monsterswithimagines

[monsterswithimagines]

Apparently we've decided em dashes are AI now? Will I've been using them forever. I have ADHD. I'm writing something new and I'm using em dashes and you can pry them from my cold, dead hands.

[monsterswithimagines]

No bc why did I reread undisclosed desires last night as if I didn't also write it?

[monsterswithimagines]

💛

Undisclosed Desires - Epilogue

Joe Goldberg x female!Reader

Masterlist

New York during the spring is incredibly beautiful.

Really, I love it. There is no city like New York in the Netherlands, and I love how different it is, how different the people are.

I love walking around the city on my days off, and eating foods I've never tried before. I love walking into random stores and finding something I didn't know I needed. And I love the peace of mind. You probably don't believe this but compared to The Netherlands, where my family is, New York feels like an oasis.

Well, almost.

You have not killed anyone, Joe. Not since my mother. But somehow, that makes it all worse. I feel stuck, waiting. I am afraid of who your next victim might be. Sometimes, I am even afraid that it will be me.

But you act normal. Everything seems so… well, normal.

“Where is your mind today?” you ask me, and I smile at you and kiss you and we are normal. We are okay.

Most days, I try to pretend our trip to The Netherlands together did not happen.

Most days, I even succeed.

Maybe I'm crazy.

Love is supposed to make you feel a little crazy, right?

We are at your apartment. I slept over last night, because my apartment has roaches. Can you believe that? Fucking roaches. That wouldn’t happen in The Netherlands.

You pull me to you and I giggle when I end up in your lap.

“Seriously, what're you thinking about?”

“Hmmm.” I wiggle, and you are already hard. You want me all the time. It's like the only thing you think about is sex. “I dunno, Joe…”

I shriek and laugh when you lift me, drop me on your bed. Our clothes come off quickly and you enter me and you feel good inside me, you do. But your hands on me… they are killer's hands. They burn.

After we are done, your fingers trace shapes on my hip and it takes so much effort to stay relaxed.

But you kept your promise. A whole day alone in The Netherlands, and my grandparents are still alive. That means something, doesn't it? Maybe you are getting better.

Or maybe I'm just falling for the same mask you wore when we met.

Last night, I found your box.

I thought you might have something like it, somewhere. I didn't think it could scare me.

I know the worst of you, Joe. The idea of you keeping a box of my stuff is almost cute, compared to all of that. I wouldn't have gone through it but I thought it would be nothing surprising, just my things. Something we could laugh over when you came home from Mooney's. Something that would make you think: see? She finds her stuff in my apartment and she thinks it's funny. She loves me.

But some of the stuff in that box… it wasn't mine.

I turn over, press you back into the bed just as you're starting to get up and kiss you hard. Like I can't get enough. Like I want your hands on me.

“Someone's needy today,” you joke, but you like it. You want me needy for you. You want me never to get enough.

And I need to do exactly what you want. Be exactly who you want.

Another woman’s bra. Another woman's diary.

Guinevere Beck, the name on the inside of the cover said.

I put the box back and I didn't tell you I found it. You told me no more secrets and I went along with it. I guess I'm a liar.

I made a mistake coming back to New York with you, Joe. I believed you when you said you'd never hurt someone you love. I thought I could do it. Be with you. Trust that there would be no secrets.

I just didn't think about what would happen, to me, if you were to stop loving me.

I can't let that happen.

And if I cam't keep your eyes on me? Well...

Then Guinevere Beck might need to go. Just like Mitch.

Only this time, I won't have you to do my dirty work.

[monsterswithimagines]

I haven't watched the new season of You let because of Life (also I'm rewatching The Last of Us rn) but like. Y'all clearly have. My notes are exploding. So hi, for anyone new here: I'm Josh. Every once in a blue moon I go crazy and write a fanfic of multiple chapters in the span of two or three weeks. Otherwise I don't post much. Probably once I watch the new season I'll write more Joe fanfic bc Penn Badgley can Get It.

[monsterswithimagines]

im hella late but omg i just read ur joe goldberg series for like an hour straight THAT SHIT WAS FIREEEE?

THANK YOU!

[monsterswithimagines]

I wanna reiterate that today is my DAY OFF. It is 8 pm. I am just now sitting down for the first time today. I don't have the energy to write, even if I want to.

Bestie why do you never post anymore 😭

Because when I write something, nobody's interested??? And because it turns out that being an adult sucks. I work. And then I come home and there is neverending laundry. NEVER. ENDING.

[monsterswithimagines]

Bestie why do you never post anymore 😭

Because when I write something, nobody's interested??? And because it turns out that being an adult sucks. I work. And then I come home and there is neverending laundry. NEVER. ENDING.

[monsterswithimagines]

ngl 'my only crimes were loving too much and confusing love with violence' goes extremely hard as a quote.

my only crimes were loving too much and confusing love with violence and so also extreme violence too i guess also i stole a few things too

[monsterswithimagines]

[monsterswithimagines]

im so delusional about the wolf among us SEASON 2 WILL HAPPEN I KNOW IT

[monsterswithimagines]

AOSM - Chapter 4

Masterlist

Chapter four

I walk all day, and then part of the evening. Somehow it's dark out, and I've ended up at the park.

It's pretty cold, I realize when I sit down on a bench. Actually, ‘pretty cold’ might be an understatement. It can't be any warmer than thirty degrees. It's snowing, even.

“I tried to reach you today.”

Why am I not surprised he's here?

“Well, here I am,” I say.

“Your mother's worried. I called your apartment twice. Then she actually called me when you didn't get home.”

I raise an eyebrow at the sheriff. “My mother? Worried? You must be joking.”

He's standing there, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his hands in the pockets of his shearling-lined trench coat. Ridiculously, the phrase ‘wolf in sheep's clothing’ runs through my brain.

He hums noncommittally and sits down next to me. He offers me a cigarette. I'm out, so I take one and light it. They smell worse than they taste.

We sit there, smoking.

“So,” I say. “What’d you need me for?”

I feel like I should be more respectful, maybe. I'm speaking to the only law enforcement Fabletown has. But I'm tired - exhausted. I didn't sleep last night and slept very little the night before that.

“I thought you'd wanna know I found the knife,” the sheriff tells me. “It was in a trash can a few blocks away.”

“How'd you find it?” I ask, curious.

“I followed my nose.”

“Oh…”

We sit in silence for a moment. I think about asking how the sheriff found me, but I'm guessing the answer is the same.

Eventually, I finish my cigarette and flick the butt away.

“Come on,” says the sheriff with a sigh. “I'll walk you home.”

“Okay.”

-

I sleep for nearly twelve hours. When I finally drag myself out of bed, I do something I haven’t done once in my two years at The Hollow Stag: I call in sick.

Jordy sounds far more understanding than I expect. I guess word got to him about what happened the other night.

I spend the day cleaning up my room, then tidying the apartment at random. My mom, who's been out who knows where, brings home Chinese takeout, and we eat it in silence.

My fortune cookie reads ‘love will find you in an unexpected place’. I snort. As if.

“We need to talk,” my mother says when we're cleaning up.

“Alright,” I say.

“What happened yesterday? You can't do that. I didn't know where you were.”

“I'm a grown-up. I can go out if I want to,” I say.

“Someone got murdered, Abby, and you witnessed it. What if the killer decides he needs to get rid of you?”

I'm cleaning the table, but at her words, I pause and look up.

I hadn't thought about that.

“You need to be careful,” my mother insists. “I want you home, where I know you're safe, or at work. You can't wander off on your own right now.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” I promise.

“Good.”

I'm weirdly touched by my mom's worry. I'm not used to it from her. As I get ready for bed, I try to remember the last time my mom seemed worried about me, but other than the other day in sheriff Bigby's office, I can't really think of an example.

But then again, she usually doesn't have to worry. I'm pretty self-sufficient.

Which won't save me from being killed.

-

Over the next three weeks, I do as my mom said: I'm always at home or at work.

I try not to think about what happened, which proves surprisingly easy. I've always been good at pushing unpleasant things out of my mind. Instead, I read a lot and throw myself into work harder than ever. I've never made this much in tips before.

It's not so busy at the bar tonight. It's a Wednesday. Most of my regulars have work in the morning.

I'm using the peace and quiet to clean all the glasses. They tend to get weird stripes on them.

After the only person who's been around all night leaves, I'm thinking about calling Jordy to ask if I can close early. But then the sheriff walks in.

I sigh. Of course.

He walks over and sits down at the bar.

“What'll it be?” I ask. I sound annoyed, I realize, and force myself to smile. “Sheriff.”

He doesn't smile back. “Do you serve coffee?”

“It's one in the morning.”

He says nothing, and I sigh. “We don't serve it, but I have it. Give me a minute.”

I go into the back office to make two cups of instant coffee, then return with them. I set one down in front of him, black like the pits of the witching well. Lucky guess. He drinks it without complaint.

Once he takes his first sip, he sets down the coffee and then looks at me again. I've noticed he does that a lot. He just looks at you until you start talking.

I don't know if that works on everyone, but it sure works on me. “What do you need?”

“Someone else is dead.”

I feel a jolt go through my body, like I've been startled by a scary movie.

“Who?” I ask, breathless.

“Girl named Joan.” He tilts his head to the side. “Did you know her?”

“Can't say I did.”

He unpockets a picture and slides at me over the bar top. I take it.

The girl is pretty. She's got long red hair and the kind of smile men have thrown themselves on the sword for. She's got her arms around a guy with a strange birthmark on his forehead.

“Another redhead,” says the sheriff. “It's starting to be a pattern.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask.

“Because she was found in the park. On a park bench, to be precise. A few days after I found you right at that exact spot.”

I stare at him. I can't decide if he’s making an accusation or not. His words sound like he is, but his tone is almost apologetic, and he's looking me straight in the eyes.

“I don't think you did it," he says, an offering.

“You don't?” I ask in surprise, and look away. His gaze is so intense.

“No. At first, I did, but now… It seems too easy. I think someone really wants me to believe you’re the killer.”

“Who would want that?” I ask.

“Do you have any enemies?”

I laugh, shaking my head. When I realize he's not joking, I try to school my expression back to normal.

“No, I don't have any enemies.”

“What about back in the Homelands?”

“I've never been to the Homelands,” I remind him.

He winces. “Right. I forgot you're so young…” He thinks for a moment. “Does your mother have any enemies? Anyone who would try to get to her through you?”

“Try about a thousand,” I say. “Anyone she's ever screwed over, and add to that everyone who doesn't like witches in general. Oh, and I guess anyone who hates half-breeds could technically decide to frame me, too."

“So most of Fabletown, then,” the sheriff says. I'm surprised to see that the corner of his mouth is actually turned up.

“Just about.”

We sit in silence for another moment. The sheriff finishes his coffee.

“I'm gonna keep my eye on you,” he tells me. “Both to confirm you're not secretly killing redheads and to make sure that you aren't a target.”

“Okay.”

“Don't be surprised if you see me around.”

“I barely leave my apartment at this point,” I say. “But I'll keep that in mind.”

The sheriff nods.

“Want another coffee?” I ask.

He nods again.

A/n: the guy with the birthmark is a nod to the fairy tale The Devil and the Three Golden hairs.

[monsterswithimagines]

best believe when season 5 comes out i will write so much joe goldberg fic

[monsterswithimagines]

When does next Sailor Song pretty please?

I ignored this ask bc Idk probably on my next misfits rewatch

[monsterswithimagines]

wanted to write today but accidentally wasted my energy on taxes. Whoops.

[monsterswithimagines]

On the one hand it makes me super happy ppl are still excited for undisclosed desires after all this time but on the other JUST READ MY NEW FIC DAMNIT

[monsterswithimagines]

I love love looooove your POV writing! Do you have any personal headcanons for Bigby Wolf you’d want to share? The wait for season 2 is killing me lol.

Thank you so much! I hope you'll enjoy the entire story 😁 Chapter 3 is out!

The wait is killing me, too. I'm reading all the Fables comics to get through it, but they're honestly not as good as the game (and while I take some inspiration from them for my fic, only TWAU s1 should be seen as canon for AOSM to make sense).

As for headcanons... i only have a few tbat aren't about sex or pregnancy (look i was working on a pregnancy story i gave up on okay)

He may be The Big Bad Wolf, but his father was worse.

His eyes turn yellow when he feels very intense emotions. The emotions don't have to be negative.

He still growls when he's angry even when he's fully in human form.

He bites. Lovebites I mean. During sex but randomly too. He doesn't usually bite hard during everyday situations though.

He has no idea how to flirt.

He's always mildly dirty? Not gross, but never exactly clean. Stains on his shirt kind of stuff.

He automatically smokes less around the person he loves. He wants to be able to smell them better.

You know all those oppertunities you have to give people money in the game? I took them. I feel like he's pretty generous when he sees someone is struggling.

Also i don't care what you say, he killed the crooked man at the end. The crooked man was talking too smooth and bigby knew he would get the fables on his side if given a fair trial so he killed him. I will not play him any other way.

[monsterswithimagines]

AOSM - Chapter 3

Masterlist

TW: vomit.

Chapter three

I have oddly sharp memories from when I was a baby.

We lived in a different apartment then. The walls were a soft pastel yellow, and the living room rug was baby blue. There was a small balcony off the kitchen, where I took my first steps. I said my first word out there too: light.

Everything from when I was three until I turned fifteen is kind of vague.

That's not to say I don't have any memories of that time at all. Like I said, I remember the sheriff coming to our door when I was eight. I remember field trips and a few school friends. I remember being kicked out of the mundie school I was attending when I was twelve, though I don't remember what I did to warrant that.

It's all more like the knowledge of memories, though. Like a movie someone told you about, so you can describe it without ever having seen it.

I remember my dad leaving. I remember him walking out the door without looking back even once. I remember that very clearly.

I was four.

For all my early childhood memories, I don't remember his name. He was always ‘daddy’ to me. But I have a clear picture of what he looked like: a little taller than my mom, with blue eyes and black hair.

I got my eyes from him. Other than that, I'm the spitting image of my mother, who at three centuries old might as well be my twin sister at this point.

Only in looks, though. I absolutely did not get my personality from her.

She storms into the sheriff's office without knocking. The door slams against the wall, and she immediately smacks her hands against the desktop. Her curly red hair, so similar to mine, looks wilder and somehow more beautiful. It reminds me of a lion.

“Why the hell have you got my daughter in here?!” she screams in the sheriff's face.

He just looks back at her, unimpressed.

“She obviously didn't do anything,” my mother goes on. “She is a child!”

Normally I'd argue with that, but right now, I feel like it's probably in my best interest to keep quiet and pretend she's right. I've been in this office for hours, answering the same few questions - asked in different ways - over and over. No, I don't know where the knife went. Yes, I'm sure I saw it there. No, I didn't see who was running away. No, I did not make that up.

“Wicked,” the sheriff begins.

My mother cuts him off. “It's Ruby.”

“Ruby,” he says. “Right now, your daughter is my only witness to Rose Red's murder. What do you think Snow White will say if I let her leave without getting every possible detail?”

“You should have called me,” my mother snaps.

“She told me not to,” he answers, raising an eyebrow. “Which makes me wonder how you even knew she was here.”

My mother shoots me a we'll-talk-about-this-later look, and then glares at the sheriff again.

“Oh, it is all over town. Gossip spreads like wildfire, sheriff. Faster, even. You should know that.”

“I know it.”

“We're leaving,” my mother announces, turning to the door.

The sheriff doesn't disagree with her, but he's staring at me. A muscle twitches in his jaw. I stand and quickly follow after my mom. When I look back, his hands are clenched around the edges of the desk.

Mom says nothing as she stalks through the hallways of the Woodlands, so I stay quiet, too. Her hands are balled into fists at her sides.

Another way that we're different: when I look angry, nobody takes me seriously. When my mother looks angry, you better get the fuck out of her way.

She doesn't start talking until we're driving, too fast, back home.

“Next time,” she tells me, sounding eerily calm. “If you get arrested, you call me.”

“I don't think I was under arrest,” I murmur.

“Are you kidding?!” my mother explodes. “You were in the sheriff's office, Abby! You were alone with the Big Bad Wolf! That's as good as being arrested! Hell, that's as good as dead.”

I don't answer, because I don't agree. Sure, the sheriff asked me a whole lot of questions, none of which were pleasant, but he was cordial. He didn’t get angry. I didn't get the sense even once that he wanted to hurt me.

My mother scoffs, as if she can see my thoughts on my face.

“You don't know, Abigail. You don't know. People who do bad things die. And sometimes people who don't do bad things die, too, just because the sheriff thinks they did them. There's supposed to be fair trials in this town, but that beast rarely waits for them.”

I've heard stories like that before. Bigby Wolf doesn't have a particularly good reputation. I've never heard my mother say anything negative about him, though. Not one word. Until today.

We arrive back at the brownstone where we live. There's two apartments in it, one on the first floor, and one on the second. We live on the second floor. My mother stalks up the stairs ahead of me, but I stay behind to wave at the little girl peeking out of her front door downstairs. She smiles, then ducks back inside.

It's early morning. I decide to go to bed, but then I can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see the body again. The blood. The knife.

Where did that knife go? Did the murderer come back to take it while I went inside to call the sheriff? But then why even run off without it? They couldn't have known I was coming. The wind was so loud that I didn't even hear a murder taking place around the corner. My footsteps would not have been audible.

Unless the killer had advanced hearing, which still leaves about two-thirds of Fabletown.

I toss and turn. After about an hour, I give up and decide to take a shower.

It's Sunday, anyway. My day off. I don't need to get any sleep before my shift.

The hot water relaxes me a little. I stand beneath the spray for way too long before I start going through the motions of washing myself. When I finally get out, my pale skin has gone red.

Breakfast. I pour myself some cereal and sit at the kitchen table in my bathrobe, eating slowly. Then, I light a cigarette and sit there, smoking it to the filter. The apartment is too quiet. I think my mom must have left.

I'm all nervous energy. My foot taps, and my fingers drum against the table. The grandfather clock in the living room ticks, which pisses me the fuck off.

When I stand up, my chair screeches across the linoleum. I storm into my room and pull on the first clean clothes I can find. Then I pull on my beaten Reeboks - I don't want to wear my nicer shoes, which are still bloody - and leave.

It's cold out, and I didn't bring a jacket. I don't even know where it is. I must have left it at the sheriff's office. I keep warm by walking fast, though. I'm not sure where I'm going, just that I have to keep moving, or I'll go insane.

The knife the knife the knife.

I keep coming back to that damn knife. I saw it, clear as day. Clearer, I think, than anything else I saw last night. So where is it?

Blood on my hands blood on my shoes blood on my tongue-

I stop.

Wait. What?

I try to hold on to the sensation I just remembered, but it's long gone. Only the feeling of my stomach doing flips is left behind.

I dart into an alley to be sick, holding my own hair back. My vomit looks like badly chewed cereal and milk, but it tastes metallic.

Like blood.