#the collector fanfiction

[angry--cucumber]

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‼️ПРИМЕЧАНИЯ: насилие и кровища по канону‼️

Просто Коллекционер сублимирует побег Аркина.

Писалось в гневе на коленке.

Неотбечено, поэтому, как говаривали лучшие - умираем как мужчины.

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Воздух пропитан сыростью, запахом плесени и горячим металлом. Нож привычной тяжестью ощущается в залитой кровью руке.

Приятно... И так неправильно.

Он не должен чувствовать этого. По крайней мере не сейчас, работая над одним из своих детищ. Но нажимая чуть сильнее, чем нужно, вырывая из груди больше болезненных криков, не скрываемых кляпом, позволяет нездоровому удовольствию разливаться внутри.

Когда он успел стать таким чудовищем?

Аркин... Чертов ублюдок, занявший собой всё пространство черепной коробки. Эта кривая ухмылка, острый взгляд смеющихся над ним глаз.

Аса стискивает зубы.

Лезвие ножа вошло глубже и совсем не туда, куда было нужно. Обезумевшая от боли жертва блюёт кровью на потрёпанную маску своего мучителя и красная пелена застит зияющие чернотой прорези глаз.

Нет, этот парень совсем на него не похож.

Но сейчас, когда чужая кровь мутит взор и щиплет глаза, смешавшись с собственным потом, воображение рисует широкую челюсть, обрамленную щетиной; напряжённую складку между бровей, и яркие голубые глаза, которые приятно поистратили свою колкость. Он стискивает иллюзорный подбородок в стальной хватке кровавых пальцев и любовно оглаживает чужие губы, размазывая алое со стекающей слюной.

Ты попался, ты в западне. И ты не сбежишь. Не в этот раз.

Аса вонзает нож чуть выше подвздошной кости и, не скрывая собственного удовольствия, проворачивает лезвие в ране, прижимаясь к распятому на стене телу. Парень кричит надрывно и его голос совершенно не похож на то, что Аса ожидал услышать. Чтобы вырвать из уст своего любимого врага сладкий вопль, полный неподдельных боли и отчаяния, одного маленького ранения было бы недостаточно. Аса скрипит зубами от досады, не желая вырываться из плена собственного воображения, чувствуя, как кровь закипает в венах, пульсируя острой болью в виске от переполняющей его злости. На Аркина, на несостоявшийся экспонат, и в первую очередь, что признавать совсем не хотелось - на самого себя.

Грёбаный домушник, ничтожный, жалкий, смог вывести его из себя, даже не находясь с ним в одном помещении, хотя чего скрывать, будучи в совершенно другом городе.

Ярость, чистая, первозданная, накрывает собой, снося последние устои, сдерживающие его от поступков, о которых он будет сожалеть. Лезвие вырывается из раны, разбрызгивая кровь в разные стороны, будто праздничные конфетти, и врывается в еле живое тело множеством жестоких и сильных ударов, каждый раз вонзаясь по самую рукоять. Уже не важна анатомическая точность и целостность будущего экспоната. Ничто не важно. Ему просто нужно выпустить пар и закончить то, на что хватило глупости и невежества, чтобы начать.

*******

Усталость наваливается неподъемной ношей лишь в тот момент, когда нож вовсе перестает ощущать сопротивление, а тело, больше похожее на полотно обезумевшего художника, безвольно опустило голову, запечатлев в расфокусированном взоре всю скорбь еврейского народа.

Непривычная дрожь в ногах, и сходящий на нет жар собственного тела. Аса чувствует как мокро под маской от испарины, как прилипли ко лбу пряди волос. Пот льется по спине, стекая между лопаток, впитываясь в ткань изношенной черной водолазки. Обуявшие чувства сплелись воедино и сползли к низу живота множеством голодных подвальных крыс, выдавая себя недвусмысленной тяжестью в паху.

До чего он докатился.

Аса усмехается собственным мыслям, брезгливо вытирая лезвие. Они ещё встретятся. Обязательно.

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[impulsivebrainrot]

A little king and his jester :]

Even more old art XD

Idk how many times I've posted this artwork, mostly because I'm inactive in other socmed platforms .-. I remember drawing this a little while after the release of King's Tide, which explains The Collector's slightly more purple palette XD

As for my fic, gosh, I was so ready to work on it again but ended up receiving Canvas notifs that I have three exams this upcoming week TT So yup, gotta focus on those first :'3

Then again, I think I need to fix my outline anyway, since there's so much stuff like progression toward multiple reveals aren't properly aligned yet. Hope you stick around! :3

For those new to my account and are interested in platinum bones content + Archivists lore, you can find the link to the fic here! ^^ I also upload art for it and other random TOH drawings.

💀Forbidden Friendship (49653 words) by impulsivebrainrot_26⭐ Chapters: 11/? Fandom: The Owl House (Cartoon)

🔖FIC SUMMARY:

It's been a little over a year since Belos's defeat. The Collector returns to the Boiling Isles after some time of exploring the stars. Unfortunately, he's not the only one coming home.

King and The Collector must now delve deeper into the history between their kins and unravel secrets that could help them stand a chance against this new threat. In a race against time, relationships are challenged along with the formation of an unexpected alliance.

[kiss-theggoat]

Gonna need a part two where the slashers realize their s/o is alive >:’(

Slashers Fix You Up

Slashers Included: Thomas Hewitt, Billy Loomis, Stu Macher, Asa Emory, Michael Meyers, The Sinclair Brothers

TW: Violence and Gore

Thomas Hewitt:

The wound to your stomach was deep. It tore through deep tissue and muscle, but lucky for you, Thomas knew exactly what to do.

Not only had he been stabbed like that, but he’d become really good at sewing and stitching up human skin.

You woke up, feeling groggy, but immediately recognized the basement you were in. You laid on Tommy’s workbench, shirt off and torso numb.

When you looked down you saw Thomas hunched over you, huge hands trying hard to delicately sew you up, fingers covered in your blood.

You whispered to him, and you could’ve sworn you saw his heart skipped a beat. He jumped up, immediately grabbing the side of your face with relief written all over his face, eyes wide and breath heavy. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he lost you.

Billy Loomis:

Nothing when like it was supposed to that night. Sydney got away, Stu stabbed him too hard, and the worst of all…he stood above you, watching your blood pool on the hardwood of Stu’s living room.

He bent down, putting pressure on your wound while looking around the room, taking deep breaths and trying to think rationally…he needed to get you out of here. He quickly lifted you, trying to ignore your pained groans. He hated seeing you like this.

The moment he got your arm around his shoulders and your feet on the ground, he heard them…sirens. He was conflicted. Relief washed over him. He knew you’d be getting help soon but…if he didn’t run…Syd would tell them everything. He’d go to jail, be found guilty for murder.

In that moment, he didn’t care. He helped you limp towards the front door, pushing it open. You’d lost too much blood…you didn’t even realize that Billy was sacrificing himself to save your life.

Stu Macher:

Stu watched his entire world fall apart when Billy stabbed you. He watched you fall, holding your gushing stomach, blood seeping from between your fingers.

He rushed to your side, hands covering your wound as he laid you back onto the ground.

“Just look at me. Don’t worry, keep looking at me.” He refused to let you look at your wound. He didn’t want you to be scared about how hurt you were. He lifted your hands to inspect your wound…he sighed in relief.

“It’s okay baby…the bleeding is slowing down…you’re gonna be okay…”

Asa Emory:

Asa never expected you to fall into one of his traps. He was beating himself up about it, but there was no time. He lifted you onto his operating table, covering your entire body with gauze.

He started slow, sutures and thread in his precise hands. You were covered in deep wounds, caused by rusty nails…he whispered his apologies, holding one hand as he poured antiseptic over you. It burned, it was unbearable…but you trusted him.

He carefully sewed each wound with a single suture, making sure to reassure you and stop the bleeding whenever it happened. It took him hours, but nothing would stop him from fixing you. Fixing your skin, fixing his love.

Michael Meyers:

For the first time in his entire life, he felt guilt. He felt a storm of emotions, but as he stared at your knife wound- the one his dumbass caused…- he knew it wouldn’t kill you. He’d never felt so terrible and so relieved in his life.

He quickly scooped you up, carrying you into the bathroom with shaking fingers. His hands had never shaken before…

He slammed open your medicine cabinet, hard enough to crack the glass, and popped open the first aid kit, sending gauze and band-aids onto the bathroom floor. You’d patched him up plenty of times so it should be easy…right?

Six butterfly bandages, four bandaids, and two complete rolls of gauze later, you felt like you might be suffocated by the first-aid supplies but…he’d tried his best. And, you weren’t bleeding anymore.

Sinclair Brothers:

The blow to the face had broken your eyebrow and sliced your skin, and the fall to the floor left you with a concussion and a sprained wrist. Vincent carried you downstairs gently, knowing he had the supplies to fix you up in his workshop.

All three brothers stayed by your side, and you were never alone over the course of the next week, especially while you were sleeping, until your concussion headache finally went away.

Your face was bruised and swollen and it hurt like nothing else you’d experienced, especially the cut on your eyebrow.

But, every morning when you walked downstairs, you received a kiss on the eyebrow from each Sinclair brother, and they all treated you like you were made of porcelain, even Bo.

[dyns33]

Firefly

I can't explain why but I like The Collector movies a lot, Asa Emory was a weird character, and so I needed to write something about him at least once

Y/N had met Asa Emory in college.

He already had this strange look and this fascination for insects, which explained his choice of studies. She had never met anyone who wanted to become an entomologist.

The other students were a little afraid of him, when they noticed him, because Asa was very discreet.

Y/N had noticed him, and she hadn’t been afraid of him. She had sat next to him in the library while he read a book about spiders. Her questions had initially seemed to irritate him, he was obviously not used to being spoken to, then he had been intrigued.

For a time, Asa had looked at her as if she were one of the insects he collected, but also as if she were trying to make fun of him. Yet he answered all her questions, adding more and more details and information.

He had no one in his life. No one to share your passion with. He didn't tell her all the details, but he had lost his parents and siblings when he was young.

This loneliness didn't seem to be a problem for him, but over time he got used to Y/N's presence, he looked forward to her questions, and he eventually grew attached.

“My firefly.” He greeted her as soon as he saw her, with a shy smile.

“Why a firefly ?” she asked, laughing softly.

“Because you are a light in my life.”

Y/N might have taken offense saying that a firefly was a tiny, fragile light that would die quickly, but knowing Asa's love of insects, she knew he wasn't going to compare her to a sun or stars. It was even a nice compliment on his part that he deigned to compare her to a Lampyris noctiluca.

Even when insulting people, he never used insect names. That would be an insult to the insects and he couldn't do that.

As with everything else in their relationship, it was Y/N who invited him on their first date. He accepted without seeming to understand what that meant.

The poor man seemed lost when she kissed him. But not necessarily disgusted.

“My firefly, you are the only human being who matters.” he admitted when she asked him if he ever thought about marriage, after more than two years together. "There are only a few insects that practice monogamy, but most die quickly, sometimes during the act of reproduction. But you know how much I hate anthropomorphism. I will be happy to spend my life with you."

Life with Asa was calm. Perfectly organized, structured, like its classification of all arthropod species.

After obtaining his diploma, he had no difficulty in being hired in the largest natural science museum in the city. His name quickly became known in his field.

His frequent nighttime outings and other prolonged outings could have been frightening for Y/N, but he always warned her in advance, preparing his schedule according to the pace of life of the insects he was looking for.

"Rumors are circulating about an unknown species of grasshoppers in a forest. I will probably be gone all weekend."

"Oh. You won't be here for my cousin's birthday ?"

"I forgot. Forgive me, my firefly."

“It doesn’t matter… It’s for your work, it’s important.”

He promised to better note the dates that were important to her, because even though he was very diligent in his work, Asa was a good husband. He didn't care at all about other humans, and therefore her family, but he always tried to please her when he could.

Even though he had a true admiration for spiders, Y/N saw him more as an ant. He worked hard, he never seemed tired, and he often brought home gifts to make up for when he missed an appointment, or simply because he wanted to see her smile.

"Ants don't bring back gifts for the queen, they do this to feed the colony. Plus they work in groups, I work alone."

“I didn’t compare myself to a queen.”

"You could, it was you who worked to create our home. There is no colony without a queen, and there would not be our home without you."

Their house was perfect, but empty. They didn't talk about having children. The subject didn't seem to appeal to Asa. After all this time, he did not talk about his family, visibly traumatized by their disappearance, and his aversion to others, in addition to his complicated schedule, were not compatible with the role of father.

There were his dogs. Perfectly trained hunting dogs, who were only adorable with their master and his wife. But especially with Y/N, who loved to cuddle them.

“My firefly, they have already eaten and they are not allowed to be inside.”

"Oh, Asa, please ! It's cold outside, and they were very good !"

“You mustn’t get them used to it or they will become fat and lazy.”

“Only for tonight, please !”

His colleagues said he was tough. A cold, distant, almost mean man. It was quickly decided that he would no longer participate in school visits, because he did not know how to talk to children or teachers.

But with Y/N, he was gentle. He refused her nothing. The dogs stayed inside, and not just that evening.

The times Asa told her no, it wasn't his fault. The excuses he found always contained the words 'I would like to, but the museum, my colleagues, the insects…'.

No, she couldn't accompany him on his hunts. She wouldn't like it anyway. It was cold, there was almost no time to sleep, and she might be bored.

“I’ll be with you, that’s the most important thing.”

".. .It's always a joy to be with you. That's also why it's better if you don't come. Then I have a reason to come home."

And he always came home, tired, but satisfied with his work, placing a kiss on Y/N's forehead like a ritual, before caressing her cheek while looking at her as if seeing her for the first time, his eyes wide blacks seeming to devour her entirely.

Then came the night when he came home late, very late, with strange injuries and terribly angry. Growling like an animal, he slammed the door so hard that it woke his wife. She found him trying to stitch himself up, mumbling and shaking.

She had never seen him like this. Asa was always calm.

Hesitantly, Y/N asked him if he was okay, and when he looked at her, she was scared for the first time since they met. For a moment, he looked like he didn't recognize her, and was ready to jump on her. Then he took on the features of her husband.

"… My firefly." he sighed, getting up with difficulty to kiss her. "I woke you up. I scared you. Forgive me. There was an incident. I lost several very precious, unique species. But it's my fault, you don't have to suffer my bad mood."

“Shouldn’t you go to the hospital ?”

"It's okay, I promise. Scratches, nothing I can't fix myself. Go back to bed, I'll be with you right away."

Nothing forced her to obey. Y/N could have insisted, asked questions, called an ambulance, but she returned to the room, staring at the wall unable to sleep. She didn't move when Asa came to her, holding her close, his face against her neck, whispering that he loved her.

They talked about the incident in the neighboring town the next day on television. An abandoned factory was ravaged by flames. But that wasn't the worst. It was the lair of a serial killer, whom they called the Collector.

The survivors spoke of horrible things. Of torture, of strange experiences. According to police, the man had died in the fire along with his guard dogs and most of the evidence there was nothing left to fear.

Y/N didn’t ask Asa where the dogs were. She tried not to think about it.

If he was waiting for her to ask him about it, he didn't show it. He didn't talk about what happened during the night, behaving as if everything was perfectly fine, and going to work like every day. He would come home, he would kiss her, and he would do it again. The difference was only that he went out less often.

According to him, the season was not good for hunting. And with the problem at his office, he needed a little time, to rest, to repair the place.

This excuse could have worked forever. Of course, Y/N could have called the museum and they would have confirmed that there had never been any serious incidents, but she didn't want to. She continued to lie next to her husband, letting him embrace her tenderly.

Then there was the man's visit. He seemed surprised to see Y/N, as he placed a large red trunk in the kitchen. Almost sad too. He was holding a gun.

"I imagine you don't know anything about it. I can let you go, if you promise not to warn him, and to let me do what I have to do."

"… I don't understand what to talk to you about."

"Your dear husband. The man who kidnapped and tortured me for weeks. You're lucky you didn't see his little collection. He's a monster. He needs to die."

No doubt the man was right. There had always been something strange about Asa, everyone had always known it and Y/N had been the only one to refuse to see it. She had built her life with him, her home. They had to share everything.

So even if he was right, she without thinking grabbed a knife when he turned, convinced that she had understood and she stuck it in his back, at the level of his heart.

When she realized what she had just done, it was too late. The man was lying in his blood in the middle of the room, his gun fallen next to him. Y/N touched nothing, unable to do anything but cry while trying to remember how to breathe.

Asa found her like this, sitting against a wall, when he returned from the office. He looked at his wife, then at the scene in the kitchen, before putting his things down to crouch down next to her.

Like every times, he held her face so that she could look at him and he could kiss her on the forehead. Then with one hand he wiped the blood from her cheek, massaging her neck with the other to calm her down.

"Tell me what happened. Are you hurt, my firefly ?"

"No… He… He wanted to kill you. He said… Oh, my god. He had a gun, I… I was scared… He said you… Asa …"

"Shh. I'll take care of everything. Come on."

Holding her close, he took her to the bathroom where he helped her undress and get into the shower, which he adjusted so that the water was perfect. Taking a bath would have done her good, but he had to leave her alone to clean up, and he didn't want her to fall asleep.

"I'll be back, my firefly. Just sit here, it's okay."

Y/N didn't know how long she stayed under the water, shaking and crying. Not as long as she thought. Her husband quickly returned to help her get up, dry off and put on pajamas.

Although she was not hungry, he insisted that she have tea and biscuits, as it was not good to keep an empty stomach after such a shock, before putting her to bed. He certainly put something in the tea for her to sleep.

The kitchen was immaculate the next morning, as if nothing had happened. The man, the weapon, the red trunk, everything had disappeared.

Unusually, Asa had prepared breakfast. He was always up before her, but he only had coffee, and he often left for work while she was still asleep, coming to place a kiss on her forehead to warn her.

His dark eyes didn't leave her for a second as Y/N chewed her pancakes with difficulty, one hand on the glass of orange juice that she couldn't drink. She looked everywhere except her husband.

Before the intruder spoke, she had already started to have doubts. Questions. Now everything was quite clear, and all that remained was to decide what she was going to do. Asa was also obviously waiting, sitting near her.

The options were vast. Run away, call the police, risk getting killed… Y/N finally managed to lift the glass of orange juice, while thinking of their meeting.

"… Aren't you going to be late for work ?"

"No. I took some time off to stay with you."

“But your collection… I understood that it would take a long time to rebuild everything.”

"It's not as important as you, my firefly. My mantis religiosa. My black widow." he purred, running a hand through her hair, his lips on her neck.

Asa loved spiders. It was a nice compliment, even if she received it because she had killed a man and agreed not to report him to the authorities. He didn't seem to notice her fear, one of the reasons she remained silent.

Only the other reason mattered. And by giving her all these names, like a transformation, he was telling her that he would not harm her, that he did not see her as prey, and that even if she decided to do so, she could devour him.

[hotchfiles]

passenger seat.

pairing: seth cohen x fem!reader.

summary: you try so hard to help your best friend seth recover from his broken heart you forget about yours

content warnings: underage drinking, mentions of sex and drunk sex. the timeline is like... beginning of season 2, when seth comes back and finds out summer is dating zach. yes i'm gonna work on a part 2 i'm not that mean.

word count: 1,8k

summer summer summer summer, it's honestly annoying how seth can not seem to be able to talk about anything else anymore. and sure it has been like that since you were children, but since he was able to catch a glimpse of what dating her would be like and then lost it, well, he was down right impossible to be around.

"cohen, you're getting out of this bed right now, and you're getting some good music in your brain." you pull the cozy blankets from him with full strength while he tried to fight for it.

"first of all, my brain is always full of good music. and second of all, my summer is gone, my sun, all i have right now is the cold of winter and the solitude of being single, leave me in the warmth of my bed, please." you rolled your eyes and actually felt like you could reach enough to see your brain, his antics were usually amusing but summer summer summer, you almost felt like warming up his face with a punch, but instead you took a deep breath, let go of the blankets and got closer to him, taking advantage of the element of surprise and pushing him out of his bed.

"i have concert tickets, whiny baby, and suuummeeer won't get back to you ever if you look that lame." that sparks his interest, you can see, and you're left to pretend it doesn't sting just a tiny bit, what matters is that he gets up and gathers some nice clothes before heading to his shower.

"you're mean today, stop hanging out with ryan." he yells from a distance, probably hoping it won't give you enough time for a snarky comeback. obviously, he was wrong about that assumption, you both grew up together, you could almost predict what he would say already, you were always with a reply on the back of your mind.

"we're taking turns so you stop being an ugly crying whiny mess."

"oh... that's why we took a cab." you stare back at him hoping he won't open his big mouth as the bartender serves the several, several shots of tequila you ordered using the not so good fake i.d you handed him. although orange county wasn't the best at keeping minors away from alcohol (beachy city full of rich kids) you still didn't want your plans to be ruined at the very beginning of the night.

"seth, i'm getting you hammered so you feel better for a night, and i don't hate you for a night." he seems concerned for a second, but knows you well enough not to argue, just as much as he can be annoying with his longass monologues, so can you, and you're not afraid to use violence if needed, misogyny needs to come in handy somehow, and not having your best friend fight you back has got to be it.

you slide his half of the shots towards him and start quickly gulping yours, only half way in reality sets that maybe, maybe, that was not your best idea. but by then seth was also doing his own shots and laughing as the tequila burnt his throat, his nose and lips twisting around each time. you hear screams and realize the band is probably beginning the set, so you get your beer and give one to seth, and he makes a comment about how you weren't kidding about getting him hammered, but you almost can't hear him as you pull him by the shirt running so you both can get a reasonably good spot.

cohen was a death cab for cutie fan, you knew it, everyone knew it, and if there were any concerts, meetings, or if you had their addressees, you would've chosen them for tonight, but coldplay was all you could get last minute to get your curly haired boy out of his fortress of solitude at least for one night.

you both enjoyed some indie rock music so the concert was fun from the start, especially with the alcohol that went straight to your brain as company to the songs that made your body move ever so slightly. seth obviously didn't dance, he made it quite the point not to, "this is music to enjoy, not to dance, don't disgrace us like that" he says in between laughter and hiccups, giving his beer a tiny sip only because honestly he can not stand the smell of alcohol anymore.

"stop being such a looooser, dance with me!" you took the bottle from his hand and threw it along with yours on the nearest bin, leading his hands to your waist. this isn't weird. you don't think it's weird, but weirdly, seth doesn't think it's weird either. you're more than thirty minutes into the concert and it's not a slow song at all, don't panic roars from the stage and from the audience, you both try to keep up to the rhythm, guiding him to twirl you around and showing him a two step easy peasy dance to follow.

seth almost falls down, you both laugh uncontrollably, he's way too drunk for this, you're way too drunk for this, his hands go back comfortably to your waist, as if it was a rooted reaction already, you felt your stomach turn as the music notes changed and you knew what song was coming. you looked up and seth was already looking at you, his beautiful brown eyes staring at yours like he had just discovered something new.

he wanted to kiss you, he really did, was that weird? was that bad? maybe he was too much in his head, and maybe he was too drunk, but he was single and you looked at him like that and you were oh so beautiful and trying so hard to make him smile and maybe he shouldn't because he was still hooked on summer—but was he really? the more he looks at you, and the more you don't look away, the more he thinks that maybe this is just how things are supposed to be.

and he didn't even notice what song was playing, too busy paying attention to your breathing, only when your drunken self decided that for some reason this was the time to confess, if anything, you could just play it off as if you were just singing along to shiver "you know how much i need you, but you never even see me." and before you can hide your eyes and glue them to your feet, seth pulls you by your neck for a sloppy drunken kiss, your hands grab his shirt but you waste no time and kiss him back.

both of you couldn't even wait for the concert to end, leaving and getting into the nearest cab you could find as soon as you can let go of each other for air. his address at the tip of your tongue not mattering how drunk you were.

you get into the mansion tripping around as you try to kiss each other, not make a sound that could wake his parents, and also find his room, and when you do you almost fall on your ass due to his goddamn skateboard being right in front of his bed, you end up laughing out loud, but seth closes the door before anyone can hear it.

"i'm starting to think your parents won't like me sleeping over." guilt starts creeping in and you're not even sure why, like you're doing something bad, something that won't be approved of, your best friend looks at you with a warm gentle smile, pulling you to him by your hand and having you sit on his lap as he's on the edge of his bed, both of your legs on each of his sides, your arms go to his neck.

"my parents love you, they probably love you more than they love me. ryan loves you more than he loves me." an overreaction, that's what that is, and you know it, very dramatic that boy, but it gets you giggling and you lean in for a tender, long kiss. but a question pops your mind and you stop it, you're not sure if it's the time to ask it, you might be ruining your only chance to have seth.

but you have to.

"i know that. the real question is... do you?" your teeth nervously gnaw on your bottom lip, and seth knows he loves you, he would never hesitate on that, so it's easy for him to get you close and touch your forehead with his, even if he doesn't know right now if it's the love you're looking for, he knows right now he wants to be with you, so it must be right.

"of course, dumbo." you roll your eyes and push him till his back hits his bed, continuing what you two had started and leaving sloppy kisses to his neck as your hands found themselves under his shirt, your hips purposely taking advantage of your position and grinding slowly down his crotch, you imagined it would be easy to get seth moaning but you didn't think it would be that easy. you loved it.

you were both horny drunk teens, it took minutes for your clothes to be on the ground and for seth to be inside of you, your legs surrounding his waist and your fingers pulling on his hair. and it isn't weird, it's familiar, it's hot, it's sensual without the need to pretend to be anything else. it's the best you've ever had simply by how connected you feel to seth.

you sleep into his arms, feeling his scent and you're afraid this is a dream you're soon to wake up from.

you do panic when you wake up at 5am, not feeling like facing the rest of the cohens after what you did to their precious son, seth was still sleeping like a beautiful baby and you wouldn't wake him up, you hoped he wouldn't be mad at you for leaving without saying goodbye, but you brush your lips against his before sneaking out and you feel like the world is about three times brighter.

that is, until 8am. you took a nap in your own bed to at least pretend you were home during the night, and woke up to seth's texts after he woke up.

cohen: i rmbr coldplay cohen: i rmbr tequila cohen: nd i rmbr laughing a lot cohen: so even tho i might die of a hangover, thx cohen: might txt summer yellow lyrics dont stop me

the lightweight bastard had forgotten everything, everything that made your night special. and went right back to summer talking, maybe you should've just punched him the first time you thought about it.

[angry--cucumber]

════════════════════════════════

Жар пламени перестал опалять лёгкие, как и едкий запах гари более не тревожит некогда чуткое обоняние. Мир вокруг них сомкнулся огненным кольцом и стремительно подбирается ближе, желая поглотить, не оставив и следа, как это старое здание.

Аса чувствует, как хватка теплых и сильных рук на нём слабеет с каждой секундой, вместе с ударами сердца под его щекой. Такие тихие, еле различимые, будто отдаляются всё дальше и дальше... Аркин умирает. Аса умирает вместе с ним.

Жизнь не пролетает перед глазами, он думает о том, что огонь постоянно являлся виновником всех их разлук, начиная с самой первой встречи. Огонь всегда вспыхивал между ними непроходимой стеной, будто отделяя друг от друга, не позволяя двум искалеченным судьбам сплестись воедино.

И сейчас, пламя наконец их настигло, яростно желая уничтожить двух безумцев, посмевших пойти ему наперекор.

Мысли уступают пустоте, когда сознание сдаётся и меркнет. Звуки съедаемого пожаром здания остаются вдалеке. Последнее, что он слышит — плод отравленного гарью разума, принявший до боли знакомую форму, убитого сигаретами голоса:

"Я обязательно приду..."

Его глаза успевают сомкнуться в последний раз незадолго до того, как голодное пламя наконец сумело добраться до двух бездыханных тел.

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Автор стихов и аудио дорожки: Максим Макаревич

[impulsivebrainrot]

"Maybe in another universe, Dad"

I rarely continue WIPs, so here ya go ;w;

Haven't forgotten about my fic :'3 Heck, I keep noting down more ideas almost every day XD It's just that coursework isn't decreasing much, though thankfully we have a few more weeks before the sem finishes. And I'm still finalizing edits to my outline, so there's that ig ;w; Anyway, just gonna attach this here again lol... (Artwork isn't canon to the fic btw :'>)

For those new to my account and are interested in platinum bones content + Archivists lore, you can find the link to the fic here! ^^ I also upload art for it and other random TOH drawings.

💀Forbidden Friendship (49653 words) by impulsivebrainrot_26⭐ Chapters: 11/? Fandom: The Owl House (Cartoon)

🔖FIC SUMMARY:

It's been a little over a year since Belos's defeat. The Collector returns to the Boiling Isles after some time of exploring the stars. Unfortunately, he's not the only one coming home.

King and The Collector must now delve deeper into the history between their kins and unravel secrets that could help them stand a chance against this new threat. In a race against time, relationships are challenged along with the formation of an unexpected alliance.

[noxnephilim]

Hello M! slashers for a crazy boy s/o ♡

Not sure what you meant, but enjoy

PRETTY LITTLE PSYCHO

Your personality attracted them. When society deems you a problem, a danger to its very foundation, they are there to praise the very soil you walk in

You aren't afraid of the unconventional, quite the opposite. You look for it, never shying away from the gruesome facet of reality.

Hannibal is one such admirer: he knew from the first time he met you at the library that you were different. It took just a glance. Predators knew each other after all. In your eyes he saw a dangerous curiosity. He knew you knew who he was, yet you held such fondness that he could not help himself. He longed for you, deeply. And it made his heart beat faster when he found sculptures dedicated to him. A declaration of love, bathed in the blood of the lambs. Pure and unconditional love.

You were like a God walking amongst the proselytes, and he was your fervent disciple. You grace his presence with love and blood, and he can't help but offer you more of his arts, hoping to declare in the most candid way what he felt. Love was ablaze, and the heart he served you was the loudest form of love you have ever been graced by

Jesse knew you were different, in fact you never questioned why he had so many snuff films or why he had to go away on business trips so often. Nor the numerous and quite impressive collection of knives. He told you one night what he did and you only shrugged, asking him what he wanted for dinner instead.

He fell hard, and he asked you on such day to marry him. Blood reflected off your shirt, making you an ethereal sight. An angel of war, born by steel and blood. His own little psycho. He loved you, so much that it hurt. And the little piggy you gifted him for his anniversary? If he ever had doubts about your dedication, they vanished that day. Killing together had never been so intimate and meaningful

Asa studied you. A teacher of taxidermy was so unlikely that he had to understand you. You were like him: you kept to yourself, never going out of your way to be a social bee, and yet when you taught how to preserve dead bodies, your eyes gained a different shine. They glowed in the dark. He wanted to see for himself the difference, he attended one of your classes. When your gaze locked, he felt a shiver go down his spine. Impossible. He was a killer, he was cold and tough, yet a mere glance from you put fear in his heart. But something hidden behind it told him something else.

He had to know you better. He knew he had been recognised, he felt it in the way you talked to him, almost like you knew what he did as a hobby. But he didn't expect to be asked out in the most macabre yet fascinating way possible. A new addition to the hotel was left for him, in the form of one of his favourite arachnids. Only you knew that one, and only you could do something like this.

He had never been more glad to be married. He didn't have to hide with you, he could talk with excitement about the projects he had for the hotel, and you would stand there smiling, admiring the man in front of you with such fervent regard and passion. He had found his equal, his partner, his own little butterfly.

[angry--cucumber]

Привет) да, теперь у этого фанфика есть название и нет, я не спёр его у сборника мультфильмов от нетфликса (любовь, смерть и роботы), а позаимствовал х)

Примечание: напоминаю, что это сборник историй из жизни коллекционера и Аркина, которые произошли с ними после второго фильма, с учётом немного изменённого финала.

Все истории из разных временных отрезков. Но в конечном счёте мы соберём общую картину.

В фанфике присутствуют сцены насилия и ненормативная лексика. Хотя кого я пытаюсь предупредить х))))) но на всякий случай знай, тут такое имеется.

Автор: @angry--cucumber

Бета: @sold156

Приятного прочтения.

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Это произошло быстро. Даже если бы Аркин знал, что случится, то все равно не успел бы ничего сделать.

Был самый обычный вечер, ничем не отличающийся от других, разве что, они наконец съездили в супермаркет и закупились провизией на две недели тотального обжорства. Хотя, это тоже то еще испытание. Аса придерживается определенных правил, когда дело касается еды, а это значит, что им пришлось облазить весь супермаркет в поисках продуктов, помеченных знаком кашрута. Проще говоря, в тележку отправлялась только кашерная пища. Не то, чтобы это сильно уж раздражало, но порой Аркин думал о том, почему бы не собрать все продукты с этим знаком в одном месте. Всяко проще будет, сэкономит время при поиске, например.

"Да, а потом газ пустить..."

Он мысленно дал себе пощечину за глупый и неуместный юмор траурного черного цвета.

И в качестве кары за антисемитские шутки ему пришлось столкнуться с чем-то похуже поисков приметного знака на упаковке — они не могли найти кашерный уксус. Аркин проклял все, пока его молчаливый спутник внимательно читал мелкий шрифт на задней стороне пластиковой тары, сменяя одну другой, перебирая производителя за производителем, чтобы оценить химический состав и отсеять трефный продукт. Он уже был готов отказаться от идеи приготовить этот чертов салат из утреннего телешоу, для которого и нужен был злочастный уксус, но Аса был непреклонен — не стоило так вкусно рассказывать. И когда, наконец, поиски увенчались успехом, Аркин внимательно изучил этикетку, чтобы запомнить марку раз и навсегда. Теперь, когда его разбудят посреди ночи, чтобы поинтересоваться, он без запинки ответит: "Такой, с бабулькой и помидорами".

Конечно, на Аркина "херем" не распространялся. Тот мог покупать продукты на свое усмотрение, но был один камень преткновения, который эти двое никак не могли обойти стороной. Вернее, Аркин вполне мог, он даже камня в этом не видел, так, мелкая щебёнка затерялась на пути — пни в сторону и дело с концом. Но для Асы это была настоящая проблема, и имя ей — алкоголь. У еврейского народа нет строгого запрета на спиртные напитки, скорее, они есть в голове самого Асы, которые он, по непонятным причинам, не озвучивает, но Аркин прекрасно ощущает его недовольство, когда берет упаковку светлого, чтобы растянуть оную примерно на неделю — после тяжёлого дня самое то. Но сегодня ему совершенно не виделось умилительным ощущать на себе этот недовольный взгляд, единственное, чего хотелось — это поскорей разделаться с покупками и добраться домой. Невооружённым взглядом было видно, с каким трудом любителю членистоногих гадов давалась эта незатейлевая вылазка. Поэтому, Аркин решил, что сегодня они будут пить вдвоем. И не абы что, а удачно припасенную на особый случай бутылку дорогого красного вина. Что может быть кашернее? Только Аса об этом ещё не знает, но Аркин уверен, что тот оценит.

Был глубокий вечер, когда красный пикап въехал в гараж, а затем, на первом этаже зажглись огни, оповещая о том, что хозяева дома наконец прибыли. Ничто не предвещало беды, разве что, Аса был бледнее обычного и постоянно тер глаза, находясь за рулём. На предложения поменяться упрямо мотал головой, а на вопросы о самочувствии, коротко отвечал, что голова немного болит. Не выхватывать же у него управление на ходу, в самом деле.

Аркин увлеченно расставлял упаковки с провизией на полку кухонного шкафа, бубня под нос приевшуюся мелодию, что крутили все то время, пока они были в супермаркете, между делом отчеканивая про акции и различные бонусы, ровно до того момента, пока боковым зрением не заметил шевеление в дверном проёме.

— А ты бесшумный, Паркер, — шутка, которая Аркину никогда не надоест — постоянное сравнение Асы с человеком-пауком.

"А что? Довольно мило."

Вот только в ответ — тишина. Обычно, он хотя бы вздыхал, обозначая свое недовольство, может, обиделся? Аркин улыбнулся, ставя на место последнюю банку, но тут же изменился в лице, стоило ему обернуться.

Из вертикального положения Аса успел перебазироваться на пол, стремительно съезжая по стене, не в силах сопротивляться земному притяжению, которое оказалось как никогда ощутимым. Тело стало будто чужим, непомерно тяжелым и не хотело слушаться своего хозяина. Паника — злейший враг, и сейчас Аркин оказался у нее в плену.

— Аса? Ты слышишь меня? Асайя! Черт возьми... — рука привычно потянулась к артерии на шее, когда мужчина перестал подавать признаки жизни, но тут же отпрянула, стоило телу на полу вскинуться. Аркин уже хотел было выдохнуть с облегчением, но ситуация развернулась неожиданным образом. За этим странным содроганием последовало ещё одно, и ещё, и ещё... Тело билось на полу в каком-то припадке, словно его били током, мышцы, что некогда покоились под слоем нажитого в мирной жизни жирка, начали бугриться по всему телу, вздуваясь от напряжения, выталкивая наружу напряжённые вены.

Все произошло слишком быстро. И Аркин был совершенно беспомощен, не имея ни малейшего представления о том, как это прекратить. Он не был врачом и что делать в таких ситуациях не знал, ведь это не пулевое ранение, не рана от ножа с кровотечением и даже не отрубленная конечность. На все это у него был ответ, исходящий из личного опыта, но что делать сейчас? Когда тело человека натягивается, словно тетева и скручивается, будто тугой мышечный канат, бьясь об пол, как выброшенная на берег рыба.

********

— Эпилептический припадок? Ты не говорил, что у тебя эпилепсия...

— Я этого не знал. Но судя по тому, что ты описал, — Аса потёр пальцами уставшие глаза, — это очевидно.

— Погоди. Помнишь, тогда, — не любили они вспоминать это самое "тогда", но нельзя просто взять и вычеркнуть целых несколько лет жизни, пусть даже отданных на то, чтобы зверски истязать людей, — было ведь что-то похожее.

Да, и в правду — было. И для Аркина, как бы он ни пытался забыть, словно вчера. Это был день кормежки. Такой редкий и не менее долгожданный.

Желудок болезненно сжимался, ожидая когда ему кинут хоть кусочек чего-то съедобного, чтобы наброситься на него как стая обезумевших волков и неистово расщеплять белки на аминокислоты, а молекулы на атомы. Аркин не собирался умирать, поэтому принимал пищу из ненавистных рук и ждал этот день больше, чем остальные дни, ведь ящик открывался и можно было оглядеться, прикидывая новый план побега.

И сейчас, под вой собственного желудка, он услышал гулкие тяжёлые шаги, приближающиеся к месту его содержания. Обострившийся нюх уловил запах коллекционерской стряпни, а процесс пищеварения запустился, не заставив себя долго ждать, наполняя рот слюной. Ему уже было плевать на все, лишь бы этот засранец поскорей оставил еду, открыл его и ушел восвояси, позволяя пленнику насладиться жалким подобием ужина. Или завтрака? Впрочем, так и произошло: лязганье металлического подноса, стук посуды, райская мелодия щелчков затворок на ящике и хлопок двери. Все. Он, черт возьми, сейчас вылезет. По привычке осторожно Аркин толкнул дверцу и неспеша вылез, разминая затекшую шею. Встать сразу на ноги не получилось, даже со второго раза не вышло, но упрямство было его характерной чертой, и временное отсутствие подвижности отступило, позволяя сделать пару разминочных шагов.

— Наконец-то, блядь... — он слегка потряс ногами и руками, разгоняя кровь по венам, — ну и что у нас сегодня в меню? — он говорил бодро, но довольно тихо, чтобы не привлечь лишнего внимания снаружи. Комната, где стоял его ящик, была лишена нормального освещения, но разглядеть наполнение нержавеющей миски, которая вопреки своему названию местами поддалась коррозии, было вполне возможно. Непонятная субстанция — чем-то похожим его кормили, когда он отбывал второй срок. Впрочем, стабильность — это хорошо. Сил в ногах значительно поубавилось, поэтому Аркин сел на остачертевший красный ящик, прихватив с пола тарелку с сомнительного вида баландой. Ложек, а тем более вилок или не дай бог ножей ему не полагалось — несколько раз домушник затачивал столовые приборы, в кротчайшие сроки превращая их в бритвенно острое оружие. И по классике тюремного жанра пытался устроить хозяину местной вокханалии полноценную темную под лозунгом: "Ложка в печень — никто не вечен". За что был довольно жестоко наказан и на всякий случай лишён потенциального оружия, исключая даже вариант из пластика. Подцепив пальцами кашицу и поместив в рот, Аркин проглотил содержимое, даже не ощутив вкуса, но на всякий случай добавил:

— Ммм... Говно говна. Прям как я люблю, — последнее он произнес потише, с явной, нескрываемой тоской, что не осталось без внимания.

— Рад, что тебе нравится, — голос раздался так внезапно, что Аркин подавился очередной порцией или своими собственными пальцами, чего он так и не понял. Из самого темного угла, словно из задницы сатаны, мелькнули два белых пятна, которые были ничем иным, как глазами властелина местной богадельни. Ох, если бы не гребаные кандалы... Он бы добрался до него и зарезал этой гребаной миской. Пусть та была совершенно тупой, со сглаженными краями, но он приложил бы все усилия, чтобы осуществить задуманное. Аркин откашлялся, вытирая проступившие слезы, и уже было хотел съязвить на свой страх и риск, но Коллекционер отлип от стены и вышел из сумрака.

"Опять без маски..."

Чудом не вслух возмутился про себя медвежатник. Не то, чтобы видеть эту черную латексную херню с напылением из пчелиных задниц было приятней, чем человеческое лицо, но каждый раз, когда он решал показаться Аркину без нее, это было равноценно плевку в лицо, с прямым, как рельсы, намеком на то, что живым ему, после увиденного, никак не уйти. А сегодня даже без боевого раскраса, что напоминает собой панду-наркомана, неужели не собирается выходить на тропу войны? Все это было подозрительно, а непосредственная близость мучителя заставляла Аркина на уровне подсознания делать попытки отстраниться и держать дистанцию. Страх смешивался с поднимающейся откуда-то изнутри яростью, делая Аркина похожим на дикого зверя, что вжимается в самый дальний угол своей клетки, скалится на садиста-охотника и пытается откусить тому палец. Похоже, Коллекционер прекрасно знал диапазон возможного передвижения своей жертвы, относительно длины кандалов, и не отказывал себе в удовольствии подойти поближе, оставаясь при этом на безопасном для себя расстоянии. На Аркина хотелось смотреть, даже не так — Аркиным хотелось любоваться. Но не слушать. Невероятный поток брани поражал своим многообразием, накопленные, за проведенные в тюрьме годы, бранные выражения восхищали вариациями, коих маньяк не слышал даже от самых разговорчивых жертв. Мысли об ампутации языка посещали также часто, как и мгновенное табу на порчу столь ценного экспоната. Нельзя было нарушать целостность, ведь это будут совсем не те ощущения.

— Чем обязан? — своя собственная дерзость липким страхом разливалась по желудку, поднимая ту ничтожную малость съеденного к горлу. Аркин мысленно умолял самого себя заткнуться, но его буквально трясло от одного взгляда на эту имбецильную безэмоциональную рожу, с лёгким оттенком превосходства. И что-то подсказывало, что без маски и своего шлюшеского макияжа этот здоровяк не станет тут задерживаться — все же, он тоже обычный человек, со своими обязанностями и торчать здесь днями напролет не может. Мысль о возможной безнаказанности распаляла Аркина сильнее.

— Я спросил, что тебе здесь нужно, ебаный кусок дерьма, — последние слова он процедил сквозь зубы, чувствуя, что готов кинуться на врага. Без оружия и сил — он просто перегрызёт ему глотку. Сильную ше�� не защищает маска и Аркину кажется, что он видит пульсацию сонной артерии. Такое вызывающее поведение было недопустимо и Аса не собирался терпеть фривольность домушника и дальше, вот только временем действительно на сегодня не располагал да и заскочил в свою зловещую обитель покормить некоторых, особо занимательных "зверушек". Но и на такие случаи был припасен козырь в черном рукаве. До простого банальный, но действенный — шокер. Аса ухмыльнулся и демонстративно провел пальцами в черной латексной перчатке по прикреплённому на поясе орудию усмирения особо буйных "постояльцев". Этот жест был каким-то интимным, почти эротичным, от чего тошнота подступила к горлу Аркина с новой силой, на этот раз обжигая кислым. Он не станет прятаться в ящик, вместо этого Аркин срывается с места и встаёт за него.

"Сначала попади, ублюдок хуев."

Но не успел Аса вытащить карательный инструмент, как что-то в его непробиваемой мимике изменилось и, спустя секунду, он рухнул на бетонный пол бездыханной тушей, поднимая в воздух столп пыли многолетней давности.

"Чего?..."

Аркин на мгновение остолбенел, но вовремя спохватился и не стал вдаваться в подробности обморочного состояния, пулей бросившись к телу с одной простой целью — добить пока есть возможность, или хотя бы стащить ключи. Но окольцованная путами нога была другого мнения и ее длины просто напросто не хватило, чтобы добраться до цели. Буквально сантиметров 15-20. Аркин смачно выругался. Но упускать этот шанс было самой большой глупостью, которую только можно совершить в этой ситуации — так он думал, пока не предпринял дальнейшие меры.

Вытянувшись, как дождевой червь в лучшие свои дни, и схватившись за ногу в массивном ботинке, Аркин резким движением, вкладывая последние силы, рванул коллекционера на себя. По ощущениям этот боров был как пять мешков с цементом, спина его за такие фокусы отблагодарила немилостивым хрустом и острой болью в районе поясницы. Смахивая пот после импровизированных силовых упражнений, Аркин смог поровняться со "спящей красавицей" и обшарить карманы.

Ничего.

Ни ключей, ни ножа, только грёбаный шокер, но это лучше, чем ничего. Практически лёжа на коллекционере, Аркин быстро выуживал шокер из кабуры, но вдруг взгляд остановился на шее визави, лежавшего в беспамятстве. Артерия и правда выдавала биение сердца. Маня Аркина живым шевелением, будто тот был изголодавшимся до крови вампиром.

"Перегрызть ублюдку горло?"

Аркин не уверен, что был способен на это, но то, что коллекционер не должен был жить он знал точно. Однако мысли о том, как умывается кровью врага зарубил на корню. Он не животное. Поэтому просто удушит его.

Да. Он поступит именно так.

Вот только собственные руки, на которые он опирается все это время, предательски трясутся и есть огромная вероятность, что сил попросту не хватит.

Он не может облажаться. Не сейчас.

Мысли роятся в голове подобно мухам на куске гниющей плоти, в которую он может превратиться, если сейчас же не примет решение. И оно приходит. Само. Стоило только цепи лязгнуть о бетонный пол, а кандалам на ноге больно впиться в нездорово фиолетовую от непроходящих синяков, щиколотку. Сознание мгновенно наводнилось картинками, в которых он затягивает эту цепь покрепче вокруг шеи Коллекционера, заставляя того открывать рот в немом крике и царапать ногтями по грязной цепи. Как краснеет лицо этого монстра, шея неестественно хрустит от сдавленных сухожилий и полные слез глаза, увитые яркой паутиной налитых кровью капилляров, смотрят прямо на него...

"Какого?..."

Если бы неловкость граничила со смертельной опасностью, то выглядело бы это примерно как эти двое.

Аркин не сразу понял где закончилась собственная фантазия и началась суровая реальность, зато прекрасно видел, где заканчивается кайма линз и начинается вполне человеческий глаз.

В ясно голубые омуты впились две белые точки.

Глаза коллекционера были открыты. А он так и остался лежать поверх теплого, уже относительно пришедшего в сознание, тела.

Мужчина под ним смотрел растерянно, словно не понимая, где находится, разглядывая того, кто так бесцеремонно на нем возлежал. Но во взгляде не было ни злости, ни безразличия, ни прежнего имбецильного выражения.

Примерно так и выглядит обычный человек, только пришедший в сознание после отключки. Только от нехилого удара головой о бетонный пол даже не морщится, словно кроме прозрачных глаз перед собой его больше ничего не интересует.

То, как они вышли из этой неловкой ситуации Аркин предпочел не вспоминать, поскольку последствия ещё долго напоминали о себе саднящей скулой и, по всей видимости, трещинами в ребрах. Да и доесть ему тогда так и не дали.

***********

— Тогда, это когда? — Аса лежал на кровати, уютно укрытый одеялом, рядом с ним сидел Аркин, медетавидно наглаживающий костяшки бледной руки энтомолога. С момента приступа прошло где-то полчаса, но впечатление от произошедшего не хотело отпускать, окутывая разум странной тревогой.

— Кажется, я перепутал, — Аркин улыбнулся и посмотрел на своего тяжело-больного пациента, стараясь выглядеть максимально спокойным. Он и правда перепутал, ведь судорог не было, значит, тогда он просто потерял сознание? Все это было очень странно и могло означать лишь одно — следующие бессонные ночи Аркин проведет за изучением медицинских статей на тему "Эпилепсия".

[impulsivebrainrot]

💀FORBIDDEN FRIENDSHIP⭐

-Chapter 12: In Between Myths and Memories-

Art for the painting of The Maker, Frighea (Mother Titan/Great Mother), and King Khronus

Had to change my watermark, since the one for the first artwork was pretty rushed. Anyway, since I tend to post other artworks on this acc, the differences in the watermarks helps distinguish if its from the fic or not ;w;

[itsagrimm]

He Who Comes From Under The Water

Chapter 1 - The Promised Bride

Monster!König X she/her afab Reader

CN sexism & patriarchy, mentions of death, suicidal thoughts, accidental attempted drowning, arranged marriage, choking on water, mention of a human bodies decomposition

eventual smut.

Beta-read by @sandinthemachine and @queenquazar. Thank you both so much for supporting me with obsessing over fairy tales.

Masterlist

“So, you are a king without a queen?” The old man asked while throwing his rod back into the water. “I suppose you require a queen then, eh?”

The king, considering the old fisherman’s words, slowly nodded. “I suppose I do. But where does one get such a fine lady?” 

The water below the wooden landing was dark and dirty. Frogs croaked and fireflies danced over the green sludge and water lilies, lively and playful like the flecks of sunlight that reached the surface through the thick forest trees. A pretty scene on any other day.

Not this one.

Your tears had long stopped flowing into the water of the deep pond. Now, you sat there, your hand tangled in the water and your thoughts lost, dark and deep like the water below you.

A few days ago, your grandfather died. A kind old man who had spent the last years of his life close to the warm oven in winter and fishing in the pond in the summertime.

You remembered bedtime stories as a child with sweets sneaked into your hands. You remembered kind eyes who watched out for you as you grew from child to maiden. You remembered worry in those same eyes when your father died in the forest chopping wood, when your brothers perished in a tavern fire, your uncle and your mother succumbing to sickness, and - finally - your cousin breaking his neck after climbing a tree.

Yes, there was a lot of pain in your grandfathers’ eyes. But even more to worry.

The old man had been your last living relative, and most importantly your last male relative.

And now you as an unmarried village girl from a clearly cursed family, had no one who could inherit your family’s house and support you.

It was only time until the village would shun you and chase you away to get rid of all the bad around you.

That is if you were lucky.

You could try to make it into the city where you would live for a while as a beggar or, if you were hungry and deemed pretty enough, work as a whore.

In his last days, your grandfather tried to arrange for a husband, but no one wanted a cursed girl, and so his last words to you were to visit his favorite fishing spot.

You sighed.

Now, you sat on the same spot where your grandfather had sat, catching fish, and gazing over the water.

Maybe that’s what he had meant, you mused. It would be easier to end it all here and jump into the pond only to never return to the surface, drowning your sorrows and yourself with your grandfathers’ blessings. At least you would choose your fate with your chin proudly raised and your dignity untouched, floating into the abyss in your best billowing skirts from the funeral and no more tears left to cry.

As much as that was possible considering your situation.

“It’s a good place to leave this world,” you spoke out loud to taste how it felt on your tongue. It resonated, with the forest, the pond, with you.

“Indeed, it is.”

You twitched in surprise, heart jumping into your throat.

“Who is this?” you called over the water, glancing around for whoever lurked within the trees, hiding between the ferns.

A hand, big and wet, snatched yours from the water and pulled you in with one strong tug.

You wailed in surprise before crashing into the pond and swallowing the muddy green water, gurgling and gasping for air. Something seized you – strong and solid. Instinctually you kicked and punched it.

Was this it?

NO! 

Fighting for your life you thrashed around, struggling and trying to free yourself to get back up to the surface. But whoever had you in a hold only dragged you down, carrying you further into the dark.

Your panicked eyes widened, trying to see who attacked you, trying to see anything.

It was dark. Only the dark, green water around you.

No, no, no, no!

Your lungs heaved for air as your heart drummed painfully in your hurting chest.

A second hand twisted around your throat and over your face. Instinctually, you opened your mouth and bit down.

The hands jolted back with a howl reverberating in the water, releasing you from the deadly weight dragging you down. Hungry for air and with burning lungs you swam up with frenzied strokes, pushing through the surface. Gasping and coughing you breathed, feeding your body with much needed air.

Quickly, you glanced around. No one there. Was this someone from the village trying to get rid of you? Did you manage to drag your attacker down with you? Or was it an animal in the water?

Before you could move, something grabbed you again and lifted you a good length out above the water.

You screamed and kicked again only to have your legs and hands fixated in an iron grip.

“Hold still!” A voice commanded you, foreign and vibrating close. You struggled on, thrashing your body against the solid form behind your back, unwilling to take any chances and die here without a fight.

“I said, hold still!”  the grip around your limbs tightened, forcing you into stillness. “There, finally.”

Slowly, you turned your head. You were caught in the grip of a dark, green form, pressed against what must be its chest and stared at by sharp, watery eyes from a nearly obscured face from tangled wet hair and a beard.

Who is this? You thought to yourself, still heaving for air.

“Why are you fighting me?” the strange being said, “I’m here to take you in as my bride. Just like I have promised.”

You coughed again, a bit of swamp water and spit running down your chin, splashing onto the being’s arm.

“What?” you cried and with your head still spinning.

“What what?” The large figure snapped back, “The old man asked me to take you as my wife, yet you bite me? Is that how you want to treat your future husband? Do you want me to let you go? I have no need for an unwilling bride.”

 You blinked, your body slowing down and your mind starting to think clearly again.

“You nearly drowned me. Let me go!” you cried out as much as your abused lungs allowed.

The figure blinked and instantly dropped you.

With a loud splash you crashed back into the water.

Your body seized and your mind raced, struggling to comprehend and move your body up.

You made a few weak swimming strokes, but it wasn’t enough to move your still tired and abused body up. Water started filling your lungs again and you were about to dr-

Something grabbed you and lifted you. Again.

“Woman!” the strange being cried out in annoyance, “What are you doing?”

You coughed, swamp water from your hair dripping over your face, disorienting you further as you gasped for air.

“Wait, maiden, do you need to breathe?” the strange creature asked, “Make up your mind! I was just trying to take you home, but you don’t want that. So I did like you asked but then you started sinking like a stone back into my waters again, heaving for air!”

You shivered, “Of course I need to breathe! All humans need air, idiot! What kind of question is that?!”

The creature groaned and grumbled, “The old man forgot to mention you are a human. I thought you might be a nymph or a bigger frog lady. Well, that’s just bad luck.”

You snorted, “Oh, I am sorry that me needing air is inconvenient for you! I nearly died down there in those muddy waters!”

“Hey, those are mighty fine waters of mine, thank you very much. Besides, the second time was not my fault.”

“Your waters?” you managed.

“Who else’s waters?” the figure deadpanned as you’d asked the most obvious question, swayed, and started moving towards the landing before carefully putting you onto the planks instead of holding you like a cat holds its naughty young, “Stay. Let me take a better look at you.”

You huffed and collapsed onto the planks out of the wet arms. It wasn’t like you could run anyway with your body still shaky and weak from the near drownings. Instead, you lifted your head for a better look at the stranger as they studied you.

The strange being from the waters was built like a man, but huge and larger than the tallest man you had ever seen. And it had the face close to a man too under all that unkempt hair and beard. But its facial features were fine, much too fine for any man who could lurk in the waters, and slightly too angular and with eyes a bit too lively and sharp to belong to a human as they studied you.

“Pretty girl.” the man from the water finally grumbled, “A bit unruly but pretty. At least that the old man did not lie about it.”

You raised your eyebrows in surprise, “Thank you?”

The man shrugged, “Sorry for trying to drown you, apparently, I misunderstood your fragile physique.”

Fragile physique. He made it sound like an insult.

You took one final breath and summoned your strength to sit up to be on the same eye level as the large man from the water.

“Who are you?” you asked while trying to sort your wet skirts.

He snorted and waved slightly.

“I am König – king of all under the waters. Naturally. And you are the bride I was promised by the old fisherman a couple of days ago.”

Your eyes widened in surprise, “Do you mean my grandfather? He used to fish here.”

The man shrugged, causing little waves around his shoulders where he emerged from the pond, “Most humans all look and smell the same to me, honestly. He was old for a human, liked to share stories, and left me a bit of tobacco as offerings sometimes. Smelled of smoked fish.”

Memories of your grandfather flashed before your eyes where he sat on the bench in front of the house, smoking his pipe in the late hours of the day, watching the sun go down.

Your mouth went dry.

Had he? Did he really?

Did he, in all his misery and worry, promised your hand to a strange man from the pond – a huge and wet and cold and clearly dangerous monster.

You went stiff from the overwhelming thought of being given away like that to a stranger - to a monster.

“Well, you are a human but I’m not in the habit of breaking promises and I'm sure you would make a good enough queen,” König continued, “Unless you object of course. There is little as unhonourable as having an unwilling bride, not even the slimiest toad approves of that.”

König babbled on about waters and ponds and marriage but your head was spinning. Your grandfather arranged for you to marry an algae cover man from the pond who's idea of home nearly killed you. The painful absurdity of it made you consider jumping right back into the water.

The cold, dark and green water.

The buzzing of the summer insects and splashing of the little waves drowned everything else out, turning louder and louder and louder and-

“Maid?”

His hand touched your arm, slowly shaking you.

You jolted up only to fall back.

“Yes?” you managed while leaning back, away from the large, clawed hand.

König’s watery eyes shifted around you as if searching for the right words.

“Listen, I don’t know too much about you humans, “ König started, “but you look cold and miserable. Maybe let’s worry about that first and talk about our wedding later.”

You blinked as the realization in all its form settled in.

Marrying him?

He would drown you in this pond, your flesh rotting and being picked by the fishes until nothing but a pile of bones were left.

Your bones, your lovely bones.

No! You had felt your life slip out of your fingers, the precious air bubbles escaping your lungs bare moments ago. Your cold hands wandered around your pained body intuitively, cradling yourself and trying to protect you from the outside world. You weren’t ready to give up on this life - to give on your body - and you would keep yourself safe and alive. This was your skin, your hair and flesh and bones! Death would come to you one day but you would be damned if it came today at the bottom of a dark pond and by the hands of a man.

“Yes, you are right. I should get dry,” you managed, sensing a chance to escape.

With wobbly legs, you tried to get up only to sway and stumble down on your knees. You needed to leave this place.

König tilted his head, watching you.

You tried again; your muscles too weak to carry you.

“Dear,” König said with slight amusement in his voice, “Your will is admirable, pretty girl. But I doubt it will be enough to get you home.”

“So? Will you drag me back into the pond and finish your work?” you replied, considering the option to crawl home and far away from the water

“Why would I do that, bride?”, he chuckled before turning serious again, looking at you with those blue more than clear inhuman eyes, “I have heard it’s not customary but allow me to get you to your home before you hurt yourself. You humans take so long to heal and an injured bride during the wedding would be a nuisance.”

Fearful you tried to move again.

He watched, waiting for your answer.

You considered his words. Your home. And he clearly wanted you in one piece at least before the wedding.

“No pond?”, you asked with an oh so thin weak voice.

“No pond.” He reassured, “That’s clearly not your element, my little bride-to-be.”

Slowly, you nodded.

Carefully, as if not to spook you, he scooped you back into his arms once again and pressed you to his chest.

You felt yourself going stiff again from fear, but before you could cry out, König stepped out of the water and away from the dreaded pond.

“See, no pond,” König spoke soothingly, and you felt his voice vibrate in his chest as he moved and swayed to avoid branches while shielding you with his shoulders, “I’m keeping my promises, my little bride.”

[shalotttower]

Pholcus phalangioides

Title: Pholcus phalangioides

Fandom: The Collector (2009). Can be read as an original inspired by the source, because I took some creative liberties.

Summary: There's a spider in your bathroom, it lives under the mirror cabinet and you a) don't want to kill it, and b) are too scared to touch it, so now you can either keep giving it one side eye after another, or ask your neighbour for help.

Word count: 4000+

Characters: Asa Emory x Reader

Notes: yandere Asa, spiders and insects descriptions, stalking, voyeurism of sort - Asa watches Reader without her realizing it, kidnapping, vague hinting on body horror, non-con touching, Reader is socially awkward. Asa is not 100% in-movie-character Asa (he actually talks lol), a huge chunk of him is based on my headcanons.

You have this problem - a spider problem, to be precise. Not that it's too big of a deal, but...it also is.

Spiders are generally okay.

They eat unwanted guests, like flies and mosquitos or even other spiders. Make cool webs, which is probably one of the most complicated forms of art, not to mention a mathematical pattern to it - a combination of radial and circular symmetry. The golden ratio in nature.

In general they're important for keeping a backyard ecosystem nice and intact.

But.

But there is a spider in your bathroom, right under the sink cabinet, with thin legs, a long body, and of course - eyes. Quiet, kept to itself, really chill spider who doesn't move much except to crawl around a little and sometimes look at you when it catches you looking.

It probably lived in hiding somewhere, before deciding that dark spaces weren't up to its standards anymore and making an appearance. You haven't swatted it away, caught it, struck it with a paper - mostly because you're not good at killing living creatures, and secondly because the spider isn't doing any harm, just observing your every step, and generally being present.

When you check your makeup bag, it watches. When you brush your teeth, it watches. When you close the cabinet door it wiggles and your heart goes "ee" as if someone shocked it with a static charge. This yellowish-brown witness of your everyday activities, silently approving and judging, lately makes you feel like a nuisance in your own bathroom. You desperately wish there was a way to make it move to another corner. A less centralized one, less straight in your face. Yet the thought of touching it makes you cringe inwardly; your mind conjures images of different scenarios involving spider-related unpleasantries - accidentally squashing it, or getting bitten and dying a slow, miserable death.

It's gotta go.

Because the more you see it, the more your brain tries to assign it human features. And the longer it stares, the bigger the chance it might grow a pair of lips to say "get out of my bathroom".

The thought comes to you in the morning while setting a breakfast plate on the kitchen counter. The house is quiet, all windows are open and you stare through one of them at your neighbour's fence. You rarely see him, though the parked car is always a giveaway of his presence. Emory, that's what the mailbox says, and he has a neat garden, not an extravagant type, but everything is carefully trimmed and arranged into simple patterns.

There's even a stone bench by a small tree. Does it actually get used on sunny days? Probably no. He seems like a loner, from what you've seen so far: tall and pale, with wire-rimmed glasses and still grey eyes. Very focused and put together, a turtleneck and dark trousers kind of Mister. Never waving when passing by, though he does glance sometimes - sharp and attentive.

Once you caught him leaning over a bush with back straight and head hanging low. Your stomach gave this funny, nervous twitch, like when a stranger tries to start a conversation in public. He looked your way and then resumed whatever he was doing.

"Whatever" appeared to be something small, sharp limbs and a shiny body. It looked like a beetle, stretched to an absurd degree, and the way he held that thing felt strangely intimate. The same way you'd cradle a baby animal in your hands, rubbing its forehead with a fingertip. Emory put it in a plastic box, sealed it, and went into his house, not sparing you another glance.

This particular memory - of long fingers and a careful grasp - is what makes you think that maybe, possibly, theoretically, he could handle one pesky spider for you. You've seen him with insects a couple of times after, no doubt Mr. Emory is one of those who glue bugs to display boards. The creepy friend in the bathroom must be right up his alley then.

Five minutes later the two of you are staring at each other in awkward silence. Bothering barely acquainted neighbours isn't usually high on your list of priorities, especially if said neighbours look like they prefer being alone. You know it's odd, you know it probably crosses some boundaries, yet here you are.

With a crease on his brow and a tight mouth, Emory isn't thrilled at this sudden visit. Maybe he was in the middle of something, or is just uncomfortable with people invading his space. In any case, you clear your throat.

"Good morning. I live in the house across the road. The white porch? With-"

"I know," it's a dry reply. Not rude, more matter-of-factly; his eyes are fixed on you with a hint of unsettling peculiarity which makes you shift from one foot to the other.

He's not pest control, you think. Or obligated to help in any way. Emory can tell you to kindly fuck off right now and close the door, why did you even come here? It's stupid and intrusive. You're almost ready to take it all back and go home, pretend like nothing happened and just deal with that spider yourself, when he speaks again.

"What do you need?"

He has a quiet voice, a very even direct tone that doesn't encourage small talk, but prompts answers. Now and without pointless filling.

"I know how it's going to sound," you start, cringing inside, "and apologize in advance for bothering you, but I had an impression you collect...bugs."

"Insects. Arachnids."

"Right. So I was thinking if you'd mind removing a spider from my bathroom. I don't want to kill it, but I can't- I can't touch it."

His gaze slowly shifts from your face to the house behind you. As if Emory has an x-ray vision, or a complete mental map of your household layout. Ha, this would be ridiculous. There's no apparent disapproval in his pale face, but something else, a different kind of assessment. Evaluation of how much it is worth spending time on someone with an overgrown lawn? His eyes return back and you feel pinned down.

The longer he stays silent, the more you wish for the ground to open and swallow you whole.

"If you can't I totally understand-"

"What kind of spider?"

It's your turn to stare. How are you supposed to know, you've never studied spider biology. It looks like any other common variety, except creepier because it refuses to leave its spot and stay in the sewer where it belongs. "I...light-brownish, with long legs. Thin? Slender," there's more you could add but any further description will probably make you sound like a total dunce who can't recognize basic arachnids. "Kind of big."

You expect a 'sure', maybe 'I'll be there shortly' or 'no'. What you get is Emory moving past you and walking up your front porch. The scent of laundry detergent and soap, very clean, hits your nose before you rush to open the door.

"Uhm. Second floor," you explain, awkwardly shuffling after him. For the first time since the day you moved in, you worry about what someone might see inside the house. As far as clutter goes, your place is acceptable, perhaps a few forgotten cups around and yesterday's sweater thrown on a couch. Surely, it's not too bad.

Emory, however, doesn't seem interested in the surroundings. The staircase doesn't even creak under his weight, despite the house being around a century old. He steps over the little border which always makes you trip if you walk too fast, like it's not there. Like the corner you often bump your hip into doesn't exist either. He navigates your home with effortless precision, an inward kind of certainty that makes your eyebrows rise. Maybe...the houses on your street have the same blueprint.

Either way, he walks into your bathroom without hesitation, turning on the light. You hover by the doorway, unsure: should you offer something to drink, ask him if he needs anything else or just step away and leave him to do his thing?

The spider is there, hiding under the cabinet, when Emory leans over to observe it. He's probably seen many different specimens, you think, and this isn't interesting at all compared to the ones who have an intricate design or unique behavior.

"She's a part of the Pholcidae family," Emory says suddenly. Just like that there's 'she', instead of 'it', and the spider twitches and shifts. "Daddy long-legs. Harmless."

He puts his palm up close to its back. At first, it seems startled, but after a moment slowly calms down, and moves a leg - left then right - getting familiar with his hand.

"Docile creatures," Emory continues, while the spider walks along the edge of his palm. No running around, no random leaps, stick-like limbs touch and probe him with curiosity, much like you'd study something new. "They stay in the dark, hide in the corners while feasting on smaller things. Your intruder is a useful tenant."

It makes you feel slightly nauseous, how nonchalant he is about holding something that prompts recoil on instinct.

"Do you want to hold her?" Emory turns to you and there's a faint, strange smile on his lips. It doesn't reach his eyes and makes him look like an alien who tries to mimic human expressions based only on observation. His pupils are so dark that you can barely tell the difference between the irises and the rest. They seem bottomless, absorbing all light, but reflecting none in return. You take one step backwards, shaking your head.

"I'll pass."

He keeps staring at you for what feels like forever before returning his attention to the spider crawling on his skin. Emory reaches into his back pocket for a small container.

"Are you not setting her outside?" You ask. "She...she doesn't look like, uh, a rare species."

Not that you're an expert.

"No," Emory closes the lid with a quiet click. "She isn't one. But I'm going to keep her."

And he does. The little captive spider rests at the very bottom of a plastic case when you send the man on his way and thank him for the help. Emory accepts it with a nod, no further words, and then there's only his back when he leaves. The morning air rushes in, crisp and fresh, smelling like grass, tree leaves and soil.

*

It feels like you blink, and three days go by. You still keep an eye on the bathroom cabinet by some sort of habit, however there's nothing out of the ordinary lurking there, no creepy critters and definitely no thin legs scattering in multiple directions. All is well, now you can brush your teeth, take care of business and even lean close without fear something might fall on your head.

It's just a spider. You googled it later, and how common it is around the continents should be a bit ridiculous. Keeping it might equal to going on a beach and picking the most unremarkable pebble you see; Emory certainly could find hundreds more Daddy long-legs wherever he pleased - parks, gardens or forests.

So...why?

The question gnaws at you, together with that smile and cold grey eyes hidden behind glasses' frames. The weirdest part wasn't the expression, it was how you couldn't read it. Despite the obvious display of human emotion, however misplaced and alien, it failed to reveal anything. The smile was there, and yet nothing broke through it, not amusement, nor politeness - or any kind of feeling whatsoever.

Your neighbour is odd.

Not necessarily scary, though there's a sense of mystery surrounding him, it makes you feel like standing next to an iceberg and only seeing its tip. Or you've just read far too many psychological thrillers and your imagination likes to conjure up the wildest scenarios, trying to turn each and every thing into something sinister.

Maybe you should just chill and get some tea, and stop being so dramatic about a guy who came over and politely removed a spider for you.

*

They're not a unique species. Not even remotely uncommon.

He taps the container gently with his index finger, making the spider move back and forth. She doesn't have venom, no poisonous chemicals to injure and kill. Hiding in abandoned corners she does, patient and careful, waiting to catch the wrong fly.

You're just like her. Nothing exciting. Not unique.

Your movement patterns are similar, concealed in a different package you're still predictable: getting home from work, cooking dinner, watching TV shows. Everyday routines.

Fear is a part of your nature. Awkwardness which comes with socializing: you shuffle when uncomfortable, avoid prolonged eye contact and don't like confrontation, he noticed this right away. A quiet type, keeping mostly to yourself unless you need something urgently; and then you rush, like a scared Daddy long legs. There's this shiftiness, an inner desire to be less visible, but also a yearning for recognition because the lack of it hurts. And he saw all those small things, catalogued them one by one, as you moved into his street and became a constant presence.

Asa has never thought about keeping something - someone - so mundane before. Never. He likes rare things, spectacular, and those collected in the basement, they all are, especially when he's finished with them. They're extraordinary, displayed under glass cases and preserved for eternity.

He doesn't collect common species. Daddy long-legs are abundant everywhere around him.

But.

There's the way you linger by the kitchen window during the morning routine, slowly sipping hot coffee. When your lips purse and eyes lose focus for a moment. Or how the corners of them wrinkle sometimes when you have a genuine, amused laugh. It's something like warmth. There's no label for the feeling - positive, negative or neutral, it just is, like one single, meaningless element in an ecosystem.

He shouldn't want someone so average.

And yet Asa watches from the corner of your living room, crouched on the floor by a plant.

You don't hear him, too invested in your personal bubble. Well, he had enough time to polish his craft and figure out how soundless he can be when moving through spaces, how much weight he needs to place onto soles to avoid creaking wood and floorboards.

It's interesting to see you interact with your environment, unaware of being watched. There's an invisible pattern behind each action, even if you think everything is randomized. The web you wove around yourself is cozy, and Asa follows its threads while you check the phone and frown at whatever notification pops up. He is considering. Contemplating this impulsive desire he has yet to identify.

Would it be worth it? Keeping you. Adding you to the collection and seeing what comes out of it, how far his usual approach might take him with you in the same conditions. You're just a face with features. So...ordinary. He wants to pick you apart and look inside to make sure it's not some strange sort of mimicry, camouflage of a different nature hiding something else entirely.

There's this vague idea how those features may feel when touched. He can recall them accurately, even when you've never stood too close. Asa watches quietly from his hiding place, memorizing a displeased mumble and then a frustrated gesture.

You seem so alive.

Those below who are frozen in time now were too, before Asa decided to give them a purpose and make something special and worthy of his attention. They were alive like you, but now they're something better.

What purpose you have remains to be seen.

Asa decides then.

A plain trunk is nestled in the corner behind a coat hanger, no fancy latch or keyhole needed, only an ordinary padlock. You'll fit in nicely, squeezed in the cramped space, it won't be the most comfortable experience, but it's not for long and then...then he can show you the room where others stayed before, and where you'll be next.

Asa looks around one last time: the front door is locked, blinds down, lights off - you get up from the couch and head upstairs, right on the dot. Your house is easy to navigate despite the darkness; Asa knows his way around it, having been here already more than once. A step after a step he follows the soft padding of your bare feet, and when the steps halt, he pulls out a cloth. It's a heavy kind of pleasure to be able to stand right behind and admire your nape, there's a strange sort of vulnerability to it.

Something raw and very exposed.

It takes only a few movements, he catches your yelp into one of his hands and holds it clasped tightly as you thrash. Your nails dig into the fabric of his turtleneck but fail to leave any marks. He's never tired of it, the initial fear of his specimens realizing that their secure habitats are ruined. He doesn't mind this fight for survival.

"Shh," Asa breathes into your ear. "Shh."

The struggle doesn't last long - you're not a fighter - and when your body goes limp, he picks you up. Your perfume is surprisingly light, a very sweet and pleasant aroma, not overwhelming at all like he'd expect it to be.

It's nice.

He puts you in the trunk, a boxy space barely big enough to fit you curled on the side, it's going to take around thirty minutes to reach the hotel and another three to put you in the right cell. You'll sleep the rest of the journey, which is fortunate for everyone. It's always easier to deal with a specimen if they're resting.

The lock clicks softly - it's time to go home.

*

Something runs down your cheek - a drop, a bead of sweat, a touch - and you blink, trying to make sense of it. The surroundings are unfamiliar, blurry shapes with undefined outlines that stretch and wobble before your eyes. Your jaw hurts, clenched so hard that teeth grind together, and it takes a conscious effort to relax.

Where...what?

The living room, a TV program, a soundless whisper that froze the hairs at your nape, then someone was behind you. You remember a sickly sweet smell, and after that nothing but a haze and the dark, and the sensation of being squeezed into a shape. Your legs feel numb, arms too, like you spent hours immobile in one position. Slowly the world sharpens back into focus, but instead of relief there's only dread.

You're in a room.

No bigger than a regular bathroom and void of any furniture beside a cot-like bed, a toilet in the corner and a sink. The walls are a bluish-gray with thin cracks, tiny fissures that create uneven lines from the ceiling all the way down to the floor.

And there's a man, observing you quietly through the thick glass.

You don't notice him immediately, too busy assessing your new location, and when you do the air feels heavier, difficult to move past your throat. He's wearing a mask. Black rubber or something, covering everything except his eyes. He presses two palms against the barrier separating you, the silence stretches into an eternity.

'Who are you? What do you want?' - these are kind of questions you should be asking, but they don't come out. You remain glued to the spot, counting the passing seconds by their painful tick-tock-tick-tocks. One minute turns into two, and he...just stares without moving a muscle in a beyond unnerving manner. Your gaze dips lower to check his clothes, perhaps find a pattern to identify this person later.

There's none. Everything is plain black, like a uniform made to be invisible - turtleneck, pants, even gloves and boots.

It seems that your silence somehow pleases him, because a few moments later he leaves without looking back.

You don't know how much time passes; there's not a window around, only a bare, stark bulb, yellowish in its brightness and casting unpleasant shadows all over the floor. Not a single sound. Traffic, voices of distant passersby or birds - all is absent and doesn't provide even a bit of understanding where the hell you are.

In the end, you...sit down on the bed and wait, because what else is there? Everything is eerily silent and very, very uncomfortable: this emptiness, the absence of noise, the endless ticking of an invisible clock. It's difficult not to cry, but you try your best, somehow it feels important to remain composed. There has to be a reason behind this. There must be one, and you repeat it over and over, like a mantra to soothe the nerves and present your mind with some semblance of logic: once you figure out what's going on, you'll figure out how to get out as well.

Pulling loose threads from your sleeve is poor entertainment, if anything, the strain of boredom and unease gradually grows into anxiety so sharp that you almost miss the sound of approaching footsteps.

He's back again, the masked stranger who stands in the doorway with hands clasped behind his back. A pair of light grey eyes is a splash of different color, but they are blank. They watch with distant curiosity of an animal trainer monitoring a newborn cub. The comparison makes something ugly squirm inside you. A part of you wants to make a run for it, the other keeps yelling that it would be immensely stupid.

One, two, three, four steps he takes into your cell. Your back meets the wall, the chill coming from its solid surface cuts right through the layers of clothing. Five, six. He stops only when there's less than arm's reach between you, then leans to brush away loose strands of hair sticking to your temples. Your stomach goes taut. This scent. Laundry detergent mixed with soap. The turtleneck, grey eyes, very collected kind of Mister.

A sickly shiver of revulsion shoots down your spine, making you curl tighter into a ball. Emory cups your jaw with both hands - they're cold even through the gloves material. This is too close, an unwanted and unpleasant violation of boundaries, and yet he continues to examine your face, like you're some sort of an object he can handle however he pleases.

Your cheek gets a light pat. Any theories about his identity stay unvoiced, mostly because you fear the reaction they might prompt. Something tells you that screaming is a bad idea too. 'Be quiet,' an insistent whisper says deep inside your skull, 'be still.'

His thumbs press to the corners of your mouth. "Open," he orders, and you can't not, even though the whole thing sounds and feels bizarre. "Wider."

There's a quiet click. A flashlight, of those small ones you can easily hold in one hand, shines right into your eyes, making them water from the unexpected brightness. "Don't bite or I'll remove all of your teeth."

It's a simple threat, delivered with such a calm tone, there's no need for yelling when words are that clear and straightforward.

He inspects your mouth, the edges of teeth and gums, your inner cheeks, and you let him, clenching your fists. There's not much you can do, at least that's what you keep telling yourself to ease the heavy, sinking feeling of powerlessness. Your mind chants 'too close' on a loop, urging to wiggle away; you stay. It's unclear what exactly he's looking for - dental or oral diseases, a sore throat, cavities, or the lack of them?

It lasts forever until he straightens back up and puts the light away.

"Good," Emory states. There's another pat to your head before he turns around to leave. "No biting."

The door panel slides with a soft hum, locking shut. And the silence, and the waiting, and the mind numbing monotony is back again.

[noxnephilim]

slashers going to the grocery with their s/o?

SHOPPING RUN

The "Rich and gentlemen " who only buy premium quality items, but will let you absolutely be in charge because it's funny to see you smile, all giddy about doing something so mundane. Yes, if you beg hard enough they'll let you buy some trash food. They secretly enjoy them too, but will never tell you upfront

JESSE CROMEANS, HANNIBAL LECTER

The one who planned this thing weeks in advance and let's you come with him just because you have been a good pet. He still is in charge, but he enjoys some down time with you close enough to make everyone jealous.

ASA EMORY, Bo Sinclair

The " I'll make you a list long enough to become a scarf" and let you go do your business without them actively participating, just because.

BO SINCLAIR, BRAHMS HEELSHIRE, MICHAEL MYERS

The one who would love to come with you,but they fear to be judged by the public too much. They're so sweet they will be there when you come back to help with the bags

VINCENT SINCLAIR, JASON VORHEES

The one who will likely bully you lovingly throughout the day, preventing you to effectively make a good run to the store. You still get things done, but it's hard

FREDDY KRUEGER

[pidjuns]

AO3 is down and I am very sad I can’t publish right now, so here’s some sketches from the upcoming chapter! :)

[impulsivebrainrot]

💀FORBIDDEN FRIENDSHIP⭐

-Chapter 13: Fright at the Museum-

Art for the Cackling Skrillbane from a) King and Collector's encounter and b) T's journal.

Reference for King Clawthorne (redesign)