#NOT THE AMMONIA STUPID !!!!!!!!!

[depeshemode]

.

[muirneach]

KDJGHFKJSFSK????????????????

[bibleofficial]

this aquascape produces so much fucking ammonia it’s pissing me off 😭😭😭

[valkerymillenia]

If I had a nickel for every time I accidentally made poison gas while cleaning the house and nearly killed myself, I'd have two nickels.

Which isn't much but it's weird it happened twice *violent coughing*

[slowdrawl]

| Everybody Loves Contractors | AU NO OUTBREAK| JoelMiller X f!reader |

| 1/? | | The Walkthrough | 4k words | 18+ minors dni | masterlist |

She’s got a fixer-upper, trauma, and an attitude problem. Joel’s got calloused hands, a tool belt, and a soft spot for crazy. This is going to go great. "He hums, and he’s so close that you can practically feel the vibration on your ear. Suddenly, you are acutely aware of the proximity between you. He’s practically got you caged between him and the wall; the realization makes you light-headed. A shiver rolls down your shoulders, landing low in your spine. You shrug it off and turn around." a/n Here's the start of a new series because of there's one thing I'm gonna write it's flirty!Joel with lots of banter cuz it's my AU and ur just livin' in it (if u want 2)

| Warnings | Explicit language, sexual tension, mutual pining, age gap, a little angst, mentions of DV (not described, not Joel), mentions of PTSD, mentions of death, Joel being Joel, etc. Please read responsibly.

.

The house smells like mildew and anger.

It’s written in the walls, literally. Holes punched through drywall, baseboard peeling at the edges. There are cat scratch marks on the inside of the laundry room door, it still smells like ammonia. The smallest bedroom has pencil marks in the doorframe, little ticks with dates scrawled next to them. Someone’s poor kid grew up here. You can’t help but wonder what kind of trauma they took with them in the moving van.

Five months ago, you changed the locks on your old rental and promised yourself never again.

Three months ago, you got the protection order.

Two months ago, they accepted the offer, and you quit your job in Seattle.

And now here you are, two thousand miles away from everything you’ve ever known. Standing in the middle of the living room of your new home, sweating, maybe regretting. Your whole life…or what’s left of it anyway, stacked in boxes along one wall.

You don't know what you expected. Some kind of relief. Maybe. A break in the clouds. One of those cinematic moments where a breeze rolls through the window and the sun hits just right. The kind of moment that makes life feel bearable again, that makes the future look bright and tangible.

Instead, the air is thick, dusty, humming with someone else's ghosts.

You wipe your forehead with the hem of your t-shirt and mutter, "The fuck did I get myself into," to the drywall, like it might actually answer you.

You jump when you hear a knock. Not on the door, but on the siding. 

Heavy, loud, maybe a little annoyed.

It makes the whole wall rattle, like it's got opinions or something. You’d almost forgotten that the contractor you hired was supposed to swing by today.

You peek through the window, squinting. He’s already walking backwards away from the door. Clipboard in hand, scanning the place, a frown set into his face like it’s been there since before you were born. He’s in a t-shirt, jeans, work boots. Built like a load-bearing wall, and if you had to guess, probably as friendly as one, too.

You open the door a few inches, and leave the storm door shut. "You the contractor?" you ask, for some stupid reason. Of course he is.

He responds, deadpan, rough Southern drawl, "No, I’m actually here to talk to you about our Lord and Savior." Half a smirk tugs at his mouth, but it settles quick.

"Funny." You let out half a laugh. "God don’t want nothin' to do with me. If you come back with Girl Scout cookies, maybe we can talk." You shake your head, open the door wider. "Miller, right?"

He glances up at you and nods once. "Yes, ma’am. You can call me Joel. You the one that hired me?" Do I look old? Ma’am feels old. I’m like a decade younger than him. Oh god, I need to moisturize.

"I guess so, Sir. You were the only one who answered the ad."

He huffs through his nose. "Figured it’d be worse. Place looks better than it did in the photos, at least."

You raise a brow. "You haven’t even seen inside yet."

"True. I never will if you don’t open the door, darlin’." Oh. Okay. That’s better. Darlin’ is definitely better.

You reach out your hand toward him, introduce yourself. He takes it. His hand engulfs yours. Calloused, hairy, fucking massive. You try to shake like you mean business, your dad’s voice echoing in your head about strong handshakes.

You step aside to let him in. He surveys the place like it’s a crime scene. Probably because it honest to god looks like one.

"No offense, ma’am," he says, looking around. "This place is a mess."

You shrug. "A mess was about all I could afford to buy. Besides, she’s got character." You cross your arms. "That’s why I hired a contractor."

He nods, dragging one of those big-ass hands down a particularly banged-up corner at the living room entrance. "That so?" he laughs. "Maybe we need Jesus to get involved after all—might need a carpenter who knows how to perform miracles."

You huff a laugh. "Well I got cash, not faith. Let’s see what that buys me."

He keeps walking, slow, deliberate, like each creak in the floorboards is telling him something. His eyes scan the water-stained ceiling, the slumped couch you haven’t had the guts to toss yet, the leaning doorframes.

You trail behind him, arms crossed, suddenly aware of the sweat under your bra and how empty your stomach feels. Saltines and gas station coffee aren’t holding up.

"Previous owner leave in a hurry?" Joel asks, toeing a half-unpacked box near the back door.

"If by hurry you mean five years of divorce proceedings and a nervous breakdown, then yeah. Real Irish goodbye."

That earns a quiet chuckle. You glance at him. His expression stays unreadable, but his mouth twitches like it wants to smirk.

He heads to the kitchen sink, turns the knob. The pipes groan. Nothing.

You wince.

He looks over his shoulder. "You been livin’ here without plumbing?"

"I’ve been surviving, thank you very much. It’s called character building." You laugh, “Maybe don’t get too close though.” You pick up the collar of your t-shirt and pretend to sniff it. The joke barely lands, you are indeed visibly sweaty. This is going so well. I love this for meHe looks you up and down, giving you a questioning look. It makes your pulse jump. Something about him is making you even sweatier, and you’re not being very fucking cool about it. “I’ve been staying at an AirBNB. I promise I’ve showered this week.”

He turns to face you fully, arms folded now. Broad as hell. The kind of man who fills a room without trying. "You planning to do any of this work yourself?"

You lift your chin. "Some of it."

He snorts. "You got tools, princess?" Oh… 

Wait, no, nope. Not a princess, not into a man being patronizing, even if he looks like this. Get it together. THINK OF THE PATRIARCHY.

"I have… a hammer. Somewhere."

"Mmhm.” he tilts his head, “it pink n’ glittery or what?”

He kneels down, already pulling a multi-tool from his back pocket. "I’ll get some measurements. But just so you know—houses like this? They got a way of showin’ people what they’re really made of. Sooner or later." You sigh, rubbing at your temple, feeling defeated already. “if you don’t want to take the job I understand, just let me know. Because I don’t exactly have time to fuck around here.” “I can do it. Just gonna take time is all.” He stands back up, putting the tool down on the kitchen island, pulling out a measuring tape. “You wanna talk numbers?” What you want to say is, ‘Yes. Yours. Cellphone preferably,’ but you can already taste the rubber from putting your foot in your mouth during this whole damn interaction. So you don’t. You settle on, “Yes, please don’t bankrupt me, I’m fragile.”

“Alrighty then, show me the rest of the place. We can give you a ballpark after I see how fucked up it really is.” You lead the way down the hall, you were smart—or maybe annoying, enough to mark a lot of the things you’ve found to be extra janky with sticky notes. He followed behind you, on your heel, too damn close, making notes on that fuckin’ clipboard the whole time. “Three bedrooms, huh? You got kids back at the BNB?” He asks you as you’re pacing the smallest room. You laugh, shocked. “Nope, no croch goblins, just dreams of somewhere for my friends from back home to stay in when they visit.” You look back at him, “Thinking of turning the other one into a ritual room or something, somewhere I can sacrifice goats n’ shit.” He doesn’t respond, doesn’t flinch. You laugh, awkward this time “I think it’s haunted anyway.” GIRL. WHY ARE YOU THE WAY YOU ARE? “Well, ’m not a witch, or warlock or whatever. But, I might know an exorcist if you really need one.” He replies with a wink. You stutter, “Noted,” and usher him into the bathroom. The bathroom is small, and he follows you in instead of standing in the doorframe. It’s a tight fit for two people, there are probably two feet between you as he surveys the place. He lets out a heavy breath, “Well fuck.” You groan, “Oh god, what is it? Wait. Actually…don’t tell me” You say as you turn around to see what he’s looking at. He’s just staring past you toward the wall beside the shower, the expression on his face tells you he sees something expensive to fix. “You see that?” He says, moving in a bit closer, pointing and reaching his arm past you, placing it on the wall, dragging a finger down. God, I am touch starved.

“There is, or at least was a leak in this wall. Probably why the waters turned off. Did your husband…boyfriend, whoever, not get an inspector here before you bought the place?” “See, that would involve having one of those.” “An inspector?”

You pause. “A boyfriend. Last one ended in a protection order and a move halfway across the country.” You laugh, say it like it’s a joke, but it’s not. He doesn’t need to know that , though. If you laugh about it it’s not so real, not so scary. “Didn’t have an inspector either.” He hums, and he’s so close that you can practically feel the vibration on your ear. Suddenly, you are acutely aware of the proximity between you. He’s practically got you caged between him and the wall, the realization makes you light-headed. A shiver rolls down your shoulders, landing low in your spine. You shrug it off and turn around. What in the pornhub is going on? I need some fuckin’ air. You pratically trip over your own feet getting out of the bathroom, you duck under his arm, tossing some half-hearted, vaguely-human sound over your shoulder like “Okaycoolthanksnoted.” Joel says nothing again, just watches you spin away like roadrunner or some other cartoon character with a trauma response. You stumble down the hall, leaning against the opposite wall, trying to look casual and not like you just got a full body flashbang of a panic attack from a MAN explaining water damage. Baby calm the fuck down, he’s just tall!! You grab a loose piece of paper off the ground, fanning yourself with it. It has “TO DO: 1: TRY TO SURVIVE. 2: DON’T CRY” written on it in sharpie. The irony is honestly cinematic. A few seconds later Joel emerges from the bathroom, he’s got his eyes down, scribbling something onto the clipboard. He looks unfazed, like he has no idea that you feel like he was about to go 50 Shades of Plaid on you. “You good?” He asks, low, unreadable again. You freeze. He knows, he fucking knows. You clear your throat. “Oh yeah. Just, uh…tight bathroom. I’m claustrophobic, and allergic to mold, and men. You know, just girlie things.” He stares you down, one brow arched high. You decide to pivot. “Okay, so like…give it to me straight, doc. How bad is it? Realistically. On a scale of one to ‘the screen door is actually a portal to the underworld.’” Joel flips a page on the clipboard. “Well. You’ve got a lot of issues.” “Okay, ouch, didn’t have to just say it like that.” You chuckle, “Now what about the house?” “Couple walls need gutting, bathroom for sure. You got some foundation issues we need to check into, obviously the plumbing is fucked.” He sighs, tracing a line down the page with that dumb pencil, “Obviously it needs new trim, paint. I guess you could do most of that…I can get you the contract ready by Monday.” “Monday! Cool. Everyone loves Mondays, can’t wait.” He huffs something that might be a laugh. Nice. Then it’s silent for a moment, it’s thick and warm and low-key awful. Neither of you is saying anything; the only sound is a ceiling fan rattling its chain around. You catch yourself zoning out on his forearms, watching the veins pop out when he flexes slightly and flicks his tape measure closed. He notices. You know he notices. He finally looks up at you, meeting your eyes. “You sure about this?” he asks, his voice is lower now. Not condescending. Just… careful. You consider lying. About saying yes, of course, you’ve got it all handled. About pretending like this isnt a last-ditch attempt at rebuilding your life from the ground up after everything else burned down. But you’re tired. And this stranger is looking at you like he understands the version of you that doesn’t have it together. So you say, “If I'm being honest, not really. But I don’t have too many options.” Joel nods. “Well, seems like a decent place to start, then.”

Before he leaves, the two of you migrate to the back deck—if you’re even allowed to call it that. It’s less porch, more ominous wooden death trap. You already know this bad boy needs to be re-built. It’s really not on the top of your priority list. Joel takes one look at the wood rot, trails the warped boards and groans heavy from his chest. “You know this whole thing is rotted right?” “Do I look stupid? Mr. Miller?” You reply to him snarky, you’ve given up all grace at this point. Fuck it. Being off-putting and kind of mean is my new thing. You drop yourself down onto a broken pallet, sighing dramatically, swiping your hand across your forehead. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, Joel. She’s got character, we’ve been over this.” You hear him mutter something about termites and OSHA violations, then watch as he lowers himself onto the step. He groans like a dad. It sounds like old injuries and unresolved tension.

He flips the paper over again, then, like Blues fuckin’ Clues, he’s listing things off like you didn’t hear it the first time. Plumbing, rewiring, subfloor replacement in the kitchen, and a new water heater. Your ears start ringing with the sound of a cash register, dollar signs flooding your mind. “Then labour?” you ask, voice very brave and not shaking at all. He gives you a number. A rough, but real number. Like five digits real. You nod. “Cool, cool. Totally doable. I’ve always loved bankruptcy, I think it's sexy, honestly.” Joel tilts his head at you like he’s still trying to figure you out. Good luck old man. You see the gears turning in his head, trying to feel out how much of your sarcasm is actually just fear. Scanning your face like he doesn’t know if you’re only half joking, or seconds away from tears. The Joke’s on him. Two things can be true at one time. “I can probably… get a bigger loan,” you mumble, mostly to the coffee can filled with cigarette butts next to you. “You only need one kidney, right? Also, I’m a regular plasma donor, you know where the blood bank is by chance?”

This time he gives you a real look, softer. Something that has dad energy behind it, care mixed with a bit of pity. “I can work with you on the schedule, ‘specially if you’re doin’ some of the demo yourself. Knock her out slower, cut down on the labour cost.” You blink. “Are you offering me a payment plan? Or trying to get me to weaponize a sledgehammer for your own sick enjoyment?”

He shrugs. “Both, mostly.” You watch him stand, groaning again, tucking his clipboard under his arm. The afternoon sun is hitting his hair just right. He pulls the pencil out from behind his ear and walks over to the doorframe like it's his handy dandy notebook. “Hello, Sir, are you about to deface my property?” He writes ten digits down, right onto the trim, no paper. Just rawdogging the wood with graphite. The number is definitely bigger than the estimate he just gave you. He looks back at you, proud like he was just tagging a masterpiece. Or warning the house. “Text me tomorrow,” he says, stepping back and admiring it like it’s something hung in the Lourve. “We’ll go over the schedule then, ok darlin’?” I know it’s just for work but like… Is he into me? I love being delusional. You stare at the frame. “You need me to…make you business cards, set you up an instagram account or something?” He shrugs again, giving you a salute as he walks out the back gate toward his truck. “Fresh outta cards. Pencils don’t need WIFI.” “You need to expand your horizons. Get hip with the kids!” You holler at him, just as you hear the door of the truck slam closed. Jesus, he’s literally one hundred years old. As the afternoon drags into dusk, the cicadas start screaming, signaling you to call it a day. You glance over at the boxes lined up against the wall, spotting one with ‘TOOLS’ written on it in sloppy print. You giggle as you pick it up, you hoist the box up onto the kitchen island, and rip off the tape. When you look inside, you start laughing harder. On top of the pile of junk in there is a hammer. It looks practically brand new, and the base of it… is pink. Joel was right. God I hate that guy already. You put the hammer own onto the counter beside the measuring tape and pause. Joel must have forgotten to grab it on his way out. You grab your phone and car keys, flicking off the lights in the house, double-checking that the front door is locked and head to the back.

You walk onto the porch and squint at the phone number written on the door trim, punching the digits into your cell. You add the new contact, and then hesitate over the message box for a moment before pressing the home button and tucking it away in your pocket.

The Airbnb is quiet, save the aircon whirring in the corner of the room. It’s a pleasant sound, and feeling after a long day sweltering in the house. It’s 9 pm, you’re starving and exhausted. You start to think about the price of the renovation, and the conversation you have to have with the bank tomorrow, sighing. Now that you have an estimate, you realize that you absolutely have no budget to rent this place anymore. Looks like you’re moving into the house ASAP. You groan at the thought of losing your A/C. You'll miss it, but not as much as you’re going to miss a functioning bathtub. You make a mental note to tell Joel tomorrow that you need to start with the plumbing. You walk into the kitchen, throwing your keys down on the dining table, and walk over to the fridge. You scan the shelves and settle on the leftover sitr-fry you ordered yesterday from some hole in the wall, you pull it out along with a beer. You mumble “Please do not give me food poisoning,” like a prayer, as you throw the box into the microwave. When you’re done with your food, you throw the box into the garbage and grab one more beer from the fridge, before dragging your feet toward the bathroom. You run a bubble bath, lighting some candles you picked up from the dollar store the other day. You lower yourself into the water and let it wash over your aching muscles, letting yourself relax into it. You sip your beer and scroll your phone for half an hour, you keep thinking about him. His phone number is there, in your contacts, taunting you. You, along with the help of two beers and a calorie deficit, convince yourself that you should text him. (9:45 PM) You: You forgot your tape measure, genius. It takes him a few minutes to respond, the perfect amount of time for you to start spiraling and regretting hitting send.

(9:51 PM) Joel Miller: You’re bad at listenin’. Said text me tomorrow, instructions too hard, darlin? You roll your eyes at him through the screen. (9:52 PM) You: Fuck u too!! I was just trying to be nice 🙄 (9:54 PM) Joel Miller: sure you are. Don’t need it. (9:55 PM) You: dont need me to be nice? I’ll remember that. Three dots pop up and then, (9:58 PM) Joel Miller: don’t need the tape measure, got more than one.

You hum to yourself, flipping through your brain like a rolodex, trying to find a witty enough response but you arent quick enough (9:59 PM) Joel Miller: don’t remember askin you to be nice, but if this is it im scared to see the opposite. What the fuck does that mean? Fuck it. (10:04 PM) You: see, you say that like you wouldnt secretly love to see me come unhinged. Sounds like a challenge to me, joel. You: Kinda funny you think you’d survive it, though. Most people don’t stick around long enough to see the full show. You stare at your phone for too long, thumb hovering over the unsend button like its a detonator. He doesn’t open it, doesn’t text back. You’re left with the slow, creeping awareness that you said too much. Again. Very on brand.

You dunk your head down into the water, and you immediately regret that too. You sit up, coughing and blowing bath water out of your nose. You really are the epitome of a calm, collected hot girl today. You start to crash out. Is he joking? Flirting? Warning you? Testing your boundaries? Is this just his weird version of small talk? Are you overthinking this? Yes. Absolutely

Is he in bed right now? Reading your texts over and deciding whether he's going to just send you an invoice for a consult and never step foot in your house again? Oh god, is he going to send YOU a restraining order? You pull the plug in the bath, let the water drain out, and turn the tap on, pulling up on the little lever to let the shower pour over your body. You’re lying there, like you're reenacting some dramatic scene in a movie or music video, where someone's lying in the middle of the street getting rained on. Except you’re just on the floor of a tub, contemplating your very existence, considering moving back out of Texas, maybe you could fake your own death. You turn the tap off, and stumble out of the tub, wrapping yourself up tight in a towel, heading for the bedroom. You throw on an old t-shirt and flop into bed, mind still going in circles as you stare up at the ceiling. You go over the texts one more time and cringe harder. Idiot. That last one truly came out sounding a little too honest, even for you. Like a confession, cosplaying as a dare. You put the phone face down on the nightstand and try to rationalize it. Maybe he’s asleep, he’s old, right? Maybe he’s watching some stupid movie. Maybe he read it and is just… stunned silent by your off-putting yet endearing charm. Totally, that's the one.Or maybe, he’s now just deeply, deeply, concerned that his new client has both abandonment issues and a God complex. You silently scream into your pillow, giving up on the Airbnb ceiling, that bitch had nothing to say. Waiting. Still no reply. Sleep starts to take you, as the sound of the aircon and your own heartbeat mixes like white noise, a little too loud in your ears. You fall asleep thinking about baseboards, leaky pipes, and his hands

ps. if you like this fic please tell me because your comments are what keeps me writing!

[piccolos-bigtoe]

Send these to you sweet <3 hearts, piss <3 lovers, and endangered <3 eagles. Graphic design is my passion. Six more to go now. My sibling is making me do ones of Halsin bg3, sam dranke, and Slippin' Jimmy Mcgill too...... Happy <3 Valentines <3 in ermmm four days,,? I think it's the 14th, I'm too lazy to check. Errrr yah, I don't have much to say for this one.

Man I love Sniper, one whiff of that guy though is likely fatal, he probably REEKS of pure ammonia. And if he's bad, imagine the van. God if I could go into that camper ONE time in this stupid baka life, sobbing, my beautiful princess, I'm sorry, perchance another life time mayhaps.

[reidmoony-toast]

Angel. pt.2 - sr x reader

Reader was shot and Spencer is there when she wakes up

content: fem reader, angst w comfort/ fluff, established relationship, no use of y/n

cw: canon compliant violence, blood, guns, hospitals, talk of death

wc: 2.6k

an: Part 1 is so much better than this but just pretend this doesn't suck! Anyways ily thanks for reading and all the support for pt 2 <33

Part 1

· · ──────────── ·𖥸· ──────────── · ·

“Pacing isn't going to help.” JJ reminded Spencer, as he crossed the waiting room in front of her once again. He halted for a moment, shooting her a dirty look.

She held up her hands in surrender, and he shook his head, continuing his relentless pacing. JJ really wasn't to blame for anything, and he would've felt bad if he had even a single neuron that could think about anything other than her.

The artificial lights glared down at him, and the smell of ammonia radiated from every surface, making him dizzy and giving him a painful headache. He hadn't had one this bad since... Since Maeve had helped him.

Bone-chilling dread washed over him. This couldn't end like Maeve. He refused that repeating narrative. He needed this time to be better, he needed her to be okay. The other option—he couldn't accept it. Not again.

A nurse walked in, and Spencer straightened, while JJ shot from her chair. “Is she okay?” JJ blurted.

Spencer said nothing. He hadn't said a word since he held her hand in the ambulance, whispering the words ‘stay with me’ over and over again. He hadn't spoken again since her hand went limp in his own.

“She's still undergoing surgery, so I can't say for sure, but she's a fighter.” The nurse replied politely. Spencer wondered how many times she's had to say a version of those words today. How many of those others didn't pull through.

“I will make sure to update you when I have more information.” She paused, staring straight at Spencer. “I need some paperwork filled out. Are you the husband?”

“Boyfriend.” His voice cracked as he used it for the first time in two hours. “She's, uh– my girlfriend.”

The nurse nodded in understanding. “I'm guessing you're still the next of kin, so I'll get you to fill out this, if that's okay?” The nurse asked softly, holding out a clipboard and pen.

He wanted to answer with ‘no’. That he didn't want to fill out a stupid form while his girlfriend was dying in the next room, but he nodded anyway, taking the clipboard in his tired grasp.

‘Girlfriend’ was never a strong enough word. She was his life force. His everything. The soul perfectly intertwined with his own. There was no word in the English language that could ever properly describe what she was to him.

The velvet box tucked into the back of his sock drawer would have made her Spencer's fiancé—which was by far a better word—but he supposed it was too late for that. The whole future they had planned for themselves was very likely to not come to fruition.

That thought alone made his heart ache, and his lungs feel like they were on fire—an agony like no other he had ever experienced.

He finally sat down, and began the futile attempt to fill out the pages of forms in front of him. It was almost impossible to focus, and he'd only written her first and last name before he laid the pen down, unable to continue.

Spencer's breath was still uneven and rattly, and his hands started to shake.

The past two and a half gruelling hours had been a tailspin into the depths of hell, and he felt as if he couldn't catch his breath, no matter what he did. He wasn't surprised, though.

He felt the breath from his lungs completely leave him when he saw her, lying in that car park, and it never returned again—as if her not being near sucked all the oxygen from the air around him. He was now living on borrowed air, and that air would run out if he never saw her again.

Spencer swore he could already feel his organs beginning to shut down, decaying from the inside out. Like they knew—they knew he would never survive if she didn't make it.

It just wasn't in his nature to live without her.

Spencer glanced up, and came face to face with his own reflection in the glass windows lining the sterile waiting room. A pale, gaunt face stared out at him, a man he could almost not recognise—if not for the fact it resembled his past self. The one on drugs. The one in prison.

A dried and flakey red substance lightly dotted his lower cheek—a bit of her blood he must have missed when he hastily wiped his face with his jacket sleeve.

Spencer looked down at his hands, properly, and saw that they too, still had blood on them—caked around his knuckles, between his fingers, under his fingernails. Places where JJ's gentle cleaning with a hospital rag had not reached.

It was fitting, really. He had blood on his hands. Literally and figuratively. If they had stayed together instead of splitting up to cover more ground, if he had noticed her absence sooner, if he was the one who went into that carpark, she would still be right here. Happy. Healthy. Breathing.

He knew JJ would scold him, say it wasn't his fault, but the guilt consumed him, washing over him in great waves—but, unlike the tide, the feeling didn't recede. Instead, it grew, like toxic mould on a dingy bathroom wall. Festering and rotten.

He couldn't help but feel that he was partly to blame. Everything he touched usually broke, so this didn't feel like an unrelated incident. It was always his fault.

A hand was placed gently on his shoulder, and he glanced up from where his head was hung to see JJ, sympathetic look on face, twisted with grief of her own.

He didn't reject the comfort, instead he brought his own hand to hers, squeezing it where it rested on his shoulder. He might not have shown it, but he was glad she was here. He probably wouldn't have been able to keep it together this well if he was alone.

Her company brought him a sense of comfort—knowing someone else cared for her, and for him, as well, made it substantially more bearable.

After a millennia, footsteps echoed eerily in the empty hall towards the waiting room, and they both snapped their gazes towards the door. The nurse hurried into the room, and they both sat, with bated breath, for the news that would either heal or break their whole world.

At least, Spencer's whole world. JJ had Will, Henry and Michael, and the rest of the team had their own families. They would be upset, but they would have a shoulder to cry on when they ventured home. He wouldn't. If he lost her, he had nothing left. Nowhere to call home—because she was his only home.

“It was touch-and-go for a while there, but she's out of surgery and in recovery. I can take you to see her, if you would like.” The nurse gave them a warm smile.

Spencer's heart felt like it finally started beating again after three hours, eight minutes and forty one seconds, like he wasn't fully alive in that time when her life was on the line. His entire body warmed, from head to toe, with all-encompassing relief. She was okay. She was alive.

It all felt too good to be true, like his brain was wired to always assume the absolute worst outcome possible. He had been living like she was already dead.

A breath escaped him, but his lungs still couldn't take in air properly. They wouldn't, not until he saw her with his own eyes.

“Yes. Please.” Spencer quickly added on the end, finally remembering the meaning of the word ‘manners’. The nurse nodded, turning on her heel to lead them to her.

“She's stable, but she'll be unconscious for at least a few hours.” She informed, stopping in front of a frosted glass sliding door that led to a private room. To her.

“Thank you.” He said quietly, and the nurse nodded in acknowledgement, setting off down the quiet corridor. Spencer’s heart raced, and he carefully peeled open the door, stepping into the room.

It was small, walls painted white, linoleum floor worn from foot traffic. A continuous beeping sounded around the room from the many machines monitoring the motionless figure laying on the hospital bed, covered by paper-thin sheets.

It was her. She was really here. Really alive.

He fell heavily into the rickety chair beside her bed, gaze not leaving her peaceful face. Even on the brink of death, she was the most gorgeous being he’d ever laid his eyes on.

He sucked in a deep breath, filling his lungs completely. They were working fine now, because hers were. He could see the slow rising and falling of her chest, and it brought him the most comfort of anything in the entire world.

Spencer reached up, cradling her hand in his own, brushing his thumb over her cold skin. That made him disproportionately heartbroken—her hands were usually like little hot water bottles, and Spencer often remarked about how inhumanly warm they were. Now, his hands warmed hers instead, and it felt wrong.

“I'm going to go and debrief with the rest of the team.” JJ spoke up from her position near the door. He had almost forgotten about her presence, and he nodded in acknowledgement, thankful for her obvious move to give him some time alone.

“Thanks, JJ.” Spencer said simply. She gave him a small smile, and left quickly. He didn't need to explain himself, because she knew what he meant. Thank you for staying with me, thank you for caring, thank you for giving me space, thank you for everything. She understood it all.

The door slid shut, and his attention was back on her. All that was important. His whole life was lying, unconscious, on the bed in front of him. But she was there, and that was more than he could ever ask for.

He brought her limp hand to his lips, kissing the smooth skin softly, eyes closing, as the first lone tear made a path down his cheek—the first of many. He cried for the first time today, silently, her hand still clutched tightly in his own.

~☆~

The first thing I felt when I faded into consciousness was pain. A deep throbbing sounded from my side, albeit less than my last memory.

The approaching sirens, and disjointed flashes from inside the ambulance. And in all of it, there was Spencer. Every moment I could remember, he was there. Always. Never leaving my side.

I cracked my eyes open, taking in the bare walls and bright lights of the hospital room. My vision swam in and out of focus, eyelids heavy.

I felt a weight on my arm, and looked down to see a mop of brown curls splayed over the scratchy linen sheets, head bowed and my hand clasped in both of his. Spencer was here. By my side. Forever and always.

He was bent over awkwardly in the little plastic chair beside my bed, and I couldn't help but think how uncomfortable he must be.

“Spencer.” I rasped out, limbs too heavy to reach out and run my fingers through his hair, like I so desperately wanted to do.

His head shot up quickly, seemingly not as inert as I thought he was. He squeezed my hand gently, lips lifting in a tiny smile of relief, expression unbelievably soft.

“Angel.” He breathed in awe, like he couldn't quite believe his eyes. “You're awake.”

“Hi.” I whisper, gazes never untangling from the snare they both found themselves trapped in.

“Hi.” Spencer echoed, taking one of his hands from mine to reach up and oh so gently tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. He moved it to carefully cradle my jaw and cheek, breathing my name like it was divine. I melted into his touch.

“My girl.” He murmured with reverence, studying my face intently, like I was something to be treasured. Like I was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. I could disagree completely—I almost died, so I was most definitely not looking my best. “How do you feel?”

“Like I just got shot.” I said dryly, voice hoarse. “I must look it, too.”

“You look perfect.”

“Liar.” I rasped, snorting. He narrowed his eyes, like he was about to fight me on the issue, but I interrupted.

“How long was I asleep?” I asked quietly, vocal cords upset from disuse. Or from the blood in my throat. I could still feel myself choking, airways blocked with my own blood.

I remembered the light-headedness from losing too much blood from my body. I remembered the warm blood pooling around me, soaking my clothes. I remembered, as clear as day, what dying felt like.

Spencer’s answer snapped me out of my dark thoughts.

“From when you exited the ambulance, it's been five hours and fifty-four minutes.” He recited immediately. I was impressed, but not surprised. It was Spencer, after all.

I hummed in acknowledgement, before silence fell. Spencer's bottom lip quivered slightly, and I wouldn't have noticed, if not for my constant staring. I frowned deeply, chest tightening. Seeing Spencer upset was incredibly hard.

He was a stoic man, rarely showing his sadness. When he did, it was only in the worst of situations. And now, seeing his palpable misery was beyond heartbreaking.

“I thought I'd lost you.” The almost unintelligible confession sounded after a beat. I wouldn't have heard if I hadn't been anticipating his response.

Spencer ducked his head, avoiding eye contact, and no doubt hiding his emotion. His whole body shuddered when I laid my free hand in his hair, smoothing his curls soothingly.

“Spence, hey.” I tried to coax him into looking back up at me, not wanting him to repress his emotions. I knew why. He was most definitely thinking that he was the one supposed to be comforting me, not the other way around. Which, was completely false.

“I'm here. I'm okay.” I reassured. He finally lifted his head again, and a pang was sent straight to my heart when I saw tears pooling in his eyes.

“You don't have to hide, okay?” I brushed away a tear that broke from his lashes and rolled down his cheek. “It's understandable that you're a mess.” He let out a huff, and I gave him a knowing smile.

“I've been asleep the whole time, and you've been here for five hours and fifty-four minutes.” I repeated back his numbers, and it pulled a tiny smile from his lips.

“Don’t downplay it, you were the one dying.” Spencer scolded, but without any heat.

“I would be a puddle on the floor by now, if it had been you.” Instead of giving him comfort, my words made his face fall again.

He screwed his eyes up, like he was in physical pain, hanging his head once again.

“It should have been me.”

“No.” I answered immediately, tone sharp. I grasp his face in both hands, ignoring the burning in my side. “Don’t say that.”

He didn't reply.

“It was not your fault, you hear me?” I voiced firmly, gaze flicking over his face. “Don’t.” A trembling breath followed.

After a long pause, he finally conceded.

“Okay.” He said shakily, eyes not leaving mine. My stare softened, satisfied with his answer.

“Good.” I pushed back the hair that had flopped into his eyes, moving my hands further into his curls. He sighed at the movement, lids fluttering shut as I dragged my fingers across his scalp. I hummed contentedly.

Bringing his face to mine, I kissed him gingerly. He lifted his hands up to cradle my own cheeks, pulling away only to press his lips to my forehead in a prolonged kiss, seeming to just breathe me in.

“I love you.” I whispered into the air between us.

“I love you too, angel girl.”

· · ──────────── ·𖥸· ──────────── · ·

Thank you for reading, feedback is appreciated x

Tags: @reidology13 @reidmania @navs-bhat - comment to be added!

Masterlist ౨ৎ

[stellaluna33]

The way we talk about historical people is just exhausting sometimes. Like, today I saw one of those overwrought "History Facts" things that was like, "Medieval people used to do laundry with ANIMAL FAT and use URINE as a stain remover! 😱 Eww! Isn't WEIRD and STUPID and GROSS that they were so WEIRD and STUPID and GROSS?!"

And like... I'm not going to pretend I'm not glad I don't have to soak things in urine anymore, but... Guys, it's LITERALLY just soap and ammonia. 😭 You mix animal fat (a cheap and plentiful byproduct of the meat you'd already be eating) with wood ashes and... That's soap, guys. A very CRUDE soap, but it's SOAP! Soap made from a beef tallow base is STILL one of best quality types of soap! And they said "urine," and I just immediately went, "oh yeah, because of the Ammonia." Ammonia, which is STILL used as a bleaching agent even NOW!

Am I glad I don't have to make this stuff myself from scratch anymore? ABSOLUTELY I am! Am I glad that we have access to more consistent and refined versions of these substances? Yes! But your ancestors weren't stupid, guys. Or at least they weren't any more stupid than we are now (you don't have to look any further than the dangerous experimental "treatments" for COVID that people were trying a few years ago). You're standing on the shoulders of all of us who came before.

[kokii-omii]

More KhronEz hcs because the more I think about the more obsessed I become. And if I don't think about them I get nauseous

---

• Khron writes pages and I mean PAGES about how much he loves Ezmond, like 100 pages in one stack all handwritten with pure love and affection about how much Ezmond means to him. Each stack was put in a folder somewhere in Ezmond's room and he probably reads it in his free time (they love each other)

• Ezmond actually got more protective of Khron when they got together like emotionally. If someone insults Khron he WILL beat the shit out of them with his UM even if he's exhausted by the end of it. I like to imagine that once with Jade's help he tried poisoning someone who tried to take Khron for granted until Khron stopped him (Ezmond you need to take a chill pill bru 💔)

• Ezmond hates PDA (public display of affection), but in private he's the cuddliest person ever and WILL deny it if asked. Idk if he's in the list of "tsundere first years" collection but if he was it'd be hilarious (though I think oujidere suits him more considering how bratty he is)

• They created yaoi

• Khron saw a poisonous flower once (like the twst version of oleander) and tried making a flower crown with it for Ezmond. Got a terrible rash afterwards (for context oleander is extremely poisonous even to touch 😭) (reminds me of when I nearly got oleander poisoning lmao)

• Probably the moment when Ezmond realised he was in love with him with how stupid he was. Spent the whole night processing that fact

• Khron tried teaching Ezmond how to cook and it didn't end well (spoilers he accidentally made mustard gas without bleach or ammonia or anything like that. It happened once and they never spoke of it again.)

• "Right now, I'm in pain."

"Why? Because of me?"

"No, because of this fucking crab."

(referencing this meme btw)

I'm sorry if I sent this in ur inbox but I only realised it when I was halfway through writing it, and didn't feel like copy n pasting all of it 😭

they are so stupid omg, i hate them sm they need to kiss , i need to draw them kissing

i need to get back on the Ezmond yap especially about his OB cuz i gotta remember that its still in my head waiting to be yapped at ESPECIALLY THE DIALOGUE

god i need to lock in for art at the end of the dialogues i make

[defire]

Painful/bad caretaking ideas

Content: very mild gore

(sometimes you don't have what you need or you are STUPID)

(plenty of wives tale type things)

Saltwater bath for cleaning wounds (stings)

I read that you can pee on wounds to clean them (DON'T) but it's a real myth out there (stings, infections)

Whumper that just uses myths for painful "treatment"--"some ammonia in the eyes should fix that defiance!" (Blindness? Burning)

Alcohol on wounds (stings and burns, can make it worse by drying it out)

Cutting away infected skin (you have to cut into the good skin a bit and it feels like ripping it off)

Pulling out the arrow

Stitches obviously but you can also use a good 'ol stapler <.<

"Tonic" for sickness (jalapenos and garlic soaked in vinegar for 3 weeks, or whatever horror you can come up with) (causes stomach pain)

Wormwood. For anything. It's so bitter it brings tears to your eyes (lots of side effects if you have too much)

(yes these are all real)

[loumandivorce]

three words: “Ahhhh! the sinkhole!” character: timothee chalamet <3

fic under the cut because im not subjecting everyone to that

In his 1.5 million dollar condo in L.A., Timothee Chalamet was incredibly bored. Walking around his 5,500 square-foot home, he passed the shelf where his Oscar award didn't sit. He wandered into his fully stocked kitchen and ate a single potato chip. Then another, because he was feeling frisky.

In the middle of taking small nibbles out of his second chip, a strange smell wafted into the kitchen. Timothee's head shot up and he wrinkled his nose at the strange odor. It smelled like a combination of ammonia and fresh grass, with a sprinkling of ass. This was unusual, because his home always smelled like a combination of dew drops and magical pixie dust. Cautiously, he ventured through the halls of his house towards the smell.

As he walked closer to the origins of the odor, he realized it was coming from his bedroom. Well, one of his four bedrooms. Also coming from Timothee's room was a chilling, fever-pitched whining noise that rang in his ears. Frightened but too stupid to be properly wary, Timothee pushed open the door to his room.

He shrieked loudly and scrambled backwards, succeeding only in hitting his back to the wall and falling on his ass. "Ahhhh! The sinkhole!" Timothee Chalamet yelled. This was because there was a sinkhole in his room, about the size of half an elephant, stinking strongly of ass. (Visual reference: 🕳)

The high pitched whining noise was still ringing out from the hole, interspersed with occasional sobbing noises. Timothee realized there was a person in the hole that had been carved into his shining hardwood floors, polished with lemon scented wax. Because he had spent most of his life in privileged splendor, he did not know to be afraid. He stood up and walked towards the giant sinkhole. This is just like the worm scene in hit movie Dune 2, released in 2024, starring Timothee Chalamet, he thought.

"Hello?" he called. His voice echoed into the giant sinkhole.

The horrible wailing abruptly quieted.

"Hello?" a pathetic voice called up from the darkness.

"Hey, man," Timothee yelled back. "It's me." He didn't mention he was Timothee Chalamet, because he was humble like that.

"Could you get me out?" the voice said pitifully. The voice had a very strong British accent and was probably a guy.

"Um, wow, uh," Timothee said. "I uh--I don't really know if that's currently possible." He laughed awkwardly to defuse the tension. "I don't really -- do you know you're stuck in a sinkhole?"

"Yeah," the guy responded morosely. "I've been trapped here for 20 years." (Note: Probably closer to 20 minutes.)

"Woah," Timothee said. "That's very impressive. You have a lot of dedication."

"I didn't choose to be here," the guy responded, confused.

"No, man, but it's always about, y'know, taking the worst situations and making the best out of it. You're the captain of your own destiny."

"That's not--" the man protested, but Timothee was already walking away.

"Really sorry about the sinkhole situation, my guy," he called behind his shoulder. "Um, just persevere." And then Timothee went to take a nap in his wine cellar while Z-list actor Luke Brandon Field died slowly in his sinkhole.

[blubushie]

Youtuber: A 4chan post shared a "homemade crystal recipe" involving common household chemicals, which led to a dangerous incident. The original post advised using salt, baking soda, ammonia, laundry bleach, and-

Blu: Ah, the old "trick the kids into making deadly chloramine gas" trick. Classic. Wonder how many people actually melted their lungs doing that.

Youtube: ...However, another user later reported severe consequences from following this recipe, and ending up in the hospital with poisoning from mustard gas.

Blu: It's not mustard gas it's fucking chloramine gas. It makes chloramine, not mustard sulfate. Stupid Youtuber.

Dad, passing by the kitchen: Most people don't know anything about chemical warfare. You're just special.

Blu: SAYS THE GUY THAT BREATHED NAPALM.

Also Blu, under his breath: ..."Average person is well-versed in chemical warfare" factoid actualy just statistical error. Average person doesn't know difference between mustard and chloramine gas. Chloramine Blu, who lives in trench & breathes gas like he's defending Osowiec, is an outlier adn should not have been counted.

Dad: What?

Blu: What.

[bibibbon]

as one of the three mustard fans i feel obligated to yap about him to anyone who will listen.

in the grand scheme of things he’s not particularly important, but the few scenes he’s in definitely are.

he brings up something that many people forgot while watching the show.

that even in a world where people can turn their skin into steel or shoot acid from their hands, a bullet is a bullet.

that no matter how powerful your quirk is, if you get shot in the head you’re gonna fucking die 😭 i mean unless you have a regeneration quirk but those are pretty rare and if someone unloads a revolver into your skull i doubt your quirk would be able to keep up with the damage.

it shows people that a villain doesn’t need a powerful quirk to be dangerous. someone who’s competent with a gun or a knife can be just as dangerous as someone like dabi.

he’s also extremely intelligent. being able to tell where people are based on the movement of the gas isn’t something inherently related to his quirk, it’s a learned skill. he’s also very skilled with his gun, he was able to destroy tetsutetsu’s mask with one point blank shot. as well as being able to hit the same spot multiple times to break through tetsutetsu’s hardening.

when kendo says that mustard carries a gun around because he “can’t win a fight on his own merits” as much as i love her, she’s really stupid for that.

snipe’s whole thing is guns. his quirk has nothing to do with guns inherently, he just chose to use them. and support gear is a massive industry in this universe.

and no one talks about why this middle schooler has a gun and is hanging out with the LOV. that’s not exactly normal middle schooler behavior.

i have some theories so bear with me while i ramble about him.

so obviously he has a villainous quirk. his gas can kill people if they’re exposed to a concentrated amount of it for long enough. and he can’t control where the gas goes, only how much he releases.

(this is more of a headcannon but i like it too much to not share it. his father can create small amounts of purple mist around his body, and his mother sweats bleach. but one of his grandparents could create an ammonia based gas. and what happens when you mix ammonia and bleach? you get mustard gas. ik it’s kinda dumb but i like it.)

i believe that he had a hard time controlling his quirk as a child. with strong emotions causing him to activate his quirk.

in this universe there’s definitely schools/institutions for kids with dangerous quirks. so his parents probably shipped off to one of those institutions so they didn’t have to deal with him.

i feel like he resents the UA students because if an employer sees they went to UA, they have a way higher chance of getting the job.

but when they see that he went to an institution for kids with dangerous quirks, he could be rejected on the spot.

tl;dr i love mustard someone please sedate me

Since you posted this ask to me Iam assuming that Iam one of the three mustard fans and Iam honoured to be recognised as such.

As you know I have talked about mustard before and the potential his storyline has here.

Your whole rant makes me think that mustard in canon is basically the vision people have for fanon villain izuku and I love it.

Mustard brings up a good point which is that people rely on their quirks too much because someone with a uselss or a weak quirk can still be dangerous and powerful by honing in their other skills. Heroes who rely on their quirks primarily and nothing else are the ones that get injured and hurt the most because even if you have a powerful quirk it's not guaranteed to help you in every situation. Sometimes quirks cant always go up against technology as we see in the vigilante arc technology can very much overpower strong quirks whether you like it or not.

Oh I actually do like your headcanon. Personally I have always interpreted mustard as having an anaesthetic type quirk something similar to midnight. I wish the series delved into midnight and mustard interactions especially because mustard is too young to go to jail as people in Japan can only be punished for their crimes when they're above the age of 14.

Reputations and public image are very important things in MHA whether you're a hero or not. Mustard going to that type of institution is interesting although I don't think there are any in canon. I have interpreted it as mustard having something similar to toga where they both suffered from horrible quirk counselling and were told to control themselves not taught how and an incident happend and they ended up here. However everything that comes to mustard to me is 10 times more interesting simply because of how young he really is and how vague everything about him is

[darius20020]

My god I curse working on the laptop. My PC exploded and started to smell like ammonia. It won't be fixed soon, but the laptop is stupid

[a-clockwork-confession]

HCs on the type of undies the droogs wear and how pungent their scent is

Pete:

Probably boxer-briefs. Unremarkable smell, just like his personality. He actually looks like he'd be the least smelly out of all of them. The scent is mostly just laundry soap and old fabric, maybe a bit of sweat. Changes them regularly. Not much to write about. 3/10 intensity.

Georgie:

Medium to above average smelly. Briefs. Changes semi-regularly, so they get to absorb a fair amount of sweat and dickscent before they go in the bin. I'd say a little cheesy smelling, with traces of sweet due to minor urine stains. 7/10 intensity.

Dim:

Boxers. Oh, that guy stinks. Look how oily he is in the movie. Too stupid to think of proper hygiene, probably would not bathe at all if his parents didn't force him. Also plenty of hair down below to trap the smell and intensify it. Taking a whiff, you are immediately assaulted with the aroma of stale sweat, piss and probably semen stains. Not recommended for beginners. 9/10 intensity.

Alex:

Canonically white briefs. Looks like he'd have just the right amount of aroma without it being overwhelming. He appears to take decent care of himself and likely changes his undies regularly, but due to his overactiveness and nightly fun he'd work up quite a sweat. The perfect balance between sweet and salty, often accompanied by that moist stench of sex since he is a whore. 5-6/10 intensity.

Bonus: Billy

Words are not needed, for it is known. The absolute filthiest, most rancid stench to ever have violated your olfactory receptors. One sniff is enough to bring tears to the eyes of any untrained connoisseur and make even the most seasoned ones gag. It's weeks worth of stale sweat, ammonia upon ammonia, mystery (and not so mystery) stains on stretched-out boxers that haven't seen the inside of a washing machine in many eternities. The final understanding, the last judgement. Unmeasurable intensity.

[green-hoedrogen]

Ok so in my fic Slip I vaguely based Hydra off of a DOT-114 tanker because i could find the specification really easily they're sometimes used for pressurised gasses, but GOOD NEWS! I was wrong and also stupid :)

I've been recreationally overthinking this all day, for funsies. The interesting thing is, in Europe we don't really have H2 on the rails in that way yet- DB cargo is doing a lot of work there, but not in any formats that match up with the green bean. We know he doesn't carry ammonia or methanol because his fuel is usable without pre-processing, and we know he's not any sort of MEGC. The only other option in europe is cryocontainers of LH2, but they're intermodal- you can put one on a ship, unload it onto a lorry or a flatbed or whatever, and go about your merry way. so not that neither.

(sidebar: I know he is a creation of andrew lloyd webber's twisted mind and also a twink on rollerskates, but shh. im playing touys.)

The likelier option, imo, is that he's carrying cryogenic liquid hydrogen. This would track with some sliiightly older technologies (and i really do mean slightly) like liquid natural gas, which has already been used in duel-fuel locomotives. At time of writing, the only thing I could scrounge up that's actually authorised for cryogenic hydrogen transport on US rails are DOT-113 tanker cars, which are usually designed for other cryogenic liquids but. Uh. Im sure its fine. Nowt in the UK yet, we've got all of it on the roads at the minute. He's some kind of freaky half-to-spec pilot project to me anyways, I just need to ballpark.

According to the Railway Association of Canada's Railway Emergncy guide, DOT-113A60W tankers have a working temperature of -423F, which is the temperature hydrogen becomes liquid at.

So! That means we're working with DOT-113A60W!Hydra, or at least something similar! :D He's got a tank-within-a-tank system, weather-shielded loading/unloading valves, and DO NOT HUMP OR CUT OFF WHILE IN MOTION stenciled somewhere easy to see. Thank you for coming to my ted talk!