#also not a gunshot board

[enoshimastims]

Back again~! (Do I ever really leave?)

Can I get an Agere board for The Collector (the owl house) themed around the stars and pastel purples?

Thank you~!

(& no kin/id/source or F/O tags please and thank you!!!)

- 🦊

[arthur-lesters-left-arm]

yeah yeah, yorick was being ominous in 44 and it makes sense to suspect him. but have we considered?

OH AND

[starry-bi-sky]

Blood Blossom Au: Baby's First Commissioner Meeting :)

TL:DR This Post: Danny (orphan) gets poisoned with blood blossom extract by Vlad. He runs away from him and ends up under the care of one Pre-Robin Battinson Batman! Starry is loudly pushing her batdad agenda.

(Also known as "Late At Night, When The Nightingale Sings" on my ao3!)

This was a fun rough idea I've been sitting on for weeks, thinking about how Commissioner Gordon and Nightingale's first meeting might go.

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

Commissioner Gordon likes to think that he's adjusting to the new normal of Gotham very well, -- the new normal being grown men running around dressed like bats, in military-grade strength body armor, committing acts of vigilantism, -- and slowly, little by little, he was no longer being surprised when this new normal pops up out of the shadows like the world's most terrifying daisy. His shaving lifespan thanks him for it.

....

The kid is a surprise though.

Granted, he seemed to be a surprise to the Bat too.

There's been a string of murders lately, -- which, in Gotham, is kind of like saying there's been another storm during monsoon season. And there's just been another; in some dilapidated building down in south Gotham, with the broken, boarded-up windows and mildew-crawling walls to match. The victim is a man in his thirties, multiple gunshot wounds to the chest, left in the center of the room for the blood to pool out around him.

The place is already secured when he arrives, the building swarmed with officers and the forensic detectives. The Bat emerges shortly after he does -- or, he might've been here the whole time, hiding someplace dark and shadowy. For his own sanity, Gordon doesn't think about it too hard.

The kid is a surprise, and he appears like a bolt of lightning.

He shows up in the middle of a conversation Gordon is having with the Bat.

A whistle, sharp and loud, slicing through the air, meant for open air rather than a confined space. Gordon's ears pierce and protest the sound, and the solemn, murmured chatter floating through the room abruptly cuts off like the swing of a gavel. As he turns towards the sound -- as they all do -- he swears, up and down, that he sees Batman's shoulders jump, just slightly.

At the source, perched on the window, is a boy. A boy in a gray-blue scarf and an oversized black hoodie, one that hangs off his frame and has ace bandages wrapped around the wrists in some attempt to cinch the sleeves. The hood is up, big like the rest of it, and threatens to swallow the upper half of the boy's face whole in the fabric. What upper half Gordon can see, is smeared with some kind of opaque, black face paint. He's holding onto the side of the frame with one hand, on his hip is a grappling hook. A familiar grappling hook.

Gordon has multiple questions, and his officers tense up.

Martinez puffs up, brows furrowing as his face shapes into a frown. Shoulders rolling back. "You can't be here, kid--"

The reaction is immediate, like a spark to gunpowder, the boy yanks his fingers from his mouth and his mouth twists into a scowl. Head snapping over to Officer Martinez, his hood manages to stay on but Gordon swears that as he bares his teeth, the glint makes them look sharper than they should be. His voice is rasp and quiet and harsh; snappish in its hissing; "Put a fuckin sock in it, Martinez. I'm not stayin."

Martinez reels back, and the boy immediately veers his attention off him. Like a switch, his demeanor drops. Despite half his face being covered, his mouth twists into a cringing, apologetic smile. Slanted and off-beat, embarrassed. It'd be disarming if this wasn't Gotham, and if he didn't just hiss at Martinez like he was about to bite his head off.

"Sorry." He whispers, voice deceptively polite and softer now. Gordon has to strain his ears to hear him. "I was looking for him."

He points his finger towards-- Gordon? No, Gordon follows the direction, and finds himself looking at -- the Bat.

The Bat, who always looks stiff as a pole, now looks even stiffer. Somehow. Well, the explains the grappling hook attached to the boy's waist.

"What are you doing here?" The Bat says, gruff and unable to completely smother the stumble of surprise in his tone.

The boy still holds a sheepish smile, and slips off the window ledge. His feet hit the creaky boards with a near-silent thud, the Batman finds his feet and rapidly begins crossing the room.

Gordon notes the slight tremble in the boy's legs as he straightens. He adjusts his scarf, which droops close to his knees now that he's standing, and slings a backpack -- how long has had that? -- off his shoulders. When the Bat reaches his side, he does as he always does, and looms over the boy like a spectre. A threatening mass of shadows cloaked in all-consuming black. Standing next to him, the boy looks teeny in comparison.

The Bat is a man who terrifies even the most hardened criminals, Gordon has seen grown men shiver in fear at the mention of his name. And yet when the boy looks up at him, he doesn't even flinch.

Instead, his sheepish smile melts away like ice under the sun, holding only traces of his previous embarrassment. It remains as a shadow on his face, a small upturn at the corners of his mouth. The boy pushes his hood back just enough to reveal glinting, ice-flint eyes surrounded in tar-black face paint. He holds the backpack up with one arm. "You forgot this."

[papercute]

i have always thought about what cas does in the bunker when dean and sam go to bed and have come to the following conclusions:

he gets bored as SHIT. so he tries to fill all the time with stuff(tm)

he’ll try a million different hobbies to fill the time but nothing sticks for him until he discovers knitting

he immediately hyperfixates on knitting and makes dean, sam, and jack a jumper each (claire has one too that he’s sure she’d be too embarrassed to wear so he buried it at the back of dean’s closet). he also knits a cute little throw blanket for dean that he keeps in the impala to sleep on the road and feel cas’s presence, even when he’s not there.

charlie comes over and sees jack wearing his jumper and immediately commissions cas for one (“they’re adorable! shut up and take my money, cas!”, she says). he is flattered she likes them so much and completes it in like an hour

but cas also does a lot of the cleaning in the bunker. it really helps that he’s telekinetic so it means he can be hoovering in one room and dusting in another while his vessel is doing the dishes. sam always thanks him in the morning and really appreciates the effort

after jack starts sleeping during the day so he can stay up all night with cas, they start having all night movie nights, or board game nights. it’s mostly for jack’s benefit, cause cas loves to see him happy, but he does end up really enjoying them and they both start learning all the cultural references dean makes.

they end up getting really into card games with the standard set of 52 cards, but they also discover uno and get so intense about it dean has to drag himself out of bed to tell them to shut up (he would have brought his gun for extra measure, but he couldn’t handle hearing a gunshot at this time of night). uno is now banned at night time.

that is all for now tumblr. i am very tired. if you have any additional thoughts feel free to rb or reply or whatever you want. enjoy this and have a good existence

[dragonnarrative-writes]

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.”

[it-was-summer]

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

[deliciousbasementtrash]

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!

[vellichor-of-the-solivagant]

How to Plant Snapdragons | 10

Task Force 141, Keegan & Konig x Female Criminal!Reader

Previous Chapter / Masterlist

“This is ridiculous!” You exclaimed, sliding behind a boulder as the others proceeded down the mountain, leaving you behind. You inched away from the speeding bullet grazing the rock with a spark, before peeking back up and firing at the men at your sight.

“You're Mexican!” You shouted, running after the group, almost stumbling over the root of a tree. “And they're also Mexican! They'll fucking know wherever we are, ‘cuz you guys all know this place like the back of your hands!”

You slipped behind a tree, muttering a blaspheme when a bullet whistled past you.

“I didn't say they didn't!” Alejandro yelled back, the birth of his irritation about to explode by your constant comments—or complaints at this point, which were all very much salient. Nevertheless, he calmly led the group and the 141 down the hill.

“And they're fucking much more armored than we are!” You added, glancing behind the tree, eyes summing up the number of men.

Seven, eight . . . 

 You took out a smoke grenade from your stash. You hastily removed the pin, throwing it over your head. A hissing noise echoed alongside the gunshots in the air, and you peeked behind the tree, shooting at the shadows moving behind the smoke the grenade created.

Nine.

With a calculated aim, an estimation of where their heads were from the silhouette and the approximate height of where their bullets came from, and timing, you took down the rest of the men who took the same trail as you did, firing as you slid down a boulder as a makeshift shield.

Enough waste of bullets for wastes, when they were already wasting their time here.

You sat for a moment behind the boulder, humming as you hurled an empty magazine to the side, and rushed towards Ghost who bothered to shoot a look at you if you were after them. “I need a drink after this shit,” you muttered, but loud enough for him to clear.

“There’s a river down there, ya can take a sip,” Ghost remarked, making you face him and roll your eyes.

A river, alright. It could be a point of extraction as they said, but it could also be a place for confrontation. If the enemy soldiers were to part ways, splitting into two groups to push you on both sides of the rivers, you and your group would be presenting yourselves at death’s door. If lucky, he’s shooing you away, but with an army? Death would grin and welcome you in instead.

The only way to wipe off death’s grin, was for a variable to show up.

Phillip Graves, you thought as you followed the group. But an alternative is always good to have, but what . . . who else would step into this board?

Alejandro spared you both a peek over his shoulder, before glancing at Soap whom he led down the mountain track. “Is she trustworthy?”

Soap eyed him for a second, before focusing on the terrain ahead. “She hasn’t done anything suspicious, yet.”

“Yet,” Alejandro repeated. “She looks experienced,” he motioned at his fellow soldier to be careful and follow him down a narrow trail, covered in moss and rocks, where it could be dangerous if one slipped. “She knows more than she looks. The way she engaged on this, she is used to it.”

“We know,” Soap replied in a low voice and frowned as they approached a cliff.

“Well, I hope it will not backfire on you, hermano.” Alejandro dashed towards the edge of the land and motioned his hand. “We’ll have to jump here!”

Soap’s lips parted in disbelief as he watched the Colonel stop momentarily. Ahead, he spotted a lower edge than the one they were on, but still, it was so close to the corner that if you miscalculated, would go straight down to your death.

“Can we make that?” He questioned and raised both of his brows as Alejandro jumped without hesitation as if he had done it hundreds of times (he probably did). 

Alejandro’s feet touched the ground and slid on the smooth surface, before standing up straight and heaving himself up a boulder.

“This ain’t the mountain climbing that I wanted to do,” you claimed, stopping behind Soap and eyeing the gap between where you were now and the lower cliff you were supposed to follow the Colonel.

“Me neither,” Soap mumbled, slightly bending on his knees and launching himself to the other edge.

You followed suit, eyeing the platform you estimated your landing, and slid on the ground. A whistle escaped your lips and you adjusted your grip on the gun in your hands. “If looking at it as a right triangle, the hypotenuse should be around 3 meters considering the time of the touchdown.  To boot, the angle of the—”

“Ye seriously have time for mathematics?!” Soap shouted, looking back at you as he heaved himself up a boulder, following Alejandro.

“What about it?!” You exclaimed back, making a face and pointing at his back. “Math is everywhere! A bomb maniac like you should know that of all people!”

Alejandro pursed his lips into a thin line, stopping himself from joining the childish argument between you and the sergeant. Meanwhile, Ghost behind you could only let out a sigh, already used to your outlandish antics.

“I’m a demolition expert, not a—”

Johnny’s next words went in one of your ears and out of the other as you took in the unfamiliar surroundings.

The land began to slowly form a slope, rendering you and your group on a lower ground. You glanced up and heard the deafening noise of a helicopter from above, bringing in the wind, falling leaves, and flying dirt on your way. Definitely not from an ally you expected to give the rest of you an extraction.

Then, through the strong breeze, Soap’s loud voice surfaced. “Where’s the river?”

“Past the halo,” Alejandro replied in a calm voice in an instant. “Get to firing position. Let’s catch them by surprise.”

You advanced forward, watching a soldier jump down several meters before you. Without hesitation, you rushed forward, taking a stance behind a tree. Through your scope, you aimed at the person, firing a few rounds in the blink of an eye. Gunshots echoed alongside yours, your team taking down several of the enemies.

You moved to another tree, eyes pinning on your targets and leaving them as you took them out in a swoop, taking in all of the details you could draw out in your head.

Not enough. You blew another soldier’s head out and ran towards a fallen soldier.

Ghost and Soap snapped their heads at you.

“Bloody Hell,” Ghost muttered.

“Bonnie!” Soap exclaimed, frowning at your actions.

Above, a soldier aimed their gun at you, just as you picked up their fallen comrade, making the corpse your shield. You felt the bullets land on the body, the flesh—still warm—shaking at each impact. But these vibrations were nothing compared to the recoil of your gun as you blasted a hole through the man’s head.

A good hit at the top center gives you a better shield to switch to.

“What did she just. . .” Soap's voice trailed off, dying in the chaos surrounding them.

A woman who acted like a spoiled brat who was probably raised by mosquitoes, complaining about everything upon arrival on the base, yet unbothered when bathing in blood.

A ridiculous and hilarious lass who made the 141 question their sanity.

 A smart person, whose mind he couldn't comprehend.

That amazing, beautiful woman whom he shared a night with, now feeling the dying warmth of a corpse.

Being a soldier, a dead person on sight would be normal. A pile of corpses would be normal. Being a soldier meant that you'd see twisted people along the way. He drilled that in his mind.

However, he would never imagine that you would pick up a soldier, use him as a shield against his comrade, and proceed to eliminate that person without batting an eye.

Where had you learned such inhumane things?

“Johnny,” Ghost’s deep voice echoed in his ears alongside the endless gunshots, making the sergeant look at the lieutenant. “Now’s the time to be distracted.”

Soap cleared his throat and looked ahead, following Alejandro up the slope. “Right.”

Within a short time, taking down the second wave of soldiers, you and the group finally cleared the path, running up the hill as fast as you could. Yet, they were still no visual for the supposedly extraction awaiting on the bridge. One of Alejandro’s men announced that the comms didn’t get through, while another warned the group the cliffs were stiff enough to make you fall to death.

You followed the men down the path by Alejandro’s lead as your eyes darted down the river, the trees along its side, and the scattered boulders which could be a good hiding spot for—

“Sniper! Move!” Ghost yelled, making his gruff voice ring in your ears.

Just as you took a step forward, blood splattered in front of you, and you watched Rodriguez, one of your temporary allies fall to the river. You clenched your jaw and took position, aiming at the direction where the bullet came from. You located a sniper hiding behind a tree, who directed their focus on you. But as you were about to tug the trigger, a person in black snaked an arm around their neck, knife flickering from the sunlight as they slashed the sniper’s throat open.

Your eyes widened behind the scope of your gun and your mouth parted in disbelief behind your mask. “Sniper . . . down,” you claimed, threading the path the group went.

“Bloody good shot, lass,” Ghost commented, making you pursed your lips.

A man in black. Face hidden behind black-and-white stripes of paint, shrouded in the darkness provided by the forest. One you would call your brother, your family.

The Hesh of The Ghosts stepped into the ring.

An alternative variable.

Ah, but wait. If Hesh was here, then Keegan and Logan would likely be also here. You glanced at the spot where Hesh disappeared as though he was never there and pulled a face. Should you start behaving for today?

Nah. That would not be like you at all. Chaos was your middle name, after all.

But somehow, you could feel their hits at the back of your head and their nags ringing in your ears, whenever you do something reckless (by their standards), especially Elias—Captain . . . Dad? He was the only one who wanted to get called Dad, anyway.

Ghosts of your past, your asscrack. More like, nagging crickets of your past.

But Keegan . . . well, Keegan, you guess? Keegan. Yeah.

Fuck Keegan. Hesh was the one here, not him.

BUT KEEGAN!

“You’ve led us to a dead end, Alejandro!” Ghost shouted, in both frustration and confusion, making you look down at the river below.

But oh, you now got to continue your complaints to make things lively.

“Oh, brilliant! After mountain climbing, now we go river swimming? Bloody brilliant!” You remarked, coating your voice with sarcasm, making Soap pull a face at you.

Alejandro, who seemed fed up with your comments, snapped his head your way. “Just take the jump!” He commanded and threw himself off the edge. “And don’t lose your weapon!”

You shrugged. “I guess this counts as high diving.” You kicked off from the cliff before Ghost or Soap and gripped your weapon hard just as you were about to hit the water.

The impact created a loud splash, and due to the coursing water and the tension on its surface, the hit did feel a bit hard. You opened your eyes under the water and quickly paddled to the surface, taking in a deep breath. “That would be a low score in the Olympics,” you coughed and swung your arms to swim along the current.

“Why are you so fucking random?” Soap questioned, sighing aloud as he heard you.

You didn’t bother batting an eye at him. “Is there a reason not to?”

“I guess not.”

The group moved down to the river, heading to the bridge ahead, while taking the rocks for cover. Your eyes flickered at the woods, trying to find a familiar, but you saw not a sign of him, and so, you focused on Alejandro.

Once again, he tried to talk to the comms, but to no avail. The deafening static was the thing that merely answered him. He clicked his tongue and repeated his practiced words until a voice came from the other side of the line.

“—Dow 1, do you—peat. . . do—cop—”

“The radio finally picked up something,” Alejandro said with a sigh of relief.

“Sounds like the Shadow dog,” you commented, making Soap look at you and gave a silent ‘shush’.

Just then, Alejandro exclaimed, “Weapons free, soldiers!”

You hastily dove underwater in a heartbeat, swinging your arms and feet to speed up rather than just letting the flow carry you. Hidden in the water, you made your way ahead of the group and swam up to the surface as the water started to get shallow. “Shallow waters ahead,” you mumbled to the comms and proceeded with the stream, then rolled your eyes at the sight of what you guessed to be a bridge, which looked more like a stick bridge made by a child not older than five. “What an architectural and structural disappointment.”

Then, you rolled your eyes once again as vehicles, with the usual army camouflage pulled over onto the bridge. “Vehicles on the bridge. Not ours,” you informed the group, which was answered by a bunch of curses.

“Get to cover!” Ghost yelled at you as he drew near and Soap grabbed you by the collar of your cloth, dragging you behind a boulder.

You coughed at the sudden force against your throat. “Fuck’s sake, MacTavish!”

“That’s yer punishment for going on your own earlier,” he barked back and in sync, you both aimed at the bridge, blowing bullets through the armor of the soldiers.

“Punishment?” You echoed. “How kinky—” A loud noise echoed as the vehicles exploded, giving birth to fire as the sorry excuse of a bridge fell. You whistled, getting out from the cover of the boulder. At long last, the original variable of the mission appeared. “Always punctual, Graves,” you huffed and scanned the surroundings.

“Oh, still alive?” Graves remarked on the other end of the line with a scoff. “And good to see you, boys.”

“You should have aimed those fires at me if you don’t want me waltzing around, sepulcher,” you replied as the 141 greeted the shadow boss at the same time. You followed Alejandro out of the water, spotting a couple of pick-up ahead.

You glanced over your shoulder to see if the Sergeant and the Lieutenant were following just fine but halted on your tracks as you saw a person with the same uniform as the Colonel floating on the water. You rushed back to the stream.

Ghost snatched the strap of your vest, stopping you from going further. “Where the fuck are you going?”

You shook off his grip. “I ain't leaving a fallen comrade behind.” You ran, fighting against the current of the water, and grabbed the man with a grunt. You quickly removed his mask and confirmed it was Rodriguez. You tightened your hold on him and started pulling him to the shore until a pair of hands grabbed onto the corpse as well.

You looked up at Alejandro with a huff and watched Soap begin to help as well.

“Quick,” he ordered in a low voice.

With the other two’s strength, you three managed to get the corpse to the land in a few seconds, and with clenched jaws, Alejandro picked up his fallen brother and threw him over his shoulders. He jogged towards Ghost who waited by the pick-ups, and the Lt. helped him put down Rodriguez behind.

“Hassan’s two clicks north from your position,” Graves advised. “Shadows will be on standby.”

“Cartel has a compound there,” Alejandro briefed the group as you made your way to the vehicles. He took the spot behind the wheel width Soap by his side, while you and the Lieutenant settled at the back seats.

Soon after you began to trail the road, Soap looked back with wide eyes which you equally mirrored out of confusion. “What even is se . . . sepuncher?”

“Bruh.”

Next Chapter / Extra Chapter / Archive of Our Own

Taglist: @yyiikes , @the-faceless-bride , @cassiecasluciluce , @annoyingstrawberryballoon @unicorngirly1, @thriving-n-jiving, @squidalapobre, @tallicaside @eustassh

[howlonomy]

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 >:]

[rudnitskaia]

White Chrysanths for the Swallow

Rocky was waiting for her at the table at the Little Daisy, but this time he was especially eager. Even Ivy had stopped teasing him about the way he lighted up and hummed to himself as he waited for Mau to show up at the door of the café, and just smiled, refilling his coffee whenever it ran out. He almost daydreamed of handing Maura two tickets to tomorrow's musical: of her eyes sparkling, of her taking his hand and telling him he was the best in the world.

But time passed, and Mau wasn't coming.

In those few hours, Rocky had replayed the fantasy in his head hundreds of times, changing the lines and the scenery. At first, imaginary Maura was beaming with happiness, calling him affectionate names, melting in his arms like all those heroines on the stage of a musical theater in the arms of their beloved ones, but every time the fantasy became darker and darker. More disturbing. Mau no longer rejoiced, no longer smiled. Her bright lively figure was becoming more and more dim, and she more often sighed, frowned, did not accept the gift. She asked him to return the tickets, scolded him for wasting his money carelessly, told him some news, one worse than the other, and finally said she didn’t want to see him again. Never again.

It was getting unbearable to sit still, and Rocky abruptly moved away from the table, threw on his coat, and headed for the exit. Maybe a walk would clear his head a little…

“Miss Pepper, I have a very urgent task to attend to. If she shows up on the doorstep, don't let her out of here on any pretext. Lock the doors, board up the windows, show her every fashion magazine you can find, but don't let her leave here until I get back. I'm counting on your wit and exceptional charm.”

The way he looked intently into Ivy's eyes before he left looked almost threatening. He wasn't even aware of the desperation hiding behind that look. But Ivy saw it.

“Don't worry, I'm an expert at this,” she winked at him encouragingly.

The cold air blew across Rocky's face, and he shivered, pulling his scarf over his nose, the same funny skewed scarf Mau had knitted for him last Christmas. Sometimes, like now, Rocky thought he could still smell on it the very same scent of coffee and pastries that wafted from the Venza family's eatery. It didn't help distract him, though. Quite the opposite. After walking a few blocks in an attempt to escape his doubts, he spotted a small flower shop — Rocky's imagination immediately conjured up a lovely picture of Maura cradling a fresh spring bouquet on this cold, cloudy evening and he didn't notice himself stepping over the store’s doorstep. The frail old woman behind the counter put aside the newspaper and immediately chirped, offering him different flowers, and finally convinced him to take a few white chrysanthemums. She tied the flowers with a delicate pink ribbon and also wrapped them tightly in the newspaper she had read before.

“They mustn't be overfrozen. Or they won't last long,” she explained sternly.

Rocky walked back much more briskly. He was warmed by the thought that now he would be able to give Mau not one surprise, but two. Hiding the bouquet from a gust of cold wind, Rocky lowered his gaze to it and pressed the flowers closer to himself… when suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the headline of one of the newspaper articles.

“Shootout at the small Italian eatery Casa di Rondine shocked the residents… a bloody showdown in the neighborhood… occurred on the night… police identified the bodies of two…”

Rocky couldn't remember how he reached the familiar alleyway. How he threw the bouquet to the ground, swung over the barrier tape, and rushed to the entrance — a gaping hole instead of a small blue door. Shards of glass littered the floor, the formerly cozy, cramped hall was a real mess, the furniture was riddled with gunshots. Even the old tabletop radio was now on the floor, shattered to pieces.

“Stop right there!” a panting policeman grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. “What the hell are you doing breaking into a crime scene?”

“I… uh…” in his panic Rocky couldn't think straight, but nonetheless he blurted out: “I'm from a newspaper. Wanted to visit the crime scene myself.”

“A lousy reporter you are, then. Your buddies sniffed everything around here a long time ago.”

“I was just hired today and immediately assigned to this very intriguing case. So…”

“There's nothing intriguing about it. This Bianchi guy…”

“Who?”

“The renter, Augusto Bianchi, if that's his real name at all, apparently had a huge debt to pay someone. And for that, he got pinned down. There was a scuffle in the night, at least four assailants. The two guys we found here have a couple priors, but they're not in a condition to tell us who hired them. The amount of such cold cases we have…” the man hummed and passed his hand above his head. “We've already explained it all to your fellow scribblers this morning. And I highly doubt the landlord would want to tell the same story tenth times over to another newspaper weasel. The only thing he's interested in right now is getting money from the insurance company.”

“And the girl?”

“What girl?”

“The waitress. Who worked here. What about her?”

“Considering how much blood there is, they're probably both either in a ditch, scattered in pieces, or feeding fishes somewhere at the bottom of the Mississippi… both father and daughter, if you meant her,” boredly remarked the other officer, who had quietly approached them, lighting a cigarette. “There's nothing for you to do here, boy. Henry's right — there's absolutely nothing of interest in this case. People might have chattered about it in the morning, but the very next day they'll forget all about it. Go home, don't add to our workload. And quit the paper that sent you here. If your editor doesn't realize that news like this must be broken in the heat of the moment, believe me, their business will burn out faster than a short match.”

Rocky tried to get anything else out of them, at least a little bit, to look in the kitchen of the eatery, to slip upstairs to Mau’s and Augusto's apartment, but the policemen were adamant. On unsteady legs he made it to the nearest bench and collapsed on it, staring blankly into the dark November sky. He could have screamed, could have destroyed everything around him on a single painful impulse, but the emptiness that engulfed him was far more frightening.

His silence was more frightening.

Years would pass. Would flow, as before, from night to night. The world won’t notice his loss. The world won't notice any loss at all. In the place of his beloved swallow house, other birds will build a nest. Freckle and Ivy will eventually stop opening that wound with their questions. And one day, perhaps, he will stop gazing into the crowd, hoping to find among the unfamiliar faces the features dear to his heart, and stop flinching when he hears someone say amore mio. He knows how it happens — it was not the first time. All he has to do is smile and everything will work out. It'll wear off, getting back to the way it was. One day.

But the bouquet of chrysanths will still remain rotting on the cold ground.

[nica-my-beloved]

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'!!!

[lonelydiary]

8.Poet

Lena's favorite poet was always Shakespeare. She did enjoy some of foreign poets as well, such as Pushkin, Neruda, Lorka, etc. But Shakespeare's sonnets were her absolute favorite. Wich was the cause of neverending tease by Sam, Andrea and even Jack, friendly tease of course. What was said by Lex thought, or her other classmates in the boarding school was...not so friendly.

When she first got a little piece of paper in her lunch box, which Kara was so kind to give her secretary to transmit to Lena, because you need to eat, Lena, a cup of coffee is not a food! - she was confused. Inside was a little poem. A Shakespeare sonnet, to be exact.

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.

She was shunned. How did Kara know? Did she read her diary? Did someone tell her about Lena's favorite poet? Later Kara's said that it is her favorite poet as well and also this poem reminds her of Lena. And if the brunette blushed and also cried a little at home, she will never confess to anyone.

When they were fighting, one evening, just after their talk about villains and hard choices- Lena had found a piece of paper on her table, when she woke up next day. It said:

When my love swears that she is made of truth

I do believe her though I know she lies

And nothing more.

It was like a gunshot to her chest.

But her favorite piece of poetry, she received from Kara, was the piece, she heard on their wedding.

Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.

Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle’s compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

Perhaps there were tears (happy tears!) after, hugs and many many kisses with her most amazing wife afterwards, Lena will never confess. But maybe, just maybe, these poems are right sometimes.

[reidingandwriting]

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.

[vizishereig]

Day 2: Tied Up/Starting Over

ill expand on this on a later date, but for now? Im tired and a little sick.

CALIBRATING…

USER NOT RECOGNIZED.

NEW USER?

- YES   - NO

PLEASE INPUT YOUR NAME:

- Leon Kennedy

USER Leon Kennedy HAS BEEN ADDED TO THE DATA BASE.

INSERT SCENARIO

DOWNLOADING SCENARIO

SCENARIO DOWNLOADED.

- OPEN?         - CLOSE POP-UP

SCENARIO OPENED

COMMENCING TEST: 001 |

He gasps, breathing in deeply as he wakes up. It’s cold, freezing. He shifts around, trying to figure out where he is.

Cold chains against his hands, warm light, cold air. Valdelobos.

Leon could almost weep with relief.

It worked.

He tugs on the chain above him, and, sure enough:

“Hey, stop it!”

Luis. Alive and whole.

“Oye, yanqui, got a name?” Luis asks, as he debates what to do next. How far out will ripples happen? Does it matter? Does he care?

Leon shakes his head, deciding to at least get out of the chains. Then he’ll figure out where to go next.

Everything goes the same, but he spends a second too long debating whether or not to try and stick with Luis. The key is thrown away and he’s gone.

Fine, that’s okay. Probably better for later on, when he’d need Luis to open the door to the cabin. He has to think about the now and later, try and predict outcomes correctly. It makes him feel a little stretched thin, but he’ll endure it.

He would, a thousand times over, if it changes Luis’s fate. If he was able to go out into the fresh air he so craved. If he was allowed to walk out of those mines unscathed.

- - -

He gets to the mines, and he watches out for Krauser. It should be easy, simple. He doesn’t let Luis go ahead of him, keeps close.

But Krauser is too fast.

Leon is batted away like a toy, and a knife sinks neatly into Luis’s back.

He fights.

Luis shoots at Krauser.

Leon tries to patch the wound this time. He’s aware it won’t change anything.

Luis dies.

SCENARIO OVER.

PLEASE INSERT CAUSE OF REMOVAL:

- Subject committed suicide via gunshot wound to the temple. Subject used his own gun, an SG-09R The bullet went clean through, allowing for the subject to die quickly and painlessly.

RUNNING DIAGNOSTICS:

- DISTORTION CAUSED: MINIMAL

- DAMAGE SUSTAINED TO SUBJECT: LETHAL

- ERRORS OCCURRED: NONE

CONTINUE TEST?

- YES   - NO

COMMENCING TEST: 002 |

He takes Luis with him this time.

Grabs the keys before the other man can, unlocks his own cuffs. Brown eyes dim a little as he looks at him, hands ratting the chain. He’s analyzing the situation, Leon knows. He’s seen that expression before, eyes scrunching at the corner, lips slightly pursed.

It makes him so, so fond.

It’s also why he makes Luis come with him. Maybe, just maybe, him sticking close will keep him alive.

- - -

No, no, no.

They took too long to get to the cabin, this time.

Leon had to rush Ashley into the crawl space (and he was given a surprised look when he uncovered it immediately), try his best to set up the boards on the windows. It's when he's fumbling there that a ganado comes through the window, Luis calling out a warning.

He turns around in time to see the ganado stumble from a bullet, grabbing his knife and slicing it across his throat. Blood gushes from the wound and it falls to the ground.

He looks up to say a thank you to him, eyes widening as a ganado swings down with his weapon.

Luis hits the ground, head colliding with the floor. A sickening crack echoes through Leon's ears.

He sighs, breathes.

Again, then.

SCENARIO OVER.

PLEASE INSERT CAUSE OF REMOVAL:

- Subject died at the hands of an infected human, classification Ganado. Death was quick but painful.

RUNNING DIAGNOSTICS:

- DISTORTION CAUSED: MEDIUM

- DAMAGE SUSTAINED: LETHAL

- ERRORS OCCURED: NONE

CONTINUE TEST?

- YES   - NO

COMMENCING TEST: 003 |

SCENARIO OVER.

INSERT CAUSE OF REMOVAL:

- Target lost in a wayward explosion. Subject committed suicide via shotgun.

RUNNING DIAGNOSTIC:

- DISTORTION CAUSED: MINIMAL

- DAMAGE SUSTAINED: LETHAL

- ERRORS OCCURED: NONE

CONTINUE TEST?

(WARNING: TOO MUCH TRAVEL IN SUCH SHORT PERIODS OF TIME MAY CAUSE ADVERSE EFFECTS. IT IS RECOMMENDED THAT THE USER TAKES A BREAK BEFORE MOVING ON.)

- YES - NO

COMMENCING TEST: 004 |

SCENARIO OVER.

INSERT CAUSE OF REMOVAL:

- Target fell to Jack Krauser, death was faster than usual. Unable to save subject as scripted.

RUNNING DIAGNOSTIC:

- DISTORTION CAUSED: MAJOR

- DAMAGE SUSTAINED: LETHAL

- ERRORS OCCURED: NONE

CLEANUP IN PROGRESS.

CONTINUE TEST?

(WARNING: TOO MUCH TRAVEL IN SUCH SHORT PERIODS OF TIME MAY CAUSE ADVERSE EFFECTS. IT IS RECOMMENDED THAT THE USER TAKES A BREAK BEFORE MOVING ON.)

- YES - NO

COMMENCING TEST: 005 |

Again. He can feel exhaustion pulling at him.

Again and again.

This time, he gets it, though.

Luis walks out of that tunnel.

He is smiling, and Leon is watching the air ruffle his hair.

He's so distracted, he doesn't hear the steps behind him.

A knife slides into his back and the world tilts.

Luis is yelling, there's a gruff voice above him-

He can't breathe, the knife must have punctured his lungs-

There's metal on his tongue and no, he can't die, not now-

The world is dimming, he can see Luis being knocked to the floor-

He lets out a sound of protest, but it's garbled-

Dimming, dimming, dimming-

Black.

SCENARIO OVER.

INSERT CAUSE OF REMOVAL:

- Target survived, Subject killed soon after via knife wound to the back. Death was slow and painful, but subject seemed too distracted by the Target to register the pain.

RUNNING DIAGNOSTIC:

- DISTORTION CAUSED: MAJOR

- DAMAGE SUSTAINED: LETHAL

- ERRORS OCCURED: ONE

CLEANUP IN PROGRESS.

CONTINUE TEST?

(WARNING: TOO MUCH TRAVEL IN SUCH SHORT PERIODS OF TIME MAY CAUSE ADVERSE EFFECTS. IT IS RECOMMENDED THAT THE USER TAKES A BREAK BEFORE MOVING ON.)

- YES - NO

COMMENCING TEST: 006 |

SCENARIO OVER.

INSERT CAUSE OF REMOVAL:

- Target survived. Subject died by knife wound inflicted by Jack Krauser.

/add note

PROCTOR NOTES:

- Subject Kennedy has been running this test over and over for weeks. He only stops to take naps and only eats when forced. He's running haggard. I recommend we instate a mandatory break. A week would benefit him and our results.

/add note

ADMIN NOTES:

- Re: Previous Suggestion

As you know, it is against protocol to force subjects out of their tests. Your suggestion has been noted and will be brought up to the subject, but nothing more can be done. We thank you for your concern, but do try and adhere to our rules.

RUNNING DIAGNOSTIC:

- DISTORTION CAUSED: MAJOR

- DAMAGE SUSTAINED: LETHAL

- ERRORS OCCURED: ONE

CLEANUP IN PROGRESS.

CONTINUE TEST?

(WARNING: TOO MUCH TRAVEL IN SUCH SHORT PERIODS OF TIME MAY CAUSE ADVERSE EFFECTS. IT IS RECOMMENDED THAT THE USER TAKES A BREAK BEFORE MOVING ON.)

- YES - NO

COMMENCING TEST: 328 |

This one. This will be the one.

It has to be.

He can't stop.

He's so tired.

But he won't stop.

He doesn't think he ever will.

[claiestve]

𝐚𝐩𝐭. ꨄ Kayson

˜”* ❝𝘾𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙜𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙢𝙚 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣' 𝙄 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡!❞

⎯⎯ ୨ ୧ ⎯⎯

ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ: ᴋᴀʏꜱᴏɴ ᴛᴇᴀᴄʜɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴏᴡ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴋᴀᴛᴇ… ᴋɪɴᴅᴀ

⎯୨⎯ " " ⎯୧⎯

“Babe! Slow down, you’re gonna fall,” You heard your boyfriend panic at your clumsiness. Kayson was teaching you how to skate, like on a skateboard, but you didn’t know the first thing about it. If you were being honest, balancing on a slab of wood scared you more than The Conjuring movies. 

You tried focusing on his voice, but the board wobbled beneath you, sending a wave of fear through you. “I think I got it!” you called out, though you weren’t sure if you believed it. You took a shaky step forward, and the board tilted dangerously.

Kayson rushed closer, his hands hovering just above your waist, ready to catch you if you fell. “Just lean into it a bit, babe. It’s about the center of gravity or whatever.” You laughed at his uncertainty. His reassuring smile gave you a flicker of confidence, but the image of you faceplanting the floor couldn’t escape your mind. 

“Okay, let’s take it slow,” he said, observing your wobbles, stepping back slightly. “How about just pushing off a little? I promise I won’t let you fall.” 

With a deep breath, you nodded, ready to trust him—and maybe even trust yourself a little too. You pushed off tentatively, and the rush of movement sent a thrill through you. For a second, you felt weightless… until you hit a bump and wobbled again.

“Whoa!” Kayson exclaimed, his voice tinged with excitement and concern. “You’ve got this! Just keep your knees bent, look ahead, and be careful.”

You pushed off again, this time with more confidence. The board glided forward, and for a heartbeat, everything felt right “I’m actually doing it!” you laughed. 

But just as quickly as the thrill came, it vanished. You hit another bump, and your body pitched forward. “Kayson!” you screamed.

 He dashed forward, catching you just before you fell over.

“See? I told you I wouldn’t let you fall,” he said, breathless but grinning. “You’ve got to trust the board, babe. And trust yourself.”

You took a moment to steady your breathing, your heart still racing. “Trust is a strong word for this,” you joked, brushing your hair out of your face. “I’ll settle for just not falling on my face.”

With your own encouragement ringing in your ears, you took another deep breath. “Alright, let’s do this,” you said, determination creeping into your voice.

You pushed off again, feeling the rhythm of the board beneath you. You felt like you were flying. “Look, Kayson! I’m actually—”

But before you could finish your sentence, a small crack in the pavement caught your board off guard. It jerked to the side, and in an instant, your balance disappeared. “No, no, no!” you cried, arms swinging wildly while gravity took over.

Kayson’s eyes widened in slight horror, and you heard him yell, “Babe!” But it was too late. You felt your feet slip out from under you, and the ground rushed up to meet you.

With a thud that echoed through the park, you landed face-first on the pavement. The world around you faded into silence, and for a moment, you couldn’t process what had just happened.

You groaned, half-laughing and half-embarrassed, as Kayson rushed to your side, concern etched on his face. “Are you okay?” he asked, trying to hold back his laughter.

“I know I just ate shit…” You looked up at him, clearly in pain, “But that was awesome.” You smiled, in awe of yourself. 

Kayson helped you off the ground, worried for your physical being but also deeply amused. You looked up at him, not being able to contain your laughter. 

“Even your fall was impressive,” He chuckled, brushing some dirt off your shoulder, “but that’s enough skating for you today.” 

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

srry im obsessed with this song rn :3 ikk we're in the zaros mood but i miss this loser

im sorry for being awa— [GUNSHOT]

[morbidmorbid]

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.