#[worst case positively is that no one reads it and I just continue to make things at my own pace]

[the-leyline-directory]

[Important Updates; at least to me!]

Made two additional sideblogs for sorting!;

@idle-muses > For a collection of other characters I want to write but don't want to make an entire full blog for due to various reasons for each. (still being set up in some capacity cause I'm doing house furniture things for a bit!)

but most importantly [at least to me!] @novel-redacted \o/ Where I'm gonna be putting my novel work as it goes! It's posted on a 'chapter by chapter' basis, as that's evidently my way of telling my brain 'stop picking at it, move on' like when I used to write fanfics.

For novel things, It's not required reading in anyway, and the aspect of it having a blog is more for me specifically - as I genuinely have a great fear of sharing it! Last time I tried sharing my work a few years ago anons weren't too kind. [which just fed into my phobias]. So I'll be trying again! And worst case it continues to be 'just for me' \o/ and no one reads it! And that's okay!! (This is said fully positively! That's a good worst case scenario!)

Rambling a bit but the novel, called [REDACTED], is very important to me, as is the main character of it; probably more important than any other media creation I've ever made. I look forward to sharing it as I do \o/ Or, just to have it for myself!

[temporarywelcome]

Home Run - Spencer Reid

Wordcount: 2.6k

Summary: The FBI's baseball team needs a fill in for their game against the Secret Service, Morgan being able to convince Reid to take up the role. However, the boy genius does not have an athletic bone in his body, Morgan recruiting the genius' girlfriend to help.

Warnings: some swearing, Spencer is like a baseball magnet

A/N: my inbox is open! Currently working on my first request right now, and will hopefully have it posted tomorrow! This also can 100% be read as a standalone, though it's kind of a continuation of my first Spencer fic "Smooth Criminal". All information needed is in this fic as well though! ok ill stop yapping

-------------------

It might have been the worst day of Spencer’s life. 

Trudging along the field as sweat trickled down his neck and back, the sun beaming down at his pale, vulnerable skin. His tongue was dry, throat closing in on him. He could see spots clouding his vision. 

This wasn’t good.

“Jesus, Reid, we just got out of the car,” Morgan chuckled, hitting Spencer’s back, “This isn’t a desert,”

It wasn’t a desert, it was actually a baseball field. Which was just as bad to the boy genius. 

“You couldn’t ask Hotch or Rossi to do this?” Spencer mumbled nervously, eyeing the field as if some jock baseball player was going to come out of the dug out and murder him. 

“You’re young. Nice and nimble. Lots of potential-”

“They said no?”

“Yes, they said no,” Morgan sighed, placing down his bag on a bench in the dug out. Spencer did the same, awkwardly looking around once again. “Look, it’s only for one day,” 

“One day too many,” 

Morgan shot him a look, taking out his baseball glove and a ball, “We’ll start simple with some catching and throwing, yeah?” 

“This is so embarrassing,” Reid grumbled, grabbing his glove as well (which he has never used before, just buying it this morning). 

“Did you break it in like I told you to?”

He shook his head, “I got it two hours ago…”

Another sigh left his friend, who walked out into the disgusting sun. Spencer hesitantly followed.

And within fifteen minutes, Spencer was laid out on the ground in a starfish position, his life flashing before his very eyes. He thought this was the end.

“Shit! Reid! Reid!” Morgan sprinted towards the young genius, crouching next to his still figure, “Are you okay?” he touched Spencer’s cheek, already starting to turn red after connecting with the ball. 

“Shit, that hurts!” Spencer hissed, slapping Morgan’s hand away. The first sign of life. He slowly sat up, cradling his cheek, “I feel concussed,” his other hand went to the back of his head. 

“Be for real,” Derek muttered in worry, “It’s that bad?” Spencer had quite a low pain tolerance, so neither of them could tell how bad this really was. “I mean, you almost passed out just being in the sun.”

“I could feel my cells mutating,” 

“Let’s hope you’re just being dramatic,” 

_________________

Luckily for them, Spencer was being dramatic, and was back to normal activity the day after.

Like most days, his girlfriend, Y/N, drove into the bureau parking lot and parked, waiting for Spencer to get out of work. She was reading sheet music for her next show when there’s a knock on their window, making her gasp, snapping her head in the direction of her window.

Derek Morgan.

With a sigh, she pressed the button, window inching down slowly, “What the fuck was that for?”

Morgan laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck, “Sorry, Y/N. I know Spencer is trying desperately to keep you away from the team, especially after the fiasco last time we saw you, but…”

Ah, yes. Last time. Y/N and Spencer have been dating for a year, but he has kept the relationship extremely secretive from his team, until Garcia was able to finally crack the case and find pretty much everything to know about her, discovering she was a diagnosed kleptomaniac. The team (minus Hotch, who was peacefully in his office during the whole ordeal) was completely eager to meet this kleptomaniac girlfriend, and Y/N had a) admitted to not being able to pronounce JJ’s last name, and b) stole Rossi’s keys.

Yeah, Spencer wanted his girlfriend and friends far, far away from each other. 

“I really need your help.” Morgan finished.

“With what?” She asked in curiosity.

“I don’t mean to creep you out, but when Garcia did her whole ‘background check’ on you, or whatever you would want to call it, she found you used to play softball?”

“Yes, I’ve played since I was five,” She confirmed with a nod, “Still do, occasionally,”

“Well, the FBI has this little team I play on, and next weekend we’re going against the secret service, but we’re short one player, one of us has an injury. I convinced Spencer to fill in,” he noticed Y/N’s shocked expression, “Yeah, I know. I convinced him to fill in, really because no one else wanted to, and we went to practice yesterday-”

“Oh, yes! He’s got a huge bruise on his cheek, he said it was from some special training though,” Y/N laughed, “I guess he was embarrassed. He was hit by a ball?”

“Yes, he was on the grass fifteen minutes into our practice. It’s bad. He doesn’t even want to practice anymore, but I need him for that game. We haven’t beaten the secret service in years.”

“So you want me to convince him?” She concluded.

“Not just that. Maybe he’ll be more willing to learn if you’re also there to teach him?” 

“Hm,” 

Derek frowned, “Please, Y/N?”

She playfully narrowed her eyes at him, “How much?”

“What?”

“How much did you bet on this game?”

“Oh,” he awkwardly cleared his throat, “Five hundred,”

“Damn,” she whistled, “We gotta whip Spencer into shape,”

___________________

Spencer loved Y/N.

He loved her dearly.

However, right now he hated her with a burning passion.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Morgan asked as Spencer ran from home to first base. “What if this just makes him quit again?”

She had Spencer running laps. “He won’t.”

He only did two runs around the diamond before he came back to them, panting dramatically, hands on his knees, “Why… why do I have to… do this?” he gasped.

“Because, drama king, when you hit that ball, which you will, you need to be able to get to the bases on time,” Y/N replied, handing him a bottle of water.

“This is hopeless,” he began to carefully sip the water, not wanting to choke in his desperation for hydration. 

“We just started, baby” Y/N sighed, rubbing his back, “Now, c’mon, break’s over. Two more laps and we’ll practice catching and throwing,”

“I hate you,” Spencer huffed, handing the water back to her. However, he went back to running. 

“I love you too, darling,” Y/N rolled her eyes with a soft laugh. She crossed her arms over her chest and smiled as he clumsily ran along the diamond. 

Morgan glanced at her, “Thanks for this.”

“Of course. I love seeing Spencer suffer,” She joked with a chuckle, watching her lanky boyfriend move. He was so cute, despite the fact he looked incredibly pissed off. She sighed, soft smile on her lips, “I know you guys are all probably iffy about me, but… I do love him. Genuinely, I do.” 

Morgan’s lips curled up, “I know.”

Spencer finished his second lap, looking at Y/N and Morgan with an annoyed expression, “Okay,” he panted, “I did it. Now what?”

“Catching and throwing,” Y/N slipped on her glove, grabbing a ball, “Alright, we’ll start with the basics.”

“How hard can it be?” Spencer said, putting on his glove (which Y/N had broken in for him). 

“Eh, best not talk, you might end up with two bruised cheeks,” Morgan chuckled, nudging him. He was not amused.

“Alright,” Y/N began, “When you throw the ball to someone, you have to aim for the other person’s chest. As a beginner, you can practice by using the hand you’re not throwing with, so the gloved hand, to aim. Like this,” Y/N faced Morgan, holding out her gloved hand and throwing with the other. Morgan caught the ball with ease. “See?” Morgan threw the ball back at her the same way, which she caught. “You try.” She tossed the ball to Reid, who was, like, two feet away.

He fumbled the ball, scrambling for it as it landed on the ground. Once it was in his hand, he stood up awkwardly. Spencer got into position, following Y/N’s instructions. He threw the ball to Morgan, it landed a few feet in front of him.

“You’re releasing it too late,” Y/N explained, “Try again”

Once the ball was in his hand again, he took a deep breath, throwing it again. It flew way past Morgan’s head this time.

“Okay, at least you got a strong throw,” Y/N said, trying to stay positive, “Now you released it a little too early. We’re getting somewhere. Try again.”

A few tries later, the trio went on to catching. It ended with Spencer thrown onto the grass once again in a starfish position, Y/N and Morgan both running to his side. 

“Well, now your cheeks match,” she said, making Spencer groan. 

They decided to end the fieldwork, getting Spencer to bat next. He had a helmet on and everything, determined to not actually get concussed. 

“Alright, baby,” Y/N began, handing him the bat, “Knees shoulder-width apart. Bend your knees slightly. This elbow up,” she gently touched his arm, bringing up his elbow, “Keep your eye on the ball. The ball should be chest-height when thrown to you. If it’s a bad pitch, don’t swing.” 

Morgan goes to pitch, Reid’s brows furrowed as he eyed the ball. 

“Hold on,” Y/N stopped him, “I can see the gears turning in your head. No calculations, none of that smart boy stuff. Just put on a mean face, spit in front of you, and hit that home run.”

“Spit?” Spencer gasped, “That’s disgusting.”

“It works,” Y/N shrugged.

“I’m not doing that,” he deadpanned, making her giggle. He faced Morgan, a determined look on his face. “Let’s do this,” 

“Hell yeah, baby,” Y/N grinned. 

With a grin, Morgan pitched the ball to Spencer, who grunted, swinging the bat as hard as he can.

Losing his grip in the process, the bat flying through the air. 

__________________

A week had passed, game day approaching fast. The BAU all sat together to cheer on Spencer and Morgan, Y/N awkwardly with them. Garcia was friendly enough, yapping away, which caused Y/N to yap away as well.

Until it was Spencer's turn to bat. 

Y/N rushed to the fence, clapping, “You got this, baby!” He turned his head and gave her a look that resembled a deer caught in headlights. Prior to the game, she said she won't embarrass him. She had to promise it, because he knew how competitive she was.

Spencer gave her a thumbs up, going to the home plate and getting into position.

“Bend those knees, baby,” Y/N called. Members of the secret service glanced at each other smugly, making her scowl.

Spencer did as told, eyeing the ball nervously. The pitcher was a mean-looking guy with a vicious bulldog expression. He pitched the ball, and Spencer squeaked, swinging at nothingness as the ball flew past him.

“Nice try, baby, nice try!” Y/N said. He turned his head to glare at her, before looking back at the pitcher. “Oops,” she said, making Garcia giggle.

Spencer ended up striking out, incredibly embarrassed. He had a girlfriend coaching him at the stands and a team that was completely pissed at his inability to even catch the ball. He was humiliated.

Until he turned his head, seeing Y/N, camera in hand, taking pictures of him with a huge smile on her face. She grinned, doing a finger heart, and Spencer felt his spirits lift slightly, raising his hand and doing one back at her.

And then a ball went flying into his abdomen. 

After that setback, the FBI was back to batting. Morgan landed on third, this guy Ron at second. The FBI was at two outs already, losing to the secret service by one point. 

And it was Spencer's turn to bat.

He heard some other agents groan from the dugout, making him feel like absolute shit. As he trudged to the home plate, the secret service members were all chuckling to themselves, already knowing they won another year in a row. 

Spencer felt awful.

Then he passed Y/N. She had a determined look on her face as she stood in front of the fence. “Baby, he's a shitty pitcher. Don't swing at every pitch.” 

Spencer took a deep breath, nodding. “O-Okay.”

She cracked a smile, “You got this. Make them cry. I already don’t like them.”

He laughed, nodding and going to the home plate. Morgan nodded from third, and Spencer clenched his fists around the bat.

Putting on a mean face, he gathered the courage to spit, staring at the pitcher straight in the eye (who looked a tad bit grossed out). He planted his feet shoulder width apart, bent those damn knees, had that elbow raised.

The pitcher threw his first ball, and as instinct, Spencer swung, missing. He cursed under his breath.

“Chin up, baby, chin up!”

Spencer turned his head to Y/N, who was smiling wide. Then his team, all cheering for him in the stands. His family.

The pitcher threw again but Spencer got himself, not swinging the bat.

“Good job, baby, that pitch sucked!” Y/N said proudly. She paused, “I mean, it didn't suck…”

“We're going to get kicked out,” Rossi muttered to Hotch, who chuckled softly in agreement.

The ball went to Spencer again, and this time, with a low growl, he swung hard, bat connecting with the ball and sending it flying.

Everyone gasped, watching the ball descend into the air, until Y/N shouted, “RUN!”

Spencer snapped out of his trance, bolting towards first base while Derek sprinted towards home. Once at first, Y/N shouted for him to keep going, and so he did, rushing to second.

Longues burning, he dashed for home, throwing himself onto the plate.

And saving the game.

The FBI erupted into cheers, everyone rushing towards him and hauling him to his feet, slapping him on the back and shouting in joy. After a few hollers, Spencer was lifted off of his feet, laughing excitedly after their victory.

Once the crowd dispersed, Spencer immediately ran to Y/N who was waiting for him, a big grin on her face. She already had her arms open, which he dove into.

“You saw that, right?!” Spencer asked her, practically vibrating in eagerness.

“I did! I told you spitting works!”

He was pretty sure the spitting had nothing to do with it, but he didn't argue. “I can’t believe I made a home run!” He pulled away to greet his team, but Y/N stopped him.

“Jesus, baby, you’re lucky you didn't trip. How embarrassing that would have been,” She chuckled, gesturing to his untied sneakers. She kneeled down, tying them for him.

Prentiss, who was still sitting with the rest of the BAU, noticed the exchange from the corner of her eye.

Maybe Y/N wasn't too bad.

When Y/N finished tying his shoes, she stood up and kissed his rosy cheeks, red in embarrassment. She then patted his back and nodded, silently telling him to go to his team.

With a grin, Spencer rushed off to them, babbling about his hit.

_______

A few weeks had passed, and Y/N was with some friends at a softball field, getting ready for a game. Slipping on her glove, she turned her head, smiling at Spencer who was seated at the bleachers. He waved, and that's when she noticed Derek and Penelope were sitting next to him.

Y/N's eyes widened and she grinned, waving back at them.

Then, surprising her even more, Emily Prentiss took a seat with them.

It seemed that, little by little, Y/N was winning over the BAU.

[pedropascallme]

Stupid For You

Pairing: Din Djarin x f!Reader

Summary: “‘What do you think, kid? Do I sound like your dad?’”

Warnings: Use of gendered titles (“wife” and “mother”) but otherwise just longing and a little fluff?

AN: Read part two here

Soundtrack: Stupid For You by Waterparks

“I could bring you in warm…or I could bring you in cold…” You hopped around in Din’s old chest plate, doing your best impression of the Mandalorian as Grogu watched on, gurgling happily and reaching up for you.

“What do you think, kid? Do I sound like your dad?” You picked him up, cradling him in your arms as he continued to babble nonsense. You had finally figured out, after days of being unable to stop him from crying, that all the baby really wanted was his father. It had been an accident that you had found out, really; it just happened that Grogu had gotten himself stuck in an old pauldron, and it just happened that you really wanted to try on some of the armor for yourself, and it just happened that you had to bring the kid everywhere with you—otherwise you would end up in a ship piloted by a wild-child who enjoyed tearing apart anything he could reach with his tiny baby hands.

Din had been gone, what, four days now? Not too bad. He had been gone longer before. He often returned to the ship after a little over a week, battered and bruised, and all you had to do was make sure his son was fed and happy. You were essentially just a glorified babysitter, although sometimes you liked to think of yourself as a sort of makeshift mother; you really did love the kid. Still, the longer you spent on the Crest, the longer you cared for the child, the longer you spent time with Din, growing increasingly fond of the few words you shared with each other (including a few in what you assumed was Mando’a that you couldn’t understand. What in the fresh hell was a “mesh’la”?) you couldn’t help but…miss him?

It was stupid. You were stupid. You knew his given name, and you knew he was a Mandalorian, and you knew his freak baby was capable of a little too much. Everything else was more or less a mystery to you. He seemed to like it that way, and you weren’t really in any position to change it at all. Making any move he was uncomfortable with could result in losing your job, the one true connection to anybody else that you had. Maker, you had seen what Din could do; worst case scenario you’d end up in carbonite. And, really, what would the galaxy’s scariest bounty hunter want with a wife? Not that you were thinking that far in advance, but weren’t you?

Stupid.

The child yawned, big eyes drooping slightly as you walked him to his floating bassinet. He continued to try to keep conversation with you, small patu noises here and there.

“I hear ya,” you placed him down, “but how about we continue this conversation at a later date?” He squawked and you put your hands on your hips, jutting out your knee in an attempt to properly emulate Din. Grogu made a sound that seemed like a laugh, eyes closing slowly as he tried to fight off his drowsiness. 

“This is The Way.” You whispered to him, still trying to bring him peace of mind by pretending. You could feel that he missed his dad—guardian—whatever—every time Din went out during these long periods. And, hey, pretending to be as fearless and powerful as Din was fun for you, too. It kept you and the baby from going stir-crazy. It made you both feel a little safer when you put on the old, beat-up armor and acted like you were an unstoppable Mandalorian. Grogu’s breathing settled into a soft rhythm, signifying that he had lost his battle with sleep. You closed the top of his crib, turning on your heel.

“Is that what I sound like?”

You stopped in your tracks.

Din stood before you, still as a statue.

“W—I just—”

“I think my voice is deeper.” He walked forward, only taking a few strides before he was directly in front of you. 

“You have a modulator.” You tried your best to avoid his gaze, heat blooming in your cheeks as you had been caught in the act of imitating—mocking—your boss. Your caretaker. Roommate? Boss.

“Mm.” He stood still before reaching his arm out in front of him, a gloved hand making contact with the chest plate you were wearing. He wrapped his knuckles against it, and you felt the vibrations of the metal over your chest. You could feel your heart in your throat. He was back, without any warning, without so much as a hello, and now he was standing before you, this beautiful man without a face, making what must have been the first purposeful physical contact you two had ever had.

“Where did you find this?”

“The-the kid found it. Kept rummaging through your, uh, wardrobe…” You trailed off, unsure if that was the correct word to use for the tiny storage space on the ship that Din had the habit of throwing spare capes and old clothes in. “He likes when I wear it.” You tried to sound like you weren’t pushing down the feeling of intense humiliation.

“You’d make a good Mandalorian.” Din dropped his hand. “It looks good on you, cyare.” 

He stayed in front of you for a few moments, peering through his visor and examining you. After a few moments, he turned, walking away and up to the cockpit.

You stood where he had left you, raising a hand to where he had touched the armor you wore. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid… 

You're playing ring around my head I wear you like a halo You're a symphony, I'm just a sour note

[writinginatree]

John Wick x reader - Baba Yaga's Cure for Period Cramps

Summary: Just a fluffy little comfort fic because period cramps are the worst

Afab!reader but no pronouns mentioned

"John?"

"Hm?"

"You would kill for me, right?"

Now John, sitting on the couch next to you, looked up from the book he'd been reading. He nodded, the expression on his face much too serious for your liking.

Before he could really start worrying and ask why you'd need someone dead, you whined, "Can you kill me then?"

"No." He glared at you. You knew he didn't like when you joked about things like that, but sometimes you just couldn't help yourself. "Why would you want that?"

"I'm on my period and it hurts. I'm pretty sure death is the only cure."

John's gaze softened. "Well, I'm afraid Baba Yaga has the entire next week off."

You started grumbling, but he continued, "I can offer you a hot water bottle and a massage instead of death though."

"Mhh, alright. But I want my cherry-bear, not a hot water bottle," you said, referring to a cherry pit pillow with a teddy bear shaped case you had, that could be warmed in the oven or microwave. "And if that doesn't help Baba Yaga will have to find the time to kill me after all."

John only shook his head at your dramatics and got up to heat up your bear.

While you waited for him to come back you moved around on the couch, trying to find a position the pain was more bearable in. Finally you gave up and stayed curled up with your legs pulled close to your chest and the side of your face squished against the seat.

John smiled when he came back into the room and saw you like that.

"What are you smiling about? Do you like seeing me suffer?"

You pouted and glared up at him, only half joking, but when he sat on the floor beside the couch and placed a kiss on the tip of your nose you couldn't stop the smile tugging on the corner of your mouth.

"It's not my fault you're so cute when you're suffering," John defended himself.

"And here I was thinking I'm always cute."

"Oh, you are. You're just even cuter than usual right now."

You sighed. "Unfortunately being cute doesn't help against period cramps. And it doesn't encourage the painkillers I took to work better either."

You took cherry-bear from John and shoved him under yourself.

"The painkillers don't help at all?"

"Nh-nh. The first two days it's always so bad they don't really do anything," you explained.

"Why did you never say that before?"

"I don't know. I guess it just didn't seem important? And it's not like my period is like our usual main topic of conversation or anything."

John chuckled. "No, I guess it's not. But if you're in pain that is important, so from now on you let me know if something hurts, okay?"

"Okay."

"Maybe we can get you stronger painkillers."

"Like the ones you take when you get yourself shot or stabbed all the time?" you asked with a small grin.

"Mhmm. It's worth a try. And now, tell me where it hurts the most so I can kiss it better."

Your smile widened. "That's your solution? Kissing it better?"

"Yeah."

"God, you're adorable. The world's deadliest killer, trying to make my cramps go away with kisses."

John hung his head so his hair fell in front of his face, but it couldn't quite hide the blush spreading over his skin.

You sat up, sacrificing the halfway comfortable position you'd found so you could bring your face right in front of John's. "C'mere, sweetheart. You promised me kisses."

John smiled and leant in to close the small space between your lips with a gentle kiss.

"Anything else I can do to help you feel better?" he asked after you parted.

You laid back down and John put his hand on your lower back. That was where it hurt the most, other than your stomach, and whether John was aware of it or not, the comforting warmth of his hand gave you an idea.

"Hmm, could you just lay on top of me?"

"I'm gonna crush you," John protested.

"No you won't! Promise. I think it'd help. You'd be like a warm weighted blanket and help with the pain in my back while cherry-bear warms my tummy."

"Alright, but if I'm too heavy—"

"You aren't."

John moved on top of you, but his hesitation and worry about being too heavy for you was obvious in the way he held himself up on his arms to keep most of his weight off of you.

"Come on, John, just lie down. I promise you won't crush me!"

"Okay, okay. But don't say I didn't warn you."

Finally he fully laid down on you, and you let out a content sigh. "See? You're not crushing me."

"No, I guess I'm not. But this can't be comfortable for you."

"Are you kidding? I've never been more comfortable in my life!"

John chuckled, the vibrations of the sound spreading from his chest into your body. "You're weird."

You tried to shrug, but that wasn't possible with John on top of you. Instead you turned your head to pout at him over your shoulder, saying, "But in a good way, right?"

"Mhhm. Of course." John leant in and kissed you, then he asked, "Is the pain getting any better yet?"

"Not really. But I think some more kisses might help."

John was more than happy to oblige.

[christinebloodwrittings]

Die in your arms #1

Alastor x Fem!Reader.

Warning: mentions of implied SA, imprisonment, murder.

July 1913. Manhattan, NYC.

The courtroom, with all those eyes staring, would make anyone tremble with anxiety. The jury of men in gloomy suits, whose faces you did not know and did not bother to remember, the judge with white hair and glasses perched on the tip of his nose, and the lawyer on the side of the people looked at you as if you were the worst scum in the world.

How distasteful.

The D.A’s office had taken the trouble to give you a new outfit to wear to court, with lots of layers and cream-colored ruffles. The last time you wore something so nice was when your parents brought you to a friend of the family’s house, for dinner.

The high neck of the dress was not tight, but given the heavy atmosphere and the nerves, it was as if a rope had been put around your neck.

"Your Honor, my client has not a single criminal record prior to this incident.  Her family in Denver reported her to missing persons five years ago, the police deliberately dropped the case after a week” he paused for a moment, taking a deep breath before watching your lip quiver, “After her father asked to do so" but you knew that already.

Incident, five years of imprisonment, and the attorney who is supposed to be defending you used such a weak word to describe it all.

Also, your father… it should have surprised you, but after everything he said before it all started…it really didn’t.

Before your attorney could actually begin to speak, the defense took his sweet time trying to make you look like a serial killer, a potential risk to the community.

“Miss Desmond, is it true that your commanding officer knows that you are the New York Smiler?” the lawyer asked, the jury having their sole attention on you. “No” the scoffs of the public at the hearing  echoed in the room. “Do you consider yourself guilty of the twenty-two victims, murdered in between the years of 1910 and 1912?” it was only 1912, december, you remembered because there were christmas decorations on some houses.

“Twenty-one, and no, I did what was necessary to stay alive” at what cost, liberation? That one breath of fresh air felt like needles down your throat, and has brought you nothing but problems ever since.

“Twenty-one? There were twenty-two bodies at the scene” he placed a detailed record of the evidence found in the scene in front of the jury for all to read.

“When I left there was one that was still alive, since he was in no position to follow us, I didn’t do anything, I was the one to notify the ambulance about him” his kneecaps were shot with a gun, he would never walk again so it meant no harm at the moment.

Then, he continued to the one charge he could actually condemn you to, “Miss Desmond, did you or did you not fake an ID to enter the army?” your attorney nodded, giving you a pass to say the truth, given his strategy. “I did” he presented a photo of the woman of the original identification, “Who’s ID did you forged?” mercilessly, the memories flooded your mind. 

‘Everything will be alright Y/n, just…’ she took a deep breath before caressing your cheek, ‘Do what they say, and no harm will come to you’ her bloodied hair stuck to her face as she smiled, teeth broken and red. “Martha Woodsman” her name burnt as it left your tongue, “Who is she?” you closed your eyes trying to remember a time when she was the most beautiful woman inside the facilities. Her creole accent and brown skin, along with the greenest eyes you had ever seen, she was idyllic.

“Was” you corrected, “One of the eldest women inside the brothel, I stole her ID and placed a picture of myself” you answered with the truth, your voice trembling and breaking as you did. “Nothing further” that lawyer had some mercy in finishing his questions after that.

"Do you understand, Miss Desmond, that if you lie while under oath, you risk being charged with perjury?" the judge reminded you. The judge had a cold and defiant attitude towards you from the moment he found out that the accused was a woman. He reminded you about perjury with the sole motive of saying ‘you are a woman so don't get emotional and tell the truth’ indirectly. 

"Your Honor, I did plan the escape, down to the smallest detail, with the goal of getting out of that place without anyone getting hurt. The boss shouldn't have been there, I checked the schedule book three times before the escape." You were irritated, but you didn’t let his guts get to you. "If I had planned a murder of that magnitude, I would have admitted it from the start, they were bad men, but that doesn’t excuse ending a life like that, I didn’t plan to harm anyone that night" satisfied, yet adamant, he signaled to your defense to step forward.

In all, it took three sessions in court and at the grand jury, during which you spent the night in the cell of the police station closest to the courthouse. Three sessions that lasted about two weeks, telling the same story over and over again until someone could make up their mind.

"I understand that it's difficult for you, so take your time" Your defense looked at you as a victim, not as just another psychopath, it wasn’t a great help, his look of pity boiled your blood.

"I had been in brothels for a little over five years, in different places, although I didn't know exactly where, they blindfolded us and kept men with us, with guns" The weight and cold metal of a revolver barrel is a sensation that will never leave your skin.

"You and other women" matter of fact-ly directed himself towards you. "Yes" you tried to sound sad, not as nonchalant as you would hope. "How many would you say?" One hallway, five rooms, the red door always had more voices coming out.

"There were six of us in the room, but some time passed and two of them didn't come back. When I left I saw that there were more rooms so I guess more than a dozen" you managed to get 26 girls out, the red room was secured on the inside for some reason, so picking the lock resorted impossible, and when you thought you had cracked it, your boss came back through the main door.

Spotting you, red-handed.

"And those two who didn't come back, do you know what happened to them?" you shook your head, "Not very well, but I heard that the ones that aren't sold to other brothels are usually killed in front of the newer ones to set an example, but it may have been just a rumor".

"There were women of many ages, the youngest must have been about fifteen or fourteen" chained, with hands and legs to the wall. You watched as the youngest and newest ones entered trembling with fear, knowing there was only so much you could do for them.

“People of the jury, she’s no psychopath, she is a little girl who tried to escape her captors, a stray kitten who saw no other way than to scratch her abusers in self defense” ‘Oh call me kitten one more time’ you bit down, trying your very best not to give them even a smidge of anger to use against you.

“Miss Desmond, why did you join the army?” They had not asked themselves why, they had only seen the deception and identity theft. “Objection, relevance?” The defense tried to prevent your attorney from using a sympathy card, but the judge, tired of going over the same case over and over again, allowed it. Like the jury, he was curious as to why on earth a woman would want to enlist in the military.

“Overruled. Miss Desmond, answer the question” your answer left a few men in disbelief.

“I tried to join the police force to bring down the people in the brothel, but not only did they reject me, but also they didn’t believe me, so I thought the army would help me build my body to help others” ‘how noble’ you heard the judge mutter under his breath.

“You didn’t want anyone else to feel like a victim” speculative, that earned a misplaced objection. “No, I wanted to give the victims someone that would fight for them, some hope to survive” an executioner, someone that would cut the heads of the snakes for them.

The judge called both representatives to the chambers after they started arguing, faces far too close, fists tight and white, like two wolves showing their fangs in warning.

“She did forge an ID to enter the army” started the defense, "Forging an ID can be considered a misdemeanor, but my client did not do it for sinister reasons" continued your attorney. "And what do you suggest we do with your client, Mr. Davis?" the old judge sat, his eyes never leaving your over coloured form.

"Remand her to the care of her family, one foot outside will get her 35 to life in prison”  a bunch of files were opened before the eyes of the judge, records of your family mostly. "Does Ms. Desmond have a family, a husband?" no husband, though there were men that tried to buy you for that purpose, you never understood why. 

"A cousin in New Orleans, no husband” you shook your head at the thought of your cousin, you haven't seen him in years and now you were going to drop on his front door in shackles with a criminal record? “I don’t want to be a burden to my cousin”, you didn’t even know how he looked like after so many years.  

“If you get a husband, it will be the same sentence, remanded to his care, one year” tied to a man that will have a sexual appetite, and probably demand that of you, hell no. Your attorney saw the hesitation in your face, “Y/n listen, either is this or a lifetime in the reformatory in Indiana, your choice”.

After what felt like half an hour, the jury had come to a decision. 

“Does the jury have a verdict?” you closed your eyes, a bruising grip on your skirt as the leading man spoke, “We have, your honor”.

“On the charge of first-degree murder, how do you find?” the charge of planned manslaughter, “Not guilty” and how it hurt their pride to find no evidence of a planned murder. “On the charge of forgery, how do you find?” oh, that’s the one you would have to pay a few bucks to get rid of, “Guilty”.

After assuming that you would walk as a free woman, the judge proposed house arrest to the jury, “Gentlemen of the jury, do you agree with the solution?” instead of the fine that forgery would make you pay for the rest of your life and that you would not finish paying even after death, “Yes, your honor” now you were going to be imprisoned, again.

"Y/N Desmond, you are hereby remanded to your family’s care, you will be considered a flight risk, and your title as a soldier will be removed”

“This is an extraordinary measure, given that you freed more people than you killed, but as Mr. Davis says, one foot outside will resort to a lifetime behind bars, do you agree to this?” it’s not like you had any other option, “Yes your honor, thank you”.

The sound of the gavel was the last thing heard in that quiet courtroom. 

You were assigned a nurse for your medical care, among other cares. Given the severity of your wounds and the time it took you to call for help in the army, several of them became infected or went from being a knife scratch to a deep cut.

The stitches made by the commander's assistant were not the best, so some dead pieces of skin had to be surgically removed and sutured. More than one or the other, you looked like the daughter of the mummy and Frankenstein, covered in sutures and bandages.

Not to mention the cut on your cheek from the first time you were forced to please a man, orally. The mobster took an awfully big liberty in permanently scarring your face, which is why he was never allowed back in.

The train and ferry ride was long. At night you couldn't really appreciate the scenery, much less being handcuffed and delivered to your cousin's door without warning.

Finally, the police car that picked you up at the port stopped in front of a two-story brown house. In the darkness of the night, and with it being the new moon phase, there wasn't much you could make out of the image.

A police woman delivered a few punches to the front door, immediately attracting rapid footsteps from the inside. 

“Howard Desmond?” she asked, suddenly Howard was paler than he already was. “Yes, is there a problem, officers?” A tall man, with short, ebony-black, tattered hair, dressed in an old, smelly nightgown, as if he had never washed it, appeared through the door. 

"Your cousin, Y/n Desmond, is under your legal care for one year, the details are written here" he slammed a thick file against his chest, before pushing you inside "We'll be monitoring from time to time, just to make sure the sentence is carried out" he released the iron grip of the shackles and walked out the door.

“Thank you, uhm, good night officers” Howard said goodbye, absolutely sleep deprived and shocked. Though that would be an understatment.

“Y/n, what the hell?” He wobbled a little, but after processing it for a second, Howard ran to hug you. The embrace was something you longed, every fiber of your being wanted to remain in his arms until your flesh dissolved.The sudden pins and needles that his strength against your wounds provoked was everything but comfortable, but to be cared for just one second, you could bear with it.  

“What happened?” cold rushed by your body the second he stepped away, he glanced at the file for a second, “I can’t summarize five years of shit in a couple sentences” that came out shaky, more than you expected.

“How did the jury find you?” you rested your back against the wall, finding some comfort in the cold surface, “Not guilty for first-degree murder, but guilty for forgery, thank god they oversaw the identity theft charge” he was appalled, not understanding a single thing and making movie about you being a mastermind of crime in his head. You rolled your eyes and pointed to the file they gave him, “Like they said, read it, may I have some water?” from the table next to the coats he took a small pair of glasses, his face became paler as he read the reports. “Of course” he sprinted towards the kitchen whilst reading and muttering ‘oh goodness’ as he went.

Meanwhile you took it upon yourself to wander around the living room, specially to the picture frames on top of the fireplace. His graduation, marriage - she was pretty, maybe too pretty-, then Howard in front of a building with a glass and lots of happy people - maybe a grand opening?-.  

His pacing sound made you turn around, the silence as he handed you the glass of water was sepulchral. “Wow, you own a business? Swell” an ice breaker, not a very good one, because he didn’t seem to un-glue his eyes off the pages. 

“Twenty-one?” he breathlessly asked, either in disbelief or pride, you weren’t sure, his tone didn’t match the smile on his face. You nodded, saying something would be redundant, given that your confession was on the report, signed by you. 

“And a nurse will be coming to my house to tend to your rehab?” Multiple injuries that worsened over time, bones that healed poorly, rehabilitation and physical therapy was the only option the doctor gave you to heal completely. You thought it was incredibly invasive, but they promised you a woman nurse to aid you, so in order to heal, you could bear it. 

“It’s already paid for” Howard felt his knees buckle at the sudden information, he hadn’t seen you in years and you show up with this kind of situation, money wasn’t the problem. “You know that’s not what I mean” with that he meant perhaps what kind of people the crime committed could attract.

“Look, I didn’t want this to happen, my parents aren’t an option and I don’t have a husband, please” begging to stay somewhere safe for a year wasn’t on your plans, but for the sake of not being thrown in jail for the rest of your life, you could lower your pride enough.

This time, willingly.

“Did you get them all, or?” The disagreement look you gave him was enough of an answer.

Howard was going to ask about your possible luggage, but noticed that you only had what you were wearing, the cream-colored ruffled dress from the trial. Thinking out-loud he began to make a list of needs, “I’ll have a modiste come tomorrow, also I’ll hire you a tutor so you can learn some basics” he spoke of shoes, undergarments, cooking books, he wrote everything so he wouldn’t forget.

“Sweet lord” he exhaled, gathering some thoughts, “You want…some alcohol, food?” you shook your head, “I’m not very hungry, the train got me a bit dizzy” he left the note with the file and his reading glasses on the table near the door, “Then, rest, we’ll figure stuff out in the morning” he took the empty glass off your hands, after putting it down in the sink he made his way to the stairs.

“Howard th-” he cut you off before you could finish your sentence, “Don’t even mention it, not until you are thoroughly okay” with that he disappeared upstairs, the sound of a door closing the last you heard.

---

Stay tuned.

Taglist open: @littlebluefishtail @maxlynn17

[a-reader-and-a-writer]

The Middle of Nowhere (Part 4)

Fandom: Top Gun, Top Gun: Maverick, dark!Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw, dark!Jake "Hangman" Seresin, Reader (no relationships) Summary: As the hunt begins, you try to make it back to town before one of your captors can carry out their murderous plan. But it isn't long until one of them finds you... Word Count: 6037 TW: NOT ALL TWS MAY BE MENTIONED SO READ AT YOUR OWN RISK! Language, Hunted for Sport, Knives, Blood, Reader has hair long enough to grab, Reader's POV Notes: I am EXTREMELY proud and excited about this series and hope you enjoy! Huge thanks to @green-socks for the beta read and to @green-socks, @mayhem24-7forever, and @blue-aconite for all the constant love, and encouragement in my DMs 💕

Series Masterlist

The freshly fallen snow stretches for miles in all directions. Your head is still pounding where Rooster drove his elbow into it but at least your vision has mostly returned to normal. Now that you have left the clearing with its electric lanterns, your eyes begin to adjust to the natural lighting around you. Luckily—or maybe not so luckily—the moon is nearly full and reflecting off the snow around you, allowing you to avoid crashing into the trees directly in front of you. That doesn’t stop branches from snagging on your jacket or underbrush from scratching at your bare legs and feet and you still can’t see more than a few feet in front of you, but you are trying to find any positives in your current situation.

Who are you kidding—there’s nothing positive about your current situation.

You’ve been drugged, assaulted, stripped down, and are being forced to flee from a pair of psycho killers who plan on murdering you in ways you can’t possibly even fathom. All while you’re barefoot and wearing a jacket that stands out so starkly against the snow that it might as well be a neon sign saying “come and get me”. 

But on top of all that, the worst part is that there’s no way to cover your tracks as you go. The snow is several inches deep and with every step you take, you sink into the soft powder leaving a clear imprint behind that either of the men chasing you can easily follow. You could try to take the time to cover your tracks, but that’s much easier said than done, and even in the best-case scenario, it would still be noticeable something had disturbed the snow. Besides, it would just stall your escape, allowing them to get closer, and it would further numb your already frozen hands as you dug through the snow.

So, no. Continuing forward is the only slim chance you have of making it to safety and out of your captors’ clutches. 

The only slight advantage you may have over them is that neither man seemed too familiar or comfortable in the snowy terrain. You, on the other hand, have lived in this area your entire life. Hell, you’ve been coming out to these woods for as long as you can remember. That has to count for something, right? Maybe under normal conditions it would, but between the lingering effect of the drugs they used on you, the throbbing in your head from Rooster’s blow, the burning pain in your hands and feet, and the cold making it difficult to even breathe, you aren’t able to navigate as easily as normal. So once again, whatever upper hand you might have come up with is snatched away from you.

Even knowing it is a useless endeavor, you still refuse to give up without some sort of a fight. So, with your hands jammed deep within your jacket’s pockets and your hood pulled as tightly around your face as possible, you continue to run forward in a straight line as you try to think up some way to fight back.

You aren’t sure how far you’ve gotten or how long you’ve been running, but you freeze as you hear something from the direction you had run from. The voice echoes around the barren woods and you manage to make out the last few words. “—run. Hangman’s coming.”

Shit. It seems as though your head start is over and the hunt has officially begun.

The fact you are still close enough to the clearing to be able to hear Hangman’s whoop of excitement sends a shiver through you—one not caused by the cold. While you’d much rather deal with Hangman than Rooster every time, escape or evasion from both men is still your ultimate goal. If only you had a weapon or some sort of protection against the two heavily armed men. But they must have emptied your jacket pockets before handing it over and your tank top and boy shorts barely provide any protection from the cold, let alone anything that could be used against your pursuers. For now, your only chance is to keep running and hope, by some miracle, you can evade them. 

As you run, time seems to stand still. You feel as if you are on a treadmill, running as fast as you can yet remaining in one place. You have no idea how long it has been since you took off from the clearing, but everything looks the same. The same towering trees and bushes reaching out from the darkness towards you, the moonlight only seemingly illuminating a few dozen feet in front of you at one time. The same unmarked snow stinging your feet as you sink into it with every step, a troublesome numbness spreading from your little toes across to the others. The same silence enveloping you, the only sound breaking it is the sound of your panting and chattering teeth. 

But then…another sound breaks the silence.

There is a soft whoosh from behind you seconds before something drives itself into your left shoulder. You collapse into the snow with a cry of pain, twisting around to see a long, thin knife jutting from your shoulder blade. Luckily, your coat managed to deflect most of the damage, but you can still feel hot blood oozing down your back, leaving a warm trail in its wake.

As you reach for the knife, wincing as another bolt of pain shoots through your shoulder, a voice calls out from the dark maze of trees, “If you thought my dart skills were impressive, darlin’, just wait ‘til you get a taste of what I can do with a blade.”

You hear another whoosh and you just have time to roll sideways as another knife lodges in the snow, exactly where your knee had been seconds ago. The move had saved you from being incapacitated, but the quick jostling causes the knife still in your shoulder to sway violently back and forth and you are forced to bite your lip to keep from wailing. The taste of copper fills your mouth, but you would rather bite through your tongue than give Hangman the satisfaction of hearing you scream. 

You take a deep breath before yanking the knife out of your shoulder with a stifled moan. 

Flexing your hand, you’re relieved to see the knife didn’t seem to cause any nerve or mobility damage. You didn’t need another thing to add to your growing list of disadvantages. 

Grabbing the second knife as you heave yourself to your feet, you spin around brandishing both knives in front of you. Hangman is close enough to nail you with a knife, but he is still far enough away to remain cloaked in darkness. This means the next attack could come from any direction, and, if you’re not careful, it could be deadly.

“You know,” the voice calls out to you from your left and you swiftly turn towards the sound. “I was so sure Rooster would find you first. I haven’t seen him this set on winning a hunt since we found a girl outside of Boston who looked like his ex-girlfriend. Oof, the things he did to her that night. Even I got a little nauseous. So I can only imagine the look on his face when he walks up and sees me on top of you, slowly carving you up or having more fun like we did back at the bar.” 

You shutter as you recall the feeling of his tongue in your mouth back before you knew what a psycho he was. His voice continues to taunt you from the darkness. “Or, better yet, I want to watch his face as he stumbles on your corpse hanging from one of these trees. Remind him exactly why they call me Hangman.”

“You sick fuck,” you cry, still brandishing your knives in the direction of his voice. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because we enjoy it.” His voice now comes from your right and you nearly trip over your frozen feet as you face it. “Because we can. Because there’s nothing better in this world than snatching someone like you and dropping them into a place like this where they don’t stand a chance. It’s the natural order of things that humans have either forgotten or hidden away because we’ve been told it’s wrong. But what is more right than a predator hunting its prey?”

Panting slightly, causing large puffs of your breath to bloom in front of your face, you call out, “This is where you made your mistake, dickhead. I’m not your timid ‘little fox’ who you threw into an unfamiliar arena. Around here, we’re raised in these woods. Taught to hunt almost before we can walk. So if you think I’m gonna just lay down without a fight, you’re about to be sorely disappointed.”

“Oh, sweetheart, you’ve got me all wrong.” You whirl around, knives raised, to face the sound of his voice behind you. “I don’t want you to give up or give in. I’m ready for a fight. That’s what makes this fun.” 

With that last word, another knife shoots out at you from the darkness. You have just enough time to dive backwards before it passes over you, inches from your face. But before you can scamper back to your feet, Hangman is charging out of the woods towards you. As he reaches you, knife raised, you thrust your feet up, driving them into his stomach. Using his forward momentum, you flip him over your head and he ends up on his back gasping in the snow. The knife he had been holding in his hand disappears into the snow somewhere to the left but far enough away he can’t reach it.

As Hangman continues to struggle to catch his breath behind you, you scamper to your feet. Grinning as you approach your would-be attacker, you chuckle, “And my ex said those self-defense classes were a load of bull.” With your hands resting on your knees as you peer down at him, you ask Hangman in a cloying voice, “How’s those solar plexus feeling? Little winded there, buddy?”

He glares up at you with murder burning in his eyes but even as he struggles to sit up, he’s helpless until he has a moment to collect himself. That thought only makes your grin grow wider. 

Stepping over his waist, you sit down—hard—on his stomach, causing him to let out another oof as the air is knocked out of him once again. Pressing the knives he had previously thrown at you against either side of his neck, you drop the smile as you growl, “Now listen, you fucker. I’m not like you. I haven’t enjoyed a second of any of this and I’m not the kind of person who likes hurting others—even pieces of shit psycho murderers like you. So, I’m going to walk away from here and you’re not going to follow me. In fact, you’re going to go find your psychotic friend and you’re both going to get back in your truck and drive the fuck out of my life forever. And for that small gesture of human decency, I won’t turn you in to the cops when I reach town. We all just go about our lives like this never happened and you never come after me again. Do we have a deal?”

“What if I say no?” he pants, the murderous glint in his eyes suddenly taking on a more mischievous gleam to it. “You said it yourself, you’re no killer. So what’s your plan if I decide I’ll take my chances against you? You really think you can plunge those things into me? Watch the life fade from my eyes as my blood soaks onto your hands? That’s a stain you’ll never be able to wash out. Me? I’d bathe in blood every day if I got the chance. But can you live with that stain on your hands for the rest of your life?”

“Considering it meant I lived through this nightmare you put me through, I think I’d be fine. But should we test that theory?” You press the tips of the blades deeper into his neck and you feel him flinch beneath you. The movement is slight and he maintains a blank expression, but that little, involuntary motion is enough to boost your confidence in your plan. Seems you are making your point. “Besides, I said I don’t like hurting people, not that I wouldn’t. Believe me, if it comes down to either you or me, I’ll choose me every time. But I’d rather not kill anyone if I have another option. So, what do you say? You let me walk away or you get skewered with your own knives? Your choice.”

Hangman glares at you for a long time and you can almost see his mind at work trying to figure out another way out of this. But when you drive the knives in deeper, blood trickling down his neck into the white snow, he snarls, “Alright! I’ll let you go. But I can’t make any promises about Rooster. Once he starts a hunt, there’s no stopping him until he’s tasted blood.”

You consider this for a moment then nod. “Fine. But he said the rules are that if I make it to town, I’m free. Right? So that means he’ll have to stop then.”

Hangman hesitates. “Yeah, those are the rules. But…”

“But what?”

“But it’s never happened before. No one’s ever made it to safety so I don’t know what he would actually do if you make it back to town before he catches you. Technically, he’s supposed to let you go but I wouldn’t be surprised if he snuck into your apartment a few days from now and slit your throat while you slept.”

Pressing the knives further into his skin, you growl, “How the fuck do you know I live in an apartment?”

“Your driver’s license was in your wallet,” he grunts, squirming under the pressure of the blades. “It’s one of the first things we look at. The anonymity of a random victim is more fun, but we have to make sure your disappearance wasn’t going to be noticed before we could leave town. So, we did a little research while you were still unconscious.”

Which means they probably know everything about you. Your real name, your address, your social media which means your friends and family. Even if you escape, there’s nothing stopping them from biding their time then returning to finish the job. However, none of that matters if you can’t survive the night.

You know this is a horrible idea. There is nothing to stop Hangman from coming after you the moment you remove the knives from his neck beside his word. And considering he’s a lying, psychotic serial killer, there’s very little doubt he’ll do just that the moment you let your guard down. But what else can you do? You think what you said to Hangman is true and you could kill him if it came down to it, but there is still a lingering doubt in the back of your mind. 

You had been hunting many times with your dad growing up and had killed your share of smaller animals before. But killing a squirrel and killing a person were two very different things. If you try yet fail and Hangman sees you can’t go through with it, then you lose any leverage you currently have which means there’s nothing left to stop him from overpowering and killing you. 

Then, there’s Rooster. Even if Hangman does hold up his side of your deal, you know deep down Rooster won’t. He was practically coming in his pants at the thought of all the unthinkable things he was going to do to you if he got his hands on you—and that was before you seemingly broke his nose. After that, there’s no way he’ll agree to let you go as long as you are still in the woods. And while you may have gotten lucky with Hangman and gotten the upper hand, you doubt you’d be able to recreate that feat with Rooster. Not when all he can think about is mutilating and murdering you. But maybe it would slow him down if he finds his friend and Hangman explains what happened. Maybe it would give you just enough time to reach town before he got his hands on you. Then there would be nothing stopping you from going back on your part of the deal and heading straight to the police station so these two could be stopped before they could finish their hunt.

Yet that unlikely plan hinged on Hangman truly agreeing to let you go which put you right back to the issue of not being able to trust him not to kill you.

Suddenly, you remember the noose he showed you back at camp he kept tied around his belt. Dropping one of your knives, you reach down and begin blindly reaching for the rope with one hand as the other still holds the knife to Hangman’s throat.

He chuckles as your hand brushes against something that is definitely not the rope. “Whoah there, sweetheart. If that’s what you wanted, I’d have given it to you back at the bar. All you had to do was ask.”

“Shut up, you perverted bastard,” you mutter as you continue to fumble around his belt. Your fingers finally brush against something thin and coarse and, instinctually, you glance down to confirm you located your target.

It is a dire mistake.

Instantly, Hangman thrusts up and slams his head into yours. The knife you had pressed against his throat cuts a thin line across his skin, drawing blood, but isn’t deep enough to slow him down. His forehead drives into yours and the world goes black for a second as your head snaps backward, the knife flying from your grasp. You feel yourself fall back into the snow as Hangman climbs to his feet. By the time your vision begins to return to normal—though your head is once again throbbing in pain—he is standing over you in a similar gloating stance as to how you leered down at his prone body moments before, blood streaming down the side of his neck.

As a malicious grin slowly spreads across his face, Hangman holds up the rope. “Was this what you were looking for? Well, sweetheart, if you want it so badly, who am I to say no.”

Winding back his arm, he throws the noose end of the rope high into the air where it arches perfectly before soaring over a limb of a nearby tree and dropping back down just within his reach. It is the kind of throw only a trained athlete could pull off and, especially given his physique, it wouldn’t surprise you if you learned Hangman had played some form of pro sports at some point in his life. He also has the ego for it.

You try to crawl away from him across the frozen ground, but the world still hasn’t completely cleared and you slip and crash back into the snow. As you prop yourself up on your forearms once more, you feel yourself yanked to your feet as a hand grabs a fistful of your hair. A ripping, burning feeling tears at your scalp as you struggle in Hangman’s grasp, but it’s too strong. Tears sting your eyes in the frosty air as he begins dragging you on your stomach over to the limb where the noose swings ominously. 

It’s over. You had your chance to put down your attacker and you pussied out. Now he is going to kill you and there’s nothing else you can do to stop him. You wonder if anyone will ever find your body or if everyone will always just wonder where you disappeared. Maybe one day there will be an episode of 20/20 or a True Crime documentary on the bartender who just vanished one night after her shift and the theories of what might have happened to her. That makes you wonder how many of those shows or stories you’ve seen over the years were actually caused by these two and their group of psychopathic killers. 

Hangman releases his hold on your hair when he reaches his noose causing you to faceplant into the snow. You want to just lay there and just let the cold embrace of the snowbank take you, but of course, Hangman isn’t that generous. His foot drives into your side, kicking up slightly so it flips you over onto your back. Groaning, you clutch at your aching ribs but he isn’t giving you a moment of relief. He learned from his previous mistake. 

Grabbing the noose, he pulls it over until he is standing over you with it swinging in his hand. Grinning, he tugs on the knots as he stares down at you. “You know, I planned on drawing this out and making it really satisfying for me. But seeing how you weren’t a fan of my knives—or maybe enjoyed them a little too much—” he gestures to his neck where blood is still freely flowing from the slash you put there “—I think it’s time to move on to the grand finale, don’t you think? It’s my favorite part after all.”

On your back looking up at him, you try to scuttle away as he leans down to slip the noose over your neck. He lunges at you but you pull your legs away just in time to avoid his grasp. As you continue to crawl away, you notice the other side of the rope that is dangling from the limb is slowly unfurling and all the slack is getting pulled up into the tree as Hangman drags the noose along with him. In a moment, it’ll all slip up out of his reach or even all the way off the limb. The smallest smile flashes across your face at the realization.

Hangman must have noticed because his brow furrows for a moment before he looks over his shoulder. In doing so, he unconsciously pulls on the noose as his body turns and the rope jumps another few inches into the air. 

Hangman’s eyes grow wide as he mutters, “No, no, no, no.” 

Releasing the noose end, Hangman leaps up just as the other end of the rope goes soaring past. He just manages to snag the end of the rope between two fingers before it is out of reach. Then he crashes back to the ground.

Seeing your chance, you snatch the noose as it begins to rise up into the tree and, bounding forward, tackle Hangman just as he is sitting back up. He flails underneath you and one of his fists collides with your jaw, snapping your head back. You can taste blood as it begins pooling in your mouth, but you ignore it and the pain. Instead, you weave between Hangman’s continued flailing limbs and, just as he raises up to snarl at you, you slip the noose over his head. The action surprises him enough that he pauses for a few seconds as he processes what just happened.

But that’s all the time you need.

Grabbing the other end of the rope, you heave with every ounce of energy you have left. Hangman is a muscular guy, but somehow your efforts manage to tighten the noose around his neck, causing his eyes to widen in surprise. As he claws at the rope, you heave again, practically dragging yourself across the snow to get the needed leverage. The rope moves a little further and Hangman is lifted off the ground. It’s not much, but it’s enough that you can see he is struggling to breathe. Not wanting to make the mistake of underestimating him again, you give the rope one final pull. Given the energy you expended on the first few pulls, it was a much weaker effort, but it does the job. Hangman’s full body weight is now suspended by the rope.

Spitting out a mouthful of blood into the pure snow, you tie off your end of the rope on a nearby limb. After ensuring it won’t give him any slack, you take a few steps closer to where Hangman is thrashing on his rope. Grinning at the sight of his face growing redder and redder, you lock eyes with him and sneer, “Turns out, I’m really enjoying this grand finale after all. It’s my favorite part too.”

His lips move as he tries to snarl something back at you, but the rope around his neck is making it difficult for him to manage much more than some grunts and rasps. As his breathing begins to grow more frantic and strained, you see a shadow of fear pass over his face as his fate begins to become clearer to him. It is a sight that warms your entire body despite the frigid environment around you. 

Stepping forward so you are as close as possible while still just out of his reach, you murmur, “What you’re feeling right now, that fear and helplessness? That dread of knowing what’s about to happen yet knowing there’s nothing you can do to stop it? That’s what all those women felt while they hung there while you got your rocks off. And I gotta say, I questioned whether or not I’d really be able to kill you. But now that it’s happening, I’ve never seen a more satisfying sight.”

Almost all the fight has gone out of Hangman as he weakly wheezes and meekly pulls at the rope. His eyes have become bloody as the blood vessels burst from all his straining and his face is so red it's almost purple. 

No longer afraid of the man who had beat, stabbed, and almost murdered you, you step closer until your face is nearly touching his chest. Looking up at his face swaying above you, you put all the fury, all the pain, all the fear you’ve felt over the past few hours into your words as you hiss, “I hope in whatever Hell I’m sending you to that you’re forced to relive this moment for all eternity.”

If Hangman heard or understood you, he makes no sign of it. Instead, it seems as if all his remaining energy is focused on getting out his last word or words. Even as you watch the last sparks of life flickering out, his lips continue to move as if trying to say something even as his chest begins to spasm due to lack of air. 

And, just as you think he’s done, he manages to force out a single breathy word that is only decipherable because you are practically pressed against him. 

“Bra-Bradley…”

Then his hands drop from his neck as his entire body goes slack and the woods fall silent. 

You stand looking up at him for a long time, holding your breath in anticipation of one last jump scare or resurgence. But this isn’t a movie. The evil is gone and Hangman’s not coming back for more. 

As the realization that it’s really over finally washes over you, you stumble back and collapse to the ground. All the fear and adrenaline that had kept you going since that first knife struck you in the shoulder, suddenly vanishes. 

For the first time, you feel the full impact of the injuries you’ve sustained. Your shoulder cries out from all the strain you’ve put on it, all with a stab wound still bleeding down your back. You just now notice how your tank top clings to your skin from all the blood and sweat that has soaked into it. Your jaw throbs from where Hangman’s fist collided with it, and you can tell it’ll be swollen and bruised in an hour or so. At least you have plenty of snow to press against it. Your scalp still stings from where Hangman pulled you across the ground by your hair and you really hope he didn’t make a bald spot somewhere. But it’s your ribs that hurt the most. It’s doubtful they are broken, probably just bruised, yet each breath sends a fresh stabbing pain into your side. It’ll cause the most issues as you continue on.

That thought almost makes you cry. Taking on Hangman had been difficult enough and you had barely escaped with your life. However, Rooster is still somewhere in these woods actively looking for you. Any head start you had is gone after all the time you took tussling with Hangman. And you have a feeling if Rooster was out for your blood before this, when he discovers you killed his friend, he’s going to want to carve you up with a rusty knife piece by tiny little piece. 

But maybe…

The only reason you were able to get the advantage against Hangman was because he underestimated you. He was too distracted by his own fun and games to really pay attention to what you were doing. Now, while you seriously doubt Rooster will make that same mistake—not after you headbutted him in the clearing—maybe he has a different distraction that will work on him. Namely, his rage and blood lust.

If you can get him so angry and ramp up his need to kill you so high, then maybe, just maybe, he will get sloppy and you’ll have a chance to take him down too. Maybe you can make him see red so strongly, that he won’t be able to see you going in for the kill.

Glancing back at Hangman’s limp body, you wonder if there’s a way to use it in this new plan. Maybe carve something into his skin with one of his knives? Like a message to Rooster saying you have Hangman’s weapons and he’s next? Very Die Hard of you.

It wouldn’t be that difficult to do. After all, Hangman isn’t that far in the air. In fact, the toes of his boots softly kiss the snow beneath him as he continues to sway.

His boots!

Ignoring the way your muscles scream at you as you move, you scramble to your knees and crawl over to Hangman’s dangling body. Your fingers are so numb and swollen from the cold that untying the tight laces is nearly impossible but you refuse to give up. By the time you can slide the second boot off his rapidly chilling body, your nails are cracked and your fingers are bleeding, ruby droplets coating the snow around you.

You hesitate for a moment, wondering if it’s too morbid to also take his socks. However, the boots are several sizes too big and your feet are so frozen that you need to take whatever extra padding you can get. So you slip off his thick, woolen socks. You do draw the line at taking his pants though. As much as you would love some covering for your bare legs, you knew the fit would be way off and just slow you down as you tried to plan the rest of your escape. So, you resign yourself to your new socks and boots.

As you pull them on, the heat radiating from within the soft wool and worn leather feels like Heaven wrapped around your frostbitten feet. However, you can’t help but shudder at the knowledge this is the last warmth Hangman will ever give off. It’s almost like you can feel his hands wrapped around your ankles and trailing up your shins. 

You try your best to push those thoughts aside. After all, you only did what you had to do to survive. If the roles had been reversed and Hangman had won the hunt, he would currently be doing fuck knows what manner of twisted, ungodly things to your body. 

Just the thought of what he might have done reignites the fury and fight in your chest that had blazed when you watched Hangman get a taste of his own medicine. 

Turning back to his now shoeless body, you begin to doubt your original idea of carving a message into him. For one, you really don’t want to do it. Killing him was one thing but mutilating his body is a whole other ball game. Plus, you have terrible penmanship using a pen or pencil. There’s no telling if your message would even be legible when using a knife as a writing tool and then you just wasted time for no reason. Then there is the fact you are in a massive wood at night in the dark. Even if Rooster is tracking you, there’s no guarantee he’ll come across Hangman’s body, especially with his dark denim jacket and jeans helping him blend into the night. 

But that gives you another idea. 

Stripping off your burnt-orange jacket, you shiver as the cold air hits your bare arms. Trying your best to ignore it, you grab Hangman’s jacket, wrestle it off of him, and put it on yourself. Though denim on the outside, the interior is sherpa-lined and it is as warm, if not more, than the jacket you just traded him for. 

Feeling something in the pockets, you are overjoyed to discover his phone in one and the keys to the truck in the other. Checking the phone first, you see it’s locked. However, the key is a facial recognition scan. You know it’s a long shot, but, standing on your toes, you line Hangman’s face up to the screen and nearly squeal when you see it unlock. Your joy deflates somewhat when you see there’s no service but you remember Hangman mentioning the terrible service in these woods when he got that call from his missing hunter friends back in the clearing. Hopefully, as you walk, you’ll find a spot with at least one bar so you can call for help. Going into the settings, you disable the lock function so you won’t need Hangman’s face next time you try to access the phone.

Turning back to what you had planned, you do your best to fit your jacket onto his body. It’s too small but you manage to get it pulled up almost to his shoulders, enough that it’ll stay on. Then, taking a few deep breaths, you slowly pull on the end of the rope. It’s hard going without the adrenaline rush to aid in your efforts, but eventually, you manage to raise Hangman until his head almost brushes the limb the rope is thrown over. Hopefully, between the height and the flash of color, Rooster will be able to spot him if he is anywhere in the area. 

However, that means you need to leave this area as soon as possible.

Now that you have Hangman’s phone and truck keys, your best bet is to try to head back to the clearing. If you can make it there before Rooster catches you, you should be able to steal their truck and head for town. Or at least get somewhere where you can use the phone. 

And if for some reason that plan doesn’t work, at least the clearing will make a good place to make your final stand against Rooster.

Collecting all of the knives that you can find that had scattered around during your fight, you tuck them into the inside of your new jacket. Then, taking one last look at Hangman’s limp body hanging high overhead, you turn and head back in the direction you came from.

They wanted you to be a fox, fine, you’ll be a fox. A fox will do whatever it takes to free themselves from a trap and survive, even if that means gnawing off their own foot. So while it might take doing unspeakable things that will haunt you for the rest of your life in order to survive, it’s a price you’re willing to pay to be the one who walks out of these woods at the end of the night.

One down. One to go.

Thank you all for reading, reblogging, and commenting! There are two more parts coming soon in this series (Part 5 in Bradley's POV and Part 6 in Reader's POV). But I also have more planned for this universe beyond that so stay tuned for updates!

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@sorchathered

[userautumn]

you know how sometimes i'll be like, "man that person is not a good actor" and then you guys get mad and start yelling in my inbox, and then i snark back because i didn't call them terrible, i just said they aren't Good? well, now we can skip all that! introducing the actor chart, where i judge hollywood's ability to act as objectively as possible and you can't get mad at me about it unless they are the Actual worst.

the rankings are:

masters of the arts | fantastic | really great | good | average | subpar | bad | terrible | fundamentally untalented

some additional notes:

do NOT yell at me until you've read this entire post

i don't make judgements about an actor until i've watched at least three (3) of their projects. in the rare instances where that isn't the case, it's because i've followed a single performance for years (i.e. a multi-season television show) or their performances left a lasting impression, either positive or negative

i'm not interested in an actor's politics, controversies, allegations or anything else. i'm just concerned with whether or not they can act

this is the scale I PERSONALLY use. as in, when i watch movies or tv shows, i am judging actors according to my own set of criteria (more below). this is NOT universal, this is just how i do things

every actor in hollywood falls into one of these categories. don't shoot the messenger, i just grade 'em

i made this on microsoft paint. heehee

ok, now you can continue

so, you've gotten this far (yay!). now, the question is, how do i judge whether an actor is good or not? the answer is, i have a little questionnaire :3

ahem.

question #1: does this actor use their full body (including face + eyes + micro-expressions to embody the character they're meant to play? question #2: does the way they act in [role a] completely make me forget the way they act in [role b] or [role c]? (to put it simply: if i'm watching dylan o'brien in american assassin, am i spending the whole time thinking "omg hiii dylan from my werewolf show <333" or am i like "holy shit, mitch rapp is kind of unhinged") question #3: does the way they deliver their lines completely convince me that they believe what they're saying or are they just saying words?

it's a short questionnaire, but it's very effective in separating the talented from the less talented. the masters of the arts meet the golden standard set by the questionnaire with ease. everyone else struggles, to varying degrees.

so. now that that's out of the way, here's the actor chart:

masters of the arts: actors such as cillian murphy, denzel washington, viola davis. these are actors whose performances are 10/10 across the board. every show or movie they're in is elevated by their presence, depth, passion, and talent. they've never had (or have rarely ever had) a bad performance and their mere presence is enough to get me to watch anything because i know they will immerse me in the viewing experience.

fantastic: actors such as robert pattinson and idris elba are on the trajectory to becoming masters of the arts. they're not there yet, but on average, their performances are enrapturing and dynamic, notwithstanding hiccups or moments that keep them from being perfect.

really great: actors such as zendaya, kenneth choi, and dylan o'brien. these are actors who, on average, deliver incredible performances. the only thing that keeps them from being masters is that, sometimes, the directors either rely too much or too little on their presence (as in, their physical presence) resulting in instances where they don't have enough opportunity to shine and thus are just kind of there OR the movie / show feels like [title] starring [actor] rather than the actor becoming the character they're meant to play. these actors have range and are very good at what they do.

good: actors such as jake gyllenhaal and keke palmer are strong. they have a good grasp on how to command attention in a scene, they know how to play to the camera, how to embody their characters, and how to take the best parts of a script and make them their own. they're good. not perfect, not masters, but good and enjoyable to watch. THIS CATEGORY IS NOT AN INSULT.

average: actors such as chris hemsworth, nicholas galitzine, and daisy edgar jones are all okay. they're fine. nothing about their performances as full pieces of art stand out even if they have moments where they do. most hollywood actors fall into this category. actors in this category are entertaining, they just aren't always memorable. things that can land actors in this category: too much comfort within a long-term role that translates into lack of effort (oliver stark), playing the same role but finding ways to diversify within that role (chris hemsworth), or consistently working in projects that do not present a challenge (robert downey jr). THIS CATEGORY IS NOT AN INSULT.

subpar: actors such as chris evans and dwayne "the rock" johnson skirt the line between being bad and being average. their acting is unpredictable and you can never tell whether they're going to deliver a powerful performance or whether they're going to leave you wanting for more. this category isn't an insult. it's not positive, but it's not an insult.

bad: actors such as lindsay lohan, taylor zakhar perez, and keira knightley are the disappointments. they're the little engines that could, but didn't. actors in this category struggle to rise to the occasion. rarely do they transform the script and make it their own; they struggle to embody their characters in a way that feels natural, and often feel like they (the actor themselves) are just going where the director tells them to go, and saying the lines the director tells them to say. this doesn't mean that they are incapable of good performance, it just means that, more often than not, their films / shows leave you wanting for more.

terrible: the only thing separating actors such as ezra miller and stephen amell from being irredeemably bad is minimal effort. visible effort is put into their characters even if the delivery often falls flat. make no mistake, these actors are bad. really bad. but there's enough substance to their effort that makes one think that, maybe, maybe, with the right leadership + opportunities + (additional) education, they could become talented one day. maybe. holding one's breath is unadvised, though

fundamentally untalented: yeah. these "actors," if we can call them that, have got to pack it up. they've gotta go home. actors in this category such as jared padalecki, joey king, and madison bailey do not perform well, and if they have a good performance, it is a matter of happenstance. most of their performances feel like they just rolled out of bed, walked onto set, and started reading lines. badly. actors in this category are either a product of nepotism (phoebe dynevor), pretty privilege (madison bailey), or just good ol' fashioned directionlessness and inability + refusal to grow (jared padalecki). these actors are an embarrassment to the craft and should step out of the way so that new talent can take their place.

[lizzieislife94x]

Dating Site (w.m)

Requested <3

 WandaG!PxFem Reader

sorry i haven't posted in a few days guys family came up from England and I've had a full house hahaha anyway i will be posting an AN in a few hours or tomorrow so please check it out when posted love yall thank you for reading as always i hope yall enjoy!

Y/ns POV:

I bite my nails feeling a little nervous as my mind runs wild I have a date tonight well in the next few hours and the thing that's making me nervous is I met her online on a dating site we've spoke on the phone but tonight is our first date her voice is heavenly I could listen to her talk all day and night "y/n coffees getting cold" my roommate yells snapping me out of my thoughts I quickly get up and walk into the livingroom "dude what if tonight goes wrong what if she doesn't like me or something" I sigh taking a sip of my coffee "y/n I see the way you smile at your phone when she texts or calls think positively what if she does like you what if she's the one worst case scenario you get railed by a sexy chick and never speak again" she says with a wink as she gently pushes my shoulder making me laugh "you know what youre right thanks jill" I finish my coffee before heading back to my room to shower and get ready. 

4 hours later:

Me:Hey I just arrived see you soon x 

I set my phone down as I sit at the table waiting for my date just a causal coffee shop date but its a cute little coffee shop my leg starts to bounce as my nervous build up "y/n..." I look up to see the most stunning girl I've ever laid my eyes I feel like all the oxygen has left my body "hey wanda right?" I say with a smile as I stand up to hug her which she returns I quickly pull her chair out for her as she sits "I'm glad you came" I say nervously we fall into a comfortable conversation It feels so natural we spend 3 hours talking getting to know eachother

"I can't believe it's 9pm already can I walk you home" she says with a smile I nod as we walk to my house continuing our conversation "well this is me" I say as we stop infront of my apartment she pulls me into a hug making me smile as I pull away she kisses my cheek "I'd love to go out on another date with you if you'd allow me to take you out" she says looking into my eyes I feel my cheeks flush and nod "yes of course" I say before we bid our goodbyes.

3 weeks later:

"You've been smiling at your phone for 19 minutes " Jill says making me look up "shut up tonight's my 4th date with wanda she's just text details I was thinking of asking her to come up tonight so do you mind if I have the place to myself " I say biting my lip me and wanda have been flirting alot making out and we always stop before it gets heated but tonight I wanna invite her up "oh la la la I can't believe youre on your 4th date and you haven't fucked yet" she says making me blush "dude shut up"

 Wands: See you tonight beautiful *1 imagine attached* 

I spit out my water looking at my phone as I open the picture an image of wanda wrapped in a short towel appearing on my screen oh fuck I can't breathe "what was that for!!" I look over to Jill covered in my water "you got sent a nude Holy shit!" I shake my head "no no I didn't I gotta go get ready bye and sorry" I quickly run to my room closing the door I lean my body against it as I bite my lip I strip to my matching bra and panties as I take a picture in the full length mirror

Me:I spit water all over my roommate thank you very much *1 image attached* 

I put my phone down and remove my bra and panties as I get in the shower I quickly get washed and wash my hair it takes roughly 20 minutes before I climb out and wrap myself in a towel I bite my lip as I walk in excited to check my phone I pick it up and screw my face up as there's no reply I start to type a message

Me: the picturewasn't that bad was it I thought my ass looker rather good in those panties..

I towel dry my hair as my phone dings

Wands: Baby baby baby I'm so sorry I was to busy trying to remember how to breathe then I couldn't take my eyes off the photo and youre right.. fuck your ass looked AMAZING in those panties holy shit

Me: Thank god I thought it was to much and you didn't wanna speak I got scared, I can't wait to see you soon baby and I have the place to myself tonight so I was thinking we could come back here afterwards?..

Wands:I have an idea why don't we just have the date at your apartment we can watch movies make out have a glass of wine or 2 make out talk and make out oh and did I say make out? 😉 

Me: That sounds like a plan I'll see you soon and i uh i dunno maybe we should uh make out?😏 

I put my phone down and I run out in my towel "Jill wandas just coming here for our date if you don't mind heading out please and thank you" I head back into my room and start getting ready since we're staying here I decided to go for short shorts and a tight vest top that shows my cleavage perfectly I throw my hair up in a messy bun as I sit on my bed deciding to watch an episode of friends to kill time 

2 hours later

"OK im off y/n byeee" my roommate yells "ok bye see you tomorrow" I yell back 10 minutes later my phone dings

Wands: I'm here baby 

I quickly run out to let her in as she wraps her arms around me holding me tight "I see you went for the casual look, I love it" she whispers in my ear making me smile as I step back "you look beautiful" i say truthfully as I pull her into the apartment we ordered some pizza as I spent the full time admiring her, her laugh her smile everything "that was some great pizza" she says leaning back as I agree we spend the next 3 hours cuddling watching a friends I feel the urge to kiss her so I sit up and straddle her waist as I sit "mh hey" she whispers as her hands settle on my thighs I quickly press my lips against hers as I start to make out with her the kiss quickly heats up a moan leaving my lips as I feel something hard pushing against my core I look at her a little shocked as she looks down avoiding my gaze I hold her chin gently making her look up at me "hey don't ever be ashamed I'm still here I don't care that you have a dick I find it hot" before I know it her lips smash against mine as we make our way to my bedroom the feeling of her hard member pressed against me only turning me on more "I can't wait to feel you" I pant out against her lips as we fall onto the bed our clothes being thrown everywhere until we're both naked I bite my lip at the sight of her as she does the same "fuck y/n"

she looks at me lust in her eyes as she stops and sits on the bed "I have something I need to say" she says looking nervous I sit up and rub her back "hey you can tell me anything its ok" she turns to look at me taking my hands "I have a BDSM kink" she says low as a giggle leaves my lips "me too I love being tied up" she looks at me shocked as the lust takes over her eyes once again "do you wanna do it" she says turning to me I quickly lean over into my drawer and pull out ropes making her smirk "oh you kinky little slut" her words turn me on more as I lay with my legs and arms spread "tie me up daddy" as soon as I speak the words she flicks her wrists and my arms and legs are tied to the bed I look at her shocked "that's a story for another time babygirl for now just relax if you want me to stop at anytime say Red ok?" I moan and nod as eyes explore my naked exposed body "ok daddy" I whimper as her hands slide up my thighs to my core her fingers spreading my pussy lips as a moan leaves both our mouths "look how wet you are for me princess such a naughty girl" she says as her slender fingers slide into my tight cunt causing me to arch my back and moan "mmmh fuck wands right there feels so good" I moan as she kisses up my body thrusting her fingers perfectly hitting all the right spots her lips latch around my right nipple as she sucks taking no mercy I can't help but scream her name as she curls her fingers hitting my gspot with each thrust "I'm gonna..oh god I'm gonna..cum" I pant as I cum all over her talented fingers my breathing rapid as she slips her fingers out "such a good girl did that feel good baby" I nod as I try to control my breathing "are you ready to take my dick babygirl" she says as she positions herself between my spread legs the sight enough to make me cum again I let out a whimper as she runs her head through my cum soaked cunt "please daddy please" I beg still breathing rapidly I feel her line herself up to my entrance as her hand grabs my tit I feel her slam deep inside me "uh fuck y/n shit your so fucking tight" she moans into my eyes as she starts thrusting "so big so big" I pant desperately needing to touch her to pull her tighter into me "fa..faster daddy" I moan as she starts pounding my cunt faster and harder I've never been this turned on I've never been this wet but fuck me does she do something to me and I love it "yes yes yes!!! Don't stop please oh my fucking god yessssss" I scream as she slams her length into me at a bruising pace her moans in my ear making it harder not to cum "let go princess cum all over my dick" as soon as she whispers into my ear it's game over I cum all over her dick as she continues to pound me faster "fuck wanda cum inside me" she groans and I feel her thrusts become sloppy letting me know she's close "I need to feel you filling me baby p..please" I pant as another orgasm crashes over me after a few more thrusts I feel her deeper than before as she slams inside me shooting her load into my cunt her body collapses onto mine as we both pant trying toget our breaths back "I have never..felt that amazing" I whisper into herear as she sits up and slides out me moaning at the sight "me either baby" she says as she unties me before heading to the bathroom to clean herself and returning with a damp cloth to clean me "now time for lots of cuddles and kisses because you deserve it baby" I smile as she climbs into bed I instantly wrap my arms and legs around her "can we watch more friends please baby" I say with puppy eyes as she giggles "of course we can baby as long as I get to hold you" I smile as i put the TV on and load friends we spent the rest of the night in eachothers arms this is what I want forever with her.

AN: I hope this is ok I always feel these are crap when I write them haha but as long as you sexy people enjoy them that's the important thing requests as always are open babes word count , stay hydrated babes 2.1k

[thatfrenchacademic]

OK so about this "34, unmarried and childless" article about Taylor Swift. Let me tell you about Scam Academia.

TL;DR: some mediocre dude had a half baked opinio nabout Taylor Swift that everyone hated, but like Mother Nature I let nothing go to waste.

Here is the take you have not heard yet, about this opinion: this guy is actually a good case study on how to develop your academic literacy, aka how to recognize a true academic from a scammer who presents themselves as an academic, but is just a crook. In a world of pseudoscience and pretend experts that have enough resources to organize their flat earth conference, let me walk you through the world of Scam Academic, where for a few thousand dollars, you too can claim to be a researcher with a doctorate! Follow me down a rabbit hole that I hate with my whole heart!

Preamble: I have zero skin in the TS game. I don't get the hype, the lore, the obsession with those 2000s bracelet or dissecting every single line or every single song.

But then. Some guy had to write an op-ed stating Taylor Swift was not a good role model for girls ("in the US and beyond"), and it is a terrible take on so many level, but here is the thing. Whiny conservative think-pieces about highly successful women who should get back to the kitchen and think of the children are nothing new. But this one is different.

This one is fucking terribly written. It's just an abysmally written blog post. Genuinely one of the worst thing I have ever read, and I read hundreds of undergrad essays every year for a living. It contradicts its own arguments in every paragraph. It over-explains concepts like it's a high school essay and he's trying to meet the word count. It says "this is a valid question worth asking" but does not actually explain why it is worth asking. It is so, so, so bad.

Conservative writers are usually more the "high brow, drowning you in grandstanding" kind of writers. They are, usually, good technical writers - it's the one thing that helps make their talking point sound legit and palatable. So an abysmally bad conservative writer? Ok, I am intrigued.

The author is one John Mac Ghlionn. I look up the guy on Google and...

Oh.

Oh no, John.

Spewing conservative bullshit at women AND a researcher? You're in my turf now, John. You could have continued to cover UFC Pillow Fight Championships, or alien technology and other riveting subjects, but you had try to connect two brain cells to argue a thing, and slap "researcher" on top of it. Now I'm offended, as a researcher.

1. I am sorry, researcher WHERE?

Ok so if one is a "researcher", it means one conduct "research". and contrary to what backyard conspiracy theorists think, "researcher" is an actual job. It is an actual professional occupation. You get an actual contract, and you are paid actual money. By an actual employer: public (University), private (Think tank, private company), or a mix of both (at Unviersity, but on a privately funded project, for example).

So where does our John Mc Ghlionn work?

Well. Nowhere, as far as I can tell.

John does not list any affiliation. Usually, when they write, academics will state their exact position (Researcher, Doctoral Researcher, Associate Professor, Chief Engineer, Head of Department, Research Director...) and where they work. For example:

That's what it is supposed to look like.

But John? Nope, no affiliation anywhere, on anything he ever published. That's a pretty massive read flag. Research takes ressources: at the very least, time and access to database and documentation, even in social sciences in humanities. You may not need a lab, but you sure as hell need money and full access to JStore at least.

So I thought he was just one of these "I google therefore I research" kind of dude. But then, out of nowhere:

I am sorry. He has a WHAT.

2. I am sorry, a Doctorate from WHERE?

So. One thing to claim to be a researcher when you are just a professional yapper. Another to claim a DIPLOMA.

And not any diploma. A doctorate.

Let's pause. "Doctorate" is actually a really broad umbrella term of all doctoral-level degrees. The most famous (and most prestigious, for better and worse) is the PhD, but a PhD is technically just one of many Research Doctorate of, theoretically, the same level (cue this helpful reddit post). A second category of doctorates are the Applied Doctorates, and while there is Discourse on where they sit vis-a-vis PhD, the easiest is to consider that they are not research-oriented. They are hands-on, practice-oriented degrees. For example: you can practice medicine with an MD. You don't need a PhD. You can still call yourself a doctor, though.

Alright, so which of these does our friend Johnnie has? Or is currently enrolled in? And in which University?

You will notice that John does not go by "John Mac Ghlionn PhD" or even "Dr John Mac Ghlionn", when you just KNOW he is the sort of person that would but that shit everywhere. And no shade here, because I, for one, do put that shit everywhere. Maybe he is just currently enrolled in a program and has not graduated. Fair.

Since John does not list affiliation, I had to switch from academic to internet sleuth, and dig out this article:

But we learn that in 2021, John was a "PhD Scholar" in "Parkmore Institute". "PhD Scholar" is not a title I am sued to, but it's also not raising any red flag: ongoing PhD researchers can be "PhD students", "PhD fellows", "PhD researchers"... It varies from country to country and from institution to institution, so why not "PhD Scholar".

Let's check out the Parkmore Institute.

Ok, they are not a traditional university, but they appear to be more of a postgraduate institution: offering only higher level degrees, not undergrad courses. Once again, not necessarily a red flag. They are usually very heavily research focused, and embrace the "research" side of academia more than the "teaching" side. In Germany, the Max Planck Institutes are research-only institutions who deliver PhDs. They conduct cutting edge research, in part because their researchers rarely have to spend time teaching.

But that is NOT the Parkmore Institute. First of all, let's see what programs they offer:

None of them are legit.

And I mean, none of them are recognize as even Applied/Professional Doctorate by the National Science Foundation (US based). And while a PhD in Human sexuality would be perfectly valid, but I'm going to on a limb and say I have some serious doubts about "Bodymind Healing" as an academic field.

These are not legit academic degrees.

What they are, is an excellent money-making opportunity for anyone working at the Parkmore institute. Students will pay, at the very least:

And 60% of this goes to their " faculty mentor". The Parkmore institute provides no research fund, no desk or office space (they are entirely digital), no access to any resources or library, not even a Zoom account. There is also no mention of any timeline: how long a PhD take to complete? Who knows. 6 months ? A year ? 5 years? What are the requirements to graduate ? Who knows ! And I would need to pay $200 to get in touch with them, so I sure as fuck won't know any time soon!

But let's get back to our friend John. Remember that he stated, in that 2021 publication, he was a "PhD Scholar" at Parkmore ? Well that's a shame because Parkmore does not deliver PhDs. Ain't that a bitch.

ALSO. Parkmore helpfully has page with all their Doctoral Recipients! And guess who is NOT HERE ! That's right, our Johnnie !

How can this be ? Well, three possibilities:

John is still not done with a PhD. After 4 years ? In a crank university where I am pretty sure I can submit the first draft of a litt review and graduate ? Nah

John never completed the thing. Boo, that would mean that John is lying, when he says he has a doctorate. Bad, bad.

John did graduate, and obtained his doctorate in [scrolls back to check] psychosocial studies, and then was not put on the website or was withdrawn some time before today, as Parkmore institute ended their affiliation with him, as per this bit in their application form

A shame, really. If John had been affiliated with the Parkmore Institute, it would give a shred of legitimacy to anything he writes to anyone just skimming.

Now, I would love to get in touch with the Parkmore Institute and ask to see John's doctoral work, which they DO have, since the application for also has this very interesting section:

(definitely very legit, very normal).

But I am not sure how I would even phrase that request without transparently going

"hey, would love to see what bullshit research is being done over there, since one of your graduate decided to go all Handmaid's tale for the last 2 years".

If anyone feels like sending that email, I am begging you to keep me in the loop.

3. Back up, back up, what's up with that article?

Remember the article where he was listed as a "PhD Fellow"?

Well, about that... No. Welcome to the world of predatory publishing, one more cog in the Bullshit Academic ecosystem.

First: not at article. It's a "commentary". Could be worth something ia good journal, but still would not be a piece of research. But that is the least of its sins.

Its sins are being published in a journal called "Sociology and Criminology-Open Access", by a publisher called "Longdom". Longdom publishing has a bunch of journals on a lot o different fields, with the particularly of being predatory; they will publish absolutely anything you send them, as long as you pay their Article Processing Charges:

There are entire lists of Predatory journals on the web, you can find on here and another here , Longdom Publishing is in both.

This is how John can publish this last minute, Redbull-and-weed-induced essay in an actual journal, with an abstract that, I kid you not, finishes with "Please find the paper attached." He slapped together a shitty essay about people in India are poorer and therefore more likely to exhibit psychopathic traits and therefore engage in corruption, purely base on vibes. It does not even deserve be given any consideration, not even to be debunked. There is nothing to be debunked. This would be a failing grade for a 1st year intro class.

CONCLUSION

On the surface, John Mac Ghlionn is the poster boy of failed edgelords who really wish they were Jordan Peterson, but unfortunately are just Doug, the guy for 10th grade who failed the Literature class and decided it was because litterature was too woke today anyway.

Beneath the surface, John is a case study in Scam Academia, and the proof that no matter how bad actual academia is, Scam Academia can always get worse.

A quick checklist to go through whenever someone claims be a researcher, an academic, a fellow, a doctor, a PhD or anything of the sort:

What is their affiliation? Is this a legitimate organization?

Do they have a PhD? Another doctorate degree? From where?

Have they published ? Where is it published?

[nyoomerr]

Do you have any tips for finishing works and getting enough confidence to post them?

sure! just keep in mind that these are tips from my single perspective, and everyone's creative processes are different, etc etc all the usual disclaimers 🙈

↓↓ all advice under the readmore cuz it got pretty lengthy ↓↓

for finishing works, you'll probably have to start by identifying why you don't feel like continuing a particular WIP.

is it a time/energy thing? make sure you're staying physically healthy (good food, keeping hydrated, moderate exercise) and that you aren't forcing yourself to sit down and write at the end of a long day when you've already spent all your mental energy elsewhere. this is one of the lamest points of advice on the whole list but i am being so serious about it.

is it a lack of inspiration? try talking about the fic with a friend, using prompt generators, or thinking back to what originally inspired the fic to begin with. if you started writing the fic for One Specific Scene, go write that scene, regardless of how far out you are from it chronologically! you can always revise or rewrite it later if it turns out that the in-between scenes change some of the context or flow.

is it that you're struggling to get a scene written just right? skip past it and come back later, maybe leaving just a quick one or two line summary of what you want to happen in that scene so you don't forget later. if you can't skip past it, then tell yourself "okay, i'm going to rewrite this later," before trying to write it - if you have already decided that this will not be your final draft, then it can help you feel less hesitant to put imperfect words down.

for gathering the confidence to post a work, it's a bit more tricky...

i think most people want to post things because they want to receive external validation on it... so so valid and relatable 🤝 BUT this motivation makes it hard to actually shut out the factors that can cause nerves (i.e., advice like "turn off comments if you're worried about receiving criticism" is useless, because then you also don't get the positive comments you likely wanted in the first place).

one strategy you could try is starting with a small audience first - just send it to a friend you know will be your hypeman. if you're feeling more bold, you can try sharing it with a discord server or group chat - essentially, narrowing the audience down to people that you know will be supportive of your work, no matter what.

if sharing the fic with your friends actually sounds like the Worst Case Scenario, then i'd instead recommend posting it to an anon collection! if you end up not being happy with the response to the fic, you can pretend it was never yours to begin with - there's no shame in using the anon tool as it was meant to be used. if you end up feeling really proud of the work after the nerves have passed, you can always de-anon it later to tie it back to you!

regardless of how or who you share it with though, my top recommendation is that you sit down and identify every little thing that you're proud of in your work before you post it. write these things out so you don't forget! the people who are going to read your work will not have the same tastes, experiences, and desires that you personally had when you sat down to write the fic to begin with. if they don't like parts of it, it does NOT mean those parts are bad - it just wasn't for them personally!

that can be hard to remember when you're getting feedback, though, which is why it's important to have those things that YOU like about your work written down so you can go take a look at them to remind yourself.

if you try posting a work and afterwards go "oh, that isn't for me, i'd rather just create for myself personally," then that's totally chill! what would be tragic is if you posted a work and then felt so shitty after the fact that it tainted your enjoyment of the creation process itself. that's why, no matter what, please remember that you wrote this fic for yourself, and hold on to the things that you like about it!!

anyway that got pretty rambly but TLDR: 1) figure out why you're having trouble finishing your WIP and tackle that reason instead of blindly pushing yourself forward 2) ease yourself into posting in whatever way is least intimidating for you, no need to jump straight to having an AO3 profile linked to your writing 3) no matter what, make sure you remember the things that you personally enjoy about what you made, and celebrate those things!

[gibbearish]

wanted to throw my hat into the ring specifically in regards to james responding to the bigotry claims bc i havent seen anyone address the aspects i wanna talk abt in full yet, it kinda got long as fuck for a p short excerpt so putting it under a readmore

so here's the section (text from @storagebay29 's v helpful transcript):

"I never ever intended to hurt anybody. I never thought that that's what I was doing. Before I went- before I went to the hospital,¹ I read a lot of stuff from people who were really hurt, not just authors and stuff but people who watched my videos who were hurt by stuff in them. People think that I hate ace people and women and bisexual people and lesbians and that's not true. It's really- it's just- it’s not true. And I’m sorry that stuff made it into videos² that just shouldn’t have been there: misinformation and lies... But I promise you I did not write that stuff.³

I should have been a lot more exacting when Nick and I would be editing scripts but I promise you that those are not- I don't think those things.⁴ I specifically want to apologise to asexual people who feel⁵ that I just completed delegitimised you. Nick being ace, I- I know that it's kinda like you know, no two gay people are exactly the same, no two ace people are exactly the same, but I kind of, when it came to that I just kind of ran with Nick's judgement⁶ and his observations and stuff like that. And I’m not trying to throw Nick under the bus,⁷ which a bunch of people are saying that I was setting him up as doing, which is not true…"

so! let's break this down

¹ "Before I went- before I went to the hospital" - firstly i want to be clear of my position with the "did he actually attempt" question bc ive seen some people being absolutely vile already, which is that while i understand doubting his story considering his history of lying and manipulation and obviously skewed moral compass, i also feel like it is VERY much plausible enough that publically speculating abt whether it's true or not is shitty, especially telling HIM you think he's lying. best case scenario you're right, worst case scenario you're crossing a hell of a line, and he's obviously done enough stuff that the situation can be addressed pretty comprehensively without risking getting that coin flip wrong. i think we should proceed under the assumption that lying about that is one line he wouldn't cross, and if proof comes along that he was lying then obviously fuck him, but otherwise i think that aspect should be off limits. and having said all that, even under the assumption he is telling the truth, the way he brings it up in this apology is still manipulative, as many have already pointed out, and this is an excellent example. by bringing it up right before addressing his bigotry, he a) implies to the audience that these comments in particular are a notable part of what sent him there, and therefore plants the idea that if they continue to address it while knowing how badly it's already affecting him, they'd be deliberately trying to hurt him or push him to attempt again, and b) tries to distract the audience from the fact that he's addressing his bigotry and get them to go easy on him, since clearly he's already punished himself over it enough. but harming yourself does not actually make up for harm caused to others, and even if it did, unlearning the bigotry that caused the harm in the first place doesnt end at "feel really bad about it," that's actually step one. and as i'm sure you're already aware and i'll get into more in points 4 and 5, whether he's even at step one yet is doubtful!

² "And I’m sorry that stuff made it into videos" - others have covered his passive voice the whole way through so i won't dwell too long beyond pointing it out, it's mostly just highlighted here bc of how it ties into the next point

³ "But I promise you I did not write that stuff." - just, beautiful in so many ways. performance art, even. firstly, the fact that one of the closest places he comes to calling it plagiarism is in defense against a second allegation? just lmao. and secondly, this is about the most solid proof you could get that he indeed did not watch hbomberguy's video (or at least the whole thing) because hbomb very conclusively showed that if there are /any/ original thoughts of James' in his scripts, it is the bigotry, because he showed multiple examples of James /specifically/ rewording things he plagiarized to ADD IN the bigotry. so then tying back to point 2, his passive voice then becomes about ten times funnier here because he was just. blissfully unaware we all already knew exactly how it "made it into" the script and that his next statement would be a lie. just incredible

⁴ "I don't think those things." - notice the lack of specificity here, the most he can say is "people think i hate these groups" and "i don't think those things" and not "this is exactly what i said that was harmful, here's how it was harmful, here's the correct version of it, and here's how to avoid similar pitfalls in the future", yknow, like what people do when they actually accidentally say bigoted things bc they don't know any better? and again this point ties into the next one:

⁵ "I specifically want to apologise to asexual people who feel that I just completed delegitimised you." - ah yes, nothing says apology like "i'm sorry you felt like what i said was hurtful," where the message is less "i did something wrong and hurt you, i regret this and want to fix it," and more "you were too sensitive and got your feelings hurt by something i didn't intend to be hurtful, but i GUESS i'll be the bigger person and say sorry even though i didn't actually do anything wrong🙄". and see again 4, if he actually had looked into it and learned why it was wrong, he wouldn't be saying people "felt" delegitimised. he would be explaining why people reacted that way ie what it was a reaction to, why this reaction was correct, and providing actual information about asexual people. but he doesnt, because he didnt, because he doesnt care. which is all ESPECIALLY fucked because in saying it this way he's. delegitimising what they were saying. like some kind of fuckin aphobia ouroboros

⁶ "when it came to that I just kind of ran with Nick's judgement" + ⁷ "And I’m not trying to throw Nick under the bus" - here we are, the crown jewels. so obviously ppl are already talking abt the performative allyship of "but my best friend is minority and they said it was fine!!1!" which is fucked up on its own, but then the fact that he immediately jumps to "and also i'm not throwing nick under the bus" shows us that within the greater context, point 6 did indeed mean "the bigotry in the scripts that i am currently apologizing for and explaining the presence of in this section is there because i repeated the things nick told me were true, these ideas originate from him." aka blame nick, not me. but then he remembered that scapegoating nick is also something people are accusing him of so he had to backtrack over it, which if it was actually an innocent statement, it yknow. wouldn't need to be backtracked over? it's like he thinks just because he doesn't outright say "nick has bigoted ideas that i parroted so basically its his fault" that no one can pick up on the subtext? and frankly i don't know much about nick (or james beyond this whole thing tbf so obv take everything i say with the whole shaker of salt) so this very well could be the truth to a degree, but if nick does hold bigoted views too, that's TOO. not instead. for james to repeat them without question to the camera means he doesn't disagree. even if hbomb hadn't proven the bigotry did originate from him, it would still be meaningless, because if it came from nick then that would just mean james decided to stay close working friends with a shitbag and repeat all of his garbage to his fans uncritically!

so in summary, in just this one chunk he: reminds you to be extra niceys to him because hes delicate right now, immediately lies about where the bigotry came from, talks around what he actually said wrong or that he was in the drivers seat for it, then blames nick for it before hearing himself say it out loud reminds him people are picking up on that now too and has to walk it back.

to spoof the roblox oof video: when we look at the sum collective of all of his claims regarding his bigotry, and we put it in context with. the fucking everything about him. when james says the bigotry didn't come from him, this might just be me. but I don't believe him!

[spidersmiceandeverythingnice]

Oooo anyway I just remember why I Hate and Loathe the big High Lord meeting in ACOWAR and why it fully cements SJM in my Worst Authors category for like a billion reasons

1. Feyre refuses to bow to the Dawn Court. Weird choice and completely fucking awkward to read - I guess this is meant as some kind of Girlboss Moment - like "no, I won't bow to the stinky old fashioned MEN!!!! who run this world. My super hot boyfriend gave me this title and I'm the master of the universe now." But it's... childish. Also? Way to disrespect Thesan but this is going to become a pattern because of course the gay Asian High Lord has no special powers apart from super good healing that literally every other character can accomplish, and of course he's gentle, and passive (ultimately willing to "bow [to Rhysand] if the other [High Lords] will") and of course his lover has no name and never speaks. Great! Hate it.

2. Morrigan and Vivian. On paper this seems interesting as far as a relationship goes like - what kind of interesting Court relations did Night have pre Amarantha and can those bonds be salvaged? But instead of asking those questions the scene decides to immediately undercut Vivian's character as a badass general and warrior who defended Winter in her childhood friend/future husband's absence by making her squeal like a literal 13 year old when the Night Court - who is suspected of murdering 24 children - shows up. Vivian proceeds to throw a fit and snarks about wanting to be a High Lady. Rip Vivian we hardly knew ye.

3. Do I even need to talk about Helion being the worst bisexual rep. Do I even need to say it. Good lord.

4. Do I even need to talk about Fantasy China and Helion being allied with the Faerie Confederates. Do I even need to explain this. It gets worse, somehow!

5. Tamlin and Tarquin actually have a case against allying with the Night Court given literally everything that happened in the last two books but this isn't painted as reasonable distrust of a group of lying backstabbing sycophants who purposefully play up their cruelty and keep secrets from the other Courts. No, of course not. Tarquin immediately forgives the Night Court because he has no backbone whatsoever apparently. Tamlin is considered unreasonable for not trusting Feyre and Rhys, who have continuously tried to hurt him and his people and undermine his authority as High Lord.

6. Everyone immediately forgets that Rhysand worked for Amarantha for 50 years and distrusts Tamlin, who has worked for Hybern for all of five minutes and also brings tons of information on their troop movements and positions, confirming that all of his so called alliance was a fraud and he's been spying on them the whole time.

7. Literally the whole fucking deal with the Winter Court. Like I'm sorry that Rhys is so sexual traumatized by Amarantha but children fucking died in a horrible, gruesome way that now, nobody can be accountable for. This is on my top 3 of most egregious SJM retcons because I'm supposed to believe that some daemati we've never heard of before, is never mentioned or seen again, is supposedly the missing link to absolve Rhysand of the fact that he murdered 24 children in book one and devastated the Winter Court. Give me a fucking break. And Feyre gets so SAD and hurt when Rhys says he was confined to Amarantha’s bedroom, but I guess dead kids in Winter and Spring are just the price you pay for loving a morally gray bryonic hero uwu. I'd say, "Get fucked," but i think Rhys and Feyre would enjoy that too much.

8. When the Autumn Court says mean things it makes them irredeemable, but when Azriel and Feyre break all the rules of magic and physically retaliate and hurt other people, it's a-okay, and totally justified! Oh, the Lady of Autumn (another unnamed, sad silent [white] victim who only exists for Helion to angst over) gets hurt by virtue of being a bystander? Totally cool and normal, and since she's been a victim of domestic violence before, it means that she's a secret good guy who will totally understand and forgive Feyre for her totally justifiable outburst. Fuck off.

9. Feyre speaking to and ordering Azriel around like a literal rabid dog. Do I even need to explain this and why its bad. Do I even need to say it.

10. This scene was a joke and everything about it was a stinking trash fire.

[darklinaforever]

It's curious that you don't defend her about being a bad mother and a bad wife...it's something, seeing as you think that everyone in that series owes her something. And it's normal that you don't know Sweetestpoocorn, she writes Rhaenyra having Daemon as her husband from the beginning and having Aegon and Viserys as her first children, a fic only taking the canon as a reference and without contamination of the "good moments" of the couple from the show, clearly something you wouldn't enjoy. And by the way a little exaggerated with the show Rhaenyra, little more and she suffered more than Christ on the cross,during her marriage to Laenor...when she literally had what she wanted,a cover to sleep with whoever she wanted. And comparing the impact that the marriage with Laenor had on Rhaenyra with the one it had on this lady seems like an insult to the canonical Rhaenyra that you say you love, but hey, continue enjoying whatever you like. I'm just saying that when you have problems with everyone, maybe the problem is you, you always want to be right and when they don't give it to you you block people, I guess that's easier than assuming that not everyone is going to agree with you.

Well she literally considered accepting Otto's offer of giving her children hostage and she basically just cheated on Daemon.

I don't particularly call that a good mother or a good wife.

Although show Rhaenyra is far from being the worst person in the world on a technical level.

She is also far from being up to par with her book counterpart in terms of writing, coherence and nuance, especially since we moved into adulthood with Emma D'arcy. Be careful, the acting is very good, but the writing is not there at all unlike the young Rhaenyra played by Milly.

The gratuitous attack on the fanfiction aspect makes me laugh. I literally read fanfiction where Daemyra manages to get married first and have their own children, thus straying from the path of HOTD canon and F&B. So what are you talking about to judge without knowing ?

Again, I like some of Daemyra's things in the show but absolutely not all of it.

The thing that makes me love them is above all the chemistry between the actors more than the scenario itself around them.

And believe me that generally there are no Daemyra scenes from the show that join the book when I think of the Fire and Blood version.

Absolutely not.

If not probably the concept of Twin Flames, because I like to attribute this term to most of my favorite ships and Daemyra F&B or HOTD, fits it quite well for me.

I say it myself that these HOTD characters are downright caricatures of their F&B counterparts. You don't teach me anything. Don't act like I'm defending the writing of this show. Because that was never the case. So what are you trying to do here ?

On the other hand, saying that HOTD is a bad show does not mean that we should demonize everything in it either as if there was absolutely nothing positive or... well true ?

To say that Rhaenyra is a bad friend or a bad daughter and that she didn't suffer from the marriage to Laenor because her only goal was to be able to sleep with whoever she wanted, that's bullshit, I'm sorry. A little objectivity, even on something bad, doesn't kill you.

However, all of this does not prevent me from recognizing that this Rhaenyra has nothing to do with the one in the book like the rest of the characters in HOTD and that that displeases me enormously.

Oh and I assure you, I don't have a problem with everyone, far from it.

And yes... I imagine that with your reasoning, the haters who send me gratuitous hatred full of nonsense are not the real problem but me while we're at it.

On the other hand, I have always said that everyone is free to have their opinion in many positions. No point in you also distorting my words and what I do. I never said that my opinion was truthful and superior.

Also, anon, we're on tumblr, it's common to block people with whom you don't share the same opinion, even for those with whom you've never exchanged words. And when we see that the rare debates we have lead to nothing, yes, we generally end up blocking things too. There's nothing evil or surprising about it. If the block button is there it is ready to be used.

[a-reader-and-a-writer-for-all]

The Middle of Nowhere (Part 4)

Fandom: Top Gun, Top Gun: Maverick, dark!Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw, dark!Jake "Hangman" Seresin, Reader (no relationships) Summary: As the hunt begins, you try to make it back to town before one of your captors can carry out their murderous plan. But it isn't long until one of them finds you... Word Count: 6037 TW: NOT ALL TWS MAY BE MENTIONED SO READ AT YOUR OWN RISK! Language, Hunted for Sport, Knives, Blood, Reader has hair long enough to grab, Reader's POV Notes: I am EXTREMELY proud and excited about this series and hope you enjoy!

Series Masterlist

The freshly fallen snow stretches for miles in all directions. Your head is still pounding where Rooster drove his elbow into it but at least your vision has mostly returned to normal. Now that you have left the clearing with its electric lanterns, your eyes begin to adjust to the natural lighting around you. Luckily—or maybe not so luckily—the moon is nearly full and reflecting off the snow around you, allowing you to avoid crashing into the trees directly in front of you. That doesn’t stop branches from snagging on your jacket or underbrush from scratching at your bare legs and feet and you still can’t see more than a few feet in front of you, but you are trying to find any positives in your current situation.

Who are you kidding—there’s nothing positive about your current situation.

You’ve been drugged, assaulted, stripped down, and are being forced to flee from a pair of psycho killers who plan on murdering you in ways you can’t possibly even fathom. All while you’re barefoot and wearing a jacket that stands out so starkly against the snow that it might as well be a neon sign saying “come and get me”. 

But on top of all that, the worst part is that there’s no way to cover your tracks as you go. The snow is several inches deep and with every step you take, you sink into the soft powder leaving a clear imprint behind that either of the men chasing you can easily follow. You could try to take the time to cover your tracks, but that’s much easier said than done, and even in the best-case scenario, it would still be noticeable something had disturbed the snow. Besides, it would just stall your escape, allowing them to get closer, and it would further numb your already frozen hands as you dug through the snow.

So, no. Continuing forward is the only slim chance you have of making it to safety and out of your captors’ clutches. 

The only slight advantage you may have over them is that neither man seemed too familiar or comfortable in the snowy terrain. You, on the other hand, have lived in this area your entire life. Hell, you’ve been coming out to these woods for as long as you can remember. That has to count for something, right? Maybe under normal conditions it would, but between the lingering effect of the drugs they used on you, the throbbing in your head from Rooster’s blow, the burning pain in your hands and feet, and the cold making it difficult to even breathe, you aren’t able to navigate as easily as normal. So once again, whatever upper hand you might have come up with is snatched away from you.

Even knowing it is a useless endeavor, you still refuse to give up without some sort of a fight. So, with your hands jammed deep within your jacket’s pockets and your hood pulled as tightly around your face as possible, you continue to run forward in a straight line as you try to think up some way to fight back.

You aren’t sure how far you’ve gotten or how long you’ve been running, but you freeze as you hear something from the direction you had run from. The voice echoes around the barren woods and you manage to make out the last few words. “—run. Hangman’s coming.”

Shit. It seems as though your head start is over and the hunt has officially begun.

The fact you are still close enough to the clearing to be able to hear Hangman’s whoop of excitement sends a shiver through you—one not caused by the cold. While you’d much rather deal with Hangman than Rooster every time, escape or evasion from both men is still your ultimate goal. If only you had a weapon or some sort of protection against the two heavily armed men. But they must have emptied your jacket pockets before handing it over and your tank top and boy shorts barely provide any protection from the cold, let alone anything that could be used against your pursuers. For now, your only chance is to keep running and hope, by some miracle, you can evade them. 

As you run, time seems to stand still. You feel as if you are on a treadmill, running as fast as you can yet remaining in one place. You have no idea how long it has been since you took off from the clearing, but everything looks the same. The same towering trees and bushes reaching out from the darkness towards you, the moonlight only seemingly illuminating a few dozen feet in front of you at one time. The same unmarked snow stinging your feet as you sink into it with every step, a troublesome numbness spreading from your little toes across to the others. The same silence enveloping you, the only sound breaking it is the sound of your panting and chattering teeth. 

But then…another sound breaks the silence.

There is a soft whoosh from behind you seconds before something drives itself into your left shoulder. You collapse into the snow with a cry of pain, twisting around to see a long, thin knife jutting from your shoulder blade. Luckily, your coat managed to deflect most of the damage, but you can still feel hot blood oozing down your back, leaving a warm trail in its wake.

As you reach for the knife, wincing as another bolt of pain shoots through your shoulder, a voice calls out from the dark maze of trees, “If you thought my dart skills were impressive, darlin’, just wait ‘til you get a taste of what I can do with a blade.”

You hear another whoosh and you just have time to roll sideways as another knife lodges in the snow, exactly where your knee had been seconds ago. The move had saved you from being incapacitated, but the quick jostling causes the knife still in your shoulder to sway violently back and forth and you are forced to bite your lip to keep from wailing. The taste of copper fills your mouth, but you would rather bite through your tongue than give Hangman the satisfaction of hearing you scream. 

You take a deep breath before yanking the knife out of your shoulder with a stifled moan. 

Flexing your hand, you’re relieved to see the knife didn’t seem to cause any nerve or mobility damage. You didn’t need another thing to add to your growing list of disadvantages. 

Grabbing the second knife as you heave yourself to your feet, you spin around brandishing both knives in front of you. Hangman is close enough to nail you with a knife, but he is still far enough away to remain cloaked in darkness. This means the next attack could come from any direction, and, if you’re not careful, it could be deadly.

“You know,” the voice calls out to you from your left and you swiftly turn towards the sound. “I was so sure Rooster would find you first. I haven’t seen him this set on winning a hunt since we found a girl outside of Boston who looked like his ex-girlfriend. Oof, the things he did to her that night. Even I got a little nauseous. So I can only imagine the look on his face when he walks up and sees me on top of you, slowly carving you up or having more fun like we did back at the bar.” 

You shutter as you recall the feeling of his tongue in your mouth back before you knew what a psycho he was. His voice continues to taunt you from the darkness. “Or, better yet, I want to watch his face as he stumbles on your corpse hanging from one of these trees. Remind him exactly why they call me Hangman.”

“You sick fuck,” you cry, still brandishing your knives in the direction of his voice. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because we enjoy it.” His voice now comes from your right and you nearly trip over your frozen feet as you face it. “Because we can. Because there’s nothing better in this world than snatching someone like you and dropping them into a place like this where they don’t stand a chance. It’s the natural order of things that humans have either forgotten or hidden away because we’ve been told it’s wrong. But what is more right than a predator hunting its prey?”

Panting slightly, causing large puffs of your breath to bloom in front of your face, you call out, “This is where you made your mistake, dickhead. I’m not your timid ‘little fox’ who you threw into an unfamiliar arena. Around here, we’re raised in these woods. Taught to hunt almost before we can walk. So if you think I’m gonna just lay down without a fight, you’re about to be sorely disappointed.”

“Oh, sweetheart, you’ve got me all wrong.” You whirl around, knives raised, to face the sound of his voice behind you. “I don’t want you to give up or give in. I’m ready for a fight. That’s what makes this fun.” 

With that last word, another knife shoots out at you from the darkness. You have just enough time to dive backwards before it passes over you, inches from your face. But before you can scamper back to your feet, Hangman is charging out of the woods towards you. As he reaches you, knife raised, you thrust your feet up, driving them into his stomach. Using his forward momentum, you flip him over your head and he ends up on his back gasping in the snow. The knife he had been holding in his hand disappears into the snow somewhere to the left but far enough away he can’t reach it.

As Hangman continues to struggle to catch his breath behind you, you scamper to your feet. Grinning as you approach your would-be attacker, you chuckle, “And my ex said those self-defense classes were a load of bull.” With your hands resting on your knees as you peer down at him, you ask Hangman in a cloying voice, “How’s those solar plexus feeling? Little winded there, buddy?”

He glares up at you with murder burning in his eyes but even as he struggles to sit up, he’s helpless until he has a moment to collect himself. That thought only makes your grin grow wider. 

Stepping over his waist, you sit down—hard—on his stomach, causing him to let out another oof as the air is knocked out of him once again. Pressing the knives he had previously thrown at you against either side of his neck, you drop the smile as you growl, “Now listen, you fucker. I’m not like you. I haven’t enjoyed a second of any of this and I’m not the kind of person who likes hurting others—even pieces of shit psycho murderers like you. So, I’m going to walk away from here and you’re not going to follow me. In fact, you’re going to go find your psychotic friend and you’re both going to get back in your truck and drive the fuck out of my life forever. And for that small gesture of human decency, I won’t turn you in to the cops when I reach town. We all just go about our lives like this never happened and you never come after me again. Do we have a deal?”

“What if I say no?” he pants, the murderous glint in his eyes suddenly taking on a more mischievous gleam to it. “You said it yourself, you’re no killer. So what’s your plan if I decide I’ll take my chances against you? You really think you can plunge those things into me? Watch the life fade from my eyes as my blood soaks onto your hands? That’s a stain you’ll never be able to wash out. Me? I’d bathe in blood every day if I got the chance. But can you live with that stain on your hands for the rest of your life?”

“Considering it meant I lived through this nightmare you put me through, I think I’d be fine. But should we test that theory?” You press the tips of the blades deeper into his neck and you feel him flinch beneath you. The movement is slight and he maintains a blank expression, but that little, involuntary motion is enough to boost your confidence in your plan. Seems you are making your point. “Besides, I said I don’t like hurting people, not that I wouldn’t. Believe me, if it comes down to either you or me, I’ll choose me every time. But I’d rather not kill anyone if I have another option. So, what do you say? You let me walk away or you get skewered with your own knives? Your choice.”

Hangman glares at you for a long time and you can almost see his mind at work trying to figure out another way out of this. But when you drive the knives in deeper, blood trickling down his neck into the white snow, he snarls, “Alright! I’ll let you go. But I can’t make any promises about Rooster. Once he starts a hunt, there’s no stopping him until he’s tasted blood.”

You consider this for a moment then nod. “Fine. But he said the rules are that if I make it to town, I’m free. Right? So that means he’ll have to stop then.”

Hangman hesitates. “Yeah, those are the rules. But…”

“But what?”

“But it’s never happened before. No one’s ever made it to safety so I don’t know what he would actually do if you make it back to town before he catches you. Technically, he’s supposed to let you go but I wouldn’t be surprised if he snuck into your apartment a few days from now and slit your throat while you slept.”

Pressing the knives further into his skin, you growl, “How the fuck do you know I live in an apartment?”

“Your driver’s license was in your wallet,” he grunts, squirming under the pressure of the blades. “It’s one of the first things we look at. The anonymity of a random victim is more fun, but we have to make sure your disappearance wasn’t going to be noticed before we could leave town. So, we did a little research while you were still unconscious.”

Which means they probably know everything about you. Your real name, your address, your social media which means your friends and family. Even if you escape, there’s nothing stopping them from biding their time then returning to finish the job. However, none of that matters if you can’t survive the night.

You know this is a horrible idea. There is nothing to stop Hangman from coming after you the moment you remove the knives from his neck beside his word. And considering he’s a lying, psychotic serial killer, there’s very little doubt he’ll do just that the moment you let your guard down. But what else can you do? You think what you said to Hangman is true and you could kill him if it came down to it, but there is still a lingering doubt in the back of your mind. 

You had been hunting many times with your dad growing up and had killed your share of smaller animals before. But killing a squirrel and killing a person were two very different things. If you try yet fail and Hangman sees you can’t go through with it, then you lose any leverage you currently have which means there’s nothing left to stop him from overpowering and killing you. 

Then, there’s Rooster. Even if Hangman does hold up his side of your deal, you know deep down Rooster won’t. He was practically coming in his pants at the thought of all the unthinkable things he was going to do to you if he got his hands on you—and that was before you seemingly broke his nose. After that, there’s no way he’ll agree to let you go as long as you are still in the woods. And while you may have gotten lucky with Hangman and gotten the upper hand, you doubt you’d be able to recreate that feat with Rooster. Not when all he can think about is mutilating and murdering you. But maybe it would slow him down if he finds his friend and Hangman explains what happened. Maybe it would give you just enough time to reach town before he got his hands on you. Then there would be nothing stopping you from going back on your part of the deal and heading straight to the police station so these two could be stopped before they could finish their hunt.

Yet that unlikely plan hinged on Hangman truly agreeing to let you go which put you right back to the issue of not being able to trust him not to kill you.

Suddenly, you remember the noose he showed you back at camp he kept tied around his belt. Dropping one of your knives, you reach down and begin blindly reaching for the rope with one hand as the other still holds the knife to Hangman’s throat.

He chuckles as your hand brushes against something that is definitely not the rope. “Whoah there, sweetheart. If that’s what you wanted, I’d have given it to you back at the bar. All you had to do was ask.”

“Shut up, you perverted bastard,” you mutter as you continue to fumble around his belt. Your fingers finally brush against something thin and coarse and, instinctually, you glance down to confirm you located your target.

It is a dire mistake.

Instantly, Hangman thrusts up and slams his head into yours. The knife you had pressed against his throat cuts a thin line across his skin, drawing blood, but isn’t deep enough to slow him down. His forehead drives into yours and the world goes black for a second as your head snaps backward, the knife flying from your grasp. You feel yourself fall back into the snow as Hangman climbs to his feet. By the time your vision begins to return to normal—though your head is once again throbbing in pain—he is standing over you in a similar gloating stance as to how you leered down at his prone body moments before, blood streaming down the side of his neck.

As a malicious grin slowly spreads across his face, Hangman holds up the rope. “Was this what you were looking for? Well, sweetheart, if you want it so badly, who am I to say no.”

Winding back his arm, he throws the noose end of the rope high into the air where it arches perfectly before soaring over a limb of a nearby tree and dropping back down just within his reach. It is the kind of throw only a trained athlete could pull off and, especially given his physique, it wouldn’t surprise you if you learned Hangman had played some form of pro sports at some point in his life. He also has the ego for it.

You try to crawl away from him across the frozen ground, but the world still hasn’t completely cleared and you slip and crash back into the snow. As you prop yourself up on your forearms once more, you feel yourself yanked to your feet as a hand grabs a fistful of your hair. A ripping, burning feeling tears at your scalp as you struggle in Hangman’s grasp, but it’s too strong. Tears sting your eyes in the frosty air as he begins dragging you on your stomach over to the limb where the noose swings ominously. 

It’s over. You had your chance to put down your attacker and you pussied out. Now he is going to kill you and there’s nothing else you can do to stop him. You wonder if anyone will ever find your body or if everyone will always just wonder where you disappeared. Maybe one day there will be an episode of 20/20 or a True Crime documentary on the bartender who just vanished one night after her shift and the theories of what might have happened to her. That makes you wonder how many of those shows or stories you’ve seen over the years were actually caused by these two and their group of psychopathic killers. 

Hangman releases his hold on your hair when he reaches his noose causing you to faceplant into the snow. You want to just lay there and just let the cold embrace of the snowbank take you, but of course, Hangman isn’t that generous. His foot drives into your side, kicking up slightly so it flips you over onto your back. Groaning, you clutch at your aching ribs but he isn’t giving you a moment of relief. He learned from his previous mistake. 

Grabbing the noose, he pulls it over until he is standing over you with it swinging in his hand. Grinning, he tugs on the knots as he stares down at you. “You know, I planned on drawing this out and making it really satisfying for me. But seeing how you weren’t a fan of my knives—or maybe enjoyed them a little too much—” he gestures to his neck where blood is still freely flowing from the slash you put there “—I think it’s time to move on to the grand finale, don’t you think? It’s my favorite part after all.”

On your back looking up at him, you try to scuttle away as he leans down to slip the noose over your neck. He lunges at you but you pull your legs away just in time to avoid his grasp. As you continue to crawl away, you notice the other side of the rope that is dangling from the limb is slowly unfurling and all the slack is getting pulled up into the tree as Hangman drags the noose along with him. In a moment, it’ll all slip up out of his reach or even all the way off the limb. The smallest smile flashes across your face at the realization.

Hangman must have noticed because his brow furrows for a moment before he looks over his shoulder. In doing so, he unconsciously pulls on the noose as his body turns and the rope jumps another few inches into the air. 

Hangman’s eyes grow wide as he mutters, “No, no, no, no.” 

Releasing the noose end, Hangman leaps up just as the other end of the rope goes soaring past. He just manages to snag the end of the rope between two fingers before it is out of reach. Then he crashes back to the ground.

Seeing your chance, you snatch the noose as it begins to rise up into the tree and, bounding forward, tackle Hangman just as he is sitting back up. He flails underneath you and one of his fists collides with your jaw, snapping your head back. You can taste blood as it begins pooling in your mouth, but you ignore it and the pain. Instead, you weave between Hangman’s continued flailing limbs and, just as he raises up to snarl at you, you slip the noose over his head. The action surprises him enough that he pauses for a few seconds as he processes what just happened.

But that’s all the time you need.

Grabbing the other end of the rope, you heave with every ounce of energy you have left. Hangman is a muscular guy, but somehow your efforts manage to tighten the noose around his neck, causing his eyes to widen in surprise. As he claws at the rope, you heave again, practically dragging yourself across the snow to get the needed leverage. The rope moves a little further and Hangman is lifted off the ground. It’s not much, but it’s enough that you can see he is struggling to breathe. Not wanting to make the mistake of underestimating him again, you give the rope one final pull. Given the energy you expended on the first few pulls, it was a much weaker effort, but it does the job. Hangman’s full body weight is now suspended by the rope.

Spitting out a mouthful of blood into the pure snow, you tie off your end of the rope on a nearby limb. After ensuring it won’t give him any slack, you take a few steps closer to where Hangman is thrashing on his rope. Grinning at the sight of his face growing redder and redder, you lock eyes with him and sneer, “Turns out, I’m really enjoying this grand finale after all. It’s my favorite part too.”

His lips move as he tries to snarl something back at you, but the rope around his neck is making it difficult for him to manage much more than some grunts and rasps. As his breathing begins to grow more frantic and strained, you see a shadow of fear pass over his face as his fate begins to become clearer to him. It is a sight that warms your entire body despite the frigid environment around you. 

Stepping forward so you are as close as possible while still just out of his reach, you murmur, “What you’re feeling right now, that fear and helplessness? That dread of knowing what’s about to happen yet knowing there’s nothing you can do to stop it? That’s what all those women felt while they hung there while you got your rocks off. And I gotta say, I questioned whether or not I’d really be able to kill you. But now that it’s happening, I’ve never seen a more satisfying sight.”

Almost all the fight has gone out of Hangman as he weakly wheezes and meekly pulls at the rope. His eyes have become bloody as the blood vessels burst from all his straining and his face is so red it's almost purple. 

No longer afraid of the man who had beat, stabbed, and almost murdered you, you step closer until your face is nearly touching his chest. Looking up at his face swaying above you, you put all the fury, all the pain, all the fear you’ve felt over the past few hours into your words as you hiss, “I hope in whatever Hell I’m sending you to that you’re forced to relive this moment for all eternity.”

If Hangman heard or understood you, he makes no sign of it. Instead, it seems as if all his remaining energy is focused on getting out his last word or words. Even as you watch the last sparks of life flickering out, his lips continue to move as if trying to say something even as his chest begins to spasm due to lack of air. 

And, just as you think he’s done, he manages to force out a single breathy word that is only decipherable because you are practically pressed against him. 

“Bra-Bradley…”

Then his hands drop from his neck as his entire body goes slack and the woods fall silent. 

You stand looking up at him for a long time, holding your breath in anticipation of one last jump scare or resurgence. But this isn’t a movie. The evil is gone and Hangman’s not coming back for more. 

As the realization that it’s really over finally washes over you, you stumble back and collapse to the ground. All the fear and adrenaline that had kept you going since that first knife struck you in the shoulder, suddenly vanishes. 

For the first time, you feel the full impact of the injuries you’ve sustained. Your shoulder cries out from all the strain you’ve put on it, all with a stab wound still bleeding down your back. You just now notice how your tank top clings to your skin from all the blood and sweat that has soaked into it. Your jaw throbs from where Hangman’s fist collided with it, and you can tell it’ll be swollen and bruised in an hour or so. At least you have plenty of snow to press against it. Your scalp still stings from where Hangman pulled you across the ground by your hair and you really hope he didn’t make a bald spot somewhere. But it’s your ribs that hurt the most. It’s doubtful they are broken, probably just bruised, yet each breath sends a fresh stabbing pain into your side. It’ll cause the most issues as you continue on.

That thought almost makes you cry. Taking on Hangman had been difficult enough and you had barely escaped with your life. However, Rooster is still somewhere in these woods actively looking for you. Any head start you had is gone after all the time you took tussling with Hangman. And you have a feeling if Rooster was out for your blood before this, when he discovers you killed his friend, he’s going to want to carve you up with a rusty knife piece by tiny little piece. 

But maybe…

The only reason you were able to get the advantage against Hangman was because he underestimated you. He was too distracted by his own fun and games to really pay attention to what you were doing. Now, while you seriously doubt Rooster will make that same mistake—not after you headbutted him in the clearing—maybe he has a different distraction that will work on him. Namely, his rage and blood lust.

If you can get him so angry and ramp up his need to kill you so high, then maybe, just maybe, he will get sloppy and you’ll have a chance to take him down too. Maybe you can make him see red so strongly, that he won’t be able to see you going in for the kill.

Glancing back at Hangman’s limp body, you wonder if there’s a way to use it in this new plan. Maybe carve something into his skin with one of his knives? Like a message to Rooster saying you have Hangman’s weapons and he’s next? Very Die Hard of you.

It wouldn’t be that difficult to do. After all, Hangman isn’t that far in the air. In fact, the toes of his boots softly kiss the snow beneath him as he continues to sway.

His boots!

Ignoring the way your muscles scream at you as you move, you scramble to your knees and crawl over to Hangman’s dangling body. Your fingers are so numb and swollen from the cold that untying the tight laces is nearly impossible but you refuse to give up. By the time you can slide the second boot off his rapidly chilling body, your nails are cracked and your fingers are bleeding, ruby droplets coating the snow around you.

You hesitate for a moment, wondering if it’s too morbid to also take his socks. However, the boots are several sizes too big and your feet are so frozen that you need to take whatever extra padding you can get. So you slip off his thick, woolen socks. You do draw the line at taking his pants though. As much as you would love some covering for your bare legs, you knew the fit would be way off and just slow you down as you tried to plan the rest of your escape. So, you resign yourself to your new socks and boots.

As you pull them on, the heat radiating from within the soft wool and worn leather feels like Heaven wrapped around your frostbitten feet. However, you can’t help but shudder at the knowledge this is the last warmth Hangman will ever give off. It’s almost like you can feel his hands wrapped around your ankles and trailing up your shins. 

You try your best to push those thoughts aside. After all, you only did what you had to do to survive. If the roles had been reversed and Hangman had won the hunt, he would currently be doing fuck knows what manner of twisted, ungodly things to your body. 

Just the thought of what he might have done reignites the fury and fight in your chest that had blazed when you watched Hangman get a taste of his own medicine. 

Turning back to his now shoeless body, you begin to doubt your original idea of carving a message into him. For one, you really don’t want to do it. Killing him was one thing but mutilating his body is a whole other ball game. Plus, you have terrible penmanship using a pen or pencil. There’s no telling if your message would even be legible when using a knife as a writing tool and then you just wasted time for no reason. Then there is the fact you are in a massive wood at night in the dark. Even if Rooster is tracking you, there’s no guarantee he’ll come across Hangman’s body, especially with his dark denim jacket and jeans helping him blend into the night. 

But that gives you another idea. 

Stripping off your burnt-orange jacket, you shiver as the cold air hits your bare arms. Trying your best to ignore it, you grab Hangman’s jacket, wrestle it off of him, and put it on yourself. Though denim on the outside, the interior is sherpa-lined and it is as warm, if not more, than the jacket you just traded him for. 

Feeling something in the pockets, you are overjoyed to discover his phone in one and the keys to the truck in the other. Checking the phone first, you see it’s locked. However, the key is a facial recognition scan. You know it’s a long shot, but, standing on your toes, you line Hangman’s face up to the screen and nearly squeal when you see it unlock. Your joy deflates somewhat when you see there’s no service but you remember Hangman mentioning the terrible service in these woods when he got that call from his missing hunter friends back in the clearing. Hopefully, as you walk, you’ll find a spot with at least one bar so you can call for help. Going into the settings, you disable the lock function so you won’t need Hangman’s face next time you try to access the phone.

Turning back to what you had planned, you do your best to fit your jacket onto his body. It’s too small but you manage to get it pulled up almost to his shoulders, enough that it’ll stay on. Then, taking a few deep breaths, you slowly pull on the end of the rope. It’s hard going without the adrenaline rush to aid in your efforts, but eventually, you manage to raise Hangman until his head almost brushes the limb the rope is thrown over. Hopefully, between the height and the flash of color, Rooster will be able to spot him if he is anywhere in the area. 

However, that means you need to leave this area as soon as possible.

Now that you have Hangman’s phone and truck keys, your best bet is to try to head back to the clearing. If you can make it there before Rooster catches you, you should be able to steal their truck and head for town. Or at least get somewhere where you can use the phone. 

And if for some reason that plan doesn’t work, at least the clearing will make a good place to make your final stand against Rooster.

Collecting all of the knives that you can find that had scattered around during your fight, you tuck them into the inside of your new jacket. Then, taking one last look at Hangman’s limp body hanging high overhead, you turn and head back in the direction you came from.

They wanted you to be a fox, fine, you’ll be a fox. A fox will do whatever it takes to free themselves from a trap and survive, even if that means gnawing off their own foot. So while it might take doing unspeakable things that will haunt you for the rest of your life in order to survive, it’s a price you’re willing to pay to be the one who walks out of these woods at the end of the night.

One down. One to go.

Thank you all for reading, reblogging, and commenting! There are two more parts coming soon in this series (Part 5 in Bradley's POV and Part 6 in Reader's POV). But I also have more planned for this universe beyond that so stay tuned for updates!

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

Finally we’ve got the eddie-is-married stories! Two pretty different marriages in pretty different places but both are delightful to read!

⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️ (omg are they gonna switch to adoption! Or stay with surrogacy? OR BOTH?!? They said only one more kid but you never know… no matter what they do i as always am loving this story and their lives and the beautiful world that you’ve created for them! It makes me so happy!)

🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼 (shannon being present for the lawsuit era is such a fun concept! I love the stories where you pull all sorts of fun new layers out of canon by making such interesting tweaks!)

Have fun writing! And know that every time you post I get so excited you can just imagine me busting out the pom-poms and the jazz hands :p

- PCA <3

YEAH MARRIED EDDIE!

96 for ⚡️ (Def not 2 kids! A lot of people commented that and I was like AHAHAHA my worst nightmare is multiple infants at a time, SORRY TWINS. But I suppose they COULD space it out. I just wanted to write a chapter about Buck and choice, seeing as Eddie already sort of had his choosing to be a parent again chapter):

---

“But you do have, like, an opinion? Right?” Buck asks. 

Bobby smiles. “Yes, I do.”

“Hit me with it,” Buck begs. “You have a stake in this too, now, remember. So I have to get it right.”

Bobby chuckles. “Well, I don’t think you can get it wrong, Buck. Either way you have a baby. And I think you’re right that if you don’t adopt this child, someone else will.”

Buck sighs, relieved. “Okay, so I’m not like… A bad person, no matter what we choose?”

“No,” Bobby answers. “You’re not.”

It should feel like permission to just go ahead and make the choice Buck is pretty sure he wants to make. He’s not a bad person if he chooses surrogacy. So he can choose it. In the gospel of Bobby Nash, whose ethics he trusts, Buck is in the clear. But Buck still hesitates. He’s still not sure what to do. 

“Do you want to know why I think you’re struggling with this?” Bobby asks him. 

“Yes,” Buck nods. Yes, please. Fucking tell him. Because he doesn’t know why it kept him up for several hours last night, just laying in bed with an uneasy stomach. 

“I think it’s a conflict of…” Bobby thinks for a moment. “Two strong but, in this case, conflicting parts of you.”

“O-okay,” Buck replies. He’s not sure he’s following.

“I think,” Bobby continues. “That one of the core parts of who you are, one of the best parts of who you are, is that you’re very motivated to help anyone in need, simply because you can.”

Buck looks at the ground. He feels another wave of guilt. Because now he’s saying he’d prefer not to help where he can. Right? That’s what Bobby is going to say. 

“You are also someone who has had to fight very hard for a family,” Bobby says. 

Buck looks back up at him.

“The security a lot of people have in that family structure, you didn’t always have that,” Bobby explains.

“I guess that’s true,” Buck says. 

“It is true,” Bobby nods. “And that has an impact on a person. Which is okay.”

Does Buck need to go to therapy about this? Is that what he’s saying?

“The way I see it,” Bobby adds. “The surrogacy option with Adriana’s eggs is a really comfortable option. It’s easy. It’s secure. Your connection to the child is obvious. It’s not something that can be taken away, like a potential birth mother changing her mind. There aren’t a lot of risks, outside the normal risks of having a child.”

Buck’s shoulders drop. “You think I’m scared?”

“I think an open adoption is scary,” Bobby says. “Not bad. Just… Scarier than the alternative you’ve already got in your pocket.”

“Right,” Buck exhales. “Yeah, okay… I can see that.”

“I think I’d feel the same, in your position. If that’s any consolation.”

“It is, actually,” Buck says. “Uh, so what do you think I should do?”

“There’s no right answer,” Bobby says. “Especially if Eddie is happy with either outcome. But my advice? Look at those two parts of yourself that are informing this decision and… I guess, figure out which is more important to you.”

☆☆☆

They meet Lourdes at Pepa’s house. 

Eddie is nervous. It’s an uncomfortable sort of meeting. He feels like Buck has expectations, Pepa has expectations, he’s not sure what expectations Lourdes has… All Eddie really wanted is a baby, so his expectations aren’t so defined. But he’s not sure how it’s going to go. 

He knows Buck and Bobby had a long talk about it. One Buck hasn’t divulged the outcome of. Just said he needed to think it through. Which, fine. That’s fine. Not like Eddie needs any sort of decision before today, anyway. Hell, he hasn’t made a decision. They need to have this meeting first, right? 

Pepa introduces Eddie and Buck to not only Lourdes, but her friend, Maria. Lourdes’ grandmother. Another person with potential expectations to account for. So that’s fun. 

“Thank you both so much for coming,” Maria says. “We are truly grateful.”

Eddie and Buck exchange a look before Buck answers her.

“Hey, of course,” he says. “We’re happy to meet you both.”

---

36 for 🔼 (Thank you! VERY fun stuff planned coming up):

---

 Actually, really nervously. Because what if Eddie says it was a mistake?

But Eddie doesn’t say that. Instead, he offers a little, almost coy smile. 

“Yeah?” He asks.

“Yeah,” Buck nods. “I didn’t, uh… I didn’t know it was an option.”

“It’s complicated,” Eddie admits. 

Buck can imagine. Actually, if he starts thinking about how complicated this all is right now, he might start to freak out. But he doesn’t want to freak out yet. He still feels pleasantly high. 

“I’ll bet,” Buck murmurs. 

“Maybe…” Eddie starts. “Uh, maybe you can come with me?”

Buck’s eyes widen. 

“To talk about it,” Eddie says. “I can put a movie on for Chris or something… And we can talk.”

“Okay,” Buck nods. “Yeah, that’d be good.”

Eddie smiles. “Okay.”

“But…” Buck says. “But I… I should be honest.”

Eddie looks worried. 

“Oh?”

“I just… I haven’t done anything with another dude before,” Buck admits. 

Buck knows he’s talked a big game about his sexual history, but if Eddie is expecting anything here, he might be disappointed. 

“Oh,” Eddie exhales. “Yeah, me neither.”

Whoa. 

[guiraguira]

Hi can I request ichiro hitoya and samatoki taking care of their fem s/o when she's having period cramps?

Helping you ✨

Hello!!💕 Yes! It really seems interesting to me and I don't usually see fics or hc on this topic (at least not from the fandoms I'm a part of)

Warnings: None in particular, just comfort for menstrual pain.

Ichiro - Samatoki - Hitoya x fem reader!

Ichiro

° He knows how menstruation works and has definitely read a lot of articles online about what to do to help you if something hurts. So when he sees you lying in the fetal position he can already imagine what is happening to you. Crouching down to your height he asks what he can do for you, he wants to know specifically what you need right now.

°"S/o, do you want some medicine? Some heat? Chocolate?" He gently strokes your hair as he asks you. Whatever the answer, he will bring everything in any way and leave it at your fingertips. He constantly asks you if the pain has decreased a little or is it still the same, he does it unconsciously because it hurts him to see you like this and even though this happens every month he never gets used to it.

° It will keep you company for long hours if the pain does not decrease and no matter how much you try to push it away, you will not be able to make it go away for more than a few minutes before being by your side again.

"Don't you have a job? I'm fine" but the pain just gets stronger and causes you to twist your face while squeezing your abdomen. He leaves the room only to re-enter with a tea "they say chamomile tea is good in these cases" and without the possibility of discussion he stays by your side waiting for you to finish it.

° He tries to distract you a little by kissing your head while he chats with you and gives you his "I'm acting natural, but if you suffer I suffer" look by holding your hand throughout the process, at some point the situation seems so funny that finally You make the pain go into the background.

° Forget about crying in front of him, your crying causes him to cry too in the worst case scenario. Applying a heating pad that he bought especially for you, he adjusts it as best as possible while he holds your face in his hands.

Samatoki

° He definitely knows a thing or two about what period pain is, but he's not as sweet with his words. He expresses himself best with his actions towards you, he will be totally at your gestures and movements, at the slightest sign of discomfort he will force you to sit down so that you do not strain.

° He will definitely force you to take some medication to dull the pain if they become too intense, otherwise he will bring you blankets so you can wrap yourself as you like. He perfectly masters the art of wrapping you so that the blankets give you comfort.

"This one is very soft, it looks like a stuffed animal" you say as Samatoki spins it around you and presses it against your body. "Yes and this one is a little heavier, so I'll put it on your waist" with a relaxed and calm voice he continues adding layers of blankets while he explains the function of it to you.

° Unfortunately, he doesn't have as much time to stay next to you as he would like, so when he can, he likes to replace the hot water bottle you use with his hands and allow you to lie on him.

"This month was worse, wasn't it?" The palms of his hands lightly squeeze your abdomen as he asks you. You moan in the affirmative and he moves to cradle you more comfortably as he caresses you with his thumbs in light circles.

° He can't see a single tear on your face so if you cry from the pain he freezes in place, he will ask you a thousand times if you don't want to go to the doctor so they can give you more effective medicine. He can handle being hurt, but he can't see you hurt, and if you refuse to go he has no choice but to offer you a back massage, hoping that it will relieve some of the tension.

° He will not let you clench your teeth or bite your lips to endure the pain, he is able to put his fingers so that you bite them in his place. When you relax a little he will bring you your favorite dessert so you can keep your mouth entertained.

Hitoya

° Yes, he has the entire situation under control for you and when you are in pain he pampers you without any shame. He is even capable of leaving work halfway and picking you up wherever you are if you tell him you can't get home because of the pangs of pain.

° He will prepare a bathtub for you with hot water and various treats so that the discomfort is reduced while he sits next to you chatting with you or washing your hair.

"We could try this new shampoo, Jyushi recommended it to me for you" he spreads the product gently over your scalp, pampering you in the process. The feeling of his hands and the heat of the bathtub has a positive effect on your pain.

° No matter how much he hid it, several times he asked Jakurai for the best way to help you and sometimes, those calls were in the middle of the night while he took note of everything the doctor said. You accidentally discovered the notebook where he writes it down but you decided to keep it a secret.

° He comforts you with massages, applying the necessary pressure on your back to relieve tension. Even if you are lying on your side and as compressed as possible, he will make sure to give you a good massage session.

° He tries not to kiss you while the pain lasts because he doesn't think that will help you much, but seeing you so bad, he can't channel his feeling of compassion and support in any other way than leaving the occasional solitary kiss on your cheeks, which at times They manage to warm your heart and distract your body.

° Your tears destroy his self-control and tranquility, gently wiping them away activates his emergency protocol. He gives you medicine and holds you until you fall asleep or the pain subsides, always wiping away any tears that may continue to come.

"The pills will take effect now, yes? I promise it will happen faster than you think" his hands caress your back giving you comfort "you're doing well..." he can repeat these phrases as if they were a prayer or a lullaby, the smell of his skin gives you peace and eventually you will fall asleep.