come by. Even if you’re one of the “lucky” ones that manages to land a job that provides it, a good plan for yourself, not to mention a whole family, can easily eat up what little bit of wages you work for, and have to live off of. In the past several years, life has been difficult for me, though it was mostly adjusting to living the independent life, learning how to pay bills, and learning how to take care of myself. Despite all of the challenges and obstacles I’ve faced in that time, I was doing pretty well. Even through the trauma of sudden death, which my family is not equipped to handle, I managed. Within the past eight months, I attempted to better my situation by leaving a toxic work environment and moving on to something new. Unfortunately, by choosing to leave that job I also left what little health coverage I had, and since have had to move on to even worse challenges and obstacles, all with untreated, depression, anxiety, body and gender dysphoria, and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. If you’ve never been through that, I’ll tell you right now that it is hell, and as petty as I am, I wouldn’t wish anything I’ve been through on my worst enemies.

Factoring in all of the above, with the soul crushing feeling that your whole life and all of your freedom is crashing down around you, like an imploding dumpster fire, it really adds up. In my last few months before moving back home with Mom and Dad, something none of us want to do even if we love our parents with a fiery passion, I was at rock bottom. I couldn’t bring myself to do anything but the bare minimum, which made moving day tougher than it already was, and left me feeling hopeless and drained of life. I would lay on my couch for hours, wrapped in a blanket, staring at the wall with an empty mind and heavy heart, it was the worst I had ever been, and I allowed myself to wallow in it, only making it worse.

Even now that I am home, and surrounded by the love of my family, I frequently wish I was dead. I don’t think such things only when everything is going wrong in my life, but the harder times get the more I just want all the pain to go away. I think of scenarios in which I could put myself out of my misery. I own a gun, I have access to others, and medications, not to mention every knife in the block or kitchen drawer that could easily end all of my suffering. But, why is it that despite my desires to no longer deal with life's stresses, my battle with my seemingly, ever changing, gender identity, and my unbridled hatred for the world we live in and the multitude or horrible people in it, do I refrain? Why, when it seems like the only option for peace of mind and escape from the emotions I can’t control, can I not do it? Why, when I wish for the calming embrace of death, do I fear strangers who could kill me in cold blood? Why, if I want to die, did I seek medical attention, without any health coverage, and go to the ER when I legitimately thought I was dying?

Fear of the unknown. I was raised in the Christian faith from a very young age, and was even baptized twice. My mother was raised within that same faith, and my father is an atheist. Despite my current pagan-leaning/agnostic dogma, there is a fear bread into me from childhood that I will burn in hell. Since becoming “woke”, so to say, I have completely denounced the Christian god for what he is. Despite my genuine certainty that this god does not exist, and if he does, he’s actually quite a terrible deity, because of how I was raised, I will more than likely carry that fear of denouncing him and burning in hell with me, for the rest of my life. Religion aside, and taking things from an atheistic perspective, maybe I’m just going into a hole in the ground when I die, but the thought of everything being black forever is also terrifying for me. Even though I am aware that, in this scenario, I will literally not be conscious of my own death, it is almost impossible for me to wrap my head around it, and as someone who has exhibited a very present case of FOMO all of their life, that just doesn’t fly with me. Regardless of whether we go to sit at Odin’s table in Valhalla, or up to a magic golden kingdom in the clouds where everyone is happy and wants for nothing, or we just literally kill over like a toy with dead batteries, no one actually knows until they actually die.

Fear of failure. I have had a very hard time succeeding at pretty much everything I’ve tried in life. No matter what I do, I never feel like the product is good enough. I am my own worst critic, and, on top of that, I am a rage-quitter. If I am not instantly or naturally good at something, I get bent out of shape when I mess it up, maybe I cry, then I quit, and I move on. (Though that statement doesn’t apply to absolutely everything, it applies to a pretty big chunk of things.) One of the greatest fears that keeps me from “attempting” is knowing that if I mess up, I may not recover. Some people are saved at the last minute, and depending on what you’ve done to yourself, sometimes the wounds or the manner in which you’ve attempted will mend. However, if some things are done incorrectly, i.e. putting a bullet in your brain, or a fall that just wasn’t quite big enough to kill you, you may still survive, but there could be permanent consequences such as brain damage, loss of mobility, etc. I’m sure you catch my drift. I suppose this also technically falls under fear of the unknown, because you never truly know what’s going to happen until it does. Sometimes you just have to stop and ask yourself, would you rather be depressed and fully functional to the best of your capabilities? Or depresses and handicapped, and therefore, with your anxious/depressed brain, if it works anything like mine, an even heavier burden on those around you?

Forcing others to suffer. I am very lucky to have an amazing family that is full of love. Even for those of us living a life that others may not agree with, disowning and/or not loving one another is not in our vocabulary. I am very close to my mother and my grandmother, and it would devastate them beyond comprehension. That used to be my only line of thinking, however things have happened and times have changed. Less than two years ago, we buried my grandmother’s youngest child, my mother’s youngest sister, and one of my best friends, who was more like my sister than my aunt, along with her unborn son. Even if I intended to follow through on my own suicidal thoughts, and even excluding the above reasons, I could never force my mother to bury her only child, or my grandmother to bury another grandchild. I also have an amazing SO and friends who would at least be a little devastated, as well.

I just can’t. Ignoring every other reason I have included, I just can’t do it. Despite my fear of death, failure, and hurting those I love most, I just don’t have it in me. It’s not the pain that I worry about, one could easily swallow a bunch of sleeping pills and hope to not wake up, and as much as I hate to admit it, I have physically self harmed before, way back in my teen years. I don’t know how else to explain it, other than I just can’t. I have a huge fear of missing out, if I don’t know all the details of something it will drive me nuts, and I hate surprises. Despite how great it would be to just not have to worry, and despite how hopeless I feel, there is a part of me that knows something better is coming. If I were to take my own life, there are countless things I would miss out on, things I’ve always wanted and things that I may not even know that I want yet. The future is a mystery, and I’ll never find out what it holds if I don’t have one.

Do those things make my suicidal thoughts invalid? No, and though your reasons behind your lack/full intent may differ from mine, they do not make yours any less valid, either.

I am by no means encouraging suicide, though if you ever lose your battle just know that I will never call you a coward when you’re gone. Suicide is the final side-effect of losing your battle with a very real illness, one that may not be visible to even those closest to you.

My parting wisdom is this: Whether you intend to follow through on your suicidal ideations or not, if you take your own life, you will never be around to see it get better. I know it seems hopeless, I personally feel hopeless about 95% of the time, and I know that sometimes it seems like the only escape from not only the world, but your own mind. I really do. I know it hurts, and even if I don’t know what you’re going through, or how you feel, perseverance is the answer, not death. If you are strong enough to make it this far, through all the grief and torment and suffering, then you are strong enough to build your own future. Please don’t take that away from yourself, no matter how much you may want to.

If you, or someone you love is feeling suicidal, please check thatssomental.tumblr.com/resources for a list of suicide and mental help phone lines, chats, and websites.

©thatssomental.tumblr.com 2019

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