#dr. tremor

[vaingloriousvex]

[ID: two versions of a drawing of Dr. Tremor, a Ducktales oc belonging to @foggyglow. Dr. Tremor is a blue jay with eyes like the aperture of a camera, a robotic left arm with blue lightning crackling out of their palm, and a very smug smirk. They're wearing goggles, a brown short-sleeved shirt, dark pants, and a pair of pink earrings shaped like erlenmeyer flasks.

The first image is the image's proper colours, mostly a blue and purple theme. The second image is a photo taken under blacklight to show the glowing effects of the eyes, earrings, and belt buckle, as well as the variation in colour of the lightning effects. /END ID]

this was such a fun commission to work on! if you'd like a piece of your own, check out my info here!

[nightmaremp]

Muppet Monster Adventures:

The Graboid

[luvrbunni]

ik ive not been active at all anyways sort of explanation/me complaining in tags

[fruit-snacker]

Happy disability pride to all who are in between diagnoses because the doctors don't know what the heck is up with you

[thestormypetrelofcrime]

when I share my concerns why is it the people who have had close experience with neurological disorders offer condolences and support while the people who have not had close experience with neurological disorders are like ���oh don’t worry about Parkinson’s/MS! you’ll be fine, anyway don’t you want to get better?”

[endlessfuckup]

guys i changed my pcp without having to make a single phone call

honestly the best thing that has ever happened to me

[odoraful]

𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂 𝐄𝐘𝐄

it was one of the few days zayne had returned home earlier than sunset. he opened the door to the apartment to find you painting your nails. after a shower and some short pleading on your part, he was seated in front of you, hands laid out on the table for you to do his nails.

content: zayne x fem!reader; established relationship; small banter! ; greyson apperance; ~1k words a/n: i've been dipping in and out of writing, so i thought i'd make something short to get me back into practice :)

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“Hand tremors aren’t good for dexterity, you know,” Zayne quipped, gazing at your expression as you applied the polish.

You looked up at him through your lashes and he smirked at the flat stare you gave him. With a slight tilt of his head, he enjoyed how animated your reactions were to his remarks. Towel-dried hair brushed past his brows, framing his discerning hazel eyes. Did he always need to be this handsome while poking fun at you? Your hands weren’t shaky before, but they certainly felt so now.

“Oh hush.”

Putting the brush back in the bottle to collect more polish, you reset your focus.

“Just ‘cause you’re a surgeon, doesn’t mean you’d make a good nail artist,” you retorted, bringing your eyes back to your work.

You were currently on the last nail, painting it a navy blue to match the others you already finished. Zayne’s nails were well kept and trimmed short, making for a perfect canvas for you. Whilst it was rare for surgeons to wear polish, he assured that it wouldn’t be an issue so long as it did not chip. He wanted you to do it for him, anyway. Having your undivided attention on him was a perfect way to unwind after a long day at the hospital.

“And what other qualifiers need to be met besides a still hand?” he asked, teasing giving way to curiousity.

You finished up the last nail with a few glides of the brush. “An eye for aesthetics,” you declared, moving the blue nail polish aside and selecting two more colours among your collection.

“Now, pick the colour for the design.”

You presented two colours to him. A cool silver embedded with fine glitter, and a rustic gold. His eyes flicked between the two. Mind having been made up almost the second you asked.

“Silver.”

You hummed. “An excellent choice.” Shaking the polish, the glitter dispersed throughout. “Perhaps you might consider nail tech as a side job, Dr Zayne.”

Waiting for his nails to dry before you could begin the next layer, you lightly fanned them with both your hands. He chuckled—both at your comment and your cute attempt to try and speed the drying process.

“My primary job keeps me busy enough,” he replied. “Besides, I don’t have much of an eye for aesthetics.”

You were reminded of the palette of his closet. Blacks, greys, browns, and the only splash of colour being a deep green shirt. Though somewhat monotone, it did suit him well.

He continued, “I think I’ll leave that expertise up to my girlfriend.”

Your breath caught in your throat. Mouth opened ever so slightly, not wanting to reveal the way every use of that nickname slipped under your skin and made your heart skip.

You began to draw tiny snowflakes on each of them with the silver polish. Zayne admired the furrowed concentration on your face as you were locked into this task. When the design had dried, you finished by squeezing some cream onto his hands. He let out a soft sigh as you massaged it in, feeling the tension of the day release under your gentle touch.

Once you were done, you stretched your arms out and twisting around to crack your back. You held his fingers in your hands, inspecting them.

“Look how pretty they are!” You bubbled.

Zayne was honestly floored. The level of coordination it took to paint something so small was incredible.

“They’re very pretty indeed.”

You were too enthralled by your own work to see the warm smile on his face at how satisfied you were.

“Now, that’ll be sixty dollars,” you said, looking up at him smugly, placing your hands on your hips in waiting.

Zayne lifted a brow. “Do you accept payment in desserts?”

“Hm… an interesting offer,” you placed a hand on your chin in mock thought. “What kind?”

“Will each flavour of macaron at the shop that just opened suffice?” he replied. The sparkle in your eyes signalled that it was more than enough to cover the cost of your service. Promptly, the two of you went outside to resolve his payment. You walked hand in hand, matching one another with freshly painted nails.

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EPILOGUE

At Akso Hospital the next day, peoples’ gazes lingered a little too long on Zayne. As he handed out folders to nurses and gestured to screens when presenting, eyes trailed on his hands. Now, it wasn’t unusual for doctors to wear polish, but it was unusual for Zayne to have it. Another layer of mystery to unravel about the cardiac surgeon.

Greyson entered Zayne’s office to drop off some documents, sliding them towards him on his desk. “Going to some fancy event later?”

Zayne adjusted his glasses, not looking away from his computer screen. “Unless you consider a seminar at the university as fancy, I’m not sure what you’re implying.”

He gestured towards the keyboard Zayne was typing on. “I’m talking about your nails! Don’t tell me you really just got them done for fun?” Greyson asked, incredulous.

“I did.” Zayne splayed his hand out. “Is that so strange?”

“No! Not at all!” Greyon reassured, shaking his head fervently. “They do look nice though,” he admitted. “Maybe I should get their number so I can get mine done too.”

“She doesn’t take up new clientele, unfortunately,” Zayne said, resuming his typing.

At such a quick defence, Greyson immediately clocked who this person was. He was one of the few that were privy to the relationship between you and Zayne, and he knew only you could make Dr Zayne change up his style.

Exaggerating a sigh, he turned to leave. “A true shame! She sure seems talented.”

“I’ll make sure to pass that on to her,” he heard Zayne reply. Though his back was to Zayne, the smile in his voice as he answered was undeniable.

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[actiniumwrites]

love amidst loss

synopsis: in the height of the moment, you nearly die and they can’t deal with the thought of losing you

characters: baizhu, scaramouche, kazuha, and cyno x gn!reader (separately)

warnings: hurt/comfort, angst to fluff, near death accidents, not proofread (sorry)

notes: uh so i wrote this a while ago and didn’t finish it up until recently, so sorry of this contains some errors or if any of the game lore has changed or been updated and doesn’t match what i wrote :) lyney was also supposed to be in this but i gave up on his part…sorry 😭

Baizhu:

“Qiqi. Bandages, now!” Baizhu yells desperately. Your heart rate was lowering by the second, while his was rising exponentially.

Qiqi slowly passes the small bin of various bandages to the doctor, “Yes, Dr. Baizhu.”

He can feel his hands shaking, tremoring as they work as fast as they can to close up all your wounds. Even throughout all his strange adventures and experiments attempting to achieve immortality, he’s never felt more afraid and anxious than in this moment. He could care less about hurting himself, but you? You meant the world to him.

“Baizhu…?” your eyes flutter open weakly while your elbows move behind you to sit up. A speedy hand pushes you back down in an instant.

“No, don’t,” Baizhu says, his heart beating out of his chest at the sight of your consciousness, “you shouldn’t be awake right now. I haven’t finished operating.”

Your hands feel fragile and your breathing is weak, but somehow you’re able to reach into your pocket and pull out a small bottle. It’s halfway full and a gentle lavender in color. It’s the concoction he had given you a while ago, in case of emergencies — an elixir of sorts.

“What about this?” you drop it into his hands. He shivers against your touch. What if this is the last time he’ll get to feel it?

Baizhu adjusts his glasses, analyzing the bottle in this hand, “Is this…? You still have this?”

You nod gently, careful not to move too much, “I saved what was left of it. I know you said you couldn’t make anymore, so I used it sparingly. Is it enough?”

Baizhu quickly prepares a bowl and some other ingredients to mix it with, “Yes, of course. I’ll make it worth a thousand lives over, I promise.”

A tender smile pulls at your lips while life beats back into your heart. Baizhu sighs of relief, resting his elbow against the edge of your bed with his pinky outstretched, “Please don’t scare me like that again.”

Your pinky wraps weakly around his, “Promise.”

Scaramouche:

“What’s going to happen to them?” Scaramouche presses, leaning by the side of the bed Nahida had prepared for you.

Eagerly, he places his hand in yours with a tight so grip you’d think he was scared. And he is. Scaramouche is terrified out of his mind. “You idiot,” he mumbles against your hand, “why would you jump into danger for me?”

Your eyes are shut tightly and your skin is so cold. He hates the way it feels like he’s going to lose you at any second, despite Nahida reassuring him countless times he wouldn’t. He still has so much love to give you. And god, what if he never gets to admit that to you? To finally say that he loves you out loud?

His eyebrows furrow and his lips fall into a sad frown. Amidst it all, a weak tone that he can’t be bothered to disguise falls from his mouth, “Please just tell me they’ll be okay?”

Nahida fights the urge to smile as she stands by the doorway of the room, ready to leave and give you both space. She nods firmly, “I promise you they’ll be okay. You have nothing to worry about.”

He nods back silently, loosening his grip a bit on your hand but not quite letting you go. And as soon as the archon slips away from the room, a small and vulnerable, “I love you,” falls from his lips.

And he swears he feels your hand grip his back a little tighter when he does.

Kazuha:

“Man, I drank wayyyy too much,” Kazuha slurs his words as he eyes begin to droop shut. You push his shoulder lightly to keep him conscious, a small laugh echoes amidst the waves of the ocean.

You feel it too — the buzz of the alcohol. The entire crew of the Alcor had been celebrating all night with big lights, tons of food, and an endless supply of drinks. Kazuha and you had already had more than enough, and it wasn’t until Beidou forced you guys to sit out for awhile that you realized just how much you had drank.

As you both sit on the edge of the boat with your legs dangling over the edge, Kazuha nudges you back. Only, it’s a little too forceful and you aren’t sober enough to stop yourself from sliding off. Desperately you reach for the wooden rails, but it isn’t enough to save you as you fall into the icy water below with a terrifying scream.

The water thrashes around you as you so eagerly attempt to stay afloat despite your lack of swimming skills. “Kazuha!” you scream before the water enters your mouth and begins to send you under.

In an instant he dives in, both of you now sobered up and well aware of the fact that a moment of fun had just turned darkly serious. All he can think about his how stupid he was for forgetting you can’t swim that well and that he shouldn’t have pushed you, even if it was a joke.

Kazuha finds you quickly and pulls you up fast. By the time he does, the rest of the crew joins around and helps you both back up and onto the boat.

His heart pounds a million miles per second as he watches you painfully cough out a bunch of water. Your skin is freezing to the touch and there are even a few small tears in your eyes.

“Hey,” Kazuha moves to hold your hand tightly, not only to comfort you, but also himself, “you’re okay, you’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You only nod and lean back against the wood of the boat. He joins you quickly and you take it as a sign to rest your head against him. Gentle, but deep breathes leave his chest periodically and he can’t help but feel shaky all over. Kazuha had lost so many people in his life, and he’d have no idea what to do with himself if he lost you too.

“You won’t,” you whisper against his chest.

“Huh? Did I say that out loud?” Kazuha’s bright red eyes widen as they turn towards your resting figure.

You smile gently, “No, but I know what you’re thinking. You won’t lose me. I won’t let you.”

Kazuha hums contently to himself. He wouldn’t let himself lose you either.

Cyno:

“Is it just me or does something seem off?” you pause quickly, halting your footsteps at the slightest rumble of the complex structure you and Cyno had wandered into. You draw your sword quickly while Cyno swings his polearm from around his back.

His garnet eyes dart around the various hallways and statues, scowling as he comes to a realization, “It must’ve been those eremites we ran into earlier. I should have known they weren’t just ‘camping out.’”

Neither of you move as the structure continues to shake. Panicked, your arm grabs onto his as your eyes widen, “What do we do? If we don’t get out of here in time, this whole thing is gonna collapse!”

“Calm down!” Cyno shouts over the crashing sounds of rocks and statues slamming against the floor, “I’ll get us out of here!”

Within seconds later, a giant head of a statue falls from above and crashes just feet away. It happens so fast you lose your balance, feet stumbling as your arm slams against the wall. Suddenly, the panel you’re standing on slides away and sends you flying downward.

“No!” Cyno yells desperately, grabbing your arm just in time before you can fall hundreds of feet to your death.

Your hand barely holds on as you gasp, “I can’t hold on, Cyno! I’m sorry. Oh god, I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to touch anything.”

His eyes widen in fear as you continue to speak. It’s the most scared you’ve ever seen him, but he can’t let you die. Not yet. “Don’t let go, please!” His arms hurt as he struggles to hold on, just barely keeping his balance against the sand covered floor, “I’m not going to let you fall.”

“I’m sorry,” you continue to apologize, eyes welling with panicked tears. Despite it sounding like a confession before death, you continue to hold on as best you can.

As if the dendro archon could hear both your pleas, the shaking stops suddenly. Cyno’s head shoots up and his arm grips your hand even tighter. With all the strength he can possibly muster, he pulls you up to safety.

Unable to comprehend what just happened, you quietly sob and fall against his chest. Cyno doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around you as tightly as possible. Afraid that if he didn’t, you’d fall again and he’d lose you for good.

“Are you…are you alright?” He mumbles against the crook of your neck.

You nod silently in response, “I’m okay.”

[verstappenf1lecccc]

if you go I go

Dr. Oscar Piastri had always been a man of few words, his life dominated by the cold precision of surgery and the quiet solitude that came with being the best in his field. Yet, when he met you, everything changed. You were the light to his dark, the calm in his storm. You filled the silence of his world with laughter, joy, and warmth. To Oscar, you were everything—the pulse that kept him going, the reason he woke up every morning. He loved you more than words could express.

The two of you had been married for two years, and it was your wedding anniversary. Oscar was known for being meticulous, but even he couldn’t keep up with the chaos of the day. As much as he wanted to surprise you, he had been so focused on work and the pressures of his surgical career that he’d forgotten to plan. You, being the loving and understanding wife, had taken it upon yourself to surprise him with a gift—a token of your love for him.

It was early in the afternoon when you decided to go out. You had picked out a sleek, beautiful wristwatch for him, something to mark the special occasion, and you couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when he opened it. He had always worn the same old, worn-out watch, and you knew he’d love the new one.

But fate had other plans. As you were driving home, a car ran a red light, crashing into your vehicle with a terrifying force. The impact was deafening. The world around you spun out of control as the car flipped, the screech of metal on metal and the shattering of glass echoed in your ears. You tried to scream, but the pain—sharp, sudden, and all-consuming—cut off your breath. Your head collided violently with the steering wheel, and the world went dark.

Oscar’s day was just beginning to take a turn when his phone rang. At first, he thought it was another case, a consultation, or an update. But when he saw the name of the hospital flash on the screen, a chill ran down his spine. The voice on the other end was calm, clinical—but Oscar could hear the faint tremor, the underlying urgency that spoke volumes. His heart sank when he heard your name. He didn’t need to hear the details; the panic that gripped him in that moment told him everything he needed to know.

Without hesitation, he rushed to the hospital. The drive was a blur, his heart pounding in his chest, his thoughts racing. He couldn’t even remember the route he took, but all that mattered was getting to you. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was horribly wrong.

When he arrived, the first thing he saw was the stretcher—the one carrying you, the love of his life. The sight of you, so pale, so still, sent a wave of panic crashing through him. He wasn’t sure if he could breathe, or if his legs would even hold him up. The world around him felt like it was collapsing. His perfect, peaceful world had been torn apart in a split second, and all he could do was watch as they wheeled you past him, unconscious and battered. The stretcher was stained with blood, and Oscar’s heart clenched, his thoughts spiraling into an abyss.

“Oscar, we need you in the OR,” a nurse called out, snapping him out of his trance.

Oscar nodded, but his eyes never left you. He followed the team as they rushed you into a trauma room. The fear in his chest was suffocating, but he forced himself to push it down. He couldn’t break down. Not here. Not now.

Once inside, the beeping of monitors filled the room, a steady rhythm that seemed to mock him with its mechanical nature. He was no longer the detached surgeon—the one who had learned to separate himself from his emotions. As he looked at you, barely recognizable from the blood and bruises, all the walls he’d carefully built around his heart began to crumble.

Your breathing was labored. A blood-soaked bandage was wrapped around your head, but it wasn’t enough to stop the bleeding. You had fractured ribs and internal injuries, but it was the internal hemorrhage that worried him the most. A small tear in one of your arteries had gone unnoticed earlier, and now it was slowly, quietly, tearing you apart from the inside.

Oscar could feel his hands trembling as he worked quickly to assess the damage, each moment more desperate than the last. His mind was a mess, but he had to keep it together. He had to save you.

But seeing you like this—the woman who had been his sunshine, his reason for waking up every day—made him feel more helpless than he’d ever been. His wife, his world, was slipping away, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. His professional mask was shattering, piece by piece, as his panic threatened to overwhelm him.

He was a doctor. He had saved countless lives. But you? You were different. You were his. The thought of losing you was unbearable.

And then, in the sterile chaos of the trauma room, when he couldn’t keep his emotions in check anymore, the words escaped him, a whispered confession that broke the silence.

“I don’t want you to die,” Oscar muttered, his voice rough with emotion. His hands shook as he held the scalpel, his mind racing with terror. “I can’t lose you. You’re all that I have…”

There was no response from you, only the steady hum of the machines and the frantic activity around him. But Oscar couldn’t stop. He worked tirelessly, desperately, knowing every second was a battle for your life.

The next few hours were a blur, but in the depths of his mind, he couldn’t shake the haunting thought that he was about to lose everything.

Somehow, against all odds, you made it through. The surgery had stopped the bleeding, and though the road to recovery would be long and uncertain, you were alive. But for Oscar, the terror of nearly losing you didn’t go away so easily. The fear still clung to him, gnawing at him in the quiet moments, in the spaces between breaths.

Months had passed since that day, but the memories never fully left him. They lingered, haunting him in the dark corners of his mind. And on one particularly restless night, the memories came crashing down with full force.

Oscar awoke suddenly, drenched in cold sweat, his heart pounding in his chest. The nightmare had been so vivid, so real, that he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had lost you all over again. In the dream, you were gone, your blood spilling out in front of him, his hands unable to stop it. He had been too late, and in the horror of that realization, his world had turned to ash. No colors, no joy, just a hollow, aching void.

He sat up in bed, gasping for breath, his chest tight, his hands trembling. His pulse was erratic, and the cold sweat clung to him like a second skin. The nightmare felt like a cruel replay of his deepest fear, and it made him feel helpless, powerless, and empty in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to feel since the day you were injured.

His heart was heavy, and despite his desperate attempts to calm himself, he couldn’t escape the feelings of loss and dread that had consumed him. He slowly slid out of bed, careful not to wake you, and stumbled down the hallway to the living room, where he collapsed onto the couch. His body shook as the sobs he’d been holding back for months finally broke free.

He was a doctor. He was supposed to be strong, unshakable. But right now, in the silence of his home, with the memory of that nightmare still fresh, Oscar felt completely shattered.

You awoke to the cold emptiness of your bed. The space beside you was vacant, and a chill swept through your chest as you noticed Oscar was gone. Panic stirred in your heart. You knew something wasn’t right. As you slipped out of bed, your bare feet padded softly across the floor, the house eerily quiet, save for the soft sniffling you could hear coming from the living room.

When you found him, the sight of him—slumped on the couch, his face buried in his hands—broke you. Oscar, the stoic, the composed, was in pieces, vulnerable in a way you had never seen before.

His body trembled as he cried, a raw, heartbreaking sound that shattered your heart. You knelt beside him, your hands gently touching his shoulders.

“Oscar…” you whispered, your voice filled with concern. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

He looked up at you, his eyes bloodshot, his face streaked with tears. For the first time in months, he allowed himself to feel it all—the fear, the grief, the terror of losing you again.

“I’m so scared,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I saw you… I saw you die, and I couldn’t do anything. I don’t know how to live in a world where I’ve lost you. I don’t know how to breathe without you.” His hands gripped your shirt as though he were afraid you would slip away again.

You pulled him close, wrapping your arms around him, holding him tightly against you.

“I’m here, Oscar,” you said softly, your voice trembling with emotion. “I’m right here. And I’m never leaving you. You won’t lose me, I promise. We’ll face this together, always.”

Oscar let out a shaky breath, his body relaxing slightly in your arms. “I don’t deserve you,” he murmured. “I was so scared… I thought I was going to lose you forever.”

“You don’t deserve this pain, Oscar,” you whispered, your fingers gently stroking his hair as he clung to you, the warmth of his body pressing against yours like a lifeline. “But you do deserve me, and I’m not going anywhere. You’ll never lose me. I promise.”

He pulled back slightly, looking up at you, his eyes raw and red from crying. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, his professional armor was gone. There was no mask of calm detachment, no wall of control. There was only Oscar—the vulnerable, terrified man who had almost lost the love of his life and couldn’t bear the thought of living without you.

“I don’t know what I would do without you,” Oscar said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re the only thing that makes sense in this chaotic world. Every day I wake up and I see you beside me, and it’s like the world is okay again. But when I lost you… I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. Everything went dark. I couldn’t stop it… and I still can’t shake that fear.”

You gently cupped his face, guiding his eyes back to yours. His hands trembled against your skin as if he were afraid to let go of you, to face the world without you by his side.

“You don’t have to fight this fear alone,” you whispered, your voice filled with tenderness. “I’m here, Oscar. I’ll always be here. You can lean on me. We’re stronger together. We’ll always find a way through the dark, no matter how much it hurts.”

Oscar’s lips parted, his gaze softening as he searched your face, looking for reassurance in the depths of your eyes. For a brief moment, the frantic anxiety that had consumed him faded, replaced by the quiet comfort of your presence. He took a shaky breath, his hands finding yours, holding them with an almost desperate intensity.

“I thought… I thought if I lost you, everything would shatter,” he admitted, his voice almost a whisper. “But then I realized something. I don’t have to face this alone. We face it together. You’re not just my wife. You’re my strength, my heart, my reason to keep going. And I’ll never let that go. I’ll never let you go.”

Tears welled up in your eyes as you leaned in, kissing him gently on the forehead. “And I’ll never let you go, Oscar. You’re my heart, too. Without you, I wouldn’t be whole. We’re a team, always. Together, we’re unbreakable.”

A moment of silence passed, thick with the weight of everything unsaid. But in that silence, there was a peace—an understanding that neither of you could imagine life without the other. The fear, the pain, and the scars of that near-loss would always be a part of you both. But it wasn’t the end. Not now. Not ever.

Oscar closed his eyes for a moment, his face buried in your neck as he finally allowed himself to rest, to let go of the suffocating anxiety that had gripped him so tightly for months. He felt the warmth of your arms around him, the steady beat of your heart, and for the first time in so long, he let himself breathe.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, but full of emotion. “I love you more than I’ll ever be able to say. Thank you for not giving up on me.”

“I love you too,” you replied, your voice soft but unwavering. “Always. And I’ll never give up on you. We’re in this together.”

For a long while, neither of you spoke, content to just hold each other, to let the quiet calm of the moment fill the empty spaces where fear and grief had once lived. Slowly, the tension began to leave Oscar’s body, his breathing evening out as he finally allowed himself to relax in your embrace.

The nightmares that had haunted him for months didn’t vanish overnight. But in your arms, he found something he had lost: hope. The kind of hope that only love could give. He knew the road ahead would still be hard, that the scars would never fully fade. But as long as you were by his side, he could face anything.

Oscar gently pulled away, his eyes searching yours with a softness that only you could bring out of him. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, fragile but real.

“I’m so glad you’re still here,” he murmured, his hands holding yours. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

You smiled, your heart full of love. “You never have to find out. I’m not going anywhere, Oscar. Not now, not ever.”

And as you both sat there, wrapped in the warmth of each other’s embrace, you realized just how deep your love ran. It had been tested, scarred, and nearly shattered, but through it all, you had come out the other side stronger, more united than ever.

Because without each other, neither of you would have survived.

But with each other, you were unstoppable.

[viinchester]

Haunted Reflections

Warnings: References to Violence and Murder, mentions of Stalking, Trauma (related to losing a limb & violent incidents), Obsessive Thoughts, Unhealthy Behavior, graphic descriptions in thoughts of Gore (Violence, Bloodshed, a bit of Body Mutilation), Moral Ambiguity (we're talking about Brian Moser here, hello?), Insults (like a single word lol), mentions of Drugs (two sentences, nothing about taking them), mentions of Death

Fandom: Dexter (TV Show/Series)

Pairing: Brian Moser/Rudy Cooper x F!Reader

Request by: @ireallydontknowohcrabs

Summary: You head to your routine appointment for a readjustment of your prosthetic leg at the Miami prosthetics clinic. This time, however, you are met with Rudy Cooper instead of your usual doctor. Unbeknownst to you, his dark secrets lie hidden beneath the surface, and you’ve unwittingly captured his undivided attention and care.

Word Count: 2.321

My Masterlist

A/N: Initially wasn't sure about which direction to go with this request, but I decided on one eventually.😅 It was fun to write, so I hope you guys will it!💞 Reposts/Comments with feedback are, as always, very much appreciated!!🙏🏼 And just as a reminder: My requests are currently open.🥰💙

You expected this visit to be the same as any other to the prosthetics clinic usually was.

You were going to meet Dr. Gardner, the prosthetist who had been with you since you’d first been fitted for your prosthetic leg, and he'd make a slight adjustment to it, and then you'd leave again.

But instead of that being the case, when you walked into the clinic today, you were greeted by someone else. A man, much younger than Dr. Gardner, with a tall frame and dark curly hair stood by the window and was currently slipping on his gloves. The doctor, obvious by the signature-white lab coat he was wearing, calmly turned to you with a professional and slightly reassuring smile.

“Unfortunately Dr. Gardner’s out sick at the moment,” he immediately explained, his voice smooth and composed. “I'm filling in for him, so I’ll be the one handling your adjustment today. My name's Dr. Rudy Cooper, it's nice to meet you.” He shook your hand gently before gesturing to the chair in the middle of the room. “Please, have a seat.”

You nodded, sitting down and rolling the cuff of your pant-leg up, glancing at him curiously. “Well then let’s see if you’re as good as Dr. Gardner at putting me back together.”

Brian gave a small smile as he seated himself across from you, gently lifting your leg to begin his examination on your prosthetic. “I’ll try my best. Dr. Gardner’s very good at it, from what I hear.” His voice was light, but he was already scanning you, taking in the way you moved, the way you spoke.

When his eyes reached your hands, he had to do a double take, his world stopping. Your nails, painted in the exact same way his mother used to paint hers. The hues were extremely similar, and the order of the colors was identical.

It came out of nowhere and hit him like a physical blow. For just a second his breath hitched and his usually steady hands trembled at the sight.

No. It couldn’t be. But it was.

His mother’s nails, now on your hands, like some ghostly echo of the past.

The carefully constructed facade of calm professionalism flickered for a moment as a flood of memories surged through him.

His mother’s laughter, the smell of her perfume, the soft touch of her hand as she ruffled his hair. And then… the blood. Her blood, mixing with the colors of those very same nails.

How could this be happening? He hadn’t thought about his mother in this way for so long, hadn’t let himself remember.

Blinking a few times, he quickly put your leg down and reached for your file instead, fighting to regain control over his composure.

He couldn’t lose it here. Not now. It was just a coincidence anyway. Just some random woman with the same taste in nail polish.

Still, deep down the shock lingered, sending tremors through the carefully walled-off parts of his mind.

He flipped through your file as casually as possible, clearing his throat once to keep his tone friendly, but professional. “Just going over some notes here. It says the injury happened... a few years ago? Could you remind me of what happened, just to make sure everything lines up?”

Forcing a polite smile, the mask of Rudy Cooper slipped into place, though it felt more strained than usual. His eyes couldn’t help but glance back to your nails every time you so much as shifted, the image of his mother — and her terrified eyes, her pleading hands, those painted nails — almost overlapping with you. He could barely hear your voice over the roaring in his head.

Not noticing anything off, you nodded, hesitating for a second. You hesitated, not because the incident was difficult to talk about anymore, but because it had become such a strange story to tell. You’d almost made peace with it, enough to laugh about it sometimes.

“Yeah, it was... a pretty bad day. Tried to steal some drugs. Not for me, though.” You smiled shyly, a hint of awkwardness in your tone. “My idiot ex, thought I could help him out of a mess he got himself into. But then I got cornered by three guys with a chainsaw. Like something out of a horror movie, right?” You laughed a little, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Brian’s hands paused again, but he kept his face neutral, even with the chaos inside him growing. Drugs? That was already close enough to the horrors of his past. But then you mentioned three guys with a chainsaw, and the floor seemed to fall away beneath him. Though his expression didn’t change and he resumed his adjustment on your prosthetic, the memory inside his mind hit him like a sledgehammer, and in vivid detail as well. His mother, the men, the chainsaw whirring. He was too young to stop it, too small to save her, but the memory had never left him. The blood, the screams, the way her nails had clutched at him in desperation before the world went red.

And now here you were, sitting in front of him, your soft voice recounting a version of his nightmare.

Brian exhaled slowly, maintaining a steady voice. “That’s... an intense way to lose a leg. It must have been terrifying.” His words sounded professional, if empathetic, but internally he struggled to comprehend how this was possible. How could you have survived something so reminiscent of what happened to her?

His disbelief mixed with something darker, something predatory. He had been powerless as a child, but not now. Not anymore.

The thought of you cornered by men with a chainsaw, just like his mother, made something in him snap into place. His shock was replaced by cold determination.

It was as if the universe had handed him a second chance, a way to rewrite the past. This time was different. This time, he wouldn’t be helpless. This time, he would stop the violence, before it consumed you, too.

You gave a small shrug and kept talking, oblivious to the storm brewing inside of him. “Yeah, it was... I honestly didn't believe I’d make it out alive. But it’s been a few years now and here I am, still standing. Just… in a slightly different way.” You offered a small, self-deprecating smile. “Guess I’ve learned to adapt. Well, kind of. I’m still getting used to the leg in a way, but hey, I haven’t fallen flat on my face in a while, so I guess that’s progress.” You smiled again, this time more genuine though, trying to lighten the mood. “And at least my ex didn’t get the drugs. Silver linings, right?”

Brian’s gaze darkened slightly at that, though he kept his tone light. “I see. That’s very impressive and brave of you, as I can only imagine how tough all that must have been. I’m hoping your ex is not someone you still have to deal with on top of that?”

You hesitated, biting your lip and avoiding his eyes, a little uneasy at the topic of your ex boyfriend. “Well, actually… he’s, uh, kind of been stalking me, on and off. Nothing too serious, but... it’s still annoying, you know?”

Brian's fingers flexed around your prosthetic, the material fitting securely into place. His eyes, though still composed on the surface, deepened in intensity and became more focused. Your ex was stalking you. Lurking, like a predator. His jaw clenched, and his disbelief at the situation melted away, replaced by a new resolve.

I couldn’t save her. But I can save you.

The idea of this man, your ex, still in your life filled him with an odd sense of purpose. He didn’t care about people, not really, but this was different. You had painted nails. You had suffered violence. You reminded him of her.

He would make sure nobody hurt you ever again. Starting with that ex-boyfriend of yours. Yes, he would definitely be dealt with. Permanently.

And going further, from now on, you would become his patient. Dr. Gardner had served his purpose, but Brian knew, with a chilling certainty, that you wouldn’t be seeing him again. Not if he could help it.

He forced a sympathetic chuckle, masking his true emotions as he continued to work on your prosthetic with his usual precision. “That sounds... frustrating. You’d think he’d get the hint by now.”

“Right?” You rolled your eyes playfully, trying to dispel the tension that came with the subject of your ex. “But I’m fine, really. It’s just one of those things I have to deal with.”

Brian simply nodded, his hands moving delicately, ensuring the fit was perfect, but his thoughts were miles away, plotting, considering what exactly he needed to do next to make sure you'd no longer have to do deal with it.

He was nothing if not methodical, his mind working like a finely-tuned machine, always planning, always calculating. When it came to taking care of your ex-boyfriend and Dr. Gardner, he would need to use two different approaches, that much was obvious.

Your ex-boyfriend would be the one to pay in blood. The man had been the catalyst for your suffering, the reason you had been put in a situation that mirrored Brian's own mother's gruesome death.

So your ex wasn't going to just disappear, that would be too easy, too nice. Instead, the bastard was going to feel every ounce of pain, every bit of terror that Brian imagined his mother and you had felt. He’d stalk him for days and learn his habits, figure out where he was most vulnerable. And when he’d finally make his move, it would be somewhere isolated, somewhere he could really take his time.

The act itself would neither be quick nor clean. Instead, Brian would make it messy, and visceral. He'd use tools that mimicked the chainsaw that had haunted both him and you. While he wouldn’t use an actual chainsaw, far too noisy and difficult to control, he would choose something just as violent, perhaps a hacksaw or an axe. He would let your ex feel the terror, hear the whir of a blade, and realize that his time was up.

In his twisted mind, Brian believed that you deserved closure. You needed to know that your ex-boyfriend was truly dead. Maybe you wouldn’t know it had been Brian, but you’d know your ex had been taken care of — brutally, and publicly even. The police would find the body, bloodied, hacked apart, left in some abandoned place where no one could escape the horror of the scene. It wouldn’t be a neat kill; it would be a spectacle. The kind that left a permanent mark in the mind of anyone who saw it.

It would be justice for you, and revenge for his mother.

It would be perfect.

You were going to feel safe, knowing that the danger had been wiped out, grateful that the threat was gone.

Dr. Gardner, on the other hand, required a different touch. Brian held no ill feelings toward him, the man simply needed to die out of necessity. But the doctor was a respected figure in your life, and if he simply vanished or died a violent death, you might grieve too hard, or worse, become suspicious. So Dr. Gardner's exit had to be quiet, peaceful, and leave no room for doubt. Brian could easily make it look natural, the man was already old enough that it wouldn’t raise too many questions if he were to die in his sleep anyway.

He'd slip a small dose of potassium chloride into Dr. Gardner’s food or drink, undetectable and mimicking the signs of a natural heart attack. The man would feel a sudden, overwhelming pressure in his chest, his heart seizing painfully — but he wouldn’t be able to cry for help. And in mere minutes, it would be over, and the man would be found peacefully in his bed or his office chair, just another old guy who’d met his end from "natural causes". No one would question it, and you might feel sad for a little while, but definitely not suspicious.

And Brian knew grief over a natural death tended to fade more quickly.

Then you’d return to the clinic in need of further adjustments to your prosthetic in the future, and who would be there for you? Him. The friendly, capable replacement who’d been there all along.

As Brian thought about it all, his hands checked the fit of your prosthetic, his fingers running along the edges.

“Now, hopefully this adjustment will work perfectly for you,” he then said, his voice calm as ever. “If you need anything else, any follow-up, you can come back to me and I’ll take care of it.”

You nodded — still oblivious to anything going on underneath his professional exterior — as you softly smiled up at him and stood up, testing your leg and finding it already fitting better. “Thanks, Dr. Cooper, it’s great, and that’s really nice of you. I’ll be sure to come back if I need any more work done.”

Brian smiled back, but it was colder this time, more possessive. “Rudy, please. And I’ll be here, whenever you need me.”

As you left the clinic, you felt relieved, glad that everything had gone well despite the fact that Dr. Gardner wasn't the one doing your adjustment. Dr. Cooper, or Rudy, had been kind, careful, and understanding. He was a really nice man. Hopefully you'd have him as your prosthetist again if Dr. Gardner ever fell sick another time.

Watching you walk away, Brian was certain of your return. He intended to mold your future so that you would always come back to him.

You may not know it yet, but he was going to ensure you’d never need anyone else, ever again.

[torturedreid]

Tomorrow

summary: spencer experiencing cravings & depression-induced isolation

warnings: drug cravings, death, depression

word count: 1574

a/n: so...this is my first time writing something longer than a bot since I was 14 on wattpad. I hope you'll like it because I sacrificed a lot of sleep writing, reading then rewriting/ Let me know your thoughts!

-----------

“Did you know the average person lies three times within the first ten minutes of meeting someone new? However, trained investigators can detect microexpressions—fleeting, involuntary facial expressions that reveal a person's true emotions—even if the lie is well-rehearsed.”

That's the first thing Dr. Spencer Reid ever said to you, and you were one of the few who listened to him, which is how he knew you saw through his lies when you’d asked if he was okay.

You had noticed the shadows under his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands when he was flicking through case files. Spencer was good at hiding things, but not from you. You’d spent enough time with him to recognize the signs- restless fingers playing with the edge of his scarf, his tendency to ramble more than usual as if he were trying to fill a void he didn’t want to face.

The death of Ryan Phillips was what was playing on repeat in Spencer’s mind. His attempt at talking Jack Vaughn down from shooting him, how he’d asked ‘When does it end, Jack?’ and the chilling response as he had replied ‘Tomorrow’. That word taunted Spencer. Though he had a good handle on his addiction to Dilaudid and he’d been sober for a while, witnessing that kind of stone-cold brutality was causing cravings that he was struggling to keep suppressed. He’d attempted meetings, getting a sponsor but nothing was helping to subside them.

He knew he should talk to someone, about how isolation was dangerous. It was feeding the cravings and making the voice in his head louder, but the thought of facing anyone was all the more daunting. He’d begun shutting himself off from everyone, the team, you, and even his sponsor. He told himself he just needed time, time to sort through his thoughts and feelings but deep down he knew that he was lying to himself- it was merely an excuse.

It started when he’d stopped lingering around the bullpen after cases instead opting to retreat to his desk muttering about needing to catch up on paperwork. Then it extended to avoiding the team hangouts that Penelope always insisted on, citing headaches or wanting to read a new book. Even his long-winded ramblings, which you’d always listened to attentively, were few and far between now.

At home, he’d sit in silence on the couch for hours, the solitude -though suffocating- offered more consolation than discussing it with others. His gaze alternated between the stacks upon stacks of self-help books he’d obsessively scoured over the past few weeks and his journal, which he’d been using to document his recovery, that was now collecting dust on his coffee table.

The nights were the worst, the memory of how Dilaudid promised him relief, a numbing warmth against the harsh reality of his life, and now it was more than that, now it offered the illusion of reprieve from the guilt and relentless replay of Ryan’s death. Tomorrow, Jack Vaughn's words haunted him like a ghost in his mind, he couldn’t stop wishing it was him who’d been on the other end of that gun instead of Ryan, a child. He was utterly exhausted.

He loathed those thoughts, how easily and reflexively his mind turned back to the vials that had almost consumed and destroyed him before.

You’d tried to reach out to him, stopping him in the halls of work, hovering by his desk gently asking how he was doing. He’d seen the worry in your eyes and god it just made the guilt resurface tenfold. He couldn’t bear the idea of burdening you with this darkness inside of him, of the disappointment in your eyes as he admitted to you how truly close he was to falling apart.

So he pulled away.

One evening a few days ago, he’d ignored you as you knocked at his door, even though he knew you’d seen the light seeping from under it. He’d stayed perfectly still as you softly called his name, your voice full of concern, and he’d wanted to open the door, to fall into your arms and tell you everything. To cry, and to ask for help, but the thought of facing you and admitting his shortcomings was too hard. When you’d finally left he’d felt so lonely that he fell into a dissociative state that took hours to pass.

So Spencer did what he always did when things got too unbearable. He buried himself in his work, in the many books littering his apartment, anything to distract him from the chaos in his head. He avoided eye contact, deflected your questions with half-hearted jokes and reassurances, and drowned himself in statistics and theories to keep the cravings -and shame- at bay.

But no amount of isolation could stop the storm from raging inside of him and deep down Spencer knew sooner or later it would catch up to him, that he couldn’t outrun the truth forever.

He was broken.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —

The turning point came on a rainy Thursday night, after a long, draining case. The team had dispersed hours ago, but something was stopping you from leaving. Something about the way Spencer had disappeared into the conference room without a word made you loiter. You’d waited a while but finally dug up the courage to approach, when you’d gotten to the conference room, you found the door slightly ajar, and inside Spencer sat at the table, head in his hands, and his body full of tension- like the weight of the world was on his shoulders and it was crushing him.

“Spencer?” you said quietly, trying to avoid startling him.

You saw how his body language changed, straightening up his posture but remaining stiff. “I’m fine,” He said quickly, voice clipped, but you knew better. Everything about him was screaming to you that he was far from fine- his tone, his posture, the heavy slump in his shoulders.

You stepped further inside, closing the door behind you, “It's okay to not be okay.” You knew it sounded cliche but it was oddly fitting for this moment. You sit in the chair opposite him.

For a minute he didn’t respond, but when he finally raised his head his eyes were glassy, bloodshot and so full of pain that it made your chest ache. “I don’t know what to say,” he muttered, so quietly you almost missed it.

“Then don’t. Don’t say anything, just let me be here with you.”

His brow furrowed slightly, taken back by the simplicity of your answer, at how you didn’t push for more, and he nodded, darting his eyes away from you like he thought you’d see into his soul, reading into his deepest darkest thoughts just with a glance.

You waited for a while, the silence stretching yet it wasn’t uncomfortable. To him it just felt like a reminder that he didn’t have to carry this alone. Eventually Spencer's voice cut through the silence, shaky and hesitant.

“I swear I was doing okay,” He said, picking at the skin around his nails. “But after Vaughn, after Ryan, everything came rushing back. The cravings, the doubt…the self hatred. I keep wishing it was me he’d killed because this is so much scarier than death. The fear of it happening again, of me falling so deep into the darkness that it swallows me. The fear of not trusting myself.”

The honesty in his words broke something inside of you, but you refused to let it show. Instead, you put your hand across the table, offering it to him if he needed it, and you keep your voice steady and calm. “Then trust me. You’re strong, you’re still here and fighting. That’s the truth, and the truth matters more than ‘what ifs’.”

He laughs bitterly, shaking his head. “It doesn’t feel like enough. I’ve been to meeting after meeting, read so many books, and nothing is helping. I feel hopeless. I feel stuck.” He looks up at you, his eyes searching yours, trying to determine if you were genuinely worried. “Why do you care so much?”

“Because you’re my friend,” You said without hesitation. “I care about you, Spencer. Not because you’re a genius or because you save lives everyday, but because you’re a good person. An honest to god good person. You’re a rarity nowadays, and good people deserve to have someone in their corner. Plus we all need help sometimes, there’s no shame in it.”

His lower lip trembled slightly, and he looked away, blinking rapidly. “I don’t know if I can let you in. I’ve spent so long building up these walls that I’m not sure if I can knock them down again. It was just easier that way.”

“I get it,” You say, getting up and walking over to his side of the table, sitting next to him and taking his hand gently. “But easier isn’t always better. You’ve been carrying this weight alone for so long, but you don’t have to. Not anymore. Let me help.”

For a brief moment, he didn’t say anything, then slowly nodded. “I don’t know where to start, though.”

“That's okay, we’ll figure it out together. One step at a time, alright?” You said, squeezing his hand.

He gave you a small tentative smile- a real one this time. It wasn’t much but enough to make you believe he’d be okay.

And for the first time in weeks, Spencer let himself believe it too.

[niteskysx]

part 3/3 of Putting in the Work 🧎🏻‍♀️😩😭🙈😩✨🤭

spencer reid x fem! reader (yxn)

The last student had left, leaving you and Dr. Reid alone in the classroom. You were overwhelmed with this whole situation and you didn't know what was happening with Dr. Reid so you decided it was best to switch professors and transfer to another class for the remaining of this semester. Hesitantly, you approached his desk with a transfer request form.

"I need you to sign this," you said, holding out the important document. "It's really important."

Dr. Reid was completely absorbed in grading papers when you approached him. He He glanced briefly at the form before turning his attention to you. He took the document from your hand and asked, "What’s this?"

"It's a transfer order to switch classes," you explained, swallowing and almost trembling. "I need you to sign it, please."

He looked at you for a good, long minute before he started untieing his tie and let it drop onto a nearby chair. Rising from his seat, he circled around you, slowly walking behind you. Your breath quickened as you felt his presence so close.

Without a word, Dr. Reid slid his fingers up your neck and began to kiss it. His lips were warm and soft, brushing lightly against your skin. You shivered, torn between the strange pleasure and the urgent need to get him to stop and sign the form.

What’s happening? All I can think about is how this is so wrong... but it feels so good.

“Um,” you murmured, your voice trembling. “Dr. Reid, the paper—”

He continued his kisses, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders, pulling you closer. His touch was intoxicating and you found it hard to keep your focus on getting that signature, especially when the sensations were this distracting.

“Mm-hmm,” Dr. Reid replied, barely acknowledging your words. His kisses grew more insistent as he pressed closer.

You struggled to maintain your composure, your attempts to discuss the paper becoming increasingly difficult. “It’s really important,” you said, your voice breaking.

Dr. Reid’s kisses traveled along your neck and shoulders, his touch making it hard for you to think clearly. “Sure. Okay,” he replied nonchantly, his focus clearly on your neck rather than the document. He then moved to the other side of your neck, pushing your hair aside with a swift motion. His cold, long, slender fingers sent shivers down your spine.

The room was filled with the sounds of your heavy breathing, and the boundary between professor and student became increasingly blurred. Somehow, you got your focus back to the document and you persisted once again but this time, raising your voice slightly. "Dr. Reid—"

Finally, he gave up. Dr. Reid’s frustration was noticeable as he pulled back abruptly with an exasperated sigh, his breath heavy and irritated. He moved to the desk and grabbed the document with quick, decisive movements, signing it with a harsh, frustrated stroke.

He handed the signed paper back to you, his expression a mix of irritation and lingering desire. “Here,” he said snapped. “Take it.” You could tell he was angry.

You never saw him so angry before. Not even in class. Not even at other students. You felt almost afraid of him. Like, truly afraid.

You accepted the paper, feeling a a wave of relief mixed with confusion. You looked down, your cheeks flushed as you tried to avoid meeting his gaze. Dr. Reid leaned against the desk, adjusting his disheveled hair and shooting you with a look that that seemed to scream, “You can get the fuck out now."

With a nervous tremor in your voice, you managed a quiet, “T-thank you,” and hurried towards the door.

Just as you were about to leave, Dr. Reid’s voice sliced through the silence, with pure coldness in his tone. “Remember to cover those hickeys!” he barked after you in clear anger as you exited the room.

[zablife]

Now You Know the Truth (Part 7)

Tommy x wife reader

Summary: Dr. Holford comes to answer questions about Tommy's condition and you play your part as the supportive wife...perhaps too well.

Author's Note: My readers have spoken via poll, calling for a happy(ish) ending for this series. However, I also heard those of you who craved a dose of evil. I hope you enjoy the ending I've crafted for this twisted tale. I have to admit, I find it quite satisfying!

Warnings: medical situations, inaccurate medical advice, manipulation

Part 6

"If left untreated, the consequences would be dire," Dr. Holford concluded as silence blanketed the room.

Tommy stood from his desk and began pacing slowly, hands stuffed in his pockets as he began to shake his head in disagreement. "If," he mumbled disgustedly. He cast a long shadow where he stood above the doctor's chair, glowering as he pronounced, "You don't know a bloody thing about what's going to happen."

"Tommy, please, you promised to listen," you began, exchanging a worried glance with Dr. Holford.

"While you are correct that I do not know the exact course of events, I can say with certainty it is not a matter of if but when you succumb. Your wife tells me you enjoy race horses, playing the odds. Well let me assure you these percentages are not in your favor, sir. " Although the doctor tried to adopt a more forceful tone, Tommy only scoffed in reply.

"You people and your percentages. Wasn't it your doctors who told my aunt the gold salts worked without fail?" he asked, eyebrow cocked defiantly.

"As I've explained, your condition is quite different and the treatment I'm offering is a new cure," the doctor assured. "It's less invasive and we would keep your confinement to the absolute minimum."

Tommy stood rubbing his temples as he considered the gravity of the situation. Finally he asked through gritted teeth, "How long?"

"I'm afraid we won't know until we've begun, but cases similar to yours have taken less than six months,” Dr. Holford advised, mouth twitching slightly as he spoke. Every moment spent deceiving your husband was wearing down his defenses and you prayed Tommy wouldn't notice the poorly concealed nervous tremor.

Tommy grumbled as he reached for his cigarette case, a rumble of dissatisfaction issuing forth. "I'm a busy man, doctor. My business interests combined with the care of my pregnant wife….That isn't possible," he concluded, the snap of his lighter finalizing the decision hastily.

Rising to your feet, you placed a hand to Tommy's forearm gently. "That's exactly why you must get well soon," you pleaded. "I need you, Tom," you said with as much sincerity as you could muster.

Though you could feel his icy blue eyes upon you, a sudden waft of smoke created a veil between you. Momentarily, you were transported to Dr. Holford's office and the moment your final plan for Tommy took shape.

I will insist he get well and thus he will refuse to go. That’s when you must present the second option. However, Tommy must be thoroughly convinced in order to believe he's chosen it for himself.

Yes, but are you certain this is what you want, Mrs. Shelby? The effects would be irreversible.

As you refocused on Tommy's crystal irises, Dr. Holford's voice came wafting over your shoulder like a siren call. "There is another way.”

Tommy broke from you suddenly, attempting to hide his curiosity and failing when he rushed out the words, “Go on.”

Sitting forward, the doctor explained, “Some colleagues of mine have shared their research on an experimental procedure to remove the tumor instead of attempting to shrink it.”

“A simpler, more effective solution?” Tommy mused.

“More painful perhaps, but certainly less time to execute,” the doctor conceded with quickening breath, his knee bouncing slightly as he cut his eyes toward you. “And the results would be..." he paused for emphasis, "immediate."

Your eyes gleamed at his word choice, hopeful Tommy would seize upon his promise.

“Pain is the least of my concerns,” Tommy replied gruffly, crushing his cigarette into the ashtray forcefully.

You could tell by his determination, he had made up his mind without you having to ask, but you voiced the question for Dr. Holford's benefit. "Then you'll agree to put this behind us before the baby arrives?" you prodded.

He only nodded with clenched jaw as Dr. Holford reached into his briefcase for the consent forms.

"Fucking get on with it then," Tommy announced to no one in particular as he signed them and stormed out of the room.

"Thank you," you mouthed to the doctor.

He returned your show of appreciation with a small, but triumphant nod.

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

One year later...

"There she is! There's mummy!" Frances called in sing song, crossing the lawn to bring you a wriggling infant.

"Did you have a lovely nap, my darling?" you asked the tiny raven haired cherub, her bright blue eyes catching the light and glinting back at you mischievously. At times she looked so much like Tommy, it stole your breath.

"Not long enough," Frances replied with apologetic eyes. "Mr. Shelby woke her ma'am. I'm awfully sorry."

"Is he wandering the halls again?" you sighed.

"I'm afraid so, but the nurse is coming to fetch him,” she assured you.

"No, there’s no need," you replied with a cheerful smile. "We’ll tend to daddy, won’t we?” you asked your child, hoisting her onto your hip as Frances went back to her other duties. Meanwhile your daughter gurgled back at you happily and you stopped to admire her, heart flooding with overwhelming joy.

Strolling back through the well manicured grounds you surveyed the magnificent face of Arrow House. “This will all be yours one day,” you promised placing a kiss to her temple. “Mummy saw to it because I love you so,” you cooed to her in the soothing voice reserved for bedtime fairy tales.

As you rounded the corner to the room that you once shared with your husband, you sighed softly at the sight of him sitting on the bed, struggling to unbutton his shirt. A maid passed you in the hall, offering a sympathetic smile. “Mr. Shelby looks well today,” she chirped encouragingly, her green eyes shining with admiration for your bravery.

In truth, everyone looked upon you with kindness after the unfortunate outcome of your husband’s brain surgery. Though docile and calm, he had been left simple minded, relying on you for every decision.

“I think you’re right, Mary,” you agreed, closing the door to your husband’s room for privacy.

Bringing your daughter to his bedside, you watched him slowly form the words to greet her, a lazy smile settling on his face before returning to his task. Placing her on the floor to play, you turned back to help him remove his shirt and swing his legs into bed.

You pulled the covers up to his chin and pushed the fringe from his forehead, watching as his empty eyes gazed back at you. All the spite and malice of years past erased with no hint of the formidable man he once was. At times it made you believe you could love him if not for the suffering that came before, which you could neither forgive nor forget.

Pulling back to study him, your face hardened involuntarily at the memory of all the years you spent under the reign of his cruelty. How the tide had turned, you thought as you watched your now frail husband draw breath.

"Y/n?" he called out, hand reaching from beneath the duvet to reach for you. "My love?"

Leaning forward to tuck him in, your lips brushed past his ear whispering, “How long have you been dead for, darling? Lost inside your mind. Have you forgotten?" Your breath fanned over him in a gentle wave, making him shudder slightly and you relished it.

Your lips curled into a satisfied smile as you hissed, "I'm not yours any longer, but make no mistake you are mine until the day you die." Then you leaned down to retrieve your daughter, walking away to leave him sputtering in distress.

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[pumpkin-patch-cat]

Distraction

Zayne | gn! Reader

Warnings: |18+|MDNI| - Oral, body fluids, dirty stuff OoOoO

Just some filthy Zayne brainrot because yes💅.

AN: Ignore any and all grammar mistakes as this was written quickly, proofing is tedious, and words are hard >:(!

Okay, enjoy!

He's uncertain as to how it escalated this far, but you're on your knees now, his dick prodding the back of your throat. Your head bobs to the rhythm of each trust. He's doing his best to stay quiet within the confines of his office.

Biting his fist, fisting his own hair. Your lips are heaven. Your tongue is home. How easily you had him falling apart at the seams. A man statuesque in the way he carries himself. Now crumbling like delicate marble in your hands.

"Y-you...mmph...I'm gonna cum soon...fuck" Your swollen lips slip off his dick with a pop.

"Language, Dr. Zayne." You giggle from your place between his legs when he squints his eyes in response and weaves his fingers into your hair for a firm grip. He holds the base of his dick with the other hand and rubs it along your bottom lip, no words needed. His weeping tip beckons you to continue.

"Do not stop now." "Wouldn't dare" It disappears into your mouth once more.

Wet...

Sloppy... Drool gathering and spilling over the edges of your lips and onto his lap. "Right there...shit...just like that." You'd never seen him pant before. "Yanguagesh (language)" you joke, mouth full. "Mmm shut up and suck. Please" still so polite. His voice held no anger, and you took no offense. Nay, his neediness made you chuckle, boosting your ego. Zayne's jaw sat slightly slack with parted lips. Watching on intently as you took him with ease, drawing him closer and closer to his sought-after release. "I can't hold it, y/n..." "Let me tashte you" Hands on his thighs, you skillfully, albeit painfully take him deeper, spurred on by the hand on your head and the upward thrusting of his hips. "Son of a-" Zayne bites his hand again, the ghost of a pathetic whimper hanging in the air. Hips sputtering through the white-hot orgasm, sending tremors rippling through his body. Each warm ribbon of cum that saturates your throat induces a feeling akin to a spark straight to your core. The leather chair below him creaks with every rough stutter of his hips before slowly tapering off along side the orgasmic high. Eyes glittering from below and your cheeks puffed slightly after he unsheathes himself, you wink up at the man, sitting back on your haunches. Zayne smirks. "Not going to swallow?" You shake your head. It's not that he tastes bad, it's just not your thing. "Open then, let me see" he whispers. Soft fingers caress your cheek before gently holding your chin and squeezing slightly. Without breaking eye contact, you slowly and obediently open your mouth to let his cum and your saliva dribble down your chin creating a few long, misty strands that ooze down to the floor. He'll clean it up later. Hazel eyes dip to your mouth in awe. "So vulgar...so beautiful" The praise had you preening with delight. Especially knowing that you managed to distract the doctor enough from giving you another lecture on your health. ⋆ʚ ❀ ɞ˚‧⋆ Mission accomplished ⋆ʚ ❀ ɞ˚‧⋆

[talesfromthecrypts]

What are some movies that you’d recommend that use a lot of good practical effects?

Ok knowing that practical effects is going to cover a wide range of things (makeup effects, in camera effects, puppets, gore):

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (1931)

Vampyr (1932)

King Kong (1933)

The Invisible Man (1933)

The Wolf Man (1941)

Godzilla (1954)

The Incredible Shrinking Man (1957)

Jason and the Argonauts (1963)

Viy (1967)

The Exorcist (1973)

Dawn of the Dead (1978)

Alien (1979) (of course)

The Beyond (1981)

The Howling (1981)

An American Werewolf in London (1981)

The Thing (1982)

Basketcase (1982)

The Dark Crystal (1982) (not horror but its my buddy)

Creepshow (1982)

Videodrome (1983)

The Company of Wolves (1984)

Gremlins (1984)

Day of the Dead (1985)

Fright Night (1985)

Re-Animator (1985)

Aliens (1986)

The Fly (1986)

From Beyond (1986)

Little Shop of Horrors (1986)

The Gate (1987)

Hellraiser (1987)

Bad Taste (1987)

Robocop (1987)

The Blob (1988)

Pumpkinhead (1988)

Society (1989)

Nightbreed (1990)

Tremors (1990)

Arachnophobia (1990)

Death Becomes Her (1992)

Starship Troopers (1997) (not horror in the slightest but the bugs look so fucking good)

Pan's Labyrinth (2006)

Hatchet (2006)

Martyrs (2008)

Evil Dead (2013) (as far as I'm aware all effects except the first are practical)

Clown (2014)

Spring (2014)

Krampus (2015) (Krampus himself is all practical)

The Void (2016)

Rabid (2019)

The Sadness (2021)

Hatching (2022)

[malecardiolove]

The Test, chapter 3

The sharp sound of an alarm filled the lab as Dr. Ruiz watched the screen projecting Jack’s heart rate. There was no pulse. The graph displayed a flat line, unmoving, as the young man’s heart had completely stopped after the extreme cooling. Without losing his composure, Ruiz turned off the device and opened the tank.

Jack’s body was cold, his skin pale and covered with droplets of water that slowly dripped onto the lab floor. Ruiz lifted him with surprising ease and placed him on a nearby stretcher. Jack’s bare chest, covered in electrodes, rose and fell only by inertia, but there was no life in his heartbeat. The doctor looked at him with calculating eyes, as if he were an experiment with endless possibilities yet to be explored.

"Don’t fail me now," he whispered, making a quick decision.

With precise movements, Ruiz began cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR). His hands pressed Jack’s chest with rhythmic force, trying to stimulate the heart to resume its beat. Each compression seemed futile, but the doctor didn’t stop. After two minutes, sweat started trickling down Ruiz's forehead, but he showed no signs of fatigue. He knew he had to push to the limit.

After ten minutes of CPR without any response, the doctor prepared for the next step. He took the defibrillator and placed the paddles on Jack’s chest, his skin still cold. The machine emitted a beep before delivering the shock. Jack’s body arched violently, but the monitor still registered no heartbeat.

"Don’t go so fast," Ruiz murmured with a faint, twisted smile.

With an almost sick determination, he decided to continue. He injected an orange liquid into the vein in Jack’s arm, an experimental solution prepared specifically for this phase. The liquid slowly flowed through Jack’s body, seeking to reach his stopped heart.

One minute passed. Then two.

And then, a faint tremor ran through Jack’s body. The monitor displayed a small fluctuation. The heart, after nearly fifteen minutes of stillness, began to beat again. At first, slowly; just a few weak beats that seemed like desperate attempts to restart. But gradually, the beat grew stronger.

"There you are," Ruiz murmured, satisfaction evident in his voice.

Jack, barely conscious, opened his eyes slightly, seeing with blurred vision as the doctor continued to gently massage his heart with his hands. He could feel it, a strange rhythmic pressure keeping him in this fragile balance between life and death.

“Breathe, Jack. Your heart is beating again,” Ruiz said, listening through the stethoscope as the sound of the slow but present beats filled the room.

The young man couldn’t move. He was completely weak, almost without strength, barely aware of what was happening around him. He could only sense the lingering cold in his bones and the strange warmth emanating from his chest as his heart, enlarged by the orange liquid, struggled to beat.

Ruiz turned on the echocardiogram and carefully observed the boy’s heart on the screen. The beats were slow but steady, and the image clearly showed the enlarged size of the organ.

“Incredible,” he murmured, fascinated by the outcome. “It’s grown in size, but I see no damage to the chambers. You’re more resilient than I expected.”

Ruiz fell silent for a moment, thoughtful. Then, he made a decision.

“We’ll do one last test. We can’t stop here.”

He picked up the defibrillator again. Jack barely understood what was happening before another shock went through his body. Pain surged from head to toe, an electric jolt shaking every fiber of his being.

The monitor showed the heart, exhausted, beginning to fail again. The beats slowed once more until there was nothing. The graph showed a flat line again. Jack’s heart had stopped for the second time.

Ruiz smiled, satisfied with the result.

“It’s fascinating how your body responds. Let’s see how much more you can withstand.”

Jack, floating in a deep darkness and unable to move, heard the doctor’s last words as a distant echo. His life was now entirely in Ruiz’s hands, and his heart, reduced to a tool in the doctor’s cruel experiment, could only wait for the next blow.