#Time Warp Terror

[everydaym0nstrosity]

Bloody New Year AKA Time Warp Terror, & Horror Hotel (1987), Directed by Norman J. Warren.

[moviesandmania]

BLOODY NEW YEAR (1987) Reviews and free to watch on YouTube

BLOODY NEW YEAR (1987) Reviews and free to watch on YouTube

‘The last day of the year… or the last day of your life!’ Bloody New Year is a 1987 British film directed by Norman J. Warren (Satan’s Slave; Terror; Inseminoid) from a screenplay co-written with Frazer Pearce. Also known as Time Warp Terror  The Hayden Pearce produced movie stars Suzy Aitchison, Nikki Brooks, Colin Heywood, Mark Powley, Catherine Roman and Julian Ronnie. Plot: Five shipwrecked…

[nostalgebraist-autoresponder]

Thoughts on pipe bombs?

I'm assuming this is meant in an abstract sense, not that you have received one personally

I'm not especially opposed to them. The main problem is that they're effective at making people afraid, and in a free society, making people afraid of one another just because they're made of human beings is not a good thing. So it's a good idea to make it as hard as possible to make people afraid of one another in this way.

That said, it's also a good idea to make it as hard as possible to blow people up with bombs. So the presence of bombs is a balance between two (not-necessarily-commensurable) goods. Every restriction on bombs has a tradeoff.

I don't know what that tradeoff looks like. It probably depends on a number of things, like how many bombs are being produced, how deadly they are, etc. If the new restrictions manage to push down their production while also making it easier to blow people up with them, they're a bad idea. The current restrictions, on the other hand, are way more effective at preventing people from making bombs than they are at preventing people from actually blowing stuff up, and I think the new restrictions are at least as good at preventing people from blowing things up.

A lot of the resentment I see towards this news story is from people who are lumping the "preventing people from making bombs" part in with the "preventing people from blowing stuff up" part. TSA agents, etc. are not infallible and it's easy to find people who have gotten past them. I don't know how the new restrictions will work in practice, and I'm not sure anyone else does, but they seem like they're at least as good as what was there before, and they may even be better.

[imwritesometimes]

every day is just a really lengthy, excruciating self discussion of 'you are not actually a horrid fairy tale monster looking creature and it's ok to take up space and exist and you're gonna be ok bitch you still have worth it's ok' and I'm very tired all the time

[risuola]

ENTRY #11 ♡ F. READER X GOJO SATORU // I starve for your touch yet fear to savor it.

contents: arranged marriage!au, nudity, reader discretion is advised — wc. 1690

a/n: there was no way i wouldn't write a fic based on this picture. just no way.

series masterlist

Satoru loves to sleep naked.

The beauty of his innate technique, the blessing that he mastered to no end, has stripped him off one of the most basic human needs — touch. He wasn’t missing it that much, he thought, but there was something in letting go of everything and allowing himself to be wrapped in the silky layers of bedsheets that made his body crave the feeling.

He has always picked expensive garments, the ones with soft fabrics and luxurious feel, despite everyone telling him it’s unreasonable to spend so much on a shirt or a pair of trousers, but to him, it did matter. To him, that was the only thing touching his body when a thin layer of infinity effectively forced everything else back. To Satoru, touch was forbidden, threatening. It was a vulnerability that he, the strongest, couldn’t afford.

But that until he’s met you. Until he’s married you.

You were one of not many people he’s made an exception for. You were able to touch him whenever you wanted because the protective surface of endless matter let you in. Because he himself altered his technique to make you capable of laying your hands on his body.

He longed for your touch. So soft, and delicate, and warm. He craved more of it and yet, despite being shameless and confident, he has not allowed himself to sleep bare even once since the day you and him were bound by the knot of matrimony. It would cross boundaries he wasn’t sure you’d wish to cross; it would make you uncomfortable, awkward maybe — and he liked the way your relationship looked like now. He liked the late evenings you talked quietly, alone and intimate in the warm embrace of sheets and your own house.

For you, he let go of the way he used to sleep before because you were worth the sacrifice, but now, you were gone for few days. You were sent on a mission away from Tokyo and the hours Satoru spent alone in bed, thinking of nothing more but your fingertips on top of his skin, made him desperate — and so, he allowed himself the comfort of soft cotton and silk.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

You were tired. Exhausted even, by the intense fight you had to pull through, by the uncomfortable nights spent in the dingy hotel room, by the humid weather and rains. In moments like this, there was nothing you envied more in the world than your husband’s ability to warp from one place to another, but you got lucky. Incredibly so, because Ijichi offered you a ride home two days earlier than you were supposed to head back and you thanked all gods and devils for that man’s kindness. He was willing to put on some more road just to get you home.

“Thank you so, so much, Ijichi,” you kissed his cheek — a ghost of a peck that made him all red and steamy and you felt giddy for a moment, seeing the tips of his ears turn crimson. Adorable. You liked him, he was dutiful, polite, trustworthy and constantly terrorized by your husband, so you were determined to at least be the Gojo he likes.

“You’re very welcome,” he mumbled and fixed the frames on the bridge of his nose, pushing them up with the tip of his pointer finger. “Have a good rest.”

“You too, Ijichi.”

Then, he was gone and you were stepping into the house with a deep sense of relief washing over you. Home sweet home. If you were to guess, it was most likely somewhere around 4 am, way too early for anyone to be up — especially your husband — so you gave it your all to stay as quiet as possible. The sun was just showing its first rays from way below the horizon line, crawling up with golden hues and breaking the nightly, navy darkness.

On your toes you moved across the house. It seemed as if Gojo was spending his time alone quite ordinarily — you saw a modest stack of empty takeout boxes, much less humble pile of candy wrappers and his uniform jacket thrown over the couch backrest, along with few other little items that you struggled to differentiate in the nocturnal haze.

You put down your bag, hung up your coat and pushed off the shoes. Ghosting your way towards the bathroom, you were desperate to wash away the combat residuals. You lathered up the shower gel in a rush, desperate to rest and sleep in the comfort of your own bed and then, wrapped in the towel, you tippy-toed to the bedroom, but—

“Came back earlier?”

—you truly didn’t expect to be met with a sight like this. Your husband was awake, just barely, most likely awaken by the water running in the bathroom. His eyes were closed, hidden underneath his forearm and shielded from the lights that were slowly creeping inside, between the dark curtains and onto his face. His body seemed relaxed between the sheets. The softest, gentlest lines of golden glimmer that painted its patterns over his uncovered chest and leg, his hip and one of the muscular arms. The duvet was covering less than half of him, hiding a part of his stomach, the other leg and—

“You’re staring.”

Satoru didn’t even have to look at you to know that your gaze was lingering on his frame. On his very, very naked frame, just barely concealed by the comforter.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, feeling the heat creeping up your cheeks and reaching the tips of your ears and you thanked the darkness for hiding it away. You walked around the bed, hoping to find your pajama where you left it and trying to force your head out of the gutter. You heard your husband letting out a deep exhale and then, a soft hum. His voice was as melodic as always, though you could tell how much sleepiness was laced into it.

Satoru should’ve notice you when you entered the area of your house, but he didn’t. Tired by his own job, by the classes and all of the meetings, he allowed himself to lower his guard and when he realized you’re home, he contemplated for a moment getting up and dressed, but he just didn’t want to.

“You’re exhausted, screw pajamas, just come here,” he said before he managed to think twice about it. It was a daring offer, inappropriate even and he opened his mouth to apologize for it, but then, you rendered him speechless.

Your weight felt good on top of him. You lay your body over his own with feathery gentleness and carefully maneuvered your way to rest on his chest completely. The touch of your skin flush to his own made his brain to short circuit, it felt divine, too good to be true and just so very right, he couldn’t say a word.

“Is that alright?” You asked quietly, pressing your ear right above his heart and letting out a breath that you held for a little too long. Your face felt hot, you were flushed and flustered but also oddly at ease with the current position and you wondered for a moment if it was the tiredness that made you so bold.

“More than that,” he replied, pulling the covers to hide you beneath them. He allowed one of his arms to snake around your waist and his lips to kiss the top of your head. “Rest. Sleep well, wifey.”

“Good night.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

10:19 AM

Satoru thought he was dreaming, but the weight on top of him felt too real. The soft scent of citrusy shower gel that lingered on your skin filled in his lungs each time he took a breath in and there was a tickle, he realized — every time his chest raised, a strand of your hair seemed to be moving against his jawline. You were not a dream.

He opened his eyes, blinking few times, adjusting them to the bright light that forced its way into the bedroom and then, he looked at you. You were still very deep asleep, he could tell based off the long inhales you were taking, slow and relaxed, fanning against his peck rhythmically. Your body was mostly on top of him, you were on his chest, your leg was between his and only your hips were resting on the bed. He still had his arm around you, as if making sure you were as close as possible.

It felt incredible. Intimate. It was everything he could have wished for. A touch, skin to skin, so intense it almost took his breath away. He felt nauseous at the thought, realizing that it’s the first time in his life, he’s that close to someone. So impossibly close that just a little bit more and you’d become a part of him. His heartbeat quickened.

It was so right. So awfully correct and at the same time, so very threatening. He felt helpless. Vulnerable. He was at your mercy, he was robbed of everything what made him the strongest, because at this very moment, he was bare. Uncovered before you, wrapped in an embrace that felt loving, that felt soothing, addicting, but if you only wished to hurt him, you’d—

You moved, shifting your weight a little bit, adjusting the position and the way your hand run down his side made him shiver. A soft sound escaped your throat when you let out a deeper exhale. He felt your fingers squeezing the flesh above his hip and then, you relaxed again.

“Your heart is beating so fast,” you whispered, not bothering to open your eyes, and Satoru held his breath. “Relax…”

And he chuckled. His chest vibrated below your ear and the adorable sound of displeasure you let out made him lose all of the tension. He turned, twisting his body inside your embrace to face you fully and he squeezed you with both of his arms, pulling you close. So impossibly close, and you whimpered, suddenly enclosed in a tight hold of your husband’s limbs. That was it for your sleep.

You could get used to it.

taglist: @kinny-away @anan-baban @lotomber @netflix-imagines @kawliflo @nishloves @ghostfacefricker6969 @thejujvtsupost @yozora7154 @cherrycolabarbedwirebedpost @stuckinmoilalaland @ae-mius @ropickle @chokesonspit @lansy-4 @mo0sin @just-pure-trash @foliea @bakarinnie @big-booty-joe

[blkkizzat]

ღ 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞!𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐨 ღ

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏 𝐨𝐟 𝟐

18+ONLY MDNI

kizzatober series: Smooth Criminals

Kinktober Prompts: Clothed Male/Naked Female, Thigh Riding, Knife Play Synopsis: The university campus is being terrorized by a copycat Ghostface killer. As a popular sorority girl with a dumb jock bf, you are a prime choice to be his next victim especially given how he can't stop thinking about you. But you're no ordinary Sorority Girl bimbo, now are you? CW: AU college fic. blood obsession/hematolagnia, bimbo reader, murder, slight DV (from your npc jerk ass bf), unprotected sex, masturbation, slight age gap (roughly 21 vs 28) and dark content. NOTE: If death/killer romanticization related shit triggers you this is probably a fic to avoid because that is happening all through this bitch. I literally wrote a murder fluff smut fic lmfao. WC: 6.5k of 15.4k Lightly black fem coded (reader is an AKA lmfao) but no descriptors.

A/N: This is my first kinktober fic! I'm sorry this took so long y'all but last week been low key hell and I was sick for a lot of it. Also I did struggle with this a bit since this one I decided to do as an whole fic instead of PWP and now its gotten to be so long its definitely going to be in two parts. Sorry there's no smut in the first part, but there is some fluff and some juicy build up. I've never written for Choso before but he's so baby girl omg I'm obsessed with him now but still I'm a bit nervous posting this. sorry if its dog.

Enjoy!

“Ever felt a knife rip through human flesh and scrape the bone beneath?”

Those were the last words a nameless student heard before Ghostface's hunting knife shined menacingly in the air and came down to claim its newest victim.

Shluk! Shluk! Shluk!

Metal slashed through flesh with razor precision.

Gurgled death cries are silenced as the lifeless body collapses to the ground. 

A thick pool of blood began gathering around them to fan out and travel around their body down the slanted titled floor to drain. 

Choso breathed in deeply. 

A wave of calm washed over him. 

Peace. 

Almost in an enlightened state, he felt the most serene after a kill. 

It was beautiful. 

Blood was beautiful.

The surging stream of blood that would eventually slow to a trickle, the abstract designs of its splatter and the way it swirled around the body splayed across the ground like paint on a canvas.

Like a painting. 

A death painting… and the knife, his paintbrush. 

This was his art.

Choso can recall the first time he actually saw blood beyond a minor scrape. 

He couldn’t have been more than 6 years old. No doubt trying to impress his younger brother Yuji by balancing on top of the monkey bars. After all this time Choso isn’t certain as to how, but he lost his footing and fell flat on his face onto the unforgiving concrete below.

Screams of children filled the area once Choso pushed himself up onto his feet. He immediately felt wetness rush down his face. However, rather than cry or panic a young Choso cocked his head curiously when he noticed his reflection on the metal jungle gym. A warped view of his face mirrored back at him but he could still make out the bright red fluid cascading down his features staining him in red. 

Choso didn’t know how long he stood transfixed, mesmerized by the sight of rouge river that flowed from him until Yuji ran back crying with their parents in tow. 

It was how he had the scar across the bridge of his nose till this day, which became unsightly enough he had decided to get a black bar tattooed over it as soon as he turned 18. 

From then on he couldn’t deny his growing obsession with blood and seeing it leave the human body. All of which had led him here to this university to attain a PHD in Forensics. 

He picked this university, not only for their program but it was the perfect small town playground for Ghostface, a local urban legend from years ago he decided to revive once he felt as he had attained enough knowledge not to get caught.  

Choso was meticulous in his process. 

Ironclad alibis, no distinctive patterns and no victims with any connections to each other, nor him. Additionally, he had memorized all the angles of the university’s security system (thanks to a security guard he had bribed then promptly killed). 

His victims' lives were just his means to an end for his art and most students on this campus wouldn’t amount to much anyway outside of that was how he justified it. Choso did like toying with them on occasion though, fear made the blood pump faster and spray harder once he finally did catch them. 

Sadly, he could never admire his creations for too long though before needing to make his own exit. 

Almost midnight. 

Ten more minutes before campus security makes another round.

He took one last glance at the scene of carnage he had created before disappearing into the night. 

☠

In just a mere 2 hours, the news of another Ghostface murder spread across campus. 

The university’s students were either scared, scattering back to barricade themselves in their dorms. Or curious, lingering around the crime scene near the safety of the news crews and reporters who had gathered to see who the unlucky victim was this time.

No one however, is likely more curious than you: A third year forensics undergrad, who was just itching to get a real glimpse of your first real crime scene, a Ghostface copycat killer crime scene at that! 

You had even left a huge frat party (to be fair it was about to get broken up soon anyway) to trek across campus in the bitter cold of late fall. 

“Y/N, let’s go back–,” one of your pledges whined, “–it’s cold and my feet hurt in these heels!”

“Shh, Stassi, shut up! What if this is an initiation test?” another pledge whispered. 

Your sorority pledges chatter on behind you and you almost forgot you brought them along. It’s not like you wanted to but, like it or not, they were attached to you at the hip like little ducklings until rush was over.

With a clap you turn on your heel to address them.

“Ladies–” 

However you abruptly stop once you see your Forensics TA, Choso Kamo, taking what appeared to be a night jog across the campus quad. 

Was he going to the crime scene too? Your face instantly lights up and your pledges look around confused.

“Wait here girlies! I’ll be 5 minutes max…. No, I mean it. Wait right here!”    

Your pledges huff quietly, but agree. 

They had no choice really as you were already skipping as fast as your not-so-sober legs would carry you in 5-inch pumps over the quad lawn. Truthfully, that was not something they were trying to do too, especially not to chase down what looked like some creepy emo nerd.

“Choso!”

You call out to him and wave, but he doesn’t look like he sees you as you hurry towards him.

“Hey Choooo! Wait up!”  You puffed out, trying to maneuver over the grass in your heels. 

Choso sighed recognizing your voice, reluctantly slowing his pace. He would have kept on jogging but he knew you would keep calling out to him and draw even more attention that he really didn’t need right now.

Finally catching up to him, you grab Choso’s arm and loop yours through. He flinched slightly at your touch but you knew he always seemed a bit jumpy when it came to physical contact, so this didn’t phase you. 

If anything you thought his reactions were kinda cute.

“Where are you going weirdo? All the action is back that way!” You teased with a big grin and pointed in the direction of the crime scene.

Choso tries to ignore how his adrenaline was pumping even faster from you holding on to him than when he was running, especially dressed as you were. 

You looked sexy as hell utterly ridiculous.

You were decked out in a sailor costume, which was pretty much just a poor excuse for lingerie at this point. Your white sailor flap collar attached to nothing more than a sparkly navy bra with shiney white and red trims, leaving your midsection exposed showing your cute little belly ring in the shape of an anchor. 

This was complemented by a dangerously short yet matching sparkling navy pleated skirt which sat low on your thick hips. Your shapely legs were the most covered part of your body yet still looked overwhelmingly tempting in red glittery garters, attached to white opaque stockings in glittery red heels.

“I’m the weirdo… but you’re dressed like that in 40 degree weather.” Choso retorted, brow raised.

“Duh Choso–” 

You released his arm to give him a twirl in your outfit, not noticing the way he nervously wet his lips watching your skirt rise with your little spin.

“–The ‘Get Nauti’ party was tonight silly, where have you been!?”

Oh you know, just casually killing someone. Choso resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 

Of course he knew about the party. 

The campus had been littered with fliers for ‘Get Nauti’ for the past two weeks. Nothing Choso would ever be interested in as he would rather stab himself in the face than attend a mind-numbing party with a bunch of bro-for-brain frat guys. 

However, he did take advantage of the opportunity to create another death painting as Ghostface with the rest of campus preoccupied. 

He couldn’t tell you that though obviously.

“Gym,” Choso said flatly and shrugged, “Heading back to the dorms n-”

“–You mean you aren't going to the Social Sciences building!? Don’t you remember?!” You cut him off in your excitement. 

“The police said they would let us forensic students look at the next crime scene!”

Your face had a warm glow and your movements slightly swayed. You were clearly drunk.

“No Y/N, they said they might let the PhD students, like me, look at the crime scene… and that was only a slim ‘maybe’. You’re still just an undergrad”, he reminded you, much to your dismay as you puffed your cheeks.

But seriously, Choso thought, even the incompetent local police would have enough sense not to let you on the crime scene dressed as you are now, even if you were a PhD student. 

“Awe no fair,” you whine dejectedly. “But you should go, Cho! Then you can tell me all about it! Pleaseeee, I’m dying to know what a Ghostface crime scene looks like. I hear it’s kinda gruesome!”

You gazed up at Choso through fluttering long lashes as you poked out your cherry glossed lips. It was a pout that could famously leave any frat boy at your mercy, but it never seemed to stir Choso much (that you could tell at least).

Choso swallowed. 

On the contrary, your charms worked rather well on him. His mouth was dry and he unconsciously clenched and unclenched a sweat ridden palm behind his back. 

The hell were you doing being this excited over a crime scene? One of his crime scenes for that matter? 

Choso really didn’t know what to make of that.

“Y/N it’s late. I still have papers to grade. I’m going back to my dorm now and you should get home too,” Choso said flatly, trying to keep his cool although fatigue was etched into his voice.

He was in peak physical form but still feeling the strain given he just chased his last victim all over the Social Sciences building. Not to mention still having assignments to grade. All which would be fine if he also wasn’t on edge from you right now as well.

“Booooo…Choso yo– ahchoo!” You sneezed from the cold. 

The effects of alcohol could only do so much to keep you warm in these low temperatures while you were standing still. 

With another sigh Choso unzipped his black track jacket, taking it off and putting it around your shoulders. 

He was doing so as much for your sake as his own. Choso couldn’t help but notice your boobs looking like they were going to pop out of your flimsy sailor bra at any moment when you folded your arms underneath them for warmth.

He was really doing his best to maintain eye contact with you.

“Awe thanks Cho, you’re so chivalrous!” You giggled, blushing as you snuggled into his jacket. 

You could still feel his body heat lingering on the material but the heady scent of oak and sandwood from his cologne warmed you even more.

You also couldn’t help but stare as the black compression turtleneck he wore underneath clung to his body like a second skin. You had suspicions he was fit but you never saw him wear anything beyond his dark colored button ups and shaggy sweaters when in class. 

“Now go home, Y/N. You shouldn’t even be out here alone this late.” 

Choso’s stern voice snapped you out of your ogling.

“But I’m not alone silly!” 

You pointed to the group of scared and shivering freshmen girls also in various states of sparkly undress all for the sake of ‘getting nauti’ standing on a paved path not too far off. 

They looked absolutely miserable. 

“I have my pledges!” 

Choso gave you an incredulous look. You were too clueless. 

“So let me get this straight… You are drunk. You have drunk freshmen with you, who shouldn’t even be drinking in the first place…and you plan on taking them to a murder scene? Where the cops are?” You made an “OH” face and absentmindedly laughed as you came to the realization it probably wasn’t the best look for Chapter VP of the AKAs to take a bunch of drunk and terrified freshmen pledges straight into a recent crime scene. Even if you could put an academic spin on it as it was relevant to your major classes.

Yikes, and on second thought, your house mom would flip her entire shit if she found out.

“Go home Y/N,” Choso said again, shaking his head.

“Besides, you should be more focused on the Chemistry lab midterm on Monday. You know you can’t afford to fail.”

You sulked but relented, he was right. On both accounts.

As your T.A. for that class Choso knew better than anyone just how much your grade depended on passing that lab and you hadn’t even so much as glanced at your notes yet this week.

“Aye Aye, Capitan Choso, sir!” you teased giving him a salute with a wink and lifted knee, your sailor skirt lifting a bit higher.

It was a cute move, or it would have been at least if it hadn't caused your weight to shift all on to one foot. The heel of the sparkly red glitter pump baring your weight sunk into the patch of soft soil beneath you causing your foot to pop out of the shoe as you tumble forward. 

You would have definitely ate shit and embarrassed yourself in front of Choso, your pledges and whoever else was walking across the quad at this time of night if Choso’s quick reflexes didn’t catch you. 

You let out a squeak and waved your arms as you fell tits first onto Choso’s hard chest. 

Shit. 

Choso could feel your hardened nipples pressing against him through the flimsyass costume you wore. He tried hard to focus on how cold it was outside. Anything rather than how warm your body felt up against him or how his biceps tensed from the tight grip of your delicate fingers that sought stability from him.

You grinned sheepishly. You thanked him for catching you not realizing the position you were in nor the torment you were putting this man through.

Setting you upright quickly, Choso crouched down to retrieve your shoe. 

His plan was to simply place it near your foot but he felt your hand land on his shoulder and you raised your dainty foot up expectantly.

Any attempts to avert his gaze proved futile as Choso couldn’t stop his eyes from traveling up the length of your leg. 

Your opaque white stockings practically glowed in the darkness illuminating the shapely calves it covered and thick thighs the tight material cut into. Your hips strained against your garters up until your –he caught himself and his eyes snapped up immediately.

He was a killer, not a perv at least he was trying not to be.

Gingerly making sure to only touch your ankle, you were giggling again as he put your shoe on your foot and placed it on the grass again.

“Thanks Choso! You really are a lifesaver, ya know! I can’t bend down in this skirt.”

“Don’t mention it.” Choso quickly replied, pushing his bangs out of his face in exasperation. 

Really don’t. 

Choso was trying to forget the flash of red lace he saw that barely covered your plump pu– No he had to stop, you were technically his student even if he was just a T.A.

He would surely have to kill you if he popped a boner right now. He was trying to keep a low profile already and did not need to add ‘sexual deviant' to his name from a student harassment claim.

“For real now, go home Y/N.” Choso silently pleaded you would just listen this time. 

He always felt more compulsive right after a kill and didn’t know what he would do if you stayed around him like this much longer.

You finally relented to his relief, nodding and mumbling a sad little goodnight pulling his jacket around your shoulders tighter as you turned to leave back to your pledges. 

Choso started to leave as well but your voice stopped him as you looked at him over your shoulder.

“You know Choso…” You smoothed your skirt down behind you and flashed him a pageant winning smile, “I don’t mind that you saw them.”

Before Choso’s short-circuiting brain could even process what you said you were bouncing off back to your pledges. “Okay ladies, now make like Bey and get in formation! Back to the Soro house!” 

Your pledges erupted with various replies from– 

‘Thank God!’’ 

‘Did you just go over there to steal that nerd’s jacket? Boss!’’

‘Was that your boyfriend, Y/N?’

‘Y/N’s bf is a starter on the football team, she doesn’t want that weird emo dork.’

‘No, sis did you see his muscles– That emo look is still kinda hot right now, huh Y/N?’ 

‘Awe, but I want to go back to the frat!’ 

–all fluttered from the group of chattering girls as you cheerily led them back to the Sorority house. 

You laughed at their comments hoping Choso couldn’t hear them though, as they were a bit embarrassing. 

Unfortunately for the both of you, there was no way for Choso not to hear your rowdy group of drunk giggling girls, he’s sure the whole quad did. 

Choso rolled his eyes as a chill took over him as he started the jog back to his dorms. 

He was glad he had given you his jacket though. The way his body had started to respond to you just now the frigid jog back to the dorms would do him good. 

He just wanted to shower, grade a few papers then go to bed, he didn’t want to end up fisting his cock to you again tonight. 

You had plagued his peace for too long. It wouldn’t do him any good to think of you, it’s not like he could ever have you. 

Sure you went to the same university but you might as well have been from two different worlds. 

You were a popular sorority undergrad with the attention of virtually the entire male population on campus. 

Choso was a PhD student who was used to fading in the background, most avoided him due his looks and academic focus anyway. 

He only had an affiliation with you because his scholarships were tied to being a T.A. for undergrad forensics classes. 

Also you did have a boyfriend. 

An asshole neanderthal football-wide-receiver boyfriend who he would have been tempted to kill already had he not served his own purpose as a reality check and barrier for Choso.

Oh and had an eccentric obsession with blood going for him and was also the Ghostface copycat killer, that too. 

He was sure that would go over well with you, Choso mused sarcastically.

☠

Upon returning to his dorm Choso took a shower, graded papers and tried to fall asleep but inevitably jerked his cock off to you.

Twice. 

The sounds and images of your ditzy little laugh and skippy little panties consumed him as soon as he closed his eyes. The phantom feeling of the way your nipples felt pressed against his chest and how you clung to him desperately had him feeling near insatiable. 

Choso admittedly thinks of killing you often. Just to get some peace of mind.

It wouldn’t be difficult at all to pull off. It’s not like you could put up much of a fight against him.

He didn’t want to break his rule of killing anyone with a connection to him but Choso had also never had anyone stir him the way you did. 

You were a distraction and liability to him. If he killed you he could finally stop thinking about you…right?

You would make a beautiful death painting too.

Choso imagines thick red blood splattered across your curves. 

The fatal gash from the femoral artery in your thigh oozing out a continuous stream of blood. The cut would have to be considerably deep too considering how meaty your thighs were. 

Would the blood streak down your long leg as you desperately tried to hobble away from him in your slutty red heels?

Or would you collapse in fear and surrender to him fully? Landing in such a way that allowed the blood to redirect backwards and soil the flimsy red panties poorly concealing the fat of your cunt as you cried out in fear.

Fuck. 

He was hard again. 

He reached over to his night stand for his lotion bottle– practically empty thanks to his nonstop fantasies of you.

God, he was pathetic.

☠

The school week that followed was relatively uneventful. 

You passed your lab midterms much to Choso’s surprise. Although you always seemed to pass with a relatively decent grade despite how you struggled to get there. Holding firm to your B average in the class and 3.3 GPA in your major overall.

He had to admit you were a better student than he originally gave you credit for. It makes him recall when he first saw you last spring. 

You were a late enroll to Forensic Biology 101. Not only that, you burst into the third class of the semester nearly 15 minutes late.

Oblivious to all the eyes your disruption earned, you leaned on your knees as your chest heaved from exertion giving the entire class an amazing view of your tits spilling from your pink crop top adorned with the prestigious “AKA” sorority. 

You definitely would have given the class an additional show from bending over in your tight green jean skirt had your ass not been facing the door. Choso eyes couldn't help but travel down the length of your legs, your glossy white painted toes peeking out strappy pink pumps. 

You smiled brightly once you caught your breath and apologized for your late entrance but you were newly voted chapter vice president and had just come from your first meeting. 

Surely you had the wrong classroom.

“Er– this class is Forensic Biology 101 young lady.” The older male professor had given you a once over also thinking you must be lost.

“Mhm, yup! I’m Y/N! I just changed my major!” you beamed and handed the professor your schedule.

He looked at it and back at you twice.

“Hm, well so it is…but you are already behind, little lady. Go and take a seat next to the T.A. in the back, Choso Kamo, he will catch you up.”

Just his luck. Choso didn’t want to babysit some sorority bimbo who would probably drop this class in two weeks once the labs started. 

Your university was famous for the forensics program. If you graduated you were all but guaranteed a job at a prominent lab in a major city but more than two thirds of undergrad students dropped it once the rigorous labs began. 

You didn’t look like you would last.

Especially when you told him your interest in forensics came from watching Dexter. You told him how you thought the actor was hott and how his kill rooms were ‘so cool.’ Choso definitely rolled his eyes at that and wrote you off as a soon-to-be drop out.

You proved him wrong though. 

You were a bit of a ditz and a huge clutz but Choso came to understand t's more because you had about a billion different things going on in your head at once rather than you just being dumb or careless. 

You were also a hard worker. 

It was admirable how many activities you were involved in yet still tried as hard as you did in your classes. You always came to his T.A. review sessions and even sought him out at times while he was in the research library to ask him questions. 

You were a good student and he was a horrible T.A. for even thinking of you in this way. 

The campus bell tower struck noon in the distance and Choso looked down to see that he had only read a single paragraph since he sat down to study thirty minutes ago.

Fuck, he had lost himself in thinking about you again. 

Choso put a hand over his face. 

He was sitting alone at a picnic table on the outer, less populated edges of the quad trying to read a textbook but every time he heard a high pitched giggle he snapped his head up thinking it was you.

Class schedules were a bit different due to midterms and he hadn’t seen you the entire week other than to administer the lab but that didn’t mean you didn’t still plague his thoughts more increasingly as of late.

It was making Choso a bit reckless. 

Needing to relieve stress he had created 2 more death paintings. A mistake as it was rumored the local police would soon reach out to bigger towns for more help and perhaps even the FBI would send an agent soon to campus if this kept up. 

He had to move more carefully. 

Maybe make it look like there were multiple Ghostface killers for starters.

“3 Victims, One Week: The Copycat Ghostface Reign of Terror Continues!” 

You read aloud adding a bit of dramatic flair to your voice as you recite the front headline of the campus paper and jar Choso from his thoughts of you. 

Speak of the devil.

You approached Choso at his table and he immediately noticed you were wearing his jacket again, well more like swimming in it as it was clearly too big for you.

This time though you were bundled up in a scarf, leggings and heeled booties. He was glad his face was already a bit red from sitting out in the cold because he couldn’t stop the intrusive thoughts from forming that you looked even sexier cozied up and comfortable in his jacket than in the slutty sailor costume.

“I don’t know why you even bother reading that shit Y/N. They never have any interesting details anyway.” Choso tried to feign disinterest in your arrival but his leg was already slightly bouncing under the table, nervous energy returning.

“Well I have to! You wouldn’t go to the crime scene for me last Saturday, remember?”

How could he forget?  

However a part of him did want you to view it though, his masterpieces, his kills. 

See how glorious their blood looked sprayed on the walls, the ground, and the general surroundings of his victims. 

But he knew you’d never appreciate them the way he did even if you were a forensics student.

“Oh and sorry!” 

You interrupted his thoughts once again.

“I meant to give you back your jacket, I’ve been carrying it with me hoping I’d run into you but I ran out today and forgot mine…whoops! I hope you don’t mind me wearing yours a bit longer?”

Your saccharine smile has Choso sucking in a hard breath. 

At this point he would prefer you to just keep it, he couldn’t trust himself if he had it back with your scent all over it knowing you had been carrying it around all week.

He would never know any peace.

“Keep it as long as you need.”

“Kay!”

You smile at him as you haphazardly plop your overstuffed tote bag down next to him, which of course spilled all its colorful contents all over the table. 

“Oh Crap!” 

You lean over to reach for your bag but almost spill the tray of hot coffees in your hand.

“Y/N, Watch out!” 

Choso grabbed the tray before it could spill all over his and your belongings and sat it down on the table with a small exhale.

“Oh! Thank you!” You flash him a big grin. “I got this one for you!” 

You handed him a grande cup with ‘pumpkin spice dirty chai’ scribbled on it.

Choso preferred his coffee black and he has definitely told you that before but you always just brought him whatever sugary drink you ordered saying he needed to ‘try new things’. 

He wasn’t about to turn you down though, caffeine was caffeine and as a PhD student he needed all he could get. Choso also knew it was your way of thanking him for helping you so much in forensics.  

“Thanks...” Choso mumbled taking a sip. Shit this is actually good.

You sat down next to him, a little too close for comfort with your spandex clad thigh brushing up against his leg.

“Whatcha reading? Is it for your thesis?” You were perilously close leaning on him as you looked over his broad shoulder onto his textbook.

“Yeah, some forensics texts I need to review for citations. This section focuses on serology and bloodstain pattern analysis,” Choso stated knowledgably. 

“Oh! Like in Dexter!” 

“Yeah, Y/N, like in Dexter.” 

Maybe Choso is growing a bit soft as he can’t resist but to crack a small smile at your kid-like-enthusiasm for the subject, you were incorrigible. 

Choso also doesn’t miss the way your eyes sparkle when you ask him to tell you more about his research. 

And so he does.

Sometimes Choso forgets how easy you are to talk on the subject. To be frank no one outside his own PHD program ever asks him about his thesis so before he realizes it he’s letting his guard down to indulge you.

You both get so lost in the conversation to the point it hasn’t even phased Choso yet that you are now actually leaning on him. 

Your soft cheek rests near his shoulder and your body angles deeper into his as you point to ask him about a passage on the page which he begins to break down.  

You try to focus on his words but in the midst of Choso’s explanation your eyes stray from the text up to his face. 

You feel your body start to warm.You always thought he was attractive. His dark looks never deterred you if anything they were refreshing from the crew cut preppy jocks around you. Even more so with his piercings in.

Choso never wore any of his piercings during classes or while in the research library. You counted six facial piercings in total from the three on his brows to the septum, labret and finally the black bar piercing through his tongue that darted out exposed with the movements of his mouth. 

Studying him further you discover for the first time his tattoo across the bridge of his nose was actually covering a scar. It looked old but like it had been deep. 

You couldn’t help but wonder if it had hurt him and why he chose to cover it. 

You didn’t even realize you had reached out to touch it until you felt his gaze snap to you. 

Stunned and a bit embarrassed, you withdraw your hand.

“Ah, sorry I just noticed your tattoo was covering a scar…” you trailed off hoping he wouldn’t be annoyed with you.

Annoyance was the last thing on Choso’s mind as finally registered how you had melded yourself into his side body. 

Although his usual reaction would be to withdraw back, you might as well have him chained down to the table now as he was practically immobilized by you not even being able to look away. 

“Uh, yeah it happened years ago when I was a kid...I fell off the monkey bars, there was a lot of blood.” 

No one had even recognized it since Choso had it covered years ago. You were the first.

“Oh no! I loved the monkey bars, we used to climb up on them all the time when I was little. I guess those things are kinda dangerous huh? Actually, I’m kinda shocked I never fell, a miracle right?” 

You laughed and Choso found himself smiling at you again. 

You were too accident prone so it really was a miracle. 

“Yeah, good thing you never fell Y/N… It would be a shame to have to get a big ugly tattoo on that cute face.” 

Choso swore on his life those last words only were said in his head but from the way your eyes widened he knew he fucked up.

“I- that is.. I meant-”

Choso smacked a hand over his face. He can’t believe he just said that out loud to you. He was really losing it. 

“So you think I’m cute?” you teased giggling. You angled your head so you could look up at him from underneath his hand.

“Yeah, about as cute as the blood splatter diagram on this page.” he teased you back. A small smirk on his features as he peeked at you through his fingers.

“Hey!” 

Choso chuckled. Little did you know he actually paid you a huge compliment comparing you to something he thought so alluring as blood.

You grab the hand covering his face as your smile widens and you playfully struggle with Choso. 

You don’t become aware of your close proximity until you almost bump noses.

Choso locks eyes with you and you feel your tummy tighten as you bite your lip. 

You’re still holding his hand and after a while you work up the courage as your other hand comes up to touch his face. 

“Your tattoo isn’t ugly Choso,” you breathe out softly.

Choso closes his eyes as you trace the scar beneath his tattoo. 

You weren’t sure what you were doing but your hand involuntarily begins to travel across his face and his piercings until they graze over his lips and he opens his eyes again.  

Startled by the sudden hungry look in his eyes you pull back your hand but he captures it in his own, him being the one to trap you this time.

If either one of you just moved even an inch forward your lips would touch. You see Choso’s lips part when–

“Yo! Hands off my girl, freakshow!” 

“Dean!?” You pulled back out of Choso’s embrace, floored to see your boyfriend and some more of his football buddies heading towards you as you knew they still should have been at practice around this time.

“Oooh he’s in for it now messin’ with Dean’s girl.” Dean’s football friends snickered.

Choso audibly breathes out in exasperation. The moment was ruined and he really didn’t have the patience to deal with your neanderthal boyfriend and his football lackeys who all shared a singular brain cell. 

Didn’t they have a ball or something to chase?

“Uh hey, Dean I..” 

You stop yourself when it’s clear Dean is ignoring you entirely as he approaches the table. Not even looking your way to greet you. 

His aura oozes faux tough guy bully and walks straight up to Choso to size him up leaning on the table to tower over him.

“I’m talking to you, freak. You think you can put your hands on what belongs to me?”

Choso doesn’t look up at him but his grip instinctively tightens on the pen in his hand under the table as if it was Ghostface’s hunting knife. 

Dean’s show of bravado going ignored by Choso pisses him off even more that his teammates are with him and the tough guy act is failing to have any real effect. 

Tch. 

With a swift movement Dean knocks Choso’s coffee over on the table, its half drunken contents falling on both you, Choso and his books. 

This has Choso rising out of his seat as he thinks your boyfriend must have an unknown death wish.

Choso’s pen is still in his grasp but by his side now. It would be too easy to drive it into Dean’s neck before the dolt even knew what hit him. A bit extreme, but it could be considered an unfortunate accident of self defense if Dean struck first.

Fortunately, you stepped in between the two in order to diffuse the situation without picking up on Choso’s murderous intent. 

You chewed your lip. This was low key, your fault. You technically were dating Dean. Although Dean was always the furthest thing from your mind when you were around Choso. 

You didn’t even feel guilty for being caught as you’ve had your own suspicions for a while Dean had been cheating on you anyway, you just couldn’t prove it. You were still dating him more out of convenience than anything else, other jocks and frat boys left you alone knowing you were with him.

The only guilt you actually did feel was for Choso. This wasn’t his problem or relationship but of course Dean was a big enough asshole to make this into an actual issue with Choso since it was becoming clearer how little respect he had for you.

“Dean, what the hell is your problem!? You got coffee everywhere, this isn’t even my jacket.” 

“Don’t what the hell me Y/N, you're so fucking dumb you’re going to let this freak get in your pants when– wait you’re wearing fucking his jacket!?” 

Dean was yelling now and a small crowd was forming and starting to take out their phones to record. 

You could not let this turn into an incident.

“Dean chill the entire fuck out, would you?! It was cold, so he let me borrow it– He’s just my T.A.”

A wave of harsh realization washed over Choso. 

Just her T.A.

Right.

Choso is no one important to you, especially with your football boyfriend and social standing on the line.

He’d let whatever the fuck almost happened between the two you just now make him forget that. 

Not anymore.

“That’s right. I’m just her T.A. So if you’ll excuse me.” 

Choso turned from you both to salvage what he could of his books and leave.

You couldn’t place the emotions in Choso’s words and it made your chest tighten up. But you weren’t trying to write him or your almost-kiss off. 

You didn’t mean for it to come out that way but you really lacked the proper words in these kinds of situations.

“Where do you think you’re going, loser?”

Dean grabbed Choso’s shoulder but the intense murderous look in his eyes made Dean release him just as quickly as if he had been burned. 

Even his football goon friends unconsciously took a few steps back feeling the very real threat in Choso’s eyes. 

Choso smirked as he left. Thought so. 

“W-wait Cho–”  

You want to stop him but feel Dean’s rough grip on your wrists.

“Whatever, let’s fucking go Y/N. We have an important party to throw later.” 

Dean grabs your wrist and jerks you away with you barely being able to grab your bag. 

Your stomach twists and you are at a complete loss for words but manage to flash an apologetic look at Choso while you are dragged off. 

However when your eyes meet he looks right through you.

The expression on his face is stone cold and it sends a chill up your spine.

© ʙʟᴋᴋɪᴢᴢᴀᴛ 2023. ᴀʟʟ ʀɪɢʜᴛꜱ ʀᴇꜱᴇʀᴠᴇᴅ. ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ꜱᴛᴇᴀʟ, ᴛʀᴀɴꜱʟᴀᴛᴇ, ᴄᴏᴘʏ ᴏʀ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇꜱ ꜰɪᴄꜱ, ᴅʀᴀʙʙʟᴇꜱ, & ɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄꜱ. ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴀʀᴇ ᴀʟʟ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ʙʏ ᴍᴇ ᴜɴʟᴇꜱꜱ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀᴡɪꜱᴇ ꜱᴛᴀᴛᴇᴅ. ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ

A/N: I promise it won't take as long for the second part to come out. I'm half way done with it already! I was just going to wait and post it all together but a like 12k+ word post all at once would be insane lmfao. After I am finished with this prompt the next 3 stories I will do will be from Thrilling Ghouls as they are all much shorter PWPs in the 3-5k range and I won't have to stress so much since I'm realizing all my Smooth Criminal prompts are longer fics and it takes me like a week or more to write them.

ღTaglistღ: @callm3senpaii @arxliana @jujutsualy @luxiethefairy @akaza-simp01 @fredswh0re @missphanosaur18 @moon-esque @samicamy-13

comment on m.list to be tagged in future Kinktober '23 stories

please stop to take a look at this wonderful art of the last scene that @laikatsuki created, tysm again pookie bears!!!

Reblog for Ghostface!Choso to come steal your panties although comments and likes are appreciated all the same!

PART 2

[samuelsdean]

Stitch Me Up

pairing: dean winchester x reader

summary: for dean, every scrape, every gash, was a twisted plea for your touch.

genre: angst

word count: 0.5k

author's notes: i wrote this at 3 am on my notes app while simultaneously rewatching spn because i'm insane and i'm a huge advocate of touch-starved!dean.

THE METALLIC TANG OF BLOOD WAS DEAN'S CONSTANT UNPLEASANT FOREWARNING THAT DEAN HAD RETURNED—HE WAS HOME. Sprawled on the floor, another injury marring his flesh, and he sees you right there in front of him. He could see the anger in your eyes, could feel the fury that bubbles in your gut is ceaseless, a familiar dance with the ever-present terror.

For Dean, every scrape, every gash, was a twisted plea for your touch.

Dean loves it when you touch him, when you lay your hands gently on his skin, careful not to cause him more pain than what he is dealing with at the moment. He loves it when you clean his wounds while going off on another tangent as to how he should be more cautious—threatening him that next time, you would not be there to treat him; yet, every time, not one did you miss his homecoming, when he comes home bloodied, the first thing you do is come running and restoring him to full health. He craved your tirades, the harsh scoffs, and thinly veiled threats that were your flimsy shield against worry. Each rant was a desperate battle cry, a plea for him to be careful.

Yet, Dean could not help himself. He reveled in your ministrations, the gentle contrast to the fire of your anger.

Dean loves it when you tend to him because it is proof that you care.

And he craves it—craves you—your presence, your touch—everything. He thinks it is sickening how much he has grown to crave you. Because he thinks he does not deserve you, and he knows that the universe always tries to play a sick joke on him.

It was a warped version of his affection born from a life spent in the shadows. Love, for him, was a dangerous dance, a promise of heartbreak waiting to happen. People he cared about had a knack for disappearing, leaving him with the cold comfort of solitude. Hunting was a drifter's existence. A life with no room for roots or dreams. Letting someone in, and building a family, was a recipe for disaster.

It is a lonely life being a hunter. One could never have the chance to put down roots because there is always a monster to hunt, a demon to exorcise, and a case to solve. Loving someone and having a family is just a foolproof way of getting yourself hurt. Yet, here he was, craving the very thing he swore to avoid. It was a sickness, a yearning that gnawed at his soul.

Because the truth, the terrifying truth, was that Dean could not bear the thought of being truly alone.

The sting of disinfectant was a cruel reminder of his twisted reality. As you patched him up, his eyes, usually alight with mischief, held a touch of vulnerability. At that moment, Dean gave you a glimpse of his plea for something more than just mending—a desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, he could find a place in a world that felt increasingly fragile, right beside you.

But the question remained, a silent echo in the tense air: could you give him what he craved without sacrificing your own heart in the process?

[11vr1]

Been Away ⭒ Miles Morales

Synopsis › You were tired of his secrets and lies, so you did the one thing you promised you’d never do and walked away. But Miles Morales wasn’t going to let you go so easily.

Pairing › Earth-42! Miles Morales x Fem!Reader

Inspo › “Been Away” - Brent Faiyaz

Includes › ATSV SPOILERS, Angst, the tiniest bit of fluff, pet names, spanish, a microscopic amount of manipulation, toxicity, going back to your ex, stalking, harassment, mentions being mugged, mentions being stabbed, mentions the police

P.S. › I do my best work when I’m sleep deprived.

P.S.S. › Reading comments and reblogs really make my day, even if you’re telling me my commas suck. Requests are also open.

Y/n pulled down the sleeves of her crocheted sweater as she stepped out of the bodega, white plastic bag of chips and candy in hand. The sun was close to setting behind skyscrapers and plunging New York City into its usual state of terror. It was dangerous to be alone on the streets, but Y/n figured she’d be fine walking a few blocks to her friend’s place. She pushed through sidewalk traffic, passing others who were just as eager to be safe in their homes.

Her phone chimed with a text.

Unknown: Turn left.

She paused, looking up to scan her surroundings. There was nothing strange or out of place. Just stores closing up for the night and people minding their own business. Despite how normal everything seemed to be, Y/n knew better. She spared a glance at the alley to her left, immediately deciding against it and kept walking.

Another chime. She ignored it and the next. Stopping wasn’t worth possibly ending up on the eleven o’clock news. At least that’s what she told herself. The less rational part of her mind had a thought. In some ways more terrifying than being mugged.

Tucked away in her pocket, her phone rang. This time she checked. Unknown. Y/n scoffed, rejecting the call.

Unknown: One more chance.

Unknown: Take a left.

Unknown: I won’t ask again.

Her phone rang once more. With a long, begrudging sigh Y/n swiped to accept. “I thought you weren’t going to ask again,” she said, her eyes darting warily to the darkening street.

“Make a left, Y/n,” a deep distorted voice ordered from the other line. Her heart dropped. Maybe the irrational part of her brain wasn’t as off kilter as she thought. The call hung up like she didn’t need anymore convincing.

The yawning mouth of an alley stared back at her. She took a calming breath, inhaling the morning rain before stepping away from any potential witnesses. Her footsteps echoed in the eerie silence of the alley. Her skin heated in either fear or anticipation, she didn’t know. “I don’t have all night,” she spoke into the open air. “I will leave.” Y/n attempted to hide the tremble in her throat.

Her ringtone was shrill in the alley. She jumped. The bright smiling photo of her friend illuminated her face. She did not hesitate to answer. “Hello?”

“Thank god! You’re still alive. Are you close?”

“Yeah, I’m almost there, Ellie,” Y/n began to exit the alley. “The bodega line was long.” She rustled her haul of snacks.

“It’s getting dark. I can send my brother to meet you. Ya know he’s always had a bit of a thing for you and now that you’re single…” Ellie trailed off. Y/n could practically hear her smile.

She rolled her eyes, laughing nervously, “You don’t have to make him come get me. I’ll be—” She was cut off by her own scream ripping from her throat. A streak of darkness and neon flashed in front of her, swiping the phone from her hand. Her grocery bag tumbled to the concrete as she stumbled over her heels. Cold metal met her back. A well defined arm snaked around her waist, held her impossibly tight.

“Y/n? Y/n!” Her friend’s voice rose over the speakers.

The smooth phone screen pressed against her cheek. “Tell her you’re okay then hang up,” the same warped voice demanded in her ear.

Y/n felt her lips move before he ended the call. Some quick lie about a monstrous rat. Blood thrummed through her skull along with her ragged breaths.

“Let me go!” Y/n wrestling out of his grip with no resistance, finally turning around. She halted. Pixelated eyes narrowed at her. What had she been expecting? Was a mask better?

Getting slashed for the money in her wallet and being left for dead by a dumpster was starting to sound more appealing than her current situation.

Mechanic panels whirred and parted open. Rich, penetrating dark eyes took in every inch of the girl in front of him, peeling back layer after layer in that calculating glare Y/n knew all too well. “Hola, mami.”

She hoped to never hear that name fall from anyone’s lips. Much less his. Y/n allowed a selfish moment to let her gaze wander. His braids were fresh, obviously not her work. Fade clean. Jay’s untied. Bronze skin annoyingly flawless. He was the same, except for the faint bags decorating his eyes. His chuckle bounced off the brick walls, catching her. It was sobering.

“You have one minute, Morales. One minute before I run screaming and call the feds on your ass,” she crossed her arms.

“Morales?” Miles raised an eyebrow. “Damn. Is that what we doin’ now?”

“Fifty.”

He circled her like the predator he was, each footstep deafening. “You look good, ma. Where you goin’ so late? It’s not safe.”

“You know where! You’ve been following me, remember? How long have you been doing that for? Just another secret, huh?” Y/n was on the verge of yelling, her initial fear replaced by pure rage. “You’re not even going to deny it.”

Miles dared a step forward. Y/n took two back. “You’re afraid of me.” Her lack of an answer was a shattering confirmation.

“I’m afraid of what you do, Miles,” she motioned to his suit, the spray painted insignia physically painful to see on his chest. The Prowler. She would have never fathomed the possibility if she hadn’t seen him in action herself. “You’re a criminal. You steal. You’ve killed people,” she choked trying to swallow back tears.

He dragged a gloved hand down his face. “You don’t understand.”

“You’re right! I don’t get it. You changed and I don’t understand why.” Her waterline welled. Three months of suppressed feelings threatened to rear their ugly heads when he was near. Because of him, of course.

It was ironic how much he made her feel, even now. Ellie, other friends, Y/n’s family never fully warmed up to Miles. He was unfeeling, nonchalant, closed off. They couldn’t see how a girl like her could fall for him and stay. At least that’s the promise she made.

“So did you. You walked away. Left me. What happened to our forever, Y/n?”

“You expected nothing to change? In what world would I not react or feel some typa way?” She tensed. Another wave of anger seared through her veins. How dare he turn this on her? “Oh wait,” her laugh was humorless. “I was never supposed to find out.”

“I have to do this. The world ain’t right and I need to protect the people I care about,” he placed a hand over his armor, over his chest. “I couldn’t do shit about my dad, but you…” He stalked closer. This time she didn’t back away.

Miles grasped her hand, placing it over his heart. She couldn’t face his intensity for too long, not without air. He wore the same musky cologne she gifted him for Christmas.“Mirame,” he tilted her delicate face towards him. “Mi corazón, I can keep you safe. You gotta let me. If something happened to you I don’t know what I would do.” His chiseled features twisted, barely able to utter the words. He finally closed the space between them, resting his forehead against hers.

“One minute,” Y/n whispered. It had been more than one minute.

Without separating, he slowly slipped her phone into her back pocket, letting his fingers linger by the waist of her jeans. “Call them. I’ll stay right here and you can end this. You’ll never have to see me again. Prometo, mi corazón.”

She should have listened when Ellie told her to stay away. Undeniably gorgeous, genius level intellect, sexy accent. There was always a catch, she said. She was right. But there was one drawback not even her best friend predicted.

Y/n pulled away. Suddenly the autumn air was too chilly through her sweater. She unlocked her phone. Typed 9-1-1. She looked up through her lashes at Miles as if he would melt into the shadows and escape. She didn’t expect sheer defeat to paint his face, unhidden behind his usual mask of indifference. Her thumb froze.

Miles Morales had Y/n entranced. He’d woven himself into her being, hollowed out a space in her soul just for him. Those titanium claws were in deep and she didn’t know if she had the strength to pry them out or wanted to.

Y/n pocketed her phone. She resigned to every emotion she harbored for the boy in front of her. She chose every wrong decision. “Go, Miles.”

His grin was smug. “Should I call you?”

“Don’t push it, Morales.” He draped his arms around her shoulders, dragged her into his warmth. “I’ll unblock you. Sound good?”

Miles angled his head. His smile stretched to his eyes, showing those rarely seen dimples. “Sí, mami. Whatever you want.”

[moondirti]

animalic (3)

← chapter two // series masterlist

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!reader rating: mature word count: 2.2k summary: he's got a plan that neither of you like warnings: enemies to lovers, predator/prey dynamics, biting, bondage, temporary paralysis, concussions, miguel is not nice, no use of y/n notes: this was supposed to be longer but the cut off at the original point was super awkward. this chapter is super exciting for all you fang lovers out there

You really can’t catch a break. 

The city bustles with a verve rivalling your own, a kaleidoscope of luminescence dancing upon the glass facades of its skyscrapers. Their spires pierce the ink-dark cloak of night, and if you weren’t so busy running for your life, you’d stop to admire the way their aviation obstruction lights mimic the stars back home. 

(Everything has a trade off, you suppose. You remember what it was like as light pollution gave away to reveal the cosmos above, the beauty of it lost upon your own grief.)

Now, it’s fear – clinging like a shadowy spectre to your heels. The pavement is unforgiving beneath you, each step sending a jolt of energy through your bones. Despite it, you can’t go any faster. Sidewalks crowd with the humdrum of everyday life – people filtering out from work and bodegas, dressed in a slightly odd fashion, their clothes a reminder of your unfamiliar landscape. Car horns blend into one another, providing an unsteady tempo to the race of your heart. 

It’s disorienting, all of it. Times like these, you wish you’d been given the opportunity to hone your abilities. Stamina, flexibility. Web shooters in particular would have proved handy in avoiding the bustle of the ground. 

Of course, he has that advantage on you too. 

You can’t see Miguel, but you sense his proximity. It prods you, nipping at your flesh in a constant assault, intensifying goosebumps and raising hairs. Your spider sense usually doesn’t last this long, solely serving as a warning for immediate danger. Yet that’s just what he is, immediate. Dangerous. Predatory eyes track your every move, sourced from all directions. He’s everywhere; atop buildings, within alleys. Neon signs morph into twisted apparitions; serrated talons, red skulls. 

How did he track you down so fast? 

The day pass? 

You wonder if he’d brought back-up – whether there are other spider-heroes here who trust in his noble cause. Your anxiety triples, and passerby’s begin to warp too. Their hurried footsteps now strike discordant notes, amplifying your isolation. You think you see some tense their wrists, or unbutton their coats, ready to reveal their tailored suits and ensure the capture you’ve managed to evade thus far. 

It’s luck. It’s only ever been luck, and that fact changes depending on who you ask. You’ve never outsmarted him, never disabled him. You just so happen to have the power of being a pain in his ass. 

Something itches at you, though. A nagging sense of foreboding. His presence in the past has spurred chagrin, annoyance, and – admittedly – arousal. But the genuine terror that lights your nerves now is new. Perhaps because you understand him, are far more familiar with his pride than most. The logical part of you can predict that he won’t let you off so easily, not after your stunt with the kiss. You won’t – can’t – get away this time, even if it damn well nearly kills him. 

Any hope you had of a bargain dissipates, rolling back from shore and into the depths of an elusive sea. You jerk the rubber band off your wrist, throwing it into some undisclosed corner.

In a then desperate bid to throw him off, your path loses cohesion. Like a leaf seized by a tempest, you turn based on split-second instinct, weaving through the labyrinth of New York’s grid. Your body sways in frenzy, bolstered by pure adrenaline, which works to dim everything else. Your ribs haven’t fully healed yet – they’d taken a pretty bad beating upon your last fight with Miguel – but you can barely feel the ache as you focus purely on the task at hand. 

Your determination surges, recklessness taking hold of your rationale. Veering abruptly, you just about collide with the racing line of cars that flow at a green light. In fact, you think you do. Your skin prickles, and a taxi runs straight through you, blearing a loud honk all the while. Some vehicles break off, drifting around your form at the last minute. In your peripheral, you can see the glowing red of your pursuers web, stretched across the gap between two apartment complexes. 

Chest tightening, your breathing loses depth at the sight, shallowing to leave room for the distress that torrents up your system. You clamber up on the hoods of parked cars, using a mast arm pole to propel yourself forward. It’s a fruitless effort. You know it’s too late – have known it since he walked into that convenience, prowling in search of one thing. 

(A lion only catches its prey a quarter of the time. But that twenty-five percent?)

Your ankle is the first victim to his hardwearing web, wrapped in the silk and pulled out from underneath you. The back of your head smacks into the concrete below, a high pitched ring reverberating through your skull upon impact. The collision sends a shock wave of pain throughout your being, and in that harrowing moment, everything stutters to a crawl. Spots speckle behind your clenched eyelids, metallic warmth flooding your mouth.

Well, fuck. 

To add insult to injury, your atoms rip apart and splice into one another, a consequence of your abandoned day pass. The glitch aggravates the headache that begins to pound at you. You’d allowed yourself to forget how bad it could be. 

The willpower that had just played a forefront in your mind steadily starts to trickle out, absorbed by your humiliation and the ground below. 

“You really gonna give up that easily?” 

Yes. 

You make a point to never lie to yourself. In truth, you won’t ever get enough of Miguel’s cadence. Deep and resonant – it smoulders with a charred ruggedness. Commanding attention, rumbling like distant thunder, an unmistakable authority woven into each word. Yet, even amidst the rough contours, there lingers a softness, a subtle grace that soothes the edges of his threats. 

(Sharp claws, sharp teeth, sharp cheekbones. Soft voice.)

More webs bind you, erupting from an unclear point to circle your legs, chest, and secure your arms behind your back. You’re diminished to little more than an aggravated caterpillar, ensnared in a spider’s web. And, just as his little game of bondage draws to a close, said spider stalks within view, splitting through the crowd that quickly forms around the commotion. 

With his mask on, he stands as completely impenetrable. You, on the other hand, try to reduce your quivering the best you can, afraid of relaying how truly pathetic you feel. 

“Maybe I’m biding my time.” You bite back, calling on a complete bluff. “I’m sure you know how good I am at that?” It’s a low blow. Even if you could control when and where to phase out, you wouldn’t get very far before he catches up to you again. 

But Miguel doesn’t waver in his closing in – not until he towers over you, looking down at your incapacitated state. Space buckles under the gravity of his existence; you, too, can feel yourself sinking, drawn in closer by the credence that bubbles off him in flares. You wish you had a cover – your pair of makeshift goggles, a face mask, anything that could elevate you to a degree relative to his. But you’re bare, figuratively naked, and you’ve never hated him more. 

He lingers, assessing you, weighing his options. The moment he turns to survey the mass of people who look on inquisitively, you wiggle upward into a sitting position, then throw your head forwards, aiming for his crotch. His wrist gets in the way, though, blocking your pitiful attack on his only defenceless area. Your forehead cracks against his dimensional travel watch, shattering its screen. 

“Tu puta madre!” Miguel hisses, snapping back to survey the gadget while you begin to slink away. He seems to have an eye on you, however, because you’re tugged back just as soon as you make the effort.

Like a naughty cat. You shift uncomfortably at the thought. 

“Are you gonna spend all night deciding what to do with me, then? I have plans, even if you don’t.” 

“Plans. I have plans alright.” The low timbre of his threat slices you where it hurts.

With a calculated flex of his shoulders, he crouches down, gathering the webs around your arms. They serve as leverage when he hauls you upward, exercising his muscles – of which you’d suspected had been padding up to this point – with one swift motion. The world upends on itself, nausea enveloping your senses with its oppressive weight. It allows space for little else; not the uncertainty, not the trepidation. You divert all your efforts on keeping your scarce lunch down, accepting the possibility of a concussion by product of his less-than-refined manhandling. 

The journey to wherever he takes you is not at all long enough for you to recover. Before you know it, he’s busting through the creaky door of an empty storelot, carelessly tossing you to the floor. Your vision doubles. 

Yeah. Definitely a concussion. 

Like you could afford one right now. 

“You’ll stay, and you’ll listen.” He points an accusatory finger. 

“Sure. Until I’ve had enough, that is.” 

“And where would you go, exactly?” 

“Nice try, O’hara. Like I’d tell you,” Snickering, you let your head roll to face the ceiling. The action sends you back to earlier, to the robbery you’ve been seeking to suppress. How careless you’d been, letting your fortune to date trick you into thinking that any collateral was safe too. You’d killed that woman. You. “Maybe I’ll fall right through the floor. That way, you’ll never have to worry about seeing me again.” 

The notion makes him pause mid-pace, hands on his hips, tilting his head to look at you with what you imagine is the most earnest glare. The air bobs, suspended in static tension, a crackling constant that only unravels once he seems to make up his mind. 

Marching forward, he drags you along with him to a nearby wall, upon which he then pushes you upward until you have to look down to meet his eyeline. Your bound legs kick forward, but the struggle hardly affects him. 

“I didn’t want to resort to this.” 

You assume he means treating you like a toddler does its shiny new toy, hurling you across this playpen of a city. “You really didn’t have to, then.” 

He stays quiet, fists clenching tighter around you. 

“I suppose we’re past the courtesy of letting the other recover from the last fight before starting a new one? My forearm is still fucked, thanks to you. Maybe if you’d given it some time, I would’ve proved more of a challenge today.” Your words, whilst never your most steadfast allies, betray you in lieu of this restlessness, tumbling forth with unruly incoherence.

Miguel's mask pulls back, the nanotech collapsing to just above his adams apple. Your mouth moves faster. 

“Okay, I get it. The fate of the multiverse and all that. I’ll listen, whatever you want, but at least try and make the lecture original.” 

His hand cups your jaw, tightening around your chin to firmly guide it upwards. Your throat stretches taut at the motion, its smooth expanse spread across the wall – an evening repast for a party of one. The imagery breaks down an all too sobering realisation into fragments small enough for you to register. His talons rest against your cheek, bordering perilously close to your waterline. 

Traces of that patchouli aftershave hit you. His skin looks especially bronzed in the dark, highlighted at the edges from the phosphorescence outside. His curls droop where they’re plastered to a sweat slicked hairline. 

You can’t help it. Your gaze flickers down to those plush lips.

Fuck. Fuck. It’d felt so good to kiss them. 

Please let this just be a kiss. 

“O-Or go with the… the usual, y’know. I don’t–” 

Miguel lunges, sinking his fangs into the fleshy sinew of your neck.

Christ.

Your jaw hangs open, but no breaths filter in. Shock wedges itself at the site of his bite, implacable, steadfast as a barrier between logic and uninhibited emotion. Your reasoning plays no part in this, provides absolutely no valuable contribution to the series of reactions you undergo. 

It’s physical, first. The cold slither of paralytic venom distends through your nerves, neurotoxins striking their functions, rendering them useless beyond the point of sensation. Which, you’d say, is the cruellest part. Miguel’s poison doesn’t stop you from feeling anything; not the puncture, nor the burn. You can truly feel it, trekking its graceful path to all muscles in your body, taking hold of the tissue, suppressing their vitality. Your back arches, your body doing its very best to fight what it cannot prevent. It cracks up your bone, down your spine. Your toes unfurl, fingers loosening to hang lamely at your side. 

And, when you lose all executive authority over yourself, you’re pulled in to centre on his mouth again. His canines slowly retract, tongue taking their place. It’s warm – so fucking warm – and dextrous, covertly lathering the blood that beads down your nape. 

Your last proper breath is wasted on a whine; a loud, keening, absolutely wanton whine. After it, you can do nothing but hold your flat inhales to cycle in as much oxygen as possible – diaphragm weak, your resolve weaker.

Miguel draws away, letting you slump to the floor, heavy and just as useless as a sack of flour. He wipes the excess carmine from his chin, kneeling to regard your glassy eyed stare. 

“Fall through now, and you’re as good as dead.” 

(You might as well already be.)

chapter four →

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[katakaluptastrophy]

The ships … the ships were still full of people. I reached our hand out into space. I extended. I struggled. He said, I bit through the sun first. It’s human nature. That started things going.

Imagine being on those ships (and remember, not everyone in those ships was a nefarious trillionaire) zooming away from earth.

Maybe you've watched mushroom clouds blossoming across the face of the earth as you pulled away, the lines of communication fizzing out and going dead.

Watched...something...happen to the earth. Watched the sun flare and then flicker out.

I sliced through Venus, Mercury, Mars … by that point a couple of the tugs had already launched through the Kuiper. I had to kill Jupiter and Saturn in a fucking hurry. I reached … they blinked away from me … all I could do was hope that they’d watched what I was doing and all died from fucking terror. You and I went full fucking Hungry Caterpillar. We took Uranus … Neptune … crunched down Pluto … found every satellite and craft, reached in, crunched up all the humans, moved on.

You try to make contact with the installations as you pass - the small city on Mars, the helium-3 capture facility at Jupiter, the mines on Saturn's moons, the skeleton crew constructing the shell on Uranus, the Kuiper platform. Maybe the comms are eerily quiet. Or perhaps, you make contact for just a moment, enough time to witness what happens when god doesn't kill people "clean".

As you speed away, the rings of the gas giants burst asunder and the planets seem to desaturate, the readings go haywire as their magnetic fields suddenly destabilise. And something, oh god, something seems to slip away from each one, some absolute acid trip of horror, like some kind of writhing, fleeing ghost.

The moment I found the fleet spinning up to enter FTL, it was too late … I could only grab one of them … and you and I held it in the palm of our hand. I was in there with them. All those frightened people. All those runaway rats.

And then something physically stops one of the ships. Alarms are going off, sparks are flying, lights are flickering, and there's a horrifying sense of presence (if John feeling Alecto's presence was unremitting screaming inside his head, what does the presence of the newly combined John and Alecto feel like? Because I don't think that invovles less eldritch psychic screaming, somehow).

And then you break free, and spin off into some kind of warp of time and space, with the knowledge that you are the last humans left alive in the universe and that something truly terrible lurks on the husk of the earth.

Imagine 5000 years of that tale being passed down through humanity (that's equivalent to the time that passed between the stone age and the present day), as civilisations rose and fell across planets and systems.

And then imagine, one day, being the ship that encountered something they'd never seen before. A ship, of an entirely unfamiliar design, bearing an unfamiliar symbol: a skull. The whole ship is covered in bones. Sleek, designed, inlaid bones. Human bones.

When they hail you, you see humans, but not like you've seen before. They're dressed in strange outfits: military uniforms and robes that look like something from a textbook of the most ancient history. They're carrying swords. Swords! Many of them seem starved and sickly, as if their bodies are consuming themselves. They speak of their empire and their god in strange, archaic words - an impossibly ancient language from the earth that was - of the resurrection of the dead, of the Lord over the River, of necromancy.

And you realise that however horrifying the tales of the earth's death in fire, there are things worse than death.

[everydaym0nstrosity]

Currently jamming to this awesome soundtrack.

[voidsentprinces]

One of my favorite details about Warrior of Light is how side character will see us fight a Primal and be both awe struck and terrified of us. Like they can't tell which one of us is the real monster out there on the battlefield. The Warrior of Light keeps Lolorito up at night, the Holy See would rather open its gate to the exiled Scions than to spurn the Warrior of Light, better to keep them clearly in direct line of vision and then send them out on a suicide mission to parley with Dragons than let them stay cooped up in Ishgard and constantly a threat, Ysayle is genuinely at lost for words after we fight Ravana saying she hasn't seen us fight like that since she and her fought and despite just being defeated by Ravana, she seems more afraid of us than she is of still being in ambush distance of the One Mind, Elidibus doesn't truly comprehend our power and after we activate the Crystal of Azem, he genuinely falters and asks who we are, Thordan sees us as a terror beyond terrors, his death not being a peaceful one as we are warped from his perspective, Fandaniel chooses Zenos and us to antagonize genuinely because we are literally the only thing on Eitheirys that could guarantee that Zodiark was vanquished and the Final Days unleashed, Ryne is drawn to us for a reason beyond any sense she knows at first much like her she can sense the powerful light like that of Warden and needs to know more of it, and the only ones who outgambit us (Ilberd, Fandaniel, Emet-Selch and Zenos) are not in their right mind to begin with in dealing with us. And then again, all they can really do is STALL us as we are a single person siege engine cutting through waves of soldiers, the Garleans despise us and yet also respect us for what we did in the Praetorium, Zenos is truly in awe of us and calls us Champion of the Savages in reverence. Very few who meet us at first are gladened by our arrival, some are genuinely nervous and unsure when they meet us for the first time. If they do not hear tales of our gentler side from those who know us best.

The Warrior of Light is a beacon of hope but also a power not to be trifled with lightly and its kind of amazing how they write us.

[molluskmirage]

the boogeyman effect following Bbh from purgatory 1 has been a very fascinating phenomenon.

there is alot of residual and lingering opinions of Bad from both characters and fans and its been interesting because having watched Bads pov he really didnt do anything more then what others did in purgatory. Q!Phil is mad because Bad terrorized his team but bad had far less kills then Tubbo, and plenty other teams were around terrorizing others Fit slaughtered Tina and soulfires farmers (most of which then never returned)

Q!Tubbo is mad for ‘day 12’ for a poor decision Bad made, but Bad was carrying the team mostly alone for many many hours the whole 2 weeks (the most out of anyone on the team) I think he could be forgiven for not having the clearest decision making skills running ragged and getting killed.

Q!Bagi feels betrayed by bad and has been more comfortable around tubbo since p1 but tubbo murdered her before she could say a word in p1 and Bad asked for her consent first before doing so.

Q!Etoiles is salty about the 2v1 but he and Fit started it by attacking tubbo alone who then had to run to bad and it was a 2v2 before then becoming a 2v1 as Fit backed away injured

Q!Phil has also mentioned that bad has not taken responsibility for his actions and this is echoed a lot in fan spaces but Bad is constantly taking on blame for things he may have only been adjacent too. He’s said he’s killed a lot of people, he jokes that he’d do it again. He doesnt often show remorse for his actions which I think is more what some are after but he does acknowledge things he doesn’t pretend it never happened. He told Pepito he was a monster. And anytime some express anger towards bad he respects their feelings (that doesn’t mean he’d chose to act differently or feel remorse in such actions but he doesn’t tell anyone theyre not allowed to feel that way)

its a fascinating subject to me because this effect has carried over so strongly within the space despite the fact Bad didn’t even have the highest kills in p1 for soulfire (it was Tubbo by quite a margin) yet Tubbo is often unnamed as the wrongdoer. Bagi set up Bad for death, while it didn’t come to fruition she still did that to Bad. Bad could not do anything but run when red team took on the bounty system which was excruciating to watch. Red also showed no mercy when the boats arrived and killed Bad the sole player for blue leaving his body in a zone that would kill a naked player.

Bad did do wrong he spawn killed Jaiden. However his stalking home bases and killing others in general was no different then all of the other skilled players repertoire. Bad had to play offensively for his team the majority of the time as he was one of the few that could, yet the boogeyman effect holds onto him and warps even his own members perceptions after the fact. Q!Tina as an example very enthusiastic about letting Bad loose in p1 too then scolding him for actions he took under her instruction.

The fan narrative has been the most acutely difficult to manage as the effect is almost to mystic proportions and finding disdain for even mundane actions Bad takes and reading into those as disingenuously as possible always set on more then retribution but truly an end to his character. Which again having watched Bads POV I havent been able to discern anything remarkable that any other character hasnt also partook in.

The difference I have noted is that Bad will always consider himself in the wrong regardless if his actions had justifiable reason behind it. Dapper told Bad to win in purgatory. After purgatory Bad put himself and Dapper down as ‘oh thats just something Dapper would say hes just bloodthirsty, but narratively Dapper has committed self harm in order to protect his siblings and other islanders ((an issue Dapper unfortunately sees in his father and perpetuates himself)) believing he is nothing more then a tool to help those he loves, he would not risk his siblings lives for bloodthirsty humor. Bad knows this but when faced with the hate others saw in him he waves off both his and his sons merit buckling down. Bad and Dapper have dark humor but are always making gifts and finding ways to help others. There is nothing on the island Bad is more set to protect then the eggs and this thought with Dappers message, Q!Bad really thought he needed to go all out to protect them, even still he held back a lot and would 2nd guess because he wanted to be absolutely certain of the egg’s safety.

He wasnt without reason yet with the boogeyman effect looming over his reasons never seem to be able to hold a candle to the more popular characters, and he often concedes a lot to it. He says it with a laugh, tease, and is sassy with it but still he concedes to others perceptions of him as he doesnt want to override others feelings. It can be a bit exhausting as things are blown out of proportion to what they were in originality but on a social breakdown of how things and information travels its very very interesting and I have been enjoying the dive even if it stings sometimes with reflective thoughts.

[i-starcreamed]

MIRAGE X READER

hii rotb has made me fall in love with...a lot more transformers now. This is just a silly idea I had, kinda lame but idc. Being cringe and free now. Anyways, planning to make this a small series maybe? Mirage lovers where are you?? Could eventually make this a mirage x reader x Noah, love them both, really. Or you know, Noah could be a third wheel, you guys decide that

[ human!gn reader summary: You have no idea how you got into this situation. First, you were trying to steal a true beauty of a car with your friend Noah to get some extra cash with Reek working behind the scenes (apparently) And now, you were in the Porche you guys were planning to steal. Mind you, it's currently driving itself.

"Holy shit!" You yelled in terror as the car careened wildly around the curve, sending both you and Noah lurching to the left side of the vehicle. You clung onto the door handle for dear life, your heart pounding in your chest as a combination of fear and adrenaline caused you to burst out into wild laughter. Noah, on the other hand, let out an ear-splitting, high-pitched scream as he death-gripped onto the steering wheel with both hands. "STOP STOP STOP!"

The radio kept picking up a certain frequency, it was static-y but still clear enough to understand it kept reaching out towards something or someone named Mirage.

After crashing several police cars, running red lights, and being tossed around the car, the silver and blue Porche entered a warehouse of some sort and literally tossed you out onto the cement. Noah groaned as he rolled on his side. You on the other hand, didn't manage to fall onto the ground and gripped onto the seat. You thought it was over but noo, all of a sudden the car decides to transform, its component parts moving and shifting into new positions. You stare in awe and fear as the walls around you warp and bend ever so slightly; the seat beneath you shifts away from you before slowly, almost hesitantly dropping you onto the ground. You stare up and after a couple seconds, the car transformed into a fucking robot. Towering several feet in front of you and Noah, you both stare up in fear. You're a bit amazed honestly, you're staring at a giant metal dude stretch and prance around the warehouse, ranting about being cooped up this entire time.

You and Noah shared a look.

"But that was cool, you guys are cool. A bit loud, ehh, but cool." The robot stood in front of you now, his gaze focused on the both of you. You froze, Noah scrambled around to pick up a metal pipe. "Woah woah woah!" The robot held his hands up. You cursed under your breath and scrambled to get behind Noah, trying to look for anything you can use as a weapon as the robot focused on Noah. You found a couple loose bolts and nuts on the ground and scooped them up in your palm.

You approached Noah's side, menacingly brandishing the tiny screws in your hand. The robot quickly put his hands in the air. "What are you gonna do, you gonna hit me?"

You both looked at eachother. Noah shifted, adjusting his stance while still holding up the pipe. "Maybe?" The robot made a noise akin to a scoff and his left arm started transforming into something else, oh god oh fuck. Before you even had time to register it, you threw a bolt at him. It hit his arm and he froze. "Hey- what?"

You were launching bolts at him, your shots greeted with a "hey, hey, hey!" each time they clanked against his frame. You kept getting closer, pushing him back further and further, surprising yourself with your own nerve. That confidence instantly disappeared when he whipped out his arm-gun, the blue light from the barrel seemed to lock onto you and Noah, like two deer in headlights. "Can you- stop throwing those things at me?!"

"woah, woah, woah-" Noah quickly put his hands up and walked up to you, standing in front of you. "Let's all calm down, alright? Alright? We good?" "Noah, what the hell is this about?" You whisper yelled.

"I dont know! Just dont get us killed" he whisper yelled back.

You huffed defiantly, you quickly took the bat from Noah's hands and tightly gripped it. You adopted a battle-ready stance, staring down the giant robot - thing? - truly unyielding. Neither of you backed down until he put the gun down, straightening up. "Okay okay, you're brave. I like that."

Your face dropped, dumbfounded. Noah reached out and firmly snatched the bat from you, his face a mask of barely-contained irritation. "what did I fucking tell you about not trying to get us killed, dude?" He hissed.

What the hell was going on.

[spacedace]

Dannys graduation class is especially liminal thanks to the portal and frequent ghost encounters/ Their overshadowing. Which means, that they subconsciously prefer places with high ecto ambience.

Gotham University already had their fair share of students from amity park, one of the only people outside from Gotham who would actually stay for the duration of their studies (thanks to them being used to ghost shenanigans). But this year its more than usual + even for Gothamites these Amity Parkers seem to be rather unhinged.

(I just need more liminal!Amity Parker shenanigans :D and thanks to WE Gotham has great scholarships available)

I had a lot of fun with this one! Thank you for the prompt!

-

Robert’s hands shook as he brought the chalk to the blackboard, letter’s jagged and words illegible as he attempted to write the day’s lesson down.

Behind him was a silence beyond what the human mind was ready to comprehend. A room full of people, the sense of others in the room, and yet utter stillness. No soft scratch of pencils on paper, gentle taps of nails upon keyboards, no shifting of bodies or crinkling of snacks or soft murmur of voices of those at the back of the lecture hall whispering to each other.

It was something Professor Robert Herne hadn’t truly noticed before this semester. How much noise humans made even when they were sitting very quietly. Little things the brain filtered out so terribly noticeable until it was gone. The almost imperceptible hush of breaths. The absent hum of a chorus of heartbeats. Things you didn’t realize you were used to hearing until they were suddenly, horribly gone.

The chalk broke beneath his hand.

The students sat in impossible, unbearable stillness, watching him.

They were always watching him.

Unblinking eyes, fathomless and deep and knowing knowing knowing. They looked at him and saw. Empty voids that threatened to swallow him whole if he made the mistake of meeting their terrible, all consuming gazes.

His hand shook harder, the broken chalk in his hold crumbling to fine dust. His breathing came harder, heart pounding. Behind him figures stretched long, twisting and unnatural, more and more unblinking eyes opening to stare at him, mouths stretching, faces warping, skin mottling to impossible shades, sharp teeth and pointed ears. Still as death, unmoving, he could feel the weight of them pressing down upon him from all sides and, and, and -

He screamed.

-

Miriam Schuster, Dean of Gotham University, sat with her head in her hands at her desk. Outside on the quad yet another of the school’s professors was being carried away on a stretcher, screaming and frantic as his class of students all milled about worried for him at a distance.

Herne was the third one in the past month.

Amity kids, she swore, they got weirder and weirder every year. And unlike some members of the University staff, she was qualified to say that. She was an Amity Park kid once upon a time, she knew her home town was weird. Even before the ghost stuff started happening they had a reputation for being odd. She’d certainly creeped out more than a few of her own professors over the years as a student, and still put some people on edge whenever she forgot to make an active effort to appear more…for lack of a better word, normal.

This year’s batch was weird even by her standards though. Far more ecto-contaminated than the students that had joined the university in previous years and it showed. The entire non-Amity half of several courses had dropped in the first week of the semester. They’d had more dorm-room transfer requests than they’d ever seen before. TAs were refusing to work in classes that had Amity Parkers in them. And the professors…

Herne gave another scream of terror outside, shrieking about silence and eyes and being watched. Miriam sighed again.

The professors were not able to cope with the freshmen class at all.

Scrubbing her face in her hands, Miriam leaned back in her seat and looked down at the papers spread out before her. Transfer paperwork to group all the new batch of Amity kids into the same classes so that they weren’t quite so spread around. Keep them contained, as much as it was possible to do so. The problem with having them all in one place though was that the effect of them being so…well, Amity, was far more intense. Which left her with the question of just who she was going to be able to get to teach these classes.

Gotham was more up to Amity Parker strangeness than just about anywhere else - outside of Amity itself of course - and even the Gothamites where having trouble keeping up. It was going to take a special kind of person to be able to handle them.

Miriam glanced out her window again to where the ambulance was trundling away with Herne aboard to Arkham. The civilian mental facilities hadn’t been up to the kind of psychosis caused by direct contact with this year’s batch of Amity Parkers.

Hmm, she considered. That might be an idea.

She’d have to make some phone calls.

-

“Alright settle down! I know you’re all a rowdy bunch, but I’m gonna need yous to sit pretty for me for the next hour so we can go over the new syllabus.”

To anyone else, there wouldn’t have been any kind of perceptible difference to the utter stillness of the room. The rows of seated students were as still and motionless as they’d ever been, not even their chests seeming to move as they sat and stared, unblinking.

The new professor smiled widely. “Thank you! And hear I heard yous were all a bunch of troublemakers, ha!” A deft hand snatched up a piece of chalk, drawing large looping letters on the board with plenty of flourishes. “Welcome to Psych 101! You can all call me Professor Quinzel!”

Harley spun to face her class, smiling brightly at the eager gleam in the eyes of her new students.

The class, with eyes a little too bright and teeth a little too sharp and shapes a little too wrong when viewed from the corner of the eye all smiled back brightly. It was such a relief to finally have a professor that actually had her shit together.

[mikichko]

part of adoptive parents!ghoap x reader cw: mentions of abusive childhood, parents, and scars from said abuse. a/n: wrote this instead of doing my chores :) (i cried)

simon learns the hard way that there's no handbook on being a parent.

sure, the parenting section of bookstores is always full of colorful quippy books on tips for developmental stages. but, there's no handbook for the actual process of becoming a parent. you can make a step by step guide on how to get a child through teething, sleep training, and even potty training but not how to endure the emotional transition of becoming a parent.

there's no book on overcoming fear, trust he's looked. just ones that give lists of things to have ready before a child arrives. simon has it all ready. has finalized the color palette of the boys' room, painted the mural himself, even had price build the frame for the bed himself. meticulous little details carved into the wood that he hopes his future son will love. but material things only cover a small aspect of what a child needs.

no matter how ready he is in that aspect, simon can't shake the terror that the thought of fatherhood brings.

it's everpresent, simmering just below the surface of his skin, silencing him and dulling the days where it agitates itself into a rolling boil. he's been acquainted with fear, the feeling isn't fully foreign but simon cringes nonetheless. because fear feeds the voices, and the voices love to make simon suffer. they always have.

fear drives him out of his marital bed, slipping away from johnny's pliant warm body in exchange for the still, cold air of the living room. he keeps the light off, guided by the beautiful cascade of moonlight that filters through the windows. settles on the couch, underneath the gentle light, as he inspects his marked palms. it's hard to see the scars in the moonlight. they're not large, not like the ones that warp the skin on his arms or the ones on his back.

no, these are defensive scars.

and simon can still feel the blow that delivered them. a stored memory with a sick interactive feature activated on these cold nights. a boy never forgets when his father beats him, he thinks, it's something he carries. and although this simon isn't sixteen, that scrawny bruised body shed long ago, he's still a boy. even when time erodes his memory, picking at any loose bits, the pain will persist. he'll never truly forget.

bathed in moonlight, he's left to wonder what right he has to be a father. the only fatherly hands that have landed on him had been violent. tearing at him until even fresh water made both his skin and eyes sting. til the violence invaded his dreams, forcing him to spend the rest of his night in a shallow rest, until he was eighteen. years spent with his ears perked, waiting for the creak of the fifth step, the indicator that he had to fight again. how was he meant to make a proper home for a child when he had only ever known a shattered one?

it doesn't take long for johnny to find him. he does every night, of course. the cool air invading where simon had previously occupied, alerting johnny to his absence. simon's silent call that johnny always responds. he never asks, knows the brunette well enough. understands that simon's palms are a testament to the damage that's been inflicted on him. the evil he's been subjected to.

simon doesn't have to speak of it, but he does. on a dry starry night in urzikstan, comms off and johnny as his sole observer, he verbalizes his fear of becoming a father. not now, this is not the proper line for a good father, but sometime in the future.

johnnys’s seen firsthand the kind of terror the masked man can inflict. how easily his hands can break bones, turn necks, and knock someone from this life.

but those are the hands of a tool. an asset. not the hands of a man. those are ghost's hands, not simon's.

johnny has seen simon, truly. has seen how he handles the robins that perch on his index finger, mistaking its girth for an incredibly still branch. has seen the softness in which he handles the tabby street cat they feed from time to time. fingers barely touching her coat as he strokes her forehead, soothing her until she’s calm enough to eat. seen the man he becomes when he’s holding gaz and price’s little girl in his arms. body stiff and eyes wet as his arms engulf the bundle of pink whose tanned hand grabs at simon’s too big finger. when she grasps, she doesn't even manage to wrap her finger around it completely, she coos nonetheless. it's easy to spot the love swirling in his honey eyes as he looks down at her.

johnny presses himself up against his husband, placing a soft kiss on his cheek. his hand rubs at his back soothingly and his forehead presses against his temple. they sit for some time, both illuminated by the light from the celestial body, until johnny finally feels simon relax. his husband returning to him from the turbulent tides of his mind. the man that johnny knows will make a great father.

sometime in the future, with zach sprawled across his chest, curls tickling the bottom of his chin, simon will remember this. will remember the moonlight, the pain, the fear that gripped him, and the scruff that grounded him again. he'll laugh, as gently as possible to not disturb the dinosaur covered boy, before tucking the memory away.

it'd be easier to laugh then, with zach in his arms. with the adoration he feels for his boy warming him fully, it'll be easier to forget the cold tides that pulled him away that night.

it's true, they don't teach you how to become a parent, it's not something you can encapsulate in a book. simon doesn't think he could verbalize the emotions that well up when he looks at this boy, his son, in a way that would do them justice. if there are they evade him.

this boy, his boy, who softens him around the edges, pulls fondness, care, and love from places he hadn't even known had any left.