ʜᴇᴀʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀᴠᴇꜱ. ꜱɪꜰᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀɴᴅ. ꜱᴍɪʟᴇ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀᴍʙᴇʀ ꜱᴜɴ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴄᴇᴀɴ ɪꜱ ᴄᴀʟʟɪɴɢ. ʟᴇᴛ ᴘᴀʀᴀᴅɪꜱᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ.
THERES BLOOD IN THE WATER GET OUT GET OUT
ᴛᴡᴇɴᴛʏ ʏᴇᴀʀꜱ ᴏʟᴅ. ʙᴏʀɴ 2005. ꜱʜᴇ/ʜᴇʀ
there's blood in the water why is there blood in the water
CURRENT ASK STATUS:
CLOSED FOR REQUESTS, ASKS ARE OPEN
Papa Alpha Sierria Sierria — Tango Hotel Echo — Delta Uniform Tango Charlie Hotel India Echo.
MASTERLIST
my AO3 my tiktok
"to whom shall I address my letters?"
🛖COTTAGE ONE: MERCY, MERCY MY STABBED HEART!
CREEPYPASTA MASTERLIST
🛖COTTAGE TWO: THE TECH ZONE
CREEPYPASTA SMAU MASTERLIST
🛖COTTAGE THREE: THE BAR
CREEPYPASTA DRABBLE MASTERLIST
RULE BOOK
ASKS: RULES AND REGULATIONS
🌺wait! a turtle blocks you from your path!
!DISCLAIMERS!
this is an nsfw and smut page. please read my fanfics at your own risks.
unfortunately, i am unable to provide fics with male or gender neutral POVs as I am quite the unexperienced writer and im only now just starting out. however, i am taking the time to familiarize myself and observe fics with gender neutral and male readers at the moment, and will come to you after I am properly prepared and practiced.
sometimes, i would change plots/add my own headcannons and implications inside my works.
i am not yet fully educated on certain topics/pop culture/real life instances so please leave corrections in the comments and be patient for my improvement.
WHAT I WRITE FOR
🌺what nourishes in my island and what dries my lagoons?
THINGS I AM WILLING TO WRITE FOR:
blood
bondage
alternate universes/AUs
THINGS I AM NOT WILLING TO WRITE FOR:
scat
vomit
feet
incest
illegal age gaps
cheating/homewrecking
THINGS I WISH I COULD WRITE FOR, BUT CANT:
- readers with a specific race (black, asian, brown, etc.).
I welcome absolutely everyone to read my writing. However, i lack soooo much research/experience in writing for readers with a specific race. Which means if someone requested a black!reader i would absolutely love to write for them, but i am not black. Which also means i have not experienced the struggles of being a black person firsthand, and there is so much research that needs to be done in order for me to write about it. This goes for all races. I am southeast asian and I love love love my colored readers, but i feel like its just not my place to dictate what these beautiful people go through, nor do i have the ancestry to back it. Not to mention that i would literally die before i instill a harmful stereotype unintentionally.
But!! all readers in my fics/smaus/drabbles are made as anonymous/customizable as possible. I try not to instill specific hairtypes/length, eye colors, skin colors-- because i want my writing to be for literally EVERYONE. The only canon thing that my writing has is that it's all for female reader. (for now)
- trans!reader. again, i have no experience and still lack research!! (i am afab) trans people are beautiful and people--- but again, i have not experienced the things these people go through firsthand--- and i dont want to make harmful stereotypes. Again, the reader in my fics are made as customizable as possible to accommodate everyone.
- pregnant!reader/reader with kids. im sorry im SORRY i just DONT DO KIDS. even if it is sfw. i can make domestic-type fics, but no kids will be involved:(( im sorry its just a boundary of mine
- fandom-specific readers. ive done a few of these before but its getting a little hard for me to incorporate specific characters as the reader:(((( i cant do it anymore im sorry my lack of knowledge from other fandoms/media are very little and i can no longer write for them.
*if you are not sure if I write for something, then please ask!
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TAGS I USE:
#amber uses her noggin🌴
- for headcannons, drabbles, and discussions
#siren's signal🧜♀️
- for announcements and delay notices
#amber's answers 🍊
-for ask answers!
#amber says 🍸
- for my random ass yapping
🌺 shining shrimps!
our anon list!
🦯 anon,
🌺may the sun guide you.
theres blood in the water this is no paradise theres blood in the water oh god help us all someones dead
Thank you, my shrimps, for staying here for so long and putting up with my lukewarm writing ever since my early days on this goddamn app.
Every log-in is like a breath of fresh air from life, and every interaction i get from all of you is a breath of fresh air from heaven itself, even if it did exist.
I love you all so so much. Cheers to another year of writing!
hihi! i loovee your ben fics, the way you write him is so delicious.. i was wondering if you’re working on any more ben fics or if you have any plans to? 👀👀👀👀
How do we feel about diner waitress!reader serving the creeps begrudgingly because they keep on hitting on her??
And theyd be trying on their best pickup lines on her, too. If reader sends another waitress to serve them, they would immediately request for you specifically.
Lmk what you guys think! Im thinking jeff, ben, and EJ, OR tim, brian and toby.
TW; implied murder, heavily implied threesome, lots of implied staring, nude-sending (not from reader), foul language, improper use of handcuffs, Tim x Brian if you squint
Tim and Brian loved playing poker-- but with you in on the bets-- maybe, just maybe, Tim might share.
OR: Texts between Tim and Brian competing over you.
My ask box is eating up more than half of your messages and asks for the past 2 months. Ive patiently waited for tumblr to give rhem back but what the FUCK dude
If you see a sudden influx of me answering asks i am SO sorry omg.
You're getting married to Brian Thomas--- but as both proxies, instead of rings, you exchange sniper rifles instead as physical proof of your commitment and love to each other.
His is in a classic color black, but yours is in ivory white. Perfect match, I'd say so.
TW; intense mourning, symptoms of depression and rage, major character loss, MURDER, BLOOD, pills but no overdose, CORPSE
WORD COUNT; 3164
The gravel underneath your feet felt like they were keeping you on the ground.
Your breath was heaving. Heavier than before.
Hunched over your own feet, you try to gain your stance back into shape with your hand on the dust-ridden streetlight. You had no more than little gasps and wisps of air forcing its way out of your lungs that suddenly felt too small.
Blurry white was clouding all sense of your peripheral vision. Everything was blending into the same damn color. You were in the clouds.
“You comin’ or what, puddin’?” Tim calls out to you from about five steps away. He walked to you, but it looked like there were rocks in his old loafers. “Little ol’ legs couldn’t keep up, huh?”
A flashing smile twitches on your face— but disappears in grimacing pain when the familiar sharpness in your sides return.
“Come on– let’s get you over there,” Tim holds half of your frame to keep you upright. The bench was only another few steps away- you felt pathetic.
The hard cedar wood of the bench presses against the bottom of your thighs. You feel the creases on your skin starting to form. Tim had set his guitar somewhere near already before helping you.
He was always a gentleman.
Gruff, yes. Cold, a little, but yes. A gentleman. A gentle man.
Tim had earned that title the night he held you after you cried. You were snug against his chest, and as calloused as his hands may be, his fingers combed through your hair like smooth butter while he whispered of sweet nothings in your ear.
No yelling like he did when he had to get the mansion’s living room empty. No barking orders at Toby or Jack or anybody else. Just you, him, his hands, and his heartbeat.
He had kissed your tears away that night. Wiped them away with his thumb, looking into your eyes and saying It’s okay. I’ve got you, my darlin’.
I’ve got you.
The trees looked beautiful today. Bright green and healthy– and the sun was perfect. Breeze was kissing your skin and it prickled a little— you hadn’t gone out of the house for a good while.
Tim’s guitar strings sound you out of reality. It was always kind of out of tune, and the strings weren’t in mint perfect condition- but it was your favorite, and his.
He’d had this guitar all the way back in high school. Tim always said he wished he had met you way sooner. The guitar was in its perfect performance at the time: he would've played non-stop for you everyday, even if you never had ears to begin with.
It wasn’t much: the guitar was left to him by his father as a lackluster gift before he croaked and died after years of bitter abuse. Since then, Tim had played a song or two on there– only Brian, and in the more recent times you, were the ones who witnessed him play. He wasn’t pro-rockstar good, but he was just good enough to make the notes sound decent.
Tim was sitting closer than usual next to you. You didn’t mind. He felt nice.
You watched him tune the strings once again. Not really tune– but just tightening the strings that are loose enough for him to notice. Speaking of noticing, he sticks a bit of his tongue out while doing it.
Giggling, you place your hand on his knee. “Play something for me, my love,” you started. “I want to hear your voice.”
Tim turns to you, grin half-stretched. “Ain’t you hear me enough, puddin’? Or are you just going plain deaf, now?”
You smack his shoulder and he snorts. “Don’t you mistake me for some old crook, mister,” you grin. “Plus,” you lick your lips. They feel drier than ever before. “That’s why I married you.”
Tim stops, staring at your face for a minute. His eyes wander around your features: your lips. Your nose. Your cheeks.
Your eyes. God, he loved your eyes.
They were the first thing he noticed when he met you at that damn convenience store. So wide and so pretty asking for just one cigarette, please, mister?
Tim had given a stick to you, no doubt. Lighting it up, even, with his very own lighter. You mentioned you liked his hands. He remembers laughing. Then you apologized and said you weren’t trying to be weird.
You exchanged numbers that day: yours on a gum wrapper paper, his on a cigarette stick.
Cliche.
“That’s why you did, huh?” Tim rasps. His fingers brushed through your hair, tucking a heavy lock behind your ear. “Not ‘cos I got superstar value?”
You snort this time. “If I married you for that, I would have left years ago.”
Silence.
Then, laughter.
You swat at his chest. “Now play the song! I don’t wanna walk all this way for nothing.”
“What song, puddin’?”
“You know what song. Come on, just do it! I wanna hear you.”
Tim sighs, then chuckles, then positions the back of the guitar against him.
He plays the intro you know so very well. Tim’s eyes kept on you the entire time. He wanted this song to be for you.
You stare at him back. Breathing in everything.
Tim starts singing.
And you forget every problem you’ve ever had in the world.
The strings carried his voice the way the tide carries moonlight: gently, naturally, as if they had always belonged together. Every vibration from the strings settled somewhere beneath your ribs, but it was Tim’s voice that made your heart answer.
If love had a sound, you imagined it would be the space where his voice dissolved into the trembling of six strings, leaving behind something too beautiful to call either music or speech.
You listened. You listened until you couldn't separate the grain of the guitar from the grain of his voice. By then, both had become part of you.
You rest your head on his shoulder. Everything in your head had become calmly heavy the moment the music blended into harmony in your head.
Beautiful. Everything was so beautiful.
The day Tim wanted to marry you was the day not when you had met Masky. Not the day when you had to stitch him up after a fight gone haywire. Not the day you invited him to live in your home rent-free.
It was the day you caught him with a knife in his hand, the gun in the other, and his mask drenched in blood. Actually, he was drenched in blood. Not only the mask.
You had forgotten to bring your extra set of keys, but what you hadn't forgotten, was that you had a back door if you would just go over the fence around your yard.
Doing that with 5 pound bags of groceries wasn’t so easy— but you made it over. All you needed to do was walk to your back door and everything would be fine—
If not for your boyfriend huddled over a stranger that had allegedly tried to break inside.
Masky heard the bags drop from your hands– and his heart dropped lower.
The stranger laid lifelessly, leg still twitching in response to whatever after-death reflexes he had.
Tim– Masky, stood in front of you, waiting for you to flee, to scream and threaten to call the police. He didn’t mean to take over this time. He just wanted you to be safe.
But you recognized that dark brown hair. You recognized those sideburns. You recognize that muscular build. Those boots. That jacket. Those hands.
You take small, small steps forward. The bags are left in the grass.
You knew you got close enough when you saw his eyes through the abyss called the eyeholes of his mask. They were flipping frantically, seemingly looking for signs of panic or fear or anger or disgust—
But what you did wasn’t in panic or fear or anger or disgust. What you did was, you pulled out a handkerchief from your back pocket, covered it with the tip of your finger, and started wiping the blood off of him.
It barely did anything, if you were being honest. In fact you were only smearing the blood further. But you weren’t scared. You weren’t scared. You were wiping the blood off of him.
Your eyes flickered between his. You didn’t want him to be scared either.
You’ve got as much blood as you can get off of him. Blotches of dirty red stained your handkerchief. But you didn’t mind. You loved Tim, all of him.
Even if there were a body in the ground.
Tim choked. Then he sobs.
Tim Wright was crying on your shoulder. You embraced him almost immediately– acceptance– no, a promise. A promise to love him for him, all of him.
And for a while, you felt your heartbeat sync with his. A rhythm unbreakable by bond, love, and a little blood.
Tim found a way to steal your ring size. He waited for 2 hours for you to fall asleep– but to him, it felt like nothing, nothing when it comes to the absolute love of his life.
He swore he could already hear the bells ringing. The stained glass shining in his eyes. The priest saying the iconic line of I now pronounce you: husband and—
“ —wife,” the words were barely uttered before Tim smashed his lips into yours, your body completely in his embrace while close friends and available family were there to celebrate, throwing white and pink petals into the air.
Tim pulls back.
You were ethereal. He thought if god really did exist– he was standing right in front of her.
Tim thought the moment the veil fell away, the world committed the gracious act of disappearing. There was only you—as though every beautiful thing he had ever known had merely been preparing him for this single breath. Your smile unraveled every careful vow he had rehearsed. Love was no longer something Tim intended to promise—it was simply the only thing he knew how to be.
The veil had hidden nothing. It had only delayed the miracle.
You were carried into bridal before you knew it. You felt like a mascot parading down the marble aisle, and you hid your face in between his neck.
“Tim! They’re watching us–”
“Good,” he kisses you on the cheek. “Let ‘em bastards know you’re stuck with me now.”
And stuck with him you’ve been. Stuck with him for five fantastic years.
The song was still going. How much could you remember in a span of a few minutes?
You snuggle against Tim. His warmth envelopes you immediately, and you breathe in a good amount of his scent.
Pine and tobacco. Classic.
You smile up at him, and he smiles back. Your eyes feel heavy, so so heavy.
Everything felt like it was slipping away into another world, and so did you.
You think you feel something wet drop on your cheek– but you didn’t mind. Tim would keep you covered in the rain. He always did.
The song went on forever, it seemed like. Forever’s not such a bad thing.
You were in the convenience store. Then you were in your bloodied yard. Then in your house. Then on your couch, watching Tim on one knee. Then in front of the altar.
You were there. You were there, and now you’re here.
Here, in Tim’s arms, in his protection, in his watch, his love.
You’re here. You’re here.
Your eyes finally close. Like how they would when you would sleep beside Tim after a long day: in his arms, basked in his warmth, hearing his voice— all for one, last time.
Tim couldn’t bring himself to stand in front of your casket.
The casket stood only a few steps away, yet it might as well have been the edge of the universe. His feet remembered how to walk beside yours, but never how to walk toward a world without you.
Tim lingered at the back of the chapel, not because he was afraid of death, but because he was afraid you would look too still to be the woman who had once laughed his name into something sacred.
He had promised to stand beside you until death did them part. No one had warned him that death would ask him to stand beside you without you standing back.
Tim couldn’t bear to see silence wearing your face.
He kept searching the room for the impossible—for the familiar sound of your footsteps apologising for being late, for your gentle voice telling everyone there had been some terrible mistake—
If Tim looked upon you now, he feared the last image of your laughter would surrender to the stillness before him. He wasn't ready to lose you twice.
So he remained at the threshold, suspended between devotion and denial, loving you with every fibre of his being, yet unable to take the few steps that would make your absence irrevocably real.
The day you were buried was the day everyone in the world heard Tim tear himself apart.
Brian had to hold him back while Toby stood eerily still from the sidelines. Tim was like an uncaged animal, screaming and thrashing and sobbing into the wind, begging to whatever gods up there cruel enough to take her from him to bring her back, just for one second.
Brian had given him his wife’s ring on a bloodstained cushion on his wedding day. Brian had been the one to give it to him back.
Tim wanted to climb into the silence after you, to spare you from facing eternity alone, forgetting for a fleeting moment that love could not follow where breath no longer could.
Long after everyone else had gone home, he remained beside the fresh earth. Tim spoke to the mound as though you were simply lying behind a closed door, apologising for leaving before you had answered. The sky dimmed, the flowers stirred in the evening breeze, and for the first time since meeting you, Tim turned away knowing there would be no familiar voice calling him back.
The months after were no better.
Tim had started wearing your ring on his pinky finger, along with his own wedding ring. The diamond looked awkward on him, and passersby who would spot him near the bridge would laugh and point and say it makes him look stupid.
If Tim looked stupid for loving you, then he had been a proud fool.
He hadn’t fixed the cabin up for weeks. Cobwebs started to grow in the corners. Mold started festering between the floorboards from spilled coffee. Shards of glass still remained on the floor from his meltdowns.
Likewise, your things remained untouched as well.
The leftover invitation cards from your wedding. The expired fried chicken you meant to microwave. The dirty laundry spilling over the basket.
Tim stared at the medbox blankly. Angrily. Seething.
He was mad at the doctors. Mad at the medicine he thought he would work. The countless sleepless visits you had to endure because the hospitals didn’t give a single shit.
The pill bottles were spilled on the floor in a span of 3 seconds.
Tim drank. And he drank. And he drank. Then, he’d vomit his already tiny breakfast (everything in your fridge grew mold. He couldn’t go outside. He didn’t want to.). After that, he’d plunge his face into his pillows and cry so much more. Then vomit again because he did that.
He’d stare at your wedding picture on the nightstand every time he fades to sleep.
Everything cycled. Spiraled. Everything in between.
No pain, no gunshot wound, no knife fight would ever amount to this, he thinks. Tim would rather get eaten alive by the void than to lose you all over again.
The years were patient where grief was not.
They settled into the lines of his face, silvered his hair, bent his back, and softened the strength in his hands. Seasons arrived faithfully, one after another, carrying springs that begged flowers to bloom and winters that insisted even the strongest trees could survive another cold. The world kept moving with an almost offensive certainty, as though it had forgotten the day it asked him to bury you.
He never did.
Not truly.
People told him time would heal him. It didn't. Time simply taught him how to carry an absence without dropping it.
They encouraged him to love again. They spoke gently, believing they were offering mercy.
Every quiet morning still belonged to you. Every empty chair across the table still waited for you. Every birthday, every anniversary, every first rain of the year found Tim instinctively turning his head, prepared to tell you something before remembering the conversation would have to remain unfinished.
The house became a museum curated by devotion.
Your books remained where you left them. Your favourite mug sat untouched in the cupboard. Your side of the wardrobe never welcomed another coat. Dust gathered where your fingertips no longer could, yet he could never bring himself to erase the last places that still looked as though you might return to them.
He feared that if he changed too much, you would come home one day and no longer recognise the life the two of you had built.
Age didn’t do Tim exactly too well.
Sometimes he would visit your grave and speak for hours, telling you about ordinary things. The neighbour's cat had become fat. The roses had finally bloomed. He had burned dinner again because he still never learned to cook your recipes quite right.
“How many cups of garlic did I really need, puddin’? — Ah, fuck- it’s a teaspoon.”
Anyone passing by might have mistaken him for a lonely old man talking to stone.
Hell, some even caught him playing his guitar in front of the damn thing.
Tim would even go out of his way to curate his own songs, maybe even plagiarizing some of the notes because grief didn’t allow creativity to spark him. Not that he even had any to begin with.
He’d “perform” in front of you, then ask if he did good and if the lyrics sounded sappy. They did. But Tim wanted you to say it. One last time.
As though somewhere beyond the reach of clocks and calendars, beyond the silence that had followed your last goodbye, you were waiting with the same patient smile you wore on your wedding day.
And if eternity granted him one final mercy, he imagined it would not be angels, or golden gates, or songs beyond human understanding.
It would simply be hearing your voice call his name again.
After all those years...
As though you had only been waiting for him to come home.
Giggling, you place your hand on his knee. “Play something for me, my love,” you started.
