splatter brains

anonymous asked:

Could you possibly do a mafia!daddy!phil × pastel!little!Dan ? ?? Cause that hc is freaking grEAT (possibly some smut?)

Prompt: dan wearing those cute velvet shorts you see on Instagram and phil can’t keep his hands off of him. (mafia!daddy!phil and whiny!little!dan?)

Oral fixation pastel Dan is all I beg you for

can i pleeease have some more little dan with oral fixation??? 

Here y’all go. Plus dirty talk, exhibitionism, and cockslut!dan. If you have trouble getting past the cut on mobile, open in your browser.

Being the son of the boss always has it perks, but when your father is the boss of the mafia, the fringe benefits are almost endless. It certainly isn’t the most relatable circumstance, but Phil Lester is acutely aware of the privilege his heritage brings. His family has never had any financial issues, and, although it may not be the most honest money, it made for a very comfortable childhood. Growing up, Phil never had to worry about being bullied in school – even though he was a fairly strange, quirky kid that would usually attract that kind of negative energy in the cesspool of teenage hormones that is high school, everyone was well aware of who his father was and what he could do, so he was left well alone. Now that he’s older, his blood keeps on giving in the form of a large house in London and connections with almost every business in a ten kilometre radius. That’s not to say Phil has had an easy life, but his problems are quite disparate from the average persons’. He may be rich with a notorious last name that opens back doors, but he does live with the constant knowledge that he may be shot dead at any moment, so he supposes it all evens out.

He works as part of the family, of course. That’s how the mob operates and, although he’s had his fair share of morality crises, he enjoys it. He’s not the eldest son, so, as long as nothing happens to Martyn, he isn’t expected to take over when his father – willingly, or otherwise – steps down, but he is still in control of some aspects of it. He supposes he’s a capo, in a way, being able to give orders to soldiers to do the bidding that’s sometimes his own, and sometimes passed down to him from his father. Most of the members he ranks above are considerably older than him, considering he’s only twenty-five, and he can tell from the hard look in their eyes when he gives orders that they’re not exactly thrilled about that. It doesn’t really matter, though, because to go against Phil is to go against the boss and, unless they’re actively looking to be killed, that’s not a very bright idea.

Phil’s seen a lot of shit since being inducted into the business at twenty. Before that, his father always kept things vague and the gory details hidden, probably more on Phil’s mothers’ wishes than his own, but the reality of what being in the mafia involves couldn’t be sugar-coated for him forever. He’s seen theft, assault, battery, and a fair share of murder. It’s not what Phil would call ideal, but it comes with the kill-or-be-killed lifestyle. He’s pretty much desensitised to the horror of it all by this point, but there is one incident that affected him above any other; it was also the chain of events that led to him meeting Dan.

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Evil Yours, Now Evil Mine // Kai Anderson

Originally posted by gabbiesworld

A/N: I’m selfishly relieved to be writing Kai again. I feel like I write him better than the rest of Evan’s characters. So! This is based off a request where someone wanted Kai to meet a girl whose only fear was her own mind. I also had countless requests for rough Kai.

Side note: This fic is my absolute pride and joy.

This is specifically for my homegurl @fragilelikeabomb0106 <3 And myself. Because I’m a Kai whore.

Warnings: SMUTSMUTSMUTSMUTSMUT! And language.

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Overkilling Justin Bieber

So me, my boyfriend and two of his friends (his flatmate and his best friend, who’s the DM) are playing Vampire but as hunters.

Context: my character owns a bar with her “brother”, who’s actually her nephew, but she’s a vampire who was turned against her will. My bf’s character finds out and is questioning me at the bar with his flatmate’s character.

DM: suddenly you notice your brother’s hat, which he left at the bar whenever he wanted you to know he left early, is there.

Me: so if he left early… who’s this one?? HE’S NOT MY BROTHER, ATTACK HIM!!

So the three of us proceed to attack my “brother’s” doppelganger, until he changes shape

DM: he is now a kid who kinda looks like Justin Bieber

Flatmate: I fire at him!! *3 tens*

DM: You can shoot him three times. Roll damage

Flatmate: *rolls incredibly high*

DM: you splatter Justin Bieber’s brains all over the floor

Me: He’s a vampire, he’s not dead yet! I throw my voodoo bag at him for faith damage!

BF: And I pierce him with my blessed dagger.

DM: Ooookay. He was already down because of the shots, then she throws a voodoo bag at him and you pierce him with a **cking blessed dagger. You guys have overkilled Justin Bieber big time.

DM: Another vampire was at the door, but he sees your handywork and decides to leave


“Hasn’t he suffered enough? My vote is yes. He has. I mean, Jason assaulted Evelyn, Evelyn assaulted him back; that sounds fair to me. Sounds like justice at work. To be just… It has to be fair, and that’s what Ms. Rivers asserts. You know, I can’t really disagree with that. In purely pound of flesh terms, Mr. Karr certainly gave up a hell of a lot more than he got. Fair? Not a chance.

To be totally fair, you should given Jason one of Evelyn’s breasts, an arm maybe. That’s only fair, and as we have now decided, that means it’s just. Jason Karr forcibly raped Evelyn Bundy when she was little more than a child, but to tack a prison sentence on Mr. Karrs’ already gargantuan suffering would tip the balance of justice in Ms. Bundy’s favor and hey, there’s no way that’s fair so there’s no way that’s just.

A man, whose store burns down, rushes out, buys some gasoline, a book of matches and sets the house of the arsonist on fire. Hey it’s fair, so that means it’s just.

A man, whose children had been murdered, buys a gun and splatters the brains of the killers’ children all over their bedroom walls. It’s fair. It’s just.

Why bother with cops or courts? If it’s fair, it has to be just.

Let the blood flow on the streets, I say.

Oh wait, you don’t like it? I say get a bigger pair of boots.

anonymous asked:

What exactly do we know about Eric and Dylan's suicide?

We know the following things for sure or are able to deduce the following from evidence given:

  • Dylan and Eric returned to the library and exchanged shots with law enforcement. Shots were fired between 12:02h and 12:05h, after which no more shots attributed to Dylan/Eric were heard.
  • The only survivors left in the library were Lisa Kreutz and Patrick Ireland, with an additional small number of people hiding in the back rooms adjacent to the library. Both Lisa and Patrick were critically injured and reportedly slipped in and out of consciousness at the time.
  • Because of the cover fire that was ongoing during the rescue operations outside, the witnesses in/near the library were unable to pinpoint the exact moment in time on which Eric and Dylan killed themselves.
  • The smoke alarm on the ceiling in the library was activated at 12:08h. It was located directly above the area where the bodies of Eric and Dylan were later found.
  • The fire that triggered the smoke alarm was reportedly caused by a molotov cocktail that had been placed on a library table near their bodies.
  • A CBI arson investigator later concluded that there was evidence on the table and near the bodies of Eric and Dylan that indicated that the suicides took place prior to the molotov cocktail catching fire. (I believe they found human tissue as the ‘evidence’ they indicate here.)
  • Eric died instantly from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the roof of his mouth. He was located in front of the bookcase in what is assumed to have been a squatting/crouching position, leading him to slump over against it after his suicide. Both the bookcase and the ceiling above him were splattered with his brain matter.
  • Dylan died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the left side of his head, though it is assumed he did not die instantly due to the presence of aspiration blood in his lower airway and lungs. He was positioned in front and to the left side of Eric. It is assumed that he was the one to light the molotov cocktail. A small pile of his belongings was placed in his bodybag, which indicates that he removed them at some point prior to his suicide.
  • Eric died before Dylan. There are quite a few indications to this, but one of the strongest is the fact that Dylan’s head landed on/near Eric’s left knee when he toppled sideways post-gunshot. You can see some of Dylan’s remains on and near Eric’s leg in the suicide photos.
  • There are no released photographs of the original positions the boys were found in, nor are there many detailed descriptions from law enforcement concerning the exact positions and circumstances the boys were found in. Some evidence and unused weaponry found on their bodies are described in more-or-less detail, but the same cannot be said for their positions. It is assumed that no photographs exist of the original positions they were found in, due to the fact that bomb squad and other officials searched their bodies for booby traps and explosives prior to the arrival of the forensic specialists.
  • Investigation confirmed that Eric and Dylan were dead by 12:30h, though their bodies were found only three hours later.
  • The “one-two-three!” report from Patti Nielson was guesswork and not factual reality. (See also this post.)
  • Lisa Kreutz reported hearing “are you still with me? we’re still gonna do this, right?” at one of the instances where Eric and Dylan were about to enter the library, but the lack of other witnesses confirming this has led myself and others to suggest that it may have been upon their second and not their first entry into the library.
  • Patrick Ireland heard someone coughing after the fire alarm jolted him back into consciousness. Seeing as Patrick was located near table 15 where Eric and Dylan killed themselves, it might be proof of Dylan having lived for at least a brief while after the gunshot wound to the head.
Goretober 2017 List!
  1. Bruises
  2. Spoiled Rotten
  3. Gut Spill
  4. Beast
  5. Hook Line & Sinker
  6. Noose
  7. Hammer & Nails
  8. Surgical Scars / Stitching
  9. Afraid Of The Dark
  10. Teeth
  11. Candy / Pastel Gore
  12. Skewer
  13. Extra Extra!
  14. Phantom Limb
  15. Eat Your Heart Out
  16. Gils
  17. Bang
  18. Pins & Needles
  19. Eye-Popping!
  20. Mouth
  21. Kitchen Ware / Cannibalism
  22. Decapitation
  23. Brain Splatter
  24. Chop
  25. Ribcage
  26. Asphyxiation
  27. Spine
  28. Rashes
  29. Snip Snip
  30. Bleeding In Color
  31. All Patched Up! / Morgue

Usually, I lie. At a party, someone asks the question. It’s someone who hasn’t smelled the rancid decay of week-dead flesh or heard the rattle of fluid flooding lungs. I shake the ice in my glass, smile, and lie. When they say, “I bet you always get that question,” I roll my eyes and agree.

There are plenty of in-between stories to delve into; icky, miraculous ones and reams of the hilarious and stupid. I did, after all, become a paramedic knowing it would stack my inner shelves with a library of human tragicomedy. I am a writer, and we are nothing if not tourists gawking at our own and other people’s misery. No?

The dead don’t bother me. Even the near-dead, I’ve made my peace with. When we meet, there’s a very simple arrangement: Either they’re provably past their expiration date and I go about my business, RIP, or they’re not and I stay. A convenient set of criteria delineates the provable part: if they have begun to decay; if rigor mortis has set in; if the sedentary blood has begun to pool at their lowest point, discoloring the skin like a slowly gathering bruise. The vaguest criterion is called obvious death, and we use it in those bizarre special occasions that people are often sniffing for when they ask questions at parties: decapitations, dismemberments, incinera- tions, brains splattered across the sidewalk. Obvious death.

One of my first obvious deaths was a portly Mexican man who had been bicycling along the highway that links Brooklyn to Queens. He’d been hit by three cars and a dump truck, which was the only one that stopped. The man wasn’t torn apart or flattened, but his body had twisted into a pretzel; arms wrapped around legs. Somewhere in there was a shoulder. Obvious death. His bike lay a few feet away, gnarled like its owner. Packs and packs of Mexican cigarettes scattered across the highway. It was three a.m. and a light rain sprinkled the dead man, the bicycle, the cigarette packs, and me, made us all glow in the sparkle of police flares. I was brand new; cars kept rushing past, slowing down, rushing past.

Obvious death. Which means there’s nothing we can do, which means I keep moving with my day, with my life, with whatever I’ve been pondering until this once-alive-now-inanimate object fell into my path.If I can’t check off any of the boxes—if I can’t prove the person’s dead—I get to work and the resuscitation flowchart erupts into a tree of brand-new and complex options. Start CPR, intubate, find a vein, put an IV in it. If there’s no vein and you’ve tried twice, drill an even bigger needle into the flat part of the bone just below the knee. Twist till you feel a pop, attach the IV line. If the heart is jiggling, shock it; if it’s flatlined, fill it with drugs. If the family lingers, escort them out; if they look too hopeful, ease them toward despair. If time slips past and the dead stay dead, call it. Signs of life? Scoop ’em up and go.

You see? Simple.

Except then one day you find one that has a quiet smile on her face, her arms laying softly at her sides, her body relaxed. She is ancient, a crinkled flower, and was dying for weeks, years. The fam- ily cries foul: She had wanted to go in peace. A doctor, a social worker, a nurse—at some point all opted not to bother having that difficult conversation, perhaps because the family is Dominican and the Spanish translator wasn’t easily reachable and anyway, someone else would have it, surely, but no one did. And now she’s laid herself down, made all her quiet preparations and slipped gently away. Without that single piece of paper though, none of the lamentations matter, the peaceful smile doesn’t matter. You set to work, the tree of options fans out, your blade sweeps her tongue aside and you battle in an endotracheal tube; needles find their mark. Bumps emerge on the flat line, a slow march of tiny hills that resolve into tighter scribbles. Her pulse bounds against your fingers; she is alive.

But not awake, perhaps never to be again. You have brought not life but living death, and fuck what I’ve seen, because that, my friends at the party, my random interlocutor who doesn’t know the reek of decay, that is surely one of the craziest things I have ever done.

But that’s not what I say. I lie.

Which is odd because I did, after all, become a medic to fill the library stacks, yes? An endless collection of human frailty vignettes: disasters and the expanding ripple of trauma. No, that’s not quite true. There was something else, I’m sure of it.

And anyway, here at this party, surrounded by eager listeners with drinks in hand, mouths slightly open, ready to laugh or gasp, I, the storyteller, pause. In that pause, read my discomfort.

On the job, we literally laugh in the face of death. In our crass humor and easy flow between tragedy and lunch break, outsiders see callousness: We have built walls, ceased to feel. As one who laughs, I assure you that this is not the case. When you greet death on the daily, it shows you new sides of itself, it brings you into the fold. Gradually, or maybe quickly, depending on who you are, you make friends with it. It’s a wary kind of friendship at first, with the kind of stilted conversation you might have with a man who picked you up hitch- hiking and turns out to have a pet boa constrictor around his neck. Death smiles because death always wins, so you can relax. When you know you won’t win, it lets you focus on doing everything you can to try to win anyway, and really, that’s all there is: The Effort.

The Effort cleanses. It wards off the gathering demons of doubt. When people wonder how we go home and sleep easy after bearing witness to so much pain, so much death, the answer is that we’re not bearing witness. We’re working. Not in the paycheck sense, but in the sense of The Effort. When it’s real, not one of the endless parade of chronic runny noses and vague hip discomforts, but a true, soon- to-be-dead emergency? Everything falls away. There is the patient, the family, the door. Out the door is the ambulance and then farther down the road, the hospital. That’s it. That’s all there is.

Awkward text messages from exes, career uncertainties, generalized aches and pains: They all disintegrate beneath the hugeness that is someone else’s life in your hands. The guy’s heart is failing; fluid backs up in those feebly pumping chambers, erupts into his lungs, climbs higher and higher, and now all you hear is the raspy clatter every time he breathes. Is his blood pressure too high or too low? You wrap the cuff on him as your partner finds an IV. The monitor goes on. A thousand possibilities open up before you: He might start getting better, he might code right there, the ambulance might stall, the medicine might not work, the elevator could never come. You cast off the ones you can’t do anything about, see about another IV because the one your partner got already blew. You’re sweating when you step back and realize nothing you’ve done has helped, and then everything becomes even simpler, because all you can do is take him to the hospital as fast as you can move without totaling the rig.

He doesn’t make it. You sweated and struggled and calculated and he doesn’t make it, and dammit if that ain’t the way shit goes, but also, you’re hungry. And you’re alive, and you’ve wracked your body and mind for the past hour trying to make this guy live. Death won, but death always wins, the ultimate spoiler alert. You can only be that humbled so many times and then you know: Death always wins. It’s a warm Thursday evening and grayish orange streaks the horizon. There’s a pizza place around the corner; their slices are just the right amount of doughy. You check inside yourself to see if anything’s shattered and it’s not, it’s not. You are alive. You have not shattered.

You have not shattered because of The Effort. The Effort cleanses because you have become a part of the story, you are not passive, the very opposite of passive, in fact. Having been humbled, you feel amazing. Every moment is precise and the sky ripples with delight as you head off to the pizza place, having hurled headlong into the game and given every inch of yourself, if only for a moment, to a losing struggle.

It’s not adrenaline, although they’ll say that it is, again and again. It is the grim, heartbroken joy of having taken part. It is the difference between shaking your head at the nightly news and taking to the streets. It’s when you finally tell her how you really feel, the moment you craft all your useless repetitive thoughts into a prayer.

At the party, as they look on expectantly, I draft one of the lesser moments of horror as a stand-in. The evisceration, that will do. That single strand of intestine just sitting on the man’s belly like a lost worm. He was dying too, but he lived. It was a good story, a terrible night.

I was new and I didn’t know if I’d done anything right. He lived, but only by a hair. I magnified each tiny decision to see if I’d erred and came up empty. There was no way to know. Eventually I stopped taking jobs home with me. I released the ghosts of what I’d done or hadn’t done, let The Effort do what it does and cleanse me in the very moment of crisis. And then one night I met a tiny three-year old girl in overalls, all smiles and high-fives and curly hair. We were there because a neighbor had called it in as a burn, but the burns were old. Called out on his abuse, the father had fled the scene. The emergency, which had been going on for years, had ended and only just begun.

The story unraveled as we drove to the hospital; I heard it from the front seat. The mother knew all along, explained it in jittery, sobbing replies as the police filled out their forms. It wasn’t just the burns; the abuse was sexual too. There’d been other hospital visits, which means that people who should’ve seen it didn’t, or didn’t bother setting the gears in motion to stop it. I parked, gave the kid another high five, watched her walk into the ER holding a cop’s hand.

Then we had our own forms to fill out. Bureaucracy’s response to unspeakable tragedy is more paperwork. Squeeze the horror into easy-to-fathom boxes, cull the rising tide of rage inside and check and recheck the data, complete the forms, sign, date, stamp, insert into a metal box and then begin the difficult task of forgetting.

The job followed me down Gun Hill Road; it laughed when I pretended I was okay. I stopped on a corner and felt it rise in me like it was my own heart failing this time, backing fluids into my lungs, breaking my breath. I texted a friend, walked another block. A sob came out of somewhere, just one. It was summer. The breeze felt nice and nice felt shitty.

My phone buzzed. Do you want to talk about it?

I did. I wanted to talk about it and more than that I wanted to never have seen it and even more than that I wanted to have done something about it and most of all, I wanted it never to have hap- pened, never to happen again. The body remembers. We carry each trauma and ecstasy with us and they mark our stride and posture, contort our rhythm until we release them into the summer night over Gun Hill Road. I knew it wasn’t time to release just yet; you can’t force these things. I tapped the word no into my phone and got on the train.

I don’t tell that one either. Stories with trigger warnings don’t go over well at parties. But when the question is asked, the little girl’s smile and her small, bruised arms appear in my mind.

The worst tragedies don’t usually get 911 calls, because they are patient, unravel over centuries. While we obsess over the hyperviolent mayhem, they seep into our subconscious, poison our sense of self, upend communities, and gnaw away at family trees with intergenerational trauma.I didn’t pick up my pen just to bear witness. None of us did. And I didn’t become a medic to get a front-row seat to other people’s tragedies. I did it because I knew the world was bleeding and so was I, and somewhere inside I knew the only way to stop my own bleeding was to learn how to stop someone else’s. Another call crackles over the radio, we pick up the mic and push the button and drive off. Death always wins, but there is power in our tiniest moments, humanity in shedding petty concerns to make room for compassion. We witness, take part, heal. The work of healing in turn heals us and we begin again, laughing mournfully, and put pen to paper.

Daniel José Older

Game Over (Games and Piercings Part 4) Finale

Thank you so much for all your love and support through this series. I care about you all so much and you’ve showered me in so much positivity and love. I truly feel like the luckiest person alive! And thank you especially to my friend @ohwhataprettypinkhat who heavily inspired this series and helped me through out it with their first prompt and sticking with me through all the new parts and developments! You rock!

Without any further of my emotional blubbering, please enjoy the fourth and final part of Games and Piercings; Game Over.

           It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. He was supposed to go home. Meet his new baby niece. See his mother and his father again. His siblings. He was supposed to be one of the groomsman at his brother’s wedding. Be the man of honor at his sister’s because fuck gender roles. He’d look great in a dress anyway. But no. Here he was, in a prison cell. Tied up to the teeth with chains and restraints. Unable to move really. Unable to escape.

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Irate - 2

(Part 1) | (Part 3)


Y/N’s curious, clumsy, and has a knack for asking the wrong questions at the wrong time. Bucky’s a hot-headed prick with a dark past and communication issues. Both are paired for training, and neither party is all too thrilled.

Word count: 791

You find the training room at precisely 6:28 a.m.

You’re rehearsing every possible angry excuse in your head. You’re new here. It’s not your fault the hallways are like the fucking labyrinth. It’s not like anybody was kind enough to provide you with a map of the place. And six a.m.? That’s less than four hours after your absolutely wonderful trainer had made it very clear that he was far from happy with having you as his trainee, which doesn’t leave you with a lot of time to sleep.

When you look around the room though, you realize it’s empty, and you almost sigh out of relief. There’s no need for excuses when there’s no one to give them to. Plus, Bucky can’t be mad at you when he’s late himself.

You decide to wait for five minutes, then scan the room one last time. He’s not here, and you doubt he’s going to show up. You’ve got better things to do anyway, like go back to sleep, so you’re not going to wait around any longer.

Bitter thoughts cloud your head again, and you mutter to yourself as you turn to exit the room, “If he couldn’t be up at six in the morning, why didn’t he just set a later time? What’s up with that attitude anyway? Why is he so–”


You feel it before your brain can ever process what happening. The bullet whizzes past your ear, so close that the rush of air it leaves as it goes raises the hairs on the back of your neck. The sound registers later, and you jump, whirling around with eyes wide.

“Tip number one,” Bucky says, standing up from where he was crouched behind the pile of sandbags. “Always be aware of your surroundings.”

Your heart feel like it’s caught up between two paddles of an intense game of table tennis. Your eyes narrow dangerously at how relaxed he is, just standing there, disassembling his gun as if hadn’t just shot a bullet inches from your head.

“Are you insane?” Your voice is so shrill it sounds foreign to your own ears. “You could have killed me!”

Bucky shrugs. “But I didn’t.”

You can’t believe your ears. Steve you can handle. Sam’s nice enough. But this guy? He's– he’s an absolute psychopath! It hasn’t even been twenty minutes into training and you know exactly how you’re going to die: with the contents of your brain splattered across the pristine floor of the training room, all thanks to Bucky Barnes.

The look on your face must speak for itself, because Bucky’s expression changes from nonchalant to serious again, and he strides up to you until he’s closer than he needs to be and his hand is grabbing your wrist firmly. Every fiery insult that’s manifested inside your head dies tragically somewhere on the way to your lips.

Bucky pulls out a roll of boxing wraps from his pocket and starts wrapping your right hand. “Tip number two,” he says, voice dangerously low this time. “Shoot where you aim.” He moves onto your left hand. “Misfiring can be fatal.”

When both your hands are nicely secure, he steps back. “You’re not ready for a gun yet. We’ll start with the bags.”

Turns out, you’re probably not ready for the bags yet either. When Bucky tells you to have your best at it, the punch you throw is so pathetic, you wince on behalf of your trainer.  For a moment he just stares at you with an impassive look on his face. Then his eyes close and his hand passes over his face as he inhales sharply. When he opens his eyes again, there’s a tick in his jaw.

He positions your hands so that they’re right in front of your face. “Drop them,” he explains, “and you drop your guard. And when you punch, all the power should come from here.” His hands settle on your hips, and you can feel how cold they are even through the fabric of your tights. You flinch.

He steps away, and you try again. This time, you can feel the strength behind your punch, and you swell with a little pride. So you’re not that bad.

Two hours later, Bucky’s showed you a whole lot more about punching. You’re drenched in sweat and your arms feel like they’re going to fall off. When you can’t do anymore, you stop, dropping your arms to your knees and taking a moment to catch your breath.

When you glance up at Bucky, he nods, then studies his watch for a moment. When he look back up, a lazy smirk manages its way across his face.

“Do it again.”

(You’ve decided. You hate Bucky Barnes.)

tags below cut: 

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Cars used to be a luxury item that didn’t go faster than a well-motivated horse, so a simple lap belt was sufficient to keep drivers safe in a bruising 10-mile-per-hour collision. But, as cars sped up, lap belts started contributing to injuries instead of preventing them. One of those who died was a relative of Volvo president Gunnar Engellau, who decided that was some bullshit.

In the late 1950s, he hired an engineer named Nils Bohlin to make cars safer – not just their cars, but all cars. Recognizing the need for a device that absorbed force across both the chest and waist, Bohlin developed the three point seatbelt that’s in essentially every modern vehicle more complex than a bumper car.

Now, this put Engellau’s company in a powerful position; they could have made rival car executives get on their knees and beg for the privilege to pay millions for access to this new technology, or they could have just refused to share the patent and instead run with a new marketing slogan like, “Volvo: The Only Car That Won’t Splatter Your Brains Across The Goddamn Sidewalk.”

Instead, Volvo allowed anyone to use their new patent for free because, while they wanted to make money, they drew the line at letting other human beings die just because they preferred to drive a rival automobile. And they weren’t begrudgingly getting ahead of the government inevitably forcing them to share in the name of public interest – the company sent Bohlin abroad to promote the use of his new belt.

5 Totally CRAZY CEOs Who Valued Humanity Over Profits

“Five nights at freddy’s…” echoes through the woods, seemingly from every direction. Every muscle in my body freezes in fear. After a few seconds i take a single step and my skull explodes like a melon, splattering bits of brain and bone all over the leaves of an oak tree

My tunic is rotten …
We are lousy, stinking, ragged, unshaven and sleepless. Even when we’re back a bit we can’t sleep for our own guns. I have one puttee, a dead man’s helmet, another dead man’s gas protector, a dead man’s bayonet. My tunic is rotten with other men’s blood, and partly splattered with a comrade’s brains. It is horrible, but why should you people at home not know? Several of my friends are raving mad. I met three officers out in No Man’s Land the other night, all rambling and mad. Poor Devils!

  Lieutenant John Raws, Australian 23rd Battalion, during the Battle of Pozieres, 4 August 1916.

Adrian Hill - Pozières An Australian Episode, c1917.

One more night.

Hey! I love your blog, I read it all the time! Would you be able to do like a sexual tension one with Daryl? They’re so hard to find these days, kind of like enemies to friends to lovers type??

–this is super long–

I hope you like it! 💕

You had been with the Saviours since the world turned to this. You were one of Negan’s top guys, he took you with him every time he visited a new community or needed people to fight against other groups who thought they stood a chance against you.

One day, Negan gathered a team to block certain roads he had marked on a map, and he took you with them. He had been talking about a group, the same group that killed dozens of your people, your best friend amongst them. If Negan wanted you to tear this group apart, you would definitely kill whomever he needed to be killed.

You stood next to Dwight when Simon told him to open the van, but you didn’t let him do it, you pushed him aside with your shoulder and he stumbled back. You opened the back door and pulled every single one of those people violently to the ground.

“He’s hurt”, Dwight told you before you could pull the last person out of the van.

He did look hurt, his face didn’t look healthier than a walker’s and he had a blanket wrapped around his body, looking like a terribly ill person. However, you didn’t care. His group had killed your people, your best friend, the woman that had saved you and helped you survive in this world. Even if it was for a second, you wanted him to feel the same pain that had stabbed you in the gut when you found out that your best friend was dead.

The man grunted in pain when you threw him to the ground and you smiled to yourself.

After Negan walked out of that piece of shit they had been driving, gave them the usual speech and beat two people to death, he took the leader of the group for a few hours and you were left in charge. Not Simon, not Dwight, you.

“Get some guns to the back of their heads”, you ordered them and the Saviours did as you said, although Dwight wasn’t sure why you gave that order.

“What are you doing?”, he whispered. “Negan didn’t say to do that.”

“Negan left me in charge, didn’t he?”, you arched an eyebrow and grinned smugly  at Dwight, he only nodded.

A sobbing woman collapsed to the ground, her shoulders were still shaking so you knew she hadn’t passed out as you had assumed.

“Get up”, you ordered calmly, but she didn’t listen. “I said: get up.”

She stayed on the ground, but raised her face. You tried to contain your anger at being disobeyed, but then you remembered who were this people and what they had done, so you just let your anger find its way out.

“Get the fuck up!”, you yelled at her. The injured man got on his feet and his blanket fell to the ground, he stood in his place but looked right at you.

“Why’re you doin’ this?”, he asked in a violent voice. You raised your eyebrows at his question, surprised at his boldness, and chuckled grimly.

“You’re not really asking that, are you?”, you walked towards him, but he only looked back at you defiantly. “Because you killed a lot of our people, a whole fucking lot of our people.”

He didn’t say anything, but his stare was still hard on yours.

“Now get back on the ground or I’ll kill one more of your friends”, you threatened and he stayed still for a moment, then he sat on the ground again.

Negan returned once dawn was breaking, he was holding the leader of the group from the collar of his shirt and threw him right in front of his people.

“(Y/N)”, Negan called you. “Did any of these fine people here misbehaved?”

You turned to look at the man who had confronted you, but you shook your head at Negan’s question.

“Good”, he chuckled and continued to torture the leader. He even used his son as a way of breaking him, you thought he was being too hard on them by using a kid like that, but now that he was back, he was the one in charge.

You looked away and met the eyes of the injured man, he was looking at you with hatred in his stare through the dirty locks of hair that hung over his face. Your eyes wandered down his body, travelling down his bare arms and his chest, as a few buttons of his shirt had fallen when you pushed him down the van; every inch of his body radiated anger, you could almost feel the heat of his hatred pouring out his pores as he looked at you.

“Dwight”, Negan’s voice pulled you out of that moment. You turned your head to look at him and saw him pointing Lucille at the man. “Load him up.”

Load him up? Why did he even want him? What was he planning on doing with him?

Dwight grabbed that man and dragged him back inside the van you had pulled him out of last night.

“(Y/N)”, Negan called you. “Get in that van and drive him back to the compound.”

You nodded and got inside the vehicle, sitting on the passenger seat and staring at the morning light falling on the forest, wondering if you could fulfil Negan’s order before you killed the man inside the van. You shook your head, refusing to obey one of his orders wasn’t a smart thing to do, and the fear of getting your face burnt with an iron was bigger than your desire to kill those people.

You drove back to the Sanctuary and jumped out of the van as soon as you had parked, you walked to the back and opened the door to pull that man out of the vehicle. He was sitting down, his eyes lost on the metal box and his skin as pale as that of the walkers’ inside the cage.

You grabbed the man by his shit and threw him to the floor. He grunted and got on his feet quickly, trying to recover his balance. You kicked him in the stomach and he tumbled down, hitting the ground loudly.

“Simon, take him to his cell”, Negan ordered as he got out of his truck.

“I’ll take him”, you told him, picking up the man from the collar of his shirt.

“Seriously?”, Negan walked towards you. “I mean, are you sure you can handle him, sweetheart?”

You felt a little offended at his words, so to show Negan you could handle him, you made the man drop to the ground again by kicking him on the knees and dragging him all the way from the gates to his cell.

Negan chuckled as he watched you, he was never disappointed in what you could do.

You opened the grey door and pushed him inside. You noticed he had blood on his knees and on the palms of his hands, he had a look of sorrow in his eyes, the same look you had been having since your friend died. You suddenly realised that he had witnessed two of his friends dying, and judging by the look on his face while that happened, they were close friends. But you couldn’t feel sorry for him, he had done worse than what Negan did to them.

“You deserve this”, you murmured as you closed the door. “And more.”

As you laid on your bed that night, you couldn’t take your mind off of that man. You had been broken when you found out about your best friend’s death, but that man had seen them being beaten to death, their brains splattered on the ground and their blood flying in the air each time Negan swung Lucille.
Maybe you had let your anger control your actions when you hurt him like that, making his knees and hands bleed through rocks and glass and metal on the ground as you dragged him.
It didn’t matter, though, you didn’t get to decided his fate. Negan did.

The next morning you woke up unwillingly, you had only slept a couple of hours but it had felt like five minutes to you. However, you took a shower and got dressed, ready to go to work.

“(Y/N)”, Negan greeted as he walked down the hall and you walked out of your room, you dropped to your knees but he signalled you to get up, so you did. “We’re going to the Hilltop today.”

“Good, I’ll just go get my-“

“No, we’re going”, he corrected. “I want you to stay and check on that Daryl guy.”

“Who?”, you asked. You had been so submerged on your hatred the day before, that you had completely missed his name.

“The guy we brought here yesterday”, he elaborated. “Keep an eye on him.”

“But-“, you tried to fight it, you liked going to the Hilltop because you had made some friends there, and staying in the Sanctuary to babysit a guy you didn’t even like wasn’t something you wanted to do.

“You can handle him, right?”, he arched an eyebrow and smirked. You sighed in defeat and nodded. He walked away and you saw a few men and women walking behind him, holding their guns and holding the car keys, those were the people he was taking to the Hilltop this time. Lucky bastards.


You opened the grey door of his cell and placed a paper plate with a sandwich of dog food that you had prepared for him. He took it quickly and devoured it in a second. You noticed that he was naked, probably some kind of attempt at humiliation from one of Negan’s men. The light from outside casted shadows on his body, making his muscles more evident for you. His broad shoulders and strong arms bounced with each bite he took of that nasty sandwich you had made for him.

You took your eyes off of him and saw a polaroid picture on the floor, next to him. A polaroid picture could only mean one thing at the Sanctuary, and you wondered who had given it to him.

You bent over to pick up the picture and he turned his head to look at you. His eyes were swollen and his dark circles were now red, you realised he had been crying. You felt bad for him, giving him that picture was a kind of torture you hadn’t even thought yourself.

“Who’s this?”, you asked him as you took the picture. He didn’t say anything, he turned around, letting his bare back be only part of him that you could see and every muscle in his back strained as he turned around. “Number one or number two?”

He lowered his head and curled closer to the corner of the room. You exhaled sharply and rubbed your forehead with two fingers.

“I’m sorry about that”, you said after realising you were being too hard on him. “I know what it’s like to lose people.”
He got on his feet and turned around to look at you. He seemed angry.

“We killed your people, I get it”, he said. “But I bet they were just soldiers, more men working for you here, they ain’t your family or your friends.”

You pushed him against a wall and took your gun out, your right hand was wrapped around his throat and your left one was holding the gun that you pointed at his head.

“You don’t know a thing about me, so I suggest you shut the fuck up”, you threatened through gritted teeth.

He only looked back at you until you released your grasp on him. You walked out of his cell and locked it again, rattling the keys angrily as you did it.

In that moment, you might had seemed like the worst enemies, but there wasn’t another moment when Daryl and you had been more alike. You were two people, hurt by the death of their friends, feeling lonely and guilty and a hundred other emotions that were too hard to understand. However, you had a hard time trying to empathise with him, and every time you tried, the thought of him killing your friend came back to your mind.


Fat Joey was never the careful or responsible kind, he went to Daryl’s cell to drop his lunch and forgot to lock the door when he left. Daryl considered his options, that would either be a trap or just carelessness from the Saviour.

However, he decided to act quickly and he just left. He walked cautiously down the hall, hiding behind walls and doors each time he heard someone approaching. The voices became louder as three men were about to turn on the corner of the hall, right towards Daryl. He panicked, as there was no place to hide. He opened one of the doors and entered quickly, shutting it behind him.

“What the fuck are you doing here?!”, you screamed as you saw him in your room. You had just taken a shower and your towel was on the floor, you dropped to your knees and patted the floor desperately, looking for it. You picked up the towel and held it over your body, trying to cover yourself up.

Daryl was just standing there, looking at you. His eyes travelling down your body for only a couple of seconds, then he looked away.

“Get out!”, you ordered, but he didn’t obey. “Didn’t you hear me? I said: get out! Now!”

You didn’t even care that he had escaped his cell, the only thing that mattered was that he was in your room and you were naked. The heat on your face was burning your skin, your cheeks beaming with colour.

Daryl opened the door and left, you didn’t know how he had escaped, but you knew for sure that he wouldn’t get that far.

You sat on your bed and, before you put your clothes on, you thought about that moment. Daryl saw you naked, the last person you wanted to even look at you, had watched you jumping in surprise and dropping to your knees and moving on the floor as you searched for your towel, all of that while being completely naked. Yet you didn’t feel angry, and you found yourself embarrassed at wishing that that moment had lasted longer.


A couple of days went by and Negan hadn’t asked you to go check on Daryl, he had given that task to Fat Joey instead, but after his screw-up, he gave the job to Dwight.

But you wanted to see him. In that whole place full of people you had been living with, Daryl was the only one who understood what it was like to have someone taken away from you.

You stood in front of his door in the morning. Very few people were awake, but none of those people cared about Daryl or whatever happened near his cell, so you opened the door and entered.

You could see him under the weak light that filtered from the lamps in the hall, he had wounds and bruises on his face, and he was leaning on the wall with his head down.

“Daryl, right?”, you called and asked if that was his name, at least that’s the name Negan had used on him. You closed the door, so you couldn’t see him anymore. “I’m not gonna hurt you, at least not right now.”

He didn’t say anything, and judging by the silence that had flooded the cell, he wasn’t moving either.

“I’m sorry about your friends”, you murmured sincerely, yet he remained quiet. “I’ve lost people too.”

“Who?”, he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse. You jolted slightly at the sudden sound of his voice, but you answered.

“A woman, she…”, you stopped talking as your voice was breaking, you cleared your throat and proceeded. “She was my best friend. And now she’s dead.”

“How?”, his question was simple but answering was not. You were sure that a part of him knew how your friend had died, maybe he was just trying to hurt you.

“You killed her”, you said dryly. “Or your friends.”

“I’m sorry”, he told you and it sounded genuine. You frowned, those were probably the last words you expected to hear from him.

“Are you?”

“Killing them people did nothing for us”, he said. “It only got our own people killed.”

“Were you close?”, you asked.

“Yeah”, was his only answer, but you didn’t need more. His voice, the tone he had used, the single word reply had been enough to tell you that he was devastated about the death of the two men. “Were you? With your friend?”

“Yes, very close”, you felt a twinge of sadness in your chest as your mind went through all those memories you had with her.

You talked about your friends for a few more minutes, then the conversation turned to yourselves and how you had survived all this time. He even asked you how you had come to be in Negan’s group, since he thought you weren’t a bad person. You asked him how he ended up with a group that murdered dozens of people in their sleep, and the talk became a little more tense.

However, everyday you spent a while in his cell, he expected your visit each day around the same time, which was always at sunset, when the guards got hungry and went for dinner, and the people int he halls were tired and went to their rooms.

Things with Daryl weren’t as bad now, you two understood each other perfectly. His people had killed your people and your people had killed his people, and unexpectedly, that brought you together. You didn’t hate him anymore, even if you did feel that your best friend’s death had been somewhat his fault, yet you wanted him, more than you wanted to admit, and he wanted you just as much.

One night, after visiting him, you headed back to your room, but before you could get there, Negan appeared in front of you.
“Where you’ve been?”, he asked. You were surprised to see him there, but even more to hear him asking you that. He had surely seen you leaving Daryl’s cell.

“I-I was, I mean, like, right now?”, you stuttered and moved your hands as you spoke. Negan chuckled bitterly for a second, but then any trace of amusement left his voice.

“You’ve been seeing that Daryl guy, haven’t you?”, his face was stern and a twinge of anger hid behind his voice, you couldn’t help but feel a little afraid.

“No, I mean, I’ve been keeping an eye on him like you ordered, if that’s what you’re asking me”, you said nervously.

“That’s not your job anymore”, he took a step closer to you until his lips were close to your ear, so he could speak and no one but you could hear. “I don’t want to see you in that cell again, I don’t want you talking to him, I don’t want you fucking him, not even looking at him.”

Your breathing became heavier as you heard him speak, you had always pitied those who disobeyed Negan, but now you were in that list.  

“Do you understand?”, he took his face away from yours and stepped back. You didn’t answer, you were still trying to process the fact that he had been speaking to you so close that his breath had touched the inside of your ear. He cupped his hand inside his ear and raised his eyebrows. “What?”

“Y-yes”, you answered at last.

“Good, and you know better than anyone, I’m everywhere”, he smirked and winked at you, then he walked away.

You exhaled deeply, relieved that he was gone, and you went back to your room. You took your clothes off and just left your underwear on, then you put an oversized t-shirt on, that was pretty much what you wore every night for sleeping.

As you laid in bed, all you could think about was Daryl. You tossed and turned in bed, trying to shake him out, but he refused to leave. You wanted him so bad, the fact that he was a murderer had become so exciting for you, and you remembered how he looked the first time you had dropped food for him, he had been completely naked. His warm skin was sweaty and shiny, you had wanted to run your hands down his entire body and you wanted to do the same now.

You couldn’t stand it anymore, so you pushed the sheets off of you and got on your feet immediately, but you suddenly stopped. You remembered that Negan had warned you not to go anywhere near Daryl’s cell, but you figured that one more night wouldn’t hurt anyone.

You were one of Negan’s “top guys”, so you knew exactly were the people who watched the halls would be at that time. You travelled carefully down the halls with your nightwear, you didn’t care anymore if someone saw you like that, all you wanted was to get to Daryl’s cell.

There was no one guarding the door and you had a set of keys, so you opened it and entered quickly.

“(Y/N)?”, he called from the other side of the cell.

“Yeah, it’s me”, you said between breaths. You heard him walking closer to you.

“What’re you doing here?”, he asked, you heard him louder this time since he was only a few steps away from you.

“I just- I couldn’t sleep”, you told him. The darkness in the room didn’t allow him to see the radish shade that had climbed to your cheeks. “And I think it’s because of you.”

“Me?”, he asked gruffly.

“Yeah, I just can’t stop thinking about you”, you confessed.

You raised your hands and tried to find him, you stretched your arm completely and felt his chest in the palm of your hand. You walked in that direction and placed both of your hands on his chest, feeling the fabric of his sweatshirt.

“I’m not supposed to be here, you know?”, you told him seductively.

“Why?”, he asked huskily.

“Negan told me to stop coming here”, you sighed.

“Then why are you here?”, his voice wasn’t aggressive but it was low and hoarse.

“Because I don’t want to stop coming here”, you smirked but he couldn’t see it.

“They could’ve see ya.”

“I don’t care”, you blurted out.

“You don’t care?”

“No, ‘cause I just want you.”

You took the step that separated you two and tucked your hands under his sweatshirt, feeling that warm skin that you were longing to touch. He didn’t move or say anything, he just remained still and you could feel that his heart was pounding faster.

You felt a sheen layer of sweat on his body and it only made you want him even more, you pulled the sweatshirt over his body and he helped you with it, pulling the hem of it over his head, and you finally knew for sure that he wanted you too.

Your hands fell from his chest to the waistband of his pants, you started to pull it down, teasing the skin of his hips as you did and grazing his crotch your fingertips. His muscles clenched when you touched him there, but he wanted more.

Daryl placed his hands awkwardly on your butt and noticed you were wearing nothing but panties on your lower body, you arched your back and pushed your butt out to let him feel it better, then you pulled his pants all the way down and he kicked them off his ankles.

You couldn’t see him, but you felt him breathing and shuddering under your touch, he was also touching you, but his hands were only set on your butt.

“I want you to fuck me, Daryl”, you whispered breathily and wrapped your hand around his cock.

“A’ight”, he said huskily and cupped one side of your face with his hand, he slightly tilted it back and buried his face in your neck, grazing his nose on it and taking a bit of your skin between his teeth. The sound of your moans only made him harder, because he knew that the pleasure you were starting to feel was just for him.

When his teeth let go of your skin, you found yourself wanting more, so you pushed him against the wall and pinned his wrists at the level of his head.

Daryl grunted and released one of his wrists from your grasp, he put his hand on your lower back and pulled you closer to him. He felt the fabric of your shirt there, so he grabbed it strongly and pulled hard, trying to rip it off of you.

You took your hands to his and stopped him for destroying your shirt, you pulled it over your head instead. Daryl took his hands to your bra and pulled the straps down, then he massaged your nipples over the cups. You unclasped it and it fell to the floor, now Daryl was touching your bare skin and nipping your boobs.

However, that’s not what you wanted. You wanted, needed him inside you.

You placed your hands on his shoulders and pushed yourself up, hooking your legs around his waist; to keep your balance, you slammed your hands on the wall on either side of his head. You started shoving your hips against his stomach, and he used one hand on your butt to keep you in place and the other to wander up your thigh.

When his fingers found your centre, you rocked your hips so they would sink in deeper. Daryl felt his fingers moistening as he buried them inside of you and your voice becoming raspier as you moaned for him.

“Daryl”, you called him between moans. “Just fuck me. Now.”

He didn’t need to hear it again, he placed his hands on your waist and positioned you at the level of his cock, you wrapped your legs more tightly around his torso.

Daryl kept his hands firmly on your waist, making you stay in place, and he moved forward. You whimpered when you felt his cock inside of you for the first time, yet it only left you wanting more. You shoved your hips together at a quicker pace, making him grunt in pleasure and rake his nails down your waist. You wanted to scream each time his cock hit your clit, but you didn’t want someone outside to find out about what was going on in there. As Negan had told you, he was everywhere.

Daryl sank his face to your chest and bit your collarbones, still thrusting inside of you. You stroked his hair and pulled it, grinding your hips together. His face fell down to your bouncing breasts, nuzzling them and running his tongue around your nipples, you whimpered when you felt his teeth nipping on it, it was slightly painful but it felt so awfully good.

A strike of electricity built up in your stomach and made your muscles clench, you felt your body going weak as you panted.

You felt him starting to go tense as his pace became slower, he knew what was about to happen, so he grabbed your hips and pulled himself out of you.

He put you on the floor, but your ankles were too weak to hold your weight, so you almost fell but Daryl held you in his arms.

“I have to go now”, you said, trying to recover your breath. You dropped to your knees and gently pushed his arms away from you, you trailed your hands down the floor as you searched for you clothes. Once you found them, you put them on quickly and headed towards the door, it also took you a while to find that one.

You opened the door and squinted your eyes at the sudden light that hit your eyes in contrast to the darkness in Daryl’s cell. You turned back to the cell and saw Daryl standing with his back against the wall, he was still naked and with a layer of sweat on his entire body.

He didn’t turn to look at you before you closed the door, he just stared at the wall on the opposite side through the wet strands of hair that fell over his eyes.

You shut the door and used your keys to lock it, trying not to make noise as they rattled, then you walked back to your room.


Summary: In which Victor is a Rich Guy with a tendency to go traipsing around the world at the drop of a hat and his parents hire a group of trained agents to keep track of him.

Alt. title: ‘The Adventures of the Victor Nikiforov Tracking Team/Stalking Squad’

Warnings: Not to be taken seriously, Shameless Self-Indulgence, I don’t even know what to call this type of fic, Language, Really Ridiculous, Shenanigans.

Disclaimer: Don’t own YOI.


Yuri Plisetsky is eighteen, and this is his first day as a member of the Victor Nikiforov Tracking Team (affectionately known as the Victor Nikiforov Stalking Squad).


Yuri sits down, waiting for his shift to start in a few minutes.

The door bangs open. A red head walks in, looking quite cheerful.

(Of course she is, she has just finished her shift and will finally have her break.)

“Guess who gets to chase after Victor all the way to India?” Mila, the red head, beams at Yuri.

“India?” Yuri asks, incredulous.

“He wanted to try authentic Indian food.” Mila shrugs.


When Yuri sneaks into the hotel Victor is staying in during his stay in India, he finds Victor’s room empty.

Yuri curses.


Yuri tracks Victor all the way to Italy.

Yuri finds Victor flirting with the new waiter at a café in Palermo.

Yuri loses Victor on their way back to Russia in Rome.


How the ever loving fuck does a guy as distinct as Victor disappear in a crowd, escaping from a trained agent like Yuri, is what Yuri wants to know.


Three days later, Yuri gets a new lead on Victor, in the form of a photo posted online on his social media account of him chilling in Hawaii and trying to permanently turn the face of the bartender serving him a drink red from blushing too much.


Yuri misses Victor by only half an hour, according to the blushing and stuttering bartender.


Yuri dreads the remaining four weeks of his shift.


Over the span of only three weeks, Yuri chases Victor across seventeen different countries.

Victor appears to be enjoying himself more than he should as he tries new food and romances various people.


Think of the paycheck, Yuri has to remind himself multiple times a day.



Victor is in a strip club in Detroit, getting a lap dance.

Yuri chases him with a barstool. The stripper giving Victor the lap dance screeches in indignation as he jumps off Victor’s lap. Victor laughs as he ducks Yuri’s attempts to splatter his brain all over the floor.

(“Not that he has much of a brain in the first place,” Yuri mutters, disgruntled, as he takes a vicious bite of his sandwich.)



Victor is in a flower shop in Vancouver, buying a bouquet of flowers all while trying to make the florist as flustered as possible by lingering skin contact and prolonged staring into the florist’s eyes.

Yuri stomps into the shop. The florist squeaks and hides behind the counter. Victor smiles at Yuri and prances out of the backdoor before Yuri can dropkick him.



Victor is at a hair salon in Valencia, flirting with the hairdresser doing his hair.

This time, Yuri enters through the backdoor.

By the time he soundlessly sneaks into the main room of the salon where Victor is, Victor is gone. The hairdresser is left with a dazed expression, looking thoroughly kissed, and touching her lips with a small giddy smile.


“You know, you can always call the No. 1 Victor Stalker of the Squad. He always knows where Victor is. Always.

“Shut up, Mila.”



Victor is participating in a dog show with Makkachin in Marseille.

This time, Yuri settles to watch the dogs.

(He believes that the adorably grouchy poodle who comes in second place- and whose owner just got flirtatiously winked at by Victor- is fucking cute.)

Victor takes the owner of the second poodle out on a walk with their poodles, where he proceeds to shower her in compliments.

Yuri chases after them, but he loses Victor after two hours.




What happens in Switzerland stays in Switzerland.


“Are you sure that you don’t need to contact our best agent for help?”

“I’m sure.”

“Well… what about their partner and second best agent?”



Victor is in Bangkok.

Why is Victor even in Thailand?

Answer: to watch the ice show, Phichit On Ice.

What luck, that Victor’s traipsing around the world and flirting with at least one person in every country leads Yuri directly to the Squad’s so-called second best agent, Phichit Chulanont.

Victor is distracted by watching the Japanese skater. Victor appears to be intensely focused. This is the point in which Phichit seeks out Yuri and tells him that under no certain terms is Yuri to ruin the day for Yuuri, Phichit’s friend and the Japanese skater currently performing and holding the entirety of Victor’s attention, or else Yuri shall suffer the consequences.

(Yuri doesn’t listen at first, which leads him to discover the fact that Phichit is the King of anything SNS. He doesn’t speak about it.)

By the end of the day, Victor is gone, leaving in his wake a heavily blushing Japanese skater.


“One of the reasons our best agent is our best agent is because not only do they always keep track of him successfully, but also because they are always there. Wherever Victor is, chances are that our agent is in the vicinity.”


“So, don’t hesitate to ask them for help.”

“… I’ll think about it…”



Victor is in Sapporo, out on a date with a cute girl in a café.

Yuri watches Victor from a distance as he casually strolls down the street the café is on, fiddling with his phone and with his earphones in, looking like a guy out for a stroll.

Victor’s table is one of the outdoors tables, which makes it easier to keep an eye on him.

Yuri watches as Victor leans forward to whisper in the ear of his date, who blushes and giggles at whatever Victor says.

Yuri wants to gag and shout, 'Get a room!’ But he doesn’t want to blow his cover.

Not after his decision to ask for help after everything (and Victor’s parents are planning a family outing and want their son present ASAP).

After Victor and his date decide to continue their outing somewhere else, Yuri makes his move.

As Yuri heads towards Victor, Victor turns towards Yuri and smiles, “Looks like you caught up to me. You were never able to keep up with me, what makes you think that you can do this now?”

Yuri smirks and sends the signal he and the Squad’s best agent have agreed on earlier.

His smirk turns into a look of shock as Victor’s date blurs into motion and knocks Victor out.

“Sorry Victor, but your parents were adamant.” The girl looks apologetic. She turns to Yuri and grimaces, “They said that they’ll make a statue in my image! In pure gold!” She looks truly distressed.

She pulls Victor close to her body, and dials a number on her phone. A minute later, a car speeds up to them. The driver’s door opens and the driver steps out.

“Hey! Great job as always, Yuuri!” Phichit says cheerfully as he helps Yuuri put the unconscious Victor in the car.

After they are done, they drive off.

And this is how Yuri Plisetsky, newest member of the Victor Nikiforov Tracking Team/Stalking Squad, meets Yuuri Katsuki, the No. 1 agent in the same Squad.


Days later, Yuri will sit up and shock as he remembers the details of his shift and realizes A Very Important Detail, “Oh fuck!”


“He was the waiter at the café in Palermo!”


“The bartender? What?”





“-the florist?- ”


“-the hairdresser?- ”


“-the owner of the adorable dog!


Yuri is impressed.

But this brings up a very important question:

“How does the shithead keep gravitating towards Katsuki every time?”


Somewhere out there, Victor laughs, and wonders when his Squad will realize that he has a Yuuri-radar as good as Yuuri’s Victor-radar. For now, he’ll kick back in his fancy hotel room, admire Yuuri’s figure in a butler outfit, and plan out his next escapade with Yuuri.


End (part 1?)

You Will Always Remember Their Faces.

Request from @mirkwoodshewolf:Hi, if I may ask I would like a Bucky x platonic teen reader. they have a brother and sister and practically look out for each other. One day reader gets captured during a mission by the same man who had killed her parents and made her the reason in wanting to join the Avengers. he torments her psychologically before she snaps and tries to first make a run for it. When no escape is found, she is forced to fight, just when she goes for the kill Bucky stops her and the Avengers arrest the guy. It then ends with just pure fluff.

Note: I apologise if any of the Russian translates wrong. I had to rely on Google!

Bucky x Teen!Reader (Platonic)

Words: 2,109

Warnings: Language, mentions of death and injury, kidnap, violence and fluff!

Disclaimer: None of the GIFs used are mine so all credit goes to their wonderful creators <3

A loud thud echoes throughout the gym as Bucky’s back meets with the mat on the floor hard. It was the second time during this sparring session in which you were able to get one over on him and by the grin currently plastered on your face you were enjoying it far more than he would have liked you to.

“That’s 2-0 to me granddad.” The only response he offered you was in the form of an annoyed growl passing his lips as he propped himself up onto his elbows. “Now I think it is time for a victory cup of water.”

If there was anything you should have known by now it was to never turn your back on him when you were practising moves and yet at that moment it was the last thing you considered as you spun on your heels and headed towards the water tower. You hadn’t even managed to make your first step forward before you felt something hitting the back of your knees hard enough to have you falling to the floor.

“How many times do I need to tell you [y/n]…..never turn your back on someone….” He jumped up onto his feet in one swift move before standing himself in front of you so that you could see the smug little smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “….especially me.”

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Meihem- First Kiss

“I told you, you should not have been following me! Those awful bombs of yours ruined the inside of that poor bakery!” Mei sat leaning against a brick wall in one of the far back alleys of Dorado, her boots off and one of her leggings pulled up as she applied bandages to some of her scrapes and bruises.

Junkrat sat across from her, back hunched like an angry cat as he tended to his own minor cuts, though with less anti-septic and more ‘spit and dirt’ techniques. He glared back at her, snorting a bit. “And I told you, I just happened to be going in that direction at the same time. We’re both backlines, darl, get used to the idear of having me around. And I don’t believe I’ve gotten a thank you, yet. So I’m just gonna say ‘you’re welcome’ in advance.”

“Who are you expecting a thank you from, the nice family whose building you blew up?”

“So you’re not even going to mention the what, four or five mercenary blokes what had you cornered in there? I saw you ducking in that bakery to reload. What were you gonna do in the meantime? Bash ‘em with baguettes? Sock ‘em with sourdough? Pulverize ‘em with…with…”

Mei thought for a moment, “Pumpernickel?”

“Yeah! Thanks, love.” He spat on his gloved palm, wiping away a rivulet of blood from his knee. “And again, you’re welcome, for getting those drongos off you.”

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If Only

A/N: This fic could have been a hell of a lot better but A. I am sick, and B. I feel like shit (mentally and physically) so I tried to write a fic while I have the spare time. 

Pairing: (sort of) past Dean Winchester x reader, and a little bit of platonic Sam Winchester x reader

Summary: The reader (Dean’s girlfriend) struggles to cope after he dies and she is left alone to live life with Sam, but she doesn’t make it very far when she makes a risky choice.

Warnings: Alcohol, bad coping methods, strong language, depression, firearms, major angst, character death, and a major trigger that I put in the tags.

Word Count: 1,868

Tags are at the bottom!

I practically live on the feedback you guys give me. 

Disclaimer: Again, this contains major angst and I am NOT responsible for any shattered hearts in the process, thank you.

Originally posted by adaav

Whiskey and Rum bottles were all scattered around the library, some were half empty, and some were completely drained of the contents inside.

When you opened your eyes there was a bottle of Jack tipped on its side right in your line of sight.

You blinked a bit to clear the fuzziness, but as soon as you did that you felt a wave of pressure hit your head. You groaned and squeezed your eyes shut as you willed away the banging pain in your skull.

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