#i had to surgically remove some scenes

[breadandbees]

tomorrow’s thursday and i’ve got a WHOLE other read-through for what i’m considering is BARELY a first draft

update’s gotta be postponed until likely next week

so far, chapter 17 looks like it’ll be wrapped up and onto revisions by the end of today! projected update next thursday! WOOOOO!

[firelxdykatara]

Why wasn’t Katara at the trial where Unalaq accused Tonraq, Senna & co of treason? The trial happened in her home. Doesn’t she care that the Chief of her tribe is being threatened with the death sentence? You’re telling me that Asami and Bolin care more about the future of the SWT than Katara?

The fact that Katara is not so much as mentioned in either episode of the Civil Wars two-parter is so flagrantly egregious that I actually had to double check the transcripts because I was sure that it couldn't have been that bad. But oh boy was I wrong. (Katara's name is mentioned once in the summary of the episode, notably as a reference that isn't actually part of the episode's plot because she isn't fucking there, does not appear in either transcript, and there is one 'mention' in the second episode where Kya shows a photograph to her brothers, saying she got it from 'mom'. Notably, the photo is used to 'prove' that their family was a happy one despite their griping and irate reminiscing, even though all actual evidence seems to indicate the opposite lmao)

The serious and genuine answer is that it's the same reason Katara wasn't at Yakone's bloodbending trial, despite ostensibly being the person who single-handedly saw to it that bloodbending was outlawed (over which Yakone carried a serious grudge!) and being the person best equipped to subdue him if something went wrong (which it did). It's also the same reason Katara wasn't allowed to attend her own granddaughter's Air Master ceremony, despite this being the most significant milestone of every airbender's life. It's the same reason why Katara wasn't allowed to talk about her own life or achievements, even when trying to connect with and help the Avatar or her own children--no, she was always talking about Aang, what he achieved, his legacy.

It's also the same reason that Korra asked Zuko for insight, telling him that he knew Aang better than anyone, despite having been raised and trained by Aang's fucking wife!

And that reason is that Bryke just did not give two shits about her as a character. They didn't care enough to establish her in old age as anything but a sad old woman missing her husband and having sad distance from her children. Zuko and Toph got to have a few scenes to shine, and even Sokka got to be at Yakone's trial in the same flashback where Katara was conspicuously absent--not to mention all three of them got statues commemorating their achievements, and recognition from the cast as being famous and cool (but oh no, not Katara!). In fact, the only member of the gaang who had less presence in the series was Suki, and that's because she doesn't show up at all after the opening art in the very first episode. (Which, arguably, is better than what Katara got; at least this way, there's nothing in canon saying Suki had her entire personality surgically removed and replaced with Wife and Mother and Nothing Else.)

It's egregious and infuriating and I hate hate hate all the excuses that keep cropping up ("She's so old!!!" yeah, so are Toph and Zuko, they still got to kick some ass and protect their families; "LoK isn't about the Gaang!!!!" yeah well AtLA wasn't about the White Lotus either but those old ass men were able to kick ass and take names and help to set the world to rights! one of whom was OVER A CENTURY OLD SHUT UP ABOUT HOW OLD KATARA IS; "She wanted to settle down after the war!!!" ok well there's no amount of 'settling down' that will convince me Katara would sit by, at any age, and let her people tear themselves apart, or let her entire family be slaughtered, without lifting a finger, and while there's nothing wrong with healing we see very clearly in the original series that this was not Katara's passion! SHE LOVED COMBAT BENDING SHE HAD FUN WITH IT!!!!) because all they really say to me is that so many fans are happy to bend over backwards to respect Bryke's muddy fucking vision, and I simply refuse.

Where's that post where it has the screencap of Pakku telling Katara to go back to the healing huts and then cutting to LoK of Katara doing just that? Cause that's basically the essence of the beast here lmao.

[howtofightwrite]

I’m gonna be honest, I’m not very good at numbers and visualizing how much power is needed to do something, so I felt it would be good to ask you.

How much force/how strong would a character need to be in order to cut off a hand as quickly as possible? For context, my character in a scene is being infected with a sort of symbiote, and quickly tries to hack it off before infection reaches the brain. It’s also not in an apocalyptic environment, they have access to medical equipment. (that bill is gonna make their pockets cry tho)

This is one of those times when it's about having the right tool, not about the effort. A fire axe should take off their hand pretty efficiently with one quick blow. Now, I'm not sure how well they could do this on their own, or if they'd really need an ally to lop off their hand. I'm pretty sure you could get it done with a machete, though probably not as easily. I'd also wonder about an old-school paper cutter. There's a lot of industrial equipment that will happily lop off an unwanted limb, though, keeping it intact after removal is a different topic entirely.

Surgically reattaching the hand could be a bit of work. Assuming no magical medical technology, replacing the hand isn't a simple process. The original hand needs to be in good condition (and I'm assuming, symbiote free.) You can't fully repair the nerve connections in the severed appendage, so, while there's going to be some use of the hand, it's never going to be back at 100% (again, assuming there's no magical way to regenerate the nerve endings), age is a factor here, children have a better chance of regaining more functionality, but for an adult, it's going to be imperfect at best.

I've never interacted with someone who's undergone replantation, but, from experiences in the past with friends who had suffered nerve damage in their limbs, I'd expect numbness in some parts of the hand (or the entire hand, potentially), and limited manual dexterity. (It's possible some fingers or joints simply wouldn't work anymore.)

Additional surgical procedures may be needed, particularly for nerve grafting and adjusting tendons. In some cases the reattached limb needs to be removed and replaced with a prosthetic due to chronic pain.

Replantation technology will probably improve over into the future. But, at least presently, your character would still have a permanent injury, that impaired the use of that hand from that point forward. It's not a situation where you can glue your hand back on.

-Starke

This blog is supported through Patreon. Patrons get access to new posts three days early, and direct access to us through Discord. If you’re already a Patron, thank you. If you’d like to support us, please consider becoming a Patron.

[brucewaynehater101]

I've had a brain worm enter my mind and I can't stop thinking about it warning it gets kinda violent

Imagine:

Evil alternate yj core four kidnap the og core four(I'm gonna use the hero names for the regular yj), the evil ones bring og back the their universe(the evil one) and torture them. (Evil versions are all displayed as pink)

Evil Bart locks Impulse in a freezing room and starves him almost lethally making him unable or simply too tired to use the speed force, keeping him just fed enough that he's not dead but instead just constantly hungry, keeping his body just above hypothermic ranges but too cold to actually use his abilities.

Evil Kon starts messing with superboy's DNA, while this doesn't cause much physical pain for Superboy it does absolutely fuck up his mental state, having someone unconsentually mess with his DNA in the same way he was created? It destroys him, more than getting fangs does, or growing three inches taller, or his hair growing in blonde, or having brown eyes does. Just the fact that this evil version of himself is actively making clones of them and fiddling with his DNA breaks him.

Evil Cassie is one I haven't thought much about, she might honestly just make Wonder girl listen to her friends suffering, or something like that(I don't know much about Wonder girl so if anyone has any recommendations for what to read to get to know her better I'd be so grateful).

But evil Tim....oh evil Tim starts immediately injecting Red Robin with all kinds of toxins, poisons, and drugs while monologuing(sounding like this song[nothing]...when he notices Red Robin growing a resistance to those injections evil Tim starts taking things. Non important organs, chunks of skin, patches of hair, while also starting to destroy Red Robin ability to outwardly express emotions. Like physically express emotions. He slices Red Robin's cheeks open so he's got permanent scars in the form of a smile, he fiddles with Red Robin's vocal cords so he can't raise his voice without being in pain, he surgically removes Red Robin's tear ducts yet comes in every two minutes to put hydrating eye drops in Red Robin eyes. Evil Tim doesn't want Red Robin dead or permanently blind no he just wants to ruin tim..

When they eventually escape, by Superboy getting tired and killing the evil version of himself before throwing the evil version of Bart through several walls and getting Impulse out then Getting Wonder Girl before finally retrieving Red Robin, they somehow find their way back to their original universe. Every single one of them gets hugged by their parents/mentors, Cassie and Kon are crying, Bart is still pretty cold and very hungry so he's eating and being absolutely covered in blankets while Tim is just standing there, Batman is asking him all kinds of questions and constantly repeating the question are you okay but Tim just emptily answers them. No emotion or inflection to his tone, he's completely monotone. After a couple of minutes the young justice end up all staying at Tim's apartment, every two minutes Tim goes to the bathroom and just kinda pours water in his eyes because of how dry they're getting, the other three immediately pick up on this and Kon runs to a store to get eye drops. They do this little routine of putting drops in Tim's eyes for a few weeks before one day as Cassie's getting ready to help Tim with the eye drops Jason climbs through the window, freezing slightly before walking to go grab Tim's first aid kit. As his fixing up whatever wound he has this time Jason questions what Tim and Cassie were doing as he found them with Tim sitting on the couch, head tilted back and eyes being held open by Cassie who's standing behind the couch with a bottle of something positioned over his eyes. Tim tells Jason that he's missing his tear ducts and Jason reasonably freaks the fuck out, cue batman being called and some emotional scene happens only for it to be broken by Cassie who straight up asks Tim if he'd like some artificial tears because both Jason and Bruce are crying but Tim can't. So he straight up just says "y'know what. Yeah, tear me Cassie." Making everyone laugh. A couple days later Damian is looking at Tim very intently and Tim questions him only to be met with ".. something looks different about your eyes." Only for Tim to wide eyed stare at Damian until he notices Tim's missing tear ducts. Cue crack/fluff with the rest of the fam

I ended that pretty weakly but I'm rlly tired and haven't slept yet so sorry if there are a ton of plot holes!♡

Holy shit. This was so dark, but all the colors are beautiful. I've been excited to answer this one due to how aesthetically pleasing it is, lmao.

Carrying on!

Might I say that Tim is just fucked. You really tortured poor Tim that I doubt he'd be able to express any emotions for a long time (not a criticism! Found the methods to be intriguing). Therefore, I think his loved ones would get used to his displays of affection changing.

Some days, even talking hurts. He just remains silent through both mental and physical blocks. Some ways he does this for YJ:

Bart's suit was remade with heaters and coolant that lasts for at least a week. He also hides a shit ton of calorie dense food on Bart and carries some for himself.

Cassie has access to YJ's vitals. When on a mission, she can glance at a screen that details how injured or safe her teammates are

Tim, after getting enthusiastic consent from Kon, reverses any effects. He also finds a way to prevent the DNA manipulation of Kon to his best ability (might not be perfect). He also includes a device that will get rid of all DNA substances Kon leaves behind (like blood, hair, skin, etc.) and gives it to Kon

Through science and magic and whatever, Tim's need to put eye drops in diminishes. He doesn't get them back, but he only needs to put them in every 24 hours or so.

Anyways, nifty and horrifying AU :)

[aislinrayne]

[𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱] [𝔖𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱]

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: Lockwood wants Reader to go to the hospital. Reader does not want to go to the hospital. A mysterious visitor arrives...

ℜ𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: M

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: Language, alluded medical trauma, Reader has a past, dealing with fear via anger, allusions to unfortunate and untimely demise, canon typical violence... pretty sure that covers it!

𝔄𝔲𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔯'𝔰 𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢: Two chapters in one week?? Who am I. There's only been a few major changes to this one since the original release as I was actually pretty happy with it, so I didn't want to make you wait any longer than was 100% necessary. Shorter word count on this one too since the next two are already monsters

𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 2.66k

⇠ 𝔓𝔯𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯

  “For the last time, I am not going to the fucking hospital!” she spits, the final threads of her restraint turning to spider’s silk and breaking under the weight of the fear hiding behind her anger.  Lockwood’s narrowed eyes glare daggers at her across the thinking cloth.  He scoffs as he leans back, crossing his arms defensively over his chest.

  He swears he can see steam pouring from her ears.  She swears he’s an argumentative prick.

  Their… ‘disagreement’ has been slowly building over the course of several hours, culminating in an explosion of epic proportions in the kitchen around lunch time.  She insists she’s fine, that she barely even has a headache left over from the incident the night before.  He insists she’s irritable, and is clearly having difficulties focusing.  George – who had spent the previous night in his old room after losing track of time researching an upcoming case – chimes in to mention that isn’t exactly out of the ordinary, and the look she gives him in response could probably peel paint.

  He mutters something under his breath about picking something up from Arif’s as he flees the room, grabbing his coat from the floor in front of its designated hook and opening their front door just as Lucy reaches the top step.  She quirks an eyebrow and opens her mouth to question his urgent departure, but he vehemently shakes his head to silence her.  Grabbing her by the wrist, he drags her behind him as he flees the scene of what he is certain will soon to be a crime.

  The first one to break the terse silence of their glaring contest is Lockwood.

  “Look, I’m not trying to be an arse-”

  “Since when do you have to try?” she interjects bitterly, pushing away from where she’d been leaning against the counter and raising her arms to rake her fingers through her hair.  He grits his teeth, trying to bite back a scathing rebuttal.  Her fingers lace behind her head and she stares at the ceiling as if begging for strength.  She paces back and forth in front of the kitchen sink like a caged animal, and his heart aches at the sight.  Even if he disregards whatever past she’s unwilling to disclose and only considers what he knows about the strength and nature of her talent, it’s understandable why she isn’t keen to be surrounded by the painful echoes of lives lost in a multitude of traumatic ways.

  That being said; some things are worth facing discomfort for, and her long-term safety will always be at the top of that list to him.  He takes a deep breath, schooling his expression into something more neutral before trying another approach.

  “I understand you don’t like hospitals, and I respect that you have your reasons,” he assents, “so what about a clinic?  Something small practice, with no ghost-locked patients?”  He uncrosses his arms and raises his palms in a placating manner, silently imploring her to be reasonable.

  She fixes him with a suspicious glare and he worries he’s accidentally stumbled upon a landmine, but it isn’t long before she visibly deflates, dropping her arms and staring intently at her now fidgeting hands instead of meeting his gaze.  While it wouldn’t remove the discomfort of the dull lights and surgical cleanliness, nor the chill she still gets from being around doctors in general, not having to be around ghost-locked residents would help a considerable amount…

  “Fine,” she eventually mumbles, more misery and reluctance packed into one syllable than he’d ever heard before.  She wants nothing more than to hide and wait for the problem to go away, but when he looks at her with those eyes – soft, pleading, filled with distress – she can’t say no to a half-decent compromise.  No matter how desperately she wants to. “but only on one condition.”

  “Anything,” he replies instantly.  He’s too relieved to be embarrassed by his immediate willingness to do whatever she’d ask of him, or by the breathless quality of his voice.

  She picks at the skin around her fingernails as she gets lost in a maze of tumultuous thoughts.  Showing any sign of weakness isn’t exactly easy for her.  Vulnerability is terrifying, and the concept of actually relying on someone else is as intimidating as it is foreign.

  Familiar with this pattern by now, Lockwood takes the time to gently rotate his neck and release some of the tension he’d built up.  He gives her the space she needs to muster the courage necessary to coax her thoughts into words.

  When she does speak again, it’s so quiet he almost can’t hear her.

  “Come with me,” she begs, her voice hardly more than a whisper.  It’s such a contrast to the bravado and indignant fury from earlier that it almost steals his breath away.

  He has to fight every fibre of his being as it screams to cross the table and hold her, to protect her from anything and everything that has ever made her feel the need to make herself small.  Suddenly he’s filled with hatred towards faceless memories he’s never even heard as more than fearful cries echoing through the house on the nights she wakes from night terrors she never speaks of come the light of day.

  It takes a moment for him to remember how to use his voice again.

  Anywhere, he wants to say.  “Of course,” he says instead; as though it were a fact, some kind of indisputable truth.  As though there was never any other way he could answer.  If he were to be completely honest with himself, there wasn’t.  He would do anything to have a front row seat to every glimpse of vulnerability showing through the cracks of her perfectly constructed mask. 

  

He’s distracted from his lovesick internal monologue by the sound of an urgent knocking on their front door.  

  The noise startles her. She jumps, lifting her head to meet his eyes.  She raises a challenging eyebrow at him.  It’s a look he knows is accusing him of arranging a meeting with a client today and forgetting about it.  He shrugs, replying with a series of nods and puzzled looks that he hopes conveys his understanding of her reasons for doubting him, but he genuinely doesn’t know who it could be.  He pushes himself out of his seat to go greet their guest.  

  The sound of her quiet footsteps on the linoleum tells him she’s not far behind, likely planning to eavesdrop from out of sight in case it happens to be trouble knocking.  Considering their track record, that’s probably a good call.

  His hand grasps the door handle– but something stops him from opening it immediately.  A strange shiver down his spine urges him to look through the peephole.  The first thing he sees is the top of a balding head, the portly man attached to it coming into view a few seconds later as he steps back to wait and wring his hands.  The man looks harmless enough.  Lockwood shakes off his unease, slides the locks back, and swings the door open theatrically.

  “Good afternoon, sir.  Anthony Lockwood of Lockwood and Co., at your service.  Do you have an appointment today?” he asks, extending his hand and donning his megawatt smile despite knowing damn well the startled little man did not.  

  The man in question stares with too-big eyes from behind too-small spectacles, and for a moment Lockwood can almost see a terrified mouse standing frozen on his welcome mat instead.    The man gasps and lurches forward, quickly stuffing a clammy and trembling hand into the one offered to him.

  “Oh, yes!  Yes, very good.  My name is Oscar Hughes, pleasure to make your acquaintance,” the mouse/man proclaims, shaking the offered hand vigorously, “I don’t have an appointment, but I do have some information that I think will pique your interest.”  

  The name lights a spark of recognition at the back of his mind, but Lockwood can’t quite put his finger on why, leaving him standing in awkward silence for a split second longer than he’s comfortable with.

  “Forgive me if I’m mistaken, but are you the same Oscar Hughes who owns the Lighthouse Theatre?” asks the woman behind him, and Anthony has the urge to either give her a raise or sweep her off her feet.  He makes a mental note to check their wages budget.  Oscar dips his head in confirmation, glancing down the street behind him with what seems to be concern.  

  “It appears I’ve been quite rude.  Terribly sorry, Mr. Hughes, why don’t you come in so we can talk in private?” Lockwood accepts the man’s cue and steps aside to allow him entry, returning to the picture of professionalism with zero hesitation.  He can almost feel the girl behind him fighting the urge to roll her eyes at him.  It’s only once he realises that the shorter man hasn’t moved that he sees the cane in his right hand, bowing under the strain of supporting the majority of his weight.  Internally scolding himself for becoming so distracted, Anthony offers Oscar his arm to cross the raised threshold.  

  As her boss helps the fidgety man into their foyer, she offers him a reassuring smile and extends her hand to take his jacket.  He bows his head repeatedly in thanks, firing off a few rapid sentiments of gratitude before allowing himself to be led into the sitting room to discuss the case.

  Lockwood takes a seat in the armchair, gesturing to the loveseat to convey his want for their potential client to sit across from him.  Oscar hesitates for a split second before shuffling over and dropping onto the well worn cushions.

  “Now, that’s much more comfortable.  All that’s missing now is some tea and biscuits; would you mind, love?” his voice is soft, the pet name slipping past his lips before he has a chance to think about it.  There’s a pause, the slight twitch of his brow the only significant outward sign of his immediate panic.  Thankfully, she takes it in stride and exits the room with a quiet affirmation and an air of purpose.

  He doesn’t see the blood rushing to her cheeks, or notice her relief at being given an excuse to exit stage right to compose herself.  He does find the lack of ribbing slightly unusual, but he figures she’s probably trying not to embarrass him in front of their client.  That theory is swiftly dismissed when he remembers she would definitely jump at the opportunity to do precisely that.

  He’ll have time to worry more about the implications of that when there isn’t a potentially high-profile client sitting less than five feet away from him, he reminds himself.  

  Clearing his throat, Lockwood leans back into his seat, crossing his legs and fixing the cuffs of his sleeves in one smooth motion.  

  “Excellent!  While we wait, Mr. Hughes, I believe you’d mentioned having some information that might interest me?”

  “Right, to the point, then.  You may have heard of the tragic case of Alexandra Wright?” he stares at the younger man expectantly, waiting for confirmation as if the whole of Marylebone hadn’t been following the case for years.

  Alexandra Wright had been a young local stage actress at the start of a very promising career when she’d suddenly disappeared without a trace.  She’d been playing Titania in a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream in Mr. Hughes' own theatre on the last evening anyone had seen or heard from her.  She’d declined her Oberon, Matthew Moffat’s invitation to have a celebratory drink with the cast on the eve of their final performance, opting instead to go home for a quiet evening with her feline companion and a bottle of wine.  

  Unfortunately she’d never made it back to her flat.  Death wasn’t exactly uncommon even in those days, but it was the mystery of it all that made it so hard for the town to move on.

  Occasionally there would be whispers of spottings; the grocer down the way who closed late one night would swear he’d seen her hurrying along from ghost lamp to ghost lamp, or Mrs. Peterson who swore her granddaughter had told her of seeing a ghost perfectly matching Alexandra’s description.

  Despite the small town rumblings and rumours, no legitimate reports of a Visitor matching her description had been seen since her unusual disappearance.

  Until now, if one were to believe the claims of Mr. Hughes.

  Apparently, the ghost of Ms. Wright had been Visiting an alley adjacent to the theatre, leaving those unlucky enough to have to pass through even before curfew with a persistent sense of dread.  Those with Talent who lived in the flats above the alley reported seeing her wailing as she tried to drag herself away from the invisible echo of the assailants responsible for her untimely demise.

  His associate had returned part way through Oscar’s account, and when she steps away after handing their guest his cup she looks downright nauseas.

  Lockwood can’t resist the urge to reach out and run the back of his fingers comfortingly up and down the back of her arm.  She turns her head to give him a grateful little smile, and surprises him by moving to perch on the armrest of his chair instead of taking one of the other empty seats in the room.  He’s never been more unsure about what to do with his hands.

  “As you can imagine, these rumours haven’t exactly encouraged paying customers to come knocking,”  Hughes laughs dryly, his eyes portraying an edge neither of them had thought him particularly capable of.

  “My team and I will investigate tomorrow evening, and I assure you we will do so with the utmost discretion,”  Lockwood flashes him his signature grin, easily gathering the underlying meaning behind the man’s words as he leans back 

  “Oh, well, you see…  Time is of the essence, if I dare be so bold.  I was hoping you’d be willing to take a look this evening.”

  Lockwood considers him for a moment.  On one hand, he’s certain Lucy would tan his hide if she caught wind of him taking on a case of this magnitude without her.  On the other, there are so many similarities between the cases of Alexandra Wright and Annabel Ward that even after all these years he finds himself eager to solve it without sticking her in the middle of it all.

  And George…  Well, with his Talent now gone, George preferred to avoid being in the field whenever possible.  The likelihood of a scolding from him was much lower than it would have been when they were young.  Hell, Flo would probably even thank him for keeping the man out of it–

  A hand resting featherlight on his shoulder pulls him from his thoughts.

  When he turns to look at her, her eyes are already on him, and they’re glittering with excitement.  She knows as well as he does what solving this mystery could do for Lockwood & Co., and for him.  He’d told her about Fairfax and Ward when they had started becoming closer to friends than colleagues.  About the crushing frustration and disappointment that had hounded him for years after, urging him to make impulsive and reckless decisions to try and regain what he felt had been stolen from him.

  Frustration at a system supposedly put in place to protect Agents being manipulated to treat them as tools and nothing more, disappointment at having the crown jewel accomplishment of the legacy he’d been trying so hard to build torn from his hands mere moments after earning it. ‘Do it,’ her eyes seem to urge, ‘say yes.’  His heart soars.

  Emboldened by her touch and eager to right a wrong once done upon him, ignoring a strange sense of dread as that familiar feeling of invincibility settles over him, he fixes his eyes on their client once more.

  “All right, Mr. Hughes.  We begin at sunset.”

𝔑𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 ⇢

taglist (if your name is in bold, it wouldn't let me tag you!):

❁ @shakespearseclipse ❁ @tessas4 ❁ @chloejaniceeee ❁ @ettadear ❁

❁ @kassandra1000 ❁ @stardust611 ❁ @ell0ra-br3kk3r ❁

❁ @hellojameshowyadoin ❁ @Sarahhelpimsinking ❁ @soapshipper ❁

❁ @myownpainintheass ❁ @furblrwurblr ❁ @sleep-i-ness ❁

❁ @uku-lelevillain ❁

[opluffys]

Mentor + Mentee-

-second part-

somethin quick, this was posted to my archive first as usual. pls let me know if there are any errors or if it copied weird. enjoy!!! :)

tags- thigh riding, vaginal sex, creampie, rough sex, toxic relationship, fem reader.

3.5k words.

-Ghost x Reader-

-nsfw/smut-

Hanging up and tossing the heavy wired phone onto your desk, you groaned in pure exasperation. The paperwork on your desk seemed endless, the monotonous and drab of black ink on bright white paper burning your irises, enforcing a migraine on you.

You've just gotten off the phone with, whoever the fuck, discussing the possibility of getting an assistant to help you with the excess of paperwork you've been filling out as of late. You were a doctor, your main job consisted of ensuring your patients didn't bleed out under your steady and careful hand. It was already hard enough, and now you had the added stress of the sneering stack of papers mocking you.

You clicked the ballpoint pen, bouncing your leg as the tip of the pen hit the paper, dark ink pooling and bleeding through the thin material. Your grip tightened just then, the bouncing of your leg increasing tenfold as your thoughts ran wild.

And as you continued to think, you remembered a crucial detail.

The Task Force, fuck, they're coming back today. From some mission, and you're sure Gaz told you all about it while you gave him a routine checkup, but for the life of you, you couldn't remember the main gist of it.

You didn't want to face them, face him.

•

Biting back a wail of pain as you removed the intravenous line from Soap's arm, you heard Gaz howl in laughter from the spare cot he rested on. Which had garnered him an angered stare by Soap.

"You're such a baby," Gaz laughed, turning on his side to stare right at both you and Soap.

"Fuck off." Soap gritted, hissing in agony as you continued to stitch up his lesion.

"You gonna make me?" He teased, his stare not faltering on Soap's. He glared at him, about to retaliate with his own quip before you proceeded to wipe his wound clean, the sterile stench of the antiseptic flooding your nostrils. He let out a muted scream, his good arm covering the top half of his face.

"Keep still, Johnny." You huffed, adjusting the surgical mask pulled over your features. Gaz seemed to be having a field-day at watching the scene unfold, a smug smile on his lips.

"Gaz, I can stop the morphine drip, you know." You hummed, a hidden smile of your own forming. He looked at you, a glint of fear striking his honey eyes. You held back the urge to laugh, you enjoyed teasing both of these boys in your office, and you knew the three of you were aware that you'd never do anything to bring them more pain.

"Sorry ma'am."

Now it was Soap's turn to laugh, and you discarded your surgical gloves while hearing the two hurl crude insults at one another. They provided decent white noise, and you'd take that over the deafening silence of your rampant thoughts whilst your pen danced elegantly over the various documents.

The two eventually quieted down, a tranquil silence over them as you watched the pain medication take effect on their bodies. Not even five minutes passed before you heard them snore loudly, all cuddled up into the scratchy hospital blankets.

It'd been a couple of days since the entirety of the Task Force had returned. You've only been treating Gaz and Soap, your full attention on them. Usually, you would treat them all, but you honestly didn't want to face Ghost one on one. So, to take some heat off of you, you asked another medic to tend to both Price and Ghost. Just so he didn't feel like you'd singled him out.

But, your attempts would be in vain.

•

Stretching and hearing your joints and ligaments pop in relief, you slumped over the desk, a heavy sigh leaving your lips as you filed the last group of papers. Both Gaz and Soap had left your office today, thanking you for taking care of them (after raiding your lollipop drawer).

So, you sat alone, the small swooshes of air against your body feeling welcomed, the ceiling fan above creaking with every spin. All you'd have to do now was stamp the final line of the packet, ensuring you've read over the contents carefully, and then you were free. Free to run into the uncomfortable and ill-fitting confines of your bunk.

You were lost in the work, so much so you hadn't even noticed the hulking figure taking up most of the space within your office.

"You're avoidin' me."

You nearly shrieked in terror, almost developing a fatal case of tachycardia as you held your hand over your rapidly beating heart.

"What?" Part of you wasn't really surprised that Ghost had managed to sneak up on you, it was his job, after all.

"You're avoidin' me," He repeated, stepping closer to you in large and fluid strides.

"No, I'm not avoiding you. Don't be ridiculous." Yes, I am.

"Actin' all innocent on me," He was right across from you now, his large hands resting on the cheap and fake wood of your desk, hearing it creak under his weight, "we both know that's not the truth."

"It is." It isn't.

"Get up." He commanded, and you knew that tone, that authoritarian inside of him being twisted and used against you in a way that it shouldn't.

"I'm busy." Liar.

"I won't ask again."

You shuddered lightly, telling yourself that it was just because of the excessive air from the ceiling fan skating across your heated skin. But you knew such a thing was a falsified truth.

"What? What is so important that-"

"Come over here." He hushed you before you could even finish your sentence, seating himself on a sterilised and neatly prepped cot. It was all too familiar, to the point where that same damned familiar throbbing and heat was felt in between your legs.

Your legs shook, hesitating to even take a single step towards Ghost, your mind and body both telling you different things. It was tearing you apart in the most agonising and tortuous way.

Still, you'd made you way towards him, standing idly as you struggled to maintain eye contact with him. A scowl formed on your lips, eyes flickering to his chilled demeanour. You hated how he was always so calm- so tranquil and at ease, like he wasn't feeling the same things you were, maybe because he's not, at least not for you.

"Sit." He spread his massive legs, indicating exactly where he'd wanted you. You listened wordlessly, taking a seat on his muscled thighs, your hands fisting into your scrubs.

"Make it quick," You huffed, now attempting to remove your uniform, "I have a lot to do." You sighed, fingers hooking at your waistband and pulling down, or at least you'd attempted to do so, being stopped by a harsh hand encapsulating both of your wrists.

He held your hip with his lone hand, beginning to slide you over the thick muscle of his thigh, hearing you gasp in shock. His eyes pierced your own, roughly continuing to move you atop him, the material of both your scrubs and panties against your clit overwhelming.

The both of you continued to stare at one another, your breath quickening as you felt that cursed familiarity of your orgasm creeping up on you with silent strides. Your hands were still stuck in Ghost's firm grasp, wanting nothing more than to grab at him, to pull his mask forward and kiss him like you'd perish without it. Without him.

Just thinking of such a scenario had you reeling, your hips jerking as you felt your clit being rubbed just by his thigh alone. The feeling of his as well as your uniform dragging against that sensitive nub making your mind go hazy.

As you felt your release become imminent, he stopped his movements, unshackling your hands from his grip. He hastily tore your uniform, something of which he'd only done when he was particularly angered. With you or his mission, you had no clue.

His cruel stare on you was discomforting, he looked at you like you were a piece of meat- something subhuman. Just a body to warm his cock, and how fitting your thoughts were- because he quickly slipped his own bottoms down, revealing his erect cock for a split second before burying himself inside of you.

Always so rushed, hurried and lacking any control. A crude opposition to him on the field.

You suppressed a high pitched moan, hands itching to touch him, to ground yourself against him and ride him until your thighs would burn akin to hellfire. He let out a deep grunt, his hand slapping the excess flesh at your ass, bouncing you atop him like you had been weightless.

As much as you didn't want to admit it, you were familiar with the fact that you were just Ghost's stress reliever. How he'd prowl into your office during the late hours to bend you over any surface and fuck you until muted screams left your lips.

For a while, you didn't mind it at all.

In actuality, you'd enjoyed such a thing. You felt an odd sense of honour swell in your chest, at the sole fact that he'd chosen you. He chose your body to hold onto, to whisper vile and cruel things in your ear, to grab at your body like that was all you were- a body. Void of a soul, a conscious, anything.

Being his personal fuck-doll had its ups and downs, where he'd make you orgasm more times than you could count, fucking you until you cried. But the polar opposite, of when he'd leave dark purples on your thighs, your hips, neck, fucking everywhere.

Like he was doing now.

You felt his hands roam around your softer body, catching at the fat of your hips, anchoring himself to you and bouncing you atop his thick and girthy cock with fervour. It was as if he didn't know the extent of his raw strength, already biting dark hues of purple into your soft and delicate skin.

Your eyes fluttered shut as your body struggled not to slump forward, flush against his strong chest. You didn't touch him, you swore you wouldn't. He didn't deserve it. A pathetic little thing you told yourself, just so you didn't get attached, because there was nothing more you'd yearned for to hold him like a lover did. To wrap your arms around him and feeling him lovingly piston into you, to kiss your cheek tenderly while your wet insides squeezed him with a vengeful grasp.

It's all too late, anyway.

He stopped, grabbing your chin and watching as your eyes popped open in disillusion.

"Eyes on me," Low, accented tone gravelly as he commanded you.

How dare he, your eyes met his instantaneously. Watching intently as his platinum lashes rested on his zygoma for a millisecond before opening back up to look at you. To look into you, to pick you apart, seemingly, until you turned to nothing. An obedient creature glued to his side, aching knees and jaw being ignored as you served him, like the good little thing you were.

His strained sounds were heard, quiet groans and animalistic sounding grunts as he thrusted upwards, bashing into your womb again and again. It hurt so good and you fucking hated it. You hated how just sole eye contact alone would have you naked and pressed against his clothed chest, fat cock stretching your insides.

Fuck, you loved it.

You absolutely adored it, being stuffed full of him, his mushroom tip pressing flush against your womb. Loved the bruises, the blemishes he's caused. His markings, claiming you as his, his plaything. Like an infants grubby hands over a shiny new toy, slobbering all over it and showing everyone that it was theirs.

No, you'd repeat, whilst being lifted off of him, your hands linked with each other behind your back, before being brought back down to him. Heavy cock twitching inside your tight walls, slick coating his dick, veiny and big, always reaching new spots inside of you. Spots that had searing stars incandescently tug at your vision.

Conflicting emotions, a curse, something that'd have you lay awake at night. Lay in your own cot, or sat next to an ill patient. Thinking about him, wondering, perhaps he was thinking of you, too.

How laughable.

Your eyes wandered, the interminable connection of your irises to his inadmissible. His eyes were always so eloquent, nearly showing what he'd been thinking. You couldn't stand it. You enjoyed the mask, enjoyed not seeing his face, because then, it'd be that much more personal. He wouldn't be Ghost to you anymore, he'd be someone, someone more than just a bed warmer.

Would you, though?

He squeezed your hips, garnering your attention to him once more. His brows furrowed, a thin sheet of sweat encompassing the two of you. He continued to fuck into your slick heat, revelling in how you always took him so well, as he said. Drunk off of you alone, and it was one of those nights.

"Fuckin' made for me,"

Just a slip of the tongue.

But no, you took that and ran with it, lungs burning while your legs continued to sprint. Oh, how you wished that was the case. You were tethered to him for a single purpose, for him to empty himself into you, to lay you across the hospital cot and fuck you from the back, always feeling him so deep. A place where no other man could dare to traverse, could never reach, anyway.

Was it on purpose?

Moulding you to his shape, getting you accustomed (it was always impossible anyways, taking him) to his cock. To spite you when you settled down, found a man who would love you, who would care for you. He wouldn't be enough, because Ghost already left his mark.

You were knocked out of your thoughts, thankfully, when you felt his gloved fingers begin to rub tight circles into your clit. His eyes now studied where the two of you had been joined, watching as your greedy pussy would always desperately pull his girth back in for more, a pathetic beg, don't leave.

You suddenly wailed, your hands grabbing his broad shoulders for purchase as your body shook. Toes curling, back arching as your eyes etched shut, sparkly tears trailing down your heated cheeks. You came hard against him, your essence coating his cock as he fucked you relentlessly, low and deep growls rumbling through his chest. He cursed, feeling your velvety insides continuing to take him deeper inside, he's already giving it all to you but fuck, you want more, you want it all.

"Such a greedy little thing."

He always knew what you were thinking.

"Love when I fuck you like this, don't you?"

Yes, no, yes, no-

"When I fill you up, fuckin' love it, don't you," He groaned, throwing his head back as he buried himself deep within you, nearly invading the inside of your womb as his warm and thick seed filled you. Marking you so that no other man could ever- would ever, do something striking even to him. Such a cruelty, acting like you'd belonged to him. You didn't know what he'd looked like, only aware of his name from medical records.

"Always so good for me."

And you hated how that had been the unvarnished truth.

•

You stared at your hands, ungloved and bare. Soft, skilled, shaking.

Why?

You'd touched him, in a way you swore you wouldn't ever. You'd expected to be thrown off, to be looked at as scum, worse than such a thing.

It was an accident, you didn't mean to. You weren't thinking straight, it was unfeasible with him splitting you open atop his lap. You just needed to ground yourself against him, for fear of falling, pathetic excuses.

A rueful thing you'd been over the next days, your usual adept hands quivering and trembling as you'd treated some of your patients.

You heard the click of a door open, and your posture snapped up, glossy eyes searching for who entered your space.

A breath of relief as it had just been Price.

You snapped a fresh pair of gloves on, bright blue going well with your dark scrubs. You led him to a cleaned cot, asking him just what the problem had been.

"Nothin' much, love." You loathed yourself for how your heart desired him to call you more pet names. To fill in Ghost's shadow and take care of you, as the natural leader he was. You were sure he'd be excellent at doing so.

"Missed your stitches, though." He huffed, relaxing into the bed as you ran an intravenous line for him just in case.

You looked at him, a quizzical glint in your eye. "My medic didn't take good care of you two?" Just you-

"Oh, no, didn't mean it like that." He looked penitent, kind eyes trailing over you before returning back to your stare. "Just meant that you know me better, sweetheart."

It was the truth, you were the Task Force's doctor, after all. It was just an innocent compliment of how good of a physician you'd been. Yet, you felt dizzy, the room a pirouette as you forced yourself to become calm.

"I'll keep that in mind next time, Price." You smiled, motioning for him to lift his shirt to check his lesions and other deep gashes that required attention. Your medic had done a good job, stitching and sterilising his wounds. But, the stitches were beginning to loosen, and you didn't need the wound becoming infected.

Your touches on him were always solicitous on him, more so than the others. Your gloved fingertips gentle on his muscled body, your stare wrongfully looking at his abs, lower and lower to that mesmerising trail of h-

"Gaz and Soap again?" He questioned, his gruff voice shaking you.

You looked at him confused, before he nodded towards the empty jar of sweets. You hadn't even noticed, they must've done so when you were out of the room, those stealthy bastards.

"Had to be," You laughed, making a mental note to restock the jar, "sorry you didn't get one."

"S'alright love." He hummed, his striking blues closing as you redid the stitches over his abdomen, watching as his stomach twitched in response to your careful and airy touch.

You finished quickly, removing your gloves and tossing them in a spare bin. You questioned if he'd wanted the extra fluids and medication, but he'd declined, thanking you for patching him up.

You motioned to clean your station, grabbing the bag of saline fluid before it had popped open, spilling all over your top. You cursed in vexation, more angry at the lost supplies rather than your soiled uniform.

Price quickly was at your side, spare cloth in hand as he attempted to clean the saline from your scrubs. "It's fine," You said, not used to being so close to him. His scent was intoxicating, that hint of smoke already having you feel utterly addicted to his presence alone.

He brushed you off, offering his services as he continued to dry you off. The cloth caught on the neck of the scrubs, pulling the material just below your clavicle, just where that array of purple lay, unperturbed on your skin. He let out a rushed apology, fixing you to look decent, his demeanour so focused on you.

Normally, it was the other way around.

But it felt nice being the one taken care of, for once.

•

Tossing your uniform into the laundry, you felt nice in a new set of clothes. No longer being confined to scrubs, but instead a comfortable cotton outfit against you. You eyed yourself in the mirror, clicking your tongue in distaste. Dark rings of purple running around the underside of your eyes, looking as if you haven't slept in years. Hell, it felt that way, too.

You'd had a long day, full of monotonous paperwork, sobbing soldiers who had flooded your office, crying for their mothers, and the thoughts of both Ghost and Price so tiring. You were giddy to finally be able to curl up into your bunk, drifting off into a dreamless sleep before your day would repeat at dawn.

And that was exactly what you had planned to do, to forget the days contents and reset and rest for the next.

But there Ghost was, at your door and telling you something, his words lost on you as you stared at him, balaclava pulled securely in place. Your eyes were fixed on his shoulders, right where you'd touched.

He beckoned you on to follow after him, and you wanted to plant your feet to the floor. To tell him no, to tell him that you had better things to do than to get fucked by him tonight.

Of course, you didn't do any of that.

Instead, you followed his lead, not asking a single question the entire way.

[goth1c-pinki3-pi3]

Okay so to the two people who said they would listen/read my ideas, this is for you two before i go to sleep and expand on a later date.

•So for galra keith I would definitely think that he had a lot more galra traits then the show gave him.

• For example his nails were typically stronger and grew in a curved shape

• For another example, his hair was naturally a dark/deep purple but his first foster family after his dads death dyed it black thinking keith had dyed it young to the purple color

• Speaking of purple, i would also think that his eyes were a deep dull purple/plum color

• moving to the scene where Krolia suggests the name Yorak, i personally think that Keiths dad would have included that in his name after she left earth

• so Keiths full name is "Keith Yorak Kogane"

•In terms of galra, he'd probably be seen as a late bloomer to the blade of marmora because he hasn't grown in his ears or tail, not knowing that his tail was surgically removed by one of his foster familys (theres a very rare chance of a human being born with a tail, and I think the tail wouldn't have grown much because the human body has evolved to not need a tail and half his biology was against the tail)

Now onto the good stuff, ergo the trans stuff

• i'd say he's transmasc who's known since he was a young boy, but that could also be me projecting, who knows

• my big thing was what about periods? because i know that everyones is different, i'd say his started at 15 give or take a few years, but before he ended up leaving earth

• With his period, because Galra most likely dont have anything quite as similar (based on cats, i suppose. With cats all their internal bleeding is reabsorbed), his periods would probably be very light as half his body (might/) will absorb the blood and the other half will shed it out.

• I'd say for the same reason he uses cloth pads, simply for the reuse ability and his light flow would have made it easy to clean

• i also head cannon that him growing out a mullet is the result of him shaving his hair at some point, and regaining enough confidence to grow his hair out while knowing that he could easily cut his hair if he felt dysphoric

• with the chest situation, it can go two ways. with the episode when keith and lance are going to the pool, Keith is shirtless, so that is a point to small-chested keith

• but we could also just, ignore that and pretend that he was in a compression shirt that was meant for trans people to swim in. because if there was shorts with them then im sure there was something for compression (ignoring how the alteans could shapeshift)

•One of my biggest head cannon when it comes to trans!keith, is that only Shiro knows, and that if they're ever overheard talking about it (like shiro lecturing keith about working out in a binder or something), everyone just completely misunderstands the conversation

Keith: Shiro it's fine (Shiro just said he can't work out safely in his binder)

Shiro: No it's not keith, you can't keep doing this. You know why. We're in space, you can't avoid the consequences anymore than you could on earth. (Shiro is talking about Keiths ribs, and how if Keith breaks a rib or something akin to that, then there is nothing in space that can help him as opposed to earth where at the very least he could have fixed his ribs)

Lance or Coran overhearing and thinking that it's just about keiths little pick pocketing habit (another head cannon): Huh, i didn't know Keiths been a pick pocketer when he was on earth.

Anyways, thats all i can come up with right this second, if i feel like i'm able to i'll expand on a couple of my head cannons / thoughts

[magicalcelestialgem]

My Big Thoughts on TF ONE

WARNING: SPOILERS FOR TF ONE! If you wanna go in and watch TF ONE and be surprised, do not read more below the line.

You have been warned!

Sentinel Prime… Oh, dear Sentinel Prime.

I wanted his head on a damn PLATTER after what he had done. Surgically removing the T-Cogs right after the bots are born?! Nah, I would argue that whatever TF ONE Sentinel did there is WORSE than what Bayverse Sentinel did. And the fact he betrayed the Primes. Oh, man. I was left speechless. I knew something was up as this is Sentinel Prime, but good lord.

Megatron aka D-16 was right to feel angry and betrayed. He looked up to Sentinel only to find out that he was no hero at all, keeping him and all other bots in Iacon as slaves just so he can stay on top. But it also broke my heart to see Megatron change from his rage, going blind from it that very moment he saw the truth and especially after he got his T-Cog. I felt his anger, but I also felt Orion’s pain as he watched his best friend succumb to his anger.

Do NOT get me started on the scene where D-16 shot Orion! That very moment their friendship broke! IT HURT ME Y’ALL! I knew the betrayal is coming, but I was not expecting to be hit hard! Damn it, Megatron! QAQ

And around the end, Optimus just watching Megatron as he left, watching with sad, heartbroken eyes. And the damn flashback to when they first met? Oh, that tells me for some reason that he still cares about D-16/Megatron! AHHHH, the poor boy! QAQ

I just wanna hug them both because they didn’t deserve the trash life they were put into! It was so satisfying, however, to see Sentinel’s downfall.

The ending song, “If I Fall,” did not help, because it just tells me someone, either Optimus or Megatron, is gonna fall in the future and someone, either Optimus or Megatron (yes, again), will catch him or not catch him!

My MegOp fan self was fed that afternoon! And left with an aching heart!

Overall, BEST TF MOVIE OUT THERE! I hope to see some good sequels in the future, which also means I expect my heart to break at seeing Op and Megs’ interaction in the Oneverse!

[jaywalkers]

hi róisín, since ur in med, i was wondering : is aftg v medically accurate ?

hihi! i'll preface with that i'm not a med student, i'm a final year paramedic student, but i think my scope and areas of practice fit the antics the foxes get into in aftg enough to comment on it!

i won't talk on aftg's take on medications, antipsychotics or otherwise, because a lot of other lovely people who are far more educated on the topic have written about it! when it comes to aftg's treatment of injuries, though, i do have some things to say.

i'm going to tee up a couple of examples of frontline medical treatment in aftg and make some comments on them! granted they're very messy, but i hope they're understandable enough.

from the best, to the worst:

kevin's hand

i don't think it's unfeasible that kevin was back to playing capacity two years after his injury happened — while i think that his hand was probably severely fractured, and there was likely different fingers involved too, with good surgical intervention (which he was likely able to access) hand fractures, even complex ones, can be healed enough in 4-6 months.

the ligament injuries would be the more pertinent, and i think those would be the more pressing concern for him outside of the healed bones, considering ligament injuries can cause chronic issues not limited to pain. i would be surprised if abby was the sole medical provider for the foxes, because while she does appear to be a well-rounded sports nurse, kevin probably would have needed to work with a dedicated physiotherapist and/or a hand specialist to get the use of his hand semi-back to normal.

other questions abt kevin's medical problems? please observe here

2. neil's wounds post baltimore

when it comes to how these wounds are treated by medical staff, i have no concerns. the hospital neil is brought to by the FBI seems to have treated the wounds well and left him to sleep off any negative follow-on effects from the chloroform. the only thing i have qualms with is the implication from the hotel scene that the hospital has put an adhesive dressing over neil's burn on his cheek, which is a big no in wound-dressing — burned skin is very delicate, and adhesives can damage or rip it away with removal. it's why we use glad-wrap in the prehsopital setting for burns, because it's sterile and not sticky!

abby, when she gets her hands on neil, changes the bandages so the wounds can be visualised and aired out, cleans them again, and then re-dresses them cleanly. i have no issues here.

when it comes to how these wounds are treated by andrew, i have only this text from my brother when he first read the series a couple of years ago

throughout the series, including post-nest, andrew is constantly getting his grubby little mitts in neils fresh wounds. he should not be doing that. in particular in the hotel scene he peels away the adhesive dressing over a burn which is just a recipe for tissue-loss, severe pain, and increased risk of infection. i don't know how abby didn't scream because i would have.

just andrew. in general. yikes, my dude. don't do that.

3. jean

jean. he is the kicked dog of this series and i genuinely don't know how he was alive at the start of the book series, let alone at the end. at the start of the series, he has (according to the EC) experienced not only numerous fractures to various bones, but has had two incidences where he 'bashed his head open on the concrete', and needed 266 stitches total. also ten incidences of waterboarding.

if we break this down: that's two major head injuries, multiple incidences of significant amounts of blood loss, and ten incidences of asphyxial peri-arrest events.

it's further implied by both the novels and the extra content that jean was not given time to heal from these injuries, and instead had to play games. add to that the hours of the nest and the living conditions, and i actually cannot fathom how jean was not yet dead, by either a single incident or the culmination of many. exy is a contact sport. those head injuries, plus an accidental shoulder-check into the plexiglass could have, and should have killed him.

i'm glad he didn't. i think it's important that he didn't. but it is a miracle of biology and the sanctity of his cerebral blood vessels that he stays alive to the end of the books.

---

anyway i hope this all makes a bit of sense! im writing this half-mad with eight hours until my last exam for my 2nd to last semester so i'm running on energy drinks and way too much memorisation work of how benzos work. thank you for the question! and as always, please field more my way i LOVE this stuff.

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

The Eyes Have It: Final Part

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2k

Summary: Hotch is stepping down, giving Derek the opportunity to rise in his place. Derek wants to fight for you but is forced to deal with the case at hand. You, on the other hand, are forced to deal with the ugly side of prison.

Warnings: canon violence, canon language, canon talk of death, methods of kill

Season Five Masterlist

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Criminal Minds. All credit goes to their respective owners. If there are any warnings that exceed the normal death/kills from the show, I will list them.

x

Even as the officers take all day to scour the streets for the unsub, they don't find anything. It's not until the next morning that two more people are murdered. A male and a female. He's back to murdering two people. However, there is something different about this crime scene compared to the other ones. He murdered them at their house, so he cut the wires in the electrical box and killed all the lights. If they can't see then they can't fight him back. He probably used some night vision aid of some kind in order to kill them.

The perfect hunt.

The woman's carotid was severed and her eyes were missing, just like the others. However, the man's eyes are still intact. He didn't take them. Why? Why is he different? Upon closer examination, there is a laceration on his left eye but not his right. He probably fought back trying to save the woman and the unsub ended up cutting him accidentally.

They theorized that the unsub could be collecting them but what if he needs a set? An injury like that ruins the collection. They're trophies. Someone who collects eyes could be into taxidermy, and that is something the team can use as a lead.

"A taxidermist?"

"Morgan might be onto something. The unsub's collecting sets of eyes that need to be flawless because he's preserving them as a trophy of some kind."

"We said he was a hunter. What do hunters collect for trophies?"

"What if we're wrong about him being a doctor?" Spencer asks. "It makes sense. A taxidermist has all the skills and supplies needed to preserve eyes and other body parts."

"Do they know how to surgically remove eyes like this?"

"Yeah, they have anatomy knowledge. They have to cut through muscle, tissue, and nerves to remove hide. It's the same thing for eyeballs."

Penelope calls JJ who places her on speakerphone.

"Garcia, you're on speaker."

"Comrades, I cross-referenced John with Okie City animal stuffers. Turns out, he wrote a $250 check as some sort of deposit for Lloyd's Wild Game Shop six weeks ago. Now, this place is scant miles from the farm road where our first victim was dumped."

"Does Lloyd have a record?" Phil asks.

"Lloyd Bulford has one recent record from the city, and it's a death certificate. He died four weeks ago of emphysema."

"Did he have any employees with criminal records?"

"He's got no employment records at all. He has a twenty-eight-year-old son named Earl who lives with him. He has a petty crime record and counts of animal cruelty."

"Garcia, get everything on the son."

"Okey-dokey."

Penelope takes a few moments to look the information up.

"Is there any record of mental illness?" JJ asks.

"No, but his mom had a degenerative eye disease called Retinitis Pigmentosa which would eventually lead her to go blind. Considering his crimes, that's super weird, right? Anyway, she died in a car accident when he was eight. Then, he gets expelled from school for getting in a fight with a kid and trying to gouge the kid's eyes out. I have no record of him returning to school, he has no employment records, he's never filed for taxes, and he doesn't have a credit card in his name. Besides his driver's license, there's no record of him at all."

"That's probably why he didn't show up on any of our lists," Derek says.

"Sounds like he's totally dependent on his dad. When his dad died, there's no one left to check up on him."

"Okay, his dad drove a 1990 dark brown Chevy cargo van. Looks like creditors took the house this week and a lien was put on the business."

"He lost his dad, his house, and is about to lose the family business. Care to choose a stressor?"

The team heads straight to the store but Earl isn't there when they arrive. It's a taxidermy store in the front with a few small rooms in the back where he's been sleeping. Without a house to stay in, he's been dependent on his father's business to keep a roof over his head. When they look into the windows, they immediately see a pool of blood on the ground.

"Hotch, I see blood. We're going in."

The front doors are locked but the back doors are open. They walk in one by one with guns trained in front of them, clearing out the place.

"That's gotta be John's blood," Emily says. If John was the first one to be killed and only had a dumpsite, then he must have been killed. It wouldn't make sense if the blood were the other victims. "He comes here to see his animal, they argue, and then this happens."

"He's been sleeping here," Hotch announces when he finds the back room where the cot is. "If he's not here then he's out hunting again."

Emily and Derek inspect the animals out of curiosity but become concerned when they see some of the animals don't have any eyes.

"This one doesn't have eyes," Derek says.

"Neither does this one."

Derek inspects more and comes across an animal with a realistic-looking set of eyes.

"Oh, my God. This one has eyes. I know what he's doing with the eyes."

With a little bit more snooping, they come across pictures of Earl and his father. They're not great pictures because they tell the story of a boy who wasn't given what he needed to succeed in life.

"Look at these. He's been hunting since he was a kid. He never went to school. He probably spent his entire childhood here. Somebody this socially isolated no doubt has mental issues. Looks like he only knew two things--hunting and taxidermy which was fine as long as his dad was supervising him."

"Now his gatekeeper's gone and he's loose."

Hotch finds the customer book he has everyone sign when they want him to provide services. He flips through the pages at every single customer that has ever bought from him.

"Wait, this address is familiar," Phil says. "It's on Junction Road where the teenage girls got killed."

"I think he's attacking all over town close to where his customers live."

"I know the customer on Dry Creek Road which is close to where that jogger got killed in the park."

"What about where the couple was murdered last night?" Derek asks.

"Close to this address here," Phil points.

"Okay, so he's delivering these animals to his clients' homes and then sticking around the neighborhood to find victims. Looks like there are two more addresses after the last murder."

"Alright, we need to split up," Derek decides.

"I'll get units to both locations," Phil says.

The entire team splits into two with Hotch going with Phil and Emily and Derek going with a few other armed officers and Rossi. Hotch finds the van Earl is using, and with a little patience, he saves a woman who is about to get her eyes gouged out. Earl is taken away, the woman is looked at, and all the animals fit with human eyes are taken in for testing. There are tens and tens of animals with human eyes which means there are tens and tens of victims waiting for justice to be served.

When the team touches back down in Virginia, Hotch busies Spencer enough to not allow him to visit you. When he told you he'd try his best to keep Spencer away from you, he meant it. Derek, Rossi, and Emily leave to visit you since they miss you dearly, but you're less than thrilled to see them. Of course, you're happy to talk to people you know and cling to some sense of normalcy, but you hate that they have to see you with a bruised face.

The bruise didn't settle well so your jaw is covered with a dark purple bruise that has spread up to your eye on the same side. The trio is excited to see you but eyes turn wide when they see your injury.

"Oh, my God," Derek whispers to himself.

You sit down across from them and pick the phone up at the same time as Derek does. Emily is sitting next to him while Rossi is standing behind them. The place can only fit two people at a time but Rossi doesn't mind standing.

"It looks worse than it feels," you white-lie.

"I hate that you're sitting here right now. You shouldn't even be here." All you can do is shrug. "Hotch says he's working on your case but it looks like nothing is being done for you."

"I'll be fine, Derek," you sigh. Derek opens his mouth to say something else but you're quick to cut him off. You really don't want to talk about that because then you're forced to think about who killed those seven men and how they're free right now. "I hear you got Hotch's job."

"It's only temporary. The board is coming down on his ass pretty hard. He gave it to me to keep himself on the team."

Even through the thick glass, you can feel the waves of guilt coming from him. He feels guilty for taking the job knowing Hotch wanted to give it to you.

"Derek, don't do that to yourself. I'm glad it's you. You have strong leadership skills. You'll knock it out of the park, I'm sure," you wince in pain.

"Y/N, you're not okay."

You look down and let the tears fall freely. You hate that they're seeing you this way but what can you do? You look up with your eyes wet and your face even more puffy.

"I'm fine, Derek," you cry. "I'll be fine."

"Spencer--"

"Don't bring him here," you panic. "Please keep him away. You have the power to keep him busy." You're crying too much to make sense but Derek understands you through your cracked voice. "I love him and I miss him but I do not want him here. He can't see me like this. He has an eidetic memory. He won't be able to forget this. Please promise me you'll keep him away."

"I promise," Derek whispers.

"Let me talk to Emily." The phone is passed onto her, and she gives you a sad smile. "Don't give me that look."

"It's hard seeing someone you care about like this."

"I know. It's not forever... I hope not. I have faith that I will get out of this. Whether or not I still have a job, that's up to Strauss."

"You didn't kill them. She can't fire you because of this."

"I think she can. Not for killing someone but for going to prison. Anyway, can you do me a favor?"

"Anything. You name it."

"I can only imagine what seeing my empty chair is doing to you. Distract them enough to get them through the week. I know it's a lot to ask of you but knowing you're worried about me won't do me any good in here."

"Okay, I'll try," she nods.

Rossi taps Emily on the shoulder and gestures to get the phone. She passes it to him and looks you right in the eye. He says something to Derek and Emily and they both get up to leave. He must want to talk to you privately.

"Hey, kid."

"Hey, Rossi," you sniffle.

"I know how hard it is in here for you. I can see it in your eyes."

"Don't tell the others but it's so hard for me," you cry. "I feel everything. I don't know how I'm sleeping at night. I get nightmares all the time because of other people's pain. Please don't tell the others."

"I won't. Listen to me. I know it doesn't seem like it, but things will get better. We are not going to give up until you're back in that briefing room with us. You fake as much of it as you can and push through until the end. Hold your head up high and don't let anyone dim your light."

"Okay," you nod.

"I mean it, Y/N. I know it doesn't seem like it now but I think you're the only one of us that could survive prison and come out okay."

"Thank you, Rossi."

Rossi's words stick in your head well after he has left. Even when you're lying in your bunk bed, his words echo in your head, and you use it to help you get some sleep.

"Dwell in peace in the home of your own being, and the Messenger of Death will not be able to touch you." - Guru Nanak

x

Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

[pyjamaart]

I never needed such help / This is my SOS

(Content warning: self harm) (If you don't have a problem with that, huge Drillman essay under the read more lol)

When I said that I wanted to draw Drillman some more, this really wasn't what I had in mind.

This week, I've been shopping for music on various second hand sites, which made me realize I don't physically own one of my all time favorite albums: "Squaring The Circle" by Sneaker Pimps. I had to change that immediately. (As well as buying like 15 other CDs and vinyls, lol.) As I was listening to it once again, I realized just how much the song "SOS" reminded me of Drillman and his struggles.

If you don't want to look it up, here are some of the lyrics:

"I look much smaller seen from inside out/Far too small to see myself/Down on reflection, cast in hate and in doubt/Flawed and flaws I add myself"

"Oh mirror mirror hanging on the wall/Please just show me someone else/My hopes were low and I got so much so less/Nothing left to save myself"

Listen, this dude got some major problems with his self esteem. He feels like an embarrassment because he was forced into a life he never wanted by his father. Now he seeks revenge on the company that bought his families business, along with him and apparently his bodily autonomy. Think about that for a minute. How fucked would it be if your parents wanted you to be a doctor, but a requirement for that would be to have your hand surgically removed and replaced with a scalpel. That's the exact situation Drillman found himself in.

Now a lot of people probably think "Well why doesn't he just ask Dr. Light to give him a new pair of hands then, if he's this miserable?" This is where we get to one of Drillmans biggest problems: the refusal to ask for help in any way. And even after the finale of the season, why would he go to the Lights for help in the first place? Wasn't it Aki who thought the best way to help him through his problems was hypnotism? And in the process embarrassing him in front of the whole city, ruining the last bit of reputation he may have had? (For real though, that episode is so hard for me to watch. I just feel so so bad for him, since I really struggle with social anxiety myself.)

As the guys from the Youtube channel "The D-Pad" (who reviewed all of the MMFC episodes) fittingly commented: "This would be like fucking Vietnam for him." And they were right. Obviously, Drillman is horrified that Aki would humiliate him like this and lashes out, solidifying his opinion that asking for help is a bad idea.

In that episode, there's this one moment that really stuck with me. At around the 8 minute mark, while Drillman is having a breakdown over the terrible "music" Aki made him perform, there's this one shot where he takes a moment to look at the drills that replaced his hands in frustration. The camera perspective makes it seem as if we are experiencing this brief scene through his eyes. It's actually quite upsetting. (A link to the moment I'm talking about: youtu.be/OC_jdhoeTrE?si=ZPzAXu…)

This is also a perfect moment for me to gush over the voice acting for this scene. Andrew McNee did such a fantastic job of conveying Drillmans distress and anger through his voice. That reminds me, giving him a British accent was honestly such a good decision.

The reason he doesn't talk at all throughout most of his first appearance is probably because the writers wanted to surprise their audience a little. As in, you see this big, imposing construction robot and think "Oh man, what a brute. He probably has a pretty deep voice." And then he actually starts to speak and it's this sophisticated, well-articulated British voice instead. Quite the whiplash.

To get back to the original topic, I'm honestly still upset that they didn't give Drillman a redemption arc at the end of the show. This probably would have happened in season 2, as Mega Man even says at some point "I know deep down your inner bits are good", proving to me that the writers definitely had something in mind regarding Drillmans character arc.

And now that all of that is out of the way, we can finally get into headcanon territory.

You might have seen this image while browsing the tags and asked yourself, "Why is this Mega Man Fully Charged artwork littered with content warnings?" And well, now that you're here and reading this, you probably know why. I can't say I've ever made myself sick with a drawing before. That's a first for me.

My headcanon is, that after the finale of the show, Drillman is just utterly lost. Lord Obsidian, who sought him out specifically because he knew of Drillmans problems and offered him a place to stay and a way to get revenge on the people he thought responsible for his predicament, turned out to be a horribly racist human who was just using him to achieve his own devious goals. After getting his ass kicked by the Lights, the same people who had not only humiliated him in front of the whole city, but who had also left him stuck to his abusive father for an entire day (I bet that ride to the police station was horrible for all the people involved, most of all the police bots who had to hear the Drillmen yell at each other the whole time), Sgt. Night is detained by the police. We don't actually see what happens after that, because that's where the show ends.

I'd like to think that the Lights actually try to talk to the robot masters once everything is over, telling them all the horrible things their so-called "leader" has said and done. And most importantly, what he thinks of robots: That they're nothing but tools to him. That once they had gotten him his Mega key, he would have wiped their minds and turned them into mindless machines.  

I'm guessing none of the robot masters would take these news well, but most of all Drillman. I think that after he ran away from Skyraisers Inc. and fought Mega Man for the first time, he was really relieved to have some place to stay and a new goal, maybe even a robot to look up to. That being Lord Obsidian of course. Who knows what lies he told Drillman and the others? Kinda sad that we never really got to see what the robot masters who stayed with Lord Obsidian did the entire day. When they weren't causing havoc in the city, that is.

None of them seemed really friendly with each other in the finale, now that I think about it. I guess "Obsidians robot sanctuary" wasn't really a great place to stay at after all. But still better than being homeless, like that one maniac living in the forest all by himself. Speaking of Woodman, in my AU, he and Drillman already knew each other at this point. This also reminds me of something I forgot to mention in my last post. While I'd love to see them interact in any way, because they're both my favorite characters, I don't ship them in any way whatsoever. I'd also like to think that Woodman and Drillmans father were schoolmates back in the day, maybe even friends? (I'm still holding onto those 30 years).

Anyway, after all the former robot comrades part ways, now without a leader, what was Drillman supposed to do? Once again betrayed by a trusted figure, feeling useless and without purpose, still with these stupid drills mounted to his body... Still too ashamed to ask for help. After all that has happened in the past few hours he begins spiraling, which ultimately leads him to make a very unfortunate decision. Trying to get at least some of the freedom in his life back, he attempts to get rid of the drills making up his body on his own, using the same tools that have haunted him all this time to finally rid himself of this burden.

He regrets this just seconds after, when he's left with an unresponsive limb, metal and wires exposed and oil splattered all over his orange plating. All he can do is stare at the stained drill in front of him in horror.

"I never needed such help/This is my SOS"

Jesus Christ that got dark. Sorry. I mentioned in my last post that Drillman possibly has really bad body dysmorphia, which I'm also trying to convey here. Don't worry, he really gets his hands back after this. Maybe the Lights find him after that and the good Doctor offers to fix him up. By which I mean not only his arm. Because apparently, Dr. Light also doubles as robot psychologist. I just really need Drillman to get his happy ending. He really really deserves it after everything he had to go trough over the course of the show. 

I also need him to have a DJing redemption, besides the normal redemption. I've seen people headcanon that he exclusively likes classical music, but I personally don't believe that. He'd be the kind of music nerd who would say stuff like "I listen to everything" and then you look at his playlists and he actually listens to everything. Maybe not experimental noise rock, though. I can just imagine Aki and Suna helping him put on an actual show, this time without any hypnotizing bullshit, as a way for Aki to apologize for the dread he's caused Drillman during that incident. Drillman would be highly suspicious at first, but actually goes along with it in the end. Maybe they'd also take Fireman along, who Dr. Light also blessed with a brand new pair of hands. The punchline at the end would be that Drillman would have so much anxiety about embarrassing himself again, that he forgets to make an actual set list for the gig. In the end, he exclusively plays Lady Gaga songs, which no one complains about.

Alright then, enough yapping from me. I've really been writing this essay since 8pm. And now it's 2am. My god. I just have a lot of feelings about Drillman.

But now I really gotta go to bed. Stay safe peeps. I hope you actually read the content warnings. Jenny out.

[liketwoswansinbalance]

@wisteriaum If you'd like, you can accept this as tribute for your magnificent art! (This was sort of a scene from a WIP, but it doesn't require any context to be understood since it probably won't fit into the plot.)

⸻

In a Modern AU:

Rafal: Why are we friends?

Sophie: I answered the Scheherazade question on trivia night that you couldn’t.

Rafal: Mm. Shouldn’t call you or Rhian a friend or a loved one. Most people get to choose them. You two are more like shots in the heart I can’t remove. Not even surgically. Which senior superlative did you get voted for?

Sophie: “Most Dramatic.” Though, I suppose that’s a given, considering I’m in theater.

Rafal: Huh. That’s surprisingly unproblematic.

Sophie: What do you mean? What did you win, then? [she posed the question, tilting her head.]

Rafal: “Most Likely to Say the Ends Justify the Means,” [he groused.]

Sophie: [drily] Fitting. Verily. How astute of them to notice. [she laughs.] You should be thankful that there isn’t one for “Most Likely to Commit Genocide.”

Rafal: Do I really come across to others that terribly?

Sophie: Not to me. But to everyone else? Yes. Let’s just say you make a certain impression on most. But, you hate almost everyone anyway. And, I know you find me amusing.

Rafal: I don’t hate everyone. I just… find them unstimulating. That’s all.

Sophie: [sighs]

Rafal: What’s that supposed to mean?

Sophie: Nothing, darling, except that, well—no one is likely to act any more interesting than they usually are around you, especially if they fear you. They’re inhibited when in your presence. And, they’re not dull. Granted, some of them are. But most of them are… tolerable. Maybe, more than that: adequate or competent, if we’re speaking in your terms.

Rafal: What do you mean, my terms?

Sophie: You evaluate most people based on what they can offer you and how you can best use them to your own ends, like an old fogey calling the police about oafish children on his lawn, unless they do your yard work.

Rafal: I—

Sophie: Don’t think I haven’t noticed. At the start, you only spared me a glance when I answered the questions you couldn't. Though, I suppose your brother and I are the exceptions, hmm?

Rafal: [stares speechless for a moment.] You read me too well. Never do that in public ever again.

Sophie: Of course, but you’ve got to play your part. Be unpredictable to me for once.

Rafal: There’s no winning with you, is there? [he sighs, resigned.]

Sophie: When has there ever been a chance? I’m your match. Don’t forget it. [she sweeps away.]

Rafal: [dourly] Check. And mate.

Rhian: [steps up, not knowing the context of Rafal’s last conversation] There. Now, you’ve really done it! Blown it with the only girl who’s ever had the nerve and a sufficiently inflated ego to speak to you. Do you know how hard it was to get her paired up with you on trivia night?! I had to convince her you were worth her time!

[eleanorblythe]

Romantic Homicide - Anton Chigurh x Original Female Character - One Shot - NSFW

This is a supplemental to my first three chapters and explores Anton and Her before the events of Romantic Homicide.

This is how she died (part 2)

Also on Ao3 with authors notes and translations - here

Winter of 1978

Filipe Andrews had lived a long life. An interesting life.

Living through two world wars and serving in both World War 2 as a soldier and the Vietnam War as a war doctor, Andrews was quite familiar with the darker side of life and humanity. He intrigued him. After Vietnam, he found he didn’t want to live the typical American life. He’d had a taste of the darkness and he wanted more. He had decided to put his medical skills to use in America’s underworld, serving the frightening (but insanely rich) people within it.

But he was tired now. And older. Semi-retired and finally living the quiet and sedate existence he rejected as a young man.

As long as no one saw the fully kitted out surgery suite in his basement, he had a perfectly ordinary home and life.

He supposed a lot people in his world must have also believed he was retired. In its heyday the basement would see any number of agents, gang members, corporate cleaners come through its soundproofed walls in a given week. But now, the space lay dormant.

He was currently standing over his stove slowly and rhythmically stirring milk in a saucer, for his now customary 2am warm milk to help him go back to sleep. Sometimes Andrews really hated getting older. His house was bathed in darkness with the exception of the orange street lights offering a soft glow against the Formica counters. The silence of the outside world was simultaneously peaceful and eerie. He was just emptying the contents of the saucer in a cup when the thumping of a fist against his front door nearly made him drop it.

Confused and cautious, Andrews removed the 12 gauge shotgun hidden under the kitchen island and moved towards the door. He hesitated wondering if the person had moved away or Andrews had simply made up the sound in his own head when he heard a muffled, but familiar voice.

“Andrews. I can hear you. Open up.”

Andrews carefully placed the shotgun down on a nearby table and opened the locks of his front door. He was met with a grim scene.

Anton stood, skin clammy and stained with dried blood. Not his, Andrews quickly noted. Although the crumpled body ensconced in Anton’s arms made it easy to determine where the blood was coming from.

“What’s happened to-“

“-She’s been gutted, she’s lost a lot of blood.”

“So I see…” Andrews passed a cursory glance over her. She was already dead. Or as good as. Anton would have known that. Andrews drew his eyes to meet Anton’s and was slightly taken aback by how desperate they looked.

“Filipe. Please.”

Holy shit.

So he was in love.

Andrews gave a single nod and moved aside as Anton carried her throughout the house waiting patiently by the false wall that would lead to the basement, as Andrews securely locked down the house.

The silence and stillness of the basement was cut off by the quiet tink tink of the fluorescent turning on followed by the rushed sound of footsteps on concrete stairs.

Anton lay her on the surgical table and quickly found something soft to place behind her head.

“You’ll need to wake her up.” Andrews said as he rolled up his sleeves and started to scrub in.

Anton shrugged off this jacket and tossed it aside as he held her face in his hands, quietly but urgently calling her name.

Her eyes fluttered open and was immediately met with a bright white surgical light shining in her face. She tried to turn away but was pulled back. She whimpered out a complaint. All Anton could do was apologise.

Filipe issued some instructions in Spanish as he approached the table. She couldn’t translate quickly enough but based on how Anton sprang into action, it was clear Anton was taking on the role of the surgeon’s assistant.

The two men continued to murmur in their native tongue as she saw occasional glimpses of glinting metal surgical tools and eyes scanning over her through blue scrubs and face masks.

The pain was blinding. A part of her was angry with Anton for putting her through this excruciating suffering, and from the few words and phrases she could hear and translate, it wasn’t looking hopeful.

She had expected to be shushed with all the noise she was making. She screamed and cried so much, her throat felt bloody and raw. However, for her sins, she was met with the occasional cool towel being dabbed carefully against her forehead (Andrews) and a reassuring squeeze of her shoulder or soft caress against her temple (Anton).

It was always a small wonder to Andrews how much blood a human body could hold…and lose. She had practically been ripped open on one side. At least, this meant he wouldn’t need to make too many incisions.

“She needs a hemicolectomy.” Andrews stated dispassionately before moving away to get out his supply of general anaesthesia.

Anton swallowed the lump in his throat, but started to clean her arm ready for injection.

“I think I understood more when you guys were speaking Spanish.” She slurred. Her head lolled to the side and weakly reached her arm towards Anton.

“He needs to remove a section of your small intestines. He’s going to put you under.”

“Why didn’t you let me die?” She whispered. Anton froze what he was doing and pulled down his mask. He went to say something, when Andrews came back holding what must have been the most intimidating looking syringe known to man.

“¿Estàs lista?”

“Lista,” She croaked. Andrews nodded and stuck the needle into the crease of her arm.

“Remember. No guarantees.” Andrews added.

She managed a small genuine smile, on her pale, tear-stained, face.

“I always did love your bedside manner, Filipe,” she said softly. That was all she said before her eyes drifted closed.

………

Early Summer of 1978

She couldn’t remember the last time she had woken up feeling so blissful.

She felt pleasantly warm. She watched the curtains sway slightly with the morning breeze, allowing pockets of sunlight to stream across her bedroom floor. She was taking a vacation - if such a thing existed in her line of work. She wondered if what she was experiencing was the “Friday feeling” she had heard her- what she would call - ‘normal’ friends talk about.

She stretched and made to get out of bed, but an arm locked around her waist prevented her from doing so. She turned around carefully to face, a still sleeping, Anton. It was one of the few times she could watch him where he looked totally at peace. He almost seemed to smile in his sleep, which made a nice change from the deeply unimpressed look he would usually wear. His hair was mussed and covering his eyes. She suppressed a girlish giggle and delicately combed her fingers through his hair, nails lightly scratching his scalp, and away from his face.

“That tickles.” Came a muffled and very deadpan voice. Anton opened his bleary eyes and gave a very deep inhale and exhale as if all the stress of the world had melted off his body.

“Apologies. Perhaps you should have taken the scrunchie I offered after all.” She said with a smirk. Anton scrunched his nose in distaste before leaning forward and nuzzling his face into her neck, pressing a light kiss here and there. She hummed and stretched again raising her arms to drape around his shoulders and back.

As Anton attacked her neck with lazy kisses and small bites and nibbles, she drew random patterns and traced over some scar tissue that littered his back. She was particularly mesmerised with an angry, twisted looking scar near his shoulder. She was trying to determine if it was a burn or a bullet wound when Anton lifted his head up and murmured in her ear;

“Napalm burn. Vietnam.”

“Oh.” She said apologetically and her hand dropped down to rest on his bicep. Anton grinned against her skin and suddenly rolled on top of her keeping her pinned with his lower half and searching to meet her eyes.

“Oh?” He mocked her, “What was that for?”

“I just know most guys don’t like to talk about ‘Nam’.”

He hummed noncommittally and roved his eyes over her naked form.

“I’d sooner we didn’t talk at all, right now,” he dipped his head to lightly nip around the edge of her breast.

She scoffed and wriggled underneath him slightly.

“You’re such an animal. You weren’t even awake 2 minutes ago,”

“I’m very awake now.”

“Yes. It’s hard to ignore.”

“You’re still talking…”

Her laugh was cut off as he leaned down to smother her lips. He ground into her soft skin, then used his knee to pry her legs apart. She lazily hooked her legs over his hips and crossed her ankles on his back. Anton deepened the kiss, as his calloused hands made a slow meandering path down her face, neck, chest and finally to that most intimate place of her.

He dipped his fingers into her folds, drawing slow circles on her clit. She let out a sigh and practically whimpered against his lips;

“Fuck me already, guapo,” she punctuated her request by squeezing her legs around his waist and pulling him even closer to her.

Anton, suppressing his smirk at his newest nickname, pushed into her warm, wet heat with little resistance.

He released a pleasurable groan and dropped his head to her shoulder, rocking gently into her. He felt her press a kiss to his hair and shifting her hips to match his languid pace.

Anton didn’t believe in heaven.

But if he did, he hoped it would feel like this.

It was his own fault, really. He had allowed himself to get too comfortable. He, sometimes, wondered if she was a bruja as she seemed to have this unexplainable hold over him.

He told himself right from the start he would never stay the night.

He was thankful he had no one to hold him to account for that. As he had abjectly failed to do so. In every instance.

The most infuriating thing was she was quite accommodating either way and even said she wouldn’t be insulted if he didn’t want to stay.

He hated that.

He loved her for that.

He hated that he loved her.

It had been a year since they met. Anton wouldn’t call himself happy, he didn’t know what ‘happy’ meant, but he imagined it was similar to this feeling, now - losing himself in her, feeling every inch of her, knowing her body so well that he knew just the right angles and depth that would make her-

He heard her hiss and felt her thighs tighten around his waist. She grabbed his face with both hands and pulled so they were nose to nose, cradling his head and kissing him desperately, asking him to do it again.

He happily obliged.

They continued to rock in tandem, calmly. Sweetly. Coming dangerously close to being considered “making love”. In a moment of panic, one of Anton’s hands that had been fisting the sheets, jumped up and gripped her throat. She quirked an eyebrow, but shifted one of her hands until it was pulling his hair. He grunted but, was once again, thankful that she was some kind of witch and she knew exactly what he needed in that moment.

God, how he hated her.

Her legs clamped more insistently, and the heel of her foot dug painfully into his back.

It reminded him of times they had crossed paths on the road. Anton pile-driving her against stained and peeling motel wallpaper with her heeled boots cutting into his back. Fucking each other senseless, before they got caught. Violence really was the most powerful aphrodisiac.

He was brought back to the present, by the sound of a high pitched whine beneath him. She was close. She leaned up to tug on his earlobe with her teeth, before using the Spanish she had practiced to whisper sensually in his ear.

“ven dentro di mi.”

Anton froze mid thrust. He had noticed the Spanish dictionary she had tried to hide when he arrived the previous evening. She had clearly practiced that phrase a lot, her pronunciation was near perfect. A part of him was touched she was trying so hard.

Another part of him was beyond turned on.

He pushed her back into the pillows and snapped his hips roughly into hers. She gave a little yelp, biting her lip to stop her laugh from bubbling over. She felt no small sense of pride from surprising a man as equable as Anton Chigurh.

She knew he was close, she had been holding on for the last five minutes, but wanted to see him come undone. She felt his hand tighten its grip around her neck and the sound of hips snapping together become louder and increasing in intensity.

“Pagarás màs tarde,” Anton gritted out between his teeth. She wasn’t quick enough (or knowledgeable enough) to translate what he had said, but hearing him speak Spanish made her insides clench, which was all Anton needed to tip him over the edge.

He hunched over her body and let out a grunt as hot streams of release hit her cervix. Finally satisfied, she dug her nails into his shoulders and fell off the edge with him. Feeling her flutter and constrict around him was almost enough to make him come again. If he was younger man, he might of. Instead he rolled over onto his back, bringing her with him. He didn’t want to crush her, but he wasn’t ready to stop feeling her skin against his.

She lay her head on his chest, trying to keep the smug smile off of her face. She could feel Anton stroking through her hair and along her back. They stayed like that, in post-coital bliss until one of them spoke.

“How long did it take you to learn that?” He finally asked. She tore her eyes away from her hand which was sifting through the small patch of hair on his chest and sat up to look at him properly.

“Not too long, but I wasn’t sure about the pronunciation - your reaction assured me it was correct.”

“It was…close enough.” He tried to dodge an incoming pillow and huffed out a rare laugh. “You have a good tongue.”

“Well, you would know,” she said suggestively. He hummed in agreement. She leaned forward and kissed him soundly on his lips before slipping out of bed.

“Where are you going?” He called, body unmoving except for his eyes.

“I’m going to shower and then…whatever we like, there’s a new cafe downtown that supposedly does the best eggs in the city. If you’re feeling adventurous we could go hiking…”

“I don’t care what we do,” Anton started.

“As long as we’re together?” She finished in a saccharine voice, she batted her eyelids and popped her leg. Anton’s face remained impassive and she scoffed and sauntered out of the bedroom, calling over her shoulder that he was welcome to join her in the shower.

He sat up and turned over what she said. Although she was clearly being facetious, he couldn’t ignore the feeling of…longing at her words.

No. That was ridiculous.

He didn’t need her, it’s not like he was forlorn when she wasn’t around, but he did notice, now. His existence was even quieter without her and he would, very rarely, wake up in the night and turn over expecting to find her there.

Once he spent a couple of nights at her place, when he knew she was away. He put everything back where he found it, but when she did return home, she phoned him and joked that he could just ask for a spare key the next time.

He didn’t need her.

He reached for his jeans, that had been strewn across the room and took out a coin. He would do it every now and then, when it came to her. He knew what he thought, but ultimately it didn’t matter. That was the beauty of the coin. He could never argue with it. It was simplicity. It was honest.

He flipped the quarter onto his open palm and stared down at the side he knew would greet him. Either she was living on an insane amount of luck, or it really was fate. He wanted to cringe at the thought, but he simply curved his lips up and followed the sound of running water coming from the other room.

………

Winter of 1978

Anton wasn’t sure how long it had been, it was certainly long enough for dawn to start peeking through the letterbox window at the top of basement. The dreary, depressing blue light started to creep its way across the bottom of the bed he was currently sitting on.

He had previously been sitting on a dining room chair that had been hastily dragged down from upstairs, needing to be close and diligently monitor her progress. However, after several hours he couldn’t ignore his discomfort and had, carefully, managed to sit against the headboard, leaving her undisturbed.

He watched her chest slowly rise and fall, she was still pallid, but no longer ashen. She had walked right up to death’s door, but had seemingly turned back at the last minute. Even Andrews seemed surprised she had survived.

For now.

Anton reached out and held her hand, under the guise of checking her pulse. It was slow, but stable. Consistent. Reassuring.

He would never cry. He wasn’t sure if he was even capable at this point. But, of this, he was sure: if she died, he would not stop until every single person involved, was hunted down and slaughtered.

Hell, they would be hunted down and slaughtered anyway.

He glanced over at the clock and stood to check on her IV. As he rose from the bed, Anton realised how exhausted he was. Filipe had recommended he rest immediately after surgery, but Anton had insisted he would wait until she woke up.

Anton finished adjusting one of the connectors and rubbed his eyes, trying to fight off the oncoming tide of sleep. He looked down to find her eyes open, watching him.

He immediately knelt down and softly greeted her. Her lapis eyes were dulled, and she seemed to be struggling to keep them open. She dragged up her hand until it knocked against his arm. He took hold of her pressing his dry lips against her fingers. She managed a small smile, but even that seemed pained.

“Did you mean what you said?” Anton asked quietly.

Her brow furrowed slightly and turned her head more to look at him.

“I should have let you die?”

She closed her eyes and gave a dry swallow, her other arm not attached to an IV, thumped the empty space next to her on the bed. She opened her eyes and met his eye.

“Come.” She barely breathed. Anton carefully put her hand back down, making sure nothing would catch or pull from the IV, and made his way over to the other side of the bed, removing his boots before settling down next to her.

She blindly reached her arm until she felt the soft locks of his hair and stroked along his jaw. As soon as Anton settled into the mattress and felt her hand caressing him, the tension could finally start to seep out of him.

He was home.

She turned her head and made small gesture for him to edge closer. With foreheads pressed together, she nuzzled against him and whispered;

“Thank you.”

Anton pressed a kiss to her forehead then settled into the crook of her neck. She settled into a more comfortable position but slipped her hand into his as she slipped back into unconsciousness.

Anton peeked his eyes open and waited until he could once again see the slow rise and fall of her chest. When he knew she was definitely asleep, he squeezed her hand.

“No me dejes,” he said lowly as he finally succumbed to sleep.

[moonliched]

I really love Y/N's look, what led you to add things like double rows of teeth? What led you to that design? Was there another one design before?

bonks my head against yours like a cat!! thenks :3

i repurposed an old self insert oc i had as a teenager bc i wanted to be self indulgent! some edgy gothic white haired girl with a fringe over one eye lmao😋 i miss her...

their colour palette is pale and greyish as a nod to the grey Y/Ns in this community, their hair is white bc mine used to be white, and their hairstyle is one i used to wear swimming! i was also inspired by futuristic white aesthetics and Suichu Niso underwater modelling shoots.

i pretty much immediately settled on Y/N as they are here including webbed feet and finger scarring, and then built on more alien features later. the 4th image down is actually the first time i drew them. i think i got the idea for the teeth about a month into writing, prior to the first chapter going up. mostly i decide on things by daydreaming a funny or angsty scenario based on their alien heritage, and then seeing if i can work it into the story without it seeming clumsy or overcomplicating matters for myself. i overcomplicate things a lot😅 for example i'm regretting having two suits. and two subs. why did i do that?? lol

there's a scene coming up soon after chapter 12 involving the teeth and Vanessa - that's the scenario that inspired Y/N's lil shark teeth. i was also thinking that if i met a mermaid i would totally want a scale as a souvenir, but what would be the mermaid equivalent? hair? a fingernail makes me shiver. but teeth, when losing a row is a semi-regular affair, would be cool. even humans collect teeth!

i don't have a concrete image in mind yet for the natives of Y/N's home planet, but it's something in the realm of humanoid-fish-person, scaly, they have hair but it's not human-grade. an alien unfamiliar with humanoids would easily mistake them for regular humans (they got four legs and a little round head, right?) whereas humans and the fish people would be very offended to be lumped in together lmao. as a result i got a lot of freedom with what Y/N gets to inherit! their human-ness is bit of a disappointment to their guardian tho, so they don't get the full deck of fishy cards.

this might be tmi, some rambling about MEEE!! at first the evidence of having alien features removed was going to be more drastic - i thought over flippers surgically mutated into human feet, a missing tail, scales laser-removed - but decided against those. i was having a really tough time with my disability and chronic pain, and i wanted to live vicariously through Y/N, so they pass as able-bodied. i can't run or swim anymore so it's nice that they can. i think the missing finger webbing counts as a disability, esp when taking into account their issues with managing the discomfort from the scar tissue, and having to actively maintain their health to avoid the drawbacks that would arise from this kind of amputation. Y/N should be grateful i wanted to cosplay as able-bodied, otherwise they'd be far worse off😌🫰

[iinryer]

HELLO I also started watching Lone Star partially because of ur Marjan and Nancy art, i'm only at the beginning of season 3 right now and Marjan is definitely my favorite character. I wanted to know if Owen does some specific awful stuff that makes him so disliked? I find him a Bit amusing at most currently but mostly just very. dull? Like he's a laminated sheet of paper at most. And also i literally forget TK is his canonical son because he doesn't feel very fatherly. so I don't particularly feel much towards him, but wanted to know if i should brace myself for something terrible in specific later? LOVE YOUR ART TO DEATH BTW WHENEVER YOU SORT OUT PRINTS IM GONNA BE BUYING SOMETHING FOR SURE 😤

GOT ANOTHER ONE!!!! this is incredible im so delighted. marjaaaaaaaan….

personally i find him most tolerable in season 1-2, but even then i just think he’s one of the least interesting characters and YET he gets 70% of the screentime in any given episode—which bothers me sooooo much. a lot of his plots are really insufferable and we have to spend so much time on them, meanwhile they have one of the most interesting cast of characters I’ve literally ever seen, and none of them get any real arcs. imo it’s just frustrating as a viewer that i desperately want to know more about the muslim firefighter who wears a hijab or the black trans firefighter or the latino probie who cares a lot but was never given a shot bc of his dyslexia. ALL OF THOSE ARE SUCH COOL CHARACTER PREMISES! but no, we have to hear about 9/11 from owen again….

idk most of my ire comes from the fact that he Does have a cool dynamic with his son, and it Is a really neat setup for a story, but nearly all of owen’s plots are completely disconnected from literally everyone else on the show. i could surgically remove every owen-solo scene and i would still understand pretty much everything going on in any given episode, and it would be a quarter of the length. it’s bad writing! and really annoying to shelve such a diverse cast for rob lowe of all people.

tbh if everyone had the same amount of screentime i would probably hate him less? but it sucks that he takes up so much of what should be SUCH a stellar show. i could talk abt this forever gjfjdhfhf

(THANK YOUUU!!)

[paradoxcase]

Chapter 22 of Nona the Ninth

There is a broken skull again here, this seems to be happening somewhat randomly throughout this book and if there's a pattern I'm not able to see it

I like how they try to come up with every possible thing they think Ianthe would call her to train Nona to respond to, and then when Ianthe actually greets her in person, she calls her "Harry" and it was all for nought, lmao

It really feels like colored contacts (or I guess, white ones in this case) would be much less of a pain in the ass, here

I'm not sure this makes sense. Back in Harrow the Ninth, the Lyctors were reacting to being in proximity to Heralds even when they couldn't see them, or were even in any place where visible light from where the Herald was could reach where the Lyctors were, like when the Heralds were first landing on the outside of the Mithraeum

Actually, now that I'm remembering that part, I wonder if Nona acting like she is insane from Number Seven is going to make Ianthe suspicious, since back then Harrow's actual reaction to the Heralds was "is that all?"

That would be white-eyed people that Honesty saw on the Convoy, I would guess

Does she mean being the Angel/Messenger's bodyguard?

Harrow was so antagonistic to him the whole time she knew him, both before and after the brain surgery, and Palamedes is just like, oh, I miss Harrow looking at me like she wanted to kill me and assuming I was a serial killer so much. Like, I think even if Harrow hadn't surgically removed her memories of him, I still don't think she would have reacted all that positively to Palamedes greeting her like they were old buddies in the River bubble

Another strange thing that Nona likes to eat. I think rubber is technically organic material, but it might not actually be digestible by any animal, I wasn't able to find that out for sure. So far I think everything else she'd eaten has been something that some animal out there actually eats, except for the pencil lead and maybe the sand, probably

I guess some of BOE have some sort of mythology built up about Gideon's body after spending an extended period of time around it and seeing it not rotting? And it's now scarier to Pash than Ianthe is?

I'm very interested to see what she has planned here, because I have no idea whatsoever. I guess if they manage to completely destroy Naberius's body, that would be problematic for Ianthe, but beyond that?

Heh

Did Ianthe just like, kill everyone in the barracks and make them all into her own corpse army?

Why was she expecting Harrow to arrive at a particular time? It didn't sound like they were really timing anything beyond just getting there before Ianthe's time limit of "dusk" and it didn't sound from the description that it was actually dusk or that that much time had passed by the time they got there

It's interesting that Nona is referring to Ianthe here with he/him pronouns, while she originally referred to her with they/them pronouns during the broadcast, where I might have expected most people who weren't familiar with Ianthe or hadn't heard that name before to use he/him pronouns since she is using Naberius's body, and if Nona had used he/him there, I think it would have been more obvious that that was what was happening. Nona actually seems to refer to a lot of people with they/them pronouns that I think other people wouldn't - like, she referred to Pash and We Suffer as they/them in the scenes where their faces are revealed for the first time, and I think most people would be able to tell their gender in that context, so it would normally be reported. But Nona also doesn't seem to understand why other people assume Pyrrha uses he/him pronouns, so I wonder if just like, living with Pyrrha and Palamedes for all of the time that she can remember has affected her intuition for figuring out what gender people are by looking at them. Or, if she is actually Alecto, maybe she doesn't understand gender at all, and just picks up on what pronouns to use for people based on how other people refer to them, but I don't think anyone has used any gendered pronouns for Ianthe around her yet, so I'm curious what exactly transitioned her from assuming they/them pronouns to assuming he/him pronouns. She did refer to Ianthe as "Crown's boyfriend" earlier, but she also got corrected on that