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seizethedre · 2 months

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(In the Land of Gods and Monsters)

Chapter Seven: Life Imitates Art

Lucifer finally feels like he's contributing, especially now that he's bonded with the Hotel's resident celebrity.

Alastor cooks something up and the King of Hell can't help but have his doubts.

Lucifer assumed that it would be safe to assume that most people would be inclined to uphold the sentiment that murder was not an inherently good thing, and thus should be an act worthy of condemnation. Now, pray, ask that question to the average denizen of Hell and you’d be surprised to find the verdict to be quite the opposite. Or perhaps the addition of “almost” would be more appropriate, because you are in Hell after all and, come on, did you really expect that outcome to turn out differently?

Not that Lucifer himself was of the mind that murder in its barest definition was okay, father knows he had gone off the deep end a couple of times back in the earlier centuries of Hell, but he was reformed now thank you very much. These days, and like any good king, he only sought to take someone's life when it was completely justified and necessary.

Now, as much as the king believed in the right to a fair trial in front of a jury of peers and all that fun stuff, he couldn’t deny that there was a certain twisted satisfaction that followed the untimely demise of someone who just had it coming. Typically narcissistic, arrogant bastards who loved nothing more than the sound of their own voice but ultimately didn’t have the chops to put their money where their mouth was. Lucifer wasn’t ashamed that he tended to root for sweet, sweet justice when those jerks inevitably got their asses handed to them. Quite frankly, Lucifer could think of one recent example of such a guy getting his just desserts and he had a certain housekeeper to thank for taking that particular load of trash out.

Not that he necessarily waited around waiting for people to drop dead, but boy don’t you just love it when things just work out in the way you’d hoped?

Exhibit A: the yoga instructor they’d hired to lead their evening meditation sessions very recently died a very gruesome and horrific death.

Very sad, terrible, condolences.

However, that now meant that the evening spot was up for grabs and how convenient that a certain fallen angel who happened to be a very talented artist with the desire to give back to the community was waiting for just the right opportunity to kickstart his career as a part-time art therapist.

Very good, wonderful, cue the applause!

Now Lucifer found himself in one of the many new salons they’d added during the rebuild to accommodate for the hotel's expanding events and amenities. He’d settled on a fairly small room, uncertain of how many guests he’d be receiving, but what he sacrificed in size he made up for with a glass wall with a stunning view that overlooked the courtyard and all the way into the hedge garden.

It had been one of the few design choices that Lucifer had really pushed for, not that anyone put up a fight against it, and there was probably some irony buried somewhere in his preference for gardens, but he stuck by his decision regardless.

The angel had always been of the belief that there was no greater substitute for natural light when it came to painting, but since the atmosphere of the Pride Ring tended to boast a perpetual redness, so the scant rays that shone down on them from Heaven would have to do and this room was in just the right position that would allow them to make the most of what little light came through.

The hours following his morning encounter with Charlie about his fantastic new idea had crawled along at a snail's pace, giving the king nothing but time to choose where he wanted to set up shop and then proceed to spend the next couple of hours wallowing in anxiety and having to physically restrain himself from running off to tell Charlie this whole thing was a bad idea doomed from the very start to fail and he should have never brought it up in the first place. But eventually, between all of the internal back-and-forth and emotional turmoil, the moment came when it was simply too late to back out and the only thing Lucifer could do was conjure up a couple of boxes of art supplies, some easels and smocks, and hope that the entire ordeal would veer far far away from the realm of disaster.

Deep breaths, Lucifer. The worst thing that could happen is no one shows up, but at least you can say you tried! Charlie would appreciate his efforts regardless of how fruitful the endeavor turned out, right?

Reassurances be damned, Lucifer was near quaking in his boots as they practically dented the floor beneath them from the force he was exerting to keep them still. The odds of a certain deer showing up were slim to none, but there was no way that Lucifer would allow himself to down-spiral to the point of jittering about, especially after being called out twice already in the last week for the habits he used to expel his anxious energy. After the day he had, he could make no promises when it came to ensuring that asshole’s wellbeing if push came to shove.

Right, let’s be productive then, shall we? Put those hooves of his to good use.

He flit about the room, setting up easels, straightening stools, and organizing canvases by size and material. He laid out charcoal and paint knives, brushes and sponges, scrapers and molding tools. He even made it a point to label the water cups with “clean” and “dirty” labels because, yikes , nothing killed the creative flow more than downing a mouthful of paint water–spoken from experience, of course.

Satisfied with the state of the room, he glanced at the clock, noting that there was a minute before his session began. Okay, yeah, cool cool cool. No big deal. Doesn’t matter that no one’s here yet. Who even shows up on time these days anyways? No one fun, probably, and the art studio only has room for fun people. Oh shit, is it weird that he’s just standing there? He should sit down, maybe in front of an easel? Start working on his own project? Shit, now they won’t be able to see him because the damn canvas is too big. He wouldn’t want anyone walking away thinking that no one else was in the room. He stood back up. Maybe he should wait by the door, offer a welcome to people as they came in? No, that would be way too direct, he knew he’d be weirded out too if someone did that to him. Maybe try to make himself look busy until someone walked in? Yeah, okay, that sounded like a good idea.

Go sort out those paint brushes again, Lucifer.

Determined to keep his mind of of the fact that the clock kept ticking by with taunting consistency, Lucifer took a step in the direction of the brushes he had laid out earlier, thinking he would reorder them from largest to smallest this time when there came a knocking from the back of the room.

Glancing up, he caught sight of Angel Dust leaning against the doorframe, lower arms crossed casually while his upper left splayed out against the door. He wore a lazy grin.

“Heya, short king. This where the arts and crafts show is at?” Lucifer blinked, honest to father shocked that someone had shown up and holy hells he never thought he would have ever been this happy to see the spider in his life.

“Uh, yeah,” he replied intelligently, snapping himself out of it a second later. “I mean, yeah, yes, this is it. Welcome! Here take a seat anywhere you’d like. You have the pick of the lot, ha-ha!”

And now he really thought he ought to kiss the guy or something because instead of one of his usual responses, he simply pushed himself off of the door frame and sauntered over. He picked his way around the room slowly, taking a lap around the studio and observing all the material out on display.

“So, uh, is all of this stuff up for grabs or somethin’?

“Oh, yeah, go ahead and pick whatever speaks to you. Um, have you ever worked with any of this stuff before?”

“Eh, not really,” he said, running a finger over the edge of one of the canvases. “I’ve not exactly spent a lot of my free time exploring the joys of paint or whatever. If it helps, I’m really good with my hands,” he purred, raising a suggestive eyebrow, which Lucifer promptly ignored. Instead he hummed, thinking for a second.

“How do you feel about getting messy?” the angel inquired.

“Now you’re talking!” Angel planted a pair of hands on his hips, using the spare set to run a hand down his body and the other through his hair, his mouth curled in interest at the suggestion.

Lucifer chuckled, finding the humor in the sinner’s response instead of discomfort, and maybe that was the relief talking or maybe it was simply the fact that he was starting to get used to the spider’s antics and personality. Either way, the devil finally found his shoulders able to relax for the first time in the last twelve hours as he walked over to the plastic-covered mound on one of the tables.

“Don’t get too excited, Angel, I was talking about clay. You know, like sculpting. It seems right up your alley. Fun, messy, versatile, plus it’s very forgiving. Perfect for someone venturing into the world of art!”

He dug into the mass, carving out a lump with his claws and presenting it proudly to the spider who blinked down at it indifferently.

“So,” he prompted, “What do you think? Want to give it a try?”

“Uh, sure thing.” Then, with a bit more resigned enthusiasm, “Why not, short king. Ya only get one afterlife after all, right?”

A majority of the hour was spent going over the basics of clay working, Lucifer patiently explaining the different purposes of of the sculpting and carving tools, techniques for shaping and molding the clay, as well as offering a brief, at least he tried to keep it as brief as he possibly could, history of clay and sculpture throughout the ages.

Angel, to his credit, seemed to pay attention for most of the spiel, paying special attention to the images of classical statues the king conjured up and giggling at the nude displays–-“Did these guys really worship guys with such small dicks? No wonder they started giving their statues clothes.” Penis jokes aside, there was a genuine interest from the guy that Lucifer hadn’t expected, and when it came down to letting Angel start putting his newfound knowledge to the test, Lucifer was pleased to see him settle into the task with a respectful, concentrated silence.

Satisfied with their progress and confident that Angel knew where to take it from there, the king walked over to his own easel, basking in the warm giddiness that buzzed through him.

He had to admit that the evening, though it had taken an unanticipated turn, had panned out better than he could have ever hoped. He was looking forward to seeing Charlie again so he could tell her all about it, which was sure to make her happy, too. Just the thought of her proud smile made his own widen to the point that he was sure his cheeks would cramp from smiling so big. Ah well, beats fighting off the sleep hangover of one of his depression naps.

Hopping onto his stool, he pulled his own smock over his head, straightening it out neatly over his clothes and tying it firmly around his waist. He studied the sketch he had started before his earlier anxiety had gotten the better of him and he abandoned the fruitless task. He looked over it with fresh eyes, a new perspective, and tilted his head as he played with the angles of the subject in his mind. Picking up the graphite he had been working with, he set to work, tracing light lines over the canvas, until the image he had in his head started to take shape.

When his alarm finally went off, indicating that their session was over and it was nearing dinner time, Lucifer was happy with the progress he’d made. The piece was far from done, he had barely had time to lay out the bare-boned foundation of it all, but you could see his vision and he knew it would be much easier to pick up from where he left off when he came back tomorrow.

With a final tap and a satisfied hum, Lucifer conjured up a large cloth to drape over the unfinished work, stashing his graphite in one of the pockets of his smock and hopped off his stool.

“Sorry Angel, looks like our time’s up for today. You better go get ready for dinner or Charlie will have my head.” He made his way over to the spider, noting with thinly veiled amusement that the sinner’s sculpture in its current form looked oddly phallic in nature, which he wasn’t sure was intentional or not and was too afraid to ask.

“Sink is in the corner if you want to wash up,” he offered, still studying the clay and was he crazy or was that actually a penis Angel was making?

Angel stood up, stretching his arms out over his head and groaning before taking another look at what he’d started.

“Pretty neat, huh?’ He asked, winking down at the shorter man.

“Really Angel, I’m impressed. The consistency looks good and it looks like you’re really getting a feel for the clay,” Lucifer praised, meaning every word. Angel had really shown a lot of promise, subject matter aside.

“Aren’tcha gonna ask me what it is?”

“Uh, why not just wait to surprise me with the finished product? Wouldn’t want to give it away early, right?”

“Eh, suit yourself, short king. But expect to be dazzled by the result. I’m a man of poetry at heart, you know.”

The king chuckled as Angel made his way over to the sink, lifting the sculpture up from the base and moving it to the side of the room and hopefully out of harm’s way. Angel was still scrubbing bits of clay out from between his fingers when Lucifer planted himself next to him, lathering up his hands to rid himself of the gray residue left by the graphite. How had he managed to smudge it all the way up past his wrists, he’d never know, but he was suddenly glad he’d rolled his sleeves up to his elbows.

“You know,” Angel started, “all jokes aside, this was fun.” And didn’t those eight words just warm the King of Hell’s cold little heart. He continued. “I mean it, too. I wasn’t kidding when I said that I didn’t really spend time doing any of this typa shit when I was alive. Always something else to push, a high to chase, men to distract.” By now the sinner’s hands were scrubbed clean, but he still held them under the faucet’s steady stream. Lucifer watched, quiet as he watched emotions play out over his companion’s face.

“My pops always thought this kinda stuff was for sissies. Never even gave us room to explore interests that didn’t align with the, uh, family business , y’know?”

Lucifer could only nod.

“I know a thing or two about fathers and their agendas,” he replied, offering a small smile in the spider’s direction. “This is a safe place to explore new things, Angel. I mean it. I promise it.”

The faucet shut off and he reached for a paper towel, shaking off the rogue droplets of water and patting them dry. Angel snorted out a chuckle before walking towards the door. Lucifer followed.

“Thanks, short king. Same time tomorrow?”

“Same time tomorrow.” He confirmed, adding with a grin, “And don’t forget to tell your friends!”

“Will do, ya royal shortness. See ya down there in a few.”

Lucifer watched after him as he disappeared down the hallway, feeling strangely airy as he flicked off the studio lights and locked the door. He wouldn’t want to risk anyone coming in and messing with the art, would he?

Feeling a profound sense of hope settling in his belly, he wandered off down the other end of the hall towards the kitchen. His day had been wildly successful and he felt like sharing the love and good vibes he had acquired with all who might benefit from it. Say what you want about the Devil, but he was nothing if not generous, and this was one high that he doesn’t think Charlie would mind him sharing.

Speaking of Charlie, Lucifer glanced at the time and noted that it was nearing dinnertime, so he made his way to the double doors in hopes of helping his daughter and Vaggie finish up the meal, or at the very least set the table before the rest of the gang came down for supper. He braced his palms on both doors, pushing them open with an exaggerated music, anticipating the barrage of questions that were sure to spew from his little girl’s mouth the second she saw him, only to be met with the giddy notes of a swing-y jazz tune.

Lucifer was almost certain that the record-scratch sound that accompanied his unannounced arrival came from Alastor, but honestly he was so put out that he wouldn’t be surprised if the noise originated from him. Yeah, ditto, deer man. This moment right here was definitely record-scratch worthy.

“Um, I’m sorry, what ? What are you doing here?”

And Lucifer wouldn’t say that his mood soured per se, but that lightness he had felt moments ago was replaced by something itchy and he felt like gnawing on himself, pointed teeth and all, just to rid himself of the sensation.

Alastor stood at the stove, stirring at something in an almost comically large pan with a wooden spoon. His ears twitched at the sound of the intruder’s voice, but other than that he gave no physical indications that he had been caught unawares. In fact, the man looked casual. Almost too casual. Suspiciously casual? Lucifer wasn’t sure what degree of casualty was on display, but he did know that he wasn’t a fan of it.

Alastor’s hip was cocked to one side as he leaned over something sizzling and steaming. Lucifer thought he detected a hint of something seafood-y, but wouldn’t be sure until he got a better look over the demon’s shoulder. Gazing at the back of the man in front of him, he noted that his top half seemed surprisingly empty as his eyes trailed from the sinner’s still-swiveling ears to the little bow tied neatly around his waist. He couldn’t see the full thing, but the chords of the apron were the same bright pink as the sinner’s mug, and he didn’t know why, but that little detail made him want to laugh in a funny way instead of an oh-my-god-you’re-so-pathetic-you-pretentious-asshole-you-actually-color-coordinated-you-accessories kind of way.

Ew, okay, moving on from that unwelcome realization, the angel also took note that one of the reasons why he had felt something was off about Alastor’s appearance was because he had tied his hair up into a tiny little ponytail at the back of his head. Lucifer wouldn’t have ever guessed it was long enough to do so to begin with, but there it was in front of him, living proof to never underestimate, yet again, what the Radio Demon was capable of.

The other reason was because Alastor had removed his coat and was handling the cooking ware with those lithe, lengthy arms of his exposed to the elements. And sure, call him dramatic, but he’d never seen much of the demon’s skin before-–he doubted anyone else had –-and it was oddly fascinating to watch how his muscles and tendons flexed and shifted as he expertly maneuvered the food around, the sleeves of his shift having been rolled up neatly to his elbows.

Lucifer had never seen Alastor without his coat, so seeing him without it, plus his exposed forearms from where he had rolled up his sleeves had Lucifer feeling like he was looking at the man naked, which was not a thought he ever thought he would be thinking about and one which was to immediately scrubbed from the harddrive of his mind.

All of this to say that the sight he was met with was weird, uncanny almost. Without his embellishments, Lucifer was begrudging to admit the fact that the sinner’s height really stood out. With no coat on, the angel could clearly make out where the man’s torso ended and his long legs started and fucking hell was this guy tiny .

Sure, he’s always known the demon was slim, but again, the lack of a coat left nothing to the imagination, and the truth of it was staring Lucifer straight in the eye. His shoulders, surprisingly, kept their broadness, which narrowed dramatically to meet his narrow hips and his waist was small enough for even Lucifer to wrap his claws around its entirely with no difficulty. The combination was... intriguing? And while Lucifer would typically find himself put off by the proportions, he found it kinda worked for the demon in an almost morbid kind of way.

Honestly, if Lucifer wasn’t well aware of the guy’s appetite, he’d be concerned that he was starving, but the slimness of Alastor’s features suited him in the oddest of ways. He moved those long limbs with refined and purposeful gestures, lending an air of ease and effortless grace to his movements. Everything was calculated: every extension, every flick, every reach. It was almost like he couldn’t help himself from letting the rest of them know how intelligent, how in-control he was, and how cunning he could be.

Of course it didn’t help that the sinner was outrightly charming, even if he only did so as a manipulation tactic. He was all wide smiles and jazz music. Paired with the fluffy ears and dainty little antlers that crowned him, Lucifer could see all the makings of an unassuming prey. And just how easy it would be to believe that facade of his, Lucifer just now beginning to wonder how many had fallen victim to his innocent-enough appearance only to be ensnared by the unforgiving jaws of an apex predator and one of Hell’s most feared overlords.

And when that predator finally turned the full intensity of his red eyes on Lucifer, it was as though his entire being shuddered, body and soul.

“I see that partaking in literature clearly wasn’t the appropriate cognitive exercise of choice for you, Your Majesty. Your memory has only worsened.” He turned back to the stove for a brief moment, only to turn the heat down low. He continued.

“I believe it was you who volunteered both you and myself to help Charlie out with her chores for today. Ring a bell, hm?”

Now that he mentioned it, that did sound a little familiar, and the morning’s conversation came back to him. Alastor had volunteered to make dinner tonight in her place. He had forgotten that little tidbit of information amidst the stress and chaos of the day. Oops.

“Ay, yes, right you are, Al. Must’ve slipped my mind, which is normal even for young, healthy-minded individuals too, might I add. I’m not senile.”

“You could have fooled me, Your Majesty.”

“Har-har,” Lucifer chided back. “What are you making anyway?”

“Crawfish etouffée,” Alastor responded. Ah, that particular dish rang a bell in Lucifer’s brain, too.

“I didn’t know you liked Creole food.” Alastor whipped around at that, fixing the king with an affronted glare and a tight, toothy smile.

“I would hope I would, considering that it was the food that dominated my living meals.”

Okay, fair, but also unfair because how the fuck was Lucifer supposed to know that? It’s not like Alastor was the poster child for being open about his history, fuck hardly anyone in Hell was, Lucifer included.

“You’re not exactly an open book, Al.”

“Hm, yes, and I would prefer to keep it that way, Your Majesty. And it’s Alastor ,” he added with a hiss.

“Fine, fine, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Won’t happen again, pinky promise.”

“Do you even have a pinky?”

Hm, wasn’t that just a darn good question to ponder.

Fuck.

Did he have a pinky?

“Irrelevant. What is relevant is that I, in all my good graces, have come to help you finish setting up for dinner,” Lucifer said, swiftly changing the subject to address the real reason why he had come into the kitchen in the first place. No need for a corporeal crisis so soon after the last one, am I right? Ha-ha, ha...

“You came here to help me?” Alastor asked, doubtful as he eyed the little man in front of him who was grinning winningly up at him.

“Of course!” A pause. “Okay, so maybe not initially. I came in to help Charlie and Vaggie, but since you’re here cooking dinner, I suppose it would be rude of me to not extend and follow through on my offer,” he corrected. Alastor’s ears twitched in irritation. He turned back to the stove to stir some more.

“How touching, I’m an afterthought.”

“Not an afterthought, an amendment,” Lucifer tried. The Radio Demon’s ambient static thickened. The angel waited patiently for a more verbal response.

“Very well, you may set the table.”

Mindful of the razor’s edge he was already tiptoeing on, Lucifer got to work, laying out dishes and silverware as well as condiments, napkins, and pitchers of water on either end of the table. Alastor didn’t say another word, simply kept to his tunes and pot-stirring.

You know who else was really good at stirring the pot? Lucifer. Having been reminded of that morning’s conversation, he recalled what Charlie had brought up about Alastor’s microphone. Performing a visual sweep of the kitchen for any potential hiding places, he noted that it was, once again, removed from the scene. No, no, no, can’t have that now, can we.

“So,” he started, going for casual and not at all nosy. “Where’s that staff of yours these days?”

Nailed it, stealth mode definitely activated. And you see, Lucifer could be surprisingly perceptive when he wanted to be. One did not fulfill the role of Angel of Creation without knowing how to pay attention to details, after all. Anyone else might not have noticed the minuscule skip in music that left the demon at Lucifer’s inquiry, but the angel knew better and Alastor was not one to make such big mistakes without cause.

Gotcha.

“One hardly requires a microphone when cooking dinner. Wouldn’t you agree, Your Majesty? Unless, of course, you prefer to cook with one hand. However, I have it on good authority that even you choose to forego any unnecessary accessories when cooking, no?”

Damnit, he got him there.

“Fair point. I was just curious since I haven’t really seen it at all since our little trip to the bakery.”

Since I felt the holy power that burned through it with my own hand.

He studied Alastor out of the corner of his eye, searching for any indication of what he might be hiding. But he’d said it before and he’ll say it again: Al had an extremely good poker face and the man was giving away nothing .

“I wasn’t aware you cared so deeply for me, Your Majesty, but I can assure you that I’m in no need of someone keeping tabs on me. I can handle myself, after all. Why, I’m sure someone of your status has much better things to do with their time then check up on a lowly sinner, hm?”

Alastor had cornered him, parroting what Lucifer had told him all those days ago in a near-perfect manner. He had also avoided his question entirely.

Okay, demon, you’ve won the battle, but this war is far from being over.

“Of course,” Lucifer responded, all traces of his former pageantry and faux casualty gone. “How silly of me,” he spoke flatly.

Before long, the crew had settled around the dining table to eat what Alastor had prepared. Chatter flowed easily and the gaps in conversation were filled with the sounds of clinking silverware and laughter as the Hazbins swapped stories about their days. Lucifer played his part dutifully, ever-attentive to what Charlie had to share and even cracking a smile as Angel brought up the topic about the Ancient Greek obsession with miscro-penises. But his attention never fully left Alastor.

He had placed the record, cued the lever, and dropped the needle, and although Alastor knew this beat well, there was no room for error when dancing with the Devil, and this deer was bound to stumble sooner or later.

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#alastor x lucifer #lucifer x alastor #alastor #lucifer morningstar #hazbin hotel #radioapple fic #radioapple #appleradio fic #appleradio #ao3 #ao3 fic #hazbin hotel fic #inthelandofgodsandmonstersfic #itlogam

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iconic-ponytail · 3 years

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there's always money in the banana stand

riverdale promptathon week 3: yellow + business

Even as the sun sets, even as the breeze blows, the hell furnace of July in Riverdale burns on. It’s triply as sweltering inside the tiny booth running three freezers, offloading heat to sustain the frozen merchandise inside. “How can it be so hot in there when we are supposed to be selling frozen bananas?” JB complains, at least twice a week.

She’s twelve. Complaint is her new first language. She complains about being left in Riverdale while Gladys went back to Toledo. She complains about living in a trailer park that usually does not have warm water. She complains about their father being imprisoned for covering up a gruesome murder. But most of all, she complains about working in the banana stand.

Child labor laws aside, Jughead can’t blame her for that one. He hates the damn banana stand, but it’s their best shot.

Gladys’ monthly check covers rent and utilities for the trailer. Everything else is on him, now. The idiot eighteen year old who decided to petition the court to be his sister’s legal guardian. Well, and his idiot mom who signed off on it. So he needs money, and the Jones family has never been particularly flush with cash, just trampled over by FP’s failed “business opportunities.”

Enter: the banana stand.

It’s not the fastest revenue stream, Jughead finds. But it’s got potential.

Initially, Dilton doesn’t let him sell during the Twilight Drive-In’s concession stand hours. Before or after the movie, sure, but no overlap. “I’m not worried about competition, Jones. It’s just too humiliating for me to watch you sweat through that horrible yellow polo you call ‘branding.’”

But when customers asked him more than twice a night when the banana stand would be open, Dilton caved.

It’s not like being open during the screening hours is a whole lot more preferable. He only just transferred from Southside to Riverdale High last spring; now he’s the rising senior who hands out phallic symbols from inside a giant phallic symbol. Not exactly a boon to his popularity.

Still, recently the money is enough to pay the internet bill and keep JB fed for dinner when she can’t go to the summer breakfast and lunch program at the local park district. It’s still not enough for him to eat particularly well, and the smell of hot dogs and slurp of his classmates’ slushies makes the heat feel like a minor inconvenience.

He eyes the tip jar, willing himself to wait on rampaging the concession stand until the beginning of the film roar dies down. It’s a double feature tonight, which means maybe he can score enough cash to cover those damn college application fees his counselor will start hounding him about week one of school.

Then he sees her—Betty Cooper. She’s laughing, watching Archie Andrews try to catch popcorn in his mouth, tossed by his paramour, Veronica Lodge. She pauses to sip from her slushie straw, her lips—which he’s watched argue against homophobic and racist comments in their advanced lit class, or pressed to the cheek of her other best friend, Kevin Keller. Which he’s imagined, doing slightly less savory things, though the mere thought of said imagining has his heart pounding wildly.

(Jughead’s been eating way too many fucking bananas. Someone needs to check his potassium levels.)

His absolutely pathetic gaze, once available three times a day in their shared classes where Jughead has still not managed to exert any confidence whatsoever regarding speech, eye contact, or general acknowledgement of Betty Cooper’s existence other than whatever drooling may or may not be happening, all of which he finds he has no control over… is all interrupted by the absolute polar opposite of Betty Cooper. Hiram Lodge zooms up to the banana stand on his segway, angling to a stop just before taking out the stand’s foundation.

“Still getting a hang of that, Mayor Lodge?”

Hiram grimaces. “Just checking that you’ve renewed your business permit, Jones.”

They do this once a week. It’s still the same permit.

“You know,” Hiram starts as Jughead rustles for the paperwork to make him go the fuck away, “I could find you an arrangement with a better banana supplier. For a discount. If you’re interested.”

Jughead rolls his eyes. “I’m not interested in your GMO, black market bananas, Hiram.”

Hiram gives him a pointed look. Jughead rolls his eyes even harder. “Mayor Lodge.” He proffers the papers, Hiram waves them away. “I’ll take one chocolate peanut butter dip. With peanuts.”

Jughead kisses his teeth. “That will be $3.50.”

Hiram’s whole face goes serpentine. “Not between business partners, Jones. Put it on my tab.”

Jughead grits his teeth, handing the finished banana so aggressively he hopes that the chocolate splatters and stains Hiram’s $500 tie. It is only slightly worth it to watch Hiram struggle with navigating the segway one-handed, frozen banana in the other.

He muffles a chuckle before realizing he’s used the dead end of the chopped peanut topping, and exits the stand to update the order board hanging on the outside. It’s mostly an excuse to feel a ten degree drop in temperature, a sweet relief he might be able to extend by grabbing a hot dog before the intermission rush.

He’s crossing off peanuts from the topping list and spinning around when he hears a shriek and a sudden, cold slosh across his chest. The yellow polo drips with artificial blue slushie, but Jughead swallows his fucking hell when he sees that the shriek, gaping stare of horror, and stumble in question all belong to his very own blonde kryptonite.

“Oh my god. Oh my GOD, jesus, shit, I’m so sorry!”

Jughead is frozen while Betty grabs about half his napkin dispenser and starts pawing at his shirt in a vain attempt to right the giant sticky blue mess all over his chest.

Finally, Jughead swallows the golf ball in his throat and chokes out. “Honestly, it’s fine. That stand is a sauna. I needed that.”

Betty stops, both her blotting and her stream of apologizing (which includes a fair bit of cursing, and he is a little revolted with himself by how much this turns him on).

“It’s going to get very sticky, soon. Maybe I should buy a bottle of cold water?”

Jughead can’t help himself. “Oh, impromptu yellow t-shirt contest?”

Betty grins.

I did that.

“Do you have any employees who could bring you another shirt?”

Jughead shakes his head. “Just my sister. She’s playing video games at home. There’s no earthly way she’ll bring me a spare.”

Betty cocks her head. “I had a feeling you were more than the silent back row kind of guy.”

The fact that Betty Cooper has, at any point, considered what kind of guy he is triggers full-on nervous blathering. “I’m usually very tired at school. I have this little sister—but I’m kind of um, her guardian. So I’m doing this stupid banana stand thing because it’s like one of the three assets to our entire family name I guess? Anyway, it’s hard to engage with Haggly’s basic discussion questions at eight in the morning when you spent the whole night dreaming about wholesale banana margins.”

He’s essentially vomiting words, but Betty is still smiling.

“Anyway, I should crawl back into my fruit-shaped purgatory and let you go back to your friends.”

She’s biting her lip, hedging. “Honestly, they’re probably using the alone time to make out in the car, and I’d rather let them get all their sexual tension out so that I don’t have to feel it radiating off of them for the whole second half of the double feature.”

Jughead laughs and tamps down the impulse to offer her a frozen banana, because he cannot possibly say something like that without making it sound sexual.

“What are frozen banana profit margins like, anyway?” Betty asks, either genuinely interested or legitimately flirting with him. Jughead finds both potentials baffling.

Jughead hesitates, then ducks inside the stand, pulling out his spiral bound notebook. “I’m still kind of figuring it out. All my records are in here.”

Betty sidles up to the stand, taking up the whole window. They’re both leaning over the scribbled line items on college ruled paper; he can smell her shampoo. She takes the notebook, scanning thoroughly.

“Do you have a pencil?”

He hands her one and observes her going to work, writing out some algebraic formula and calculating quickly in her head. There is a calculator within his reach, but he thinks handing it to her might come off as an insult. (Jughead wouldn’t know; he assumes Betty is in an advanced math class. Jughead is not.)

After a few minutes of watching her devoted focus, thinking about her hands touching his pencil, thinking about her hands wrapped around his hand, or his—

“I don’t know how to tell this to you, Jug.”

The shortening of his name stops his heart for a jolt, and his response is embarrassingly delayed. “What is it?”

Betty winces but smiles through it, a combination she’s surely learned to use when delivering bad news. It’s well earned, it really does soften the blow.

“There’s no money in the banana stand. At least, not with these margins.”

Jughead finds himself less than devastated by this news, mostly because it makes a hell of a lot of sense. The messenger doesn’t hurt, either.

“But,” she interrupts. “I don’t know if you’ve nailed down your course load for senior year. But I’m taking AP Econ? This could be, um, a good project. Like, if you want to take the class. Or even if you don’t. Not that you’re like a project or… whatever. I’m just saying we could figure it out. Make lemonade out of… bananas.”

Betty Cooper is extremely cute when she stammers.

Jughead doesn’t know what to do, so he gives her an easy out. “I can’t like, hire you, if that wasn’t obvious by the whole… deficit spending or whatever the whole negative circled number at the bottom of the page really means.”

She flushes. “No, that would be highway robbery. I just thought there might be an… opportunity. For um, us. I mean, for you and I. I mean—” she clears her throat, as if it’s closing up. “An academic opportunity. Or, in your case, professional. Well, a betterment of your livelihood. Okay, um, shit, just… I should go!”

She turns away, her face the deepest scarlet he’s ever seen.

“Betty, wait.”

She pivots back, eyes down at the ground.

“How about I buy you a new slushie and you come back into the booth. Tell me everything I’m doing wrong for the rest of the night.”

Betty looks up, biting the corner of her smile. “Sounds like a deal.”

They shake on it.

#this is unhinged but i had to ok #I HAD TO #riverdalepromptathon #riverdale fanfiction #bughead fanfiction #riverdalepromptathonweek3

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sociallyawkward--fics · 3 years

Text

Dirty Little Secret

Hello I just finished this and I have not edited it and I am never going to reread it lol. It is probably disjointed, OOC, and incomprehensible. Welcome to my super sick and drug-induced It oneshot. Also for the title I was torn between this and ‘truth or dare’

My friends also told me I had to put this joke in the author’s notes: “I’m paying homage to the original It. King was on coke when he wrote it, and I’m on a wild amount of cold medicine and illness”

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Summary: Miraculously, they all lived. They killed that damn clown and they lived. Now, Richie just had one last thing to say.

Word Count: 1877 words

[ao3 link]

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The sounds of his old friends splashing around in the quarry faded around him. Distantly, as though he wasn’t in his own body, Richie could hear them cracking jokes and laughing at each other, as if the seven of them hadn’t almost just lost their lives.

As if Eddie hadn’t almost--

Richie focused on cleaning his glasses. Without them on, it was blurry and hard to tell, but he thought there was still blood embedded into the new spiderwebbing of cracks left on one of the lenses. It wouldn’t come out. Really, it could be anyone’s blood, he’d lost track of their injuries by this point.

But Richie knew who’s it could have been.

Bev had said the Deadlights gave her visions of their deaths, but he hadn’t known just how vivid they could be until he dropped out of them himself. He’d opened his eyes to Eddie being skewered above him, helpless to do anything but scream his name, the Loser’s a chorus of the same. Then, he blinked, and Eddie was above him laughing and cheering his “victory.”

Richie had barely rolled them out of the way in time for one of It’s massive claws to dig deep into the stone where they had been laying. Pennywise made a noise of rage, but Richie hadn’t allowed himself even a moment to think. He’d grabbed Eddie and ran.

And now here they were. They’d killed It, crushed Its heart in their hands, and Derry was safe. They were safe. Eddie was safe. Richie sat on a rock in the dirty quarry water, distantly aware of the splash wars going on while Eddie chopped his hands and told them how unsanitary it was, cleaning themselves in dirty water. Richie knew he was being unusually quiet, and someone was bound to notice soon, but he felt like if he didn’t laugh, he was going to cry.

And for once, Richie was all out of jokes.

Then, the absolute worst thing happened: Richie was dragged into the spotlight.

Apparently, the other six Losers had been recounting the “best moments” of their battle. Richie didn’t remember much, truthfully, aside from running for his life and sniveling like a little kid.

“Hey, Rich,” Beverly called. “What was that whole ‘Truth or Dare’ thing about anyway?”

Richie let out an awkward laugh, plastering a smile onto his face. He’d gotten good at it, over the years, with how much he hated his own act, but now it just felt stiff and misshapen. He waved his hands in the air as he spoke, his glasses flopping around precariously in his grip.

“Oh, you know, just something that damn clown had brought up.”

Bill laughed. “Why would he b-b-bring up Truth or D-Dare?”

Bev swam over and started poking at his sides as she laughed. They were all laughing so much. They were clearly handling the trauma far differently than him.

“Why would It use that?” She teased. “Got something you’re afraid to confess, Trashmouth?”

Richie forced out another laugh, sounding weak to his own ears. More than you know.

Instead, Richie reached for a distraction. “Yeah, how fast it took me to finish with Eddie’s mom--”

“Beep beep, asshole!” Eddie shouted, and Richie’s next laugh felt a little less desperate. Teasing Eddie was familiar and comfortable, and Richie was almost tempted to put his glasses back on to see the adorable way his jaw clenched with annoyance.

“Remember that one time Bill dared Mike to smuggle one of the sheep into his grandfather’s house?” Ben asked, and if Richie wasn’t so gone on Eddie, he could’ve kissed him. Intentionally or not, he’d just saved Richie a whole lot of floundering to keep the attention off where he wanted it least.

The group laughed and Mike shook his head with a grin. “He was so mad,” Mike said. “I thought for sure he’d make me sleep in the barn for that.”

“Or what about the t-t-time Eddie dared Richie to eat that year-old twinkie we f-found in R-R-Richie’s room,” Bill said.

Even Richie had to laugh at that one. “Yeah, where was the concern for my health there, Eddie Spaghetti?”

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie snapped, though there was no heat behind it. “Plus, those things never fucking expire. They’re garbage, but that wouldn’t have hurt you.”

“Oh yeah? It tasted as bad as your mom’s--”

Eddie splashed Richie, sending a wave of nasty quarry water into his mouth and preventing him from finishing his sentence. He sputtered and coughed, laughing as he spit it out, and the weight of everything felt a little less oppressive now that he was laughing with them all.

“Oh!” Bev said, “What about the time Stan dared Bill--”

Richie grinned as he went back to trying to dig the blood out of the cracks in his glasses with his nails. They were short and stubby, so it wasn’t exactly easy, but he managed to make some progress. This time, though, he made sure not to tune his friends out. He listened to each of their stories, letting their laughter wrap around him like a warm, worn, familiar blanket, just like he had always been searching for when they were kids, and slowly felt his shoulders relax. And as they were laughing, the thought occurred to Richie.

What was he so afraid of?

This was Richie’s family. After everything they’d been through, killer alien clowns and all, would his sexuality really be the thing to break them? It’d be a little silly at that point, Richie thought.

A little silly, and a lot unfair. And who knew how they’d react? He’d seen them all in their underwear, shared blankets and chairs and beds with them, held them close (he wished he could do that now, but he wasn’t brave enough to be so touchy as an adult). What if they accused him of taking advantage of them when they hadn’t known? What if they were disgusted by him? What if they forgot him again, but this time by choice?

Richie was forced out of his thoughts when someone shrieked, and he promptly realized he’d allowed himself to tune everyone out again as he catastrophized. His head shot up at the shriek, his heart pounding in panic. Instead of a psychotic clown or a gruesome murder, Richie caught sight of Ben, who had seemingly heaved Beverly out of the water, tossing Bev as far as he could back into the murky water. She came up sputtering and laughing, arguing that whatever she’d said had definitely happened, no matter what he said.

Bill and Mike were leaning on each other from the force of their laughter. Ben had a sly grin on his face, though the corner of his lip was twisted a little in embarrassment as Bev kept hounding at him. Stan wasn’t outright laughing so much as he was grinning, but that was pretty much the same thing when it came to him. Eddie was laughing so hard that his cheeks had gone pink.

Richie promptly realized that if he didn’t do it now, he was never going to get up the courage to do it again.

“I’m gay,” Richie said loudly, the words echoing uncomfortably across the quarry.

The sounds of splashing and play fighting stopped and Richie heard more than saw everyone turn toward him. He kept his glasses off, eyes focused on his hands. If he had to look at them, see them clearly, he wouldn’t get through this. Every cell in his being was telling him to bury this with a joke, to move on and make a funny and forget the whole thing, but he couldn’t. Not this time. He needed to stop hiding.

“I’m gay,” he said again, quieter this time. “That’s why It brought up ‘Truth or Dare.’ Because I wouldn’t want anyone to pick truth.”

Richie kept his head down, but he heard the others moving through the water. He startled when he felt Bev’s arms wrap around one of his own. Richie looked up and saw his friends (or, really, saw blobs shaped vaguely like his friends) all coming toward him, wrapping themselves around him where he sat.

Ben curled himself around Richie’s knee, right below Bev. On Richie’s other side, Mike, Bill, and Stan all crushed in trying to wrap around him in some way. Mike ended up wrapped around Richie’s leg, which probably looked ridiculous, if only Richie could see, while Bill and Stan curled up around his arm and side. Then, Eddie came up behind Richie, wrapping his arms carefully around Richie’s shoulders and resting his head on Richie’s own (probably taking advantage of being taller than Richie, for the moment).

“We’re proud of you, Rich,” Stan said quietly.

Tears stung at Richie’s eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He sat there for a few minutes, soaking in their warmth and care, closing his eyes and letting peace finally overcome him. The secret, his dirty little secret, had finally been aired. He didn’t need to be scared of it anymore, at least not in this small circle (coming out as a public figure was an entirely different story, and Richie sure as fuck wasn’t ready for that yet). Pennywise’s words, echoing in his head since they were said, finally began to quiet.

“Thank you,” Rich said eventually, his shields formed from humor finally coming back up. He could only handle so much emotional vulnerability without making a joke. “I don’t have my glasses on so I don’t know who you people are, but thank you.”

Richie’s friends laughed, and he could feel Eddie’s chin brushing against his head with the force of Eddie’s eyeroll. Richie himself chuckled a little, blinking to clear the lingering tears from his eyes before they could fall. It was then that he noticed his hands: one clasped tightly between Ben and Beverly’s fingers, and the other resting on one of Eddie’s arms, Stan’s hand resting atop his.

“Oh shit,” he mumbled.

He felt more than saw (seeing as he couldn’t see) Beverly and Mike look up at him.

“I legit can’t find my glasses.”

A chorus of “Are you serious?” met Richie’s ears and he almost laughed again, but it was true. Sometime between the six of them latching onto him, Richie’s glasses had completely vanished.

Richie settled in where he sat as the others went off to find his glasses, diving beneath the water and arguing between themselves. The only person who didn’t move away was Eddie, who shifted from standing behind him to sitting next to him. As he heard Bev laugh, followed by a splash (Richie would bet money she just dunked Ben, the two had been attached at the hip and making heart eyes at each other since they escaped Neibolt), he felt Eddie grab his right hand and interlock their fingers.

There was a distinct lack of cold, wet metal as Eddie squeezed his hand, and Richie swore his heart skipped more than a few beats.

Maybe he wasn’t the only one with a secret, Richie thought as Eddie’s head leaned against his shoulder for a few seconds. And maybe, just maybe, Richie wouldn’t have to go home and face his nightmares alone after this.

#it #it (movie)#it (2017)#it (2019)#reddie #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrack #stan uris #beverly marsh #bill denbrough #mike hanlon #ben hanscom #the losers club #it fanfic #reddie fanfic #My writing

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playing--koi · 5 years

Text

Creatures Alike

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Reader

Rating: 18+

Warning(s): SMUT, brief mentions of violence and torture, brief mentions of blood and injury, swearing, unprotected sex (y’all this is a mythical world, but stds are very real here so keep that shit locked up)

Summary: A mysterious Witcher saves you from criminal sacrifice and quite a grim background of servitude and torture. Since he’s decided to nurse you back to health and treat you with compassion, you’ve felt something awaken inside of you for the first time in your bleak life.

Word Count: 5.7k

MASTERLIST

The coarse bark of the tree trunk pressed painfully into the skin of your back. You weren’t sure if the liquid you felt soaking through your rags was that of sweat or blood. The hot, sticky air of the forest was palpable and, if you weren’t otherwise occupied with being tied to a tree, no doubt the heat would’ve instead been the subject of your complaints.

So how had you ended up tied to a tree? Simple. You were a criminal, ostracized and locked away; a long life of torture awaiting you for the murder of your village’s king. However, you didn’t regret it. Hell, you’d practically give anything to go back in time and do it all over again, savoring the vision of that vile man’s blood that glistened upon your dagger.

He got exactly what he’d deserved and you’d sworn to every high priestess sent to talk to the “daughter of Lilit” that you’d never repent. As far as you knew, you had no relation to the demon goddess of the night, intent on exterminating the human race; though you decided you’d lean into it. It was easier to claim Lilit’s likeness than to relive the horrors that you’d experienced at the hands of that man.

You were an orphan that’d been left on the doorstep of the king one night. It quickly became the subject of town gossip because your ears showed that of elven heritage. Not fully, but certainly enough to be recognized. Against all suggestion from his council, he decided to take you in to one day become a servant girl. The village ate that garbage up from the palm of his unscathed, perfectly manicured hands; woes of his “kind, gentle spirit” and “innate care for all creatures, no matter how disgusting”.

It made you sick. He made you sick. With his creative list of unthinkable punishments that he saved for only you. The halfblooded elf who was used as an outlet for his rage. His council knew, his family knew, neighboring royals knew. And no one batted an eye. If it kept their king happy, drain the elf’s blood.

So it shouldn’t have been a surprise when you killed him. But evidently it was. There was talks of hanging you, burning you at the stake, stoning you to death; frankly, you’d lost track of the plethora of capital suggestions. Everyone cried of how ungrateful you were. That he’d accept one of your kind just to be murdered for his generosity. It almost made you laugh that these people were so busy sneering at you over a man that they only pretended to know the first thing about. In their minds, the honorable king would never lay a finger on an innocent creature, but oh, how wrong they were.

And now here you were. In the stead of public execution, you were now being offered as a sacrifice to the griffin that had been terrorizing the village. You’re pretty sure that everyone knew one lousy meal wouldn’t do anything to quench the abomination’s blood-thirst, but everyone was excited by the idea of a painful, terrifying, and gruesome death for a criminal such as yourself. Well, fuck them too.

You weren’t quite sure why they’d tied you up in the forest, considering griffins mostly traveled by flight, making it nearly impossible to see you hidden within the tree tops and thick foliage. Either you’d die by some miracle of the griffin finding you or perhaps another horrid creature, starvation, dehydration, or bandits. So many options, lucky you.

Lightheaded due to exhaustion and overheating, you couldn’t tell if you were imagining the noises that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. After years of mental torture and loneliness, you were more than aware of your mind’s ability to hallucinate quite grand things. Like that one time you’d managed to have an entire argument with your dinner rations. And you weren’t even sure if you’d won.

However you couldn’t imagine that your own mind would be able to conjure up the noise that you’d just heard. A growl so menacing and threatening, you were sure this was your end. And you hadn’t even seen the beast yet. You’d been through a lot, so you were not usually convinced that you wouldn’t survive something because, after so many days spent begging not to, you still prevailed. But this might actually be it.

And then you saw it. After many tales of such a beast; paintings, sonnets, songs, epic novels: a griffin. It was huge, grotesque, and sinister. Its face looked permanently smug as it traipsed in and out of your vision through openings. And it was on foot; how peculiar. But the closer you looked, the easier it was to see that it was injured. With a trail of blood closely following it, you concluded that it must’ve been its wings because, had it been another extremity, it probably wouldn’t have been walking as easily as it was.

But what creature would attack something so massive and menacing?

You kept your breaths as silent as possible, remaining as still as you could. You weren’t sure how good its hearing was. You didn’t really know much about griffins. You didn’t really know much about anything, to be honest. Spending most of your life hidden from the world certainly did an excellent job of also hiding the world from you. Whenever you could sneak a book from the king’s library, you would, but any of his more riveting, knowledgable ones were kept very far from your reach.

It was now far darker than it had been just a few minutes before, so you prayed to the gods that it wouldn’t see you. Seeming to be wandering aimlessly, the creature’s steps were slow and heavy before it made a sort of bedding with the surrounding leaves and curled up—as much as such a large body could “curl”—and began to snore.

Great, I pray to the gods for safety and instead they send a griffin to my exact location where it falls asleep, no doubt ready to maul me the moment I make an inkling of a sound. What a fucking joke.

Before you can agonize for too much longer, you see a flash of white in your peripheral vision and you whip your neck to face it. You see a man. A very large, very intimidating man with long white hair and dressed head to toe in black. He had weapons sheathed on his back and moved with a swiftness of someone who really knew how to use them. And he appeared to be purposely moving closer to the griffin. Oh no. He was going to wake it up and you were both going to die.

Well, he was just speeding up the inevitable. So you decided to watch. At least enjoy some entertainment in your last moments.

You couldn’t help but notice his pure beauty and the rugged nature of it. He was a daunting presence, one of indisputable importance and humble pride. He moved like both the lion and the gazelle; he was a contradiction, both gentle and dangerous. Reckless yet careful. Gods, he was approaching a griffin, yet it seemed to be just a daily occurrence for him. Maybe you both were going to live if his stature was anything to go by.

He was then standing over the sleeping body of the griffin, unsheathing his sword with delicacy so as not to awaken the beast. And without a sliver of hesitation, he chopped the overgrown bird’s head cleanly off its shoulders.

You gasped without a thought and he quickly searched the darkness for the source of the noise and you could feel the blood drain from your face. Sure, he’d saved you from the imminent danger, but what if he was the new imminent danger? A man that confident and sly couldn’t be underestimated by a prisoner tied to a tree.

In the dark of the night, you could make out his eyes just as they found you. His brows furrowed, no doubt confused by your predicament. You couldn’t imagine it was a common occurrence to find a woman tied to a tree in the middle of a forest right after killing a griffin. He slowly began to inch closer to you before he was only a few footsteps away.

You could now make out the rich amber of his eyes as they scanned your…dilemma. His face was nothing short of perfect— sculpted by the delicate fingers of the gods—and mauled ever since by the cruelty he’d clearly faced on the continent. His face was dirty and battered, like he’d picked a pub brawl with the wrong gang of thugs. But after seeing the cool and collected way he slayed that animal, you couldn’t imagine him losing any fight.

And then he spoke. A deep rumble that sounded harsh to unprepared ears. His voice was that of smoke; thick and mysterious—throaty and coarse. It awoke something primal in you that’d been stifled perhaps your entire life. So much so that you’d forgotten to listen to what he’d actually said.

“Ma’am?” He inquired, clearly trying to get your attention. Little did he know he had it undivided.

Your curiosity got the better of you and you couldn’t resist.

“Who are you?” You wondered aloud, your voice remaining constant in such a threatening situation. Due to the trials of your life, it’d been a long time since you feared death.

“Geralt,” he grumbled. Well, it didn’t exactly cover the complexities of your question, but it was a start.

“Are you going to kill me, Geralt?”

He grunted in response, but you could swear you saw a hint of amusement in his eyes. He pulled the sword from its place hilted on his shoulder and you closed your eyes to brace for impact, but instead of an untimely demise, you simply felt your balance slipping as the rope was no longer holding you up straight.

Before you could land face-first on the forest floor, you could feel a forearm reach out and catch you around the waist. Upon opening your eyes, you could see that you were angled toward the ground and, had this peculiar man not reached his hand out and almost effortlessly stopped your downfall, you’d have had a mouthful of twigs.

He pulled you back up straight and, after no longer feeling your need for his support, he left you to stand on your own—though he watched you like a mare would her foal. Making sure you didn’t immediately go topsy-turvy. The absence of his warmth around your belly was somehow even more uncomfortable than the sweltering heat. You couldn’t even begin to think how sweaty he was under all of that black leather. What you’d give to get him out of it.

You tried to physically shake the thoughts from your head.

“May I ask why you were tied to a tree?” He questioned, sizing you up, almost as if he was guessing what the reason could be himself.

“My village is convinced that I’m the daughter of Lilit, so they left me as a human sacrifice for that griffin,” you pointed to the recently-slain beast.

He raised his eyebrows at your confession. “So you’re the servant girl who murdered the king,” his eyes narrowed as he continued, “I’ve heard talk of you. You’re not exactly spoken about favorably, considering you killed one of the continent’s most well-regarded rulers,”.

You felt a pang in your chest. You were so sick of the assumptions that everyone made about you. How you were a no-good, selfish, bloodthirsty elf. Always defending yourself from people who would never know the truth. Well, if that’s what they all thought, there was no use trying to change their minds.

“That would be me.” You sneered, “Probably should’ve just left me to die, huh?” You pushed past him, stomping away from your beautiful savior. Even a mysteriously handsome man saving your life couldn’t be a source of happiness.

However you didn’t exactly have time to dwell on it too much before your vision blurred and you could feel your body giving out. You were dehydrated, overheated, starved, and possibly bleeding. When was luck ever on your side?

You crumpled to the ground, a deafening ring reverberating through your head. Your body ached as your mind blanked. You didn’t even notice that you were now being moved. Your eyes grew heavier, heavier, heavier.

There you were, back in the basement of the castle. Drenched in your own blood, the color a more muted red as it mixed with that of your sweat. Your ankle was raw from where the shackle was tightly bound to it, dirt and grime seeping within the cut.

You couldn’t possibly be back here, you’d killed him. He was supposed to be gone. But the sounds of his boots thundering down the stairs alerted you that it was far from over.

You startled awake, gasping for air. In a fit of panic, you jumped up from the makeshift bed you’d been asleep on, frantically searching the room for an explanation. You quickly came to the conclusion that you’d found yourself within an abandoned cottage of sorts. And you were not alone.

Geralt studied you with a confused intensity. His brows were furrowed as he sat in a chair that was situated next to the bed you’d been asleep in. An opened book was settled on his lap.

Your eyes drifted from him and instead looked down at your own body and saw that several areas had been bandaged, including places that you hadn’t even known to be injured.

“Clearly they’re not too kind to prisoners in your village,” He stated after seeing that you’d been studying your own wounds.

“Why did you help me?” You questioned.

He cocked his head to the side, confused by your response. He probably expected some sort of gratitude in your words instead of the cautious interrogation that he was now being met with.

“You said it yourself, I’m a murderer,” you pushed further, “so why did you help me?” You gritted your teeth, the pain throbbing in your head did nothing to assuage the rage you felt at his dismissal of you upon your first meeting.

He inhaled deeply before answering your question. “I was originally going to take you back to your village along with the griffin’s head in hopes of some sort of…compensation,” you rolled your eyes at his honesty, “but when I examined your wounds further, I didn’t think you would live through the journey without some proper treatment.” He answered frankly.

“So your plan is to heal me and then turn me in?” You scoffed.

“Originally, yes. However, the more I’ve studied you, the more curious I’ve become.” He set the book on the ground and crossed his legs, leaning further back in the chair. Even from across the room, you could feel that the probing was about to begin. “Their stories don’t really align with what I’ve seen from you. What do you have to fear? Your village speaks as if they’re terrified of you. All anyone seems to call you is the daughter of Lilit, the elf with no soul—so what would you have to be afraid of?”

You sputtered out a laugh at the sheer irony of it all. What did you have to be afraid of? What a laughable question. What didn’t you have to be afraid of?

He stood from his seat and started to walk around the bed toward you and your body reacted before your mind even had time to register. You flinched, moving to protect all vital organs from the beating you felt to be inevitable. Your eyes were squeezed shut so tightly, spots were collecting within your darkened vision. Time stood still as you waited for the assault, but you couldn’t even hear his footsteps getting closer.

You slowly opened your eyes and moved your face from where it was tucked into your elbow. You saw Geralt standing there, his hands up in surrender as he looked at you with the mildest bit of sorrow.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he conceded, speaking in a way one might to a frightened animal, “It was unfair of me to pass judgment on you after our first meeting. Humans do it to my kind all the time and I know better than anyone how frustrating it can be,”.

“Your kind?” Your brows furrowed.

“I’m a Witcher,”.

Your eyes widened, remembering the stories you’d snuck from the library stacks about Witchers and their superhuman amounts of power used to defeat monsters across the continent. “You’re a Witcher?” You whispered, curiosity dripping from your voice. You were desperate to hear the tales of someone so well-traveled and brave.

“That’s enough about me, little elf.” He took a step closer to you. You narrowed your eyes at the nickname, but let it go quickly; it sounded more like a term of endearment than anything else. “Now sit back down on the bed, so I can redress your wounds. All of this excitement seems to have reopened a few cuts,” You obeyed, no longer preoccupied enough to ignore the pain.

He crouched down in front of where you were seated and moved to lift up one of your pant legs in order to check on the dressings. He continued this on your arms and legs for quite a while, very meticulous in his work to insure you didn’t walk away with any infections. It was then time to look at your back, the part you’d been dreading.

Sure, you knew he’d already seen it, but your back was covered fully in scars from your years of servitude. It was unsightly and you hated the reminders.

You faced the other direction, so you were now looking away from him. You carefully removed your old, tethered shirt. You used the raggedy material to shield any sight of your breasts, although you knew he couldn’t see them from his place behind you. He began to untie the cloth and remove the bandaging, goosebumps arising wherever you felt the ghost of his touch. Grabbing a damp rag, he started to clean the gashes that littered your back. You attempted not to hiss in pain, but it failed fairly quickly.

He slathered ointment onto your burning skin, lightly massaging it into the wounds of your back, making sure to take extra care of the areas that were especially banged up. This was all so foreign to you; these hands that held you with a gentle touch. Someone alleviating your pain instead of adding to it. You sighed in contentment at the sheer pleasure of another’s hands, especially those belonging to such a beautiful specimen, however pointedly you tried ignoring that fact.

Far too soon, the caress was replaced with more bandages and gauze. You were left internally whining at the loss of Geralt’s closeness. Before you went to put your same shirt back on, he tossed you one in far better condition that he must’ve found in the cottage.

You were fighting sleep, eager to spend more time in his presence. It was so soothing to you in a way that nothing else had ever been. He took one look at you, no doubt seeing your internal fight to stay awake. “Rest up, little elf,” he insisted, “I’ll still be here when you wake up,”.

And with that, you gave yourself permission to sleep.

You’d been trapped in the cottage with Geralt for roughly three days at this point, practically vibrating out of your own skin at the temptations you’d had to sit through. With Geralt constantly tending to you, the little amount of privacy the cottage offered, and having to bear witness to his perfectly crafted body, freshly soaked from his baths; a new side of you had suddenly awakened.

He captivated you. Your eyes followed him every moment you could get away with it. You certainly weren’t covert about it either. The feelings were just so new and profound that you were honestly just excited to be feeling them at all. Any common activity could become entertaining so long as Geralt was the one performing it.

You were entranced by his unexpected tenderness. He would sometimes sneak out at night to check on Roach when he thought you were asleep, making sure that nothing in the surrounding wood had agitated the horse. While his skills helped you to feel protected, his morality was what made you really trust him. He could’ve easily brought you back to your village, gotten a hefty sum, and been on his way. Hell, it wasn’t like you’d claimed innocence in the first place.

But no, instead he’d decided to offer you medical care using his own supplies, give you most of his hunting rations, find you shelter, and be the first person to ever treat you with true respect. So, what were you meant to do? Not develop any sort of feelings for him? That level of self control seemed utterly ridiculous.

Although it’d only been a short period of time, you felt so safe with him. He asked you questions and showed true interest in your answers. He comforted you after a few jarring nightmares. He asked your opinions on things and never made you feel ashamed if you didn’t know something. He told you some quite riveting stories of his travels and woes; of monsters and magic and all sorts of things.

You could feel a considerable predicament arising.

Before he’d left to go hunting, Geralt had been kind enough to prepare a bath for you. Your complaints of muck had probably started to annoy him at this point, so he pulled out all of the bells and whistles. Flowers, herbs, oils, scents, milks, powders; you didn’t even know what kind of concoction this was, but it felt fancy. So you were going to enjoy it.

You scrubbed your body until your skin was practically raw, not allowing even one granule of dirt to be left behind. Frankly, you’d needed the distraction that concentration brought. Anything was better than the devilish thoughts of Geralt that replayed in your mind at every moment since you’d met him.

And since it was your first time being truly alone in the cottage, maybe it was time to do something about it.

You couldn’t help yourself. It was the perfect storm of desire. The heat of the bath, the filth polluting your mind, the views you’d had the honor of seeing throughout the past few days; he was irresistible. And if the only relief you could offer yourself was within the confines of your own fantasy, then so be it.

The herbs and flowers floated around the surface of the bath as the milk and oil clouded the water, obscuring the view of your hand as it lowered down the skin of your stomach. You’d never felt such strong urges in your entire life.

It was your first time trying anything like this, but you’d had the pleasure of indulging in a few erotic novels throughout your time at the castle. Your fingers lightly caressed the flesh of your opening, teasing the sensitive area and imagining the droplets of water cascading down Geralt’s back earlier that day. How it’d feel to run your tongue across each rippling muscle, collecting the liquid in your mouth.

You sunk your middle finger into your core, feeling the wetness pooling inside of you. This man had you wound so tightly around his finger; you were practically bursting at the seams. Once you’d collected some of your slick on the tip of your finger, you pulled back and circled around your tiny bud of nerves. When you’d finally made contact, your body reacted in a way it never had before. Your legs twitched, causing some of the bathwater to splash from the tub, but you couldn’t find one care in the world, not even slowing at the sound.

A desperate whine left your mouth unexpectedly before you bit down on your lower lip, silencing yourself. The hand that wasn’t busy with your throbbing nether regions gripped the edge of the tub, almost numb at this point. You knew that if Geralt was the one doing this to you, that hand would be wrapped up in his bright silver strands. The thought of him doing anything to make you feel this immodest nearly had you drooling. His dexterous, strong hands taking ownership of your pussy, showing you just how accommodating he could be.

His name left your lips in a desperate plea as you finally found a rhythm that suited you. You felt as if your body was no longer your own as you continued your descent in the search of pleasure. You slowly worked yourself, wanting to savor this feeling. Your breaths were loud and labored as you arched your back slightly, searching for a path closer to release. Your mind replaying every word Geralt had uttered to you since you’d first met, clawing for any semblance of relief.

Your movements came to a screeching halt upon hearing the deep voice you’d come to know so well—now outside of your thoughts. You snapped your eyes open quickly, seeing his smug face staring back at you as you jumped to cover yourself as much as you could.

“Am I interrupting something?” He cocked an eyebrow.

You gasped, hot shame bubbling in your chest as you fumbled through any words you could get out. “Geralt—I’m s-so sorry, I really—”.

He slowly started to untuck and unbutton his black shirt. Your mouth went dry as more of his skin was exposed, effectively silencing your babble. The raised markings of his scars were covered in a light sheen of sweat that looked absolutely delectable. You could feel your pupils dilating, your mouth opening slightly without your control.

He smirked at the look on your face, tossing his shirt to the side. “Would you like some help?” He gave you an appreciative once-over to emphasize his proposition.

Your eyes widened as you prayed to every god that this wasn’t some twisted trickery. You nodded, fearing that your voice would betray you.

He stripped himself of his boots and the rest of his clothing. He worked quickly and gracefully, tossing the garments without a care as he walked closer to the tub. While you were obviously curious, you avoided any glances south of his abdomen, feeling too bashful to even look. Moving to get in the bath, he sat down in front of you. Now face to face, you were curious as to where he was going with this—before he hauled you up to sit on the rim of the bathtub completely emerged from the water, now completely at the mercy of his gaze. You were completely unveiled to him and you couldn’t cease the nerves that flared up in response.

He kneeled back down in the water and you quickly moved to cover you breasts. But before you could successfully shield them from his view, he moved one of your hands to grip the tub and the other to grasp onto his hair. He maneuvered your legs to rest over his shoulders, putting you on full display to his hungry eyes as his huge hands held you steady by your thighs. His dominant movements, situating you how he’d like caused a heavy pulsing feeling to arise in your already glistening cherry.

He kissed each of your thighs passionately, sucking marks into the skin with lips ghosting over each valley of skin—just shy of where you needed him most. The outline of your pubic bone, your navel; using his tongue to explore the plains and ridges of your body.

“Gods, I’ve been waiting to eat this sweet cunt since the moment I cut you from that tree,” His voice somehow got rougher in this moment, soaked in the intoxication of lust, and you could swear you almost fainted. But before you had time to burn out, you were lit afire once again as his tongue licked a long stripe up your aching center, wrapping his lips around your clit as he reached the bundle.

Your grip on his hair tightened as you let out such a guttural sound, urging him on as he made work of your sensitivity. You were covered in the wetness from your bath and, now that you were out of the water, your body felt slightly chilled which was a delicious contrast from the aching heat of your core as he devoured you. Not missing one morsel.

He pleasured you with such eagerness and paid close attention to each of your sounds, repeating movements that granted the noisiest and most reactionary ones. The obscene musing of slurps, licks, and Geralt’s moans had you seeing stars. Each time your body would pull away from him in shock, he’d simply pull you closer by your thighs, grinding you onto his face.

“You taste like heaven. How does that feel, little elf?” He questioned, golden eyes staring into your own. “Hmm?”

He was so smug, but you didn’t have it in you to be even the least bit annoyed. Because with his skillful tongue, he deserved to be smug.

You whined at the separation, desperate for the release you’ve been denied your whole life. You could barely handle another second without it. “Please, Geralt—” you nearly sobbed, panting in between words, “I’ve never felt this way before. Please let me finish on your tongue. I want it so bad,”.

“Fuck,” he whispered, eyes glazing over in desperation at the utterly wrecked look on your face. “Anything you want, little elf” his warm breath ghosted over your dripping cunt as he spoke, “I’ll give you anything,”.

He pulled you impossibly closer and licked into your center, using his nose to nudge and stimulate your bundle. His groans as he devoured you reverberated through your center, overtaking all of your senses as you neared the edge.

Geralt enclosed his lips around your clit, sucking it feverishly with his tongue—and your vision went white. You let out the most broken sound as your insides bursted. You tugged relentlessly on the hair that you assumed he regretted offering up to you, but his groans of pleasure actually made you question that hypothesis.

Your breaths were deep and long as you looked down at him. He was still staring up at you with a look of pride—not cockiness—like he was excited to be able to share that impure moment with you. You moved your thighs from his shoulders and lowered yourself back into the tub, pulling him in for a kiss.

Your first kiss. And it was perfect. Although the order of events seemed a bit backwards, you couldn’t have hoped for anything better.

You could taste yourself on his tongue as he pulled you closer to sit on his lap in the water. His hardened member pressed against your stomach, so you decided it was his turn. You wrapped your fingers around his thick cock, all shyness from earlier dissipating, as you paid close attention to the tip. You pumped him slowly, slowly adding more pressure as you continued.

He inhaled a deep breath, almost as if he was holding himself back. “I’m going to take you to bed now, little elf” he enunciated his statement with a quick peck, “only if you’ll have me, that is—”.

You rolled your eyes at his chivalry. “Take me to bed then, Witcher,”.

You squealed in joyful shock at his show of strength as he quickly lifted you both up from the tub, water now cascading from your bodies and onto the surrounding floor. But you couldn’t bring yourself to care as you simply giggled.

You both fell onto the bed with water still dripping from your bodies, soaking through the sheets. You were a quilt of limbs, wrapped up in one another as your mouths communicated longing with deep, passionate kisses. While he was your only kiss, you could somehow tell that he tasted better than any others.

He worshipped your body with his hands, offering you the loving touch that you’d never felt. Whispering praise of how good you were doing and how lovely you were and how much he’d wanted you.

When he first entered you, he kept it jarringly slow—wanting to avoid any pain—but after he’d opened you up so well, there was only mild discomfort at first. Giving into your begs, he fucked you into the sheets with your prayers of more. You clawed at his back and he wished you would dig harder, so the memory of your first time together could scar and overwrite the brutalities that currently littered his spine.

You squeezed him so perfectly and brought him such euphoria. He never wanted to leave the warmth of your divine center, each thrust bringing you both closer to your end.

“C’mon, little elf. Come for your Witcher,”. Your Witcher was what did you in. You climaxed around his thick cock, the pulsing of your orgasm sending him over the hill right along with you. Both of you unleashing the most primal noises into the skin of the other; a shared moment of vulnerability between two creatures alike. This moment in which both of your worlds tilted in the most complementary way; a change that could be felt in the atmosphere.

He wrapped his arms around you tightly as you came down, grounding yourself in his slow breathing.

Once you’d both gotten cleaned up, you curled up in bed with Geralt as you laid your head on his naked pectoral. You studied him for quite a while as he played with the damp strands of your hair, battling sleep yet again, trying your best to lengthen this moment as much as you could.

But, of course, being the observant man he is, he quickly noticed your eyelids growing heavier.

“Rest up, little elf,” the smallest simper graced his eyes as he repeated his words from the first day in the cottage, “I’ll still be here when you wake up,”.

You closed your eyes with a ghost of a smile.

fin

A/N: Here’s my first crack at a fic for the Witcher (first of many, I’m hoping)!! I really hope you guys like it!! I’m not actually finished the series yet, so sorry if I get anything terribly wrong (I’m just trying so hard to savor it since it’s not back until 2021). I’m brushing back up on fanfic etiquette and writing style since I’m just getting back into the swing of things, so any feedback would be treasured!!! Let me know what you think, babies!

I used to have a tag list, but since it’s been so long since I was posting consistently, I’ve decided to abandon it--so if you wanna be tagged in my stuff, just drop by my ask box. I’d love to have you and I sincerely hope you didn’t hate this, ha! x g

#the witcher #the witcher x reader #geralt x reader #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt #geralt of rivia #geralt fic #reader insert #geralt smut #geralt of rivia smut

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goldie90 · 3 years

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Helllllllloooooooooooooooooooo (⌒ω⌒)ﾉ trivia murder party, you don’t know jack, quiplash aaaaand word spud (=^ ◡ ^=)

Hi.😊

trivia murder party(where would you place your f/o on the serious to silly scale? does it vary?): Well.... he´s more on the silly end, there are no doubts about it. But it vary. There are moments he also gets pretty serious and when this happens, it´s always a sign that he don´t feel well. For example, the day Chop went to vietnam, he showed the most serious side of himself, I´ve ever seen.

you don´t know jack(gimme a weird cannon fact or headcanon about your f/o): Ummm...let me think about it... I kinda created the headcanon that his favorite parts in movies are death scenes and that in his opinion, the best way a movie can end, is with every character dying in the end (preferably in either a very gruesome way, or because of absurd accidents).

quiplash(what´s something that always makes your f/o laugh?): The death.😅 Seriously, seeing someone die always makes him laugh (especially if he killed this person himself). You know, when we have a victim at home and Nubbins is “playing” with him/her (which happens mostly when Drayton isn´t home, cause when he´s at home, he won´t let him do this) me, Chop and Bubba (and who knows, maybe even grandpa🤔) always know the exact moment when he finally finished it, because it´s the moment he gets a laughing fit, that can be heard in the whole house. Beside that, he also really loves to see people suffer (as long as it´s not a family member, or someone he considers a friend - but even then he sometimes laughs (it highly depends on his mood and on how bad the thing that happened to the friend or family member is, if it´s something really serious, then of course he won´t laugh about it). But if it´s a stranger? There are no limits. Every bad thing that happens to them is incredible funny in my darling´s opinion.🙄

word spud(how do you feel about the fandom´s general opinion about your f/o?): Most of the time not so good. Because there are so many things, that seem to be very popular in the fandom, that I highly disagree with and I just can´t understand how it could became so popular in the first place. (I think, it´s most likely that someday someone came up with it and then it simply spreaded around like some kind of disease😔). You know what kind of things I´m talking about, because I´ve told you before (he don´t shower etc.😠😡😤) Also, some people talk/write about him like he´s some stupid guy who´s got nothing in his brain and that´s also a thing, that makes me incredible angry, because I don´t see it that way and I also don´t understand why the hell someone should think this. Is it because he acts a bit... how can I say it... strange? Well, it is obvious that there´s something deeply wrong with him, he´s obviously got some seriously mental illnesses, BUT this got nothing, absolutely nothing to do with intelligence. For example, many psychopaths are in fact highly intelligent (not all of them of course, but many). I agree that he´s probably not the most educated - so what? ¯\(°_o)/¯ Neither am I and I wouldn´t consider myself stupid. Honestly, I think he´s pretty average in terms of intelligence. There are things he obviously knows a lot about (like things that are related to his old job at the slaughterhouse, for example) Seriously, I´m sure that I could learn a lot from him, and that´s something that can´t be said about everyone.

Another thing that highly bothers me, is of course that many people tend to soft him up so damn much. I know that´s not only happen with him, but also with many other characters but I hate it nonetheless. It´s so ridiculous. Like, yeah let´s take the most dangerous man out of the Sawyer family (which he is without a doubt. I mean, hell, even the actor who played him said so!!!) and turn him into some soft wimp. Honestly, whenever I read something like this, it makes me wanna vomit.🤮 In my opinion, it´s simply disgusting.

It always makes me wonder about why exactly these people feel the need to do this and one of my theory´s is that maybe they´re simply afraid of seeing him just the way he is. I mean in terms of not knowing how to work with a character like this. So maybe because of this, they simply feel the need to change his personality, which is really sad if you ask me. I mean, if I can only like a character (or even be attracted to him) when his personality is completely changed, then that´s a sure sign that this person obviously isn´t for me. So ummm... maybe better look for someone else? LOL.

Of course, everyone should be free to think, say or write what they want and I would never criticize someone directly for it. I´m simply talking about it here, because you asked me that question and so of course, I´m answering and I´m answering honest. (And seriously, it feels good to do so, so thank you for picking that question,😊 it´s really a good one👍) But personally, I simply prefer to see the things like they are:

Nubbins isn´t an overly nice guy.

He isn´t some kind of sweetheart.

He definitely isn´t a damn wimp.

And he surely isn´t a sub.

💘And damn, I love him because of that💘

🌺Thank you so much, Ella.🌺

And sorry that it took me again so long to answer, but what can I say? I needed some time to write this down. ¯\(°_o)/¯

#ask game #pretty good questions

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headoverjojo · 5 years

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Aaaannnd here I am again 👀 It’s time for the journey into madness? ayyy, it is :3 so, we all know what happened to Kira when he first saw the Mona Lisa, but... how, why... when? He decided to be a killer? Aaaand ad always ʕっ•ᴥ•ʔっ

Esteeeeeeee c⌒っ╹v╹ )っ aaaaaaaa this requeeeestttt, I loved it ** Ok!! So, i knooow that SURELY there are incongruences with the canon, but! That’s just a fic. And how I see Kira as character! This said, I hope you’ll like it :3

How Yoshikage Kira understood he would have been a killer

(Under the cut for length, violence, blood and murder)

The first time Yoshikage Kira saw the Mona Lisa in an art book, he had what could be called an epiphany. It was like a sort of divine illumination; he had often heard about saints who declared, in their memoires, to have been visited by God, but, until that fatidic moment, he hadn’t believed it. Now it was all different. All his thoughts were focused on the Mona Lisa, on a detail of the masterpiece: Lisa’s hands. They were so… delicate, so fragile, so perfect. He had never seen hands like those. Leonardo managed to immortalise the perfection in form of hands. Kira was mesmerized by them, he couldn’t think about anything else. If God existed and He was perfection, then, in the Mona Lisa’s hands, there was also God. Kira firmly believed it and every time he opened the book, which he had bought, to study the painting, he couldn’t help but to feel God while he stared at Lisa’s hands.

He was so absorbed in this new contemplation that everything else hadn’t any relevance. School, friends, his parents… nothing. What mattered were Lisa’s hands. He dreamed about them, he dreamed to find around something who could reply that perfection, something that could make him feel the same way as he was feeling while he was watching them, but nothing seemed to live up to them. It was so frustrating that, often, Kira snapped at his parents and even at his professors, who, one day, decided to call his father to talk about Yoshikage’s recent behaviour.

It was concerning. In thirteen years, Yoshikage never disappointed anyone. He was the perfect child: meek, obedient, diligent, always ready to satisfy his parents or the professors’ expectations. His grades never dropped but neither rose to the top; he was amiable, but not the most funny or friendly in his class. He was… average. He was content to live a normal, average and quiet life, not even trying to point to the top; he wasn’t interested to that. He wanted, as his father, to work as employee in the local company, go and come back home at precise hours, maybe marry to an average, meek and quiet woman and live a quiet and average life. He wasn’t a person who loved excitement or unforseen events.

So, when he came home, that day, he didn’t expect his book not to be anymore in his room. A fear deeper than anything else he had ever felt sank in his stomach. It couldn’t be… had he lost it? How?! He never carried it out of his room! Maybe… maybe he had placed it somewhere and he didn’t remember when? He started to search for the book, firstly calmly, sure to find it, then more and more frantically, in a more and more hysteric frenzy. It wasn’t here… he had turned all his room inside out, but the book wasn’t here. A blinding rage took over him, as he was starting to understand. That day, he had seen his father near his school… it was strange, but he hadn’t paid attention to it. Maybe his mother had sent him to buy something at the supermarket, he thought. Now he understood that his father was around his school because he had been called called by his professors. Those brutes… they didn’t understand. They didn’t understand God’s message through Lisa’s hands. They couldn’t see the perfection, their sight was too poor to catch it. Kira pitied them; what a sad life, living without recognizing the perfect beauty when you had it in front of you.

For a moment, he imagined to storm into his parents’ room and take the book back. He even indulged into some fantasies that involved knives, his parents… he imagine to sink his favourite knife, the one he used to chop the vegetables when he was cooking with his mother, in their bodies, again, and again, and again, until the whole room would have been completely soaked in their blood… but not their hands. They had nice hands; not perfect as Lisa, but it was a point of start. Yes… yes, it was so, Kira mulled, sitting on the floor of his now messy room. That was a sort of proof. He had been showed the perfect beauty, but it was something he could just admire in a book, not something he could touch, he could have. Now that he had tasted the heavenly perfection, he couldn’t live without it. He wanted… he wanted it. He wanted it just for himself. He wanted to bask in that warmth and not to be without it ever again. It had been revealed to him in form of hands; and in form of hands he should have looked for it.

Hands… he had to search for hand. Not every kind of hands, of course; just the ones that could at least try to live up to Lisa’s hands, the perfect model he had burned in his mind and soul. The need to have back his only source of comfort, the only thing that was giving a sense and a deeper meaning to his average life was becoming increasingly urgent. He had… he had to do it.

He needed to take someone’s hands.

In the period that followed the book theft, Kira did his best to at least seem the boy he was before, even if no one could go back from such an epiphany. He started to study again with diligence, he acted calmer and meeker, as before, not to raise any suspicion. He had already slipped once; he didn’t want it to happen again. His grades went back to normality, his professors and parents relaxed, seeing that he was the old, good Yoshikage, the obedient and meek boy they liked so much. It seemed that everything was back as it was before…

Just that it wasn’t.

Kira was hunting. He was looking around, discreetly studying others’ hands, girls’ hands. He couldn’t get a boy’s hands, as they weren’t perfect hands. Just women’s hands could aspire to near perfection; and, after many researches, he finally found the hands he wanted.

Miss Yoshino was a woman on her forties, with long black hair tied in a serious bun and a sharp voice. She taught English and she was one of the most tough teachers of the whole school. What was interesting about her, however, were her hands. Hers were beautiful hands, well proportioned, without prominent veins or marks. They were of the right paleness and her nails were well kept, short and neat. Those were hands of someone who had never had to do some heavy manual work; they seemed soft and nice and Kira was dying inside to have them finally for him, just for him…

He had prepared himself thoroughly for that day. He knew that Miss Yoshino, for students who needed it or who asked for it, gave supplementary lessons in English and Kira asked her if he could join one of her lessons, to “prepare better for exams”, he said. He earned an approval nod from the teacher and her address.

He had, however, to wait few months before fate allowed him the privilege to be alone with her. Kira’s heart almost jumped out his chest, when he saw it. Alone… he was alone with her. It was the perfect time.

And so he acted, moved by a deep and urgent need that had ate him from inside for months. He meekly offered to prepare tea, while Miss Yoshino prepared the lesson for the day; the woman smiled at him, totally ignorant of what was about to happen.

Kira put the kettle on the stove, as always. He took the tea from the cabinet, black tea with cinnamon and ginger, Miss Yoshino’s favourite. Lastly, he took the teapot and just one mug, paying attention, then, to clean everything up. Then, instead of a little spoon, he took a sharp kitchen knife and turned around, approaching the woman who was giving him her back, as she was busy writing on the whiteboard.

It hadn’t been like he had imagined. He had imagined screams, a mess of blood and organs, agonizing expressions, something gruesome, something violent and slow… it hadn’t been like this. He sank in his teacher’s back, once, twice, fifteen times in total, even when she was on the ground, even when she was clearly dead. He hadn’t felt anything. It had been something… almost mechanic. All the anxiety and the stress he had felt before just were vanished them moment he had sunk the knife into his teacher’s body and then he was focused just on the task to kill her in the fastest possible way. Killing her was just a way to get what he really wanted: her hand. Now that he was at his point, he could feel excitement bubbling in his chest and rising to his face, where a grin was displaying on his lips. Finally… finally he could have near the object which embodied perfection.

He kneeled near to the corpse, taking her right hand, with gentleness and deference, as he was holding a relic. Then, just like when he helped his mother by chopping the vegetables, he chopped her hands off her body, a neat and precise cut, as he liked it. He took with him the knife and the hand, hiding them in plastic bags he had carried from home, he put everything in his backpack and went out, like nothing had happened.

No one ever suspected of him. Kira was present when the tragic death of Miss Yoshino was announced to the whole school and he was present even at Miss Yoshino’s funeral. No one even noticed him. How could they? He was an average boy; nothing of him was particular or weird. He was a figure on the background.

And Kira understood that being on the background was the safest way not to be chased. He could do everything he wanted; no one would have ever suspected of the meek, diligent and obedient Yoshikage Kira.

His being average would have been his safeness, his final protection. From that position, he could go on in his research of perfection through hands.

Because he knew that just Miss Yoshino’s hand wouldn’t have been enough, oh no. A human hand was made of flesh, and flesh, after a while, rots; he had to regularly find a new hand to replace the rotten one, a hand better than the previous one…

Yoshikage Kira knew that his life, from that moment on, would have been a life of research. Research of beauty, research of perfection, of that godly bliss he had felt the first time he had seen the Mona Lisa’s hands. He wanted to replicate that moment, to feel and live it again and again, he needed it, it was like a drug, he couldn’t give it up, and, meanwhile, he wanted to live the rest of his life in the quietest possible way.

No matter how many existences he had to rip apart, he would have found that perfection again and again. This was his life, now.

And he liked it.

#jjba #diamond is unbreakable #yoshikage kira #kira's background and origins #tw: violence #tw: blood #tw: murder #scenario #sfw #estellea

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steyuj-blue · 5 years

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Update: Still alive! Just.

CW: suicide, cancer, surgery, police abuse, govt monitoring, yeah... a big steamer of an update. But, it’s an update. And there are a few good things on here too. Hey folx! It’s been a hot minute since I’ve last posted. The good news is, I’m still alive! So, where have I been all this time? ----------No idea how to insert a cut... if I did it would go here------ Um... well obviously getting arrested and abused in jail left me pretty traumatized. Then having my house get gratified, then almost broken into, then someone ringing my doorbell at 4am several times over the next few months all sucked. It was time to get therapy, a lot of it. I’m actually still in therapy. Then, my oldest sister died of cancer and it was gruesome af. A few months later, my aunts came to visit. I haven’t seen either in 20 years. One told us that she’s fought off cancer twice because of a gene mutation called Lynch Syndrom (yes, the name is meant to be taken very seriously). It causes really, really really effing high cancer risk rate. Anyhow, it’s a nasty mutation and if one family member has it, it doesn’t bode well for the rest of the family. So, I got tested. I applied for a broad panel test that would check for more than just the one mutation. By some miracle, the insurance company let it through. The results came in. I didn’t inherit Lynch Syndrome. (WOOHOO!) The look on the doc’s face wasn’t all happy though. In the next breath she told me they’d found a different mutation. It’s in a gene that is supposed to help repair damaged DNA. Only... mine likes to make cancer, like, all over the body. From one frying pan into another. So, they’ll be monitoring me the rest of my life via regular, unpleasantly invasive procedures. The highest risk however, was in breast cancer. I could spend my life getting by boobs patted, squashed, and scrutinized, and take a medication created for something else that they had no proof yet whether or not it helped against this mutation and that might come with side effects, and all of this and the tests could miss the cancer if it arrives and i could die like my sister. Or, I could get a double mastectomy and greatly reduce my risks. So, I’m working on the process of getting my bewbies chopped off. Only, since I’m trans and I don’t want a surgeon to accidentally-purposely-murder-me-/-let-me-die-from-neglect-for-Jesus, I have to make a consultation with a surgeon who works with trans people. This is to ask them which surgeons they know, who do prophylactic surgeries, would be less likely to murder me. (Yes, it is honestly, truly, proven-to-be-dangerous for trans people to seek medical care.) Unfortunately, these surgeons won’t talk to me unless I go through therapy specifically to certify that I can make this decision. Basically, i have to go through the same process as trans people who are seeking top surgery for gender dysphoria. Meanwhile, the longer things get held up, the more paranoid I get that cancer has sprouted and is nesting in my chest. Outside of this, CNBC news revealed that the govt was illegaly monitoring journalists and activists who were protesting ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement). One of the people I was in jail with is on that list. (They are joining the ACLU’s legal suit against the govt along with various journalists.) Other activists in our extended network are turning up murdered, and one of the other activists I was in jail with killed himself, as did a young trans man who wasn’t in jail with us, but who did protest with us. I did mention I was still in therapy, right? Yeah... Meanwhile I’ve been trying my darndest to help my volunteer contributor team build an English course on Duolingo, but having to take extensive time away to deal with all of the things that keep coming at me. Keeping me sane is my love of researching backpacking gear.

#backpacking #suicide #police abuse #sugery #steyuj #steyuj2020 #update #pct #Pacific Crest Trail

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cescalr · 6 years

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The Beacon Hills Diet (Does Not Include Cannibalism, Thanks.)

Alternatively titled: What the Fuck, Santa Clarita?

Because really, what the fuck.

AO3 LINK

Chapter 1: Like two realtors, one of which is undead.

There’s a dead body (chopped into various parts and packaged neatly into different containers) in the Hammond’s freezer,

Stiles is so fucking done with all these idiots’ shit, and they’re denying that they’ve done anything wrong, and he’s so fucking angry because they don’t get it, they don’t feel guilty, and that shit eats you alive (pardon the accidental pun, he’s still not used to the whole cannibal thing) and they don’t get how terrible it is that they don’t feel like the worst fucking beings on the whole of planet fucking earth -

“I killed someone!” Stiles burst out, angry and frustrated and so, so tired. He just wanted them to understand.

There was a significant pause – Stiles didn’t know whether or not there were crickets around here or whatever, but since he’s inside a house and unlike most of his – most of those back in Beacon Hills, he can’t hear that sort of shit… because you need to be outside, you know.

“Oh.” Joel let out after another moment’s pause.

“Were – were they bad?” Sheila asked, hesitantly. It sounded hesitant to Stiles’ ears, anyway. “Because we only kill bad people – and only because I need to eat them.” She added, blunt and from what he’s seen, blatantly, truthful.

Seen blatantly because you don’t really expect to open someone’s freezer and find bags of frozen body parts. That was – unexpected.

“Oh… for fuck’s sake,” Abby sighed from her place at the doorway – or, entry point and, yeah, that about sums the whole thing up.

For fuck’s sake.

Let’s backtrack a bit.

So – it all starts in the rain.

“You killed him?” Scott asked Stiles, and Stiles couldn’t deny that fact. He’s lied a lot, recently – admittedly, mostly out of a fear of what this very person would think. Alongside his Sheriff dad, of course.

Stiles doesn’t know what his dad would do. He thinks – he hopes, he thinks he hopes he knows that his dad wouldn’t…. turn him in, at least, arrest him, but…

Stiles can’t deal with the thought of his dad reacting in any way at all, be it a ‘good’ reaction or a bad one. He most definitely won’t be able to take the reality… so he cheated. Copped out. Never told him, and left before Scott could.

Left before he could tell anyone. Stiles couldn’t, but… but Scott could. Because Scott wasn’t the one who stared at a guy and held the beam in his chest as he died, right in front of him. Scott wasn’t that person, wasn’t – wasn’t the type to just… stand there as someone died when he could have done something.

“You killed Donovan?” Scott clarified, but he’s holding the wrench and – and –

“Where did you get that?” Stiles asked, and maybe it sounded dangerous or maybe not, he can’t tell because he can’t think – was – who – where did he leave it last who had it last who found it fuck fuck fuck was it Theo –

God, if Stiles didn’t hate himself for Donovan, Theo would be dead.

“Is this yours?” Scott asked. Stiles took it from him, the wrench, and stared at the bloodstain. More of a splatter, really, but it’s in there forever – or, well, the rain isn’t washing it away. He didn’t clean it in time. And – fuck, he’s a really bad murderer, didn’t even get rid of the evidence.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Scott asked, and there are so many reasons –

You seem a little off –

I think we’re all a little off –

think I might have stopped her –

maybe she had no choice -

There’s gotta be a point where self-defence is justified –

They're not the bad guys. They're the victims. We shouldn't be killing the people we're trying to save –

“I was going to,” Stiles said, or maybe that was to “Why didn’t you tell me when it happened?”

Either way…. “I couldn’t,” Stiles responded, at some point or another, to a similar question. The whole mess is a blur, really, that night in the rain. Too much – just… too much.

And once Scott went into the vet, Stiles got in his car. Punched the steering wheel, and it stung for a moment but it passed, and then he drove.

And drove.

And drove

And kept driving.

Stiles didn’t realise he’d left Beacon Hills until he found himself waking in his car on some back road with a sore neck and a vague recollection of an argument in the rain. Over the time he’d spent driving a mostly broken jeep without once having it break down or simply crashing because he wasn’t thinking about driving but rather –

We can’t kill people! Do you believe that?

No, nope, drive some more.

And so he did.

He drove.

And Drove.

And kept driving.

At some point, Stiles ditched his phone. He had enough money for a cheapo burner which he knows the company behind won’t record the voicemails of, had enough money for a shitty burger at a shitty roadside diner near some stupid fucking attraction of The World’s Largest Blah-Blah-Blah, and then he was on the road again. He still wasn’t thinking, and that was bad, but he wasn’t dwelling, either, which was good.

Dwelling while out here, on the back roads and highways and away from most forms of human contact and all reminders of his past life except for the bag of lacrosse gear in his backseat and a wallet with some ID (thank god) and some money, and, oh yeah, a picture of everyone including himself and his dad (the pack, but he’s left home, so it’s not his pack anymore, and well, was it ever really his or was it not and was he just being an idiot would they all have thought it murder did nobody think it was self-defence except fucking Theo was Stiles just deluding himself he went towards Josh’s dead and ripped-out-throat-ed body way too fucking easily and looking at gruesome crime scene pictures in class is not normal, why did he ever think that was okay –)

He threw that away at some point, too. Or, at least, he ripped himself out of the image and folded the rest then shoved it into the back of his glove compartment, never to be looked at again (or so he promised himself at the time, that wasn’t the case, of course, and he kind of wishes he’d never damaged it).

And then Stiles got back on the road.

And drove.

And kept driving.

“He was bad,” Stiles allows, and he feels like a child saying that. A bad man – was he a man? He seemed so young when the life bled out of him – tried to hurt me. I promise I didn’t mean to.

“Was he a young single Hitler?” Sheila asked. “Because it’s always a good thing, killing them. Nobody to care about their death, and, well, one less Hitler.”

“Uhm… no,” Stiles let out. “He attacked me in the school library and ended up with a beam sticking out of his sternum.”

“Holy shit,” Abby said. “Jesus.”

Joel smiled nervously, tilting his head. Stiles had always found that expression, ever since this strange family decided the homeless eighteen-year-old on the sidewalk should sleep in their basement (not creepy behaviour at all, by the way), slightly unnerving.

Now, since he knows the man usually reserves it for times of murder talk or covering up, well. It’s more than a little unnerving.

“Now how did that happen?” Joel said, somewhat pleasantly (if you can call this conversation pleasant in any way – Stiles, by the way, does not have that capacity) and yet somewhat, it still had that sense of ‘what the fuck?’ that Joel usually delivered his words with in times like this.

“There was scaffolding holding it up,” Stiles admitted, heavily. “And I pulled the pin that was holding the scaffolding together. Boom, dead.” He gestured, vaguely.

“Well, if he attacked you, he deserved it,” Sheila said, succinctly.

“Sounds like self-defence to me.” Abby agreed.

“Abby, please attempt to only incapacitate, not kill,” Joel told his daughter, still nervously smiling at Stiles. “Learn from our words, not from our actions.” Sheila agreed. “Wait. No, learn from neither of those.”

Abby sighed, put-upon. “And they call this parenting,” She shook her head, took an apple from the fruit basket, and left the room. “I’m gonna go get Eric!” She called back, and then the front door slammed shut behind her.

“I wish she’d stop slamming the door,” Joel sighed.

“I know,” Sheila agreed. “It’s not like we raised her in a barn.”

“Just a slaughterhouse,” Joel continued, tone vague. Stiles couldn’t place it.

“Well, that’s great and all,” Stiles said. “But how about we get back to the part where you kill and eat people and how that’s not okay?”

“You just don’t want it to be okay because if it’s okay you can stop with your manpain,” Sheila stated. “You brood.”

“No, I do not.” Stiles denied, vaguely horrified. If he’s turning into Derek, so help him, he will bash his own brains out and serve himself on a silver platter. Might as well not waste since she’s a cannibal and all.

“What do you call sitting on the bed not sleeping and staring off into the distance?” Joel asked, seemingly genuinely curious.

“Thinking,” Stiles said annoyed. “I’m thinking.”

“All night?” Sheila asked. “You sleep less than I do, and I’m dead!”

Okay, yeah, he will admit that that’s probably a problem. Possibly.

“Look,” Joel said, placing his hands on the table, flat against the surface. “Stiles. You killed a man that tried to hurt you. It’s self-defence; it was necessary. We kill awful people who do awful things because if we don’t, my wife will starve and die. And also maybe possibly go feral and start eating non-evil people, which would most certainly be bad and if you do that, please turn yourself into the police and keep our names out of it.”

Stiles flailed, something he’s managed to keep a lid on for quite a while. But this family’s sheer ridiculousness brings it out in him, sometimes. “I’m not going to eat someone!”

“You might,” Sheila said. “Never eat these clams,” She added, holding up a clam sealed in a square of plastic. Like you find preserved spiders and shit in. “They kill you and make you undead.” The woman explained, frankly.

“But they were blown up,” Joel said, “So you should be fine. So long as you don’t go to Serbia.”

Sheila nodded, seriously.

“I never planned on it,” Stiles said. “So I’ll just keep that on my list of things, yeah? Never go to Serbia and eat clams which will make me a cannibal undead zombie?”

“Ouch.” Sheila frowned. “That hurt.”

“Yeah, we don’t like that word?” Joel offered. “It sounds offensive.”

“Are you serious?” Stiles asked, deadpan. “No, of course, you are.” He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re you.”

“I feel like that’s supposed to mean something.” Sheila mused.

“I feel like we should be offended,” Joel said, lightly, not sounding offended at all.

“Oh, fuck off,” Stiles said. “I’m the one who found partially eaten dead body parts in your freezer! I’ve been scarred for life!”

“No, you haven’t.” Joel looked at Stiles, weirdly. “If you forgot, you literally just told us that you killed someone. If anyone did the mental scarring, it wasn’t us.” Sheila agreed.

“Not quite what I was going for…” Joel said, slightly awkwardly. “But okay.”

“We’re back!” Abby announced, apple nowhere in sight and now replaced with an Eric. She shoved Eric forward slightly then took her own seat.

“Hi,” Eric said, awkward as ever. He’s worse than Stiles was when he was sixteen, worse than Scott before the bite, worse than them pre-supernatural combined, and that’s really saying something.

And yet, he’s cool with cannibals. Some people have strange depths. Can’t punch a guy, can help hide a murder.

“So,” Eric said. He stopped there, of course, smiled awkwardly then stopped doing that and glanced at all four of the other people in the room in turn. “What’s… going on?” He asked.

“Stiles found out we kill people,” Sheila admitted. “It’s no big deal since apparently, he killed someone too.”

“It’s rather a big deal and I beg to differ,” Stiles returned, annoyed. “You eat people!”

“And you killed someone and wasted the dead body,” Sheila offered. “We’re doing better than you.”

Stiles flailed again. “What the fuck?” He gestured.

“I ask that question every day. At least twice.” Joel commented. “The answer usually only comes to me when I’m high, though.”

“Can we stop talking about your marijuana habit and return to the fact that all of you are totally okay with cannibalism and murder?”

“You think we’re okay with it?” Abby said, incredulous.

“Yes, I’d rather prefer the stress of not having to lie to our cop neighbours,” Joel said, “Who are also our very good friends.” Joel paused, and sighed, saddened. “Ex-friends, in some cases.”

Sheila patted her husband’s shoulder, commiserating.

“Yeah, you tend to lose friends when you make murder a habit,” Stiles said, sharply.

“You would know, right?” Abby retorted. “Given that you’re making a home for yourself in our basement.”

“Be glad that Anne likes us now,” Sheila said. “Or there’d be questions.”

“Having a devout Christian sheriff’s deputy as a friend is honestly more useful than I’d originally expected,” Joel commented. “It all worked out in the end.”

“Of course, it did.” Stiles snapped. “Because it’s all hunky-dory here in Santa Clarita! Ignore the cannibals and the dead undead!” He mocked.

“Your home isn’t much better,” Abby retorted, annoyed and vaguely angry. She got angry pretty easy, he’d noted. But she meant well.

“Yeah, from what you’ve said – which is still very little,” Joel added, leadingly, “It doesn’t sound the best.”

Stiles snorted, “Both places are awful. But at least there are clear ‘good’ guys there, unlike here.”

“Sometimes superheroes are the people you’d least expect,” Sheila said. “Like two realtors, one of which is undead.”

“And their daughter,” Abby added. “Can’t forget her.”

“Do I count?” Eric asked. “Or am I more like a sidekick?”

“If anything, you’re the love interest to the sidekick – who, by the way, is me, and holds this whole damn operation together and don’t you forget it -,” Abby said, interjecting in her own sentence. “But you’re more like… the useful potential love interest best friend who helps out more than you’d expect.”

“I’m cool with that.” Eric decided.

“Great,” Stiles said, “Now we’ve all decided our positions in life –“

“I’m Alfred,” Joel said, vaguely sadly. Stiles ignored him.

“- I’m going to go somewhere and think about this.”

“Could that somewhere be our basement?” Sheila asked.

“… no,” Stiles said. “What the fuck.”

“You willingly sleep down there!” Abby said.

“Because I’ve got nowhere else!” Stiles returned, angry. It was a sore subject.

“Oh.” She paused. “Right.”

“I’m going out-“ Stiles said and pointed warningly at them. “And if you try anything, I’m going to give in and call my dad.”

“What’s that going to accomplish?” Joel asked.

“He’s a sheriff,” Stiles said. “And if that’s not enough, I’ll call in Scott’s dad.”

“Again,” Sheila started, “What’s that going to accomplish?”

“He’s an FBI agent,” Stiles said. “And I have blackmail. He owes us a fair few favours.”

“That would be bad,” Sheila said.

“Oh, and if you kill me,” Stiles said. “They’ll know.”

“How?” Joel asked.

“Yeah that… doesn’t really make much sense.” Eric added.

“Trust me,” Stiles said. “If they still care… they’ll know. Like losing a limb.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Sheila admitted. “Does anyone else?”

“You’re all idiots,” Stiles said. “You think zombies are the only thing kicking about?” Stiles scoffed. “Use your heads.”

Scott didn’t find out that Stiles had disappeared on them for a few days – and it was a few days too long. And so much shit happened – Theo messed up, they got Lydia out – or at least, Parrish did - Malia confessed to her plan with the Desert Wolf and then her plan to skip town after, start afresh somewhere new, Braeden revealed that she’s been helping Malia plan a trap that sounds like Stiles would find five hundred flaws in and three thousand ways in which it could go wrong, and Scott doesn’t know where Stiles is, so he can’t get him to do anything about it, but he couldn’t even if he knew because Scott told him not to worry about Lydia or Malia which really meant not to get involved because if he chose murder then no and Scott’s talked to the Sheriff and the Sheriff is practically tearing his hair out because his son never came to him, never came home that night or any nights after, and now Stiles is gone and Scott didn’t know.

Scott didn’t know he left the very same night as their argument. Scott didn’t know that that argument caused it. Not until now.

Not until he heard that voicemail.

“Hey, Scotty,” Stiles said. He sighed. “I’ve already sent one of these to my dad. Malia too. It’s… easier, I guess, to talk to them. Maybe it makes sense why. Talk at them, really, because none of you are talking back.”

Stiles shook his head. “My fault, that.” He admitted, freely, but he closed his eyes and then sighed after. It hurt to say, but it was true. “This old shitty phone I’ve got,” Stiles continued, changing the topic, “Doesn’t store voicemails. I’m also going to trash it after this. I can’t – I can’t afford to… well. You – Dad, someone, will probably track it if I don’t.”

Stiles paused, cleared his throat.

“That is if you wanted me not to be gone.” Stiles closed his eyes again and leaned against the wall. “I’m not gonna give you the chance to make that choice, though. Because sometimes, Scott, there isn’t a choice.”

Stiles paused.

“Just mistakes you regret. Things you wish you could change. I got a lot of those. Starting with mom and ending with leaving. I’m only gonna make more, because as we’ve established, I’m a complete fuck up, and it’s honestly surprising it took this long to realise that.”

Stiles scratched at his jaw, awkwardly. “I guess what I wanted to say,” He said. “Is that I’m sorry.”

Stiles paused, again. “Sorry for everything. For dragging you into the woods that night, for all the lies, for Allison, for Donovan and Josh – who you don’t know about, by the way, and I guess I might as well tell you that Theo killed him so he wouldn’t kill me, then the bastard blackmailed me, the fucker, if I knew his number I’d give him a piece of my mind –“ (he does know his number and he is going to do so, of course, but what’s one more white lie?) “-but whatever.”

Stiles shook his head. “I guess you’re right. And that mom was right, all those years ago.”

Stiles swallowed. “I’m a killer.” He said, and the words felt wrong but they were true, all the same. “But I’m not a monster. And even if I’m not a True Alpha, I can do the right thing occasionally.”

Stiles closed his eyes, blew out a slow breath. “I don’t know where I’m headed.” He said. “You’ll look even if I tell you not to, so I won’t. It’ll save me the disappointment.”

Stiles stared out the window of his motel room.

“At least give me a month’s head start, yeah?” Stiles asked, the corner of his lips quirking upwards. “And a bit morbidly echoing of my previously possessed self… Am ok. Please don’t look for me. But I won’t be back.”

Stiles sighed. “But this time… it really is from me. That wasn’t from me, you know? The nogitsune would have died that night if I had, I’m sure of it. But whatever. The point is… really, this time, please don’t look for me.” Stiles swallowed. “I know when it’s best to…”

Stiles sighed. “Who am I kidding? I know when I’m not needed. I know when I’m not wanted. I know when my presence will fuck everything up for everyone.”

Stiles shook his head. “I’m okay,” Stiles said. “I really am. And since this is goodbye – forever…” Stiles trailed off.

“I love ya, Scotty,” Stiles said. “Please don’t set Melissa on me if you do find me.”

And with that, Stiles ended the voicemail.

Santa Clarita was only supposed to be a pit stop for Stiles. He came here for some food and some rest, but it’s not far away enough. And it’s too busy, too much of a city, but it’s suburban enough that neighbours are nosy and people ask questions.

He was sitting on a bench on the sidewalk eating a burger when a girl dropped down onto the seat next to him. She was around Liam’s age – sixteen, give or take. It was only two years ago he was her age, but it feels like forever.

“You look new.” She said. “And you’ve been staring at either my house or nothing for the last half hour, not even eating your burger.”

The girl looked at him, expectantly. So maybe he’d been dwelling, what of it?

“I ate my curly fries.” Stiles defended.

“Why have you been staring at my house?” The girl demanded, ignoring him, rudely.

“I haven’t,” Stiles said. “I was just thinking.”

“Smells like manpain,” She said. “Lemme hear it.”

“I don’t-“ Stiles protested, “I’m not Derek.”

“Whoever this Derek is, is he part of your problem?” She asked.

Stiles snorted. “If you call abandoning town when his friends need him to not be fucking useless and broody for once in his later years part of my problem, then yeah.”

Stiles had always found it easier to talk to strangers or people he didn’t like. After all, he didn’t exactly care one whit about what they think of him.

“Sounds lame,” She said. “I’d hit him with a tray.”

“He’d deserve it,” Stiles said. “I cannot count the number of times he used to resort to physical violence against my very innocent person. It was rude. Of course, he did it to everyone, but I was very fragile at sixteen.”

“Interesting.” She said. “How old is this guy?”

“I have no idea,” Stiles said. “And I have no idea where he plus I don’t care, so I never asked and I will never ask.”

“Fair.” She said. “If he was an adult hitting teenagers, though, we’ve got a problem.”

“He’s not so bad, really,” Stiles said. “I mean, I don’t care much for the guy but Scott does and I respect him enough to care whether Derek lives or dies, you know? And we saved each other’s lives a few times – I’m still higher on the amount than him, I think – which are enough times that I trust him not to kill me.”

“It sounds like the people you hang around with aren’t the best.” The girl said.

“No, they’re great,” Stiles said, meaning it. “I’m the one who’s not great. S’why I left.”

“I see.” She said. “And what are your plans?”

“Move around.” He said. “Travel the country. An… an extended road trip that lasts my whole life, if you will.”

Maybe he’ll get eaten by a wendigo, or possessed again, or even turned and go Omega and feral and then be killed by a hunter. It’d be his luck, really.

“Sounds lonely.” She said. The girl looked at him, assessing. “What happened?”

“I can’t really say,” Stiles said, apologetically. “I mean…. It was bad.”

“And nobody stood by you?”

“If you count blackmail, then technically,” Stiles said, bitterly. “But I never got around to telling anyone. He just… found out.”

The one person who Stiles just knew could never know, and Scott found out. And Theo blackmailed Stiles, and Stiles is so fucking done.

The girl sat there, quietly, for a moment.

“You gonna eat that?” She asked.

Stiles looked down at his burger.

“No,” He said, sadly. He’d paid for this.

“Alright,” She said and took it from him. Yeah, sure, whatever. Let the kid have it.

There was silence for a bit as she munched away. Then…

“Something happened to my mom.” She said. “And we stood by her.” She glanced at him. “She’s ill,” The girl gestured, in a vague way. “I guess.” The girl paused again, stared at the burger like it would give her all the answers she needed at this moment.

Stiles felt a pang of empathy.

“I get you,” Stiles said. “It’s probably not the same,” Since his mom died and she’s acting like she’s still alive, using the present tense and all, “But I get you.”

The girl snorted. “It’s definitely not the same.” She said. “The illness is Serbian. Came here through some bad clams.” The girl looked at him, deadly serious. “Never eat at Japopo’s.”

“Alright,” Stiles agreed.

“Or anywhere that still has Ruby’s Clams in stock,” She added, still serious. “They’re infected.”

“Well I don’t like clams,” Stiles said, “So…”

The girl nodded, satisfied. “Good.” She said, and that was that. She finished eating her burger and stood up.

Stiles didn’t really have anywhere to go or anything to do – he’d left his jeep at the auto repair shop, and he’d walked here, and it’d be most of the day to fix that mess of a car.

He has the money – just enough. This guy is much better than the one that died back in Beacon. He feels bad about thinking that, but there’s nothing he can really do about it. Since he was, y’know, murdered, and all.

(Right in front of him. That wasn’t fun to watch.)

The girl stares at him for a moment. It’s slightly unnerving, and he fidgets a little.

“You need a shower.” She said. “My parents are weird, they’ll let you borrow ours.”

And with that, she grabs his arm and drags him into the house across the street. He could protest, but he can’t really be bothered.

“Also, our neighbours are cops,” She said. “One’s a sheriff’s deputy –” Another pang, this time of pain and regret (not that the empathy pang wasn’t tinged with that, too) “- and the other’s Santa Monica police.”

“Alright,” Stiles said. Yeah, staying here would be a bad idea.

“So,” She continued, “You don’t wanna be caught loitering. Rick’s nice but Anne’s intense.” She paused. “If you say you work with mom and dad – Sheila and Joel – she’d get off your back about it, though.”

“Uhm, why?” Stiles asked.

“They’re good friends,” She shrugged. “Help each other out with… stuff.”

“Okay,” Stiles said, awkwardly.

“Mom!” the girl shouted. “Dad!”

Two people – an older man with dark brown hair and eyes and a woman with honey blonde hair and hazel eyes. The girl’s parents, then.

“Honey,” The man said, “Why is there a stranger in our house?”

“I found a stray.” The girl said. “In desperate need of a shower and some sleep.”

Was it that obvious? Probably. Stiles hasn’t bothered to check.

He does take offence at being called a stray, though.

“He does look a bit under the weather.” The woman says. “And the bathrooms free so…”

“Well,” The girl grins, claps her hands. “It’s upstairs, not hard to find.”

The man tilts his head and smiles. It looks nervous.

“Of course,” He said. “Let’s let the stranger into our bathroom.”

Stiles does agree, though.

“I didn’t wander in,” He finds the need to defend himself. “I was perfectly happy sitting on a bench outside and eating my burger.”

“Which you weren’t going to eat and would have been a waste.” The girl says. “So I took his burger and in payment, he gets to use our bathroom and maybe nap in the basement.”

That doesn’t sound vaguely worrisome at all.

“Please clarify for the guy with anxiety what exactly you mean by me going down into your basement?” Stiles asked.

“We have a bed down there,” The woman says. “Its better than a couch.”

“I’ll give you that!” The man says, brightly, but he still looks nervous and strained. Honestly, he looks like what Stiles feels like a lot of the time. Stiles guesses he’s just better at hiding it.

“Now, before dad can weird you out any more than he already has,” The girl says, “I’m Abby, these are my weird parents, the bathroom is upstairs.”

Stiles nodded. After a beat, he grimaced and wandered on up the staircase.

What the fuck is his life, honestly.

“Why did you bring a stranger into our house, which I might remind you, still has your mother’s leftovers inside the fridge?” Joel asked, slightly desperate sounding.

“Just relax, smoke some weed,” Abby said, easily, “I’ve got it all under control.”

“How old is he?” Sheila asked, frowning at the staircase he’d disappeared up. “Like, really, could you tell?”

“Anywhere from eighteen to twenty-five,” She said. “Maybe older. Kinda looks like those actors that TV thinks actually resemble teenagers but... nope. They don't.”

Joel nodded, distantly.

“Why did you bring him into our house, Abby?” Sheila asked.

“Because he was alone,” She admitted, after a moment. “Because he’d had that burger for half an hour and hadn’t eaten it. Because he’d left home for reasons omitted which included something terrible that the people around him couldn’t support.”

“Which means he could be my next meal?” Sheila offered.

“No,” Abby said, annoyed. “Which means he’s like you without us, mom.”

“Oh.” Sheila paused as if she was thinking about that. After a moment, she looked saddened. “We’re keeping him,” She said, decidedly.

“He’s not a pet,” Joel said, exasperated. “Can you not?”

“Nope,” Abby said. “Face it, dad, we’re taking in strays.”

“Why.” Joel sighed. “Just… why.” But really, Abby knew he wasn’t against it. If mom hadn’t had them… god. If this guy had something similar but not quite as extreme happen to him, then maybe they could help. After all, not killing him immediately is an improvement, and really, helping someone ought to balance out all the death – even if it is usually of people who deserve said death. Like young single Hitlers.

Even the ones in wheelchairs.

“So,” Malia said. “Stiles is gone.”

Scott nodded. Malia pursed her lips but didn’t say anything – she didn’t need to. Scott could smell it, and he placed a hand on her arm and squeezed, lightly. “We’ll get him back,” He promised.

“He doesn’t want to be gotten back.” She returned. “You heard him.”

“He’s hurting.”

“And whose fault is that?” She snapped, then sighed, and closed her eyes briefly.

“Mine,” Scott said.

“No.” She shook her head. “Ours. All of ours. His, too, for being an idiot that never tells us things he really should.”

Scott allowed the slightest of quirks upwards to his lips.

Malia nodded. “We need to give him time.” She said.

“… One month,” Scott said. “The Sheriff’s tracking his trail – he’s not really leaving one, but since it’s the Sheriff’s kid people are quicker to tell him the truth about his missing son. Anyway – he’s gonna keep an eye on where he is. If he surfaces in a month, we’ll go looking.”

Malia nodded again and squeezed his arm in return.

“Things are only gonna get worse,” She said, bluntly. “My mom’s gonna be here soon, Theo’s building his pack and planning something big, the beast is still out there and we still don’t know who it is, and Stiles is missing on his own terms.”

“At least we’ve got Lydia,” Scott said.

“And we’re losing Kira.” Malia retorted.

“What’s your point?” Scott asked, a little quiet. He didn’t want to think about that.

“I’m leaving when my mom is dead.” She said. “Beacon Hills has made it’s point; it doesn’t want us here.”

Scott waited as she paused to collect her thoughts.

“After my mom’s dead,” She said, “I’m inviting all of you to come with me. We’ll look for Stiles, sure, but it’s mostly to get away.”

“You’re not going to kill her,” Scott said. “I can’t-“

“You can’t have another of your friends be a murderer?” Malia sked. “I get that. I do. But Stiles didn’t murder Donovan.”

“What?” Scott asked.

“You never asked. I never asked. None of us ever asked.” She paused. “We should have. We know Stiles, he’d never tell us anything he thinks he has to keep a secret.”

Scott nodded, slowly.

“There was a bite on his shoulder,” Malia said. “A scar. It looked painful.”

Scott remembered Stiles wincing, rubbing at his shoulder and claiming various injuries.

“You knew?” HE asked. Malia nodded. “I guessed.” She said. “He never got around to telling anyone and I never got around to asking him because everything was going so badly, and I couldn’t figure out the words that wouldn’t make it worse.”

“What?” Scott asked, bewildered.

“We were breaking apart,” She said, and there’s a sadness she’s too good at hiding.

“All of us,” She added, “But… I know we were headed to a break-up. And… I didn’t want to speed that along.”

“I’m sorry,” Scott said.

“No.” She shook her head. “I am. And Stiles is. But none of that’s really anything to do with you.”

She gave him steely eyes, and he winced. “But if you tell my boyfriend not to worry about me ever again, I will break your kneecaps.”

“You didn’t break up?” Scott asked, wincing.

“We did.” She said. “I just refuse to accept being broken up with over a phone call. If he’s going to do it, he’s doing it in person – and then, at that point, will I move on.”

“Why?” Scott asked.

“I never said it,” She said. “He never said it.”

“Oh,” Scott said.

“But he said it on the voicemail.” She admitted, tone slightly softer. “And I’m not giving up on our happiness. Not ever.”

Scott nodded, slowly.

“So even though things are only gonna get worse from here,” Malia said. “You gotta keep going. Because Stiles is out there, somewhere, and he needs some sense knocking into him.”

“Maybe not literally,” Scott says, but he’s smiling slightly.

“We didn’t exactly have the best first second meeting,” Malia said, “I punched him. If he can handle that, slapping him once for being an ass should be fine.”

“why did you punch him?” Scott asked.

“I didn’t wanna be human and it was easier to blame him for that than blame myself for my family’s death,” She said. “Don’t worry, I’d never actually hurt him.”

Scott nodded. “I didn’t think you would.”

“Explains the shock,” She says, but she’s smiling a little. “Come on, Scott.” She said. “Let’s go find Kira.”

“Malia.”

Malia turned around and glared at the Chimera. All their problems started with his arrival, and now she knows why, and it just hurts. She’d nearly trusted him, even though she didn’t like him (but she had liked him too much, really, and now she knows that that was just the werecoyote part of him she cared for) and he’d ruined everything she’d tried to build over the months she’s been back.

She just wanted to graduate. She just wanted to graduate and go to college (maybe) and date her boyfriend and hang out with the pack and be somewhat normal and maybe even eventually go to therapy. That’s it. She just wanted to grow, to become an adult, to not have any more death and pain and darkness in her life.

But here, standing in the hall so she can’t attack him, is the source of all their newfound problems.

“Theo.” She returned, coolly.

“Aren’t you happy to see me?” Theo asked.

“No.” She growled lightly. “What do you want?”

“I have some information you might need,” He said, and he’s smirking like he always is.

“Like what?” She asked, warily.

“I don’t want anything bad to happen to Stiles,” He said. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t want all of you dead. Just Scott.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Malia demanded.

“You weren’t my first choice,” Theo admitted, freely. “But my first choice skipped town. So, I have some information, and a bargain to make.”

“Which is?” She prodded.

“I’ll help you with your mother,” He smirked. “And you’ll help me find Stiles.”

“Why?” She asked.

“Because I think he’ll want to know something eventually,” Theo said. “Part of my plan, as it were. And he’s going to want to know it badly. Otherwise, someone’s going to die.”

Helpful. Fuck this guy, really.

“Who?” She demands.

“Depends on his decision.” Theo shrugs. “It’s a choice of two – and, don’t worry. You aren’t one of them.”

“Comforting,” She snapped.

“I imagine it is,” He said, ignoring her sarcasm. “Because I have a feeling between his father and anyone, he’d always pick the former.”

Malia stared as he walked past, as the bell rang, and as he turned the corner and disappeared from her sight.

She growled and punched a locker, shaking and angry. Lydia and Scott found her like that, staring at the locker she’d punched. They pull her out of sight, down a corridor, and into a classroom.

She tells them what Theo had told her, full well knowing he’d probably wanted her to. And would have a plan if he hadn’t.

That night, Theo shows up at her house.

“What do you want?” She snapped.

“I’m giving you the information.” He said. “I give you info, and help you with your mother, and you come with me to find Stiles – as both bait and a bargaining chip.”

“Of course,” She snarled. “You would.”

“I have plans,” He said. “I’m not letting someone’s free will ruin them.”

“What are your plans?” She snapped.

“I was gonna tell Stiles,” He said. “Bring out the void. Get him to snap. But he’s not here, and I don’t really care much about doing that to you since you’ve already done it to yourself.”

She’s going to kill her mother. It’s not fun that Theo agrees with that choice, but there’s nothing else she can do.

“The claws will kill her no matter what you do,” Theo says, changing the subject. “So just take everything that you can and then some.”

Malia nodded, slowly.

“I had Donovan tail Stiles to the edge of Cali,” He said. “And don’t worry, he was under very strict orders. If he’d done anything, trust me, I’d have done worse than kill him.”

“Why do you care?” She demanded, exploded out with.

“That’s private,” He warned. “But… I suppose I can tell you what I was going to tell him.

“I came for a pack,” He starts, “For the werecoyote who’s first instinct is to kill,” He grins slightly at her, eyes sharp. “For the banshee, the girl surrounded by death, for the beta with anger issues, the dark kitsune.” He took a short pause. “I came for Void! Stiles – that is the pack that I want.”

He smirked, slightly. Malia punched him in the face.

“You will leave my best friends and my boyfriend alone.” She threatened.

“Or what?” He asked. “You’ll kill me? That just proves my point, and you’ll never find Stiles.”

Why would I need you to find Stiles?”

“Because I might have had Donovan follow him further than out of Cali,” Theo said, then spat out some blood and cracked his nose back into place from where it had healed broken. “I know where he is. You’re just coming as… insurance, shall we say. An incentive to come back when I tell him to.”

“You’re not giving him a choice.” She said.

“Of course, I am,” Theo said. “You die or he returns. That’s a choice.”

“You said I wasn’t part of the two he had to choose between.”

“You aren’t,” Theo said. “Change of plans. The sheriff isn’t going to nearly die.”

“Why?” She asked. “Why change your plans?”

“Because,” Theo shrugged. “It’s too risky. If Noah died, well….” There was a flicker of emotion across his face that Malia didn’t recognise, but she knew the scent well.

“He’d never agree to join me. And then everything falls through.”

“Fine.” She snapped. “You help me with my mom, and with Stiles, which in turn helps you get access to the claws after I’ve used them, and –” She snarled in disgust. “Whatever it is you want with us.”

“Deal.” He smiles. It’s a lot like a deal with the devil, and really, it is one, and Malia just hopes it’s not going to blow up in her face quite as spectacularly as she’s expecting.

Donovan is stupid, of course, Theo knows that. Maybe not academically – he’s never checked – but he’s so much of a fucking idiot it makes Theo angry and itch to do something violent towards the man in question.

How old is Donovan again?

Whatever.

The point is, that Theo knows if Donovan tried anything, Stiles would beat him. All the chimeras that came back from the dead – they’re a little off, resilience wise, but not enough to worry about unless dealing with someone like Stiles or Malia or Lydia.

Scott wouldn’t kill them, so the point is moot for him, and Kira wouldn’t kill them unless the fox took over and at that point, it isn’t really her anyway, so the point is moot there. Liam isn’t trained enough and he’s too young still, really, so he doesn’t count, either.

Anyway – Stiles would beat Donovan. He wouldn’t beat Josh or Tracey or Hayden (not that Hayden truly listens to Theo, which is… frustrating) but he could beat Donovan, and now that’s he’s convinced he’s a murderer anyway thanks to Scott’s wonderful reaction and Theo’s own subtle manipulations, well, all is going to plan. If he kills Donovan, that just confirms it, and if Donovan tries literally anything on Stiles, Theo can bring Stiles back and hurt Donovan in ways Donovan probably doesn’t even think are possible.

(Theo’s not stupid. He’s got quite a bit of the serum hidden away.)

Nobody ruins Theo’s plans and gets away with it. But Stiles hasn’t exactly ruined his plans – they just need a little adjusting, and besides…

It makes things interesting.

#Mine. all mine | My Post #.txt | Text Post #fanfiction #santa clarita diet #teen wolf #scott #joel #sheila #(I've been spelling it #shelia #lmao)#abby #eric #malia #theo #etc #AU - Fusion

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tlbodine · 7 years

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Writing Slasher Fic

These days, when you hear "horror," the slasher is one of the first things that probably comes to mind. That's most likely because slasher films absolutely dominated during the 1980s, when many of us were growing up and forming our opinions about the world, and then made a strong resurgence in the 1990s when the younger half of a generation as doing the same thing.

There are a ton of slasher franchises that pop immediately to mind, each centering on an iconic killer: Michael Myers, Jason Voorhees, Freddy Krueger, Ghostface, etc.

But the slasher genre has, primarily, been confined to the silver screen. You just don't see as many novels in the same vein.

Oh, undoubtedly you find novels about serial killers -- but they tend to be police procedurals and cop thrillers, not the same classic "teenagers getting chopped into pieces" format as we're accustomed to in the movies. What's up with that?

Well. Some thoughts.

What is a Slasher Fic?

Slashers are stories about serial killers who go on murder sprees and wipe out a number of victims one-by-one, often all of them members of the same social group. The most traditional format involves a group of teenagers who are mowed down systematically by a killer while the authorities are useless to intervene. There is generally a moral element wherein the victims "deserve" to die for various on-screen transgressions, whether it's being Too Stupid To Live (tm) or having premarital sex (a classic, but now largely outdated, plot device).

You survive a serial killer, these narratives suggest, through moral superiority rather than force or skill.

And that makes sense, in a way, if you consider that these Hollywood serial killers are really not very much like real serial killers at all. They are the personification of our baser instincts, our animalistic nature: unstoppable killing machines that seem to feel nothing, either physically or emotionally, and whose desire for destruction is relentless. They are all of the worst parts of our nature, and so it makes sense that defeating them would require calling upon the best parts of our nature.

So Why Are There So Few Slasher Novels?

I suspect that part of the reason you don't see the book equivalent of Halloween very often is that, from a technical standpoint, many of the things we find most satisfying about slasher films do not translate very well to print.

The first issue is the violence. Slashers depend on gore and jump-scares; they live firmly in the "shock" camp. Which, as we know, is one of the hardest to write. Seeing someone killed in some particularly gruesome way affects the brain differently than imagining them being killed that way. You can still write the blood and gore, but it won't be quite the same. It's much easier to pull off over-the-top, campy, gleeful-dark-giggles-inducing fountains of blood on the screen than on the page, because you have absolute control over what it looks like. Your reader, on the other hand, will supply the details themselves with their own imaginations, which makes your job a little harder. Not impossible! But harder.

The second issue is narrative structure. Traditionally, novels are told from a single perspective, or at least a single perspective at any given time. Their strength is the ability to get into the head of a character and feel what they feel. Film, by contrast, provides a third party objective view, where the camera serves as a voyeur. That creates tension by putting us one step ahead of the victims at any given time.

In other words, it's a lot harder to shout "He's BEHIND YOU!" to characters in a book.

Therefore, a slasher novel would need to have a more distant omniscient narrator rather than a close-third or close-first person perspective.

But what about first person from the POV of the killer, I hear you asking, and to that I say: Excellent, it can be done, but what you get will not be a horror story in the classic sense. By putting is in the head of the killer, we will inevitably sympathize with him, which makes him not scary. He might be doing awful, grotesque things, but we won't be afraid of him because if we're in his head we know he's not standing right behind us.

To be afraid, we need to be in a position of sympathizing with the victim, and feeling what they're feeling. Otherwise, you're looking at a thriller or a crime novel or a mystery or anything else that's not horror.

(Which is fine, of course, but this is How to Write Horror and not How to Write Gory Thrillers, which would need to be a book of its own)

Okay, Okay, So Does That Mean I Can't Write a Slasher Novel?

Nope! This totally does not mean that.

But you just said....!

I know. I totally did. But just because something is difficult does not mean that it can't be done! There are quite a few young adult authors in particular who have written some classic played-straight slasher novels.

The trick to writing an effective slasher:

- Create a cast of characters who draw strongly on archetypes, but give them a little twist that makes them likable and unique. You want to do this because you'll have a large cast, by necessity (you need a lot of bodies to hit the floor), and you want those characters to be instantly relatable.

- Write from the perspective of your "final girl." You can deviate from this POV sometimes to provide a bit of drama (breaking away to see the killer in action elsewhere, for example) but most of your narrative space is going to be spent on watching the main character encounter the mutilated bodies of her friends and running from danger.

- Add an element of mystery. A slasher plot can feel a little thin. Bump up the cerebral horror by including a mentally engaging subplot or mystery to solve -- such as, perhaps, the killer's identity, or what he wants with the main character. You'll see this pop up time and again in most (but not all) slasher films: what seems to be a random attack turns out not to be so random after all, because the killer is actually deeply entwined in the Final Girl's life in some way. Unraveling that mystery puts some meat on the bones of the narrative.

And of course, remember to keep in mind the other tips and tricks we've discussed already in terms of building suspense, writing gore, handling shock, etc.

Some Required Reading to Get You Started:

I Know What You Did Last Summer by Lois Duncan (it's a child of its times, and has some really painful dialogue, but it's interesting to study alongside the film)

Some of R.L. Stine's Fear Street books are good. For our purposes, I'd recommend starting with Lights Out, The Prom Queen, and Silent Night. The Cheerleader series is pretty good too.

Some of Christopher Pike's novels are in the same vein. Try out Chain Letter, Slumber Party, and Weekend

Survive the Night by Danielle Vega is not strictly a slasher (the monster is an actual monster and not a serial killer) but the format is essentially the same, and it's worth studying.

The above are all young adult novels, because that's what happens when you're writing about teenagers getting carved up. Compare and contrast with these essential slasher-fic movies:

Nightmare on Elm Street

Halloween

Friday the 13th

Scream

Urban Legend

I'm probably missing some recommendations, so toss them in the comments!

#how to write horror #slasher #serial killer #fiction #horror movies #writing advice

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jodiwalker · 7 years

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The Best Things Happening on Game of Thrones Right Now

If the current season of Game of Thrones is fan service, then consider me — a fan — serviced, and sign me up, baby. We've been through the hard stuff, we deserve this. This series has finally broken through the stratosphere of TV criticism and into the land of pure joy where Arya can be both a raging lil' sociopath and a beloved protagonist.

So this is neither a review nor a recap, a critique nor a thoughtful analysis influenced by my superior status as a "book-reader." Instead, it is the most advanced of all literary art forms: a list of I've been tickled by in the first two episodes of season 7. The best things happening on Game of Thrones right now definitively are:

Very Silly Reveals That Are Supposed to Change the Game (of Thrones) But Are Kind of Just Really Obvious Solutions

1. There's a Shit Ton of Dragon Glass at…Dragonstone

Of all the things I expected out of this season—reunions, rifts, Cersei dramatically guzzling wine, Arya masked-murderin', Dany sittin' on thrones, hopefully the glorious return of Gendry's biceps—I never anticipated quite this much focus on igneous rocks. Jon Stark's laser focus on digging up dragon glass is starting to sound like a Goop newsletter, and it's not that I wouldn't subscribe (imagine: the fur recs! the tips for sultry lashes! the straightforward syntax without any annoying exclamation points!), it's just all a little more plainly sated than I expected. Jon calls, like, eight Big Chamber Meetings to tell all the Northern elders, plus Lil' Lyanna Mormont that their number one priority is to find dragon glass because it's the only thing they can create weapons out of in mass to kill white walkers. Those meetings go a little something like this:

Jon: How are we gonna kill white walkers?!

Northerners: DRAGONGLASS!

Jon: And where are we gonna find it?!

Sam, from Oldtown: AT—AND YOU'RE REALLY NOT GOING TO BELIEVE THIS—DRAGONSTONE!

[Ed. note: I've edited out the regular interruptions from Sansa that give me extreme conflicting emotional anxiety, but we'll get to those later in the "So You're Co-Ruling with Your Half-Sister Who's Actually Your Cousin and She's Recently Developed a Mind of Her Own After Surviving Extreme Trauma" section.]

Sending Sam to Oldtown to train as a maester is like the coconut oil/Franks RedHot of Westeros: that shit works on everything. At the Citadel, Sam begins scooping soup, souping poop (in a scene I would have exchanged for an hour-long loop of gruesome murders), and most importantly, sneaking into the restricted section of the library like some sort of chubby lovechild between Voldemort and Harry Potter. He even gets shut down by Jim Broadbent (aka Archmaester Marwyn, absolutely killing the wise, gives-no-shits maester game) and sneaks in anyway. And what did Samwell find in the restricted section?

Well, Sam steals maybe five books and finds the exact answer he needs, plus one he didn't even know he should be looking for—more on that in a minute.

And you know what? That's kind of dumb and unrealistic, but Sam deserves this. He's had a tough life and his dad is a jerk that wanted to kill him and his brother is (well, used to be) the hot guy from Unreal, and everyone shits on him all the time even though he is legitimately the nicest person alive in their godforsaken, feces infested world — dude has earned finding the solution to saving mankind after exactly 10 minutes of cozy reading with his cute wildling life partner and their ageless baby.

So, Sam finds out (via a super lame picture that Jaime could have drawn with his strong hand) that there's a big ol' dragon glass mine at—you're not going to believe this—Dragonstone. All they've gotta do is dig it up. Well, and, y'know, get past Daenerys Targaryen, heir of Dragonstone who recently arrived on its sandy, glass-filled shores. And that other thing that Sam found?

2. The Cure for Greyscale is Just…Peeling Off the Greyscale

Well, no fucking shit, Sam. I mean, listen, I know I was just singing the kid's praises, but it's pretty crazy to act like you just found the magical cure for Greyscale in your magical secret books when that cure is…peeling off the Greyscaled skin and then putting a bunch of medieval Neosporin on it. But whatever, it's really sweet that Sam wants to help Jorah Mormont so badly because of his affection for Lord Commander Mormont and is willing to flay him to save his life (and definitely give himself Greyscale with the way he's using those gloves). So go ahead, Sam, peel off that Greyscale in your secret Dr. Pimple sessions—your solution might be obvious, but at least it's not dumb, dumb, dumb…

3. The Dragon Feller That's Just…a Crossbow

So, John is concerned with defeating the white walkers because, y'know, strong moral fiber and a her survivor's guilt complex and all that. But Cersei is mainly concerned with defeating anyone who would try to take the Iron Throne from her that she didn't already blow up with magic fire. And that means she's got to look alive about the tiny blonde Targaryen heading her way who's bringing, along with her legitimate claim to the throne, her three big ass dragons that were, coincidentally, born from a magic fire.

It's going to take something big to defeat those dragons. Something magical. Something much more powerful than even wildfire. Something like…

A BIG ASS CROSSBOW, BABY! Yeah, that will be great for killing dragons — if the dragons are sitting still, 1,000 years old, and already dying peacefully of natural causes. It's okay, Qyburn. They can't all be skull-crushing Frankenzombies held together by Husky R' Us armor level ideas, buddy.

Arya and Her Whole Thing

I remember when How to Get Away With Murder premiered there were a bunch of think pieces that were all, Finally! A Female Anti-Hero for Us to Love Just Like All Those Dude Anti-Heroes We Loved on A&E and HBO! Of course, no one loved Viola Davis' anti-hero like they loved Walter White because people don’t like to love flawed women like they like to love flawed men (and the show's not as good, but Viola is). And so, when Arya gave the best revenge performance of all time at the top of the season 7 premiere, there were a bunch of (to be fair, legitimate) articles that were all Should We Really Be Rooting for Arya? Is Arya a Sociopath Now? Arya Sure Looked like She Wanted to Kill Ed Sheeran, an Innocent Soldier, Who We Will Tell You Later How WE'D Like to Kill, But for Different Totally Valid Reasons.

So let me just say, yes! Arya is a probably a semi-psychopathic now, and yes! We should be rooting for her. She is but a simple mercenary setting out to avenge the death of her loved ones using humble blood magic. Yes, she killed Walder Frey, and yes, she fed him to his sons, and yes she then skinned him and wore his face in order to poison all those sons who she had just fed a pie made out of their dad, but you know what she also did…spared the women who hadn’t done anything wrong except be born into that nasty family. And yes she maybe only spared them to have this bad ass parting line, delivered with just perfect level-headed menace by Maisy Williams: "When people ask you what happened here — tell them the North remembers. Tell them winter came for House Frey."

But she is Arya and I love her, and I support her in anything she does…unless she kills any of the characters I like, in which case I will have to write some think pieces.

Sibling Dramzzz: Stark Edition

And speaking of Starks you have to keep your eye on, Sansa and Jon are having kind of a hard time co-parenting the North, and that's probably because people just loooove putting Jon in charge, even though Sansa should kind of technically be in charge, the only problem is, that Sansa's so annoying. Now, Sansa has made large strides toward being less annoying. But for every two steps forward (occasionally telling Lord Baelish to go fuck himself, knowing about war, not being a moralizing idealist), she interrupts Jon six times in their council meetings and tells him how stupid he is.

And listen, I get it — I have siblings. No one knows you better, and no one knows they know you better. When someone acts like they understand you better than you understand yourself, and worse, they're probably right, it can be trying. When Sansa tells Jon that he's going to get his head chopped off like his virtuous father and brother before him, she's not necessarily, but she is annoying. In a made-up world with dragons and child-sacrifice and, like, constant incest that's often not very relatable, I find this Jon and Sansa stuff frustratingly relevant.

The complexity of familial bonds is a language that spans universes (I mean, I guess that's ignoring the thing I just said about near-constant incest), so when Sansa says just the right bratty thing — "Joffrey never let anyone question his decisions, do you think he was a good king?" — to set Jon off, or when Jon and Sansa get on the same page about something, then he immediately changes his mind and announces it at the dinner table, so she questions his decision in front of all their gossipy cousins…it's normal family stuff, just at much higher, head-chopping stakes.

My great fear is that the tentative but often sweet partnership these two eldest "children" of Ned Stark have formed will somehow be ruined by Littlefinger. So boyyyyyy was it gratifying when Jon choked his old ass out when he was all I wanted to fuck your step-mom and now I want to fuck your half-sister, just thought I'd tell you that right here in front of your dead dad's crypt. And mannnnn was it concerning when Sansa backed down from publicly challenging Jon about his decision to leave the North and sale to Dragonstone the moment she learned he was leaving her in charge of the North in his absence, then immediately looked to Littlefinger for…what? Approval? Guidance? Shared joy? None are great options.

Just get though this Jon and Sansa — I promise you’ll be best friends when you’re adults!

Sibling Dramzzz: Greyjoy Edition

Yo, this family is Messed! Up! Theon jumped off a ship rather than risk saving his sister Yara from their super-pirate uncle who's now taking Yara, Ellaria, and the last remaining Sand Snake, Tyene as his gift to Cersei which will totally make her want to marry him so he can be king, I guess, and not just of his raggedy salt islands.

It will never not be distracting how much Euron looks like Pacey though. If Pacey had a run-in with an H&M clearance rack and the entire smoky eye section of Sephora.

Sibling Dramzzz: Lannister Edition

And speaking of Cersei's current romantic status: Jaime is giving her a looooot of side-eye because she's, y'know, terrible. But she is doing a really fun thing this season where she's constantly recapping how much she hates everyone while subconsciously remaining us how much everyone hates her in return. While roaming around her Etsy map of Westeros, Cersei tells Jaime: "Enemies to the east. Enemies to the south: Ellaria Sand and her brood of bitches. Enemies to the west: Olenna, the old cunt, another traitor. Enemies to the North: Ned Stark's bastard has been named King of the North, and that murdering whore Sansa stands beside him. Enemies everywhere, we're surrounded by traitors!"

Girl, anymore zingers and maybe a concluding paragraph, and they'll give you a byline at Vulture. It is my one true hope that Jaime will realize his sister is insane and kill her before she kills him or Tyrion.

Everything Lil' Lyanna Mormont Does

I don't care if it's Disney-Channel-level precocious, I don't care if they're just giving us more of what we want…actually, I do care. Give me more of what I want! And what I want is the Lil'est Lady of Bear Island repeatedly telling a bunch of giant grizzled dudes to STFU. "I don't plan on knitting by the fire while men fight for me," she says when it's proposed that girls should be trained to fight in the war to come. "I might be small and I might be a girl, but I am every bit as much a Northerner as you. And I don't need your permission to defend the North." Yes, my tiny queen! I don't know if they heard you in the back, but at this point in time, just about every major house in the realm is run by a woman And speaking of…

Jon and Dany Said Each Other's Names and Hopefully That Will All Be Fine

That's it, that's all I needed. Now they can either become best friends or fall in incestuous Targaryen love, there is no other option.

Images: HBO; BlondieTVJunkie/tumblr

#game of thrones #game of thrones recap #episode 7.1 #episode 7.2

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alarashinu · 7 years

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(So I could have sworn I posted this back when it happened but apparently I’m just losing my mind, so here it is now. This was a retroactive/memory scene between myself and @mundanemike detailing how Lysandir and @ravenswitte became a mated pair, and was written out during the now-concluded Demon-Jacked plot.)

Massive trigger warnings for blood, gore, torture, and (technically) cannibalism.

(It’s also quite long!)

He couldn't think straight enough to have any real processed going through at once. He couldn't move. His eyes wouldn't even respond to his wants, though the want wasn't as strong as the desire to make it stop. There was so much sickness lacing through him, walking hand in hand with the agony that burned from ever bruise, cut or gaping wound. He had lost track of himself, not sure how long the red eyed man had been there with his creatures, tormenting him like a handful of demons and twice as cruel. He had no idea how long he'd been left here on the cold, gore-slicked floor of his cell with only the rotating thrum of the turbines to keep him company.

He was...

Fairly sure he was dying.

That was, to be honest, terribly inconvenient. He was pretty sure that crazy fucking bitch wasn't going to be able to raise him anew like she threatened all the way out here. Something of a pained, crackling rasp escaped his broken and bloodied lips as he tried to just breathe and laugh. It was excruciating, the whole ordeal, and new coppery warmth came to greeth his muddled senses as the hot iron nails of it dug into his veins and slithered to his core. If he wasn't dying he was possibly losing what was left of his mind in here. That, or the strange, ribbons of sticky flesh piled in the crook of his curled body were actually his guts. Had he tried to put them back...? He thinks maybe so...

"Ahahahahah....HA."

It wasn't funny, but what else could he do?

He wasn't a big crier.

Never had been.

Plenty of times he'd thought about it. Like right now. He...Wasn't sure how to just do that sort of thing anyways. He always laughed when it looked bad. Right now he was half off his gourd, numbly pawing the mess closer in towards himself, and...And he didn't think of the bitch.

Nah, she'd be mad but she'd be fine..

It was that stupid deer that kept popping back in, smiling and sighing at him for something awful he'd done or caused. He was real good at filling that irreperably ruined bad dog, wasn't he...? He wasn't just going to sigh this time and it caused the mongrel in the cage to linger there, close to his face. It was ok that he was so disappointed now...

He'd deserved that sort of look for a long time. "...bloo'ee puss..." He spat the words with some of his own fluids into the night, mangled cheek tearing more as it peeled from the metal where it'd been resting. He wasn't mad, he was...Was he mad? Maybe. Maybe he should be. After all, he couldn't even give him that look when he first found out. There had to be something wrong and broken with the creature, not like him but still there. He'd never know why he kept coming back...But maybe it was because, no matter how much he deserved it, Lyz never gave it to him. Even with someone else's guts in his hands.

Never.

Not even once.

The smell was what really brought him back, though. That, and the taste of his own blood thick in his mouth before it dripped in a slow, thick stream. He'd been a very, very bad dog and Lyz kept him. Even when he broke his toys. He couldn't help himself, you see. Somethimes it just...Got the better of him. Most people didn't want that. They ran or fought or screamed or...Anything. Staring the feral and enraged wolf in the eyes with the guts of that poor boy twisted all about his rending claws, the warm, crimson wetting the fur and spreading across the open clearing...He was some sort of saint or something, the way he did that...

That thing he...

How he...

He had smelled blood.

It was probably nothing. An animal he got too rough with.

It was human.

He got too rowdy at one of the taverns, got someone's blood on his fists.

It was hot.

It was fresh.

And then it was everywhere.

Lysandir stopped on the edge of the clearing, just where thick undergrowth gave way to shorter grass. That was all. He just stopped, and he took in the scene before him, amber eyes glowing in the dark even as the rest of his sleek, feline form was wreathed in shadow. His pupils, widened to nearly perfect circles in the night, narrowed to slits, until nothing was left but that sea of gold as he watched the wolf, guts hanging from his claws like macabre streamers, and the body lying broken under his paws, its ribs pried open wide like gruesome wings.

Anyone else would have run, screamed, attacked... something. He thought dimly that maybe he was supposed to do that. He thought maybe that was the proper thing to do when faced with such grisly horrors. When faced with monsters.

Instead, velvet paws and dainty steps brought him from the edge of the clearing towards the scene illuminated like a spotlight to his nocturnal eyes, the cold silver light of Mother Moon refusing to leave anything to imagination. He felt his toes squelch in the wet grass, and for a moment he wondered if it had rained. But the thick copper stench in his nose wouldn't let him entertain that thought for more than a heartbeat, and he found himself wondering just how much blood was in a human body.

He stopped mere inches from the beast, thrusting out his nose and bristling his whiskers, not in anger or fear, but in... curiosity?

Witte, in his haze of mingled agony and time and distance, was more right than he could know: this creature -- this delicate, gentle creature -- was a deeply, irreparably broken thing.

Roughly about five to six liters. That's how much the average human had, but this one was running short. Though it wasn't running short enough not to gurgle and spit some of it. For the love of the Light, the poor man was still alive. Witte had forgotten him for a moment, the golden sets of eyes meeting and staying hung there for the moment. He should say something, probably.

The monster that was The Raven at the time, had turned back to the prey however. His claws digging into the skull along the hairline as he grabbed its face in both hands. It was an interesting sound, the human's head crushing in and squeezing out the breaks and past his fingers. He didn't stop, though. Not until there wasn't even a head left to recognize. It's popped like a melon at one point, spreading bloody cleared fluid into the mix as it rushed out in the face of the pressure. Of course there were still some moving parts here and there, twitching and settling...

But that's when he lowered his muzzle and started to eat him.

Maybe Lyz being there had made him more vicious in the end, though it wasn't conscious. It reminded him of why he'd stalked the young cobbler home in the first place. His home was a warzone in the wake of the struggle and Tegwynn's outrage. He hadn't really done anything, though. Well not anything a person might consider acceptable terms for murder.

But he kept looking at the deer. He even gave him something. Witte hadn't asked Lyz about it, no. The devil inside had taken him by the reins and led him right into hell again without looking. He got ahead of himself thinking and--

Well, to be honest, he didn't remember much of it after the fellow answered his back door.

Lysandir took one step back as skin and bone and brain gave way under the immense pressure of the monster's claws, but it seemed more to avoid getting any of it on his pristine black fur, the little ponce. You know how cats are. In fact, he even gave his shoulder a vaguely irritated lick, tasting blood on the roof of his mouth. It made his whiskers bristle again, and when he looked back at the Raven -- his Raven -- something warm and wet was being shoved in his direction.

He sniffed at it delicately, as though appraising its suitability as an offering, and never once did his eyes leave Witte's as he took it and swallowed it down.

He should be horrified, he thought distantly. He should be disgusted, perhaps even vomiting at the idea of making a meal of another sentient creature, of sharing that meal with the beast who had killed it.

He should be a lot of things, he knew, that he was not.

He could have backed down and shown some sort of remorse, some sort of attempt to hide what it was he'd done and would do...But he wasn't particularly repentant either. It didn't help that Lyz took his heart like it was intended. Alright then, his slowly returning sensibilities decided to just say fuck it. Like usual.

There was another moment there where all that could be heard was the soft, peeling of flesh from bone as he lowed his head to feast upon the one who had probably wronged him in some way his warped mind could twist it. He gave the antlered one all of the best parts, his favorites at least, if he would join him.

It was...Kind of pleasing though, watching the cat do as he did. He was by far no wicked creature like The Raven, no. He was wild and beautiful, as gentle as he could be fierce...He never seemed the sort to make sense around his sort. The sort that tried to save you and then hated you when they couldn't. He just wasn't though.

Maybe that's why. Maybe.

Each piece was taken with that same delicate, soft mouth, half of it eaten and the rest offered back: an acceptance of the grisly gifts and a reciprocation. It was an intimacy, a joining, and he thought with dark humor that of course the most intimate moment of his life would be something like this: a freshly murdered corpse, a feral monster, and the Moon.

He looked up at Her for a moment, slowly blinking those depthless golden eyes. Perhaps he was asking Her about this strange path She had sent him down. Perhaps he was asking Her why this monster was meant for him.

Or maybe he didn't care.

Licking his chops, his teeth very white in the dark, the druid lay down in the still-damp grass, apparently no longer caring that it soaked into his fur and clotted between his toes. One paw hooked around a rib, yanked, pulled, and long ears flicked at the wet, visceral snap as tendon and bone gave way. Blood and clinging strips of flesh were licked away by a rough, skilled tongue, and a thick tail lashed with lazy enthusiasm, batting against the Raven's haunches. When the purring began, it thrummed through his entire chest and danced back and forth against the nearby trees.

A damaged thing.

A wrong thing.

A broken thing, bathing in blood and moonlight.

#lysandir shadeleaf #tegwynn witte #shipping: blood and moonlight #tw: blood #tw: gore #tw: torture #tw: cannibalism

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unclefestive · 7 years

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A true story about where I spend my summers

So I was going to post this on the @sixpenceee story contest thing but I never got my confirmation email so here goes, I’m gonna post it here.

Trigger warning: Blood and Gore

This story is true. There might be some details I got wrong, but this is stuff that I have grown up seeing.

I don’t have a title for it, so here goes.

I wouldn’t say I scare easily. I grew up in the city. First 10 years in lower Manhattan, ever since then in Brooklyn. I see myself as tougher than the average kid. I spent my summers in a small lake community up in westchester, and I used to go to camp and interact with the locals, so I think I can say with good authority that city kids are tougher.

I know a lot of people say “Oh this story is true,” and then talk about some crazy encounter with a ghost or a demon or something, and you’re sitting there thinking “Wow, I’m spooked, but there’s no way that was real.” I’m telling you in all honesty this is a real story. It actually only happened a couple days ago, so if there’s any updates I’ll be sure to let you know.

So this aforementioned summer community is surrounded by some woods, especially the houses up the hill. We’ve had a lot of animals turn up dead because of a coyote or something. Once we even had a moose running around during the winter when the park was closed. I heard it got run over out on the highway before the season started.

My friends like to joke that this community is like a cult. It’s a really tight knit group of people. Don’t really like outsiders. I remember once I was the main topic of discussion because I brought outside friends up a couple weekends, and that made everyone angry. People I never even talked to confronted my parents about it. A lot of these people don’t have much to do other than sit around and gossip, so nothing really stays a secret. Over the years, there have been some weird occurances.

Like for one, Women’s underwear started going missing. It wasn’t like sexy underwear either. It was tennis underwear, spanx, stuff like that. And it was all stolen from these old ladies. That was probably around 10 years ago. I remember there was a boy, Jack, around my sister’s age (3 or 4 years older than me) who was renting a bungalow that summer. He couldn’t have been older than 11, but because he was an outsider everyone blamed him and basically ran his family out of the community. Needless to say, we never heard from them again. I don’t know if the thefts stopped after he was gone, all I know is that my Dad never believed it was him. I was like 7, I don’t even remember the kid’s face. I couldn’t really grasp what my neighbors did to him, or how it must have made him feel.

Another one was more recently, 3 or 4 years ago. A family came up for the first weekend of the season (I believe there were renovations going on in the park all winter, but not in their house) to find all of the wife’s shampoos and soaps missing, and on their bed a big black dildo. The dildo was sent to the police to try to get a DNA signature off it, but because nothing valuable was stolen, the local police didn’t see it as a priority. There weren’t any signs of forced entry, and the only point of access was a small window that a person couldn’t fit through. People theorized that someone could have opened the window and thrown the dildo onto the bed, but that wouldn’t explain the missing soaps. It’s still a puzzler, and there wasn’t a renter for people to blame.

On top of these weird things, the other kids and I were always convinced the place was haunted. Living in the city, you don’t get to experience any ghosts. In movies and TV it’s always the cabin deep in the forest, or the house on top of the hill that has the demon. Suburbia is haunted to shit. The city is different. You hearing strange footsteps? It’s your upstairs neighbor. Banging on the walls? That’s the couple next door. Everything has a logical explanation when everyone lives in apartments. In the community, our imaginations could run wild. Something going bump in the night had to be the ghost of a disgraced Native American chief, or a homeless man who wandered into the social hall and died. We started a Ghost hunting club and signed our names on the wall. It later turned into the biking club and I was forced out of it. Politics.

Everything that happened we blamed on ghosts. One day there was a huge hole in the door of the boat house that hadn’t been there the day before, that was a ghost. We found an old ornately carved knife propping open a window, that for sure had to be ghosts. The most haunted part, at least to us, was the stairwell to the bathroom.

The downstairs bathroom was absolutely terrifying. I never went in there for fear that my soul would be dragged down to the underworld, or something. It was dark and dirt and smelly, and the worst part was the door leading to the outside with a giant hole at the bottom, big enough for a human to crawl through. A couple years back they renovated it, now it isn’t so scary. It’s actually pretty nice. There’s art on the walls and shit.

During one ghost hunting expedition, we came upon the stairwell door and stopped. We had all collectively decided it was haunted already, so it seemed like the logical place to look. One boy, Jason (I’m changing all the named to maintain privacy), turned to me.

“Ava, you go investigate it.”

Jason was never very nice to me. A lot of the people in the park are related, and I’m not related to anyone but my sister. I think that made me an outsider, and you know how they feel about them. I couldn’t have been older than 7 years old, and I had this really active imagination, so naturally I was the Shaggy of the group. I might have well said “Zoinks!” and refused to do it unless I got a scooby snack. I guess because he was always mean to me, I felt this urge to please him, so I just agreed and walked into the dark.

Well, that was a mistake. As soon as I was in there, Jason shut the door behind me and had his cousins help him hold the door. These were three boys, each 2-3 years older than me, all with 6 packs. I was 80 pounds soaking wet, I had no muscle and I looked like a bobblehead, there was no way I could overpower them. The darkness quickly got to me. At first I was banging on the door, but after about 15 seconds I realized that was fruitless. I curled up in a ball and started screaming and crying, the terror seized every bone in my body. I couldn’t move, I could barely breathe. I realized later that it was my first ever panic attack.

I have some mental health issues. I have anxiety and depression and ADD, so I get panic and anxiety attacks a lot now. I know how to deal with them. When I was a kid I remember not being able to breathe sometimes and hearing people call out my name, and now I know that I was just having panic attacks. When I start hearing voices that aren’t there I know what’s going on, but back then I believed that it was ghost calling out to me. I used to sleep fully under the covers out of fear.

That day in the stairwell, I didn’t hear a voice. I heard footsteps. Creaking footsteps coming up the stairs towards me. I’ve never hallucinated sounds like that, or at least I haven’t yet. So I can’t say whether or not that place is really haunted, all I know is that my mental instability caused me to believe it was until I was 16, when I found out what the voices actually were.

So yeah, weird shit has happened in the past, but nothing compares to what happened this weekend.

Well, I found out about it this weekend. Best guess, it’s been happening for weeks.

There’s a woman (the Grandmother of Jason) who lives kinda on the edge of the woods. She’s found dead animals out by her house before, like I mentioned, we’ve got coyotes. The last 3 were different.

I’m not sure what order she found them in, but there were 3 little animals (could be bunnies could be something else, I don’t know the specifics) that didn’t look like they were eaten by an animal, they looked like they were murdered.

I’m no animal expert, but I’m pretty sure that Coyotes don’t commit murder, they kill to eat. These bunnies weren’t missing any meat.

One had its throat slit, a clean cut, like with a knife.

One had its head severed from its body. I’m not sure if it was chopped off or ripped off, but it was no longer connected.

The last one seems the most gruesome to me. The poor animal’s heart had been torn out. The thing had no other injuries, just a bloody hole where its heart should have been.

You always hear stories of serial killers as kids, they would murder little animals and keep trophies. So at first, I thought it was a little budding serial killer. I guess I was just happy it wasn’t me.

A little background: I’m a bit obsessed with serial killers. I’ve stated that If I was raised in a less stable environment, I would already have a body count. When I watched Dexter I got a little jealous.

So yeah, I guess it could be a baby Gacy. There is another option.

There’s this legend that exists in the park. We all think it was just something that Jason’s Grandfather made up. Or, at least, thought. I’m not so sure anymore.

Jason, his two sisters, and his two cousins used to camp out every memorial day weekend (Sunday to Monday) in search of the Memorial Day Monster.

His parents, his uncle, and his grandfather used to talk about the monster a lot. The story goes that the park used to be owned by one couple and their son. They had a house near the top of the hill, and none of the trees had been cleared out yet so they were surrounded by woods. There wasn’t another house for miles, this was early 20th century, maybe even 19th. I never got a good timeline.

One memorial day, the boy went out exploring. He did this a lot, so there wasn’t much for his parents to worry about. Only this time when he went out, he tripped on a branch, tumbled down a steep hill, and blacked out. When he came to, he found himself in a completely dark and unknown part of the forest to him, with his leg bent at an awful angle. He called out, screamed for help. No one came for him.

Reports vary as to whether or not his parents gathered a search party. Some tellings say they were too busy to care that he was gone. Some say they searched night and day until their eventual deaths.

Reports also vary as to what exactly turned that boy into a monster. He began to live off the land, like an animal. His hair grew long and matted, his teeth became large and sharp, his leg healed in that same position, causing his posture to change and have him run on all fours. It is also said that he can run at incredible speeds. His eyes are said to be completely covered in cataracts, but he is still able to see better than any human, he can also smell your fear from a mile away.

One year Jason received a letter allegedly from the monster. I don’t even remember what it said, I’m sure it was stupid, but it was written in blood. I’m pretty sure that was his Grandpa messing around. I was always sure it was his Grandpa messing around.

I started thinking it couldn’t be a coincidence that these animals were left in front of that house. His Grandpa lives there, his Grandpa is the one that began telling all the stories.

I don’t think I’ll ever find out the truth. Is it a little kid practicing his knife skills? Is it the Memorial Day Monster?

If so, I think the message is clear.

Stop Looking.

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laurabwrites · 7 years

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1. A Cat’s Eyes Can Tell You the Time

Early on in Nioh, you are talking to a dude in a cut scene, and he breaks out a full-sized cat from his g (which meows and blinks sleepily)i, looks at it, and says, “dawn is approaching.” The look of confusion on my face was so apparent the other person in the room with me started laughing out loud. I stopped playing right then, and had to look this up. Sure enough, telling time by looking into the eyes of a cat is not only a real thing, but one that has been around for hundreds of years. Cats have eyes that are way more sensitive in a human – processing something around six times the amount of available light – meaning that bright light is a pain in the keister. The pupil of a cat’s eye is elliptical, and is more variable than that as humans. The pupil is a tiny slit during the day, but widens to be completely round at night. Once you become accustomed to the various sizes, this can be used to accurately tell the time. As weird as it sounds, it’s totally true. I can’t get the image of a world where everyone has a pocket feline to help them be punctual out my head, personally.

2. One of the Popes Wrote Erotic Fiction

Not being a devout Catholic, I had no idea that Pope Pius II published one of the most famous works of erotica of all time, The Tale of Two Lovers. This thing was a huge best seller when it was published in 1467, even before Aeneas Sylvius Piccolomini would become pope. It also happens to be one of the first examples of an epistolary novel, as the book is largely two characters – a married woman and a man-in-waiting to the Duke of Austria – writing dirty love letters to each other. The pope’s erotic writing wasn’t confined to this one work, however. He was an acclaimed poet, as well. Among his works are a number of erotic poems. As you might surmise, this sort of scandalous material stopped when he became pope. While this wasn’t really a scandal during the era, it’s easy to see how a religious figure might want to have something like this hushed up, another party might want to use it as blackmail, or how someone could desire such a thing a valuable historical artifact.

3. Animals Used to Be Tried in Court

This isn’t just an isolated incident or anything. There are multiple examples of animals appearing in courts from ancient Athens to 10th-century Iraq to being something that was commonly practiced in the 18th century in Europe. It isn’t something that is limited to animals with “human-like intelligence”, either. Courts have tried pests such as rodents, serpents, and weevils for damaging crops, going so far as to banish or excommunicate them. A bull that trampled someone might appear in court on murder charges. If found guilty, they would sometimes even be dressed as people before they were hung or otherwise executed. In the case of bestiality both parties would be tried. Some of these cases are amazing, too. Like the time an attorney argued that when a group of rats failed to show up in court, it was because the summons wasn’t issued widely enough. When they failed to show up a second time, the same defense attorney stated it was unreasonable due to the long, arduous journey that endangered their lives – because of the vigilance of the cats, you see. Personally, I can think of easily a dozen different scenarios where players are dragged into the court proceedings and have to work either for or against an animal defendant. Druids and rangers – your time to shine is at hand.

4. Eaters of the Dead

During the 16th and 17th century, wealthy Europeans would routinely eat the deceased – particularly prizing ancient Egyptian mummies – to help cure them of their ailments. Bones, blood, and fat were used in medicines to treat a variety of ills, ranging from headaches to epilepsy. Human body parts were in such high demand that it sparked a massive wave of grave robbing. Egyptian mummies and Irish burial sites were the most common targets, and thieves would even fence the bodies they stole piecemeal. Either the thieves themselves did the chopping up, or they had someone they could go to to easily butcher the dead to allow them to get more out of their fleshly treasures. After all, you could butcher an arm and get bone, fat, and blood, allowing you to hit three different clients rather than selling wholesale, so to speak. This is all even more strange when you consider this was taking place during a time period in which Native Americans were being condemned for cannibalistic practices and when Catholics were being chastised for believing in transubstantiation. If the widespread practice of ancient grave robbing for gruesome upper class desires doesn’t get your creative juices flowing, then the idea that society was debating what types of cannibalism was acceptable might.

5. Ant Domination

Unbeknownst to most people, there is a super colony of ants living below the surface. While researchers once determined that Europe had a colony of Argentine ants that spread over 6000 km, and that the US had one that stretched almost 1000 km, it turns out these are actually part of the same colony. In fact, add in Argentine ants that spread to Japan, as well. Instead of displaying the usual aggressive tendencies that are seen when two colonies meet, these ants are all extremely tolerant of each other and behave as if they are part of the same colony. That means that a single colony of ants spans most of the known world. The only thing in the world that rivals this singular population is humans. To add on to that, the ant colony wouldn’t even exist in this size if it weren’t for humans, who unwittingly transported them around the world. Intelligent giant insects are always good fodder for games, as are underground societies that lurk just beyond the view of the waking world. It could be even more terrifying if the real world met fantasy, and this vast colony of biting, stinging, flesh-consuming insects were unleashed upon the waking world by a malevolent intelligence. In a less nightmare-inducing scenario, the players could be forced to wade through a sea of ants and broker a deal with the various queens to be granted passage through their domain. Either way, have fun thinking every tingle you have on you for the rest of the day is an ant.

#world-building #history #weird but true #tabletop rpgs #world building #facts

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zer0-ner0 · 8 years

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Mr. Høcker’s execution and torture price list!

Well, while researching for my comic, i found a bit of fun info that i thought i would share! A price list from 1698 of the services that Norwegian executioner Augustus Høcker provides!

-But, since it’s only in Norwegian, your humble servant will present to you an English translation, and afterwards some history and facts for the ones of you feeling extra frisky!

Some disclaimers: i’ll translate it very literally, so that would be the cause of any fun grammar, also, i’m Danish, not Norwegian, so what I might believe to be weird spelling, might, in fact, just be Norwegian, haha.

without further ado, the translation of the price list found here https://no.wikipedia.org/wiki/Augustus_H%C3%B8cker :

Chart 1: Price list for the executioner 1698

• For a head with a sword to chop off - 10 Riksdaler, around 570$ in current prices

• For a head with an axe to chop off - 8 Rdl., around 458 $

• For a hand or a finger to chop off - 4 Rdl., around 229 $

• For a head and a hand to be put on a pole*, for each 2 Rdl. - 4 Rdl., 229$

• For someone to hang - 10 Rdl., 570$

• For someone to take down from the gallows - 4 Rdl., 229$

• For someone to be put on the breaking wheel*² - 7 Rdl., 400$

• For someone to be put on the breaking wheel, and break their arms and legs - 14 Rdl., 800$

• For a body to be buried in the ground*³ - 3 Rdl., 172 $

• For a dead body to be removed from the town - 2 Rdl., 114 $

• For someone to be flayed and put on the wheel - 12 Rdl., 686 $

• For every pinch with burning tongs*⁴ - 2 Rdl., 114 $

• To brand - 4 Rdl., 229 $

• For flogging at the pillory - 5 Rdl., 286$

• To flog out of the city *⁵ - 4 Rdl., 229$

• To deport out of the city and the shire - 4 Rdl., 229$

• To burn a body *⁶ - 10 Rdl., 570$

• To write the perpetrators name on the gallows *⁷ - 2 Rdl., 114$

• To burn pasquinades or other similar things *⁸ - 3 Rdl., 172$

That’s it! At first it doesn’t seem too bad, huh? I mean, look at that paycheck! But upon further inspection, we can truly see how abhorred the handling of the dead (and soon to be) were. But well, i won’t take up anymore dashboard space for the uninterested, so further explanations, thoughts and info under the cut!

Some facts on the “services”:

* For a head and a hand to be put on a pole - Putting the condemned’s right hand and/or head on poles, were of course used as a warning to show what would happen to whoever felt the urge to break the law. As is visible on the price however, this practice were usually reserved for cases were you really needed to prove a point - like if you had a traitor of the kingdom or an extra horrible criminal, not only would it be considered extra degrading having their rotting bodies on display, but people not making it to the execution might also get a chance to catch a glimpse of these special individuals! The poles would either welcome travelers outside the gates of the city, or outside the court.

*² For someone to be put on the breaking wheel - The breaking wheel. You guys might be familiar with it, but it took the young me such a long time to grasp my head around. Because, it’s just a wheel. that’s it. That’s all there is to it. I was so angry as a kid at this. I read about all these gruesome creative torture devices, manufactured to inspire fear in even the most hardened of people! The chair of torture, the brazen bull, the Judas cradle, the iron maiden! AND LETS NOT FORGET WHEEL. you literally just strap a person to a wheel and break their limps with a big hammer. WHEEL IS NOT A CREATIVE COLOR.

*³ For a body to be buried in the ground - I’m not sure if this is supposed to be a living or dead body, on the next point [For a dead body to be removed from the town] it is pointed out that the body is dead. Either way, the burying of live bodies (with the victims head overground), were used as a method of torture. And for extra treatment, you would get honey and milk poured on you! - huh, sounds like something from a wellness brochure? Just wait ‘till all the bugs, worms, birds and critters starts pecking and gnawing your face!

*⁴ For every pinch with burning tongs - Now, it says pinch, but it should be understood as a pinch.. And a pull. Ripping the flesh off with scorching metal pliers - and a good place to start would be the armpits. cus, you know. try grabbing it. would be pretty easy to get a good chunk of skin off, right? uwaa..

*⁵ To flog out of the city - This was often combined with some other practices (many tortures were, i wonder if you had some 2 for 1 deals). But especially “adulteresses” would first be buried alive, then dug up, flogged at the pillory and then flogged out of the city. You wouldn’t go back after something like that.

*⁶ To burn a body - again, not stating whether this body is alive or dead, i can only imagine that - with a price like that - this would indeed be a living person.

*⁷ To write the perpetrators name on the gallows - now, the meaning of this one can actually be explained pretty well with an old danish proverb “mit navn slaaet paa Galgen” which translated is “ My name put on the gallows “. If your name are put on the gallows - according to the proverb - people are saying bad things about you. And well, if people are walking past their local gallows and seeing “John Doe, child murderer, probably in league with the devil”, they might start to reconsider their friendships with the rest of the Doe household. And they might start to talk about Jane Doe, who has been acting weird lately. And who is to say that little John Doe Junior isn’t in fact the Antichrist? You get where i’m going?

The schandbild/Pittura infamante - This is a good example of the degradation of being hanged and put on display - here together with their families coats of arms inverted. That’s some strong symbolism right there.

*⁸ To burn pasquinades or other similar things - this took me some research to figure out, because a pasquinade (paskville in Norwegian), is the hinge of a window frame in danish. And i had absolutely no idea how a small metal hinge could contain so much wretchedness and evil, that only an executioner could handle it. Well, a bit of research revealed that a pasquinade is in fact anonymous satiric writing that you would put up around town. It’s... medieval shit posts. And how many times haven’t you stumbled upon such anonymous internet writings and wished you could scorch them from the face of the earth? Still, this last one is just wonderful, looking at the price. Did the executioner have to walk around and collect these posts too? Or did he just fucking hate burning these stupid papers that much, feeling that it was definitely more exhausting than tearing off the flesh of a living being with hot tongs? Why couldn’t the court burn them? Were these papers really so unholy that only a condemned executioner could lay his hands on them? WHO KNOWS! I’m done with historical research for today, haha

References and pictures: Prices For calculating the prices in current money, i researched about a workers average pay now and then, and prices for bread and houses - we of course don’t use Rigsdaler anymore in Denmark or Norway (Norway were a part of Denmark at the time of Høcker, so we have the same coin), and i couldn’t find much info on what a Rigsdaler would be in our modern currency, so i had to do some math and research and calculations. And, well, i’m neither an historian, mathematician or economican (?), So the calculations are far from perfect, but they should somehow match up. I used the lowest prices that i acquired with my research, so he could in fact be earning much more, but still, it gives you an Idea. The reference sites are in danish!: http://www.thorshoj.dk/moenter_og_sedler.htm http://www.aros-innovation.dk/Stam/stam-2012-Opdelt/diverse/Rigsdaler.pdf

Pictures Header picture: Detail of Les Grandes Misères de la guerre, Plate 14 by Jacques Callot, 1633

Heads on the breaking wheel, Copenhagen 1727, from the royal library. - i unfortunately can’t find the source

The hanged men, Schandbrief der Grafen von Schaumburg, Staatsarchiv Wolfenbüttel, unknown artist, 1541-42

WELL, I congratulate everyone who’ve actually made it to the bottom of this wall of probably incredibly boring text, BUT HEY THANKS FOR READING!

#You knew i were a nerd #but did you know that i was A GIANT NERD #history #long text post #long post #i can't believe i've used the whole day on this #well #17th century #1600s #torture #execution #history text #nero talks #im always doing tons of research for my comic #but its not like im gonna make it historically accurate lol #i just love history #you always find good stuff to use though #so many good stories

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