#webb porter x reader

[yns-world]

HIIIIII

I'm so sorry I couldn't reach out yesterday! HOW ARE YOUU

no worries!!! i know you had your reasons :)

and girl lemme tell you, this week kicked my ass EVEN THO I HAD TWO DAYS OFF???? god i was so exhausted yesterday it was terrible

but thankfully this weekend is pretty chill and this is the first time in WEEKS since i've had a chill day 😭😭😭

all i did today was run an errand, go to driving class, and watch some alcatraz 🤞 I WANT TO WRITE WEBB PORTER FICS SO BAD BRO BUT I JUST NEED REQUESTS 😭😭😭

how was your day bestie? :)

[accidentalslayer]

Word Count: 1,497 (ish)

Warnings: Implied death, violence.

Author's Notes: Health issues continued being a problem and caused this chapter to be late as hell but I finally have it done! While this part of DL feels a little boring, I hope you like it. The next chapter will give us our first peak at Reader so that'll be exciting! Also, health is doing much much better. Let's hope I write chapter five a bit faster than I did this one LOL!

Please feed me comments, hearts, and reblogs if you liked this 🌹You can find me on A03 as: accidentalslayer

Pairing: Yandere!Elijah & Klaus Mikaelson x Fem!Reader (eventually)

Summary: You should never go to second location with William Webb.

Recommended Song: "People I Don't Like" by: UPSAHL

Chapter Four: The Prodigal Son (Part Two)

[October 2nd, 1991

Mystic Falls, Virginia]

"Isn't it just perfect?"

Carol wiggled her ring finger in front of Grace so that the diamonds on her wedding band glittered and shone underneath the dim lamplight. "I told Richard not to break the bank, but the silly man just couldn't help himself!"

"Well, I wasn't about to let my wife run around in a cheap knock-off," Rich chuckled, "What kind of husband would I be then?? My woman deserves only the best. Right, hunny?"

"Oh, Rich..."

Grace and William watched in barely suppressed disgust as the Lockwoods shared a kiss between each other. One that lasted a bit too long for it to be comfortable. At a certain point, Grace cleared her throat, hoping it would interrupt them.

"Ah, where are our manners?" Richard Lockwood asked with a coy smile, finally pulling away from his wife, "We were talking, weren't we?"

He didn't wait for either Grace or William to reply before continuing what was starting to seem like a one-way conversation.

"So, Will. What brings Mystic Falls' prodigal son back into town?? Ready to settle down and start a family with somebody special?"

Mr. Lockwood's gaze trailed (not so subtly) over onto Grace, who glowered back at him, and Will. There was cold fire burning deep within her eyes as she did. Something that was historically never a good sign when it came to Grace. William knew from experience. A shiver ran down his spine. He would need to choose his next words with care...

"Ah, no. I'm happy with being a bachelor," he said solemnly, "In all honesty, I'm too busy these days with work to pursue anything really serious."

Carol scoffed, "Oh, that's what they all say!"

"Is it, Carol?" Grace shot back, her tone brisk and lined with edges, "Is that what they all say?"

"It's how I got my Richard."

"Pretty sure you got "your" Richard another way."

"Ladies, ladies!"

"Uh..."

The tension mounting around the booth could be cut with a knife. William sensed that he'd have to alter the course of their conversation before both women murdered each other, so he began telling everyone about his new job. And the reason why he'd come back to Mystic Falls. It was 50% half truths, 50% outright lies, but either side hooked his audience and temporarily cooled down their anger. Unfortunately, it also inspired Richard to start talking about his (running) candidacy for mayor. A topic that William cared nothing about and knew was going to steal more valuable time away from him. Time he didn't have. He needed another distraction...

"DRINKS!!" William exclaimed, suddenly bolting upright in the booth and slamming his fist down on the table, "We need more drinks! To celebrate the, uh. The-"

"Candidacy!" Grace finished his sentence, giving Will a look that told him she was thinking on the same wavelength, "To celebrate Richard's future as the mayor of Mystic Falls!! In fact, I'm gonna help this dork here order. He doesn't know an IPA from a porter. Isn't that right, Will?"

William glared at her but was forced to agree for the sake of this charade.

"What a wonderful idea!" Carol brightened at the offer, "I'll have a glass of chardonnay. Tell them to use the Grand Cru."

"Just grab me a brandy. Plain. No ice."

Egos sated, the Lockwoods scooted over, giving William and Grace enough room to get out of the booth. Grace mouthed the word 'hurry' to Will as she grabbed her purse and literally speed walked towards the bar. William followed suit, but before he was able to extricate himself completely, Rich asked him an off-handed question...

"Was it really an animal in the woods that night?"

"..."

The only answer William gave Mr. Lockwood was an icy grimace.

"Steve! Code Crimson. I need you to make direct eye contact with me, nod your head a few times, and act like I've just ordered a few drinks," Grace announced to the man behind the counter when she arrived at the bar, "Dick is being a creep."

Steven, the most seasoned mixologist at the Grill, raised a single brow in response while he continued to work. It looked like he was making a Mystic Moon; one of the most popular cocktails on sale this month and a fairly easy drink to put together. Despite this, Steve was taking his time blending in the blueberry juice, grenadine syrup, and gin.

"Stevie, c'mon. Pretty please? For me??"

The bartender sighed, "Grace, I can 86 any other guy who hits on you here, but Mr. Lockwood is a loyal patron-"

"Oh my god, you're seriously taking bribes from Little Dick now?!" Grace hissed, "Traitor."

"I don't see you paying my rent."

"Watch it, now. I'll stop bringing you a plate every Sunday. I know how much you love my lasagna!"

"You drive a hard bargain, Grace, but I was a line cook once upon a time, remember?? You'll have'ta do better than that."

"I'll start playing Fantasy League Football with you."

"Now we're talking!"

"Ugh, I regret this already."

Steve chuckled, then went straight to pretending that she'd ordered something and left Grace with the sneaking suspicion that he'd gotten the best portion of their deal. William joined her at the bar a second afterward, similarly frustrated. The two friends sighed at the same time. Their night was not going the way they'd expected it would...

William ran a hand through his chocolate brown hair. "So, what now?" he asked Grace, "I still owe you an explanation. A real one."

"Knew that whole 'I'm here for work' story was a crock of shit," She replied while glancing back at both Lockwoods to make sure their eyes weren't upon them. Thankfully, however, Rich and Carol seemed to be distracted by another person now.

"It wasn't all untrue. It just...wasn't all true either."

Grace scowled, "Well, it's great to know I can still tell when you're lying. Let's get out of here."

Luck wasn't on their side tonight. For as soon as they exited the Grill, it began to rain. William tore off his jacket and held it over Grace's head like an umbrella while they ran through the downpour to the safety of his truck. But by the time they'd got inside the vehicle, they were both soaking wet. It was a good thing he'd fixed the heater before the trip here. William turned it on, dialing up the heat to high. Blessed warmth filled the air and fogged the windows like blurry curtains. Providing a sort of privacy that he needed to finally tell Grace the truth.

William took a deep, shaky breath in, then out.

"Grace," he started, "I know you don't remember it, but...you made me promise something on the night of the accident. We swore an oath that if I ever got in over my head with anything, I'd come to you for help. And you swore on your mother's lineage that no matter what, you'd help me. You gotta know, I never wanted this day to come. Not ever. Honest to god! But we made an oath."

A laugh came from Grace. She looked at William with snickering disbelief, "What?? Do you need a loan? You know, you can drop the whole act. It's just you and me now. You reeeeally don't have to make up a story to tell me what the fuck is going on. This isn't high school anymore."

"Yeah, I know. Things would be much simpler to explain if they were..."

William reached into the backseat for a package wrapped in deerskin. He placed it on his lap and gingerly peeled back the animal hide to reveal a pair of bracelets hidden inside. Made from pale, wooden beads that were inscribed with strange symbols, they gave off a supernatural vibe. He brushed his fingers over the twin items. That icy grimace revisited Will's face.

"I fucked up, Grace. I'm sorry," he said, turning to stare at the girl he'd once loved, remorse stuck in his eyes, "You seem really at peace with yourself, too. More at peace than I could ever dream of for you, but-"

"You're not making any sense. Just tell me-"

"-but, you're the only witch in the world who can get these shackles to work! The fate of mankind depends on it. I...depend on it."

Grace shook her head, confused as hell, "What're you even talking about? Witches? Have you been getting high again??"

"Ha. I wish," William replied sadly, then grabbed his ex-girlfriend by the throat, "Please, forgive me for what I'm about to do."

Nobody heard Grace Baker screaming that October morning in the parking lot. Nobody had seen her leave the Grill, either. When the Mystic Falls police investigated her disappearance, they'd find nothing conclusive. Not even video footage. Nothing besides two blurry testimonies from Rich and Carol Lockwood that they'd seen her with someone earlier that evening. Although, they couldn't remember (for the life of them) who it was...

Only the rain was a witness to Grace's fate. And it couldn't tell anyone.

[poptod]

Take A Bow (Webb Porter x Reader)

Description: You help him achieve one of his greatest dreams.

Notes: so... here we are again with a weird story. i originally thought of this for a magic character from a different obsession of mine, but i dont know how to write him, so i decided to use porter instead. i thought it'd be fitting. hope its not too eclectic for yall! its pretty short too so thats kinda good

Based off this song WC: 812

+

There was an unseen power he mastered. Something entirely unique, entirely unknown, like the presentation of moving pictures to those who remained strangers of the distant past. Scenes that could only be built by this magic that reverberated in the waves of music he so easily controlled. The deepest of his desires called for recognition, for praise and idolatry from those people. But people rarely enjoy that which they cannot viscerally comprehend, and thus his talent remained a secret, never seeing the curtains of a stage nor the seats of an auditorium.

Until now.

His palms grew sweaty as he looked out at the audience, his eyes scanning what must've been a thousand seats. He could barely swallow, but he managed to raise his violin up, propping it between his chin and shoulder as his fingers trilled across the bow's handle. The positions of his fingers had to be precise in order to ensure no strain in his muscles.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and raised his bow.

White hair strode across white strings, trilling out in minor notes that fell into a cascade of vibrato, before cutting off once more into silence. From that tiny moment, a spark grew in the carvings of the violin.

Light formed in hues of green and blue as the bow returned to the strings, playing a melody that toyed with a familiar theme. Bright stage lights obscured most of the theater from his eyes, but the music made its' way through the air, enchanting the gentle drifts of wind that filled the cavernous room. He knew this song well, how it played with both the imagination and the viewer's eye. With sharp staccato notes, fire burst from the tips of the aurora borealis above him, the ashes falling like meteors to earth.

Building from the remnants of those ashes was a space far above him, far larger than him, and unfathomably complex. Whole star systems glowed within the inky darkness, twirling and twinkling in purple and green stardust. The higher his fingers slipped up the violin's fingerboard, the larger the image grew, till it came to a point where the image would've enveloped the crowd. Accordingly, he heard gasps and the sound of shuffling above the violin.

Weight lifted off him, and in a moment of pure bliss that washed over him, he began to float in that empty space. The stars within were immensely far away; even if he did not seem alone to the audience, if he reached out, he would feel nothing. But by now he knew better than to try––the instant the music stopped, so would the magic, and the last time that happened he nearly broke both his ankles and his violin.

His eyes closed, though he didn't notice they did, and he knew the end was soon. The review of his audience––the reaction––was also soon upon him, and a nervous shiver ran down his spine.

Anticipation.

As the swell of music calmed, so did the magic, and the universe returned into Webb's heart and his fingers. Black ink and smatterings of stars disappeared to reveal the red curtains and their gold trims, framing the stage as the cosmos once had. In a final move, he strung one long note filled with a vibrato, and lowered his bow.

Breath finally returned to him when his chin was no longer craned to hold the violin in place against his shoulder, and at long last he could see you. You sat in the closest row and near the middle, allowing you a perfect view amongst the hundreds of empty seats. A stupid grin made your face glow in the dim auditorium lighting. Webb bit his lip to try and stop from smiling as well, but that did nothing to hide it, and he ended up grinning toothily as his gaze fell abashed to his feet. He bowed as best he could.

No one else could ever watch him play––not without questioning their reality, questioning him, without concerns and panic at his abilities. But you just smiled, and you clambered up onto stage in your red silk clothes, pulling him into a hug that sparked a fire between you and in his chest. With his bow and violin in hand, he returned the affection, burying his face in your neck as he gripped you tight.

"Thank you," he mumbled.

Thank you for booking the venue. Thank you for giving me this. Out of all things––something I cannot have.

He said none of these things.

"Thank you, my love," you returned, pulling away to cup his face and run your thumb across his cheek, catching a tear.

He pulled you in for a kiss, and had no more words left to speak. The rest of them died on the heat of your skin when he tugged you into another tight embrace.

[crewman-penelope]

Death is a lover

Most of the time, death comes as a surprise.

Like Laugher, the king of emotion, death says hello like a Jack in the box, loud and clear. 

But sometimes, death is soft. Calm. A melody. A lover. 

"Yes," he whispers, and his bright eyes are focused on you. His face looks soft in the light of the bed stand lamp. Warm and caring. 

An hour ago he was just a new colleague, who had offered you a ride home. Small talk in the car, he all witty and charming, his hand shy by the goodbye shake at the door. A last glance, a wide and honest smile of him, and you couldn't resist. 

"Webb.. Do - do you want a coffee before heading home?", you have asked him. 

You are wondering now if this was actually your death sentence, if you yourself had spoken it with your invitation.

Death comes as a surprise. His hand at your throat had held you hard, until you fainted.

Webb sits now at the edge of the bed, smiling boyish, innocently, while using strands of your long hair for his violin bow. 

You are fixed at your bed and realize that you are wearing only your underwear. He must have stripped your clothes off. The handkerchief, he had though a good gag, is loose enough that you can push it out of your mouth with your tongue. 

"It did sound better if I string it myself.", he whispers to himself. You decide to react and to bargain. If not for your life then at least for a quick death. Lowly you start to speak, not to frighten him.

"Yes. One can hear the difference. Your bow has the most beautiful tone.", you tell him in hope it calms him down. He stiffs up, holds still and seems to think about your words before he turns with a boyish smile on his face. 

"Thank you. I take pride in my work." 

You nod, holding eye contact. "Can I be proud that you use my hair? For a rehearsal? A special event?", you whisper, holding his glance. 

Suddenly timid he draws his eyes from you, looking down at the bow. He shakes his head. 

"Webb... Will you at least play for me?" 

He didn't answer and jumps up, making you fear he would push the gag back in your mouth. Thankfully he didn't do it. 

Webb walks out of your bedroom, rumbles along the corridors. Eventually you can hear water running. 

A moment it is silent in the house and then... the most beautiful tune floats through the air. 

You lay still, only listening. Listening to a melody you have never heard before. A bouquet of emotions.

Adoration and fear. 

Playfulness and punishment. 

Lust and need. Need!

It is screaming from the violin. An outcry of pain. 

You find yourself crying. Crying by the tune of Porter's play. Crying, because you understand now why there is water running. 

It was all over the news after all. 

The music breaks, as if Webb's bow is broken. You understand your hair could not handle his tune any more. 

"Webb!", you call him. 

Hesitating he steps back in the bedroom, with a wondering expression. You are sure, none of the others had called him in. You dare not to cry, but to beckon him to you. 

No crying, no begging, it would not help. You understand that now. There is only one thing you can ask for. A last wish. 

"A last wish?", he repeats stunned. 

"Yes. Yes, Webb." You swallow the 'please', down. You will not beg. "If you demand my dead for your sake, then I am allowed to demand the little dead from you. That is just fair."

You are nearly amused as you watch him blush. He turns away from you, to his violin case. Slowly he puts instrument and bow inside the case, closing it careful. He didn't look at you but by the way he stands, you are recognizing he is in deep thoughts. Like a sleepwalker he walks out of the room. The running water stops. 

You wait. Watching the door. 

Of course, you know, even when he fulfils your last wish, it will be the last. There is no escape. He is a man with a very special, very sick mission he would never finish. Ever. You understand that. You even except that. 

Eventually you hear him. The bedroom door opened, and he is already half stripped. The suit jacket, the shirt, the tie are gone. 

You are looking from his bare chest to his face. His expression had changed. A man with a mission, still, but with a new one. 

He looks at you lovingly as he slips out of his trousers, his socks and his boxer.

Unceremoniously he crawls aside you and stares with his multicolour eyes in yours. 

"Okay...", he mumbles nervously and cares upon your head, half sheered but still with some long locks to satisfy him. "Okay." 

And suddenly you understand why he is so nervous. He kills women. He had never loved one. Only hated one. 

"Touch me.", you whisper. "Touch me there.." And he does like the good boy he is in reality. 

"Kiss me.", you mumble then. "Kiss me deeply. Kiss me where you never ever have kissed a woman before."

Webb smiles, a thrilled glimmer in his eyes. You want to speak more, to encourage him, but there is no need for that. Webb has now an idea in his mind, a new one, and he uses his fingers, his mouth, his tongue for that. 

La petite Mort

Not so small after all. Nothing of him is. Not even the orgasm he gives you. 

Both of you tangled limbs and trembling body, slowly finding breath again. 

And then there is the point where you look him in his face, to realize now it is his turn. His mission.

So you didn't fight it. You didn't scream. Not, after he did as you wanted. 

You stare up in his face as long as you are conscious.

With burning lungs, the pressure of water running down your nose and throat. 

His face an expression of amazement and eventually peace.

Death is a lover. But he takes all of you. 

@poptod @rathernotmyname @edteche2 @thefluffiestseahorse @dorminchu

[bo-rhapheart]

First Date Preference

Marcos

You been friend since children. You guys went to the same college, but it wasn’t until he asked you. He took you to a dinner. You guys have an amazing time. You could tell that he tried to impress you by the restaurant and how he’s dressed. He’s a nervous wreck. You grab his hand to calm him down.

Webb

You were supposed to be one of his victims, but he couldn’t do it. You listen to him like no one before. You said sorry out of nowhere. That really got him since that was the first time someone had said sorry. He knew that you were the one. He took a secret hideout. He took his violin. You ask him to play it for you. He blushed and played for you.

Kenny

Larry knew that Kenny had a crush on you. So, he asked you for him. You agreed. Kenny took you to the carnival. You guys had a great time. He was scared of the bigger rides, but he never told you since he didn’t want to look weak. So, he hides his fear and went on with you. Overall, he was glad that he did since he faced his fears and he went out with his crush.

Steve

You were in one of classes. He knew that you were extremely smart. He had tried to be impress you by looking up words that could make him look smart. You catch on. He walked up to you one day and asked you out. You agreed. He took you to one of his favorite spots to think. It was an open field. You guys talk and talk until the night fell.

[unknownauthor]

Sacrifice

Pairing: Webb Porter x Reader

Warnings: manipulation, death

She doesn’t know how she got to this point. The first time they met he tried to kill her, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. There was something about her, something different. He decided to hold onto her instead, make her useful.

She knew who he was, and she knew what he was capable of. She had studied him for years, done her dissertation on him, She still couldn’t understand why he was here, in present day San Francisco. But it was a dream come true. She had been obsessed with him for years. She worshipped the ground he walked on.

“Clever girl,” he whispers in her ear, wrapping his arms around her from behind. He kisses her neck and she smiles, leaning her head back as his hands run over her body. The girl sit bound and gagged, whimpering as she watches them. Y/N is proud of herself, she found this one on her own and lured her home, hoping to please Webb. He turns her in his arms to kiss her. It’s hot and opened mouthed, his hand fists in her hair, tugging hard, they stumble backwards, out of the room their latest victim is in and down the hall. He will take her apart piece by piece, shushing her when she gets too loud, he doesn’t want to lose himself and hurt her. She is his favorite toy.

“It’ll be alright,” she says later as she cuts the girl’s hair. She brushes her fingers through it, sighing as she snips it off her head. Webb is always rough and sometimes stains the strands with blood, she is gentle, almost caring, when she does it. “You’re going to help him be a star,” the girl whimpers, Y/N cooes, trying to quiet her, she hears Webb turning the bathtub faucet down the hall and then his footsteps. “She’s not ready yet.”

“It’s not enough,” he says, looking at the longer ends of the victim’s hair.

“It will be, give me some time.”

“We don’t have time. Finish it and bring her to me,” he leans down and kisses her quickly before walking out of the room. She sighs, shaking her head and smiling at the bound girl.

“I really love him.” the girl looks at Y/N in horror.

It’s dark out when they move the body. She carries the head and he carries the torso, throwing it into the trunk of her car, she gets in the passenger seat and buckles in, holding tight as he peels out of the driveway.

"You gonna stay with me?" he asks her as they drive, they’re going to the canyon, a ways out of town, but far enough no one will find the bodies of their victims. At least not for a while. She doesn’t answer him, she is exhausted and reliving the drowning in her mind. It always intrigued her to watch them kick and struggle, the force Webb used to hold them down. He was a small man, but my no means was he weak. "You gotta stay with me, Y/N. I need you." He doesn’t. Not really, but he enjoys having her around. It makes his job easier, however annoying she may be at times. But he knows that by saying this, she’ll do whatever he asks. He reaches out, running his fingers through her hair, she leans into his touch, closing her eyes. "You know I'd never hurt you." he murmurs. She sighs, giving him a slight nod.

“I know.” He leans over, they’re at a stop light. She turns her face and he kisses her, gently, it’s enough to make her swoon.

“We’re family now. You’re all I have.” she knows this and she feels the same. He takes her hand when the light turns green.

“I know that.”

“It’s over Porter!” the officer shouts. Webb squeezes her hand, she looks at him with wide, desperate eyes.

“It’s okay,” she grabs his face in her hands and presses her lips to his, kissing him fiercely. He helps her up onto the balcony, she turns to face him. She knows what they’ll do if they catch her. They’ll be seperated. They’ll question her, they’ll try and get her to turn on him. But she She wouldn’t live without him. Not again. The cops are closing in. She pulls a pair of scissors from her pocket and cuts her ponytail off, tossing it at Webb, he brings the hair to his nose, inhaling her scent deeply. She smells heavenly.

“Don’t do it!” the man shouts, raising his gun. She doesn’t take her eyes off of Webb. He’s looking at her with determination.

“I love you.” he doesn’t know if he means it, but she needs to hear it. Her breath hitches, she smiles.

“I love you Webb. This is for you.” she spreads her arms and falls backwards.

He sits in his cell, playing violently, her ponytail sits on his bed, he strokes her hair every night, grateful for her sacrifice. He changed his strings one time a year ago, right after he was captured. Her hair was the best, the strongest, the strings hadn’t  broken yet.

[almostrealdudes]

hi, my dudes a friendly reminder that i accept requests on all of the Rami Malek’s characters, hit me up xoxo

[yurio-plisetksy]

The Psychedelic Violin: Webb Porter x Reader

Request: hey leah <3 can you do a webb porter imagine pretty please?

A/N: This turned very sad, sorry for that, but I thought it would fit the story.

Word count: 1,221

You quietly followed the guard. You were surrounded by the sound of prisoners screaming and banging their hand against the bars of their cells. You swallowed and felt extremely uncomfortable being surrounded by all these men. You didn’t make eye contact at all, and walked close to the guard. He stopped in front of a cell and unlocked the door. You sighed deeply and walked into the empty room.The walls were grey and boring, on the left was standing a small bed against the wall. On the other side there was a sink. Behind a little wall was a toilet, giving you some privacy which you were very grateful off. You let your eyes roam around the room and nodded. This was where you were going to stay for the next 2 years. 

You placed your cardboard box on the small bed, and looked into it. They had taken your clothes away, and all that was in it were some posters and a wash cloth. Inside a little plastic bag was a toothbrush and toothpaste. “A girl…” You jumped at the voice. You glanced next to you and made direct eye contact with a prisoner opposite you. He looked at your curiously and offered you a sweet smile. You returned the gesture and sat down onto your bed, turning to him. He had a tan skin, and beautiful blue eyes, and you could even see some green in them. His smile was captivating, leaving you almost breathless. He was one handsome man, and you wondered what he had done to be taken here. “I’m Webb… Webb Porter.” You slightly chuckled at his name. “I’m Y/n  Y/L/N…” You responded and he nodded. His eyes stared at your appearance. Just like everybody else, he was wearing a boring blue uniform, but somehow he fit him perfectly. You quickly glanced at his cell, and noticed it was completely empty, except for something peeking from under his bed. You decided to question him later. “How did you get in here?” You asked as polite as possible. He seemed to blush at your question and he looked down at the ground guiltily. “Hostage… Murder.” He said silently, barely above a whisper. He looked back up at you and asked you the same question. “Manslaughter… I-It was an accident!” you added to it, almost feeling as if it was necessary to tell him. He shrugged and smiled at you. “That’s all right… it’s nice to meet you, Y/n.” You agreed and the  turned away from him, starting to unpack the few things you were given.

“Play it again…” “I played it 5 times already.” You shrugged and leaned your chin on the palm of your hand as you stared at Porter. His hands were holding a beautiful violin. You loved his music. It was so full of emotion and you really felt the music invade your mind with peace. You had told him to play it again and again, but you couldn’t get enough of the sweet sounds. “Please, Porter. One more time…” He sighed and placed the violin back under his chin. He took a deep breath, before starting to play for the 6th time. You closed your eyes at the beautiful sounds, and hummed along. You smiled to yourself and let yourself get lost on the music. Porter smiled as he watched you enjoy his music. He loved playing for you. He loved your reaction. How you closed your eyes and silently hummed along to the same tune over and over. Even though you tried to help him discover new ways of playing, you had always loved his original the most. As he stopped playing, you sighed and opened your eyes again. You smiled at Porter as he stared at you. “It was beautiful, Porter…” “Thank you…” You chuckled and stood up, walking over towards the sink. You turned the knob, and cold water flowed out of the tap. You quickly washed your hands, a habit you’d created since you got here a few months ago. Porter watched you. “What are you going to do once you get out of here?” You slightly laughed at his question and turned your face to him. “You know I’m gonna be here for 1,5 more years, right?” He just shrugged, carefully placing the violin back in its case, and shoving it back under the bed. “Yeah, but I’m curious…” You smiled and shrugged also. You turned to tap off and wiped your hands on your pants, before sitting in front of the bars, looking directly at Porters cell. His head was turned to you as he laid on his bed, waiting for you to answer his question. “I’ll try to get a job, even though that probably won’t work… Maybe visit my parents.” He nodded, his thoughts somewhere else. “You’re gonna keep playing, right?” He bit his lower lip, thinking about his future in Alcatraz. “I am… I’ll miss you.” You smiled at him sadly. “I’ll miss you too… and I’ll be right outside those doors once you get released.” You pointed towards two huge exit doors, and Porter chuckled. He didn’t want to tell you he had received life-long. He would never get released, and would spend the rest of his life in this particular cell. “Can’t wait, Y/n…” You smiled and looked down at the ground, playing with a piece of fabric you ripped from your uniform. You didn’t know you would never see him again after these 2 years. You just enjoyed your time with him while you could. He smiled at you, and for the rest of the night you had some small talk, until the other prisoners told you two to shut up.

“I’ll see you in a few, Porter.” You stood in front of his cell. All your belongings in the box you carried. You wore your own clothes, as you said your good bye to him. The guard behind you raised an eyebrow. Porter sighed and felt a lump in his throat.

“Y/n… I won’t see you again.” You furrowed your eyebrows and shook your head.

“No, I’ll pick you up, remember? Once you get released!” You smiled happily at your friend, but faltered once you saw the look in his eyes. He smiled at you sadly, and you could already see tears form into his eyes.

“Y/n, I’m not getting out of here… never.” Your eyes widened. You shook your head and placed the box on the ground, grabbing his hand through the bars.

“W-What? No… What are you talking about?” He bit his lower lip, and held your hand tightly, afraid to let go.

“I-I love you, you know that… But I got life-long, Y/n…” You felt yourself tear up and you felt a lump form in your throat.

“I l-love you too, Porter… Why didn’t you tell me?” He shrugged and gave you a sad chuckle.

“Time’s up, missy.” The guard announced and your eyes widen. He grabbed your arm and pulled you away from the cell. You protested and tried to release your arm out of his grip, but without succeeding. You watched Porter smile sadly at you as you got pulled out of the cell block. You felt tears run down your cheeks, as he disappeared behind the two doors, never to be seen again. .

[poptod]

hi i wanted to know if you wrote for webb porter? if u do, can u do a webb x reader where the reader is his psychiatrist? not fluff but not angst either. something in between perhaps. surprise me with the plot! you always do anyways. thanks and i love your little elliot drawings!

notes: okay 1. thank u im glad u enjoyed the sketches, 2. i hadn't watched alcatraz before but i just watched it so i could write him and I gotta say, it really freaked me out how many similarities there were between me and him (except for the whole being a murderer thing and stringing bows with the hair of his victims). this is my first time writing psychopath characters. anyway, thank you for requesting and I hope you enjoy it!

WC: 1.7k

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It was a bit of an honor, really – none of your friends would agree with you, but working with something so strange, so new, and so, so interesting was always an honor. It wasn't like your friends said anything. Probably because they didn't know, since the Incident was 'top secret'.

The prison, in all its steep, sharp majesty, stood before you. Its height nearly blocked out the grey sky. The men leading you said nothing, and you followed when they opened the door inside. From outside one of the doors you saw the cells, all stuck together, kept in a sterile, white room. You swallowed thick and turned back forward, hand clenching around your bag as you mentally prepared yourself.

You didn't say much. Neither did he, so for the first five or six minutes, you watched him. His behaviorisms, the tics stuck in his restless limbs. Pushing against the floor, flexing fingers, uneven, hurried blinking. Classic signs of discomfort. You couldn't blame him.

"I've read a lot about you," you said in a soft, humming voice that had his eyes flickering to you before landing on the closed notebook in your hands. "I know what they think of you. Do you want to clarify anything?"

He said nothing, returning to his fidgets.

"I also heard you enjoy music," you continued, pushing your hand into the bag sitting on the floor beside you. He watched with curious eyes as you pulled out padded headphones, setting them on the table beside you, before pulling out an older iPod. "I know you've got your violin, but sometimes I find it's nice to listen without having to play. Lets me study."

"How does it work?" He asked, his voice cracked and soft. It was hard to make him out.

"Bluetooth. Connects without a wire," you answered with a half-smile, proceeding to explain the rest of the technology. The guards wouldn't just let you waltz in and give a prisoner a wire, after all, and the extra cost didn't hurt you too terribly.

He didn't really start talking till around the third appointment, which for a patient of his type wasn't all that bad. Even then he kept that soft tone – so low, so smooth, almost like the music he so avidly listened to. You could feel your fingers tightening over your arm rest when he spoke.

"I just wanted to play for people," he mumbled, pinching at the skin of his jaw. "Do you know what that's like?"

"Yes, actually," you said, earning the mild, held-back interest of the prisoner. He stared at you, and with a deep breath, you explained yourself. "I wanted to dance for people. Then I was diagnosed with Meniere's disease, and now it's a struggle to stand. I know what it's like to want something and never be able reach it."

He stared at you with wide eyes. You were starting to get accustomed to the sight of that.

"I also know it's good to start something you can do. Something achievable that can benefit yourself, maybe some friends, maybe groups of people. Some find that comfort in writing, or baking. Things like that," you said, knowing full well he wouldn't take your advice. Still, it was best to suggest something anyway.

The seventh week of sessions with him, appointments twice a week and each an hour or so long. That's how long he let you stay. If it were up to you or the warden, the sessions would be around an hour and a half, but if you tried to push it he would fall silent and listen to none of your words.

"I know this seems a rather foolish exercise," you said as you held out a drawing pad and a pencil, "but it does help some people. It doesn't have to help you, but I think you should give it a try. Just draw anything you want."

Hesitantly he took them from you, holding them in his lap as the eraser edge of the pencil tapped against his cheekbone. Folding your hands neatly on your own lap, you waited patiently for him to begin, a keen sense of curiosity keeping your attention. His head twitched to the side twice before he got sick of it, shaking his head to clear it out. Only then did he begin.

He kept the pad angled so you couldn't see his drawing. For about ten or so minutes he stuck to that activity, beginning to enjoy it about halfway through. When he leaned back, he examined the drawing, drawing a shaky breath as he handed the pad and pencil back to you.

Full body sketches, filled with lines and shadows that didn't quite connect. It looked as though he'd drawn it seven times and erased it six, but as the shapes came to fruition, you found the actual image he had drawn.

Himself in a suit. Nothing too grand, a plain one with one button on the blazer. You were more interested in the second figure beside him – a seated one sitting in front of a grand piano, their eyes closed and hands poised delicately over keys you couldn't see. At the other end of the piano was where Webb stood, his eyes closed as well as he danced to the music humming from his violin.

"You're a pianist, aren't you?" He asked, his voice still low and soft. You paused, looking up at him.

"Yes," you answered quietly. You hadn't ever told him that. "How did you know?"

"Fingers," he said. "You don't tap rhythms. You play them, and your fingers are stretched. You've been playing since you were a kid."

"Also correct," you said as you tried desperately not to give away your discomfort and amazement.

Two appointments later and he started to tell you about yourself. You reminded him gently that these sessions were for him, not you, but the words seemed to not have processed in his head. He just kept listing things about you – things you never told him, things not obvious about you, things your friends and family didn't even know.

"How long did you play bass for?" He asked one afternoon, his finger set against his lip.

"Orchestra in middle school through high school," you said despite not wanting to answer. "I was never any good at it, though."

"Too big?"

"... yeah. Mr. Porter, this isn't -"

"Where's your tattoo?"

You froze.

"I don't think it's appropriate for me to answer that question. How about you tell me about the people here? Do you get along with them?"

"They like my music," he murmured, his eyes directed at your own but staring through you.

"It's nice to have that," you said with a small nod.

Your home was a place of comfort with few windows and double locks on the doors. The only weak spot was the backyard, which was walled in. It'd be easy to break the glass of the wall into your living room, but you made the expense for 'unbreakable' glass, and in the evenings you felt thankful for that decision. You could sip at your tea without worry, turning on the TV and surfing through the many shows.

Despite being curled up for an evening of relaxation, your notebook sat beside you, open to the page of your most recent patient. A pencil sat in the dip of the binding. On commercial breaks you set aside your cup and picked up the notebook, flipping through the pages and trying to figure out exercises that would be good for each person. For Webb you made the special effort to think beyond your specialty. There were a number of things you wanted him to try – painting, stories, baking – just some senseless, harmless activities. Alongside that were a couple tests you could give him once he was ready.

"Even got your piano right," you heard a voice from behind the couch, making you shoot straight up and whirl around, the blanket around your shoulders falling forgotten on the floor. Webb stood in your open living room, his fingers tracing over your black grand piano seated in front of the wide open windows.

"What are you doing here?" You asked in a surprisingly firm voice, broken only by your concentration to get your phone out from between the couch cushions.

"I needed to see you," he spoke softly, almost airy in his tone as he stared at you with empty, grey eyes. When you moved he took a step forward. "I know you're going to tell them," he said, looking you up and down, "but I can't let you do that."

You ran. The front door was so close to you anyway – you assumed you could reach it before he could reach you, but your legs were weak. You'd always been weak, and now he reached for you, grabbing you by the ankle and dragging you across the wood while you did your best not to cry. You did shout, though – hopefully your neighbors would hear, but halfway through your second scream he tore his sleeve, tying it around your mouth.

Writhing on the floor, you felt him push your chest down, swinging his legs so he straddled you. As you began to hyperventilate he pulled rope out – your rope – and tied your hands together.

"It's so easy," he breathed out, and you assumed he was talking to himself. You tried to speak, but with the gag, nothing came out but whines and moans. "You're so easy to... hurt," he murmured as he leaned in, his breath coasting against your cheek, highlighting the tears that fell unwillingly.

"You'll be good for me, right?" He asked of you, caressing your face with his hand, the other dug into your stomach's pressure point to keep you from moving.

You almost sobbed, but instead you tried to form words. Again, nothing but mumbles and cries came out.

"Shhh," he said in a soft, almost comforting voice. A shiver ran through your body, convulsing in your anxious muscles, trying to kick with the legs he sat on. "I won't hurt you," he murmured, leaning even closer to you, till his face rested in the crook of your neck, pressing gentle, fluttering kisses along your skin.

His hand reached from your cheek to your hair, tugging on it so harsh you let out a choked cry.

"We'll make beautiful music," he mumbled. "My violin, your piano, and you can sing... we'll be beautiful."

[poptod]

can i get something with webb porter where reader is a competing serial killer and it’s an enemies to lovers sort of plot? kind of a dark idea but i got it from criminal minds and excited to see your take on it. thanks again!

notes: this got VERY morbid so apologies for that, but i hope its kind of what you were thinking of. so, WARNING: some serious violence! psychopathic themes! gore descriptions!

WC: 1.8k

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Fucking bastard, you thought, sipping on your morning tea. The latest newspaper sat in your hand, folded out open upon the small breakfast table in your kitchen. On the front, 'SERIAL KILLER STRIKES AGAIN', written in black letters, accompanied by a dead woman's face.

There were several layers to your annoyance, the most prominent being the fact that you didn't commit it. They put your 'media name' on the front as the perpetrator, but it wasn't you, a fact that had the police seriously mixing up your murders with those of a man by the name of Webb Porter. That was the other layer to it – you caught him at a bad time, he caught you at a bad time, and suddenly it was a race to see who could push the law furthest without getting arrested. Now he had to go and kill another woman and dump her body in front of the police station. Ballsy move for sure, but not wise. Despite knowing better you still bit on your tongue, already thinking on what you could do in return.

You could still remember your first meeting a few months back. It was evening in the city, and though you promised yourself you wouldn't do anything on your night out, there was a man who pushed your patience a little too far. So you slipped and lodged a fork in his chest cavity. Fun stuff, really – not that much blood unfortunately, but the bitter scent of alleyway trash did its' job in intoxicating you.

While you were looking for a bat to finish the job with, you saw him – with wide eyes the two of you made eye contact, a passed out man in your arms and a half-dead woman in his. Neither of you said a word until the deed was done, yours with a drained beer bottle and his with a metal pipe. Blood drained from either side of the dumpster, trickling down into the sewer as the two of you moved aside, reluctant to dirty your feet with evidence.

It was almost nice, secluded in that little corner of the city, watching all that blood glitter in the seedy backlight of a shitty bar. You adored the sight of it, the way it moved and dried on your fingers, the taste in your mouth, the sight of blood-covered hands, the feel of a blood-splattered kiss.

"You do this often?" You asked quietly, your eyes still trained on your body.

"Sometimes," he mumbled.

You waited a couple more minutes before deciding you should probably hide the body.

"I'll see you in the papers tomorrow, then," you said as you moved forward, grunting with the effort to raise the man from his slumped position amongst the garbage.

"I'll be on the front," he said in the same soft voice, moving to take care of his own body.

"Like hell you will," you muttered, but apparently it was loud enough for him to hear, and motivating enough for him to commit a double murder that landed him on the front page.

Thus your little 'game' began with the only rule being a silent one; don't kill the other. The thought had occurred to you multiple times, imagining what his blood would look like on your floor, picturing the way he would beg for mercy tied up to your bed. A smile made its' way to your face when you thought of it again – he'd be so beautiful like that. Still, that wasn't an option. The only thing you could really do was to try and outdo him and hope it impressed him. Maybe he'd voluntarily come to get tied up to your bed. You doubted it, but kept hope nonetheless.

After finishing up your morning tea and fully reading through the article about you that was really about Porter, you took care of your dishes, cleaning up the rest of the kitchen as you did so. You had no work for the day, leaving your schedule open for some plotting. Just the simple stuff; victim, weapon, place. Most likely you wouldn't commit to it the same day, but stranger things had happened, and you had a bit of a lust for the squelching sound of a dagger twisting in a stomach.

Your motivation for murder was incredibly simple. Just the bloodlust – pools of blood, the snap of bones, that kind of thing. What you were doing was wrong and you knew that perfectly well, but your thirst overpowered it all. The desire too strong, like a beautiful woman, like the call of the sea, like the pull to bite at clavicles and break the skin. Porter on the other hand, you had no idea why he did it – at first you assumed his motivations were close to those of your own, but there was a pattern in his deaths, one that wasn't present in your own. Eventually you decided he probably had some mental issues unfamiliar to yourself. Still, it didn't really matter – all that mattered was you staying out of the police's clutches, which wasn't too hard for either of you with the police on a wild goose hunt for the mystic fusion of you and Porter.

By the end of the day you broke the quiet promise you made to yourself in the morning, which was 'don't do anything murderous today'. It wasn't really your fault, anyhow; you were just checking out the routines of a woman in the city, she accidentally caught you, and you had to do some freestyle. That meant the switching of weapons. Originally you had meant to kill her with wire around her neck, but with scarce materials, you ended up hitting her over the head with a metal chair.

Dragging her body to the nearest landfill, you hid in the dark of evening, scouring the heaps of trash for something to finish the job with. Something sharp. Your last kill hadn't resulted in much blood, and ever since that disappointment you had been itching for the sight of it again. Several times you'd even drawn your own blood, just to watch it trickle down your arm, pooling at the base where your wrist leant against the sink counter.

"You're getting messy," said a voice from behind you, a low and lilting voice whose quiet words grinded against your head. You whipped around, hand instantly going to your pocket knife before you caught sight of the man, a sigh of relief leaving you.

"Porter," you said bitterly, sending a glare his way.

"(L/N)," he said, wandering out from behind a hill of discarded tires. "You didn't even do your research."

"Thrill of the moment, I'm afraid," you said as you rubbed your nose, eyes never leaving him.

"I would..." his gaze fell to the blacked out woman, "never be so.. unorganized."

"I'm not all that much of a planner. I'm assuming you are," you said with a grunt, forcing the woman's dismembered arm into the plastic bag, "considering how anal you are."

"I'm not anal," he snapped, and though he kept the same quiet tone, it was the loudest you'd ever heard him speak. Enough to make you turn and stare at him.

"Someone's touchy," you sighed, turning back to hacking off the woman's other arm.

Hoisting the dull ax, you once more swung it down, blood spitting out onto your face as a sick crack came from the woman's shoulder. You grinned – the copper taste of blood trickled sweet onto your tongue. Behind you, Webb tensed, shivering at the sight of your blown-out eyes.

"Why do you do that?" He asked, breaking you from your spell.

"Do what?" You wiped your bloodstained nose with a bloodstained hand.

"Get... messy," he said, his eyes suddenly turning soft, as they did when his curiosity surpassed his distaste for you.

"I like it," you said with a grin, shifting your feet to face him. Your ax gleamed in the moon's light, his own reflection caught in the dripping crimson, poised to use again. For the first time he took a step away from you. "I love the feeling of blood on my skin. Love how you can warp people's bones and they won't cry. I actually tried to keep them alive, at first – but it's hard to muffle that kind of yelling... hard to hide a live person in your basement. Why, does it scare you?"

His eyes widened imperceptibly, taking another step back as you took one forward.

"I've been wondering, just in my spare time," you mumbled, "why do you do it?"

He wasn't a violent person beyond that specific urge of his to drown women. You hated that you knew that, but after the amount of time you spent stalking him, you had to know. Generally, he didn't hurt people – in fact he was a withdrawn man, quiet but polite and courteous. He kept plants and fed stray cats. In your experience, withdrawn, male serial killers didn't tend to much else besides themselves. So what made him do it?

"It's the only thing that gives me stability," he whispered, voice cracking when he met your eye.

"There's better things to give you that than murdering," you said with a chuckle.

"Says the one who likes the taste of blood," he bit back.

"Well, you've never tried it," you said, a sly grin slowly making its' way across your face. You stepped closer yet, and though his eyes widened further, he didn't move. "You should. Then you'll know what killing really is, and you can decide if its something you really want to be doing."

At your words his shoulders tightened, feet fumbling as he stepped away from you, unable to break eye contact. Before he could make another move you grabbed his wrist, pulling him close to you. Your chest pressed against his, the woman's blood smearing onto his dress shirt and crawling up his arm as he inhaled sharp, nothing but nerves in your touch. You almost grinned – he was so responsive with you.

Leading him back to the woman, you forced him to stand before her with an ax in his hand. You kept close, your chest against his back, your hand over his and guiding it upwards.

"Breathe deep. It takes more force than you think it will," you whispered into his ear, delighting in the shiver that ran down his back.

With your help he brought it down, flinching at the dull squish. He hadn't managed to break any more bone, but he'd gotten through some ligaments, which wasn't worth nothing considering his horrified state.

"How does that feel, Webb?" You asked, dropping the ax in favor of trailing your finger up the blood splatter staining his shirt, a smear of red leading up his chest.

"Warm."