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dragonnarrative-writes · 6 months

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Transferrable Skills Part 1

Transferrable Skills Masterlist

Your therapist warned you about superstitious thinking. You've been working on it. In fact, you've been very good at catching it, challenging yourself to relax, and letting things go. Even before this big work trip, you consciously avoided the "unhelpful" rituals and reminded yourself that the little ones were just to make you feel secure, not to actually influence the future across an ocean.

"I'm very nervous," you had told Señor Snuggly two weeks ago. Your worn out stuffed lizard hadn't said anything back, of course. "That's normal, because it’s an international flight. So I'm going to give you a hug good-bye, and you're gonna stay here to watch the house. I know it's not going to change anything, but I'll feel better knowing you're here."

At the airport, you realized that you had forgotten your toothbrush. It had satisfied the part of your brain that was looking for one (1) thing to go wrong. Superstitious thinking, but the kind that helped you to relax and listen to music until you boarded.

Now, forced to sit on the floor, surrounded by shouting men with guns, your brain is stuck on your lopsided stuffed animal and blue toothbrush. Of all the things that could pop into your head, why those?

You almost let out a nervous giggle at the mental image of Señor Snuggly using your toothbrush as a shiv to save the day. And then the idea of what would happen if you started laughing right now almost startles you into another burst of giggles. You clap your hands over your mouth and curl into yourself a little bit more.

Next to you, your boss throws you a sympathetic look. "You okay?"

"No talking!" The nearest assailant yells in heavily accented English. You're pretty sure the attackers have been speaking Russian, but you could be mistaken. He brandishes his gun. "You want to die?"

"She needs to go to the restroom," your boss answers.

"No, I don't," you protest. You really, really do, and have for the last two hours. But being escorted out of the room alone seems like enough of a Bad Idea that your bladder can wait.

"No, she does not," the man confirms. "Shut up. Do not talk."

You meet your boss's eyes and try to silently convey, Why are you trying to get me killed?

His doughy face says back, I am a white man who goes to the gym once a week, and I really like the John Wick movies. I have delusions of being a hero. If one man takes you to the bathroom I have the mistaken belief that I can overpower two men with guns to save everyone. Also you're a black woman, so don't you have super powers? I believe in you, queen.

You may be projecting.

Ten minutes later, just as you're wondering if you should suggest a group field trip down the hall to the bathrooms, a series of gunshots rings through the building. The energy in the room goes from nervous to frantic in an instant. Your bladder shuts up. The Russian men start shouting and waving their guns, apparently too agitated to speak English. Two hostages start crying because no one else speaks Russian, just English, French and your half-forgotten, informal, Mexican Spanish.

Another three Russians come bursting in the room, snarling something you can’t understand. They grab at a couple of people, force them to stand at gunpoint and gesture to the rest of you. And then everyone is up and kind of moving in the direction of the door. But you can’t get out of the door because they’re blocking it, but they’re really agitated that the room is still full of hostages. And then some people are being pushed back down to the floor. Your boss ends up sitting back down again. A hard hand closes on your arm before you can get down, and you and four others are dragged out.

The leader says, “You all are dignitaries, yes? Your embassies will send money or they will watch you die.”

This is, potentially, the worst possible scenario. None of the five of you are even remotely important, let alone dignitaries. You’re not 100% sure about most of the others, but you’re an aid. An aid to an aid, really. The blonde woman with the remarkably sharp bob is a personal assistant. Today’s conference was about health data management, of all things.

You decide you’re not going to die with a full bladder. You look to the man holding your arm in an iron grip and point to the upcoming door on the right. “Can I please go to the restroom? I’ll be quick.”

He asks the leader something in Russian, and then you’re being shoved through the bathroom door. He doesn’t follow you into the stall, but it’s still so awkward to pee knowing that there’s a man with a gun waiting for you. You’re so glad you aren’t on your period - opening the wrapper on anything right now would feel louder than it has since middle school.

The door to the restroom opens just as the toilet finishes flushing. You hear a scuffle, an aborted shout, and then something heavy hits the floor. You freeze, heart racing. But then there’s no more sound.

You wait for what feels like an hour but must only be a minute before calling, “H-hello?”

You don’t get an answer. Unlocking the door and easing it open, you peek out and stifle a gasp. The man who had escorted you is on the ground, a pool of blood growing around him. His gun is gone.

You’re halfway through washing your hands before you realize you’re on autopilot.

It takes everything in you to fight down the urge to freeze in place and make yourself inch around the body to the door. When you poke your head out, the hall looks so normal that it makes you dizzy for a second. You try to decide what to do through the anxiety fog. You can’t hide in the bathroom with a dead body, and you probably can’t go back to the big room with everyone without getting shot. You have no idea where the other faux-dignitaries were taken. Apparently, there’s at least one person going around killing people in bathrooms.

You try to think of what your therapist would say in this situation. All of the options feel bad, she would say. So you can’t not do anything because it feels bad. Thank the anxiety for trying to keep you safe, then try to pick the least awful course of action.

“Fight, flight, freeze, fawn,” you whisper to yourself. Fighting is right out. “Flight, freeze, fawn.” There’s a body pouring blood right behind you. “Flight, fawn.” No one is around to appease. “Flight.”

Another gunshot and shouting. It sounds like it’s coming from the left, so you head right.

You shuck off your sensible kitten heels and fervently wish your otherwise sensible pantsuit wasn’t pastel purple in this very beige hallway. Not that a thicker-than-European-average black woman mincing around in a Swiss hotel and conference center would be inconspicuous in a black suit, your mind counters itself. You try to force your brain to shut up, with mixed success.

You wander a good five minutes, reminding yourself not to panic at every locked door you try. The halls are so quiet that you half convince yourself that you’ve gotten out of immediate danger. So of course, right as you’re about the round the next corner, one of the Russians appears, reeling backwards. And then he collapses, a knife sticking out of his neck.

You can’t really worry about that, though, because right after him comes one of the largest men you’ve ever seen. He must catch sight of you out of the corner of his eye, because his head snaps to look at you. You barely register the assault rifle in his hands because his eyes bore into you through the top half of a human skull.

Oh, I’m glad I already peed, you think, staring into the eyes of Death.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” the man says, growls really. “What are you doing here?”

“I… bathroom? Please don’t kill me. I’ll cooperate.” you squeak out. Oh, fawning! Cool.

“Price, I’ve got one of the hostages,” he says, nonsensically. “I’ve cleared the east wing.”

You jump when his walkie-talkie - of course it’s a walkie-talkie - squawks back an “Affirmative. Status?”

“She’s up and walking,” the man says, not taking his eyes from yours. “Seems uninjured.”

“Stow her somewhere safe.”

“Negative,” Death says. Before you can panic because what the fuck does that mean? he says, “Bringing her back with me.”

“Copy.”

When he takes a step toward you, you stop breathing. Everything in you is screaming RUN and DON’T MOVE at the same time. His second step in your direction results in a full body twitch. You get the impression that the gun is pointed at the ground, but the only thing you can really see is bone white over a black mask and what might be really pretty brown eyes, but the shadow from the overhead light really makes it hard to tell and your vision is going a bit darkaroundtheedgesandohI’mstillnotbreathingthat’snotgreat.

You’re shocked into gasping when a gloved palm touches the side of your face. The rough material helps you settle into your body, just in time to start hyperventilating.

And that’s when things get weird, because Death says, “Easy, lovie. Settle, f’ me, yeah? Deep breaths, like we’ve practiced.”

Your brain latches on to the familiar command to settle before you can even question why it’s familiar. The way the man makes a long, low shushing noise makes you so suddenly weak in the knees that you stagger where you stand.

And then it clicks. Holy shit. You know this voice. You know these commands. You’ve been listening to and learning them at least once a week for the last six months. He doesn’t even sound that different from over the phone or on a video call.

“There you go, that’s good,” Simon, the dominant you’ve been seeing online, tells you through his skull mask. “Keep breathin’. In through the nose, out through the mouth.”

It’s the second time in your life you’ve been surprised out of a panic attack. “W-what the fuck? Si?” you gasp. “What are you doing here? Did you kill that guy?”

“Questions are gonna have to wait,” he says. “Keep breathing. In for four, hold for two. In for two, out for eight. Can you do that?”

“Why are you in Switzerland?”

“Breathe,” he rumbles. “Settle.”

“No,” you hiss, even as your shoulders relax another fraction. The corners of your eyes start prickling with tears.

“This is a double red light situation,” Si says, staring into your eyes. “I know you’re scared, but I’m going to get you out of here. You trust me?”

“You are wearing a skull on your face.”

“And you’re wearing a purple suit,” he answers. “There are people who want to shoot both of us. You get one more outburst, then you’re breathing and following me. Acknowledge.”

What the fuck? “This isn’t a scene!”

His eyes bore into yours. “Might surprise you, but I’m aware. Acknowledge.”

A distant shout makes you flinch. You relent. “Acknowledged. Four in, hold two, two in, out eight. Follow.”

“Good girl,” he says, patting your cheek once. “Stay behind me.”

#dragonnarrativewrites fanfiction #transferrable skills #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #kink fics #this turned out so much more humorous than i expected and is so much fun to write #manic pixie dream ghost

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it-was-summer · 1 month

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Video Killed the Radio Star - Tape #4 (Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader)

A/N: Y'all this chapter took so long to write. This is NOT proofread once again me and Grammarly were beefing because she doesn't understand fanfiction. Nonetheless, it is 12 am MST and here it is. Now for an overall warning, this chapter talks about so much that I was to let everyone know that I meant for this to be a dark series. That was my goal. I'm so sorry if some of these topics seem like they're too heavy for you. If you feel overwhelmed, disgusted, or just find it hard to read please remember that it is okay and you are loved. This chapter mentions miscarriages, eating disorders, gunshot wounds, suicide, etc. I love you all and stay healthy. I will try to post my 500 followers post soon! Not proofread because eepy. YOU'LL read my chapter unedited and you'll like it! (hopefully). Thanks for reading. -Love you all, Em.

Video Killed the Radio Star Remake Masterlist

Link to the Ao3: Video Killed the Radio Star

Previous Chapter: Tape #3 > Next Chapter: Coming Soon...

WARNING: miscarriage, eating disorder, catholic guilt, bisexuality mention??, period underwear, stalking, marital problem, divorce, sexual harassment, guns, knives, gunshot wound, This bitch shoots someone, suicide, mention of a skull, blood so much blood.

Tape Contents: We briefly dive into Heather's past. Adeline makes a call that gives the team a reason to visit the suburbs. Heather makes a decision. You see something other than pink for the first time in four days.

Word Count: 6,296

Seven to Four Years Prior- January 10, 20XX

Heather had to get out of Norfolk. She felt suffocated under her father’s watchful gaze and helicopter ways. He was a hard man to love and hard to be around in general. When he drank, she used to pray that he would forget about her, so she became quiet. She didn’t have many friends here anyway, so she took you out of the equation and knew no one else would know her name.

So, with a heavy heart, she moved her life away to Richmond. She changed her major to nursing and killed that quiet girl from Norfolk. She fabricated real lies that sometimes she couldn’t separate from reality. She stared at girls silently with longing and played it off as admiration if she was ever caught. Catholic guilt stopped it from growing into anything else.

She was slow to open up about her feelings and showed people an extroverted sorority girl nursing graduate who liked to go to bars on the weekend and let men’s hands pull at her hips desperately in dark corners.

Now, at twenty-four, she only thought about one thing: how good her stomach looked in this dress. She had thinned out tremendously since the move. At first, it started due to not having enough money to eat anywhere except the shitty university cafeteria. Then, it warped into something else. During its worst moments, she would log her calories or purge food moments after eating it. She could look into mirrors afterward and feel she was achieving something remarkable. Then, sometimes, she would also look at her face and think, ‘Is that what I look like’?

But tonight, she wanted to do something different, something fun. Having told her sorority sisters this, they all jumped on board quickly, agreeing to meet at the bar around 10 p.m. that Saturday. They were thirty minutes late.

Heather was gently fiddling with the hem of her short black dress, her eyes flickering towards the entrance every so often as she waited for them to walk in. This year, she wanted to be happier, less suffering in silence, and a little more smiley. So yes, she wanted to have fun with people she called friends. Despite all her efforts, she was sure they could see right through her sometimes. She swallowed nervously as she nursed a margarita.

The next time she looked at her phone, she saw texts from her former sisters saying that work had been hectic and that they needed to reschedule for another time. So now, Heather Alexander was right back at square one: alone. She glanced down at her dress and frowned slightly at its tight material. It was the kind of dress that made her uncomfortable but made men comfortable. Something always felt wrong with that. Heather always secretly knew that she felt an attraction to women and men, but she always felt guilty at the thought.

She sighed as she debated her next move when she saw him. He was the prettiest man she had ever seen. He had soft masculine features that almost looked slightly feminine, a uniform clad against his chest, and a charming boyish smile as their eyes met. Heather whispered a silent prayer that he would like her as he approached her and introduced himself as David Hernandez. How could she not fall for him instantly? Deep brown eyes, pink lips, dark skin, and a low rumble in his voice made her feel like giggling.

It wasn’t long before the two of them were getting married. They spent a few months together in domestic bliss. He got some time off from work, and she kept her last name, and they were… happy.

At least they were happy for six months, and then her world shattered around her as David was deployed to England. She cried herself to sleep the night she heard, and David stroked her back softly to calm her. Heather didn’t want him to leave her and see someone better overseas. She was sure that women would throw themselves at David’s feet, begging him to kiss them, touch them, fuck them, like whores in the street of Babylon. She couldn’t stand the thought of anyone else touching him, looking at him the way she looked at him, talking to him the way she did in his ear late at night. She begged him to try and find some way out of it, scared to lose what was rightfully hers, but he couldn’t. He left that week.

At first, it was just six months, but then it stretched out into a year of deployment—a year spent being faithful to a man across the Atlantic. She called him when she had time, wrote letters to him, sent him emails, and constantly contacted him in any way she could.

When he got home, it was clear that all her efforts had gone to waste. David was distant. He would sulk in corners of their home on his phone. He would lament on and on about how England felt like his home and how he missed it. She couldn’t stand it. This house they bought together was his home, and it always had been. Why was he struggling to see that?

The more he talked of his deployment, the more Heather became frustrated with him. Then he started to go out more. At first, it was just to speak with some Army friends on base a few spread-out weekends in the month. Then it was every weekend.

Heather found that the only thing that could keep him home was sex. So they had sex constantly, like animals in heat. Disgusting and rutting against each other any moment they could. However, the second that it was over, he would withdraw again. He would get dressed and say he had to get to the base.

Then he was coming late, drunk and slurring, as he pulled her to the edge of the bed and woke her up with sensual touches and dirty talk. She took this as a good sign he was coming home to his wife. He was fucking her and no one else. But slowly, he stopped coming home. He would call her late at night to tell her he would stay with a friend for the night. The following day, he would come home smelling sweet.

Heather felt lost, searching desperately for something to save her marriage. She was devoting all of her love to a man who no longer wanted it, and she could feel him falling out of love with her.

Her saving grace was the morning that she found out she was pregnant. She called David with tears in her eyes and told him softly over the phone, and she heard him laugh for the first time in months. And just like that, he was back.

His soft touches, kisses in the grocery store, and dancing with her in the living room were all back. Her devoted and dotting husband had returned home to her. She could feel the dark cloud of the past couple of months dissipate and the sun shining on her.

That light lasted a good three months. Heather sat up straight as pain coursed through her body, thundering in her abdomen as she shook David awake with tears streaming down her face. Something was wrong with the baby; she knew it. He drove her to the hospital as fast as he could, but it was too late. She had already miscarried.

Heather took a small sabbatical from work and took time to think about her life. She would stare out of their living room window blankly for hours. David was attentive at first, coming home after work and tending to Heather’s broken spirit. But he soon became bored of that routine.

When Heather returned to the pediatric oncology unit, David was notified that he was being deployed again to Okinawa, Japan. He was packed and ready by the end of that month. She didn’t see him off at the airport, picking up an extra shift at the hospital to distract her from the fact that he was leaving her again.

David called her two months into his leave to tell her he wasn’t happy. He wanted a divorce. Then he hung up before she could get a word in. That’s when it all started. Her obsession with consuming anything romantic was almost debilitating. She would visit bookstores and attend readings at the public library, sometimes calling off from work to sit at home with her romances. That’s when she saw you again. She thought that you would have stayed in Norfolk. You had once told her that you loved the water. You liked how it could look gloomy and promising on different days, with mist rolling off the surface.

She tried not to talk to you. She did. She didn’t want to scare you away like she scared David away. No, no, no, she was sure it would all work out this time. So she loved you from a comfortable distance, watching you from her car on the weekends at night, leaving you her gifts on your windshield—a silent courting.

She couldn’t help herself on Valentine’s Day. She had slipped into Nicole Smith’s room without Adeline recognizing her, and she gave the table with Adeline’s purse on it a gentle knock with her hip. Heather apologized quickly, telling her not to worry. She promptly dropped to the floor to gather the spilled contents from Adeline’s bag, and she slipped a labeled key connected to a keychain that read ‘or die’ into her pocket. Once she had copied the key, she quickly returned the original to its owner.

She felt electric when she entered your apartment on Valentine's Day in a dark outfit, a hood covering her face, and four dozen rose petals in a container. She breathed in your perfume as she perused through your bathroom. She traced the spine of every book she could touch on your shelves. She gently dove into your dirty hamper and quickly pulled out a pair of dirty underwear, blood on the inside of them as she shamelessly slipped them into her pocket. Then she got to work spreading the petals throughout your apartment. By the end, she stared at her work, panting lightly as she lay across on your rose-covered bed.

She had to have you.

Present Day- March 5, 20XX

Derek and Spencer managed to get to the public library an hour before closing. They pulled your coworker, Valerie, aside. She was a pretty brunette, glasses resting on her face delicately as she stared at the two men with a soft look of disappointment. She knew that if they were here, they had yet to find you, and the thought made her feel like breaking down in a fit of tears. She fought the urge to cry as Derek asked her a question, sliding a copy of the Polaroid you had received on your windshield. “Do you happen to remember anyone coming in with a Polaroid camera?”

Valerie stared at the Polaroid with a soft frown, trying to remember something helpful. Spencer spoke quickly, “Sometime around January fourteenth, maybe?”

Valerie chewed on her bottom lip before the memory washed over her, “Yes! Yes, oh gosh, she was blonde, I think. I remember telling her we didn’t like flash photography in the library. I only saw the back of her head, but I remember the back of her head and the flash of a camera.”

Spencer tilted his head slightly and nodded at Valerie’s words, processing the information silently.“Are you sure it was a woman?” Spencer asked softly before Valarie enthusiastically nodded.

“Yes, it was definitely a woman who took the picture.” She confirmed in a soft voice before she looked down at the Polaroid with a gentle tenderness in her eyes. “She baked me cookies last week, you know?” She looked up at the two men with a sad smile and tears in her eyes. “My cat is sick, and she made me cookies to make me feel better.” She laughed sadly as the tears started to fall.

Derek placed a soft hand over Valerie’s and gave her a tender look, “We’re looking for her,” The words caused a shaky sigh to escape Valarie’s lips as she pulled her hand away quickly and stood up.

Her cheeks were red as she cried out a soft “Excuse me.” before she turned on her heel and hurriedly left the room.

Spencer picked up the picture and stared at you in the photo. The way your hair shined in the fluorescent light, your eyes and smile trained directly on the person you were talking to. You were personable, and the thought made his stomach turn. He looked over at Derek as Spencer handed the photo back to him.

The two men walked out of the library silently, and Derek let out a soft sigh as he watched the sun starting to settle against the horizon. Spencer walked beside him with his hand stuffed in his pockets, and his head hung a little low in thought.

Derek broke the silence first, “We should get back to the station to see if JJ and Rossi have anything,”

And then they rode back in contemplative silence after that.

March 6, 20XX

You weren’t sure if it was day or night anymore. All you knew was that you were starting to feel uneven. Every creak of wood, settling of pipes, and rumble of the house had your back straightening against the bed. You were sure that Heather would fly in at any moment and touch you.

A million options weighed heavy in your mind at the scenario; you could fight back again, but that would get you sliced again or worse. You could go with it, zone out as much as possible, let her have her way with you. That option made your head spin with nausea. You had to find a way to get out.

You licked at the gash on your lip, gently exploring the cut with your tongue until you could feel the warmth of blood again. You pushed your tongue back into your mouth and looked over at your day-old apple on the nightstand, half-eaten and brown. You tenderly took a small bite that wouldn’t require you to move your lips too much.

You didn’t have much of the day-old meal left; a half-full water and this apple was all you had. You chewed softly, fighting off the nausea that threatened to creep in due to the morphine.

You tried to remember anything that could be helpful to you. It was hard to think of high doses of morphine. You had played with the knob often; when you were ready to sleep, it would go up, and when you were up, it would turn down. But lately, you just wanted it to be turned up.

You tried to think of when Heather came into the pink room. She always stuffed her keys into her pockets. A plan was in the making: Get her out of her clothes, and you could get the keys.

You nodded a little despite your discomfort with the idea of her touching you again. You just had to seduce her a little, which should be easy considering that she was ‘in love’ with you. The only problem with that plan was that you had a mangled ankle and a body running on morphine; she didn’t. Heather’s temper was quick when you talked back, and rage followed if you did something against her liking.

Maybe begging would work. No, you tried that already. Why would begging work? Perhaps you could hurt yourself just enough to force her to take you to the hospital. But that didn’t work either; she was a nurse. She wouldn’t incriminate herself like that, would she? Maybe total submission would be the key.

Convince her that you love her back and somehow ask to be let out with her supervision, but that could take forever.

You started to cry softly as you set down the core of the apple and laid down, wishing to pull your legs to your chest, but the pain of one ankle and the chain around the other made that physically impossible.

You cried until you felt your eyelids become heavy, tears still slipping out of your eyes as you fell into a morphine-induced sleep.

March 6, 20XX

JJ paced back and forth in front of the bulletin board, occasionally flicking her eyes over to the photos pinned to it as she tried to chase what was likely to be a loose end. The number that had called yours and left a message full of sobs had been a burner.

Spencer had tried to tell her to eat something this morning, but as the clock’s hands crept towards nine a.m., she still didn’t feel hungry enough to try. She sighed out another frustrated huff as Emily appeared in front of her. “If you sigh like that one more time, I think I might have to force a croissant down your throat.”

JJ gave her another dramatic sigh before she put her hands on her hips: “I’m sorry, I just feel like we have no leads. We know it's a woman, but Adeline isn’t likely to be the unsub, and all her coworkers have alibis. It just feels like we are running around with our heads cut off.”

Emily smiled and gave her a gentle nod of understanding, “I get it, but you pacing around like this isn’t helping anyone. Let’s get you a drink, coffee, or maybe something to eat.”

“People who eat breakfast consistently are twenty-five percent likely to be more productive at work,” Spencer spoke up from a desk not too far from the two women.

Emily pointed over at Spencer, “See? You’re making Spencer freak out.”

“I’m not freaked out,” Spencer frowned at the comment before looking back at a file on the desk.

JJ’s smile was slow as she let her hands fall to her side and let out a soft, “Fine.” She agreed as Emily walked over to the precinct's breakroom, JJ following her.

Derek was clicking a pen obnoxiously in an off-beat rhythm. He was about to say something when his phone started to ring on his desk. He didn’t recognize the number, but he answered it anyway. “Hello?”

“Hi, uhm, is this Special Agent Morgan?” Adeline’s voice was shaky through the phone.

Derek relaxed slightly as he set down his pen. “Yeah, Adeline. Did something happen?” He couldn’t think of another reason as to why she would call the number he had left with her if nothing happened. He was too focused on the case to think of any other reason anyway.

“Yeah, maybe? I was talking to one of the nurses about something today, and I recognized one of them. I don’t know how I didn’t see it sooner, but it was an old friend from college. She was more Y/N’s friend than mine, but I talked to her a little.” Adeline’s voice dropped to a whisper as she continued, “I mentioned that she was missing, and Heather had a weird reaction. She smiled for a second. I swear, she said she was sad to hear that, but she looked… well, for a second, it just seemed like maybe she was happy.”

Derek picked the pen back up again, ready to write down a name. It wasn’t much, but they could visit her. “What was her name again?”

“Gosh, it was Heather something… Heather, Heather, Heather,” She bit her lip as she tried to think back. “Alexander! Heather Alexander.”

Derek wrote it down and muttered quickly, “We'll look into it, thanks.” As a goodbye, he let Adeline quickly thank him over the phone before he hung up and called Penelope.

Penelope, quick as always, picked up on the first ring. “Center of divine intellect,” was her greeting.

“Good morning to you, too, baby girl. Listen, could you get Heather Alexander's address? Adeline Smith called saying that she had a strange reaction to hearing about our girl going missing.”

“Easy,” was her answer before Derek could hear the sounds of keys being tapped against and a soft humming sound emitting from Penelope’s lips as she pulled up the address: “4432 Lake Margaret Pl., Chesterfield, Virginia.”

“You are an angel, Garcia.”

“I always aim to please,”

“And you never fail, baby girl.”

JJ had begged Derek with her eyes to let her go with Spencer. It was just an interview, not even an interrogation, just to see if the connection between you and Heather went deeper than old college friends. So why shouldn’t she go?

Derek wasn’t one to put up a big fight, so he let her with Spencer. It was only thirty minutes away anyway, so if they needed the team it wouldn’t take too long for them to show up, right? He stayed behind on the phone with Garcia, who was doing her best to see if Heather had any criminal history on her record.

As the car rolled around the cul de sac, Spencer’s eyes struggled to look away from the plethora of plants in the fenced-in front yard. Pink anemones were scattered amongst daffodils, and what looked like daisies were blooming side by side. JJ rolled the car to a stop, parking it against the curb.

“Pretty yard,” She muttered as she took the keys out of the ignition. Spencer nodded a little; he had to admit that Spring came in a close second to Fall as the superior season in his mind. The flowers growing after frozen earth had kept them dormant, the welcomed feeling of the sun getting slightly warmer. It was still somewhat chilly at ten in the morning as he stepped out of the car with JJ, but he had to admit, it was shaping up to be a beautiful day weather-wise.

His head tilted back a little as he stole a glance at the blue sky above them and smiled before stuffing his hands into his pockets and tilting his head toward the house. JJ smiled and walked beside him, happy to be out of the precinct and in the early morning air.

Heather was washing the paring knife she had used on you in her kitchen sink, facing a large bay window in her living room. She swiped at the hardened blood and frowned a little at the memory. Why was she so upset with you? She could hardly remember herself when she got angry like that.

It was almost fitting, her flying off the handle over something so simple as you not being ready for her love. Was she no better than a man? Had she gotten so accustomed to men's vile and sharp ways that she had somehow forgotten how to be gentle?

She felt her hands shake as a voice came into her head, whispering her worst fear: She was worse than her father.

She let tears blur her vision at the thought as she rubbed the knife harder with a sponge, shaking her head quickly. No, no, no, no. She was not like that man. She was not cold like that man. She was lovable. She felt love. She felt overwhelming love for you. She had felt overwhelming love for David.

Her downward spiral was cut short as she lifted her weeping head and saw a black SUV parked in front of her yard. She quickly wiped away a stray tear with the back of her hand and sniffled lightly as she gently slid the knife into the dishwasher, watching two people get out of the van.

Heather’s eyes were glued to the blonde at first, pretty and fair in the morning sun before her eyes flickered to the man beside her. She recognized him immediately. She was sure it was the same man she almost ran into at the hospital yesterday.

She dried her hands as she walked around the kitchen island. As they got closer, her head arched to see how close they were. Panic was running through her veins. Her gun was in her room upstairs, loaded. She just had to get upstairs; her feet were quick to try and run upstairs and stash it somewhere close before they could ring the doorbell. Just as the idea seemed plausible enough, the bell rang through the house.

Heather let out a silent scream of panic as she smoothed out her shirt, fixed her hair, and caught a quick glance of her pretty face in the mirror near the front door before she swung it open with a pleasantly fake smile on her face. Her eyes quickly scanned both of their faces as she smiled. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, hi. My name is Jennifer Jareau. This is Spencer Reid. We’re with the FBI, and we were just wondering if we could ask you some questions.” JJ spoke clearly as she flashed her badge at Heather, a slight smile on her lips as she looked into Heather’s eyes. Spencer recognized her, finding it strange that he had almost run directly into the beautiful woman at the hospital just the day before.

Heather laughed softly and nodded as she stepped aside, opening the door wider to let the two agents inside. “Of course,” Her hands were shaking, but she gripped the edge of the door tightly, half tempted to slam it directly in their faces and go upstairs to shoot Catherine and herself to freedom.

They weren’t on to her yet; she was sure of that– especially given their lack of people– just two against one. She was quick to shut the door behind them before leading the two of them into her living room. “Can I get you two any water? I have some juice.”

The two agents shook their heads in a polite ‘no, thank you’ way as they sat on the sofa across from Heather. Heather sat on a chair with a soft “Okay” as she eyed them carefully. “Am I in some kind of trouble here?”

“No, We just wanted to ask you a few questions regarding an old college friend of yours, Y/N L/N.”

“Well,” She smoothed out her long skirt slowly, remembering to breathe normally, “What about her?”

“Had you been in contact with her at all? Did she mention anything about someone following her?”

Heather let out a gentle laugh as she shook her head, “I haven’t really had the time to reach out to old friends lately,”

Spencer’s interest peaked as he joined the conversation, “How come?”

Heather’s gaze became a little pointed at the question. Of course, the man has to ask her, “I lost a baby recently, and my husband was deployed soon after, so forgive me for not becoming pen pals with someone I knew at eighteen.” The words were direct and vicious, but she couldn’t help herself. She blew out a soft sigh before she let out a gentle and timid, “I’m sorry,”

Spencer licked his lips nervously as he leaned back against the sofa slightly, trying to resist the urge to disappear into it. Self-isolation wasn’t uncommon for women who had recently suffered from a miscarriage. That feeling more than likely increased as her support system was ripped away from her.

JJ gently touched Spencer’s knee before she cut the tension. “I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs. Alexander. We’re just trying to piece some information together.”

Heather ran a hand through her hair before she gave JJ a tight-lipped smile. “I understand that; I’m sorry. Would it be alright if I ran upstairs for some medicine? I feel a headache coming on.” She spoke fast with a tense voice, trying her hardest to pass it off as pain with a rub of her temple. When JJ nodded, she stood up and headed upstairs as calmly as she could manage.

JJ looked over at Spencer, watching Heather walk away carefully. “She seems angrier with men than anything.” Her voice was slightly amused before Spencer frowned.

“Doesn’t mean she’s in the clear; stalking is often a form of intense infatuation, but it's also used as a way to control something. She’s struggling with two things that could be our stressors: she’s craving control or dependency. She-” The soft ringing of his phone cut off his whispered rant. He answered it, happy that at least it was just Garcia calling, hoping for a better lead than his ongoing hunch.

He stood and looked at JJ, who was mouthing for him to go outside, “Hey,” He answered as he slipped out of the front door.

“Hey, nothing is coming up anywhere on Heather’s record for criminal activity—sorority sister, wife, nurse, clean as a whistle. However, considering we don’t have much right now, I decided to see if she had any warnings at work.”

“Right,” Spencer looked over his shoulder at the front door as he walked away to stand in front of the garage.

“Well, last month, she got a write-up for stealing some morphine; her supervisor forced her to go see a therapist after Heather said that she was using it for some leftover pain she was experiencing after her miscarriage. But Heather never showed,”

Spencer was walking a little further down the driveway as he listened to Garcia talk on the phone, counting the number of windows in the house. His eyes narrowed slightly to try and block out the sun before he looked away. He licked his bottom lip gently before acting on his little hunch, “Could you check her credit report? See if there are any purchases that you can find that seem odd around March third?”

“Could I check her credit report,” Garcia repeated with a laugh, “Hold on, boy genius.”

Spencer could see the top of JJ’s head from the bay window, and he turned away slightly, finding ease in the fact that she was still there. Something felt off, and he couldn’t put his finger on it. “She went to the store, but nothing crazy. Bought,” He could hear typing, “Bleach and rubbing alcohol.”

Spencer chewed on the inside of his cheek as he asked, “When was her husband deployed again? Did she buy anything from a florist around Valentine’s Day?”

“Husband was deployed December first and,” she hummed gently before she sighed, “Bought some flowers on Valentine’s day, rose petals.”

Spencer felt that feeling when something connected in his brain, a rush of adrenaline as he felt his hunch slowly turn into a plausible accusation. The roses were just that, roses. But the bleach and rubbing alcohol? That’s a recipe for chloroform right there. And finally, Heather’s husband was deployed at the beginning of December, stressor number two. It made him feel slightly hopeful about walking back into the house. “Thanks, Garcia.” He said as his feet reached the end of the driveway. He hung up the phone, walking back towards the house at a fast pace when the familiar and startling 'crack' of a gun reached his ears.

His hands drew his gun out of the holster, running back towards the house. He pushed the front door open with his foot as he heard the thumping of footsteps running on the stairs. He rounded the corner to the living room before lowering his gun as he saw JJ bleeding from a bullet wound in her thigh.

“JJ!” His voice panicked as he reached her groaning side, kneeling low to the ground next to her. “What happened?”

JJ shook her head quickly, “I’m calling for backup. She ran upstairs. She didn’t even try to,” her eyes squeezed shut tightly as a sharp pain rattled through her inner thigh, “Just go!” She urged him as she reached down for the phone in her back pocket, her free hand pressing on her gushing wound to try and slow the bleeding.

Spencer’s eyes were filled with uncertainty as he let out a soft, “No, I’ll stay here until everyone gets-”

“Spencer, go!”

Spencer felt his spine straighten at the second command. He gave her a grim nod as he stood up, readied his gun, and started for the stairs. His footsteps were soft and calculated as he ascended, pink light flooding the floor as he approached the top of the stairs. He could hear gentle begging in a voice too soft and thick to be Heather’s.

“Please, Heather, please, my love. Don’t, please don’t.” Repetitive cries for mercy made his legs move faster until he approached an opened door. The regular-looking bedroom door gave way to a steel one just behind it before revealing the scene of what looked like a demented love nest.

Spencer swallowed a lump in his throat as he took in the scene. Gun pointed carefully at Heather as he spoke, “Heather, put down the gun. You love her. You don’t want to hurt her. You know that.”

Heather jumped a little at the sound, her pistol clicking softly as her sweaty palms tightened their grip. She was quick to turn her body around to face him with the gun aimed directly at him as she spoke. “Don’t pretend like you know me or her. You don’t know our relationship. She wants this just as much as I do.”

“You know she doesn’t look at her. Look at what you’re doing to her.”

Heather’s eyes drifted to you, chained to the bed, watching as you hyperventilate softly. Heather felt her bottom lip quiver before she looked back at Spencer. “She’s just scared. You’re making me do this. She knows you’re making me do this.”

Spencer’s eyes drifted to your crying form on the bed, trying to keep your sobs quiet as you stared at him with wild eyes. He glanced over at the morphine drip next to your bed before his eyes settled back on Heather. His lips parted to say something more, but she cut him off quickly, “Put your gun down, and I won’t do it.”

Heather’s body language gives her away as she motions for him to put his gun down, her eyes crazed and large, her hands shaking and rigid against her pistol. “I’m not going to-”

“Put your fucking, gun down, or she dies,” Heather yells so loud that it elicits a soft sob from your lips, your arms coming up to protect your head, ready for the shot to be administered and for your brains to be blown out in front of Spencer in that very moment.

Spencer holds up both of his hands at that; he swears he can hear the soft sounds of sirens in the distance as he lowers his gun to the floor slowly, his foot gently kicking the gun away with a soft ‘clack.’

“Now you,” his calm voice says as he raises his hands, inching closer. Tears stream down Heather’s face now as she shakes her head gently.

“I have to,” Is her tear-soaked reply as she keeps the barrel pointed at Spencer’s head, her fingers twitching lightly as they move for the trigger. Your shaking voice cuts through the scene, and Spencer is pretty sure it’s the only thing that is stopping him from diving for his gun a few feet from him.

“Heather, baby,” Your voice betrays you as you speak the pet name, coming off a little too forced, but you continue anyway. “He can help. You don’t have to hurt anyone else. We can be happy, and we can get away. He can help, right?” Your arms relax around your head slowly as you look over at Spencer, who nods silently.

“I can, but you have got to put your gun down.”

Heather chokes out a strangled sob as she looks over at you, watching as you smile at her. You know it’s forced, but Heather can only view it as the prettiest thing she’s ever seen—a great parting gift.

She feels spit thick on her tongue as she evaluates her options: kill Spencer and go to jail. Kill you, and she might not have enough time to kill herself. Killing herself seems like the best plan out of the three, so she holds her gun steady at Spencer as she looks at your now bleeding smile.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” Her voice is soft, almost so human that you feel your heart clench in pity before that clenching feeling turns into pure anxiety as you see the movement of her arm. Spencer’s feet aren't quick enough for him to tackle her to the ground as Heather raises the gun to her temple and pulls the trigger.

Her body drops to the edge of the bed, sliding down it as you feel blood coat your legs. Your ears are ringing, and your mouth is wide open as you scream. At least you think you’re screaming. You can’t hear much but a pathetic muffle of the sound as the ringing in your ears increases.

Your hands are quick to try and wipe off chunks of what looks to be part of a skull off of your exposed stomach, and you can’t seem to stop staring at Heather’s limp body at the edge of the bed. The image of her mangled head oozing blood has you gagging softly, feeling yourself getting ready to be sick before you feel two hands cup your face.

You’re screaming or sobbing; you can’t tell anymore as Spencer Reid’s face blocks the view. He keeps your face steady in his hands as you try to read his lips, your breathing heavy as he strokes your hair gently. His voice creeps in through the ringing until you eventually hear the soft repetition of, “I got you, look at me. Just keep looking at me; you’re safe.”

You feel your breathing slow, your arms reaching up to grab him before your eyes roll back as your body slumps against Spencer’s, and everything is engulfed in black.

Tag List: @dollykisses4reid @babyspiderling @cocobean16 @kodzukenie333 @mmmunson

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deliciousbasementtrash · 10 months

Text

Playing Nurse for the Batfam

Artist: https://www.instagram.com/twalxxart/ Twalxx

Summary: you are a nurse working for Gotham General Hospital. Batman has offered you a job. You are now a nurse for the entire Batfamily. There has been an emergency and you have been called into the line of fire. You have been injured by the Black Mask, how will Jason react?

Pairing: Slowburn Jason Todd x Female!reader

Warning: Adult language, mentions of gunshots and death

Word Count: 2.4k

Masterlist

Note: These characters are not my own they belong to DC. The only character that is 'mine' is the reader. I am going to be as nondescript as possible for the reader as well for physical attributes. This is a continuation series; I’m not sure how long it will be. Also for some reason, my replies to comments are not showing up. I’m not ignoring your comments Tumblr won’t let me respond :( But please, please comment I live for it

Part 9: If I Have to Throw You Over My Shoulder I Will

***********************************************************

Jason Todd

[Jason, please we need backup. We need you.] Dick had sent about ten minutes ago.

Some dark part of me wanted to do nothing. The part of me that was tortured and beaten. The part of me that was angry no one cared enough to avenge me. But I loved Dick like he was my flesh and blood. And whether I admit it to myself or not… I love Bruce the same way.

Often I think about how my life led me down this way. Was it fate? Was it God? Was it just dumb fucking luck?

There is one theory I keep circling back to. The Red String Theory. At birth, we have invisible red strings tying us to the people we are destined to meet. Was I tied to my parents? Bruce? Alfred? Dick? Tim? Barbara? Steph? Cass? Damian? Duke? Or even… him?

That’s too many. If that’s true, my fate lines look more like a messy evidence board. Or maybe a fucked up marionette puppet. Like I was made to be influenced by those tied to me. Pushed and pulled. Just a vessel of violence.

But the Red String Theory couldn’t be true. At least not for me. I’m so covered in red. You can’t pull a red thread out of a sea of blood.

My morbid thoughts halted when I saw Pizza Joe’s. I parked off to the side. In an alley, no one could see. I approached the gunshots, listening for Dick. Boy Wonder was nowhere to be seen, but I made mental notes of the men that were perched on the buildings.

I made my way discreetly around the building, toward the back. My heart stopped dead in my chest.

Y/n was pinned against the wall. With a gun in her mouth. Fighting with everything in her against the Black Mask.

Something in me snapped. Without hesitation I shot twice at his arm, severing the flexor digitorum profundus and rendering his index and middle finger useless. I shot through his stupid fucking masked head. I shot through his heart. I shot through the bastard's fucking dick. I shot. And I shot. And I shot. No one hurts her. Ever.

I barely noticed Bruce as I stepped over him. I could have checked his pulse, his status, anything. But all I cared about was getting to her.

Anger and fear surged inside me, at the sight of seeing her covered in blood. I started to panic. My chest felt like one thousand pounds of pressure was crushing me. All I could do to calm myself down was to pull her into my arms and hug her tight enough that I felt her heartbeat against mine. She’s alive. She’s alive. She’s alive.

I had stayed away from her this past week. Trying to keep her safe from whatever bullshit I would bring her. But here she was finding the danger all on her own. Without me to make sure she was safe.

Seeing her face, feeling her against my body, lit something up inside me. Anger surged.

“Why the fuck are you here?” I growled.

***********************************************************

Jason grabbed my chin, slowly moving it from side to side, inspecting my blood-spattered face. His mouth was moving but all I could hear was the damn ringing in my skull. Jason frowned and looked at both my ears. I felt a warmth run down the left side of my neck.

Jason leaned into my right side, his cold helmet brushed against the shell of my ear making me shiver. “You’re hurt.” The words were simple. But they were laced with bitterness and anger that went beyond reason.

I looked up at his Red Hood, “Dick needs your help.” I couldn’t tell if I was screaming the words or saying them at a reasonable volume. I couldn’t gauge Jason’s reaction either which annoyed me. I wanted to rip that helmet off and see his face.

“I’m looking at someone that needs my full attention right now. Grayson can handle himself,” he snarled the words at me.

Gunshots sounded loud enough for me to hear. My brain started spiraling into the worst-case scenario. A Dick Grayson riddled with bullets involuntarily entered my mind. “Please help him. Please, Jason.” I grabbed his arm as I begged. His bicep tensed under my grip.

“I’m not leaving you alone,” he ground out. “Get behind me.” Despite his harsh tone, he gently moved me behind him. His broad shoulders and generous height covered me completely. I kept a hand at the base of his hip. Ready to heal him if needed.

There were four shooters surrounding Dick, and three on the buildings, all pointing their guns at him. Jason opened a pocket on his thigh and reloaded his right gun one-handed. He was so smooth with the movement it was like he was doing something simple like buttering toast. He was dexterous at a level I can only describe as masterful.

Jason aimed at an impossible speed and precision. Seven shots rang out. Seven men fell. I don’t even think they realized Jason was enemy fire until they already had a bullet fly through them. It was seemingly impossible.

Jason didn’t give me a chance to assess Dick or Bruce before throwing me over his shoulder and walking away.

“I need to help them! Jason! Jason, listen to me!” I yelled and slapped the back of his leather jacket. He ignored me or I didn’t hear his response. Knowing him, most likely the former.

Suddenly, he moved me off his shoulder and straddled me onto his motorcycle. My mind was acutely aware of his large hands pinning my waist down.

“Grayson is fine. He will take care of Bruce and your car. I’m taking you home. Now.” He was leaning toward my good ear again, his voice was dark and commanding. Lighting a certain part of me on fire. Who am I kidding, my whole being burned.

“I am fine, Jason. Really. You got there in time. Just let me heal the boys and I’ll go with you!” I sneered at him.

“How about no,” Jason sneered back and straddled onto the motorcycle behind me. His firm body was flush against the entire back side of mine. My breathing became uneven when he reached his arms around me and revved his motorcycle before accelerating. I tried not to lean back into him. But he was so warm and I was so tired. Jason must have felt my tension. His hand found my hip, as he continued steering with the other. He pushed back, forcing my body to melt into his.

“I’ve got you,” he said, making me shiver.

Gotham was a blur of lights as Jason drove us back to the Batcave. In a record, 6 minutes. Which I tried not to take personally.

He rode us through the entrance, and as close as he could get to my workstation. He got off quickly as if trying to get away from me. But just as quickly scooped me up from my underarms and placed me on top of my examination table. I blushed at the firm way he moved me around. Like I was his to just grab and move as he pleased. He was an extremely strong man. He made it seem like it was no effort at all.

He roughly took off the Red Hood. His hair was a wild mess. His eyes were dark with what appeared to be anger and concern. His breathing quickened as he looked me over.

“What blood is yours?” He curtly asked, messily digging into my neat supplies. I tried not to cringe as he did. With his mask off it was a lot easier to understand him because I could read his lips and vaguely hear him.

I looked down at my red-stained hands. I curled them up and down. The blood was sticky and cracked. Suddenly, an assault of memories flooded my mind.

The hospital wing after the mass shooting—healing a man being tortured over and over for information—my mom's bloody nose—my bloody legs dripping into my sneakers. Breathing became sharp and rushed.

A hand gently caressed my face, “Hey, hey. It’s just me. It’s Jason,” his voice and touch was gentle. Easing my mind back to reality. When I was no longer trapped in my own mind I realized that Jason was once again cleaning up my hands. He washed the blood off of them until you never knew I had stabbed a man in the neck.

His hands were warm and calloused and thorough. For a moment he just held my hands in his. His thumb traced small circles on the inside of my wrist causing goosebumps to rise on my skin. Slowly, he trailed upward to my forearm, and an angry sigh left his mouth. Wordlessly, he cleaned and tended my cut. Wordlessly, he wiped the blood and brain matter from my face and neck. Wordlessly, he took off my stained hoodie and disgusting scrubs. Until I was left in my white undershirt and tight black shorts.

His eyes were hard and staring just above the curve of my breast. Right where my heart rapidly beat. Right where the Black Mask had made a small but deep cut. And then his eyes trailed upward. Toward my bruised neck, and burned cheek.

“I should have killed him slower,” he growled out. I hadn’t realized how close Jason was to me. Somehow he had gotten between my legs and mere inches away from my face. My cheeks heated, as I took in the oddly delicate features of this harsh man. He had a very light sprinkling of freckles across his nose. His eyes were more of a stormy gray than blue. His eyelashes were so pretty and long I wanted to slap him. And his Cupid’s bow was sharp and defined which highlighted his full lips. I swallowed roughly.

“Thank you, for—for helping me,” I whispered, afraid that if I spoke any louder I might scare him off.

Jason scoffed angrily, “You shouldn’t have been in that position in the first place. I’m going to beat Bruce with an inch of his life—”

Gently, I gripped Jason’s hand, “I chose this. Don’t be mad at Bruce. If anything, be mad at me. I should have been more prepared. I should have brought a weapon.”

Jason leaned his forehead in so it was just barely touching mine. I involuntarily held my breath.

His hands reached for mine as he traced along my old burns. “We are bad for you.” He whispered.

“You guys have given me a part of myself that I thought was lost forever. How could that ever be bad?” I lifted a hand hesitantly up toward his cheek. Jason leaned in like he was desperate for the contact. For comfort. For me.

“I can’t get you out of my head. I want—” Jason’s soft words were interrupted by the screeching of my car followed by the Batmobile. Jason practically jumped five feet away from me. I frowned at the lack of contact.

Well, Bruce is well enough to drive, that’s good. Pretty fucking shit timing though, Batboy.

I lowered myself from the table. I tried hiding my wince, but I saw Jason tense. He reached forward steadying me, before scolding, “Do not push yourself for them.”

Dick came out of my car with a large dimpled smile and a huge ugly shinner. Bruce looked pale but better. I motioned for them to sit where I was just perched. Ready to finish healing them.

Bruce was simple. I just had to re-patch him up. Finish what I started. Dick was a bit more complicated. Homie had the snot beat out of him. One of the bright sides was that he wasn't shot.

When I was done, both Dick and Bruce politely excused themselves to their rooms.

I slowly cleaned up my workstation. Jason silently helped me. His mouth was a firm line.

My hands shook with exhaustion when I was done. My eyes went in and out of focus. My head was pounding from the exertion and the physical trauma. I covered my bad ear, trying to will the ringing to stop. Jason noticed and gently pulled me to him. Before I knew it he had his arm under my knees and back, and he cradled me into the elevator.

I snorted at him, “I’m fine, Jason, really. Don’t go through the trouble of carrying me.”

“I think I want to rip that word out of your vocabulary,” he snapped. “Let me just carry you. Don’t make it a big deal.”

My heart sank, and I whispered, “Okay. I’m sorry.”

“While I’m at it, I’ll take that one too,” he said, pressing the button number 4. Our floor number. “Don’t lie to me and tell me you’re fine. Don’t ever apologize for existing.” He huffed and paused, “Please.”

I nodded, not sure what to say. The elevator ride went by shockingly quickly. He walked past his room and into mine. He set me down on my bed gently. He pulled my blankets back and covered me. I got deja vu as he did it. I smiled under my covers.

Jason pulled an armchair towards my bed. He angled it so he could see both the door and the windows. I looked at him, confused.

He shrugged at me, “I didn’t like seeing a man have a gun in your mouth. I actually don’t think I saw it for more than two seconds before everything went red.”

“So, that explains why you’re watching me in my armchair because…”

Hashbrown barrelled toward Jason. She rubbed her body on his feet demanding attention. Jason swiftly picked her up and held her on his lap. She seemed to soothe him as he pet her. The tension in his body decreased, instead of ramrod straight he leaned back. Almost comfortable, but not quiet.

“Because I need to make sure that you’re okay,” he said after a few minutes went by.

“Why?” I asked, needing an answer.

“I don’t like it when you’re hurt. Or in danger,” he answered.

“Why?” I demanded, again.

He roughly raked a hand through his messy hair, “I don’t know why. I just feel like… like you’re mine to protect. You put all your energy into healing other people. You deserve someone to care if you’re healthy and safe.”

I think only two people in the world have ever cared about that. Sam and my mom. His words were like wildfire to my mind and body.

Warmth bloomed in my chest, followed by boldness, “Do you have to protect me from all the way over there? Or can you protect me in my bed?”

Taglist: @soundsfunbutno @killxz @morpheus-girl @redhood414 @bungunz @conicoroahre @greenyofthegreens @taytaylala12 @theroyalmanatee @nym-0-s @sarahskywalker-amadala @bonesbonesetc @dreaming-of-the-reality @gone-batty-fics @thescarletcryptid @bakugosgf2005 @irregular-child @vythika96 @greenyofthegreens @mythicalmo @eccentricarabella-blog @princessbl0ss0m @ghostindeath @whirlwind2005 @the-lights-are-loud @00hellohello00 @tfygcdy @theblindhag @murkyponds @midnightecko @crookedmakerfury @cosmicqueenieb @deans-spinster-witch @princessbl0ss0m

If I missed anyone please let me know <3

Author's note: Thank you all so much for your kind words, comments, messages, and interactions!! They inspire me to keep writing. I hope you guys continue to enjoy the story, thank you again <3

Hashbrown Cam!

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howlonomy · 6 months

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Idea for dt clover monster

1- 6 shooter, where the board gets split into 6 sections and you have to remember how the rounds were loaded into it

2- buckshot, where clover will shoot the board with a shotgun but the rounds fan out like the astral dreamer attack

3- lasso and lazer where the board is lined up with a double barrel shotgun and the soul is tied to the center having to avoid each shot from each barrel

4- clover will slowly move their talons in and you have to fire at them to keep them away

Beyond that I’m not sure, maybe they use their wings to block attacks?

yall are way more creative than me with this kinda stuff AHDJSJCN but ill add my own thoughts!!

YELLOW ATTACKS; If you get hit with one of DT!Clover’s yellow attacks, your HP gets sucked out and used to heal DT!Clover instead (similar to Ceroba’s red attacks).

1) Six Shooter —> Russian Roulette: In a very similar vein, you watch a (yellow colored) round be loaded into a revolver; you have like half a second to react to a reticle being put on your soul before it’s fired and it’s either a live round (normal bullet attack) or a yellow round.

2) Buckshot: Huge shotgun attacks that explodes into stars. The stars explode into SMALLER stars. Very bullet hell.

3) Prey: Similar to Ed’s attack, you have to avoid Clover’s talons grabbing you; if caught, you are stuck in one place and aimed at by either feathers, stars, or revolver shots. Very difficult to move and avoid attacks if caught.

4) Blackhole: Extending their wings, their inner wings turn into the void of space, sucking you to the top of the battle box. You must avoid swipes from their claws or shooting stars coming out of their wings.

5) One Last Hurrah: Similar to Zenith Martlet’s attack where the screen goes huge and she flies towards you (idk the name lmao); Clover’s tail splits into four; they slam it into the battle box, yellow shards spraying. The main attack is DT!Clover’s SOUL charge up an attack and shoot towards you. They swat your bullets away with their tail, you can’t hurt them during this attack.

EXTRA CHALLENGES: As the fight goes on, lighting surrounds attacks that have things to do with DT!Clover’s physical body; such as their talons or wings. Extra damage, and occasionally yellow! A lot of simpler attacks also overlap, like how Zenith Martlet has like 3 different attacks going on every round. Things like TNT explosions, gunpowder lines you have to avoid (or else it will explode), and gunshots that shatter the battle box into segments (so you’re stuck in one section unless you take damage to move through the cracks).

You would have to aim for DT!Clover’s soul with bullets to hurt them! No other spot would damage them; just their soul. idk how all this would work in an actually game but this was fun to theorize and think up >:]

#monster clover au #asked and answered #undertale yellow #whew this was a big one!! but really fun!!!!#i think for their final final attack (killing no mercy clover) they would super level up LOLL #and their tail looking like a save point was accidental but it very much reminds me of predators that mimic prey to lure in their own prey #very fun thought!!!#mcau lore #mcau au #mcau doodle

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nica-my-beloved · 2 months

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Things I Love and Dislove About Ikemen Games

These are my opinions!

CONTAINS ADULT CHARACTERS

You don't know how much this means to me because most of the time I try finding shoujo mangas I end up with stories that involve high school kids.

I'm a die heart fan of demon romance but majority of the shoujo manga that explores supernatural beings involves a 1000 year old demon king falling in love with a 16 year old high school girl. This sickens me not only because of the age gap but one of the party is a freaking minor.

As an adult, I'm so happy the Ikemen Games doesn't involve younger characters or at least characters that are 'minor' as a romantic partner.

MC's ONLY JOB IS TO SIMPLYFY THE STORY

I have said this before, MCs are just props to simplify the story and characters to us because the writers think we're too dumb to understand what the character is saying. They're like Paimon so that we don't use our braincells to understand the characters better.

I wish they didn't do that and have MCs backstories that describes their personality. I mean, all the MCs want to 'prove' to the male leads that they wanna be 'strong' but I'm tired of this trope.

Why does MCs have to always be innocent and prove themselves? Why does she always want to 'understand' the male leads? Can't we...for once have a romance that doesn't involve MCs teaching male leads true love?

Also STOP give MCs odd jobs! Book stall employee...letter carrier? I mean who is happy and satisfied doing this? How about giving the high-paying jobs like Auditor or Businesswoman or Scientist or etc etc...I know Mai is a fashion designer and businesswoman and Mitsuki is a travel agent turned maid. Alice is a baker and Yoshino is a pharmacist. The only MCs that continues to follow the path of their dreams is Mai and Yoshino.

MATURE ROMANCE

I enjoy seeing two adults slowly fall in love.

There is something different about teenagers falling in love vs adults falling in love. The romance is more realistic. They don't talk about how they're gonna plan their future together or which college they're going to go instead their chat is much more deep and that's refreshing.

NO BAD ENDINGS

Happy endings are nice. Everyone deserves one! But when there are no bad endings, the story won't have stakes.....and when there are no stakes, I can't take any gunshot sounds, blank screen and MCs saying 'Is this the end?' seriously.

Just stop being cowards writers! Put some bad endings!!

FAIR SHARE OF ROMANCE

Although I have played my fair share of Maiden games, majority of them are not that romantic.

I love cute romance moments to lighten up the mood and I really need them. Ikemen games delivers that too well....way too well...

I do have some criticism for random steamy scenes, I don't mind as long as they have context and mood.

The story is not so story focused all the time and also has time for mischievous romance which I like! It helps in calming me down and enjoy at the same time.

BULLSHIT GACHA SYSTEM AND NON-EXISTING GRINDING SYSTEM (Not very F2P friendly)

Even though Genshin's gacha system is shit (you need mf 90 wishes to get a guaranteed 5 star and 180 wishes to get the limited 5 star you want!) I still think it's ways better than the gacha system of these Ikemen Games.

Yes I agree that both the games are different in genre, one is an open world anime rpg and other is a maiden game with gacha mechanics. But that doesn't mean that I have to always pay to buy limited gacha tickets!! At least genshin gives us an open world to explore and grind primos (even though its time consuming)

Yes they do give limited tickets when you enter an event or complete the mission board but that's only ONE TICKET and you need 50 LIMITED TICKETS to get your guaranteed limited 5 star card. On the other hand, they give out many standard tickets but what am I gonna do with it if they aren't gonna update the standard banner?

These games are NOT F2P friendly and if you wanna...like say, want rank no.1 in an event you'd have to save a lot of items.

Ofc I know about the subscription thing and you do indeed get a lot of items, but the most essential thing for me is limited gacha tickets and diamonds because I wanna collect as many beautiful cards as possible and you don't get them from these monthly subscriptions. It's a waste of $5 very month. I'd rather buy a nice hair care or skin care items from that.

INTERESTING SETTINGS

I have my criticism in some of their stories but I can't deny that I LOVEE their story settings. Their premise for each game is solid to the point it makes me wanna actually try it.

This is something I find very rare in 'shoujo' genre.

For example, I don't like Vampire themed games because they suck! (both figuratively and literally) but Ikemen Vampire interests me because they take real historical figures and makes them vampire, which is a really cool idea! You don't know but I'd die to get myself in situation like that because it would be an honor to meet some great historical figures, chat with them and make them lose all their brain cells just like me. I would die to meet especially Isaac Newton and grill him for making those torturous physics theories that gave me brain tumors in my school.

Very cool setting! I can't wait to see what's in store for us in the future!!!

EVENTS ARE INSANELY BORING

I've never enjoyed a single story event from Ikemen Villains. They are boring and makes me fall asleep immediately at chapter 1. I think that kinda spread to Ikemen Prince because I barely open Ikemen Prince app now.

I honestly don't find the stories of these events interesting at all. It always feels like 'I have seen this before' maybe in some other game or some other manga.

And the Collections events.....yeah, I hate them! I wish they never existed!!! They keep the fan-loved characters at the butt-end of the list where 90% of the players don't even make it unless they burn their whole month's salary. I know that's why they do these anniversary elections because I bet if Sariel was the most voted character, his story would have been the most expensive one to get.

VERY LIKEABLE MALE LEADS

This is a personal thing but I love charismatic male leads a lot! Male leads with a lot of suave and beauty! Yes I care about these things when I play gacha games okay! I play gacha games to look at hot guys (because I know I'm never gonna get one in real life!)

But I also love that the devs puts an effort to make them feel good too. So I wanna give a shoutout to them!!! 'KEEP GOING!!! JUST DON'T MAKE TRIGGERING MEN WHO SAYS 'I'LL KILL YOU'!!!

#ikemen series #otome #otome game #ikemen villains #ikemen game #ikemen prince #ikemen genjiden #ikemen sengoku #ikemen revolution #ikemen vampire

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reidingandwriting · 5 months

Text

Speak Now (Hotch's Version)

Chapter Three: Haunted

"Don't go, don't go, don't leave me like this..."

Word Count: 1,400 (another short one, sorry!)

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Reader

Warnings: Criminal Minds level of violence, gunshots mentioned, reader gets injured

Previous chapter / Next chapter

Eight months had passed since you’ve started dating Aaron, and you couldn’t be happier. You had met Jess a few weeks into dating, and a few weeks later, you met Jack. You adored the kid and he always seemed happy when you were around, which made Aaron happy, which made you even happier. You had now been a part of the BAU for almost nine months now, and you were happy. Things were never better.

You had spent the night at Aaron’s the night before, due to the water in your apartment building being shut off. You had gotten back from a long case, Jack at Jess’s, and you barely even remember walking through the door a little after midnight- just to be woken at four o’clock with another case.

“Do we have to?” You whined as you rolled over, and you draped yourself across Aaron as you felt him start to sit up. Aaron carded his fingers through your hair, a tired chuckle leaving his lips, and he leaned down to kiss the top of your head.

“I know,” Aaron’s voice was soothing, deep and raspy from just waking up. “Hopefully you can sleep on the jet.” You mumbled some incoherent response and dragged yourself out of bed. God you hated these early morning calls. You stumbled through your getting ready routine, and you sipped at the coffee clutched in your hands like it was a lifeline.

Not even an hour later, you were on the plane for a flight to Los Angeles. You laid on the couch, your legs draped over Emily’s lap. Aaron was half asleep, head leaned against his window, and the usual antics you and your teammates got into were abandoned for rest. You had a feeling this case, a serial killer who abducts his victims then holds them for a few days of torture before brutally killing them on the fourth day. You had a feeling this would be another long, hard case.

And you were so, so right. Word had gotten out that the BAU was working the case, and your unsub went silent for nearly two weeks. On day eleven, he acted again and he had devolved exponentially. Two bodies were found in the alley near the precinct, and none of the nearby cameras got a clear enough image to identify the unsub. You hadn’t seen anything like it in your time at the FBI, let alone the short time you’ve been in the BAU, and you felt discouraged. This was a mutual feeling across the board with the team, and you could feel the tension as you walked into a room. It was hard enough to mask your feelings when talking to families and local detectives, and you could barely hide your frustrations with the case when you walked into your hotel.

“Do you want to shower first?” Aaron asked and you shrugged as you fell face first into your bed.

“Wanna shower but also just want to melt into this mattress and not get back up,” you said, your voice muffled by the comforter. “You can shower first, I just. I need quiet and the shower feels too loud right now.” Aaron’s footsteps sounded through the room, followed by the click of a light switch. The room was enveloped into darkness, and a second later, the bathroom light was turned on, giving a light glow to the room. “Thank you.”

“Do you need anything else?” Aaron asked and you thought for a moment.

“‘M okay. Thank you,” you turned your head to offer a small smile to Aaron and winced as your head throbbed.

“Migraine?” Aaron asked as he walked over to his suitcase and you groaned in response. “Need water?”

“Nuh uh,” you said and Aaron took your hand before he tucked two pills into your hand.

“I’ll be quick, then you can shower. Hopefully get some sleep,” Aaron pressed a kiss to your hair and you leaned into the touch. Aaron gently rubbed your shoulder once before he walked to the shower, the door shutting behind him, and you welcomed the darkness. You sat up to swallow the pills and hoped you’d at least get a little sleep tonight.

As if your body had read your mind, you barely got any sleep last night. The migraine had dissipated to an easily ignored ache, but your brain refused to shut off. There was so much noise outside your hotel, Aaron’s usually happily welcomed cuddling tendencies had become too much sensory wise, and you were stressed. You clutched your thermos as if your life depended on it, and you felt seconds from snapping at the next person that breathed in your direction. You, Aaron, and Emily were in the SUV to follow a new lead and Emily’s humming in the backseat was slowly grating at your nerves.

“Can you just? Shut up for one minute?” You snapped and Aaron glanced over at you with a concerned frown and Emily hesitated, taken aback by your tone. Aaron said your name and you barely fought the urge to huff like a scolded child. “I’m sorry, I just don’t get what there is to be humming about right now. This is a shit case and I don’t mean to be an ass, but-” You were cut off by Aaron saying your name again, this time in his ‘boss’ voice.

“That’s enough. If you can’t control yourself better than this, I’ll send a cab to take you back to the hotel. We don’t need you out in the field today if you can’t control your temper.”

“I can handle it, sir.” You didn’t mean to be sarcastic, but the words slipped before you even processed what you were saying. Aaron put the SUV into park as you reached the house you would be checking out, and Aaron’s jaw was clenched. “I’m sorry,” you said, but you knew it was too late.

“We’ll discuss this later. Stay in the car, we shouldn’t be long.” Aaron said and he started to get out of the car. Emily followed and you leaned back in your seat, drinking some more of your coffee that now tasted sour. Grounded to the car, like a child. You took a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm yourself down and sat in silence for a few minutes.

“Is everything okay?” Emily asked and Aaron let out a slow breath. The house looked empty and the two spoke in faint whispers as they did another light sweep.

“They’re just… overwhelmed. Doesn’t excuse it, but tensions are high. It’s nothing personal.” Aaron said. Another clear pass through the second floor and the two agents made their way downstairs. When another sweep of the downstairs revealed nothing, Aaron and Emily started to make their way outside until BANG BANG BANG. The sound of gunshots had Emily and Aaron ducking, and Aaron covering Emily.

“It came from outside,” Emily whispered in horror and Aaron’s heart stopped. Aaron ran outside and his years of training were almost forgotten at that moment. The SUV door was opened, and the unsub stood over a body a few yards away, gun in hand. Aaron barely recognized the body as your own before he raised his own gun, a shot to the chest sending the unsub to the ground. A weak cough sounded and Aaron ran to you, immediately dropping to his knees.

“No, no, no, no, no,” Aaron mumbled and your eyes were hazy as they met his. “Hey, hey. Stay focused on me, okay?” Aaron’s voice wavered and your breath hitched as your eyes watered. Aaron pressed his hands to your wounds, hoping to slow the bleeding until medical could get there. He just had to keep you alive until then, just had to keep you talking.

“I, I saw him- Tried to, to get away. Couldn’t… couldn’t let him. M sorry for leavin’ the car.” Your eyes blinked a few times, like you were trying to focus. “Cold.”

“I know, I know. You’ll be taken care of soon, and they’ll fix it. You’ll be okay, you just have to stay awake. Just a little longer,” Aaron pleaded and your hand reached out for his. You rested your hand on top of his own, your speech slurring.

“Love.. you… Aaron.”

“I love you, too,” A choked cry left Aaron’s lips and the sound of sirens sounded faint as they started to approach. “Hey, hey, keep your eyes open.” A panicked cry of your name was the last thing you heard as you slipped into darkness.

#aaron hotch fanfiction #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds x reader #bau!reader

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morbidmorbid · 5 months

Text

loser scud coming in his pants agenda !!

a/n: this whole thing was me laying in bed and being like, “omg scud getting incredibly turned on and possibly even creaming his pants by you like pretend fucking him through his clothes.” like that’s all. that one thought became this whole mess.. yikes. also i am obviously on board with scud being into pegging it just makes sense. ok enjoy this for i am very embarrassed and ashamed that i even wrote it, do not look at me.

cw: dry humping, sub!scud, small pinch of dirty talk, smoking

the pellets of the rain become only slightly more apparent when the door creaks open, paints the windows down the buildings hall and then it muffles again.

scud looks heavy and full in his clothes, drenched and it trickles to his pant legs, to his boots and puddles at the floor beneath his shoes. you hear the squelch before you see it. hands dirtied with paints and oils, messied down to your knees.

life was easy when not faced with the outside; of a sort of tranquility that came with the stroke of a brush against canvas paper. the blissful. though chosen, ignorance against what transpired in the world beyond your craft. of building a box amidst the throes of war, closing in and feeling as it rocks and quakes you, but what you can’t see won’t hurt you.

and there was a simplicity that comes with that perspective that could be deemed imprudent almost. when death and destruction would come knocking—or rather bursting through the shards of the windows or displaying itself into gnarly teeth and even more vicious bite—there would be no prior preparation, simply the demise itself. and there was an okay acception with that probability that scud told you he’d grown to loathe. around his cigarette he’d ask you genuinely, and if i lose ya’, then what? and your fighting words: ‘you won’t.’

and when scud retreated because he was too unversed when conveying himself—inproficient in a system where he was expected to carry too many reject emotions—there was guilt evident for you. an irk of it that created an itch where you couldn’t scratch. just want ya’ ready for whatever, his words were so simple, yet so upfront. and he’d kissed you then, buried himself in your neck to seal his statement.

things were like that for a while, until there was no more imagining and death was actually in your face—in the rapid thrum in your chest, in the blood splashed across your skin and the harrowing, echoing gunshot ringing in the air. when blade had saved you, given you a second chance at life in the sake of scud, a decision of to merely live or survive had fueled a riot inside of you. you’d chosen survival and scud had assisted you with weaponry.

your knife, long and seethed, had been tucked back into its pocket upon seeing him at the front door.

“tired of me already? tryna kill me?” he jokes and haphazardly begins to peel out of his wet clothes. it’s a mess of carelessness and he chuckles through an apology when you suck in a breath in regards to the mess.

“i wasn’t a second ago,” you say and approach him. scud swings two arms out for an embrace, instead met with your two hands striping him of his flannel that hadn’t taken as much rain impact as the rest of his clothing. “until you decided to undress yourself right here at the door.”

scud, ever so needy, juts his lower lip out in what should be a pout, only it’s tired. “undress myself,” scud emphasizes with a smile that lacks purity. it’s ridiculous that it’s the only bit he’d heard. “geez, i’m not even all the way in the door yet and you’re already—“

“josh.” a chuckle follows.

scud cackles and eventually comes out of everything soaked, left in a t-shirt, briefs and socks.

the rain persistently drags on. it pitter-patters like a melody when met with the now silence of the apartment. this is a typical; of creaking floor boards singing until tunes play from your speaker, until the tv runs marathons throughout the day, until the window is cracked in the spring and the wind sings through the slits. those minute things made up the void of scud not being there.

but when he was—“thought about ya’ all freakin’ day.”—he was all over you. scud exhales while he fishes his crumpled up pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his jeans on the floor.

before he can surrender you to the sofa or the bed or anywhere comfortable enough to dump his body weight against you, you make comfortable just in case. going and slipping out of your dirtied jeans and pulling into a shirt that isn’t as restricting. and when you emerge from the bathroom, he is propped against the frame of the bedroom door with his lighter to the bud.

“did ya’ hear me?” he asks. when you approach him finally, you rise to kiss him dead on his face, only he’s quicker and catches your lips instead. it’s short, sweet, not enough for him if the draw to his eyebrows is telling. he hums in a probing manner in addition to his question, avid in looking for an answer.

“what?” you say in false confusion. you need to hear him say it again for your own amusement.

scud is so zealous, it’s an interesting thing. when you wind around the bed to get seated, he follows you like a puppy, trailing behind with his socked feet and rain damp hair. and he sits so impossibly close, a suffocating lack of space, thigh to thigh. though it’s expected and completely usual, so when he sinks in and leans over to bury a nose in the junction of your chest and neck, you embrace him.

“said i thought about you today,” the words are pressed tender and cold against your skin. scud seems to have abandoned his smoke for intimacy, cigarette pinched between his fingers held a distances away by his extended arm. “all good things. great things, actually.”

you pull a candy from the scattered pile on the nightstand. “right. so i’m guessing things are running smoothly at the shop, then?” you reach out for his cigarette and scud doesn’t fight to keep it. instead he watches as you adjust your hold with it, watches as you tease him into opening up for it and taking an inhale with the guidance of your hand.

his eyes dilate a bit then, looking eased. “as smooth as they can be.”

“blade treating you well?” you pull it away and then he’s retrohaling it.

“mhm,” he’s idly responding now, disengaged where the conversation leads but seemingly completely taken with what he knows comes next.

“gonna stare all night or what?” like a feline, you give him an opening and he is on you in mere seconds. he’s a man in your lap, much larger than yourself.

the night actually begins here; with him in your lap high and needy, dazed and mesmerized by the simplicity of you aiding his smoke. this is where it starts and you’re left unsure whose hands the blood is on.

inhale. there’s a piece of candy held between your teeth, taunting, and you tap fingers against scud’s jaw to which he opens up. slipping it to him teeth to teeth, kissing his lips closed, kissing them again as they consume it. exhale. scud outwardly swears. his chest rises and falls in quick succession, hips jerking where they sit. “woah, easy.” you mock laugh in acknowledgment to his actions, free hand stilling him at the thigh.

“‘kay, fuck you for that,” and he both means it and doesn’t.

scud is best like this. when his worn fingers aren't dirtied and he's not face deep in chancy enginery. when he's lax, but pent up all the same, when he's not thinking because he doesn't have to anymore, because now you sit and pick out the nasty and the swarming bits wedged into the mush in his brain. when he lets you.

so you take advantage in the way you bring a hand up into his hair, in the way you un-tossle the frays, put them back in place but contrarily begin to take him apart. scud comes back for more with his face pressed against yours. he’s open-mouthed kisses against your jaw, then the apple of your cheek, then your ear. over and over and it’s like a pattern that he’s following.

you bring a hand down to his abdomen, feeling the fabric of his boxers against your palm. “well?” you drawl with a smile. scud has an eager hand placed on top of your idle one—like he’s ready to get what’s left of his clothes off on your call. “you never told me what you thought about.”

scud chuckles against your skin. one, two, three more presses of his lips before he speaks. “ain’t it obvious?”

“wanna hear it, smart ass.”

scud, ever so persistent in his kissing bombardment, places one on the corner of your lips, takes some of the sweet and sour with him. it has your fingertips squeezing around his waist, broad in your palm. in result, his muscles there constrict noticeably, fighting to still his own body.

he has never necessarily been shy or guarded with his words. he was the things others couldn’t say, reeking of envied self-assurance. so it’s nothing when he speaks unashamedly, says, “thought about when you fuck me with your strap thing or whatever.” and, god, while he was typically blatant at the mouth, this was something else.

when he pulls back from you, looks you in the eyes and tells you he wants it with his mere gaze, you maneuver around his back for a brisk moment to stub out his cigarette. your two free hands envelope him entirely; warm palms cupping his jaw and rubbing against the growing stubble that resides there, and he’s bringing both hands up to press against your ribcage.

“and ya’ know somethin’ else?” he begins again with a poorly concealed grin. his hips against yours start a languid roll. “wanked it so hard and so much today thinkin’ about it that i fucked up my wrist. had to switch ‘em halfway.” his words are low and slow like the blink of his eyes.

“what the hell, josh.” you snort and run slow thumbs over the swell of his cheeks, move them higher to push back the strands of his hair.

and he responds with an unenunciated ‘yep’ and a slow peck to your lower lip. it’s sweet, but lacks innocence. a gesture of permission, a question, an impatience that you can feel when he actually seeks out his pleasure. when you curtly nod and return his kiss this time like he’d been feening for, and he takes it heavily.

he’s rock solid where he rolls against you.

you consider crude reciprocation, but wait it out in a sick need to see him try to get himself off. that never proved a difficult task, scud could be such a slut whenever he wanted to be. many times you’d pulled orgasms out of him while he remained clothed, heaving chest and wandering hands when he’d come undone from handjobs through his thin sweats.

of previous instances of having him laid pliant against the sheets while you rubbed his pert nipples raw over his t-shirt and he had made such a big mess of himself over that.

he swears on your lips then and licks at your teeth.

you make to fuel his earlier musings that seemed to had blissfully plagued him. “don’t you miss it?” your strap: long, thick and pink in color—scud’s personal preference. “it’s been a while, hasn’t it?” a week isn’t a long while, but for how often scud subdues you to sex it seems like an eternity even to you.

he’s becoming looser with every passing thrust, rutting against your upper thighs with an almost untamed vigor. his hands are squeezing and squeezing, digging into your waist and the knowledge that he needs that to stay grounded right here outweighs the sting.

his body responds before he can piece together the words, cock leaking through the fabric and painting his boxers a deeper blue. it’s amusing to see it build up so rapidly, like he’d been waiting all day for this and he has. watching as he gets himself off in such a lewd way and knowing that this would not suffice twists a knot into your stomach. a hungry one that only forms in the light of making sure scud is taken care of, even if it takes until the world stops its spinning.

you grip his face in one demanding hand. “hey, don’t you?” you ask again, bringing him back and watching his eyes glaze over. it always came down to bringing him back. he runs on batteries, it seems, and no amount of twisting, turning or demanding can shut his rutting hips down, only the switch wedged deep into his spine.

“yes, yes,” he admits without qualms. never any qualms with him. “s’all i ever fuckin’ think about.”

“can you show me how well you ride it?” a feigned moral question. “please?”

scud comes to a slow with a doltish stare. “but you don’t even have—“

“i know that.”

a shame to make him think when he no longer held the capacity to. you know it from how low his eyelids now sit, how kiss swollen his lips have swelled, how hard his covered cock feels against your belly. and he doesn’t stop even when faced with a task that he hasn’t quite picked up on yet, turns minutely to mouth at the hand placed on his cheek. you let him for a moment, indulge him even in teasing the thumb against ready lips—open and pliant lips that part with anticipation. in between your legs throb looking at him.

babysitting his weight, you move hands to underneath his thighs, lifting him only to bring him back down. it lacks that gentleness that you are outside of this, only a nasty counterpart that is produced from a seed of scud’s sensuality. he’s a punched out gasp at that, always very reactive.

“felt that?” and it’s entirely hypothetical, but it’s that tidbit that usually gets him going in the first place; the sexual imagery of something he wants so badly just at the tip of his fingers. “you always take the first one so well.”

scud lets a slippery wet moan pass, chest puffed up in hotness, and before he gets comfortable like this, “come on, up.” you order and he always complies. he complies in lifting up slightly on his knees and pressing back down, rutting and rubbing on you and against you after meeting your hips again—a messy method he’s creating.

he becomes frantic with it then after two or three test runs, going up and coming down hard, all weight and cock and beauty. the wholeness of his face begins to redden with overexertion. it reaches his ears that are trickling with sweat, his hairline moist all the same. then he grunts, “i feel it, fuck, i feel it,” into the hand that he brings over his mouth.

“you’re just the prettiest thing,” scud runs well on exterior flatteries. “so manly, but so pretty.” when his back arches as he comes down against your pelvis for the umpteenth time, the signs are all there. “getting ripped apart by my big cock.”

“oh, holy fuck.” he cries around the fist shoved between teeth, all saliva and red knuckles. “makin’ me feel—“

you don’t give him room. “you gonna cum?” because he’s a mix of swears and a shift of rubbing and riding you, looking drunk from being taken—moreso the thought of you taking him. it’s such a lewd thing to get off too, something so niche, something so phantom, but it wholly gets to him.

he begins to plead now, greedy. “touch me.”

“no, you’re almost there. come on, give me a good one.” because he absolutely can and he absolutely will simply by how taken apart he currently is.

scud could reach octaves even you couldn’t at the peak of his pleasure. the curses against his lips, the whines abbreviated by how rough he bounces down onto you, the groans when met with restricting but relieving friction against the tip of his bubbling cock. all of that tipped off with your permission to absolutely destroy himself in your space is seemingly enough because his back bows forwards—this is the sign, the siren before the tornado—and he cums right there long and hard.

desperate hands grip tightly into your shirt, muscles in his stomach convulsing with each spurt. it’s the wet patch growing at sharp speeds, load after load shamelessly untouched. with him there’s always so much to receive, so much he gives you, how he seems to never be satiated.

so for a while he rides the peak of it while you kiss his ‘o’ parted lips, patient with a coiling in the pit of your own stomach.

#scud frohmeyer #scud #scud blade 2 #blade 2 #scud x reader #x reader #scud imagine #blade #norman reedus #josh frohmeyer #daryl dixon #the walking dead #josh frohmeyer x reader #scud fanfiction #scud smut

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crow-aeris · 4 months

Text

The og post here :3

i just wanted to expand on this world a bit (and also cos im tired and need an excuse to procrastinate both my schoolwork AND my other fics 😙)

Also, if enough ppl show interest, I’ll probably continue this au/world/verse/thing

=====

Bruce never wanted kids- never. It's not because he hated kids or something like that- it was the complete opposite, he loved kids. Every time he goes out on the street, every time he dons that cowl and cape, every time he streaks through the air with vengeance screeching in his soul, Bruce does it for the children.

He loves children, and he wants ones of his own. He wants to hear their gleeful smiles, their bubbly laughter as little feet pitter down the halls of the open manor. He was to see their bright round eyes blink up at him with soul-searing love that he'd return without a single beat of hesitation. He wants to cradle their little face in his palms, sing them gentle lullabies and read them little story books to help them sleep.

But... He can't have that. Batman can't have that- Bruce can't have that.

This crusade- his crusade- against crime... he can't involve a child. Even if it shreds his heart apart and leaves this ever-growing monster of loneliness and isolation clawing and tearing at his chest... he won't ever involve a child in his messy coping mechanism.

So, rather than settling down like the board members (and Alfred) wish for him to do and make heirs to Wayne Enterprises, Bruce continues to go out every night, waging his war on crime. He was content to do so too, but… But it seems like the universe had other plans for him.

Bruce watched in quiet horror, Alfred tensing beside him as the Flying Grasons fell. Their son freezes, watching as dark crimson spills across the ground, the sound of bones snapping was lost in the cacophony of screams, the piercing and wailing faded to the background as Bruce shoved to his feet, hiis limbs moving without Bruce’s prompting as he surged forward, shrugging off his coat and draped it across the boy’s- Richard’s- shoulders as Alfred hurriedly called the police.

The boy jolted, turning his bright, watery, sapphire eyes onto Bruce- filled with uncertainty and anguish… Bruce was reminded of his that fateful night on their way to the theater, the sound of pearls clacking against the concrete pavement, echoed by the sound of gunshots, screaming, and red-red-red.

Sympathy seized Bruce’s throat like a vicious creature, and Bruce could barely shove away the need to gather Richard into his arms and sweep him away.

But, after Alfred’s pointed glare, Bruce reluctantly tries to hand the boy over… only for him to wail, clinging to Bruce’s shirt with fearful and wild eyes.

“Don’t- PLEASE!” Richard screams, writhing in the cop’s hold, “LET GO OF ME!”

Bruce was instantly at his son the boy’s side, prying the man’s hands from Richard’s shoulder with a narrowed eye glare so uncharacteristic of “Brucie” Wayne.

“We have to question the kid,” the cop tried to reach for the boy once again, but Bruce neatly twists away to keep Richard away from the man.

Bruce huffs, glaring at the man from the corner of his eyes, “You can do that later! He is very clearly distressed, young man, and I will not have you upsetting him any further!”

Without another word, Bruce turns away and headed toward Gordan with the eight-year-old balanced against his hips.

———

Bruce welcomes Richard- Dick- into the manor after a few weeks of battling with Gotham’s horrid foster system. The boy had a pale pelt clutched between his hands alongside the heavy coat Bruce had given him on that dreadful night.

“Do- do you want it back?” Dick had asked, his hands tightened around the coat before brandishing the garment with shaking, trembling hands.

He falters, swallowing thickly before gently pushing the coat back into the kid’s arms, “It’s okay, chum. I was just curious. You can keep it, okay? I don’t mind.”

“Are you sure?” the boy had asked.

“Of course I’m sure.”

Bruce smiles, slowly and gently stroking a hand through the boy’s thick hair.

Maybe… maybe having children wasn’t a bad idea?

#batman #batfamily #batfam #dick grayson #bruce wayne #fanfic #batman fanfiction #dc batman #nightwing #selkie dick grayson #selkie #tw death #flying graysons #part 1 #2?#idek man #alfred pennyworth #crystal-bright scales

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steddieas-shegoes · 1 year

Text

Request

This request came in on my other blog from @mogami-13 and somewhere along the way it ended up deleted from my inbox there. I'm glad I had already copied it into a word doc, so hopefully you see it! It isn't quite the quote you were probably thinking, but I had to make it work for this situation, so I hope you like it still! Prompt: If you are still doing the asks, I just had a brilliant idea. So you know at the end of legally blonde where Elle brings up the rules of hair care? I need that quote with a Steve rescuing Eddie and Dustin from the bat tornado with a lighter and hairspray…

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

There was no way they’d win.

Steve realized it the moment he was being choked by vines against the wall of the Creel house.

But they had to at least get out alive so they could all regroup.

When the vines suddenly let them go, Steve had a sinking feeling in his gut that someone had done something stupid.

That someone had lost.

“We have to go!” he yelled to Robin and Nancy, hoping they would follow him quickly.

They didn’t have time. They may have already run out of it.

—-------------------------------------------

Running into the trailer park confirmed some of what Steve was thinking.

The bats were circling something, someone, and he already had a terrible gut feeling that that someone was Eddie.

That Eddie would have never let Dustin be in this position.

That Eddie was going to die.

He could hear him yelling, damn near screaming as the bats continued to dive towards him.

Steve couldn’t quite make out his entire body, but saw him desperately trying to stab at them with his homemade spear.

“Find Dustin,” Steve said to Robin. He turned to Nancy. “Use every bullet you have left on these things.”

“What are you gonna do?” she asked as Robin rushed towards the trailer that had been mostly boarded up.

“The bat is all I’ve got, but it’s better than letting him do this alone.”

They were missing fire.

They needed fire.

“Eddie!” Steve yelled as he got closer, smacking a bat midair when it tried to attack him.

“Steve, go! Just get out!” Eddie yelled back, sounding completely terrified.

“You’re not doing something stupid on my watch!” Steve yelled back.

The fight turned into a blur as he heard a handful of gunshots go off, a few bats falling, but still alive.

Eddie had managed to skewer one on his spear, but while he tried to fling it off, another one started wrapping itself around his middle.

Eddie’s scream echoed through the trailer park, and Steve froze.

That was a scream that happened right before death, right before someone’s last moments.

Steve wasn’t letting that happen.

“I’m out!” Nancy yelled.

“Go find hairspray and a lighter!” Steve yelled as he managed to beat two more bats away from him and Eddie.

He knew Nancy hated taking orders, but he also knew she was smart enough to know they didn’t have time to question anything.

They were used to working through emergencies with very few resources, with their plans not working.

“Steve!”

Steve would never forget the way Eddie yelled his name.

It was like he used what little remaining energy he had, like he was asking for help while knowing it was already too late.

Steve saw a flash of something out of the corner of his eyes, movement by the trailer that could have been more bats or could have been Nancy coming to help.

“Eddie, don’t give up, please,” Steve begged as he swung his bat. “Dustin would never forgive you. I would never forgive you.”

Maybe it was harsh, maybe he could have said something else to get him to keep fighting, but he knew it had to be at least a little effective when he saw another bat get speared on his stick.

His arms were getting tired, and he knew Eddie’s must have been too.

“Found some!” Nancy yelled to them.

Steve ran towards her, not wanting to waste any time waiting for her to get to them and risk the bats taking a bite out of her, too.

It was a large can of hairspray, thank God, but it wasn’t completely full, which meant he needed to use it sparingly.

He held up the lighter and the hairspray, pointed towards the bats, and started to spray.

The first few bats fell quickly, shriveling up a bit as the flames ate at their skin.

But he couldn’t quite get to all of them.

He kept spraying a path to Eddie, needed to at least get everyone back into the trailer to go through the gate.

Eddie was on his knees, blood on his face and hands, struggling to keep the spear up, already dropping his makeshift shield.

He was pale, and Steve could tell just from the quick glance he gave that he would die down here if they didn’t move much faster.

“Nancy, I need you to walk Eddie to the trailer while I spray. Do you have any bullets left?”

“No, gun’s jammed,” she said.

“Of course it is,” he sighed. “Alright, help him up, I’ve got your back.”

Being down here was about trust, something that Steve didn’t have much of with Nancy, but it wasn’t an option right now.

It was trust each other or die.

It wasn’t easy; Eddie was already weak and continued to get weaker every moment. Nancy was doing all she could to keep him upright and moving forward.

Steve was using up all of the hairspray just trying to keep the bats away from them as they moved to the trailer.

He could tell he was running out, knew they wouldn’t quite have enough at their current pace.

He needed to switch with Nancy and carry Eddie or they’d all end up dead.

“Nance, need you to take this and I’ll take Eddie.”

Again, she trusted him. She didn’t argue, she just grabbed the lighter from him, nudged Eddie over to him, and grabbed the hairspray.

It went much faster with Eddie on his back.

Steve had to ignore the pained groans leaving Eddie’s mouth every time he got jostled, knew if he stopped now, they’d never make it.

“He’s bleeding!” Dustin yelled when they got inside.

“Go, Dustin!” Steve yelled as he heard Nancy shut the door.

It wouldn’t hold for long, and it would take some time to get Eddie through the gate.

“No, not without him.”

“Dustin, go, man,” Eddie said from over Steve’s shoulder.

His voice sounded weak, wet, like he was slowly swallowing his own blood.

Nancy pushed Dustin onto the chair and between her and Robin, they managed to get him through.

Robin went next, knew an adult would need to be on the other side to help catch Eddie.

“Steve, his eyes are closed,” Nancy whispered to him before trying to help him readjust in his arms to get him through the gate.

“Eds, stay with us. We’re so close,” Steve begged, not stopping his movements.

“Steve…” Nancy said, her hand on Eddie’s wrist.

“No! No, Nancy, he’ll be fine. Just help me get him through.”

She wordlessly helped keep Steve stable as he got on the chair.

Eddie’s blood was all over him, but he wasn’t going to stop.

Eddie wasn’t breathing, but he couldn’t let him stay here.

“See you on the other side, Eds.”

—----------------------------------------------

The hospital room was empty except for Wayne in the corner, sleeping.

Steve refused to leave until Eddie woke up, so he was sitting by his bedside, hand on Eddie’s in case he woke up.

He hadn’t slept in the near 24 hours since they brought him here, hadn’t even gotten up to clean off in the bathroom in Eddie’s hospital room.

He was gross, and he knew the smell coming off of him was enough to make someone gag, but he wouldn’t leave.

He promised he wouldn’t leave him.

“You look like shit,” a raspy voice said.

Steve’s eyes zeroed in on where Eddie was smirking at him, eyes barely open.

“You and me both,” Steve said breathlessly.

“Well, my excuse is I almost died.”

Steve rolled his eyes, but bit back a sob.

“Wouldn’t have let that happen, Eds.”

Eddie searched his face for a moment before closing his eyes.

“Most romantic thing someone’s ever done for me, ya know,” he whispered.

“What?”

“Using hairspray and a lighter to save my life. How’d you know to do that?”

“The rules of haircare are simple: keep hairspray away from open flames unless you want fire,” Steve shrugged. “Was that really the most romantic thing someone’s done for you?”

“It’s tied with staying by my bedside until I wake up.”

Steve blushed.

“It’s alright, Stevie. I know you don’t mean it like that. Go home and rest,” Eddie said, sinking further into his pillow.

“What if I did mean it like that?”

Eddie’s eyes shot open.

“What?”

“Thought maybe we could go to the diner when you get out of this place. Sound okay?”

Eddie blinked slowly, his eyes still never fully opening from the drug induced haze.

“Eds?”

“Uh. Yep. We can do that.”

“Awesome.” Steve squeezed his hand once. “Oh, and if it’s okay with you, I think I’d like to kiss you when you’re awake next time. Just to make sure you know we’re on the same page.”

“Uh. Okay.”

“Cool.”

Eddie slipped back into unconsciousness a minute later, and Steve finally let himself relax a little.

They may not have left with a total win, but he was leaving with a date.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #request #ficlet #canon typical violence #but everyone lives

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thegettingbyp2 · 8 months

Note

Poor!reader desperate for money stumbles upon a hot cowboy but also recognizes he’s a wanted criminal with a high bounty so she tries to turn him in. Billy the kid is not having it…

Would You

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You knew that you shouldn’t be out at this time of night but you couldn’t face the idea of sleeping on someone’s porch again. And maybe, you thought, that if you kept walking, it would make the night go faster and you’d be distracted from the pain in your stomach from not eating over the past couple of days.

You weren’t paying attention when you walked right into a broad chest. Two hands came out to settle on your waist, keeping you upright as your head lifted up to see who you had walked into. You couldn’t help your first thought be that this man was incredibly attractive. He was tall with dark hair that you could just make out underneath the hat he was wearing and, even in the moonlight, you could see how bright his eyes were. Whilst you were admiring him, you couldn’t help but notice that there was something familiar with him.

‘Sorry, ma’am, wasn’t looking where I was going,’ the man said, his voice deep, sending a shiver down your spine.

‘No, it was me who wasn’t looking where I was going,’ you protested, stepping out of his grip and smoothing your skirt down, trying anything to improve your appearance.

‘A beautiful girl like you shouldn’t be walking around here this late at night, I can walk you home, stop you bumping into anyone else?’ he teased, rubbing at the back of his neck nervously.

‘Oh, I, um, I don’t really have anywhere to go,’ you replied, your cheeks flushing slightly from embarrassment.

‘I’m staying in a boarding house just up there for a couple of nights, you can always crash in my room for the night. I don’t bite, promise,’ he offered, holding his hands up in mock surrender. You blamed it on the thought of having a roof over your head for the night but you agreed and the two of you set off in the direction of the boarding house.

However, your blood ran cold when you passed the Police Station and you glanced at the board with all of the wanting posters, the man you were withs face covering most of them; you were with Billy the Kid. You tried not to give a visible reaction, figuring that you could wait until he was asleep or something and then sneak out back to the Police Station, give him up and receive the $50,000 reward.

The two of you walked in silence for the rest of the way, the sound of the door closing when you reached his room sounding like a gunshot to you and it took everything you had not to flinch at the sound. ‘Thank you, again, for letting me stay here tonight,’ you said, trying to appear as normal as possible.

‘No problem, when I was younger we sometimes struggled to find some place to live,’ he replied and you couldn’t wrap your head around the fact that this guy who seemed so nice was one of the most wanted criminals in town. ‘You can take the bed and I can sleep on the floor.’

‘You don’t have to do that,’ you said as he turned around, taking his hat off and placing it on a small table in the corner of the room. You saw that as your opportunity to leave. As soon as your hand touched the doorknob, his hand came to rest against the door. You could feel his chest against your back and his breath was tickling the hair at the back of your head.

‘You saw the posters we walked past,’ he said, more as a statement than a question, confirming that he knew that you knew who he was.

‘I don’t know what you’re,’ you began only to freeze when you felt Billy’s other hand gently sweep your hair away from your neck, leaning down slightly until you could feel his breath brush against your skin.

‘Don’t lie.’

‘Please don’t hurt me,’ you said quietly, squeezing your eyes shut when his hand left the door. All of a sudden you found yourself spun around to face him. Without the hat, you couldn’t help but notice he looked more boyish and you hated how endearing you found him.

‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ he said softly, placing his hands on your waist, pulling you into him gently. ‘But I can’t have you going to the police and telling them where I am.’

‘I need to,’ you protested, trying to escape his hold but failing. ‘The reward is,’

‘Is that really why you want to turn me in,’ Billy said softly, brining one of his hands up to run his thumb along your cheekbone, ‘just for the reward? Because if that’s it, I can take you with me somewhere, where you won’t have to worry about money again. Then you wouldn’t turn me in, would you?’

You were surprised at the flash of hope that ran through your body at his words, the idea that you wouldn’t have to worry anymore sounding incredibly appealing to you. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You can always come with me, we never have to stay in one place and I can make sure that you’re safe,’ he said, leaning down to brush his lips gently across your cheek.

‘Become a cowboy?’ you asked, confused.

‘No. Become a cowboy’s girl.’

You sucked in a deep breath as you looked at him and you felt every part of you want to go with him, want to trust him. With nothing to keep you in town you decided to blow caution to the wind and go with him. Walking past him over to the table, you felt his eyes on you as you picked up his hat and put it on your head, turning back around to look at him. ‘Where are we going?’

Billy grinned at you, his grin turning into a smirk at your clear obliviousness at the meaning of you wearing his hat. ‘Wherever you want.’

#billy the kid #billy the kid imagine #billy the kid x reader #tom blyth

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gabessquishytum · 8 months

Note

Oohhhh secret omega cowboy hob falling in love with outlaw dream!

After they spend his heat together, hob’s not letting go of his new outlaw alpha. He’s never had a strict moral code, and outlaw suits hob’s interests pretty well! So soon, hob’s a full-fledged member of the gang—which is sort of like a little family. Dream teaches him to shoot, how to intimidate people into handing over their money, how to run from the sheriff—all the skills his lovely new omega needs. (They also fuck. A lot.)

To dream, there’s nothing better than seeing hob happy and confident, fully accepted by his pack. It’s all going great!

Until a familiar train rolls through. Owned by an old enemy of Dream’s, burgess, who once tried to get dream hanged. And Dream’s pride can’t resist the opportunity to rob that old rich asshole.

So they force the train to stop and board it. It’s hob’s first train robbery. He’s very excited.

Cori, Gault, Dream and Hob all board the train. Cori and Gault go for the safes while Dream and Hob rob the passengers of their valuables. But dream is determined to go into burgess’s private compartment.

And this is where everything goes wrong. Burgess has extra security this time and he’s out for dream’s blood. When dream goes for burgess’s private compartment, they’re met with a stream of gunfire. Burgess orders the train to start up again while his men keep dream and hob pinned with gunfire.

With the loot, Gault jumps to safety while Cori goes back for Dream and Hob, while burgess shouts that dream is going to pay. Dream’s panicked—he needs to get his omega out of here.

Cori evens the odds and they’re making for the door—when burgess grabs a gun and shoots. Hob makes a split-second choice and leaps in front of dream just in time. Dream screams when he sees hob crumple, red blooming on his side.

But it’s too late.

“Go,” Hob shouts. “Leave me.” Dream tries to go back, but Cori catches him around the waist. Already, a guard has hob by the hair, dragging him back, and Cori launches himself and dream off the train.

Dream is devastated and terrified as the train vanishes into the night, with his mate captured and injured on board. Has his pride ruined everything? Is hob going to pay the price?

YES MORE COWBOY OMEGAVERSE

Burgess is originally raging that Dream has managed to escape him yet again, but once he discovers that Hob is Dream’s mate, he's thrilled. What a perfect opportunity to torture the outlaw!

Hob is bound and gagged (once again, he keeps biting) and stowed in the compartment with Burgess. His gunshot wound is superficial but the bloodloss makes him woozy. What if Dream can't get to him? What will Burgess do to him? What if he goes into heat? Oh god, what if he's pregnant? Well, there's nothing he can do except make Burgess's life hell- so that's what he'll do.

Meanwhile Dream is riding like hell, while Cori and Gault do their best to keep up. There's no way that Dream can catch up with the train, but he'll get to Hob eventually. He even stamps down his pride and sends Gault to the sheriff's office to report the kidnapping. Dream doesn't care about his own safety, he can be captured and hanged for all he cares, as long as someone brings Hob back safely out of Burgess's filthy hands.

All the while, Hob is being the worst captor imaginable. He's kicked, bitten, bled on and even thrown up on Burgess at this point (the last bit was unintentional, but it was satisfying to see the bastard covered in puke). He's been taken off the train to a nasty saloon in some one-horse town, where Burgess essentially attempts to sell him to the highest bidder. But Hob doesn't attract a lot of bids, to be honest (the literal bullet hole in his shoulder is kind of off-putting), but Burgess finally offloads him to the local brothel owner. Honestly he just seems pleased to get Hob off his hands...

Hob keeps quiet and behaves himself as his new "owner" takes him to his establishment. But as soon as he's thrown in with the other omegas, Hob starts plotting his escape. And of course he's got to take the other omegas with him. One of them, named Calliope, helps him steal a gun from a drunk patron. And they decide to wait until dawn to make their escape in the stage coach which will inevitably come rattling through.

As it happens they don't have to take the stage, because Dream comes into town, all guns blazing, after he finally heard about Hob getting sold. Dream and Hob essentially hold up the whole town with Calliope's help. They finally leave with all the guns, money and horses, plus the abused omegas. Hob is finally in Dream’s arms again, and he doesn't intend to leave for a very long time.

Once Hob is fully recovered from his bullet wound, Dream informs him that Burgess was hanged by the orders of the local judge for a slew of crimes. He's disappointed that they didn't get to kill him together, but it's better than nothing! And anyway, they're taking a little break from outlawing for a bit... now Hob IS pregnant, and he wants a little peace and quiet with his mate before their crazy cowboy baby comes along!!

#the sandman #dreamling #nsft #cw omegaverse #cw guns #cw blood #cw prostitution #cw pregnancy

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anogete · 8 months

Text

Hi. Update of random shit in case anyone cares.

The scary test I was stressed over in the fall when I was posting my last fic? It was the CFP (Certified Financial Planner) exam. Yes, I passed it. The designation requires a bachelor's degree, so I had to go back to school to finish my last 10 classes. Then I had to take 7 more classes that are pre-reqs for the exam. Then I spent probably 700 hours attempting to cram everything you could think of related to personal finance (my god, there is a metric shit ton) into my head. The designation also requires 5,000 hours of experience in the planning field (which I thankfully already had). By the time I passed the test, I was no longer proud of the accomplishment, just relieved to have it behind me.

Work was intensely busy in November and December. I got little reading and no writing done.

I have a WIP featuring the Darcy/Rumlow pairing that has been languishing on my computer since 2020. To be honest, I've mosty forgotten what the conflict driving the plot was going to be. I think I was trying to tie it into the events of Wandavision. Took place after the show and had Monica Rambeau and Darcy kinda sorta working together and trying to figure out what, if anything, crossing the barrier that Wanda had thrown up did to them. Of course, Rumlow is alive and scarred and back with the good guys. And also really annoyed that his recent gunshot wound stuck him on desk duty watching the nerds complete their physicals as part of employee onboarding. Darcy doesn't want to have gym class with Rumlow, and Rumlow doesn't want to be there either but he's also kinda into the sassy brunette who tried to sweet talk him into passing her without making her run a mile. In the chapter or two I did write, the banter between Darcy and Rumlow was so fun, so I'd love to go back to it and try to move it along.

I got sucked into reading Draco/Hermione fanfic recently. Blame those damn Snow edits from the latest Hunger Games movie. Guys, I have never read those books or seen the movies, but blonde Tom Blyth is looking like the fanfic Draco of my dreams. How dare. This rabbit hole led to me deciding I needed to write a Dramione piece. It's maybe 6 pages and has gone nowhere even though I have a vague idea of the plot. My muse is struggling.

I found my old folder of all the fic I wrote in the past 20 years. There are still a couple hockey fics I haven't posted to AO3. There are also Anita Blake fics (I was a hardcore Anita/Edward girlie) and Harry Potter fics (don't cancel me but I used to write Snape/Hermione; NO student/teacher stuff though). I think I have an old Doctor Who fic featuring Nine/Rose (yes, I'm a Nine girlie). And a very old Forgotten Realms fic that paired Catti-Brie up with Jarlaxle. Look, I don't know. It was ages ago. With the exception of the hockey fics, I do not think any of these are of the same quality I've posted on AO3, but I've been toying with the idea of trying to clean them up and posting them so more of my work is archived together instead of spread over various fan sites. Does anyone have any interest at all in reading this shit? Like, at all?

I decided 2024 is going to be my book binding era. I bound isthisselfcare's Draco Malfoy and the Mortifying Ordeal of Being in Love a couple weeks ago. I did all the typesetting with the help of some macros. Printed it, folded the signatures (the booklets that comprise the book), sewed them together with waxed linen thread, glued the text block together with some mull, and used chip board and book cloth to make the case. It feels and looks like a book, y'all! I could do a better job with lining the signatures up when punching the holes for sewing and with the measurements on the case, but overall I am pretty proud of it. If anyone is interested, I can link a nice tutorial series on TT and/or post progress pictures I took during my book binding experiment. I have to say, it's exciting to have the ability to put my fav fanfics on my physical bookshelf.

#fanfic #mcu fanfic #darcy x rumlow #anogete #dramione #snamione #hp fanfic #bookbinding

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nye-the-ravenclaw · 2 months

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Hogwarts Legacy (Modern Medical AU)

(I’m currently watching medical dramas now and I just needed to get it out of my system - I’m sorry Medical Professionals and Nursing Dept if its inaccurate. It’s lengthy so more under the cut.)

MC / Protagonist : Emergency Medicine / Trauma Surgery - Caring for illnesses or injuries requiring immediate medical attention (ER) as well as a history in conducting surgery for trauma wounds (stab, car crashes, crushes, falls, 3rd degree burns, gunshot wounds)

Definitely someone that jumps into action and the jackknife of medicine. Able to perform under high pressure and maintaining her cool. She works alongside Head Nurse (ER) Everett Clopton who is just as high-strung, reactive and able to keep up with her. Pages medical specialists for various patients, so she sees her colleagues periodically. Ominis Gaunt does come by to discuss certain patients’ care when required but the ER is frankly too noisy and fast-paced for him. In extreme situations where there is no medical posts or other specialists available, she is able to perform trauma surgery or provide assistance.

Sebastian Sallow also likes dropping by often to check in on her unannounced (though he also secretly enjoys the heated atmosphere of the ER).

Sebastian Sallow : Cardiothorasic Surgeon - Performing surgery on organs in the chest, such as heart, lungs and esophagus

Smart, fast, performs well with the adrenaline that comes with high pressure heart and lung surgery. Withstands long hours of precision surgery, able to perform bedside manner with respect and care. His need to jump with an action that is risky and yields the most results with success makes him prime for this department as nothing can be more dangerous than taking someone’s heart out and resetting it a hair away from death if done by the untrained and the weak-hearted. And Sebastian is none of those things.

Ominis Gaunt : Public Health / Health Policy - Researching evidence-based medicine and working with physicians to improve guidelines for treatment of conditions

The blind son of the Gaunt family, a renowned powerhouse and stronghold of medicine in the country. Ominis chooses to work at their least affiliated and poorest hospital (coincidentally also the furthest). His job is purely desk-bound, assisted by Anne Sallow as they work together to improve policies and garner funds for the hospital in the name of public health. Though nothing will stop them from heading out into the field to handle cases that they prefer to approach hands on.

Anne Sallow : Infectious Diseases Specialist - Diagnosing, treating and preventing infections in patients

An expert on Infectious Diseases and was a surgeon-in-training. After she had been diagnosed with cancer, she had to give up her studies to be a surgeon. She decided on helping others instead at a higher level with Ominis. Shrewd, confident and charismatic, she and Ominis make sure the hospital is run to a t while dealing with insurance companies, philanthropists and the Gaunt family board members. She is in remission.

Natsai Onai : General Surgery - Performing surgery, treating diseases of abdomen, breast, head, neck, blood vessels, digestive tract, injured and deformed patients

The best surgeon this hospital has. She transferred over from Uagadou and with her experience, she is able to accomplish any surgery easily. With her strong need to help people, she has amassed extreme knowledge and drive to learn as many possible ways to carry out surgery on different ailments. She also allows the hospital direct affiliation with her mother hospital in Uagadou for resources and second opinions on abnormal cases.

Garreth Weasley : Pediatrics - Medical care of infants, children and adolescents

Family and children have always been a pillar of Garreth’s life. A cheerful and positive doctor, Garreth is a natural with children and has a hand in his family’s pharmaceutical company for manufacturing the branch of vitamin-based supplement chewables that are friendly for children. He is definitely an advocate of wearing a mask in his clinic as children really are the melting pot of diseases. He occasionally organises parties where he makes a lot of mind-numbing drinks for the other doctors, but those are rare as everyone never stops working and no one is willing to work hungover. He works alongside Poppy Sweeting often as their departments intersect. In a pinch, he is also able to deliver babies.

Poppy Sweeting : Obstetrician Gynaecologist - Treatment of pregnant woman, delivery of babies and the care of women’s reproductive organs and health

A firm but comforting presence in the OB/GYN unit, Poppy follows her patients from advisory stage and into the delivery room. When facing complications, she is able to keep her cool and remains a strong pillar of support for starting families. Poppy’s grandmother was an OB/GYN as well and Poppy decided to follow in her footsteps.

Leander Prewett : Oncology - Diagnosis and Treatment of Cancer

With family and history in medicine, Leander follows after the footsteps of his parents who are prolific doctors, gleaning their expertise and knowledge as pioneers in Oncology. While it is a study that is rife with morbidity, Leander possesses the tenacity and drive to keep a cool head and determine the best treatment and clinical trials for his patients.

After Anne was diagnosed with cancer, Sebastian stopped by Oncology way more often than he should for Prewett’s liking as he is akin to a fireball. But after working with him, Leander finds himself open to accepting newer, and riskier forms of clinical trials with an improved set of guidelines he formulated with Sallow’s opinion. In the past, he had low confidence in himself and believed that Sebastian was better suited for Oncology than he was, but after taking on Anne as his patient and seeing Sebastian’s reactions - it cements Leander’s confidence that only those with his measured temperament can do his job.

Imelda Reyes : Neurosurgery - Prevention, diagnosis and treatment of disorders that affect the nervous system, brain, spinal column, spinal cord and extra-cranial cerebrovascular system

Extremely intelligent, precise, determined and focused, Imelda possesses an eye and expertise for the human brain like no other. She does not tolerate nonsense in her office and in her operating room as one wrong move throws a patient into brain damage for life, a fate she decrees worse than death. She plays chess and sports in her spare time, her chess skills equal to being a grandmaster.

Amit Thakkar : Pharmacy - Dispensing and advising medical practitioners, patients, and nurses on safe, effective and efficient use

While it seems like a job with little excitement, it is the clear attention to detail and memory of every drug and pill in his storage that separates Amit from the rest. On top of dispensing medicine, he is also adept at chasing away unwanted abusers of his counter and is currently an advisory to procuring, discerning and looking for new drugs that could speed up patient recovery with lesser side effects.

Everett Clopton : Head Nurse with MC in Emergency Department - Directs nursing service activities in the emergency room

Everett is a trusted second-in-command to MC, and is able to handle, support her orders, and keep track of all patients and their welfare in the room. His main forte is dealing with all chains of command and patients in the chaos with a smile on his face and a sliver of veiled threats to keep them in line. He also takes time to make sure that MC is not overloading herself as she has a penchant for taking on more work than she should.

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(I know I’m missing some friends but they should be reserved for other areas such as anathesiologists, radiology, psychology, that sort. I might add on the Professors as well, but that is another post.)

Extra

Lucan Brattleby is definitely an intern with a flair for surgery but for which department? If anything I know he definitely idolises Sebastian and has a minor crush on MC.

#hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy headcanons #hogwarts legacy fanfic #ravenclaw mc #sebastian sallow #ominis gaunt #anne sallow #garreth weasley #natsai onai #poppy sweeting #leander prewett #imelda reyes #amit thakkar #everett clopton #Hogwarts legacy medical fic headcanons #if i have time i might write something for it #lucan brattleby

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