#womb ripper

[wombripperr]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳✟ Carl.

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My name is Aesop Carl, you are welcome to call me either part of my name, I have no preference though I am used to being referred to as Carl by strangers. I am twenty one and identify as non-binary and a questioning bisexual. I have a long list of interests but my ‘special interests’ are embalming, mortuary science, taxidermy, makeup arts, funeral and bouquet arrangements, birds, and journaling. I also enjoy various games. I will be primarily using this blog as a digital journal, or diary.

『Bodily 18, Jewish-wasian (Chinese, Azerbaijan,) Autistic, Schizophrenic, Disabled, Chronically ill, STPD, Maladaptiv Daydreamer.』

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-Before You Follow-

This page is a personal blog for Aesop and may mention and discuss triggering topics.

Being a victim of gr**ming and much more he has problematic beliefs that he is working to unlearn through therapy, these beliefs may be present in his content.

Aesop remembers his source as much, MUCH, darker than the fanon interpretation

╔═══𖠁𓅪𖠁═══╗

Do Not Interact:

None, yet.

.❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。

✿°。 ✿°

✿°。 ✿°

.❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。

Interact If:

Plural

Recovering from similar situation

Enjoy embalming and mortuary science

Death loving

Have similar beliefs (recovering)

Autistic

Sourcemates

Enjoy Puppet Combo

Dark fiction writers

Identity V fans

Alters of a similar situation

Alters with problematic actions in source

TBA

✟

“ℐ 𝓃𝑒𝑒𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓉𝑜 𝑔𝑜 𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓀𝒾𝓁𝓁, 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝓂𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝓀𝒾𝓁𝓁. 𝒦𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓀𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓀𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓀𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓀𝒾𝓁𝓁. 𝒜𝓃𝒹 𝓀𝑒𝑒𝓅 𝑜𝓃 𝓀𝒾𝓁𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔, ███. ███ 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎𝒷𝑜𝒹𝓎 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝒽𝒶𝓈 𝒷𝑒𝑒𝓃 ███.”

#did osdd #alter intro #identity v #fictive #aesop carl #idv aesop #idv #embalming #recovery #mentally ill #actually autistic #actually osdd #introject #intro post #osdd #journal #puppet combo #womb ripper

[honeybubbletea33]

Yippee an entry for @grayskiesandink’s DTIYS!! (btw go enter if you have the time do it NOW) Click for better quality, tumblr REALLY doesn’t like my thin lineart :’(

#grayskiesandink100 #ink sans #fresh ink #underverse #watched markiplier play several horror games whilst drawing this #cheerfully colouring fresh ink to the sweet sounds of markiplier killing the womb ripper #undertale au #undertale multiverse #honey’s art

[defectivevillain]

this winding labyrinth

chapter 2: rebirth

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader (reader is not gendered, race-ambiguous, and no physical descriptors are used)

summary:

You wish you never met Hannibal Lecter. But you yearn for his presence. You want to forget him. But he never truly leaves your thoughts. Now, you’re left to pick up the pieces of a broken design. A battle of instinct rages on in your mind—one of bittersweet relief and cloying grief, fearless resolve and poignant regret; a clashing between affection and antipathy, pride and pain. What will win, in the end? Only time will tell.

this is chapter 2, act 2 of this broken design. if you haven't read act 1 or chapter 1, this won't make too much sense.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

warnings: canon-typical blood, gore, violence, death, animal death; nightmares, hallucinations, suicidal ideation, dry-heaving, hyperventilation, mental health issues.

You’re tired. Your hands are burning and your calluses sting. You don’t want to speak with your social worker, Clark Ingram. He was assigned to you after you sustained that traumatic brain injury from the horse. You know she didn’t mean it, know that Sylvie was just startled. That didn’t matter—no one listened to you. So here you are, sitting on a scratchy couch in a nondescript office, writhing with the indeterminable urge to do something.  

“Peter,” Clark practically coos. You hate him, more than you’ve ever hated anyone before. He is a bundle of contradictions: a fine-dressed man with a fine-dressed smile and fine-dressed lies. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

You grit your teeth and keep silent. Time drags on, immune to your internal conflict. 

“Is this about the horse?” Clark asks persistently. 

“Her name was Sylvie,” you feel the need to supplement. 

“Sylvie, then,” Clark corrects himself. You know he doesn’t really care, and that is perhaps the biggest offense of all. Why bother saying something if it isn’t genuine? You’ve always had a problem with faux politeness and socially-mandated compassion. You want to skip the pleasantries. Besides, this isn’t about Sylvie. But it is. But it isn’t. But it is. But it isn’t- but it is- but it isn’t-

“It’s alright,” Clark continues, momentarily breaking through the static in your mind. “I understand,”

“You do?” You ask suspiciously. You don’t believe him. 

“I understand completely,” Clark nods wisely. What he says next tears the rug from under your feet. “You placed a bird in Sarah Craber’s chest, and then put her body in Sylvie’s womb.”  You’re taken with an indescribable urge to tear him apart. “You killed Sarah Craber.”

“No, I didn’t,” you immediately respond. You feel a hysterical laugh bubbling up your throat, clawing at your lips and threatening to escape. 

“You killed her,” Clark asserts. You know something about this conversation is horribly wrong, know that a therapist shouldn’t be convincing you that you did something. Still, what is there to do? You’re required to attend these sessions, required to meet this monster’s gaze and play pretend until you’re exhausted. 

“I didn’t kill her!” You hiss venomously. The air around you almost seems to steam. “She was already dead when I found her!” The atmosphere feels terribly stifling. The walls are tunneling in on you, curving to consume you whole. 

“It’s okay, Peter,” Clark says, his voice soft as if he’s trying not to spook you. This realization only angers you further. “I won’t tell anyone.” 

“I didn’t kill her- ” You break off, clarity striking you. There’s a reason Clark is so desperate to paint you as the killer when you’re not. Clark Ingram is the killer those FBI agents are looking for. Clark Ingram killed Sarah Craber and so many more. Is he even a social worker? You suppose he really could be—Hannibal Lecter was a practicing psychiatrist and doctor despite being the Chesapeake Ripper. You saw his name all over the news, coupled with that FBI agent you spoke to the other day who offered you a phone number and a compassionate, patient smile. You think back to the times Clark Ingram has sent alarm bells blaring in your mind—the cruelty disguised by that sharp glint in his eyes, the dangerous gaze that you had always mistaken for an attentive one. 

You want to tell someone, want to run from the room and never stop running, until you’re speaking to Jack Crawford and the same agent as before. You desperately want to stand up, fabricate an excuse to cut the appointment short. But one acknowledgement triumphs over all these desires: no one will believe you. There isn’t a damn soul who has taken you seriously since your brain injury, and your memories of life before then are all an incomprehensible blur. You can already imagine walking into the Bureau—if you can even get past security—speaking to Crawford, watching his eyes squint before he lets out a loud laugh right in your face. 

You stare at your social worker. Clark Ingram stares back. For a while, there is nothing but silence.

Until something in you snaps. You don’t know what happens in the span of those few seconds. One moment, you’re glancing at the tableside lamp. You envision yourself grabbing at the lamp and striking Ingram over the head with it, knocking him to the floor in a heap. The next moment, you’re holding the shattered remains of the lamp in your left hand as you stand over Clark’s crumpled body. 

You’re not usually this reckless. You’ve never harmed a soul before—human or animal. You’ve always considered yourself a withdrawn person, perhaps even meek. Yet here you are, looming over your unconscious social worker as blood slowly trickles from the gash on the side of his head. Thankfully, it looks like he’s still breathing. You don’t know what you would have done with a dead body. An unconscious one, on the other hand, is a different story.

After some contemplation, you reach down and grab Ingram’s ankles. You drag him out of the office, taking brief satisfaction from the various bumps and collisions his head makes with the furniture and the doorframe. You must have some good karma, because there isn’t a single soul in the deserted office building. You bring Ingram’s body out to your car and throw him in the trunk. He doesn’t deserve anything more than that, you think. In fact, you have an idea for something that would even the scales. 

As you pull into the driveway, your plan begins to take shape. You carry Ingram into the stable, your muscle memory taking you to the stall that Sylvie inhabited just a few days ago. You want to be angry, but you have bigger, more important things to focus on. You take a deep breath and crouch down to place a hand on her chest.

Some time later, the deed is done. Blood is speckled across your hands. You briefly feel guilty—not for Ingram, but for Sylvie. The overarching sentiment running through your chest and crawling along your skin, however, is satisfaction. You take a moment to look at your vindictive masterpiece once more, before turning your back. 

With shaking hands, you reach into your pocket and pull out the scrap of paper that the FBI agent wrote the phone number on. For a long moment, you stare down at it. Are the agents really to be trusted? Should you keep this information about Ingram to yourself? You shake your head and pull out your phone, typing in the numbers with care. For a moment, the phone rings and rings. 

“Hello?” A familiar voice answers the phone. “Who is this?”

You take a deep breath to steel your nerves, before responding. “Peter,” you answer habitually, before realizing you likely need to clarify. You think you hear a hitch of breath on the other end of the call, but you put it down to your imagination. “Peter Bernardone.” You clarify. 

There’s a few beats of silence. When the voice returns, it is laid with caution. “Hello, Peter.” 

Soil traps you and locks your limbs, sticking to your skin and refusing to let its presence fade. Every fiber of your being seems to twitch in restlessness and your heart races in your ears. You swear you feel something wiggling on your arm—perhaps a worm. The thought revolts you and you writhe in your natural prison. Dirt kisses your lips, pressing a gentle hand to your forehead and enforcing the insurmountable distance between you and the sunlight. The darkness is not welcome—it is too cold, too damp, too hollow. You blink and there’s a horrible cascading sound. Suddenly, it feels as if you aren’t alone. Your hands continue to twitch and you recoil when you bump against something distinctly humanlike. Turning your head to the side, you come face-to-face with the corpse of Sarah Craber. She opens her mouth and a bird crawls up her throat, wrenching its way out of her mouth and bursting toward you in a yellow blur. 

You inhale in a shuddering gasp and quickly sit up, sweat rolling down the back of your neck as you’re suddenly brought back to your bedroom. You had a nightmare. It was just a nightmare, you repeat to yourself as you wash your hands clean of the unseen dirt. You regard yourself in the bathroom mirror, displeased by what you see. Dark circles bracket your dull eyes. There’s a mark on your face from your pillow. Your scar gleams tauntingly from its position on the left side of your face—Abel Gideon’s farewell gift to you. It had been healing, until the Chesapeake Ripper lived up to his namesake and sliced it right open again. 

You rub a hand over your face and briefly rub your eyes, before pacing out of the bathroom and getting back into bed. As you stare up at your ceiling and will yourself to fall asleep, the killer’s graveyard haunts your waking mind. You can’t help but think of the victims that were buried underneath uncompromising soil, never to breathe again. Jack had warned you to brace yourself, before you came upon the scene. You thought you had. 

Your conversation with Peter the other day weighs heavily on your waking mind, from the moment you wake up in the morning to the moment you sit down in your office. There’s something off about it, but you can’t figure out what it is. He didn’t seem interested in providing you information. Yet, when Jack interrupted and said he had a lead, Peter almost morphed into a different person. He didn’t avoid your eye contact and his voice sounded noticeably brighter than before. You think back to that specific interaction. 

“Sorry, Peter,” you had apologized, “I have to go.”

“What is it?” Peter asked, turning towards you for the first time in the conversation. “Did you find him?”

“It’s classified, I’m sorry,” you responded. Your hackles had risen there, for reasons you hadn’t been sure of.  “But we’re tracking down this killer. I promise he’ll be put away.”

Why does that exchange seem more significant now?

“What is it?” Peter had asked. “Did you find him?” 

“Did you find him?” 

Peter knew the killer was male. 

Normally, that wouldn’t be cause for suspicion. In your experience, men are more likely to commit crimes than others. However, Peter’s statement was spoken with a frightening amount of certainty—despite the lack of veritable proof. That begs the question: how did Peter know? Does he know who the killer is? 

You want to speak to Peter again, but Jack doesn’t seem to think Peter needs any further investigation. You know better, but without Jack’s approval, you’re doomed to your office. You have to simper in frustration. Somehow, you’re sure that Peter knows more than he’s letting on. You hardly got anything out of him last time. Typically, when people are so resistant to questioning, it’s because they’re hiding something. You just need to figure out what Peter is hiding.

Your phone rings, cutting you out of your thoughts. Could it be Peter? You highly doubt it, but you decide to answer the phone regardless. 

“Hello,” you respond, “Who is this?”

“Peter,” the caller responds. Their voice sounds familiar. You feel an ugly feeling slide up your skin. “Peter Bernardone.”

Your eyes widen. You look around your office, before getting to your feet and shutting your door. You return to your desk and try to rip the words from your throat. “Hello, Peter.” 

“Hello,” he responds. He sounds different than before. Perhaps it’s because you’re hearing him speak. He didn’t speak very much last time. Despite the casual nature of the conversation so far, there seems to be anticipation and tension in his voice. 

“...Did you need something?” You decide to ask. It really seems like Peter called for a reason. You know you told him that he could call to speak to you again, but you aren’t so foolish to assume he’s calling because of that. 

“I…” He breaks off, sounding hesitant. The line goes silent for a few seconds, but the time passes with infinite lethargy. All you can hear are your steady breaths, the sound of your pen as you tap it against your desk, and the clock ticking on the wall. You can hear distant voices in the hall and you’re grateful that you had the foresight to close your door. “I think I’m ready to have another conversation.”

“Excellent,” you remark. You wonder if relief is evident in your voice. It probably is—Jack and you are desperate for any new leads on this killer. The last thing you want is for him to kill again and, as of right now, you don’t have much information to determine his whereabouts or his next move. “How does…” You trail off as you glance at your clock. “... an hour from now work for you?”

“That works,” Peter responds. He sounds like he’s had enough of the conversation. You don’t necessarily blame him for being apprehensive about speaking to a federal agent. If you were in his position, you’d certainly be distrustful. 

“Great, see you then,” you answer, giving him an out. He takes it and murmurs a goodbye, before the line goes dead. For a moment, you sit at your desk, your mind reeling. While you had provided your phone number to Peter for that express purpose, you hadn’t expected him to actually take you up on the offer to divulge more information. 

An equal rush of adrenaline and trepidation runs through you. The adrenaline wins out, as you get to your feet and pace over to Jack’s office. It isn’t a long distance, and you soon find yourself opening his office door. 

“Jack,” you start. Your boss looks up from his computer. “Peter called.” 

“What?” He asks. 

“Peter called my extension,” you elaborate, before you can grasp the consequences of doing so. In hindsight, perhaps you shouldn’t be admitting to sharing your agency-assigned phone number with a member of the public. Perhaps that’s why Jack’s eyes go so wide. 

“What?” Jack hisses. He looks like he’ll burst a vein in his neck. “Agent, that number is confidential and should only be shared with other government employees and officials.”

“Never mind that, Jack,” you interject before he can continue scolding you. That’s not important—at least, not right now. You’re sure you’ll have to sit through a lengthy lecture later on, when you have the luxury to sit down and think about trivialities. “He said he was ready to have another conversation.” 

Jack stills. He knows how important another conversation could be, but he seems to be battling against the instinct to reprimand you. You stare at him and, after a few moments, he sighs. Jack looks up from his glasses, which are gradually slipping down his face. “You’re not going to get anything more from him,” he says resignedly. You rejoice internally. That remark is a sign that, although he isn’t happy about it, Jack will permit you to speak with Peter. 

“I think I’ll get something from him,” you assert. You don’t think you’ll get more information—you know you will. Peter wouldn’t be calling unless he were willing, in some regard, to give you something. You’ll take almost anything at this point—anything that will free you from the muddied cages of damp soil and suffocation that haunt your nightmares. 

“Fine,” Jack sighs, knowing there’s no point for further argument. He certainly doesn’t look amused, but he seems to have given up now.  “Read over his file before you go.” Jack goes into his desk and retrieves the file, which you take with a murmured thanks. 

In the coming minutes, you learn more about Peter Bernardone than you could have ever hoped to know. The most useful piece of information doesn’t concern Peter, though. You look down at his listed social worker, frowning at the picture. The man looks innocuous enough upon first glance. Ingram is just about the only other person mentioned in Peter’s file, aside from a sibling that hasn’t been in contact with Peter for several years. Has this social worker, Clark Ingram, been brought in? 

“Did you speak to Clark Ingram?” You ask. Jack’s gaze is fixated on his computer. For a moment, you contemplate asking again, but then he responds.

“We spoke to him for a bit, but didn't come back with anything.” Jack responds. He doesn’t look persuaded, and you don’t think you’re convinced either. There’s something about the look in Ingram’s eyes in the photo… It looks as if there’s a hidden depth beneath that expression on his face, something he isn’t telling anyone. Indeed, he looks ever so slightly smug.

“Might have to pay him a visit,” you remark. Maybe you can do that after you speak with Peter. Your best lead right now is definitely Peter, but Ingram may be a good backup plan in case Peter clams up or suddenly decides to remain silent. Jack seems to think the same, because he nods silently. Armed with information, you send Jack a mock-salute and leave his office. As you walk through the Bureau’s halls and return to your car, you think about everything that has made up the case against this killer so far. You review evidence, circumstances, and backgrounds on the victims as you drive to the stable Peter works at. He hadn’t specified a location for your conversation, you’re realizing as you continue driving. If he isn’t here, you’re going to be in for an earful from Jack. You’re willing to take that risk, though. 

Some time later, you pull into the parking lot next to an unassuming SUV and park. You steal a few seconds to take some deep breaths as you wait in your car. Your hand is wrapped around your keys and you close your eyes, tilting your head down and trying to remember why you’ve come here. You’re not recalling your purpose for the visit, but instead, the purpose behind your decision to pursue a career as an FBI agent. You wanted to make a difference. You’re getting that chance right now, and you can’t blow it. Your shoulders almost feel tight from the intangible pressure that has been thrown onto you. Thankfully, you’ve grown to be comfortable working under pressure. The life of an FBI agent isn’t convenient or relaxed—the pacing of your work is extremely sporadic, and you’re expected to be “on” and ready at all times. 

Shaking your head, you step out of your car and walk up the dirt path to the stable. When you open the doors, you’re unsurprised to find a rider with her horse. You nod at her as you walk in, pretending not to notice how her gaze burns into your back when you pass her. Somehow, you know where Peter will be. You pass several different stalls, before reaching the one he was in a mere few days ago. The plaque on the stall says “Sylvie,” which must’ve been the horse’s name. You knock on the closed stable door and, after a few moments, decide to open it. 

Peter is in nearly the same exact position as before, with his back turned to the door and his eyes evidently fixated on the horse’s corpse. 

“Hello, Peter,” you remark. Peter doesn’t respond. You give him a few moments, before taking a few steps forward to break the distance between you. With your newfound position, you’re able to see his expression. To your surprise, the look on his face is slightly… different than the last time you saw him. Before, he had looked devastated, heartbroken, destroyed. Now, he almost looks… at peace. How could he have pivoted so intensely in such a short period of time? Something about his disposition unsettles you. “You wanted to speak with me.” You remind him. 

For a long moment, there is nothing but silence and anticipation. Then, Peter speaks. “I… wanted to heal her.” 

“You… wanted to heal her,” you repeat. What or who did he want to heal? Your initial reaction is that he wanted to heal Sylvie, but that doesn't sound right. She was already dead by the time Peter arrived, so anything he could’ve done would’ve been pointless. Is he referring to… the victim? “Sarah Craber?” You ask. 

“Yes,” he responds hollowly. His gaze is still locked on the horse’s corpse.

Somehow, it’s taken you this long to realize that you’ve underestimated Peter’s role in the events that transpired that day. “You were the one to put the bird in her chest,” you realize aloud. Yellow fluttering wings rush across your vision. Peter nods quietly. You’re not surprised. You should’ve made the connection sooner—should’ve thought of the bird as a gesture made out of kindness, not maleficence.

You’re sidetracked by the strange conviction that something in this stall has changed since the last time you were here. You try to rack your brain for the juxtaposition that is occupying your attention. Peter is here still, wearing similar attire and lingering in about the same position as before. There’s you, standing a bit closer than you were last time. There’s still hay strewn about the floor. The horse’s corpse remains against the wall, and the stench is beginning to grow more pervasive. The corpse looks the same, with the womb stitched up and the entrails hidden from sight. 

Hidden from sight? You take another look at the corpse. Last time you were here, the horse’s womb was exposed and the entrails were everywhere. Now, there’s no sign of blood or innards. Indeed, the stall’s floor is missing any sign of the gruesome scene from before. It’s not unthinkable to think that someone could have cleaned it up, but the horse’s womb looks entirely different. In fact, it almost looks as if someone stitched it back together. There’s no sign of the dead foal, but you suspect it was placed back in the womb. 

“Peter, did someone come through here and stitch her womb back together?”  You ask. 

“I don’t know.” Peter answers. It’s a lie. You can tell from the way his posture shifts, his shoulders falling ever so slightly as he almost seems to cower in on himself to avoid your gaze. 

“Did you sew her back up, Peter?”  You question. Peter stiffens and you realize you may have worded your statement indelicately. You scramble to find a better way to say it. “Did… did you heal her?” 

This prompts Peter’s attention. The man turns around, staring at you with wide eyes. His eyes look ever so slightly glassy and he stares at you for several moments, before jerking his head in a slight and nearly imperceptible nod. 

“Thank you for being honest with me,” you choke out. Your heart is still racing in your chest, despite Peter’s confession. Why are you still so unsettled and unnerved? The mystery surrounding the corpse has been cleared up. But it still feels as if something is missing. What could it be? 

“You’re not… angry?” Peter then asks quietly. You blink at him. 

“I’m not angry, Peter.” You reassure him. He seems to believe you once you utter the statement, and you watch as a little bit of the tension slips from his shoulders. There is still something that is bothering him, you think. “Now, why did you call me here?” 

“I… wanted to ask about my social worker,” Peter trails off. His back is turned again. Maybe he doesn’t like the idea of having a social worker. Maybe he’s uncomfortable talking about it. Amidst your speculation, one thing is for certain: this is a sore spot for him. 

“Clark Ingram?” You question. “What about him?”

“Has he been called in for questioning?” Peter remarks. 

You probably shouldn’t be telling him anything, but you know that this needs to be an exchange in order for Peter to feel comfortable sharing information with you. Sometimes, you have to give a little to get a little. “Yes,” you say. You decide to leave it at that and wait for Peter to clarify. 

“I think he… may have a role in all this,” Peter evidently settles for saying. He sounds hesitant.

“How come?” 

“There’s something off…” Peter begins, “in his eyes. The way he speaks to me, looks at me. Sometimes, he stares at me like…” He breaks off. Like you’re a test subject? Like you’re an intriguing new science experiment? Like you hold the very world in your hands?  “I’m probably not making much sense,” Peter suddenly acquiesces, rubbing a hand over his face. He seems self-conscious and anxious all of a sudden. If this continues, he won't be comfortable sharing any more information with you. You need to express that you understand him. And if a smaller part of you truly does empathize with him, empathize with being treated as an oddity… no one needs to know. 

“No, I know what you’re talking about.” You say. Peter turns and looks at you. 

“Really?”

“......Yes,” you remark. It takes you a little while to force the words out. You don’t speak on any of your thoughts, don’t want to monopolize the conversation or change the subject. Still, you are familiar with an attentive gaze that penetrates your mental defenses, leaving you uncomfortably vulnerable and raw in its wake. You are more than familiar with the shadows that beckon you closer, calling for you to do unspeakable things to the chessmaster sitting across from you in a dimly-lit office. 

“I just came from a session with him,” Peter continues, breaking you out of your thoughts. He doesn’t offer any further explanation. 

“Ingram? How’d it go?” You ask. Peter shakes his head wordlessly. This session lies at the center of Peter’s current stress. The interaction must’ve gone quite poorly indeed, because Peter goes silent. 

“Peter, are you alright?” Peter shakes his head, although you can’t quite tell if he’s answering your question or trying to shake off a phantom grip. 

“He was questioning me. About Craber. Saying I did it.” The confession stews in the muggy air of the stable. The rotting corpse reaches your nostrils, but even that undesirable stench isn’t enough to draw your attention away from what Peter just said. 

“Ingram was accusing you of her murder?” You press. 

“Manipulating me,” Peter says, picking at his lip. “Trying to get me to confess for something I didn’t do.” 

“That’s-” You try to say, but it seems Peter isn’t finished speaking. 

“I- I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. I felt like I didn’t have a choice. And- I didn’t know how to handle the feeling.” Peter looks down at his clasped hands. 

“What feeling?” You’ve never heard your voice sound so quiet before. 

“Anger,” Peter responds, averting his eyes. His gaze is locked on the corner of the room. You take a step closer, then another. You take a deep breath and kneel down next to Peter, in front of the horse’s corpse. Suddenly, lightning flashes in your mind as you come to a realization.

You thought Peter’s grief explained his current positioning—the way he’s sitting in front of Sylvie’s body. That was your prevailing reasoning. You know that’s wrong now. Peter isn’t watching over Sylvie to grieve for her or comfort her. He’s guarding her. 

Why would Peter be guarding the corpse? There shouldn’t be anything there, save for the horse foal that he must’ve sewed back into the womb. But no, that hasn’t been confirmed yet. You don’t know what’s in the horse’s womb. If it were the foal, you suspect Peter wouldn’t be guarding the body. No, there’s something else. Peter put something in the womb and sewed it up to hide it. But what could it be? 

Peter placed the bird in the victim’s chest and placed the victim in the horse’s chest to heal her. This seems different. This time, whatever—whoever—he placed inside the horse’s womb was placed there as Peter tried to cope with his anger. This reconstruction was fueled by anger: anger at the injustice of the crime, anger at the thought of being accused of being the killer. Who was that anger aimed at? Where did Peter’s anger come from? “I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. I felt like I had no choice… He was manipulating me.” 

Clark Ingram provoked Peter. Ingram was poking and prodding at him, trying to get him to confess to his role as the killer. What would Ingram gain from that? Ingram was only mentioned in Peter’s file as a social worker; they didn’t know each other prior to Ingram’s assignment. Ingram didn’t have a vendetta against Peter. No. Clark Ingram was desperate to get Peter convicted as the killer. Because…. Because… 

Clark Ingram is the killer. He tried to get Peter convicted in order to save himself. Shaking, you kneel down to the horse’s womb and press a hand to its belly. The dead foal isn’t in there—you remember it being smaller. You know what Sylvie’s womb is holding now. 

“Peter…” You remark. Your voice sounds foreign to your ears—eerily calm despite your heart thundering away in your chest. You’re choking on the words. You don’t want to speak, don’t want to cement the reality that you’re so afraid of. “Is your social worker in that horse?” 

Peter’s back is turned. He doesn’t respond for a horrible amount of time. You bite the inside of your cheek and try to maintain a sense of composure that you certainly don’t feel. A minute passes. Then another. Then another. When Peter responds, his voice is a murmur. “Yes.” 

You inhale sharply. Peter placed Ingram in the horse’s womb. He must’ve incapacitated him during their session, before bringing him back here to this stall. From there, Peter maneuvered Ingram’s body into a fetal position, before placing him in the corpse. Then, he placed the entrails and innards back in the womb, before sealing it all up again. You take a shuddering breath in, the act feeling more laborious than normal. Now that you’re kneeling next to Peter, you realize that his hands have been clasped in his lap throughout your conversation. There are muddy brown stains on the insides of his palms—dried blood. 

You don’t know how long you remain silent, staring at the corpse in front of you. Did Peter kill Ingram? You’re not sure you want to know. All you know is that, when you finally summon the courage to speak, Peter is spooked by the noise. “Will you remove him, please?” You ask. 

Peter stares at the corpse, then turns to you. He nods silently, almost imperceptibly. You pull out your gun and hold it at your side, watching as Peter slowly slices his knife along the horse’s stomach and traces the incision that he created. After a few moments, he gets to his feet and steps away. For an awful beat, there is nothing but silent anticipation. The quiet is broken by a loud gasp as the horse’s stomach pulses and eventually falls away to reveal Clark Ingram, covered in blood and entrails and panting as he returns to the open air. Ingram turns his head up and finds Peter before you; his expression soon morphs into manic rage. You quickly point your gun at Ingram and cock it, drawing his attention away from Peter. Ingram’s eyes meet yours and, immediately, a pendulum swings before your eyes. Clark Ingram murdered all those women and buried them beneath the ground. That momentary glance was all you needed to confirm your suspicions. Even now, as you look at him, you have to fight off the pendulum’s grip. You blink and you see yourself carrying a dead body, digging a hole on the earth to dump it. You blink again and you feel your hands shaking, writhing as you look at your next victim from afar. 

“Please,” Ingram begs. Old blood soaks through his clothing and colors his skin. “It’s not me.” 

You shake your head. The lie is half-baked and falls apart the moment it reaches the air. Ingram knows it too, if the positively malicious glare he sends Peter is any indication. You keep your aim steady and fixed on Ingram. Your finger twitches to pull the trigger. You grit your teeth and try to pull yourself out of the horrible compulsion to make this man hurt, the way he made those women hurt.

Ingram stares at you with a truly pitiful expression, his eyes gleaming with unshed tears. “Please,” he says again. You consider him for a moment. He has robbed many people of their futures. This man does not deserve to continue living, even if that life is confined to a prison cell.

You’ve dealt with criminals like this before: maleficent individuals that deserve a punishment far worse than what they’re getting. This is far from the first killer that you’ve had to confine to a prison cell, despite knowing they deserve the gallows. It’s one of the most frustrating, yet necessary, components of your position. You had never fought with the notion before. Today, though, you’re grappling with the thought. Does Clark Ingram even deserve to keep living? What divine force determined that he was worthy of living, while all his victims weren’t? Hannibal’s voice whispers in your ears, reminding you of God and his violence and cruelty. If God kills, why can’t you? Your head aches. Your hand is growing sweaty and your fingers are twitching. Ingram must sense that you’re approaching the brink of your patience, because his pleas turn louder and more pronounced. 

You’re drowning in a maelstrom of memories. 

“See?” Garret Jacob Hobbs croons.  

“This work… it changes you.” Jack remarks, just as he said to you all those years ago.  

“The killer in the flesh,” Dr. Frederick Chilton greets you, his teeth sharpening and glinting in the light.  

“You killed Franklyn Froideveaux,” Zeller accuses.  

“In your dreams, what do you see?” Hannibal had once asked you.  

“I see myself killing Hobbs, over and over and over again,” you had responded. “I see Abigail slowly fading on that kitchen floor. I see the blood spattered on my hands. And… I feel a smile on my face.” 

“ And, when you wake up?” Hannibal asked. “Dreams are often a pathway into the parts of our minds that we hide away from others. Perhaps there is some truth in these dreams. Perhaps, what you’re most afraid of…” 

“I don’t feel guilty,” you admitted. “Killing… felt good.”  

You blink hard and tilt your head, trying to shake the thoughts away. They return in full force. A shadowed figure stands at your side, guiding your aim to Ingram’s temple. The Chesapeake Ripper smiles at you, a cruel grin that rips the veiled darkness surrounding his form. 

Someone is yelling your name and their voice reverberates through your skull. You clap your free hand over your ear in an effort to silence the sudden onslaught of noise. Everything is growing to be too much. Voices are beckoning you, peering over your shoulder and regarding Ingram with malice. You open your eyes. Your hand twitches again. 

You don’t resist the movement, instead letting your restless impulse— your killer impulse —take over. You fire your gun. The bullet carves through the air in slow-motion, before settling in Ingram’s temple and carving into his skull. Blood splatters everywhere: over the ground, down the killer’s skin, across your face. You wipe the blood from your eyes. 

You stare ahead. Clark Ingram lies crumpled on the ground, the light fading from his eyes. He manages a weak groan, before his eyes promptly fall shut. You stand frozen in front of him. There’s a ringing noise in your ears. The pendulum from before has shifted into a metronome, swinging back and forth. A hollow echo resounds in rhythm as you stare at your first true victim. You’re shaking, trembling, shivering. Your gun slips from your hand, falls to the hay-filled floor with a thud. 

What have you done? 

Ingram isn’t just a victim, now. He’s your victim. This is truly your design. Everything fell into place the moment you raised your hand and aimed at Ingram’s temple. You can hear his voice echoing in your mind, begging and pleading with you to spare his life. Please. You bring a hand to your head, the pulsing sensation nearly enough to bring you off your feet. Please. Blood is trickling from his temple, falling down the man’s face in crimson tears. Please. You can hear an achingly familiar laugh, a whisper of the cunning wit you haven’t heard in years. Please-

You put your hands over your ears and fall down to a kneeling position on the ground, desperate for a reprieve from your thoughts and the guilt and the vindictive feeling powerful enough to send flames roaring up your skin- 

It’s hard to breathe. You feel yourself dry heaving over the hay-covered floor and, when you blink, you’re kneeling in puddles of Ingram’s blood. You try to inhale slowly, but your breath is hard to acquire and your chest burns with the effort. Saliva slips from the side of your lips as you try to recover from the fear, regret, rage, revulsion, pride that settles over your form. You look at Ingram again, take a deep breath. Wipe off your mouth. Take another breath. Slowly get to your feet. Walk over to him. Check for a pulse.

He’s dead. 

What should you do? You could turn yourself in and lose your job, potentially facing prison time. You could try to dress up the crime scene, make it seem like a suicide. That would be incredibly difficult to do without indicting Peter and making him a potential suspect. Furthermore, it’s somewhat implausible to think that Ingram would shoot himself after escaping the horse’s womb, rather than trying to wound his enemy. He had no qualms about sourcing his victims, and likely engaged in combat to do so. You feel your breathing quicken as you are forced to come to terms with the reality of the situation. It feels as if the world is caving in. Rationality is giving way to the emotions that suffocate you. 

Distantly, amidst it all, you can recognize that there’s one more option. You never would have considered it before— before him, a traitorous voice whispers in the back of your mind. (It sounds like Franklyn.) However, you truly feel as if you have no better choice. And if a part of you wishes to make things even once more, to harm the criminal who ruthlessly killed Ingram in cold blood…. 

You take a deep breath. “Peter,” you say calmly. Your voice sounds unnaturally tranquil. “I need you to do something for me.” Peter looks at you quizzically. “Walk out of the stable. Go back inside and… don’t come back out until you hear me.” Peter stares at you for a long moment. He is startled. There are flecks of blood on his cheeks. Through the emotional whiplash of what you’ve done, remorse and guilt briefly prevail as you realize that you shouldn’t have gotten Peter involved in this. Thankfully, what you’re asking of him provides him an alibi for what will come next. 

“How will I know when you…?” Peter breaks off, staring at you in confusion. 

“Can I trust you to do that for me?” You interject. The sincerity in your voice seems to unnerve him. 

“Yes,” Peter responds with a perplexed but resolute nod. “Yes, I- Okay.” He takes one last look at the corpse in front of you, before turning around and heading for the exit of the stable. 

You wait a few moments, until you’re sure that you’ve given him enough time to return to the farmhouse. You’re compelled to look down at your gun on the stable floor. It’s not the preferred weapon right now. You instead reach and grab the knife at your belt, turning it over in your hands. The metal gleams at you tauntingly. For a moment, you can see blood spilling from it. It must be a trick of the light. 

You take a step closer to Ingram’s corpse. And… another one. You’re nearly standing over the body now. Your fingers feel stuck to the knife, a frozen grip forcing you to wield the weapon. You shouldn’t be doing this. But you have to pay for what you’ve done. 

You close your eyes and reach up, knife in hand. 

For a moment, your hand hovers in the air and you contemplate going back. 

It’s a foolish thought. You can never go back to the way things were. 

Your aim rings true, and the blade sinks into your forearm. You scream. 

Through the pain shooting up your arm, you manage to shakily push yourself a bit further, reaching out with your uninjured hand to grab at Ingram’s hand. From there, you manipulate his fingers so that he’s gripping the knife. You make sure to close his hand around the blade, before taking a deep breath through your teeth.

There’s a chance you won’t survive this. 

You can’t find it in yourself to care. 

You pull the knife out with the corpse’s hand and let out an uneasy groan as pain floods through your arm. Your vision spirals, blackening around the edges and spinning in a dizzying array of colors. You feel like a marionette with limp strings, left to crumple to the ground without a puppet master. The last thing you see before your world fades to black is the neat hole carving a path straight through Ingram’s temple.

next chapter

Just in case I didn’t make it clear enough, the reader stabs himself & wipes off the prints/places the knife in the grip of the corpse. This creates a situation where it appears as if Clark stabbed the reader before he killed Clark. (Of course, the reality of the situation is that the reader killed Clark first, which he wasn’t supposed to do). By stabbing himself, he covers his tracks because he can claim that the murder was in “self-defense” and “after provocation.” It’s a little flimsy, and I’m no forensic expert, but remember that this is fiction. I can do whatever I want here. *grins*

You may be thinking: Hey, Hero (that's me)… couldn’t a stab wound like that be lethal? And the answer is… probably? I did some research to try to figure out the practicality of stabbing yourself and surviving, but it ended up triggering me so I had to stop searching.

Rationalization for Peter and his actions: Peter fades to the background once Ingram comes out of the womb because the reader is armed and serves as a blockade between Ingram and him. Peter is lurking somewhere behind you throughout the interaction, to protect himself from Ingram. Keep in mind that he is an entirely unarmed civilian, so there’s little that he could do to affect the outcome. ||| Peter does what the reader asks of him because he trusts him. Few people have ever taken the time to understand Peter, so the fact that the reader went out of his way to make him feel comfortable (such as not forcing him to talk or make eye contact) influences Peter’s view of him. Plus, Peter didn’t like Ingram. That much is obvious. Ingram’s death is not really a tragic affair for Peter. Finally, Peter was confused and searching for guidance in the chaos of the situation. So, when the reader gave him something to do, Peter jumped at the chance—in the hopes of either distracting himself or gaining clarity. ||| If I’m being perfectly honest, I don’t quite remember Peter’s canonical personality, so I sort of just… went with my gut. My gut ended up writing him to be autistic, because I’m autistic and what little I remember of him seemed to fit.

The reader’s motivations for killing Ingram could be justice, Hannibal’s influence, the cruelty of Ingram’s crimes, hallucinations… or any combination. Your pick. And don’t worry, the reader isn’t going to suddenly transform into a killing machine—this was very much an isolated incident. (..or was it? jk.) This protagonist’s morality is dubious, so that this fic can be distinguished from the TV show. I also wanted him to be darker, so sue me.

Here’s a scrap from this chapter that never made it. I like it too much to let it die out in my doc:

Idly, you imagine what Hannibal would do if he were here. He’d place a hand on yours, slowly push your weapon down until it was pointed at the ground. Perhaps he’d even slip a hand under your jaw, prompt you to look at him as he smiles that infuriating smile—the one with an equal amount of unearned pride and cunning. It doesn’t matter, you have to remind yourself. Hannibal isn’t here. No one is here—not Jack, not Beverly, not Alana. There is no one here to stop you from crossing a line you won’t be able to come back from.

As always, thank you so so much for reading! I will see you all in the new year! Wishing each of you a refreshing and relaxing start to the new year! ily <3

TAGLIST: @its-ares @tobbotobbs @xrisdoesntexist @gr1mmac3 @tiredstarcerberuslamb @yourlocalratwriter @kingkoku @kahuunknown @atlas-king1 @pendragon-writes @slipknotcentury @cryinersaved @the-ultimate-librarian @starre-eyes @pendragon-writes @peterparkeeperer @gayschlatt69

#defectivevillain #male reader #x male reader #x gn reader #gn reader #hannibal x reader #Hannibal Lecter x male reader #Hannibal Lecter x gn reader #Hannibal Lecter x reader #hannibal x male reader #hannibal x gn reader #transmasc reader #masc reader

[mysebacielblog]

Ciel is Trans Theory

I Need to point this out because. I have a hunch that Ciel is Trans, and fingers crossed I’m right. Honestly, I could be completely off base and this could be as close as Ancient Aliens is to History.

This might be an overreach but here is my case for it, as best as I can:

* Based on previous events and Chapters, Yana has shown that She Likes Playing on the concept of Gender from the Very First Arc. From the Very beginning we are introduced to a woman who is Jack the Ripper, challenging the male murder stereotype on its head, and her lover, a gender ambiguous (Later Confirmed Canonically!!) Trans Reaper Lady. Both unite from their desire, and hatred for the prostitutes who beg for abortions at her clinic. There are Already wombs being ripped out of women and we’ve just started.

* The Fact that Ciel is Dressed extremely effeminately not only for the period, even for EGL clothing standards might point to something as well. But when forced to wear a dress for the sake of a mission, he loses his mind. Although it could be a tween’s worst nightmare, how Madame Red laments to Ciel when dressing him as a girl that she always wanted a daughter feels like something.

* Ciel is always referred to as beautiful, which is not wrong for the period, but there are less masculine terms that people refer to him as.

* Yana herself says that she Over Masculinizes Ciel. Which is an interesting take for his effeminate nature of dress Vs masculine personality?

* Another hot take is that Yana Specifically has instructed in certain live action and anime for the voice actor to be a woman. I’ve seen a lot of talk on this particular conversation but none highlighting this as a clue on our Ciel’s Identity??? How??

* Mey Rin is also have been hidden as a boy with her previous life as a sniper, so this also shows that this is not out of the question either. The same reveal has happened with Doll.

* Ciel does not let anyone get close to his body. This is obviously because traumatic stress behaviors, however, similar flinching could allude to a different reason entirely.

* Our Lad introduces himself as the “Earl Ciel Phantomhive” Earl almost being apart of his first name. He’s already changed his name to hide his past. But Why?

* Let’s pretend that Ciel was in fact, born a boy at birth. If his brother and parents died, even if he was considered a “Spare Child”, (remember the British Phrase an Heir and a Spare). He would still be a legitimate hier due to his brother being unable to claim inheritance (because of his death) and pass on something to him. Even if another family member became a guardian and inherited a majority to raise our ciel, he would still be entitled to Something, and (might) even become Earl. This would Not be the case if Ciel was born a girl.

* Two Cultural similarities Japanese Manga and the Victorian period have in common are the troupe of “women disguising themselves as men”. I put this in quotes because, as Ciel described it, “the old him died in his cage,” pointing to metaphorical metamorphosis, and not simply a disguise for convient’s sake. Although it was common for (transgender men, queer cis women and/or Cis women) to take on a male position / pseudonym in order to establish a title, or a job position (typically in writing, this continued until the 1960’s). Now add on the popular manga/anime that were important in playing with perceptions of gender during Black Butler’s Debut (think Ouran High school host club), and there’s something there.

* The Fact that no one mourned Ciel’s Death was unfortunate, but a critical plot point of the story. Up until now, no one even acknowledged Our Ciel had ever Existed. Not a name, not “twins” nothing. Even though our Lad was an ill child, no one had even acknowledged he was there to begin with. Women and children were rarely recognized in Victorian culture, let alone a “Woman Child”. This culture was challenged somewhat through literature in the early ‘30’s with works from Jane Austen, ‘47 with Charlotte Brontë (who went by a pseudonym) and Lewis Carol’s Alice and the Looking Glass at the end of the century. (introducing a Girl Protag!! Gracious!). As sad as it may be, no one would really mourn an terminally ill girl compared to her family’s murder, unless having accomplished something amazing. It would be seen unfortunately as a lifted burden, and ultimately one less dowery or added expense. The fact that no one even bothered to notice our Ciel’s death or even the toll it might have on his twin is evident enough.

* The most Damning evidence I have for this theory is Lizzy’s reaction to figuring out “Ciel” was not the real “Ciel”. The immediate turn against Ciel. Why wouldn’t she even hear him out? What could have possibly turned her away like that, without a doubt in her mind, even if she had met with the Real Ciel? The fact that her reaction was not confusion but rather an extreme turn against him, she did not even think one minute to give Our Ciel a chance. And the only possible reason (combined with the fact that he was lying about not being his brother) is that if he was Not Cis. Not only would that mean that she was with the sick weaker sibling not heir to the Phantomhive legacy, but Ciel Could never conceive a family with Elizabeth, nor marry her like she would have wanted. And even if she married him, they would never be able to have children of their own (a really big obsession with British Aristocracy- modern day source: royals). All of her dreams would be shattered. And that shattering would bring her to turn instantly.

* The fact that everyone automatically assumed our ciel was real ciel, just based on saying so. Why?

* The fact that sick girls were often dressed like male counterparts to strengthen them during this era, as well as androgynous clothing for children being in fashion (because of less washing headaches and hand-me-downs)

* A smaller, minor detail is how Sebastian says “When lies become truth”. This is pointing towards both their façades but an interesting quote none the less on transitioning.

* I’m pointing to his teeny shoes with the high heels. It’s not that they’re effeminate women’s shoes that are iffy for the period, (which let’s be clear, they are) but. Look at him. Trying his best to be tall adult man. I’m pointing at his shoes.

* I might be missing a lot. Tell me if I am.

Reasons For Why I Am Extremely Wrong:

*Tanaka and Vincent referring to Our Ciel with he/him pronouns, (although I’m not sure on the original Japanese translation on chapter 131)

#black butler analysis #black butler theories #slaps Ciel’s Head #this bad boy can fit so many queer coding #I’m not writing this because I’m nb #But I’m not Not saying I’m writing this because I’m nb #i wrote this at 2am #please be gentle #Pepe Silvia board

[fangirlmermaid]

I'll Protect You

Summary: Sean plays BloodWash but as the game gets more intense the more he starts to imagine if this happened to his pregnant wife. 

Listen there might be grammar errors but deal with it, thanks!

First, it started all lighthearted and fun Sean knew what the game was about, he knew Sara was pregnant. He knew that it was just a game, that the womb ripper wasn’t real, and that he was just overreacting but the back of his mind reminds him that there are some sick people out there. Sean knew that he was nothing like Liam, Sean always helps around the house even before (Y/N) was pregnant. Sean tried to keep his racing mind under wraps because he felt like it was a silly thing to worry about and didn’t want his viewers to know.           

Sean met (Y/N) back in 2015 through Mark who was a mutual friend, you knew Mark because you also are a YouTuber and your channel is popular which is called (What the fuck you want). You and Sean developed feelings after months of talking and you asked Sean out on a date. Of course, you guys kept it secret from your viewers till your first anniversary some of your viewers were happy but others were skeptical and were saying some rude things about the relationship or about you but you didn’t care they were cowards who were hiding behind a screen when they are saying dumb shit and they were most likely jealous of you since you were dating Sean and they weren’t. After five years of dating Sean asked you to marry him of course you said yes. After a year of being married, you guys were ready for the next step which is to have a baby. 

As Sara walks through the old laundromat place Sean kept imagining if this was (Y/N) who is eight months pregnant waddling helplessly as the womb ripper was trying to kill you and rip out their unborn daughter. Sean already made a vow to be the best husband and the best father he could be but after playing this game he’s made another vow to protect you and his child from harm even if it’s a shitty YouTube comment, and he even promised to make sure the laundry machines in the house are working but if they’re not them he’ll buy you new clothes so you’ll never have to go to a laundromat. 

Sean cheered when he shot the womb ripper and they died, Sean felt so relieved that the womb ripper was dead. Sean turned his attention back to the camera that focused on his face “The whole time I was imagining if (Y/N) was going through this” Sean finally admitted, he glanced back at the computer screen “Which is a terrifying situation in general, (Y/N) if you’re watching this I love you and I love our daughter but we are never going to a  laundromat!” Sean admitted twisting his wedding ring to soothe his anxiety, then he realized that there was an end credit to the game. 

After Sean finished filming he went to search the house for you because Bloodwash really fucked with his mind. Finally, Sean has found you sitting on the bed watching (Your favorite movie), Sean’s heart is filled with joy he loves you with all his heart and he will never let you forget it. He enters the bedroom “Hi sweetie!” Sean smiled as he walked towards the end of the bed “Hi my love” You smiled gazing at him, your eyes filled with so much love. Sean lays on his stomach in between (Y/N) legs, he lifted your shirt exposing your big round bump “Hi sweetheart it’s your dad” Sean smiled, and you felt your daughter spin which is something she always does when Sean talks to her, your daughter wasn’t even born yet but she already has Sean wrapped around her little fingers. Sean pressed a kiss next to (Y/N)’s belly button “I promise that I will do everything in my power to protect you and your mother! No womb ripper will stand a chance, I’ve been playing a lot of Halo so my aim is on point!” Sean assured his daughter, the baby punched your side making you groan in pain “I know but calm down little one!” Sean chuckled before placing another kiss on your stomach. 

You let out a yawn “Uh oh Mom’s tired” Sean whispered to the baby, you grabbed your chest “You would be too if you had a baby who likes to kick you at the crack ass of dawn every single night!” you whined, Sean gazed at you, he frowned at the bags that laid under your eyes. An idea came to Sean sure it was a crappy one but it was better than nothing “Alright listen! No child of mine will be keeping up my wife who is also your mother! She deserves to get some rest because she is working hard on keeping you alive and healthy, she even lets you use her body as a home which is so kind of her to do so please be kind and let her get some sleep!” Sean explained giving your daughter one final kiss before covering your baby bump with your shirt. 

You felt tears form in your eyes, this pregnancy has been horrible for you because you are always been in pain, your daughter likes to practice her karate moves on you, you have body insecurities, and little to no sleep but moments like these are worth the pain.  

Sean sat down next to you “I love you so much” you reminded him as tears ran down your cheek Sean cupped your cheeks he used his thumb to wipe your tears “I love you more!” Sean smiled pulling you into a long sweet kiss. You pouted when he pulled away “Let’s get some sleep” Sean mumbled you nodded your head, and Sean placed a kiss on your forehead.

Once the lights were turned off you could barely keep your eyes open you laid down with your back pressed against Sean’s chest, and the Irish man placed a kiss on the back of your shoulder. Your eyelids dropped “Goodnight (Y/N)” Sean mumbled behind your neck sending a shiver down your spine, “Night Sean” you mumbled, you felt Sean placing his hand on your stomach sending out a warning to any potential womb rippers to not mess with the McLoughlin family. 

Sean’s stern talking worked because you also got a good night’s rest.         

#jacksepticeye #Jacksepticeye Imagine #Jacksepticeye x reader

[puppetcombo]

Your favorite game just dropped on all consoles!

Xbox: https://xbox.com/en-us/games/store/bloodwash/9p3z84wdhhxq

Switch: https://nintendo.com/en-ca/store/products/bloodwash-switch/

Playstation: https://store.playstation.com/en-us/concept/10004758

Created by Jordan King and Henry Hoare 

 A serial killer is terrorizing the city, and Sara's deadbeat boyfriend hasn't done the laundry. Can Sara survive a late-night trip to the Laundromat or will the Womb Ripper perform an early delivery?

#horror #survival horror #slasher #ps1 #vhs #gamedev #low poly #lofi

[riseofamoonycake]

Can I please get headcanons for Noah from RoR JTR case files as a dad please?

You don't know how you are making me happy! In this period my mind is focused all on Jack the Ripper spin off and I can't think about other stuff, so you really sent me to heaven 😍😍😍😍 Thank you!!

Papa Noah is here for you!

Noah as a Dad ~ hcs

Warnings: mention of pregnancy

The reader is female/afab

The instant after hearing you two are expecting a child, Noah's mind goes blank: too many thoughts, too many sensations, all he can do is trembling and smiling like an idiot. Then, the thought of a baby with your hair and his big eyes black as obsidian hits his mind and he finally realizes how his future will be. And he likes it a lot

During the pregnancy Noah is the best man alive: he takes care of you, constantly checks on your conditions, does the work for you, willingly accepts to make all the sacrifices in order to let you rest, he is always by your side. Lot of hours are spent with his head on your womb, because hearing the baby growing is the best lullaby and blessing he has ever had

After giving birth, you don't even make time to tell him to be careful with the baby, that he has already lifted the little sun in his arms and is singing the sweetest tunes while cuddling it against his chest. You have to beg the dad to let you at least feed the child, and Noah stares at the whole thing with teary eyes and the softest expression ever seen

He is totally fine with a son or a daughter, but if the baby is female and so he finds himself with a newborn princess, a little goddess all for him to cuddle and spoil... B O O M

Everytime he can, he plays with the child. His duties don't permit him to be present all day long, but as soon as Noah has a free moment, you can find him with your baby in his lap, intent on making it smile and laugh with funny faces and little voices. Once the child is grown, Noah starts to train him or her to face all the dangers in the world, because he wants your kid to be safe on every occasion. But no worries, papa is always here to protect!

So, it is natural that he takes charge of everything related to the baby: he never lets the child leave his arms, he sings the treasure to sleep (he has plenty of nursery rhymes to show off), cleans, feeds and takes great care of you as well. Sometimes he ends up falling asleep in the most improbable places or corners of the house with the child gently pressed against his chest, and woe to take him/her away! Clearly a daddy's boy/girl

The baby becomes the star of the entire Mother Goose in no time. Everyone knows everything about how it is growing, what it does, and when you or Noah are too busy, they take care of it. Maybe not everyone is good with children or loves having them around, but all the members put in the effort, and that is what matters the most

Noah is always responsible, sweet and cheerful with the child, he pampers and spoils it no stop, but when the times require it, he doesn't fear to be more severe (for example, he strictly forbids the child to go near to his daggers and blades). Still, between you two, he is the one who tends to always take the child's parts

Nobody has the right to fuck with your child. No, he won't elaborate on that

He always talks to it about Anne, he knows she would have loved the baby with all her being. If it is a girl, Noah tries to convince you to name her after his mother, ending in tears as soon as you agree.

#noah jack the ripper spin off #jack the ripper spin off #jack the ripper case files #jack the ripper cases files #jack the ripper no jikenbo #snv noah #ror noah #noah jack the ripper case files #record of ragnarok #shuumatsu no valkyrie #ror #snv

[khadanami]

Zodiac Signs as Puppet Combo Villains

Aries- The Nun

Taurus- The Mutilator

Gemini- Billy

Cancer- Santa

Leo- Dr. Edward Sullivan

Virgo- Womb Ripper

Libra- Larry's tree

Scorpio- Night Ripper

Sagittarius- Easter Ripper

Capricorn- Night Shift Abductor

Aquarius- Neokalaus Burr

Pisces- Driller Killer

#puppet combo #video game #zodiac signs #astrology #villains #the nun #nun massacre #the mutilator #billy #feed me billy #larry's tree #christmas massacre #night shift abductor #stay out of the house #night shift #night ripper #driller killer #power drill massacre #easter ripper #murder house #womb ripper #bloodwash #dr.edward sullivan #the glass staircase #santa #babysitter bloodbath #the night ripper #planet of bloodthirsty santa

[neotrances]

soooo the trans misogynist watches shows about transgender women stealing uteruses, cosplays characters from that show, and thinks they aren’t a transphobe 🤣 ? ? ?

u donot actually care about transfems if ur throwing that word around about a show and a character u know nothing about, i’m putting this here bc yall r so annoying and performative

madam red the CIS woman was the one stealing and ripping out uteruses NOT grell the transfem, madam red was killing women and taking their uteruses bc she lost the ability to have children and started resenting women who could who either had abortions or asked to have their tubes tied bc madam red is a SURGEON

madam red (angelina) was killing women and taking their wombs weeks before grell joined but grell NEVER took anyones uterus, she only helped madam red hide the body / transport madam red different places with magic so she would have a solid alibi and not get caught, madam red is a villian, she is going to do evil things as a villian, grell is more of a grey character but she never took anyones uterus, and wanna know how we know this for a fact?

all the surgeries and uterus removals were precisely done. by someone with clear knowledge in surgery and the medical field, grell has a chainsaw, a massive chainsaw, she wouldn’t be able to take a uterus out cleanly even if she tried, the whole plot point is that madam red the cis woman is jack the ripper bc of her jealously toward women who can bare children and choose not to / choose to undergo surgeries that make it harder to do so, if u wanted to talk about the implications of madam red and grell bonding and falling in love bc they both are women unable to have children, a thing they both want, then we could talk about that, but who r u helping by lying on me and on the show i clearly know more than u about

if u don’t like my cosplay that’s fine nobody cares but stop calling ppl transphobes over anime u are soo so irritating

#✉️ #bb

[doggirlboytits]

uhm sweaty buffalo bill isnt problematic tho??? like it’s literally said he isn’t a “real transsexual” so he couldn’t possibly be a transmisogynistic trope killer.

same with sleepaway camp, she’s not a standin for a trans woman, it’s simply that his evil stepmother always wanted a daughter so brainwashed him into wanting to be a woman and then she was so irreversibly damaged she kills people because of it.

norman bates??? he lichrally just has mommy issues hon

no the black butler version of jack the ripper just wants to kill women in sex work because he’s jealous of their wombs and is a man who pretends he’s a woman simple as that

anyway you saying that i, a trans man, don’t have to deal with transmisogyny is actually so transmisogynistic because someone thought i was a trans woman once, and someone calling me a tranny is the full extent of what transmisogyny is and it doesn’t impact any other part of anybodies lives than someone catcalling me one time

#transmisogyny

[queen-of-deans-booty]

Man’s Best Friend with Benefits: Final Part

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.6k

!! Warnings: stillborn, baby in dies in womb, trauma associated with that, explicit (minor) talk of baby dying, heartbreak, really heavy angst, canon angst and violence !!

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Supernatural. All credit goes to their respective owners. Any and all comments on these are appreciated.

He heads back to the police station to further question Ed since he seemed very suspicious last time. At the end of the hallway Garth is in is a door, and when it opens, both Ed and Josh exit out of it. Josh is holding a thick file in his left hand, and Garth can't help but think it's for the case he's trying to get information on.

"Gentlemen," Garth greets them.

"Still investigating this shitty little case? I'm awed the Bureau has so much time on its hands," Ed comments.

"Right, well, we have some individual discretion to pursue cases."

Garth glosses over the file in Josh's hands and sees James' name on it. That's the file he needs, but it looks like they won't give it up so easily.

"I'll catch up later, Ed," Josh says and walks away, taking the file with him.

"At some point, cases like this go cold, as I'm sure you're aware. Just not enough to keep them floating."

"No new leads, then?"

"No, and it's drifting towards the back burner, really. We just don't have the manpower."

"Then it must have been tough to lose a valuable resource like Lieutenant Frampton. See, he and I caught a case together a while back."

"Well, he's not lost to me. He's on leave," Ed stutters.

"I remember he said he was the youngest guy here to ever make lieutenant. Must have been something special."

"No, this place is run like a dogsled--no stars, just grunts. One mutt goes lame, another one pops up and slogs through the slush. Agent."

Ed leaves before Garth can ask him any more questions. Something is definitely wrong here, and Ed is hiding something. Ed and Josh walked into a room not far from where Garth is, and when he tries to open the door, it's locked. Maybe Sam will have better luck with Portia.

After Sam had calmed down, he and Portia drove to a large garage that seemed abandoned. They were secretly meeting with another one from her world about this since the people in the club were of no use to them.

"So, this warlock we're meeting with is a snitch?" Sam asks once he parks.

"Cops have snitches all over town. James uses Drexyl when he suspects someone in the community."

An orange gremlin with one brown stripe down each side drives through the open garage door and stops just feet from where Sam and Portia are parked. They both get out to greet Drexyl who calmly gets out and walks over to them.

"Drexyl, this is Sam."

"A wiccan from Detroit. I heard. So, here's the deal, there is absolutely no word on the street about any witch-hexing another one."

"Are you sure there's not any kind of spell?"

"Look, Detroit, I pride myself on reliable sourcing. There is, however, a lot of chatter about our James," Drexyl says.

"What kind of chatter?"

"That he's gone ripper. Someone's circulating the rumor that he's set at full kill."

"One of us?" Portia gasps.

"If the cops get wind of it, arrest James, and find out what he really is, that exposes the rest of us. You know that can't happen."

"What does that mean?" Sam wonders, getting a bit confused.

"They're gonna give James two choices: leave or get killed. Witches appreciate a grand gesture."

"I won't let him do that."

"Well, the community might do it for him."

Drexyl has no other information, so he leaves the two of them and backs away from the abandoned garage. Sam and Portia have no other option but to return back to James' house. Garth is waiting for them when they return since James is still chained to his bed.

"Hey, I've been going over Bobby's data. Portia might not be wrong. Turns out there is a spell for implanting images into another person's brain."

"Really?" Sam asks.

"Yeah."

"So, James could be convinced he killed those other people without ever touching them. Maybe it is somebody else," Sam says hopefully.

"Yeah, who's going to a hell of a lot of trouble to make it look like James. According to Ed Stoltz, they don;t have anything, but I know they got something. I saw the  tech guy who's working the case, and he had a huge file folder marked 'James Frampton'," Garth reveals.

"Ed didn't mention that before."

"No, he didn't."

Garth, Portia, and Sam walk into the back bedroom where James is lying there calmly.

"Portia tells me my friends in the community want me burned at the stake," he tries to joke.

"It's not looking good right now. The cops may have more on the case than they're saying, including a big file on you. I get the feeling whatever they have is under lock and key at the precinct in room C-110," Garth says.

"We need to break in."

"Yeah, of course. We'll just break into a police station into a locked office that is crawling with officers. Why didn't I think of that?" Sam says sarcastically.

"Sam, a witch can go to a place without having to go to a place. It's called astral projection. I can project my awareness anywhere from the comfort of right here. These have got to go," James says, motioning to his iron chains. "Irons on, no magic. No magic, no break-in."

"Okay, but only if we can go with you," Sam says.

James has no choice but to agree to them. Sam removes the shackles from his wrist, and he and Garth take a seat on either side of him. James grabs both Sam and Garth's hand while Portia stands in front of them.

"James, are you sure you're still even able to do this?" Portia asks worriedly.

"Just close your eyes," James says, ignoring Portia's question. "Whatever I see, I'll pass on to you, too."

James chants something in Latin, and suddenly, Sam and Garth are taken on an astral plane ride. It's like their souls are lifted from their bodies and being transported through the air all the way to the police station. It's as if they have a third-person view of themselves and the world around them.

They're brought to the police station and to the locked door that Garth saw Ed and Josh go into. Once inside, they see files on files about James. There are pictures and case files on the walls, and Ed is inside watching Phillppe sign a witness statement. Philippe is Spencer's familiar, one of the people that Sam and Portia talked to at the club.

Suddenly, the vision ends, and everyone is brought back into their own bodies. Sam and Garth take a second to get themselves situated, but James is pissed.

"Stoltz is building a case against me."

"What?!" Portia growls angrily.

"Ed has always wanted a breakthrough case. Nailing a renegade cop would qualify. In my first case, they dropped him as the lead detective, and they went with me."

"Do you think this is payback for that?"

"He can't just arrest you. He needs evidence. He needs proof," Portia panics.

"He's got it! He's got everything!" James yells.

"From who?"

"Phil, the cat," Sam pants.

"Philippe," Portia growls.

James gets so angry that his powers go haywire. Sam tries to calm him down, and he can't help but think that if you were here, you'd be able to help James in more ways than Sam or Garth could. You'd be able to use your powers to help James calm down, and help him catch whoever is doing this.

Instead, you're about to receive the worst news you might ever get in your life.

Dean finally managed to get to your room after calming down himself. Joanna is still with the social worker because he does not want her seeing you after you get the news you will never hold your son. You're just waking up from surgery and notice Dean closes the door right behind him.

"Hey, what happened?" you panic slightly.

"How are you feeling?"

Dean tried so hard to get the swelling around his eyes to go down since he was crying so much, but he doesn't think you notice because you're worried about other things right now.

"Tired, but okay. What happened?"

"You fell and hit your head on the side of the laundry machine. Sweetheart, you had a brain bleed. You were taken into surgery, but you're going to be just fine. Your magic healed you of the injury, and they expect you to go home in a few days."

As he is explaining, you're looking around the room in confusion. Your hand immediately goes to your stomach, and you gasp when you don't feel your children inside.

"Where's our kids? Joanna?"

"Joanna is with a social service worker. She is just fine. Maryann--"

"Please tell me our baby girl's okay," you whimper.

"She is in the NICU right now, and they're going to keep her here for two months. They want to monitor her progress, but the doctor says that she's very healthy for her age. She's going to be okay."

"And our son?" A fresh wave of tears comes for Dean, and the second you see the water in his eyes, you shake your head in denial. "No. Do not tell me anything but he's okay. Please, Dean, tell me our son is okay."

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart."

His words flow out of his mouth, but you're not really hearing what he has to say. You're drowning in your own fears and heartache. After letting it sink in that you're never going to hold him and make memories with him, you tip your head back and just sob. Dean scoots closer to your bed and grabs your hand, leaning in to hold you close.

Dean will show you his foot and hand prints, the bracelet, and the lock of his hair once you've calmed down, but you realize you'll never be able to come back for this. You've provided him with a home for seven months, and now he's never going to see his new one with the rest of his family.

Sam must know by now, and you can't imagine what he is thinking.

Sam and Garth were no match for James once it sunk in that his coworkers and his friends betrayed him. Even Portia was no match for him and his powers. He basically shunned her away while Sam and Garth got the brutal end of his wrath. James needed to get the two men out of the way, and he'd be able to handle things his way.

As soon as Sam and Garth came to, they rushed over to the club since they had a feeling James was going to go there and confront Spencer. SAm sneaks in through the back and overhears James and Spencer's conversation. He peeks over the side and sees Philippe lying on one of the tables with Spencer behind him.

Spencer reaches down to Philippe and snaps his neck as if he meant nothing to him.

"He was always spineless. Now literally."

"It was you. You were behind all this?"

"I humbly accept credit."

"You made me think I was a killer. Ed Stoltz put you up to it. He found out you were a witch and tried to blackmail you," James accuses him.

"You're not using your thinking cap, Jimmy. It was actually crucial that he didn't believe in the occult. I'd say he's built quite a solid case, don't you?"

"I don't understand."

"Of course you don't. Neither of you ever considered my feelings," Spencer scoffs.

"Portia? This is about her?"

"Can you imagine the insult when she chose you? I wanted her as my soulmate the moment I saw her."

"She was meant to be my familiar."

"Oh, she's way more than familiar, isn't she? When she picked you as master, I endured it. When you two went all Bella and Edward, broke the code, and put your passions before the community rules, well, the entitlement was too much. Your total ruination seemed appropriate." Sam has had enough of this and knows he needs to step in. Him and Garth enter the room, making themselves known. "The wiccan from Detroit."

Before Sam has a chance to say anything, Spencer tosses both Garth and Sam into the wall behind them with his powers. James throws a bolt of magic at Spencer, and the older man chuckles.

"Seriously, you want to take me on?"

Spencer sends his own energy beam at James, causing him to stiffen up. Spencer raises James into the air, and he cries out in pain at what Spencer is doing to him. Sam and Garth get up, and Sam takes out the bottle they were going to use on James. Instead, they're going to use it on Spencer.

"Hurry," Garth urges.

While still holding James in the air, Spencer puts a hand up towards the two hunters and sends a beam into both Sam and Garth. They both freeze in place as their eyes turn the same color as Spencer's magic.

"It's not only James' head I can get inside."

Whatever Spencer is doing, it's causing Sam to relive all of the bad things that's ever happened to him. Him taking demon blood, fighting with his dad, falling into Hell with Michael and Lucifer, when his soul was burning in Hell, and every bad thing he's ever done while being soulless. Garth is experiencing his own pain as well, and neither of them can do anything but stand there and take it.

Portia, in her dog form, comes running into the room and jumps on Spencer, quickly trying to take him out. When Spencer hits the ground, his hold releases on everyone. James falls back onto the ground, and Sam and Garth are able to move again. Sam quickly takes out the bottle while Garth takes out his match. Portia and Spencer still continue to fight, but it gives Sam the time he needs to do the spell.

With a few words in Latin, he throws the concoction onto Spencer once he throws Portia off him. A swirl of smoke engulfs Spencer as he turns into blood and ash. Portia, now in her human form, rushes over to James who meets her in the middle. With Spencer out of the picture, James' life should go back to normal. There is still the issue with Ed and the case he is building against him, but James and Portia can handle that on their own.

Sam would really love to stay and help James with his problem, but his nephew just died and he really needs to get back to Kansas. It was a long and tiring drive, but Sam and Garth made it back just in time for you to have calmed down. You were given the chance to see Robert in the same way Dean did, and you two grieved together inside the tiny OR room. He will be cremated so you can take him home, but you have someone else to see right now.

"Hey, I got here as quickly as we could," Sam says.

"You're here now," you cry. "That's all that matters."

"I am so sorry."

Both Sam and Garth each give you a hug, but they're not the ones you want to see right now. With your doctor's permission, you have a nurse wheel you to the NICU so you can see your baby girl. She is inside one of the incubators to help her grow stronger, but you're allowed to stick your hand inside and touch her so she knows her mom is by her side.

"Hi, my angel," you whisper and stick your hand inside. You run the back of your finger down her rosy cheeks, letting the tears fall freely. You move your finger to her hand, and she grips your finger tightly. She knows you're here. "I can't wait to take you home. You get better, okay? Mommy and Daddy are waiting for you to come home. You have a family and a big sister, and your brother loves you so very much even though he can't be here with us."

Sam and Garth stay off to the side while you and Dean talk to your little girl. You have two kids now, and you will do everything in your power to give them the life they deserve--a life full of happiness, love, and adventure.

x

Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

#man's best friend with benefits #series rewrite #supernatural series rewrite #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester fiction #dean winchester fan fiction #dean winchester fan fic #dean winchester angst #supernatural #supernatural fic #supernatural fiction #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fan fiction #supernatural fanfic #supernatural fan fic #supernatural angst #spn #spn fic #spn fiction #spn fanfiction #spn fan fiction #spn fanfic #spn fan fic #spn angst

[queerspaceprince]

Id never noticed before, but i think theres an inconsistency in criminal minds 7x22

When rossi comes back to the team back when gideon left, its the first time the team (barring hotch) meet him.

Yet in 7x22, while giving a lecture about the 'womb ripper' case, it mentions that after rossi leaves to write books, theres another victim years later, so hotch calls him in to help. But by that time at least both morgan and reid are shown to be on the team. So? They wouldve met him before he officially came back, despite what they said in the other epidode.

Unless I'm missing something, idk.

#criminal minds #7x22 #profiling 101 #david rossi

[sociopath-analysis]

Sociopath Profile: Mira

Participant 8 From the 2016 video game Zero Time Dilemma Voiced by Maaya Sakamoto (JP) and Rachel Kimsey (EN)

[MAJOR SPOILERS BELOW]

Mira is actually a natural-born psychopath. She's the serial killer known as the Heart Ripper and she displays several traits of antisocial personality disorder and the character type of a sociopath.

And I cannot go on further without noting that in her mother’s womb, her brain did not form the proper connections to feel emotions like love and compassion. She is genuinely incapable of feeling such things. So much so that she thought that she could find the secret to feeling these things in people’s literal hearts. Yes, she is completely unable to make the distinction between figurative and biological hearts.

That said, she’s pretty good at faking it. For the most part, no one was actually able to suspect that she was the Heart Ripper. She knows how to put on a pretty face and a smile and go through the motions. Either to manipulate someone or just to look like a normal human being. But there can be cracks in this mask. Such as when Eric tells her about his abusive past. She actually laughs at it. And there’s also her being disturbingly calm about being covered in blood.

Mira shows no consideration for anyone other than herself with her inability to make interpersonal connections. She cannot see people as anything other than pathetic, stupid, uninteresting, gullible, weak creatures that exist as amusing toys to exploit for wealth, sex, and studying their hearts. If Sean shoots Eric, she’ll be more upset that he damaged his heart rather than the fact that he’s dead. And she believes she has the "right" to kill any animal or person she wants.

Along with that is her pathological need for amusement and satisfaction. Killing gives her a euphoric rush. She has some disturbing commentary as she feels Eric’s heart after killing him and being bathed in his blood. She even starts moaning while doing it. After committing several murders, she found that she gets more enjoyment if the victim forgives her for it. That is why she is grooming Eric to be her murder victim. So that he’ll love her even as she kills him. Of course, she doesn’t reciprocate.

And she has no shame, guilt, or remorse over killing any person or animal. She sees no value in human life and doesn’t care one way or the other if anyone gets hurt.

But ultimately, Mira’s psychopathy isn’t just her being an evil character. As I noted before, her mind is not physically capable of deeper emotions. She’s a genuinely mentally impaired woman who seeks to understand why she is so heartless. And with her being unable to form interpersonal connections, she is pathologically selfish. She can’t help but be this way.

Female Sociopath List

#Mira ZTD #Zero Time Dilemma #Zero Escape #spoilers #profile #character analysis

[chososhairbuns]

the fact that there is even one anime that portrays jack the ripper as a trans woman ripping out other women's wombs is already super gross and ridiculously vile but what if i told you that there are actually two anime that do this. what if i told you that the anime on the right does what the anime on the left did in a way that can arguably be deemed worse. what if i told you anime was a mistake.

#.are #transmisogyny #ask to tag #this shit should definitely be tagged but i also don't even fucking know what to call it

[cloudcountry]

Time for “Her Outfit Is Awful But She’s Everyone’s Daughter”

Meeeet….

JACK THE RIPPER

I know what you’re probably thinking. “Jack the Ripper?! Why is that person everyone’s child?!”

Now this is where the very bizarre and somewhat disturbing backstory comes into play.

VERY long story short, Jack the Ripper is a wraith, the collective embodiments of dozens of dead fetuses who were never given the opportunity to be born. That’s why they kill women; they want to be born and are obsessed with warm places that remind them of the womb.

NOW DESPITE JACK BEING A CHILD THE GAME DEVELOPERS GAVE HER A FRICKING THONG ITS HARDER THAN IT SHOULD BE TO FIND GOOD WHOLESOME FANART WHEN THATS THE COSTUME!!!

(but LITERALLY she has an in game friendship with Nursery Rhyme (another slightly odd but adorable child) and it’s genuinely precious)

okay tahts like,,, creepy as hell you were right about the whole "bad design of fem characters thing"

the jack teh ripper case is cool though and thats a horrifying spin on it ^^;

#👹! em #tw murder

[unstablegrass]

THIS DIDNT TAKE ME LONG BUT HERE IS THE WOMB RIPPER FROM BLOODWASH

#bloodwash #Horror #sketch