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whereonceiwasfire · 8 months ago

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I saw @theshadowrealmitself's post the other day about what if a supervillain outed their secret identity becuase they infodumped to the cashier (who happens to be the hero) and you know I had to do a DP oneshot for it. It's a few different kinds of AU, so you just have to roll with me here.

Without further ado:

THE CUSTOMER'S ALWAYS RIGHT (EXCEPT WHEN THEY'RE AN EGOMANIACAL SUPERVILLAIN)

Automatic doors slide apart with a woosh as Danny bursts through the entrance of Hattie's Haunted Hardware Emporium, unzipped backpack barely caught in the crook of his elbow, one arm stuffed through the armhole of the gaudy yellow vest of his uniform.

He's out of breath as he scrambles past the customer service desk, gives a frantic, “I'm here, I'm here!” to the startled employee behind the computer as hops the counter. He’s sprinting past stacked boxes of returns for the door with a STAFF ONLY sign slapped askew across the chipping green paint when a voice stops him in his tracks.

“Danny Fenton.” The words drip cool disapproval, and Danny's shoulders immediately hunch toward his ears, his fingers uncurling from around the door handle.

So close.

“Y-yes?” He slowly turns around, his expression sheepish as he comes to face Hattie herself.

She stands, hands on her hips, eyes narrowed, a MANAGER tag pinned to the chest of her tucked in shirt. The polo is the same hideous yellow as Danny's vest but has the Hattie's Hardware logo—a floating hammer surrounded by a ghostly glow—sewn onto the breast pocket. A funny gag, no doubt, when the place decided to open in the heart of haunted AF Amity Park. Less funny, probably, now that the store room is in disarray every other day because some low-level specter keeps casting stock haphazardly about and flinging empty boxes everywhere.

“You're late,” manager Hattie says, expression pinching. “Again.”

“Aha. Yeah. About that.” Danny scrubs the back of his neck with a palm, teeth bared on something that's more a grimace than a smile. “The bus was behind schedule?”

She doesn't look particularly like she believes him, which is entirely valid, since it's a bald-faced lie. But what is he supposed to say? That he got sidetracked by his new archnemesis, that freaking Plasmius ghost, because the guy somehow managed to compel an entire doggie daycare to do his bidding? What that crackpot needed a canine army for, Danny didn't even want to know, but he wasn't about to just let it go down. Stopping ghosts is kind of his whole shtick as town hero, after all.

He’s just lucky the whole thing didn’t take that long—once Danny managed to snap his fluffy foes out of their trance, they kind of took care of Plasmius for him. Guess they weren't too happy about being mind controlled. Go figure.

But again, Danny can’t exactly just come out and tell his manager, well, any of this. As far as everyone knows, Danny Fenton is a very normal, very human kid—one who maybe isn’t great at the whole being punctual thing and has a penchant for running to the bathroom when ghosts show up—but otherwise exhibits no symptoms of being undead. He’s hoping to keep it that way.

Manager Hattie’s eyes narrow, as if she can tell what he’s thinking, but she just gives a curt jerk of her chin in the direction of the staff room.

“Don’t let it happen again,” she says, and he gives an overzealous nod of assent as he lets out the breath trapped in his chest.

“You got it, boss!” he says, giving her a two-fingered salute and throwing himself into the back before she can change her mind.

***

“That’ll be eight twenty-two. How will you be paying for that?” It comes out a bored drawl as Danny shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“It’ll be cash—just—give me a sec. I know I had change in here somewhere.”

“Sure, no problem.”

Danny crosses his arms over the chest of his garish vest and tips his gaze toward the industrial ceiling, trying to find literally anywhere to look so he’s not the overly intense cashier staring at the woman across the counter as she rummages through her oversized, bubblegum purse for a couple of nickels.

He hadn’t even wanted to get a job—staying on top of school, protecting the town from ghosts, and keeping his secret identity from everyone in his life was enough of a struggle, nevermind trying to fit his weekend sentences at Hattie’s Hardware into the mix. But turns out if you break your phone (in a ghost fight), lose a couple of backpacks (after dumping them in an alley so you can go stop a bank robbery), mysteriously misplace articles of clothing (AKA, throw them away because ectoplasm apparently doesn’t come out in the wash), or otherwise ask your parents to replace your crap enough times without a decent explanation, they’ll stop paying for it.

So, as much as he’d love to not be watching stacks of nickels, pennies, and dimes grow on his counter—the bottle-blonde slapping each coin down with a decisive clack before thrusting her arm back into the depths of her bag—he really can’t get fired. Not only does he desperately need a new pair of shoes after stepping in a suspicious puddle Cujo left behind (please just let it have been radioactive drool), but he has to prove to his parents that he’s responsible, even if he’s going through a bit of a “destructive phase” with his belongings.

“Eight twenty-two!” the woman declares proudly, hiking her purse up onto her shoulder and beaming down at the skyscraper diorama of coins piled up on his counter. “I told you I had change.”

“Yes. You did,” Danny says with a defeated breath, scooping the first stack of nickels into his hand, and spreading them out across his palm.

Five, ten, fifteen…

“It’s eight twenty-two. Trust me.”

“Sorry, policy. I have to double check,” Danny says with his best apologetic grimace before turning his gaze back down to the coins in his hand.

Five, ten, fifteen…

“Well, that’s kind of unfair, don’t you think? Isn’t the customer always right?”

“Right, of course.”

Twenty, twenty-five, thirty…

“This is a bad look. It makes it feel like you don’t trust your clientele.”

Danny gives a half-hearted shrug, not lifting his eyes from the coins. “Sorry. Not my policy.”

Thirty-five, forty, forty-five…

“Well, I never.”

Danny makes the mistake of looking up as the woman tsks, gripping the strap of her bag and giving him a scandalized glower.

“Sorry,” he says again, shoulders slumping as he lets out a sigh, his gaze falling back to the mess of nickels in his hand.

Five, ten, fifteen…

***

Danny’s fellow cashier heads up for their lunch during the mid-afternoon lull, leaving Danny up front alone, standing at his till, pretending to be busy in case Hattie wanders past. He types random SKU numbers into the computer to see if it’ll bring up anything, he flips through the binder of faded lumber codes, he sprays his counter down with a bottle of something that smells like death and wipes it away with paper towels that come away gray with grime, he sorts the air fresheners that hang on a display beside his counter. And after all that is done, he’s managed to kill about seven minutes.

It’s almost a relief when a customer finally wanders up to his till. Almost.

The man wordlessly plops a length of cord, a roll of duct tape, and a box of garbage bags down on the counter—doesn’t even bother to glance up at Danny, just rolls up the cuff of his dark suit jacket and checks his watch as though the point five seconds he’s been waiting is already too long.

Danny manages to plaster on his best customer-service smile, hoping his eyes don’t give away the “not this asshole again” that he’s thinking.

Nearly once a week, buddy here shows up—way overdressed, with his smarmy ponytail and his suit—acts put out that he has to breathe the same air as the rest of Amity Park’s peons, then proceeds to purchase some of the sketchiest shit Hattie’s Hardware has to offer. Danny’s always left wondering if he should be calling the police instead of ringing up the serial killer’s checklist of supplies on his counter.

But, honestly, he does not get paid enough to keep tabs on Hannibal Lector over there, so he lets it slide.

“Find everything you were looking for today?” Danny asks as he tips the garbage bags on their side and scans the code on the bottom with a beep.

The man gives the vaguest grunt of acknowledgement, and just before his sleeve falls back in place over the face of his Rolex, Danny notices the fresh scratches marking the man’s pale forearm.

His brow furrows, but instead of prying, he just plucks up the duct tape and cracks a friendly joke as he twists the roll to find the barcode. “Already got the shovel and axe at home, hunh? Good for you.”

The beep is the only thing to split the silence, and when Danny glances up, it’s to find the man’s dark gaze pinned on him, lips pursed on a thin line. He is very much not laughing.

“Just ah—a joke.” Danny blanches as he gestures weakly at the items on the counter. “Because uhm. You know. If you had a shovel and axe, this would look kind of like you were, ah…”

“I get it,” the man answers frostily.

“Okay,” Danny answers, chastened as he drops his head and picks up the rope.

Immediately, he can tell Sketchy McBillionaire completely ignored the sign in the hardware aisle asking customers to get an employee’s assistance with the custom lengths of cord—there’s absolutely no SKU or length written anywhere, but Danny makes a show of turning the rope in his hand anyway.

“Shoot. It looks like your label must have fallen off?” he says, doing his very best not to sound too accusatory, just in case the guy really isn’t above murder.

“I’m sorry?” the man asks pointedly, brow arching, and it is so very clearly not an apology.

“Uhm. Well. Since you grabbed a custom length of rope instead of a pre-measured spool, there should be a tag on here somewhere. I need that to ring you up,” Danny tries, gesturing uselessly at the cord.

“Are you serious?” the man asks, teeth gritting. “This is just what I need right now.”

“I can, uh, page someone from hardware to get us the number?”

“No need. I’ll go get a pre-measure spool.” The words drip with derision, as if this is somehow Danny’s fault, as the man snaps up the rope and twists on his heel.

“Actually—” Danny cuts in, withering under the man’s icy gaze as he snaps his head back around. Sheepishly, he continues, “Once the length has been cut, we can’t really keep it…”

The man’s shoulders heave with a deep breath, his grip curling tight around the cord between his fingers.

“Fine,” he snaps, tossing the looped rope back onto the counter with a thud. “But make it quick. I’ve already been significantly delayed today.”

Danny gives a curt nod, picking up the receiver beside his register and paging for a hardware employee, his crackly, amplified voice sounding weak as it reverberates through the store. Which is so stupid. He’s a literal superhero—can punch a ghost three ways into next Thursday—so why is he cowed by some guy strutting around the hardware store in a suit?

Maybe because he knows punching this dude isn't an option unless he wants to get fired.

Ugh, why do bad things always happen to him?

Danny tries to play nice—determining not to piss the guy off or lose his job—and schools his features into an affable smile.

“It’ll just be a couple minutes,” he says.

The man gives a tight “hmmm,” crossing his arms over his chest, brows dropped low over cold blue eyes.

As the silence stretches between them, Danny awkwardly drumming his fingers against the metal till top, the urge to claw out of his skin grows unbearable. Against all better judgment, he finally blurts, “how’s your day going so far?”

“You want to know how my day is going?” The man’s tone drips vitriol, teeth bared as he steps in closer to the till. There’s something hysteric in the twist of the words as he repeats himself. “You want to know how my day is going?”

Danny tries to backpedal, jerkily shakes his head no, but it’s too late. The man gives a laugh somewhere just left of unhinged (why does it almost sound familiar?) and is off on a tangent before Danny can stop him.

“My day started with a very unwelcome intrusion, weeks of hard work thrown out the window because of some insolent boy and his need to stick his nose in where it doesn’t belong. My day found me bitter and behind schedule, interrupted at a crucial moment because someone has decided to treat my work like some blasted video game. My day”—the man’s eyes dart to the nametag on Danny’s vest, heedless of the way he’s stiffened, heart beating hard in his throat—“Daniel, has left me thwarted, again, an extension of a dismal several months in this wretched town, a string of one disappointment after another. And now I’m delayed once more, stuck waiting here with you, for someone to perform a menial task on my behalf since you can’t identify a length of rope. So tell me, boy. How do you think my day has been going?”

It’s how he spits the word boy, the cadence of the diatribe, the implication behind the words.

Danny just stares at the man, wide-eyed, any kind of response at all sticking in his throat as his palms brace against the back of the till.

It's then the employee from hardware comes bounding over, her cheery, freckled face split on a smile, oblivious to the weighted silence. “How can I help y'all?”

“I need a price on this.” The man practically snarls the words, snatching the cord and thrusting it at Poppy or Penny or…Genevieve?

Crap. Danny has got to get better at remembering his coworkers’ names.

“O-oh,” she stammers.

“The SKU actually,” Danny manages, and her expression softens with relief—that that’s all he needs, that she doesn't have to put up with this nightmare of a man before them.

She pulls free a small notebook from a pocket in her ugly vest. Thwipping through the pages, she drops a glance to the rope in her hands, flips a little further, then reads off some digits from her hand-scrawled notes. Danny taps them in obediently as Poppy/Penny/Genevieve turns the rope forward and back.

“Probably about twelve feet,” she guesstimates.

“Awesome, thank you,” Danny says, the price coming up on screen as he taps in a one-two and thumbs enter.

The man has barely moved, his expression all hard, sharp, unimpressed lines as he stands back and watches them with crossed arms. Poppy/Penny/Genevieve flickers a glance in his direction, then away.

“Noproblemhereyougotalktoyoulater,” she says, the sentence coming out in one hurried breath as she drops the cord on Danny's counter and bolts.

With her gone, it's just Danny, the silver-haired man, and the suffocating tension between them once again.

Danny knows he should focus on getting the purchase rung through and getting the guy out of here, but can't help the beat too long he stares at the man.

He's about the right height, the same goatee, the graying stripe parting his long hair.

“I don’t have all day.”

“Right!” Danny starts, shifting his attention back to his till’s screen, his pulse fluttering in his chest. Could it be? “Uhm. That comes to—”

“Yes, yes, it’ll be on credit,” the man interrupts, thrusting a black card at him.

Danny catches the card against his chest, holds it there as he mashes the man’s total into the debit machine. Before swiping the card, he turns a glance down to the plastic in his hand, his eyes roving past the long string of numbers and the expiration date to find the raised silver lettering beneath.

Vlad Masters.

His gaze lifts, and he finds the man—Vlad—watching him impatiently. Danny jerks his eyes away as he swipes the card, hands it back, places the printed receipt on the counter to be signed.

Vlad huffs—doesn't say a word as he fishes a pen from his inside pocket and scrawls a quick, jagged signature.

The arch of his brow, the condescending weight of his gaze, the impatient snap of his movements...

As the man gathers up his supplies, scowling, and pushes through the exit, Danny picks up the merchant copy of the receipt left on his counter. His gaze fixes on the V. Masters on the till paper, his lips twisted on a frown.

He doesn't know how it's possible, but he thinks that man—Vlad Masters—is his archrival.

Which means…Plasmius is a half-ghost?

#danny phantom #dp #phan phic #danny phantom fanfic #danny fenton #vlad masters #AU #no one knows AU #sorry got carried away vamping #my hate letter to working retail

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firefly--bright · 1 year ago

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peeks and blinders (you know me)

jean kirstein x gender neutral! reader, modern au

summary : being loved required patience and time and hope. luckily, jean provided all of them, without hesitation.

warnings : feelings of being deeply alone, heavy, hurt/comfort but mostly hurt, reader might sort of have depression

a/n : aha. lol. lmao. uhmmm yeah this is incredibly self indulgent and a projection. if you relate to this please PLEASE know that you're a) not alone and also b) I'm here if you ever need anyone to talk to. i wrote this with an unhappy ending in mind but with the poll results (and let's be honest, the aot finale) I decided to make it a happy ending instead. don't worry, everything works out in the end. this fic might just be terrible if you're already sad, so reader discretion is advised! i dont expect anyone to read the whole thing!!! but if you do read it, I hope you like it because I spent way too long on it. the ending might've been a little rushed only because I wanted to get this out as soon as possible so I could move on with a new fic idea ;)

taglist : @mrsnobodynobody @holding-infinity-and-a-book @jeanscremebrulee (side note- thank you for the kind words in my taglist form's criticism/comments question. i truly, deeply appreciate it :) )

masterlist is in pinned post! ✿ requests are open! ✿ likes and reblogs are appreciated! ✿ join my taglist ✿

✿ recommended playlist to listen to while reading ✿

living with someone meant showing yourself, something you weren't afraid of. well, not afraid, more just apprehensive. there was too much of a potential to fucking up a relationship; showing yourself too much in the one place you're allowed to be yourself without restrictions and limitations. you love your friends, you love jean, but sometimes the quietness of being alone was more than welcome because it had to be.

so when jean asked you with eyes that didn't meet your own if you wanted to move in with him, you didn't answer. quiet literally, you paused from eating the slice of pizza in your hand. he continued on with his nervous 'making-up-for-the-lack-of-response' ramble, explaining how you technically already lived together, how he liked finding your toothbrush next to his, and reluctantly admitted that he sometimes used your soap when he wanted to have a good day. a speech that warmed you despite your answer.

because no matter how comfortable you'd be with anyone, sharing the same space with them was a different kind quiet, unrelenting vulnerability. the fact that you existed and let someone percieve you without hinderance was...too much to think about. you had been alone your whole life, not in a pitiable way, but in a way where you didn't have a childhood best friend. you didn't have people stick around, like you were only at a corssroad of people's lives and greeted them with familiarity and comfort that they'd craved, despite your want and desire for it yourself. they'd continue on with their path while you would sit there, patiently, passing time.

jean admitted it to you. indirectly, he had confessed that he wanted to see you vulnerable and bare open in a way that people wouldn't know you normally. in a way where you were simply a locked window that noone had the key to. but there wasn't anything special to hide, no great overview of the city or the sea or rolling hills and valleys and large fields. no, just an unimpressive view of an unmowed backyard. untamed and messy - again, nothing special. just years of neglect while also being looked at. nothing special.

you didn't want him to see it. and technically, he asked you. you stopped spiralling just as he started his own, realising the effect your non verbal answer had on him, you simply said "I'll think about it." and tried to crack jokes along until the end of the night. because if nothing, then jean deserved some peace to balance out the turbulence that came with loving you.

in all honesty, you didn't know what you did. how you comitted the monsterous feat of getting him to love you. how he loved you in your entirety (or lack of it), how he woke up everyday and chose to love you despite everything that you took from him, drawing out his grumbling patience and gentleness because loving you meant waiting. loving you always, somehow, meant not loving you, because there was no way someone would know you, all your stories and opinions and ideas and still choose to love you.

living with you meant knowing your anatomy. not of your physical, breathing body, but the inside of your organs. it meant knowing that your stomach was filled with guilt, that your mouth could only utter whispers of people who once loved you and 'im sorries' to someone who won't know. it meant knowing that your hands were always aching to be held, that your skin was only ever warm when it was loved. it meant knowing that your chest was always heaving, yearning for a breath of relief that would never arrive. it meant knowing that your eyes always wandered off to the weighing scale kept at the back of your closet, always wandered off to find another pair of eyes that would look similar to yours. it meant knowing that your hair was always knotted with the doubts your mouth would never ask. it meant knowing so much about you, about the grey matter in your brain and about what flowed through your veins was nothing but pure doubt and discomfort with the unholy temple that was your body, the temple without a god, the temple that noone went back to. a body without a home.

he wouldn't want to know. he shouldn't want to know, and more importantly, he wouldn't like finding out. it would either be too much or too little, and his fingers would cramp up with the effort it took for him to pry you open, only for no prize to be met with. besides, you were okay just talking to yourself, no matter how insane it sounded. you got through so many years being self-sufficient, right? you didn't know how to handle it, handle someone actually loving you without doubt. you had lived long enough without it. someone loving you was new, something you didn't have a map for, something you didn't have any precautions against.

you and jean slept together that night. in the same bed, breathing the same air, under the same covers. you didn't share the same sleep, however, as his mind made dreams and yours went on like an unfinished painting - a list of unfullfilled answers, no meanings, trying and failing to come together. you found yourself watching him breathe; just his chest moving up and down and up and down, your hands twiching to rest on top of his but you didn't know if that's where they'd belong. if his body would wake itself up because of your touch - everyone was always surprised by how cold your fingers were. you were used to it.

maybe living with him wouldn't be that bad, right? as he said, you already shared the same space to a point where the pair of you felt comfortable enough to not care if your hair was groomed perfectly or if the colours and patterns of your outfit were clashing. but would he like it? would he like just how much more comfortable you could get? just how much you could ask for? just how long you could lock yourself up in the bathroom and try to cry? would he like to know just how long you sometimes spent on your bed, refusing to get up because your heart felt too heavy for your chest? for when your heart felt like it could fall through your back, punch a hole through the ground and bury itself in the earth until it could somehow bonify and fossilize and archeologists would recognise, instantly, that it didn't belong there.

he'd leave. that was something you knew for a fact. your love wouldn't be wasted, ofcourse not, neither would the time, but maybe he'd leave feeling like he'd wasted himself at your expense. or maybe he wouldn't think about you at all.

your night was spent with your brain spiralling - thoughts about how you didn't know how to handle being loved the way he loved you, about how you probably never had a childhood best friend that was still in your life because the phases of your life weren't meant for anyone but yourself to see, about how much your hair fell due to the stress of distracting yourself from overwhelming sadness by studying and creating while also being only slightly average at it. you fell asleep thinking about how the abundance of being alone, to you, meant being not alone at all, because there was no differenciation of company and lonlieness because there hadnt been any company to remind you of the lonliness at all- your eyes had fluttered closed and breathing evened.

jean always wondered if you were hiding something from him. not in a bad way, not in the way where he couldn't say he loves you, but in the way where you'd hesitate. and if he didn't love you as much, he probably wouldn't have even noticed. but fortunately, he did know you. a little too well.

he knew how much you loved the crunchy autumn leaves, so much so that you would alter your paths just to crunch one under your boot, a smile of satisfaction gracing your face after hearing the noise it made. he knew how much your fingers would reach out for his. he knew how much you tried - with everything. he knew of your unsaid struggles, knew when and what made your mood sour. and he loved it, he loved the fact that he knew all of those thing but more importantly, loved that he loved them.

loving you felt like it was a built-in feature.

but despite all of this, he didn't know why. he didn't know why you were the way you were. he knew you tried, but he didn't know why. he knew you struggled, but didn't know why. and it was driving him crazy, especially after last night. he couldn't help himself, even if he could see you, again, trying to diffuse the situation with lighthearted jokes, he couldn't help but think a little too much.

did you not want to? jean had always been honest about how much he struggled with being either too much or too little, about how much the words hurled by his friends when he was young hurt him, about how much his love proved to be uncomfortable and silent and resigned. maybe his honesty was too much for you. maybe you didn't like the burdens he came with, maybe you didn't like knowing how much his father's absence had affected him, or about how much his previous partner altered the way he saw himself to a miserable extent. you hadn't asked for all of this, all of him, all of his parts. maybe you were getting sick of it.

or maybe, if Jean's knowledge about you served right, you were being hesitant again.

he swears he doesn't mind it. you not wanting to move in with him wasn't a problem, but he just wished he knew why. the whole day, the only thing on his mind was how he could feel less hesitant towards him, god, anyone but him. he knew, firsthand, how it felt being so overwhelmed by inconsequencial doubt where he was left with so many regrettable unanswered questions engraved into the palm of his hands because he kept them hidden in his fist for too long, where he wishes, prays, and hopes for an answer that he knows will never arrive even if he doesn't look for it.

there are many things jean wishes and prays and hopes for. you're not one of them. but only because you're here. he doesn't need any other wish to be fulfilled or prayer to be answered or hope to sparkle. you are, inadvertently, all of them. a love without doubt, a wish without a cost, a prayer without a sacrifice, a hope without desperation. you're all of them. you're everything.

but he knows that if he's hesitant this time, if he doesn't reach out to grab you, if he doesn't do something, no matter how desperate, he will most ceratinly feel a deeper regret than he has ever felt before. and yes he may be exxagerating it, but he doesn't care. he'd learnt not to care when he was with you - he's learnt to be comfortable with you and around you. he wants to tell you that it's okay if you don't want to move in with him because his home is wherever you would be, his home is his hand on your thigh, his home is watching you blink in thought, his home is the sound of your footsteps. his home is anywhere with you. you are the only person who has the right to know that.

he makes his familiar way over to your apartment. you're not home yet, sasha informs him with a sleepy voice and messed up hair, "but you can wait in their room." she says because everyone knows that you wouldn't mind him waiting in your room. including him.

he does your routine - the one he's seen you do countless of times when you enter your room - take off his coat and hang it on the back of your door where one of the hooks is kept empty for him, shoulder his bag off and put it down on the spot next to your desk, turn on the desk lamp and the night lamp because you refused to turn the overhead lights on, because "they are so hideous why would I want to turn them on," according to you, and then finally occupy the space on your bed, laying his back down and his hands resting on his stomach as he waited for you.

staring at the cracking paint on the ceiling of your bedroom, jean thinks. from his pending homework that he's mentally figuring out how to schedule to how he's going to conduct this new group project with people he has never talked to before to how is it already the second last year of University because it felt like the first day was yesterday, until finally his thoughts landed on you. of course it would always lead to you.

it started from him thinking about University, then about how he met you on the second day, seeing you in one of his classes, sitting diagonaly across him, how you conducted yourself, slipping your bag off and checking your phone. then it turned to him seeing you at the freshers party where he saw his now ex-partner with someone he knew he shouldve questioned more. how he stormed off of the party with half tears of sadness and half of anger, catching a glimpse of you in the corner of the room, looking kind of lost. he saw you multiple times after that but never talked to you. he saw you at an ice-cream parlor once. he wanted to talk to you, but Connie had loudly confirmed the tickets to this new concert, which took away Jean's attention from you. but then he was introduced to you by Marco, because of course it would be Marco who had the pleasure to befriend amazing people. he met you then, properly, when you introduced yourself, and he nodded at you with little regard.

jean shook his head with a little smile. he had been so stupid, that day. he barely looked in your direction as you got acquainted with Marco, Connie and sasha, but he didn't disregard the fact that you looked less lost than you were at the party.

you had a way of sticking around, jean found out after that. he didn't realise when you had slipped into his life, hiding in plain sight. one night he found himself awake the same time as you and the next, he found himself saving a seat for you in the class you shared with him. soon enough, you knew him as well as he knew you, and there was softness in the recognition your eyes held when they met with his. the same appreciation of his existence, something he hadn't felt before. he couldn't say that he knew you as well as the back of his hand, because really, he knew you like the back of your hand, because he'd looked at your hands more than he'd ever looked at his, noticing all the little creases and scars and veins and hairs. he knew what warmth they held, he'd felt it after your hands made their way into his while walking back to your dorm on a cold night. a night jean would never forget because he had frantically knocked on your door right after leaving you there, because his senses had finally worked and he had finally found out that he wanted to kiss you. and he did, and you kissed back, and jean swore he had never been happier even while he could hear sasha and Connie and Marco cheering for the both of you. he kissed your forehead as a goodnight that night. you were in his shirt.

you were his home before he even knew what his home was, before he could find out for himself. you became an answer with a question.

he sighed, hearing your footsteps make their way through the tiny apartment, saying a small "hi," to sasha who was sleeping on the couch. the door to your room swung open just as jean sat up, his weight resting on his forearms on your mattress. you didn't seem surprised that he was there, just flashing a smile at him before removing your bag and placing it down, and jean felt his heart flutter with comfort as your presence filled the room.

his eyes trailed you as you did the same thing he did a few moments ago, plopping yourself down right next to him. your breathing evened out with his as the two of you lay in silent comfort before jean spoke.

his voice was a low hum. the words were barely different, but you understood them anyway. "yknow you can talk to me about anything, right? even if it's sad or not funny or not...I don't know, not remarkable. you can say it. i won't laugh unless you want me to." he says. it's a flimsy promise, but you know his words hold a meaning that you can't quiet grasp.

his palm lays on top of the back of your hand.

he's warm. scarily so, because why would someone hold so much warmth towards you? more importantly, jean extended his hand without even meaning to, like muscle memory, which was, again, terrifying, because loving you as habitual purpose was scarier than you having to prove yourself for it.

your shoulders relax almost instantly; habitually and with purpose. was the purpose of it to not have a purpose at all? was the meaning of your being to not have any meaning at all? was it just to love despite it?

you wanted to do good. not in a special or overly remarkable way, because you knew you would never reach that mark because you never had, but in the way where you'd be recognized. in crowded rooms, you'd be sought out for because of your "goodness" - be it reliability, comfort, all the things you usually associated with jean. which was ironic, because noone who didn't know him like you did would ever think of jean in that way.

"i.." you say, trailing off. you want to say that you know, but it'd be a lie. it'd be a false promise, and jean didn't need that any more than he needed you. so you say, "I'll keep that in mind."

jean doesn't buy it. his hand squeezes yours, stubbornly. "no, i don't want you to keep that in mind, I want you to want to do it." he says. his head turns towards you, watching the side of your face with an expression you know better than anything. the slight furrow of his brows, slightest scowl on his face that was masked by a layer of genuine concern.

"what I mean is.... you don't have to be so hesitant with me." he says. you want to blink back surprise, except that it's not really surprising. he's seen you, more so than anyone ever has, so it's not surprising that he'd see if one day was affecting you worse than the other days. it makes you want to scream because you don't know how to deal with it.

you close your eyes as if that would help. it wasn't like you were good at running away from affection, mostly because you never needed to. if anything, you were used to running towards it, desperately, just trying. but here it was, now, the resolution of it all, of all of the aches and creakings of your deepest yearnings, yet you couldn't seem to look at it. look at him - at jean, your best friend, someone you'd do anything for - with eyes that matched his.

you sigh. there's a deep silence, and jean isn't anticipating anything. his hand is still on yours and he feels you squeeze it tightly, but he isn't going anywhere for you to hold on to him. even if he wasn't tethered to you, he'd want to stay by your side, without any precautions or promise of a fruitful result. he'd stay with you regardless.

he isn't waiting for you to say anything, because being with you feels more than adequate, like it's instinct, like his shoulders relaxing when it's just the two of you, or like that tingly feeling in his chest when you kiss his cheek after a long day.

but when you do speak, it's with resignation and certain grief. "i dont think you'll like me. if I... if we move in together, I think, realistically, you won't like it."

"how can you be so sure?" he asks. it's not a serious question, but he thinks it's a start. you're doing it, you're being less hesitant, and atleast that's somewhere to begin.

"i just am." you say, shrugging. but it's not a fact, atleast, it shouldn't be. it isn't to jean. he's rolling his eyes now, but he's not annoyed or digusted. "how?" he presses, because he knows there's more, there always had been with you.

"i get too much. and then too little. like none of it is ever just right. and I'm scared that you'll see it and...I don't know, get frustrated at my lack of everything." you say. there's truth in every word even though you desperately wish there wasn't. you're still hesitating, but it's less so. your hand is still in his, still squeezing it. it was predictable - something you found yourself relying on - the warmth of his palm and the way his hand would also engulf yours with the same echoing softness it always had. even if his fingers were calloused and a little rough, it didn't matter. they still held you the same.

he's clinging onto every word you're saying, every small explanation, every twitch of your eyebrows. he knows what's going to come, he knows there's going to be an admission of guilt coming on soon enough but he also knows, more importantly, that he'll be there to tell you that no, he does not regret loving you, and yes, he will keep doing it over and over and over again.

"I've never been... wanted like this. or like anything, I guess. and I'm so scared," you breathe in deeply, keeping your tears at bay. jean pushed himself onto his forearm, looking at you in a way you've never been looked at before. "I'm so scared of disappointing you because I think that's all I've ever done. that's all I know how to do." the box is open now, and it's not forced or pried with effort. jean has always known how to open it, you think, you just didn't let him. he does it now, with the same hands you find comfort in, the same gentleness that his eyes have always held for you.

you're crying. you don't have anything else to add to your statements, and they hang in the air as if waiting for you to complete them, expecting you to do something. but you don't and you can't and jean is holding you, his hands are at your sides and your nose is buried into his shoulder and you think the words and the expectations can wait for now, or for however long jean is willing to take care of you.

your shoulders shake. jean is whispering into your ear, asking you to breathe. he's saying it so kindly that you feel the need to comply, and when your lungs finally calm, he rewards you with a kiss on your forehead.

you think if how much of a liability all of this is. about how much you weigh in emotions when you're this open and vulnerable. not even like an open, unhealing wound, but more like that feeling you get when you finally decide to read an unread text message that had been sitting there for a month, but you're the person who both sent the text and also the one replying to it and also the one who was watching it unfold. you caused this, you were the only one who was replying, and you were also the witness to all of this.

but now jean was here. it was unusal and strange - someone being there, actually, physically and mentally present instead of those placating "you'll get over its" that were repeated to you by the few people you decided to open up to.

the two of you are silent now, only broken up by deep, almost heaving breaths from you, something you wish you would stop doing. instead of you digging your nails into your palms like all the other times, your nails are clinging onto jeans clothes, and he doesn't seem to mind. instead of it being your blankets like all the other times, it was Jean's soft heat wrapped around you, moving with each breath you took until your chest didn't feel as heavy anymore.

"i know." he says, finally. he doesn't expect you to answer, ofcourse, but he knows you're listening because you shift slightly in his arms. "i know...too well, what it's like. i know that moving in means more to you than it means to people in general. i know that it's not even about moving in together. i.." he's being hesitant. finding the right words, but for once, Jean's happy about this trait of his. he's glad he rethinks decisions and the next time when he tries again, he's more sure of it. hes sure that he loves you, hes sure that he wasn't made to love you but he grew into it because there's that choosing again, the fact that yes, he did probably have a choice, but he would never even consider it. he doesn't want to consider it and maybe that's more important than there even being a choice. he wishes he could put it into words that would make sense.

instead, he opts to say, "I am so sorry you had to think all of this all alone for so long. but I'm...I'm here now. i know that won't solve everything instantly, ofcourse it won't, but I will be here until it will. i will wait."

there's promise in his voice, a conviction that you hadn't heard before. you trust him, you always have, but you don't know if you trust yourself with this. you don't trust yourself to be someone he loves. he's quick to quiet your concerns after yet another peck on your forehead.

"but don't you think I take too much?" you ask. its doubtful, the steps you're taking on the usually thick ice that has turned too thin too fast. you're afraid you're going to offend him, but you stand no chance against Jean's all-knowing sigh. it's not a tired sound, not one anyone gives before they're about to give up. you're not sure what kind of sigh it is, but jean doesn't let you figure it out for yourself because he's answering.

the ice turns into concrete. he's become your footing, the reason you're still standing and not under numerous feet of cold water. "i dont think you're taking. your....your love doesn't ask to take. you love despite everything, not because of it. everyone, including me, focuses on how to be loved, on how to be a perfect image that probably won't last for too long, but you..... you focus on shaping your love, the love you give. i dont know if you've noticed it, but you do. you don't take too much, you give without expectations. you give with hope. it's beautiful." he pauses. "you're beautiful." he says. he's not looking anywhere else but your eyes that are welling up with familiar tears.

you suck in a breath. "im not used to sweet words, jean," you say, the breath you held releasing with a bittersweet smile. "i dont know how to handle all of this love you're giving me. i think... i think you love me too much." another tear down your cheek and onto the mattress. jean wipes away it's remnants.

"i dont love you nearly enough." he says with the same laugh you had given him, "but you'll grow into it. just like how you grew into everything else, you'll grow into being loved. i grew into it too," he says. his forehead touches yours. the proximity makes you shiver. "i grew into just how much you love me. and I wanna keep growing into it because I love loving you. i love you loving me, as selfish as it sounds."

you take a moment to register his words. yes, you weren't used to being so vehemently and stubbornly loved and taken care of, but you could. you could get used to it, get used to crying in your beloved's arms, being fed spoonfuls of carefully heated up soup that would settle into your belly, being looked at for more than a split second. you couldn't fathom it now, sure, only because you could've never believed it before, but that could change. you could grow into loving love, into accepting it just as freely as you had given it.

jean wasn't holding you with a death grip because he knew that you wouldn't leave, atleast, he didn'tanymore. he would've done it, he had all the reasons to. if he were still fifeteen, he would've thought that he had to come beg and cling on to love to make it stay. he had to do something spectacular, something entirely not himself in order to prove that he was atleast worth giving a try but with you...he didn't have to beg. he didn't even have to ask. for a while it felt undeserved, all of this care you were giving his somehow beating heart, all of this ointment you were providing to his broken bones, but he somehow, miraculously, grew into it, because he let you in. he let you see him with the eyes that would rival the ones he was sure the gods had, he let you see him and all his unknown and unsaid sins and let you love him anyway because you wanted to, because you didn't see something in him - a potential of something greater - but you saw him as he was. as he is. and nothing in your smile changed. and if you could do that, then he'd be damned if he didn't love you the same.

no words were said after that, only Jean's heartbeat mingling with your own in your ear. both of your eyes were closed, his hands relaxed on your back, your chest no longer heaving, commanding you to pay attention to it.

you fell asleep in the silence of promise.

---

the promise continued even a week later, turning into two, turning into four, wherein jean kept loving you despite and because of, unafraid and unwavering and for the first time, without any hesitance.

you were keeping up on your promise too. trying to accept it - all of this affection, his affection - without hesitance. it was hard but mundane things usually are and you continued to grow and mend and try, above all else, which was more than jean hoped for.

he's passing you the brush he had slathered the perfect amount of toothpaste on, slipping into the comfort of the cool night warmed by the heat of your previously taken shower in your bathroom. you smile at him as a thanks, and he nods as a welcome, and no words are spoken. no words need to be spoken, and his right hand makes its way to the small of your back, his left brushing his teeth as you start brushing yours and you think that maybe everything is uncertain. everything always has been and always will be, and loving someone has always been uncertain, too. being loved has always come with doubt and guilt and shame. but the only difference was that now, both of you hoped. you hoped that everything would be alright in the end, jean hoped that he'd get to share the same bed as you in the end.

hope was flimsy and hopeless, too optimistic, but now it served as something you both shared. the shared sentiment of hoping that you'd have eachother till the end was more important than the uncertainty. it meant that both of you would keep trying. you don't need to be sitting, waiting patiently and hopelessly at the same crossroad now, because Jean's hand is on the small of your back, the watch on his wrist is still and unticking, and you're walking down the same road with the same landmarks and the same gravel because you want to. you've moved from your old spot on the pavement because you want to. you're learning how to love the sound of your own footsteps, how to love the action of one foot infront of the other, and the best part is, Jean's learning too.

loving isn't a reciprocal or a transaction or a grand 'aha!' it's an act of hope. hoping they'll see you the same. hoping they'll have the same hopes as you. hoping they'll want to be loved by you, because hope doesn't require anything grand, hoping doesn't require a god to pray to or a cost to pay. it requires soft, undettered, unsaid patience. something jean, persistently, had. something you, stubbornly, held.

you paused from brushing your teeth to look at your love. you were wearing his old t-shirt that had faint stains of ink and old paint on it, and he was donning the headband you had owned for years to keep his hair out of his face. he glances at you through the mirror, then turns to you, nodding to you, eyebrows arching in a question.

you spit out the toothpaste into the sink. looking back to him, you say, with all the conviction and hope you can muster up, "I want to move in with you."

jeans mouth turns upwards, still full of toothpaste. he doesn't say anything. he doesn't need to say anything.

everything's already been said, already been understood.

because he knows you. and he couldn't be more happier to.

(when you pick the curtains for your new home, you are held up by jean, who's hands grasp the ladder you're on. you're looking down on him after the work is done and he's smiling, and you're smiling, and at night you're using the same stove to make the same dinner that the two of you will share along with some old wine and old stories. he holds you when you fall asleep, and your arms are around his torso as he snores softly. your love is stored in the blood of his veins. his love is stored in the palm of your hands, and even if you don't hold it, it still stays there, unmoving, growing, attached.)

✿

#jean kirstein x reader #jean kirschstein x reader #jean kirstein #jean kirstein x you #aot #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #jean kirschtein

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berrypass-de-murdler · 1 month ago

Text

2 - 33 Gambling and Murder Are Both Illegal

AGH MY BOOK WON'T COME TIL TOMORROW WHY

Obviously I haven't been posting them because that's kind of a waste of time, but I've digitized quite a few of the murdlers' official artworks!

They're not beautiful, but they are convenient when I need basic transparent pictures of them.

I mean.... yes!!!!!!!

DON'T READ THE EPISODES WITHOUT READING THE BOOKS!!

Logico looks through his mail. He finds a scrap of paper with an invitation to an underground gambling ring written in blood! He and Tino laugh their asses off for a while.

IRRATINO: So are we gonna go? LOGICO: I mean, I was cordially invited. IRRATINO: And I’ve devised a system for winning at poker! LOGICO: Yes, esoteric gambling. IRRATINO: I swear it works!!

They enter through a manhole in the alley. The tables are set up in the sewers! Silverton the Legend and Boss Charcoal were also invited. (They left Drakonia as soon as the Lady Violet news got out.) And, of course, the twins.

BLUES: [with a ridiculous fake mustache] Welcome, welcome. It’s time for gambling time. Come get your cards and lose money. (Let’s get a beer.) Yeahh.

Irratino gleefully plays some rounds with the gang, and loses so much money. But he seems to be having fun, so it’s fine.

LOGICO: Except that’s MY money too…

He’s more interested in the fact that there’s a human pinned to the wall (good god!!). That’d scar any sane person for life!

LOGICO: Um, hello! IRRATINO: Huh? [goat scream]

They have to solve this extremely gruesome murder! Who would have thought there’d be shifty figures in a sewer gambling operation?

IRRATINO: All right, Logico. First things first, you need to FULLY learn numerological code. LOGICO: NO I DON’T! IRRATINO: Really? Then how else are you going to decode this clue?

It’s made out of numbers. Clearly he wrote it, and is just trying to taunt Logico.

LOGICO: JUST TELL ME THE CLUE YOU IDIOT IRRATINO: This is a learning opportunity!

Logico has no choice but to sit down and let Irratino teach him the way, when there are far more important things he could be doing. In the example, Tino uses a short name for reference: ‘Red’. Logico grows deeply uncomfortable once again. He wants to forget that awful trip ever happened!

LOGICO: I get it now. Please stop.

Irratino is distressed by the sudden change in mood, and decides to take statements for him. Charcoal is walking very funny, for one.

IRRATINO: Say, um… what’s… what’s up? CHARCOAL: N-Nothing!

Tino notices that it’s his left arm that’s hindering him, and that he’s wearing a jacket when he usually doesn’t. He brings out a pipe from under his sleeve!

IRRATINO: Aha!

Charcoal falls over.

CHARCOAL: NOOO!! I HAD TO HAVE THAT ‘CUZ I BROKE MY ARM!!! IRRATINO: OH MY GOD! OH NO, I’M SO SORRY

Charcoal sobs in pain. Irratino tries to put it back but makes it worse.

SILVERTON: Real charming guy you bagged there, Logico.

Logico tries to whack him, but there’s not much use against the glob of slime. He turns to the Blues instead.

BLUES: We, I mean I, know this: a shoe knife was at the cashier! LOGICO: A… ‘shoe knife’? BLUES: Yuh-huh. LOGICO: And what, may I ask, is a shoe knife. BLUES: Wha- duh!! It’s a shoe knife! You’re not a real adult so you don’t understand, short man! LOGICO: I am not short! I am just very compact.

Logico just has to wait out the answer for this one - as the Blues struggle to stand straight, a knife pops out of one of their giant boots!

BLUES: (I told you the boots were a terrible idea!!) LOGICO: I think you’re too young to gamble. BLUES: NO I’M NOT! I’m a grown man!

Logico opens their coat.

BLUES: I’m STILL a grown man! This is just my mistress! (Your WHAT?!) Shut up and carry me! [Pink throws her to the ground] [Blue screams] I want my mom! (She’s not coming! Dad MURDERED her!)

Logico and Irratino wince at the turn this is taking.

LOGICO: Why not we take you home.

Logico carries one kid piggyback and Irratino holds the other as they head back into town where they belong.

The end!

This gets really really bad when you remember that their dad is Mayor Honey

The power of Goat Lord compels you!

See you next time murdlers!

#murdle #cartoonmurdleverse

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ssa-atlas-alvez · 2 years ago

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Hi Atlas :0 i have new request but for BAU team with teen!werewolf!reader?

Hotch & Rossi are the only ones to know about reader being a werewolf when he is put on the team bc government wanted to keep him under the eye and recruited him in the end, his records are sealed so Penny doesn't snoop around the important stuff lol. And Rossi being his handler and the main person to see after the boy, to do a report to Hotch about his performance etc. And the reader mostly being there for scent search ( like the reader has a sharp nose for scents and us able to distinguish them with ease even if old and somewhat able to even if masked under fresher scents or added scents) but he's in general a lot faster with more stamina and energy to burn unlike humans .

So the team gets to know the reader's so called secret by seeing him action just zooming past them to catch up with a escaping Unsub in a mountain-like scenery and they're having a hard time catching up to them bc Rossi gave him the go ahead bc the Unsub would otherwise be able to escape in-between the trees and rocks.

Just imagine reader being big enough in his werewolf form(doesn't matter if 4- or 2-legged form to me (as in folklore or twilight type lol) ) that he can just plop all his weight down on the Unsub and pin them to the ground. Possibly disarm them by grabbing the thing in their hands or biting their arms/wrists.

How would the team react? Would they have had some suspicions on the topic?

Sorry the request's a bit long again lmao. Please if the request is too much, your requests are closed or you just don't feel like it, don't feel pressured to do it! Stay hydrated, have a nice day and keep your head up! uwu

Okay, so I wasn't going to write this originally because I wasn't sure how to, but then I started thinking about it and ideas kind of just came to me aha. I hope you like it, I'm posting it now because I just finished writing it and I'm giggling and I just wanted to post it because I think it's funny, but not like a funny funny like a stupid funny if that makes sense?

Warnings: Bullet wound, blood, make shift first aid

Word count: 1385

“A handler?” You asked in disbelief, you scoff, shaking your head at the director with a laugh, “I don’t fucking think so, I’m not a dog-”

“We need someone to monitor you who’s on the team.” He said, pausing before continuing, “Like a mentor,”

“Then call it a mentor. Not a fucking handler,”

“Could you give us a minute?” Rossi asked, speaking for the first time. Hotch, Strauss, and the Director look at each other for a minute before leaving the room.

“The prick may as well ask me to roll over,” You muttered bitterly, wiping the frustrated tear that had made its way down your cheek.

“Look, kid, all I’m going to be doing is making sure you’re settling in okay,” Rossi said with a shrug, “I don’t care about what else they’re saying. I’m only concerned about if you’re okay.”

That’s how you were introduced to one: the fact that you would be working with the BAU, and two: that you’d have a ‘handler’ constantly monitoring you.

When you met the team, an hour or so later, they noticed that you seemed to be full of energy and, despite only having met Rossi an hour ago, seemed to be pretty loyal to him already. Over the next coming months, your secret (as promised) was kept between you, Rossi, and Hotch. All the team knew was that you ‘had good tracking skills’ and that’s why you were recruited. You knew the truth was going to come out eventually, but you didn’t think you would ever be prepared.

There wasn’t much difference with this case then the others, an unsub who was a horrible person, lashed out at people, the usual. He even had a lair surrounded by woods. When you found him and the team confronted him, he ran (also not unusual) and he was fast (unusual), really fast (definitely unusual).

You stare at Rossi until he nods, giving you approval. You pelt your legs fast after the unsub, even if you did lose him, you’d be able to find him quickly. He stunk of the familiar scent of blood, mixed with cigarettes, and Jack Daniels. You let yourself shift as you run, the familiar feeling of your bones resetting subtly as you did so - more energy and strength seeping through your body as you changed, clothes tearing as your body transformed. Soon enough, you’re ready to drop down on all fours, a growl crawling up your throat you do. It doesn’t take you long to catch up with him, maybe thirty seconds. When you do, you tackle him to the ground, keeping him pinned with a heavy paw, you lift your head into the air, howling loudly to signal to Rossi that he’s been detained.

The team stared at you in absolute shock when you walked back over to them, now dressed in the spare clothes Hotch and Rossi always kept close by (as a just in case).

“What the fuck-” Derek’s the first to speak.

“It’s sort of a long story?” You reply, unsure.

“There’s been numerous sightings of werewolf individuals throughout history, not to mention clinical lycanthropy,” Spencer chimes in.

“So you’re a-?”

“Say it,” You say dramatically, you hear Rossi and Hotch sigh deeply, already knowing where this was going. “Say it. Out loud.”

Derek and Emily share a confused look. “Werewolf.” Hotch mumbled, hoping to get this whole thing over with.

You turn around dramatically, “Are you afraid?”

“No.” You grin, you had never heard Hotch sound so done with you in your life. This was brilliant.

“This is the face of a killer, Bella.” You say, disappointed when none of them get your reference. “Really? None of you? JJ, come on, you know what Cullen means, surely you get it?”

“Sorry, I’ve never actually seen Twilight,”

“Ugh,” You groaned, “Penelope would get it, you all need to be more like Penelope and laugh at my jokes,”

“No need to bite back so hard, kid,” Derek grins.

“If this becomes a frequent thing, I might actually kill you.” You state.

“You’re all bark and no bite,” A growl sounds through your throat and your eyes flash. Derek puts his hands up in surrender, “Alright, alright, no more jokes. Can you eat chocolate though? Serious question. Rossi, why’s he looking at me like that? Rossi, Rossi-!” Derek yelped as you tackled him to the ground.

“Yes I can eat chocolate, it makes me feel sick though.” You answer, you hadn’t shifted, you just wanted to scare him a little. “Nice yelp though, sounded like a little girl.”

“I did not!”

“Yeah, you did,” Emily answered with a snort.

Now, months later, you stand in a warehouse, locating the unsub with Rossi whilst you wait for backup. “He’s definitely here,” You mumble, “Jesus, he eats a lot of fast food,” Rossi gives a small snort, “I think he’s in here,” You say, pointing at the room just ahead of you. Rossi nods, raising his gun slightly as he begins to enter the room, you’re close behind.

You watch in horror as the gun cocks into place, you let yourself start to shift - knowing that you wouldn’t be able to make it in time in human form. You weren’t going to let them get hurt. You were nothing if not loyal. Rossi waits for the bullet. He knew it was going to happen eventually, it was inevitable in this line of work. But the bullet doesn’t come, instead, the crack of the gun in heard, as well as the sound of impact. Then nothing. And then the small whine comes. It’s pathetic and sounds like a wounded animal. A wounded animal. It clicks and Rossi looks around, spotting the form of a wolf, he watches as the fur shifts, slowly turning to skin in order to preserve your energy.

Another shot sounds and the unsub drops down dead. Rossi sends a brief nod of thanks to Morgan as he rushes over to you, shrugging off his windbreaker to place over you. Morgan joins him, peering over you, eyes widening when he sees the bullet wound. He reaches for the radio, “We need a-” Rossi puts his hand up and Derek stops.

“What do you need us to do?” Rossi asked, turning back to you.

“Rossi, he needs an ambulance,”

You shook your head, “My body will heal, I just need to get it out,” Rossi nodded as you lifted your head, the bullet wasn’t too far in. You could probably just reach in and grab it, you’re body would flush out any infection or bacteria that was in the wound and you’d be as good as new within a day or two. Your fingers hovered above the bullet wound and you let your head drop back to the floor. You take a deep breath before you plunge the fingers into the wound, feeling for the bullet. Your back arches and you ground your teeth, you clench the bullet with your finger tips and force yourself to take a deep breath before you pass out or something. And then, when you’ve got a good grip, you yank it out. And fuck it hurts. You groan loudly through your teeth, throwing the bullet to the floor.

“You okay?” Derek asked, you huff a small laugh as you nod.

“Just peachy,” You mumble. “I’ll be fine. The outside of the wound will close within a few hours anyway,”

“Won’t you bleed out?”

“Should be fine,” You said with a shrug, “This is hardly the first time I’ve been shot,” And with that, you force yourself back on your feet, clutching a hand to the wound as you walk.

When you’re back on the jet, now with a gauze over your wound, you lay slowly on the couch. “I know what will help,” You say, lifting your head up slightly, “I’m going to make you all watch Twilight. You need to get my jokes - they’re like over half of my humour and none of that can be appreciated if you haven’t seen it.”

“Is it any good?” Emily asked, you shook your head.

“Nope, it’s absolute horse crap,”

“Then why make us watch it?”

“Because you all need to suffer to get my humour,” You said, before adding, “And I’m injured so you can’t say no,”

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #emily prentiss #derek morgan #jennifer jareau #aaron hotchner #david rossi #spencer reid #erin strauss #werewolf #werewolf reader #teen reader (although I picture reader at like 20-ish)#male reader #x male reader #Bullet wound #blood #make shift first aid

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mereelskirata · 6 months ago

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tell me your tup and dogma headcanons? *chinhands*

*squishes cheeks* I don't have many headcanons for these two (or anyone else tbh) but I shall share with you what I have.

Dogma is older than Tup and they're not batch mates.

I absolutely adore fics/art where the two were decanted around the same time and were best friends during their cadet years (I mean I've drawn and written about it myself). Lately though, with a certain post about paint on armor, I've come to the start thinking that - while they may have been friends or have worked together now and again on Kamino - Dogma has been alive and a part of the 501st longer.

Dogma received praise from his trainer(s) once and now often seeks it.

This one came to me yesterday while thinking about this ask and again today while rewatching clips from the Umbara arc. This could just be attributed to what the clones are programmed/trained to do or just plain loyalty but Dogma is the only one that I've noticed (and remember) doing so.

The first time we see him, he's exhausted and out of breath and told to go rest by Anakin. Straight away he refuses and continues to stand there as if he's trying to show that he's the best trooper and willing to press on despite the exhaustion. I'm willing to think he's expecting Anakin to recognise this and praise him for being an excellent example of a trooper.

After that he's constantly wanting to seek approval from Krell. Again, this could just be down to pure loyalty to the Jedi, but it's always Dogma (and to some extent and persuasion, Tup). He wants to rat out Jesse, Hardcase and Fives about their unsubordination. He's the one that takes charge of their execution, not a ranking officer like say Appo or Rex as though he had offered up then and there to take charge of the firing squad, just to show loyalty and perhaps sieze praise from Krell.

In a more lighthearted tone though, I do think this need to be praised has gotten him in more trouble than he can count outside of the battlefield and Tup and Torrent have used this against him a couple of times to go to 79s with them or try something silly and reckless.

Also he has a praise kink.

Dogma has trouble recognising his limits and needs a helping hand to stop.

This could broil down to the praise thing or he's just stubborn, but I honestly think Dogma would push himself to the point of him passing out from hunger and exhaustion or even death if given half the chance if no one tells him to stop.

Rex has to order him to go rest after he refuses Anakin and later on in the arc, despite being surrounded and outnumbered by angry troopers who want to take down Krell, and Rex who's giving this whole speech wanting him to step aside and do the right thing, it's Tup who convinces him to stop.

Tup has a low pain threshold/tolerance.

This headcanon only exists because of the chip arc. No reason why or a moment in a scene I can pin point that made me go "AHA. New headcanon!". It just happened. I will say this kinda leans into the next one:

Tup got his tattoo from his batchmates.

So I had seen once a post that had mentioned that the tattoo was something someone got from jail and questioned what Tup would've done to have gotten it, but I liked the idea that he had actually gotten it from his batch mates as a dare.

Maybe he was a crybaby as a cadet and they'd often tease him for crying often over the minor of things like his hair getting roughly tugged or he'd sprain his ankle while training. They would only stop if he "proved" that he wasn't a crybaby by daring him to do something. Sometimes nothing consequential like sneaking into a trainer's room and taking something or standing in the middle of a shooting range at night and letting one of the boys shoot something off his head.

One of those dares would be letting them stick-and-poke him with whatever they wanted and wherever they wanted on his body. Long story short, he'd be wailing in pain, pass out and wake up later sore and a tear permanently under his eye.

#I don't know if this is what you wanted or if any of this makes sense but here you go ehqiehqwih #corey hcs #hcs #for corey

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mostly-mercy-vore · 8 months ago

Text

"A promising new caREAR"

[Mercy x Reader]

Contains: Vore. Vore teasing. Post vore weight gain. Big butts. Sentient fat. Sharing mind with your predator.

Glorp, gurgle the sounds of digestion reducing you to mush.

Melted down from a worthless little twat into soft squishy fat.

Mercy sipped her morning coffee as the last of her belly bump slowly shrank, vanishing back into its flat, if somewhat soft stomach, the round hump of her tum bringing her black scrubs shirt down over her gut like a falling curtain.

Her panties stretched, grams becoming pounds, pounds becoming inches as her granny panties filled with soft squishy fat.

Mercy felt the loose back scrubs under her lab coat growing tighter. Her ass getting fatter as what was left of you began to fill her pants, pushing, stretching the black scrubs, and stretching out the waistband. She listened to the soft creak of fabric as her ass got fatter and fatter and fatter.

The pred frowned biting her pen, as a cool breeze blew on her lower back, tickling her cheeks.

Her big, butt covering panties sucked up into her fattened up cake. Her big bubble butt plumping up out of the waist of her pants, until her scrubs were hugging her around the hips, the top half of her booty meat hanging over the top of her pants. The seat now fitting her like a pair of black leggings. Her massive underwear stretched out and scrunched up into a tiny thong.

"Aha! Nine across, four letter word for a pathetic degenerate that worships gorgeous people: simp!" Mercy scrawled S-I-M-P into her crossword. The M connecting to bottom. The S was #23 Down: "Five Letter word, for ingesting...S-L-U-R-P. I'm getting very good at zis English crossword puzzle ja?"

Mercy's entire body shook, as if she were sitting on a waterbed her body bouyed and rocked as if filming a scene on the high sea.

With a laugh, she began to swat her fat new ass with her pen.

"Stop zat! Now you STOP zat right now!" She grinned, beating you about your brand new form. Her massive ass stopped wobbling.

Angela grinned: you were awake again.

You stared at your arm. Only it wasn't yours, long and pale, almost milky white it had petite painted nails. You tried to wiggle your fingers.

Mercy felt her ass jiggle again.

You couldn't feel your arms. Or your chest, or your hands. You tried to speak, but nothing came out! Your doctor spoke, Angela Zeigler, but it came from you!

"You don't remember do you?" Mercy bit her pen a bit more playful this time. Squeezing the great big handfuls of booty that was spread out from under her.

You felt it. You felt her grabbing her ass...you felt like someone was grabbing you, grabbing YOUR ass. Instantly you felt a little turned on.

Mercy moaned.

"Mmmff. Let me refresh your memory butt fat." Angela purred. You realized it was her, somehow you were trapped in her head! You saw what she saw, heard what she heard, like you were trapped inside her head! Watching TV from a first person Doctor Zeigler persoective! "See, you couldn't make rounds on time, you never filled out your paper work. Your med school grades were barely passing, and you were the cutest resident I had." Mercy purred. "You are what zey call a....snack doctor. Barely any use for practicing medicine, you're sent along to Pred Doctors so we don't gobble up all our yummy new doctors!"

You began to remember. You'd been bent over the fridge. Doctor Zeigler had whole whistled your behind. She'd approached you, pinned you to the wall, bent in for a kiss and...and...

Oh fuck. The hot milf had gobbled you up!

"You gave me such a big sexy belly, I'll miss it. I enjoyed ze sounds of a dumb little useless doctor begging for your life, zat was very hot, you are very good prey. Obvious why zey sent you to me, you were born to be some big sexy doctor's lunch." Angela nodded she was kneeling her fat new ass now, like a cat making aggressive muffins in the soft plump flesh.

"You were so fun to bully and tease. I had so much fun rubbing you off through my fat gut~" Mercy purred. "I couldn't let such a natural fucking submissive little snack go to waste~" Mercy rose.

"So naturally, I decided you needed to....stick around." Angela tried to tug at her scrubs but her fat ass refused to be packed back into the already too small pants. The threads that held the ass together creaked and one or two popped threateningly. "It seems you are too big for zeze scrubs. No worry, I have ze next few sizes up on hand."

Mercy slapped her fat ass.

And you felt it, and instantly tried to squirm reflexively.

Her fat ass shook, wobbling violently as she walked. Mercy bit her lip, her fat new cake certainly knew how to jiggle. She couldn't wait to put it to good use.

Mercy strode over to the nearest mirror. As she did, she opened "healSLUT" the online pervy app for naughty Doctors, surgeons, and field healers.

"Oh Ajay, both tenticles? In both holes? Zat IS naughty~" Mercy mumbled, watching a short ten second video posted by user Lif3Lin3 a short Jamaican girl with a dumptruck ass, who's little disc shaped robot was pumping both her holes with long winding tenticles.

Mercy couldn't wait to post video of her new asset.

Angela finally stopped, and you got a good look at her post meal. The blonde turned, presenting her big bubble butt. Angela had always been a bit curvy, but she had a fucking MONSTER of a plush, chubby ass now, it was practically bursting out of her pants.

Four feet wide, her crack was probably a foot deep. Her cheeks two feet tall, sagged under their weight and bounced plumply against the back of her thighs.

Angela hopped on the balls of her feat, making her big squishy cake bounce. It sloshed gorgeously, and as you stared at her big fat ass through her eyes, you started to get a little turned on yourself. This in turn, meant Mercy felt a little wet between her legs herself. "Naughty little snack, are you horny for this big fat ass? Zis is all you now." She grabbed a big handfull of you, squeezeing her new booty and giving it a shake. You thrashed instinctively, and Mercy giggled watching her bulging cheeks try to squirm away like she'd stuffed sentient slime down the back of her pants.

There was an almighty RIP, and the combination of jumping and groping shred the back of her pants. Her little granny panties, swallowed up by your new home her ginormous cake turning them into a little thong.

"So big aren't you?" Mercy laughed, turning around she smooshed you against the blue lockers in the locker room. Feeling her big fat ass squirm and wriggle as it spread across four lockers, and bubbles of fat sunk into the diamond shaped holes. "Sigh, Knew it from ze minute I saw you. You were just cougar food." Mercy laughed, patting her fatty hip. her entire body began to rock and buck, as her jiggly fat ass thrashed and tried to throw her off, you felt weird being smooshed against a locker like this, but Mercy only moaned, and reared her hips forward, before smashing her big butt against the lockers again with a bang. "Now be have yourself. You're mein booty now. And big butts do three things, sitting, twerking, and get fucked by doctors with big strong cocks." Mercy snapped.

Your wriggles slowed down to a shiver, and content that she'd wrangled her massive new sentient cake, Angela Ziegler gave a cute nod of finality, and turned, opening her locker, and fetching out an XXXL sized pair of trousers, and a brand new shirt (all your squirming as she'd churned you up, and her excessive biting the shirt to keep from moaning as she fingered herself, had ruined her other scrubs and undershirt.

Mercy hung her doctor's coat on the open locker door, and pulled at her 'thong' until the tired, worn out elastic snapped. Her underwear becoming an overstretched pile of string that came off her body with a tear, resting limply in her hands.

"Harumph. You ruined my most decent pair of work panties." She reached back and gave her fat booty a big slap to punish you. "Now we have to wear ze sexy ones!" Mercy smirked. Fetching her stretchiest black lace thong, she slipped it up her shapely calves, her plush thighs, and tugged it up into her phat juicy ass. "A little help here?" Mercy taunted.

You jiggled obediently, working her thong deeper into your, her? Both of you, your crack. She snapped the elastic band, and loved how thicc it made her look digging into her soft milky curves on her waist.

Mercy looked back at her enormous fat shelf of an ass, and bounced on the balls of her feet again, making you dizzy and tingle as she bounced you about. With no pants to restrict you, you clapped loudly. "A big round of applause for the dumbest ass in medicine." Mercy crowed with delight, watching her juicy boulders of fat spread open and slap against each other with each bounce.

You were heating up, all this bullying making you horny, which was only making your new owner horny, which only made her want to squash, squeeze bully and tease you more. You occupied the same body, but the only feelings you shared were lust and a sensitive touch around her fat ass. Poor little doctor booty, phd (pretty huge dumptruck) your only sense of control was making Mercy's fat slosh. Completely along for the ride in her head for the rest of your life.

"You've really gone somewhere in life." Mercy grunted, tugging her new super sized scrub pants up her cheeks, struggling to pack you in. Gritting her teeth, she watched you obediently squirm, working yourself into the pants where you belonged. Satisfied, she continued: "Straight to my ass. What a promising new ca-rear." She squeezed her big butt lovingl. "Zis is your life now, Sentient ass fat jiggling padding this hot milf's cheeks. Do you think Lena's thighs will feel good slapping into you? I am planning on a little dinner date and I dare say, Lena Oxten is a bit of an ass girl herself. I bet her strap would feel good as she humps you."

You both grew a little hornier.

"Behave now." Mercy said, pulling her shirt down over her chest, and tucking it so the hem covered her thong (which was peeking out of her pants) "I have a long shift so make sure you wobble cutely for all the other little prey sluts in zis hospital." She lifted her phone, made a cute face pouting her lips playfully and looking a bit 'questioning' about her massive new ass, making sure she got her wide wobbly wagon in frame, before clicking it, and posting it to "healSLUT".

Angela sashayed over to the door, when her juicy hips got stuck, she coughed. You flexed, 'budging up' a bit so she could scrape herself through, before relaxing with a fat flop that sent the doctor's prey fed ass wobbling.

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