#arkin obrien

[relatablepig]

Arkin: *shouts one of the most hateful slurs you can say to the LGBTQ at asa*

Fans: "they love each other so much, they're so gay"

Bruh The Collector is a tormented killer who has no emotional connections.

Arkin is a family man who wanted to pay off his wife's loans and be a good dad to his daughter.

I'm going to need yall to use your heads here.

[slasherkisss]

Could we pleas get something for reader x arkin where the collector kidnaps them and taunts arkin about it? Really anything with arkin!!

[ARKIN MY BOY I will happily write something for him!]

He thought he had been past all of this.

He thought that, at the end of the day, he would be safe. That YOU would be safe. Safe with him and safe away from that homicidal maniac who had grown something of an obsessive fondness for the One Who Escaped. That the two of you would be able to live your  lives with each other as the world continued revolve far, far away from you both.

 He realized now how foolish of a thought that was. Especially as he stared with slowly increasing rage at the footage playing before him.

You hadn’t been home. Strange, but you did work late sometimes. The panic only set it when he saw a single video tape laid out neatly across the spot in the dining room that was usually yours. When he put it in his stomach clenched at the sight.

Your body, stripped and blind folded and shaking with pure terror, put itself on display for him in front of the blurry motion camera. Your head shook from side to side and even in the low quality he could see you TREMBLING. He didn’t want his suspicions to be true, but they were proven nonetheless as a familiar masked face entered the scene of the small movie, a knife in his hand a smirk so clear even through the edges of the mouth piece. Familiar, beetle like eyes glimmered with malice and Arkin’s fingertips curled into a fist.

He shut the video tape off as he heard you beg. As he heard you scream when the knife the other was holding sunk into the tender edges of your flesh and pushed down to carve out pieces that bled with profuse gore and copper.

There was silence for a long moment before he turned, his fist slamming down onto the nearest wall so hard that it cracked the edges around his knuckles through his sharp curse. 

There was fire in Arkin’s veins as he thought of you now. Of your smiling face in the morning sun. Of your touches against his scars and the kisses to his temple that you left as you whispered that you loved him. Of his arms around you and the scent of your body wash invading his nostrils as he took in all of you as though it were the last time you two would see one another.

It might be now.

But he was gonna make damn sure that he would get you back, he decided as he moved, sharp and angry and with purpose, and grabbed his coat.

Fuck that. He was going to get you back. 

[nyxthereaper]

[voorheehees]

The Collector: *takes one victim from each crime scene*

Me volunteering:

[nyxthereaper]

Content for my fellow collector fuckers

Yea we exist i swear

[voorheehees]

Closure

Thank you so much @slash-em-up​ for all your help with this!!

{This fic takes place just before the ending of The Collection}

900+ Words

As far as the authorities were concerned, The Collector was dead. No bodies had been found, and for all they cared, no one could have possibly survived the incident that occurred only minutes prior. The mystery man in all black who was standing calmly behind the bright yellow caution tape went unnoticed by the heat, masked by all the chaos and the ever growing swarm of people. Police lights cast faded hues of red and blue across his face, revealing a slight deadpan expression, lips parted slightly. His whole being was filled with some sick combination of rage, agony, and emptiness. There in the distance layed everything. His palace, now engulfed by brilliant orange flames, would be nothing more than a pile of rubble and a cheap newspaper headline tomorrow. Hellstrom and Burkard, Abby, everything was gone. He almost wanted to shed a tear or two, but the excruciating physical pain he felt outweighed his emotions. He rubbed his jaw, which ached with an incredibly sharp sting. Not broken though. Good. However, he still found himself needing to spit up small globs of saliva and blood, the inside of his mouth feeling metallic and burnt. He was in bad shape, but he would be okay. It seemed that he always was in the end, he was quick to heal. The euphoric idea of an ice bath and a heavy sleep provided some comfort for him despite the circumstances. The cool autumn air felt good against his burning skin, and he couldn’t help but let his eyes flutter shut with each gust of wind in his direction. It was over. There was no point dwelling on things, even if he had lost everything he had worked so hard for. Maybe he would try again, maybe not. He wasn’t getting any younger, afterall. 

Panic soon weaseled its way into his mind as he spotted a blurred, yet familiar figure sitting hunched over on the back of an ambulance. Arkin. A recent memory of the man ripping off his protective mask, exposing his true identity crawled over The Collector’s skin like a cockroach. Arkin knew his face, he may not have known his name but he knew his face. And that was all law enforcement would need. He began to absent mindedly slap at his pants pockets, trying his best to remain casual, and not convey the stress he felt to the crowd of bystanders surrounding him. No one paid any mind to him, however. They were much too concerned with the scene ahead, a few of them covering their noses against the horrible death smell coming from the hotel.

A wave of relief washed over him when his hands found the familiar shape of keys in his front pocket. He recalled the 2002, hunter green Buick he had parked at the loading dock on the other side of the hotel in case of an emergency. And this was a fucking emergency. Without wasting another moment, he slipped away from the crowd, making a great attempt to get to the back of the building as quickly and invisibly as possible. Luckily, the loading dock hadn’t been singed by the fire yet, but the excruciating heat radiating from it told The Collector that he had gotten there just in time. As expected, the Buick sat neatly and evenly in a parking slot, almost as if it were waiting for him. The key slid effortlessly into the door lock, yet the door creaked open with a sickening screech. He managed to squeeze himself inside, his knees uncomfortably reaching the sides of the steering wheel. What a clown car. He mentally promised himself that he would look for a new ride as soon as he could, one that would better accommodate his large frame. The vehicle sputtered to life, much to The Collector’s solace. Without another breath, he sped out of the building, his only intention being to start the long, tedious journey home. However, some unconscious force seemed to drag the car back around the building, as if to say one final goodbye to his beloved collection. Although the flames were now beginning to die down, it seemed as though the entire block was still illuminated by the destruction. He couldn’t help but feel a sense of defeat, it seemed like such a waste. All those years of work, of perfecting, they were just ash now. The voice of his father gnawed away at the back of his head.

“You’re just a useless piece of shit.” 

He gulped, almost feeling the inevitable open palmed strike that would crash to the side of his head. His face began to burn even more. His own hands clenched into fists on the steering wheel, and he looked down at them. Large, hard, and strong, like his father’s. People used to say they looked identical, that he was just a mini Mr. Emory. 

“You’ll never amount to anything.”

He flicked on the staticky radio in an attempt to silence the phantom version of his father. 

‘...Authorities have reported over two dozen bodies so far that have been pulled from what could be the most deadly crime scene we’ve seen...’ 

The woman on the radio sounded professional, but there could be no denying the disgust and fear in her subtly trembling voice. A slight smirk suddenly painted its way across The Collector’s face, his cold, dead eyes flickering with oranges and reds from the fire. Yellow clad firemen began to pull the dozens of antique trunks from the burning hotel, and he watched them intently. The phrase “the most deadly crime scene” replayed in his head, defeat slowly transforming itself into pride. Oh, if his father could only see him now.

[horrorhodgepodge]

The Collector [31 Days of Horror: Day 8]

🦇Summary Tonight, we’re entering the twisted world of “The Collector,” a sadistic home invasion thriller that will leave you on the edge of your seat. 🪑 A man breaks into a seemingly empty house to steal a valuable gem, only to discover that he’s not alone. 🔪 A masked killer has transformed the house into a deadly playground, and our protagonist must fight for his life in a desperate game of cat…

The Collector [31 Days of Horror: Day 8]

[relatablepig]

Calling Arkin a twink is such one braincell behavior, like did you skip the second movie?