#petri replies

[petrichoraline]

WHAT COMMENT ON TT??? DON'T LEAVE ME LIKE THIS

the video in question but in summary:

[vigilante-3073]

Would you agree to write being on House’s team, they’re in a relationship (not secretive but not public. Maybe Cuddy and Wilson know?) anyway, reader is sick on and off and house constantly bugs her and makes fun of her, telling her she’s weak or to go home before she infects everyone and after a few days of that reader snaps and yells at him that she’s not sick she’s pregnant. Maybe house replies “mine I hope” or something like that that makes reader even more pissed at him

Sorry for the long ramble

Petri Dish

Gregory House x Doctor Female Reader

Summary: Doctor Y/N L/N was a valued member of Doctor House's team. Only problem, she was constantly sick with an illness of her own.

TW: Illness/sickness, treatments, boss/employee relationship, inter-office relationships, age gap, rude comments, vomiting, mention of needles and sex.

Y/N and House had been seeing each other romantically for almost a year. They hadn't intended to keep it a secret, but Y/N struggled with the idea of people finding out and casting judgement. There was almost a thirteen year age difference between them and the obvious boss/employee relationship would only make things more complicated.

Cuddy and Wilson were aware, but the couple chose to keep things discreet when they were working.

Y/N was a Rheumatologist with a subspecialty in Infectious Disease, she dealt with autoimmune diseases and diseases of the joints, muscle, tendons, ligaments and skeleton. House considered her to be a valuable member of his team, but her immune system had never been very reliable.

Y/N was always sick.

She caught absolutely every illness in the book. Infections, colds, tonsillitis, flus, pneumonia, and bronchitis were only some of the illnesses that she dealt with.

It seemed like she recovered from one illness and rolled right into the next. House thought that Y/N was like the human equivalent of the clear gel in the bottom of a petri dish, growing every bacteria that touched her into a monstrous illness.

She tried her best to work through her sickness and most of the time she could, but every illness seemed to hit her harder than it hit others.

Y/N was self conscious of her susceptibility to illness, she felt like it made her job difficult and she hated letting House down.

House lived to tease her about it, but he never judged her for it. He knew that their hours often meant that his staff burned the candle at both ends.

House slowly began to cut back on Y/N's hours, allowing her to get home for at least three hours of sleep a night. He deemed it a matter of public safety, when she didn't sleep, she got sick. The team seemed to buy it, but he could tell that there was underlying suspicion.

House knew that their suspicions would continue unless he focused on the issue. His solution was to begin calling his sweet girlfriend 'petri dish.'

Y/N absolutely hated the nickname, but kept quiet because there was no way to tell him to stop without drawing attention to their relationship.

House made his way down the hallway, stepping into his conference room and shrugging off his jacket. Cameron, Foreman and Chase sat at the table as they looked through the patient files.

"Where's Y/N?" House asked.

"She's out sick," Foreman answered, eyes focused on the paperwork in front of him.

"How sick? Spilling her guts or coughing up a lung?" House asked.

"I didn't ask," Foreman stated.

House moved over to the desk, picking up the handset and dialing Y/N's number.

"House, don't call her. She's sick, leave it alone," Cameron said.

He held up a finger, waiting as the line rang before Y/N picked up the phone.

"Where are you?" House asked.

"At home... I'm sick," Y/N replied, her voice was hoarse and virtually nonexistent. He planned on going to check on her after work, but he needed to focus on his case.

"Fine. Rest up, petri dish. Don't need you infecting the community," House said, hanging up the phone.

"That was rude," Cameron said.

"No, what's rude is what we're about to do," House said, grabbing his coat and putting it back on.

...

Y/N was sitting on the couch in her pyjamas as she watched television. A small trash can full of used tissues was placed on the floor beside her, a half-empty tissue box and a bag of lozenges sat on the coffee table beside her.

Y/N looked over as someone knocked on the door, she stood up and tossed her blanket aside. She shuffled across the living room before unlocking the door and opening it.

"No... Why?" Y/N mumbled.

House, Cameron, Chase and Foreman were standing in the hallway outside her apartment. House passed his cane to Cameron, he placed one of his hands on the back of Y/N's neck while pressing his other palm to her forehead.

"What are you doing?" Y/N asked, he pulled away.

"You have a fever," He said, hands cupping her jaw as he palpated her lymph nodes.

"And swollen lymph nodes," House added. He grabbed his cane from Cameron, stepping around Y/N and moving into her apartment.

Chase, Foreman and Cameron lingered awkwardly on her doorstep. Y/N sighed and stepped out of the way, allowing them to enter her apartment.

"Put the board over there," House said, gesturing with his cane.

Chase carried the white board into her apartment and set it up in front of her television. Chase tossed the marker to House before sitting down in the armchair. Foreman leaned on the wall, crossing his arms as he watched House write out the list of symptoms.

"I got you a tea... I'm really sorry that we're barging in on you like this," Cameron said.

"Oh, she's fine. Just a mean case of the sniffles," House said.

Cameron shot him a look, "She's sick," She stated. Cameron sat down beside Y/N, setting her purse on the ground by her feet.

"She's always sick," House replied.

Cameron opened her mouth to argue before Y/N cut her off, "Thanks, Cameron," Y/N said, taking the warm beverage from her friend. Y/N sat down on the couch, dragging her blanket across her lap as she took a sip of her drink.

"Tell me what I'm looking at," Y/N said.

They went through the differential with Y/N's contributions and settled on three possibilities. Y/N was exhausted by the end of it, leaning back against the couch as she struggled to stay awake.

"Take the car and go do your tests. I'll take a cab back," House said, tossing his keys to Foreman.

"You sure?" Foreman asked.

House shrugged, "Just don't sell it to one of your homies," He said.

Foreman shot him a look before tucking the keys into his pocket, "See you at work, Y/N," He said.

"See you then," Y/N nodded, Foreman made his way out into the hallway.

Chase folded up the board, carrying it out of the apartment with a polite nod to Y/N.

Cameron stood up, "Feel better," She said.

"Will do," Y/N replied.

The door closed as Cameron stepped out, leaving House and Y/N alone in her apartment. House reached out and pressed the back of his hand to her forehead, checking her temperature again.

Y/N hummed, eyes drifting shut at the cool temperature of his skin. He stepped away from her wordlessly, moving down the hallway and into her bathroom.

House returned, gently nudging Y/N as he sat down beside her. She lifted her head, looking up to find him holding out a few pills and a glass of water.

"Tylenol for the fever. Drink all the water," He said.

Y/N took the pills from his hand, placing them in her mouth and swallowing them with a sip of water. She held the glass in her hands, thumbs brushing across the condensation on the cup.

"I don't like that nickname," She admitted.

"What? Petri dish? It's a cute little pet name," He said.

"I don't like it," Y/N said.

He nodded, "I'll stop using it," House said.

"Thank you," She replied, taking another sip of her water.

"I'll make you some lunch, then you can sleep, alright?" He questioned, Y/N nodded.

House made her some soup, getting her settled in her bed with another glass of water before he returned to the hospital. If the team had any questions about why he had stayed behind, they didn't ask.

...

Y/N read through the patient file, eyes flitting over the information as she thought of possible causes. House wrote the symptoms on the board before turning to the group of doctors gathered around the table.

The differential started and ideas were thrown around quickly, added to or eliminated before they formed a plan of action.

Y/N suddenly raised a hand to her mouth as bile rose up in her throat. She stood from her chair quickly, covering her mouth with her hand as she rushed across the room.

Y/N fell to her knees in front of the trash can, barely managing to pull her hair out of her face before she got sick.

"Guessing that we're not a fan of that idea," House said.

Cameron stood up, moving over to the sink quickly and filling up a glass of cold water. She grabbed a napkin from the dispenser before moving over to her friend.

"Here," Cameron said softly, passing her the cup as she stepped behind her and pulled her hair back. Cameron clipped her hair up in a simple twist, hand settling on her back.

"Are you okay? Is there anything else I can get you?" Cameron asked, Y/N shook her head.

"I'm fine," She muttered.

House turned to Foreman and Chase, "Secondary differential. Nausea, vomiting and increased irritability," House listed.

"Spending any amount of time with you," Cameron said, anger clearly evident in her tone.

"Ouch, any other ideas?" House asked.

"Pregnancy," Chase offered softly.

"It's mine, right?" House asked, Y/N shot him an enraged look.

"Wait, did you two sleep together?" Foreman questioned.

Y/N looked down with a huff, avoiding eye contact with her coworkers.

"My god, it's true, isn't it?" Chase asked.

"Seriously? He calls you 'petri dish'," Cameron said.

"It's a pet name," House replied with a shrug.

"A pet name that I hate," Y/N muttered, the nauseous feeling returning with full force. She set the glass down on the floor as she gagged, vomiting into the trash can again.

"Wait, are you actually pregnant?" Chase asked.

Y/N sniffled, wiping her mouth before picking up the glass again. She rinsed the acidic taste from her mouth, spitting a small amount of water into the trash can.

"I don't know," Y/N mumbled.

"Any other guesses?" House asked.

"The flu," Chase offered.

"We're not helping you with this. Take care of your girlfriend while we take care of the patient," Foreman said, standing from his chair and making his way out of the room.

"I can stay if you want me to," Cameron offered.

"I'll be okay," Y/N said.

Cameron stood up, walking out of the conference room with Chase following closely behind her.

House grabbed a chair from the table, setting it down in front of Y/N and sitting down. She shifted to sit with her back leaned against the desk, her legs stretched out across the floor in front of her.

Y/N sniffled again, wiping the tears from her cheeks before settling her hands in her lap, "I asked you not to tell them," Y/N stated.

"They were bound to find out eventually," House shrugged. He reached into his blazer, pulling out a pack of gum and offering a stick to her.

"Thanks," Y/N mumbled, unwrapping the stick. She put the gum into her mouth and began chewing it, "I can't believe you told my coworkers that we're sleeping together," Y/N muttered, tossing the gum wrapper into the trash can.

"Chase and Cameron are sleeping together. This is a safe space for inter-office boning," House said.

"They're sleeping together?" Y/N asked.

"Yeah, I caught them in the janitors closet last week. Thought I should stake my claim before Foreman got any funny ideas," House said.

"I seriously doubt that there are many men lining up to date me, especially with a nickname like 'petri dish'," Y/N smiled, crossing her ankles.

House watched her for a moment, "Do you think that you're pregnant?" House asked.

Y/N shrugged, "I don't know. Haven't really thought about it," She said.

House stood up, making his way out into the hallway. He stepped over to one of the med carts, unlocking it before pulling out a vial of anti-nausea medication, a syringe and a wipe.

He drew up the medication, switching out the needle before returning to the conference room. House sat down in the chair in front of her, setting the syringe on the edge of the desk.

"Give me your arm," He said, tearing open the wipe.

Y/N shrugged off her lab coat, lifting her sleeve and allowing him to clean her skin before injecting her with the medication.

She grimaced, "Sorry," He muttered, wiping the spot and discarding the needle.

"I'll drive you home," House offered, standing up and holding out his hand to her.

Y/N took his hand, standing up from the floor and brushing the dirt from her clothes. House took her coat off the hook, holding it up for her. Y/N slipped her arms into the sleeves, allowing him to lift it up onto her shoulders.

House put his own coat on before he walked her out to his car and drove her home, escorting her up to her apartment.

Y/N slipped into the bathroom for a shower while House watched a tv show in her bed. Y/N emerged from the bathroom, clothed in a pair of pyjamas with damp hair.

"House," She called softly, he looked over at her.

Y/N made her way over to the bed, sitting on the edge beside him as she held out the plastic stick. He looked down at it, sitting up when he realized that she was holding a positive pregnancy test.

"You said you hadn't thought about it," House said.

"I lied," Y/N said with a soft smile.

"At least I don't have to worry about you being contagious," House said, cupping her cheek and pressing his lips to her's.

[fairestwriting]

Hi! Congratulations on passing your exams! 🎉🎉 Can I request a reader who is Malleus' adopted younger sister and is dating Leona? I feel like he would be very protective either way, and given his and Leona's relationship..... This is going to be fun hehehe

THANK YOU SO MUCHH :’D i dont talk about their beef often but lord does it fascinate me. this situation is one i would study under a petri dish. but i cant do that. so i just ended up writing a long hc list hfdjg

𐙚 Leona Kingscholar

See, Malleus himself doesn’t think about Leona all that much. Not as often as Leona thinks of him, at least— So the way things play out might surprise you a bit. When you actually get to speak with Leona, you might be expecting a sort of hostility that… turns out to not really be there. He’s still not really warm and welcoming while you’re still strangers, sure, but he speaks to you like the fact that you’re in Malleus’ family is just entirely irrelevant.

…Malleus, on the other hand, really doesn’t love that you’re speaking to Leona, out of all people. Despite him not thinking about him that often Despite all of his talk about how he supports you making friends, regardless of who they are. ”Out of all people in the school…” He grumbles, shaking his head. He clearly doesn’t want to come off unsupportive, while clearly not supporting the idea of you two interacting at all. ”Of course I won’t stop you from talking to other students. But, does it really have to be Kingscholar…”

And it’s weird. Of course it’s weird. You’re wondering what Leona is thinking about for a great deal of the time while you’re still not all that comfortable around each other. In the few times he’s mentioned Leona, Malleus certainly had commented on how he could be a tricky person to figure out, even if he seemed so unmotivated most of the time. He might’ve mentioned one of his previous Magift plots and everything… And if he didn’t yet, he definitely will when he finds out you two are getting closer. It’s just that he doesn’t think it’s a very good idea for you to get this close to a person like him, he’ll tell you.

Meanwhile, Leona doesn’t care… or so it seems? You mention, one time, that you’re Malleus’ adopted sister, and he just shrugs. ”Wouldn’t have guessed. You two have nothing in common.” He replies, a lot more lighthearted than you’d expect. It easily could be part of the reason you two end up being drawn to each other, you’re used to people making too much of a big deal when they talk to you, since you’re part of the Draconia family. Not as much as they do to your brother, sure, but enough for it to feel a bit suffocating at times— And Leona doesn’t do any of that.

(What’s really happening, regarding Leona “not caring”, is that he at first thought getting close to you could bring him closer to getting back at Malleus like he wanted. But then, well, it turns out that he *also* felt a bit tired of how most people treat him. And you also happened to not do that. So he actually got attached.)

”You know, your brother’s not really gonna love the news…” Leona says with a snicker, putting an arm over your shoulders when you two actually start dating. Not that he really had to, when Malleus made a point of “checking up” on you regarding your thing with Leona a little bit too often. All so, how is Kingscholar, he hasn’t disrespected you in any way, has he. And his worries sometimes come on so suddenly, it’s like he’s not acting like himself… even when you’re this close to him, and you’re so aware of how much he cares about his loved ones.

It results in this very strange, mostly unspoken truce. Malleus may be suspicious, but after enough “checkups”, he’ll accept it… kind of. He won’t stop asking you whether Leona is treating you right or not, he’ll just do it less often. And Leona himself, well… he’ll always be a little smug about the whole thing. He feels like he has the upper hand in the whole thing.

(That, and, he’d never want to distance you from your family. Blood related or not. But like many of the things he thinks, you won’t really see him admitting it.)

if you like my work you can support me by commissioning me or tipping me on ko-fi ── ᵎᵎ ✦

[minswriting]

Colds and Cuddles - Aaron Hotchner x Reader

About: You get a cold while your boyfriend is out on a case. And when he gets back, he takes care of you.

Warnings: none! this is purely self indulgent though as i’m suffering from a cold and want to be babied by aaron hotchner. this is pure fluff. i’m not the greatest at writing comfort/fluff (as i need to practice it more lol) so i’d love to hear your guys’ feedback!!

Word Count: 1k

When Aaron had left for work two days prior, he could tell something was off with you. You seemed more lethargic than usual and ran down. But you had pushed through it, likely not experiencing symptoms at that point. When you had texted him the next day exclaiming you didn’t feel well, Aaron wasn’t surprised. He knew when someone was coming down with a cold. Being a father, Jack was a living petri dish and Aaron was accustomed to the colds and other sickness that came with that fact.

He came home from the case with his go bag in hand and a bag from the store. He had stopped at the pharmacy before coming home, ensuring that you had medicine as well as a few other things. As Aaron walked through the apartment door, he saw you on the couch, bundled in a blanket with the TV on as you watched some comedy show.

“Honey, I’m home,” Aaron exclaimed as he hung up his jacket.

“Yay,” came your hoarse and exhausted voice as you stood up from the couch. You were about to walk over to Aaron to greet him but he was already over to you before you could.

Aaron looked at you, taking in your appearance. Your hair was disheveled, your eyes were sunken with bags underneath them. Your nose was red from irritation. Aaron couldn’t help but feel for you. Colds really sucked. He tucked a strand of hair out of your face before checking your temperature with his wrist. You were certainly heating up. “Have you taken anything?” He asked softly.

When you shook your head no, Aaron frowned. “I’ve been too tired to go look at what we have,” you croaked out. Your voice was so hoarse and nasally.

Aaron hummed in response, caressing your cheek lovingly. He then opened the bag he was holding in his other hand, taking out the things he bought. “Luckily enough,” he began, grabbing the items. “I bought some stuff on my way home.” He pulled out a bottle of acetaminophen and something to break up mucus. “Reid told me what is best with colds. Apparently, cold medicines are a fluke because they're not full doses of what you actually need.” Aaron’s voice was soft as he spoke, a quirk in his lip as he quoted his genius agent.

You couldn’t help the small but tired smile on your lips as Aaron spoke. He was known for being so stoic, so stuck up and authoritative when he was at work. But with you? He was a complete softy. And you adored it. “What else did you get?” You asked.

“Some cough drops, vicks vapor rub,” Aaron replied, pulling out the items and placing them on the coffee table. He reached into the bag for the last item, pulling out a package of your favorite snack. “Thought you may need something joyful if your throat allows you to swallow.”

You grinned, looking at Aaron. “Thank you,” you said softly. “You didn’t have to do this, you know. You just got home from a case. You, too, should rest.”

Aaron shook his head, leaning in to kiss your forehead. “I can’t rest without making sure you’re taken care of, sweetheart,” he exclaimed, kissing your forehead again. “Now sit down. Have you eaten today?” You obeyed, sitting down on the couch.

When you shook your head once more, Aaron sighed. He should’ve known that you hadn’t. If you were too tired to look for medicines, then you were likely too tired to make yourself food as well.

“I’ll make you something,” He said softly, looking down at you as he towered over you. He reached down to caress your cheek once more.

“You really don’t have to-“ You tried to tell him no. But Aaron was quick to interrupt you.

“Let me take care of you,” He said firmly. “You’re sick and I wasn’t here to help you. Let me help you now. I’ll rest once you’ve eaten and taken medicine.”

And who were you to say no?

So Aaron went to the kitchen and made you soup. Aaron didn’t cook often. Not because he didn’t know how to but simply because his job didn’t allow him the time to do so. But whenever he did, it was always delicious. After thirty minutes in the kitchen, Aaron came back out to the living room with a hot bowl of chicken noodle soup for you to eat. And you made sure to eat at least most of it.

Not much was spoken between the two of you as Aaron took care of you. He gave you the medicine, giving you a glass of water to take it. After that, he disappeared to the bedroom for a few minutes before coming out in a pair of sweatpants and a white t-shirt, a vast difference from the thousand dollar suit he was wearing a bit ago.

Aaron took a seat on the couch next to you, putting an arm around your blanketed shoulders. “Do you need anything else?” He murmured, leaning his head on top of yours as he pulled you closer to him.

“Just you.” You replied softly, snuggling into Aaron’s side. Aaron smiled softly at you, putting a finger underneath your chin and kissing your lips softly. When he pulled away, you frowned. “I’m going to get you sick,” You said, furrowing your eyebrows.

“I don’t really care,” Aaron said, kissing your lips again. “Let’s get you to bed.” He said, pulling away to stand up. He reached out for your hand.

The two of you went to the bedroom, lying down on the bed. You got yourself comfortable, snuggling under the comforter. Aaron followed suit, getting under the comforter and wrapping his arms around you. It didn’t take long for you to fall asleep, the room filled with the small sounds of your congested snores. The sound lulled Aaron to sleep, allowing him to finally rest.

And a few days later when you were feeling better, Aaron began to feel the coming of a cold and you were there to take care of him too.

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for Plot Bunny behind the cut; "Clark panic-adopts his teenage clones (yes, including the supervillain one)". (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“Um,” Thirteen says, glancing at the box warily. “So like, you want us to . . . wear that? Like, your, uh–your old . . .” 

“Better fit for the farm, like I said,” Superman says. Match does not understand how Superman thinks either of them is any kind of “fit” for this environment no matter how he dresses. “If nothing else, Lara’s going to need civilian clothes, so if these fit him alright that’ll mean we don’t have to find him a whole wardrobe all at once.” 

“Uh,” Thirteen says, looking–uncomfortable. Match stares blankly at Superman and attempts to reconcile literally a single thing in this conversation, but is mostly stuck on: 

a) is Superman expecting him to regularly wear civilian clothes? 

and 

b) is Superman under the impression that Thirteen owns civilian clothes? 

“Also means you don’t have to loan him half your wardrobe,” Superman adds wryly. Match cannot believe that he’s been stolen by an idiot that rivals Thirteen, but no wonder the Agenda had to modify his DNA to keep him from being an idiot. 

“Uh–right,” Thirteen says, looking uncomfortable. Match vaguely despises all of existence, but specifically the existence of every idiot whose unaccompanied DNA ever wound up in a petri dish and made him have to put up with existing himself. 

“Thirteen doesn’t own civilian clothes,” he says flatly. 

“I own clothes, asshole,” Thirteen says, bristling a little. 

“Are you referring to the abandoned beachwear on the floor of your closet or the collection of mismatched socks founding a civilization under your bed?” Match asks dryly. Thirteen turns red and bristles a lot. 

“I–fuck you!” he sputters, visibly embarrassed. “And stop fucking creeping around my bunk, Christ!” 

“Maybe you should be more worried about your employers who run a cloning lab being stupid enough to just let any familiar face walk in through the front door with no questions asked,” Match points out still more dryly. “Just in terms of things you can affect and should be concerned about.” 

“You’re such a fucking shithead,” Thirteen snaps, glowering at him, then looks briefly even more embarrassed and glances at Superman’s parents with a wince. “Uh . . . I mean . . .” 

“. . . Kon,” Superman says with a strange expression. “Do you actually not–” 

Superman cuts himself off, and Thirteen turns red, half-cringing in on himself for a moment before visibly forcing himself to straighten up in his seat and draw himself up to take up space again. 

Stupid, Match thinks, entirely unsurprised by said stupidity. 

“I mean, why would I, man? Not like I really do undercover or whatever,” Thirteen replies with a casual shrug, which fully reinforces the “stupid” assessment, as ever. Thirteen has mastered living down to expectations, in Match’s experience. “Usually Rob just digs something up for me if we gotta go someplace under the radar.”

Superman looks very strange.

[thewatcher727]

Writing Tip: How To Make A Scene Immersive

More writing tips

Immersion is all about making the story attractive, really painting the picture of what’s going on. Rather than just explaining this, I’m going to use some samples. Below, you'll see a scene from my friend’s story when she sent it to me for advice, and what I did to enhance the scene and make it immersive. We’ll go over general descriptions and dialogue.

This is her description:

As it turned out, most of Soleanna Forest's too dense for Tails to land the Tornado. He had no choice but to land outside of the city, which means he and the others need to go on foot through the city and to the forest.

Not that they minded; after all, Soleanna's a beautiful city. Selene, Curry, Petri, and Verde were in awe of its beauty.

This is my version:

As the Tornado descended towards the majestic city of Soleanna, Tails quickly realized that the lush forest surrounding it was far too dense for a safe landing. Reluctantly, he chose to set the aircraft down just outside the city's bustling borders. The group now faced the prospect of traversing the city and venturing into the enchanting Soleanna Forest on foot.

The city's charm was undeniable, captivating each member of the group. Selene's eyes widened, her gaze dancing across the elegant architecture that blended seamlessly with nature. The sun-kissed buildings seemed to rise like golden pillars from the embrace of vibrant greenery, painting an awe-inspiring picture.

This is her character dialogue:

Amy felt her phone buzz and took it out to see a text message. She read it and smiled. "Aww, Cream wanted to check in." She then got excited as she kept reading. "And Blaze is visiting!"

"Blaze?" Selene questioned.

"She's the other princess I told you about," Sonic explained.

This made the merhog excited. "That means I'll get to see her! Awesome!"

Amy giggled as she began to send a text back. "And I just know Cream's going to love meeting your brother and friends."

This is my version:

Amy felt a gentle vibration in her pocket, drawing her attention to her phone. Retrieving it, she discovered a text message waiting for her. A smile instantly graced her lips as she read the words, "Aww, Cream wanted to check in." The warmth of the message seemed to embrace her like a cozy blanket.

Her excitement only grew as she continued to read the text, discovering that Blaze, the other princess she had spoken about earlier, was planning a visit. This unexpected news sent a spark of delight through her, akin to discovering a hidden treasure in a vast ocean.

Curiosity piqued, Selene couldn't help but inquire, "Blaze?"

With a confident air, Sonic stepped in to provide the explanation. "She's the other princess I told you about." His words held the hint of pride, as if Blaze's presence was a testament to the grand adventures they had shared.

The revelation filled Selene with a heightened sense of anticipation, like a mermaid who had caught sight of a legendary sea creature she had always dreamt of encountering. "That means I'll get to see her! Awesome!"

Amy's laughter bubbled like a brook as she began composing a reply to the messages. Her fingers danced across the screen like graceful butterflies as she typed her response, a melody of words crafted with care and affection. "And I just know Cream's going to love meeting your brother and friends." Her words were like a gentle breeze, carrying a promise of new friendships and joyful moments to come.

So, there are a few things I did here for you to follow:

Show, don't tell. This is a very important rule of writing. If you just state that Soleanna is a beautiful city, you've told us, but not really shown us. Sounds confusing, I know; I used to have trouble wrapping my head around this. But see how I gave descriptions of the architecture and surroundings, along with the characters' reactions? I showed how Soleanna looks beautiful without actually having to say it was.

Reactions of the characters. There are a lot of times in writing when someone's facial reactions can speak more than dialogue. By giving specific character reactions to the city's beauty, such as Selene's widened eyes, you give a good idea of why Soleanna is so amazing.

Atmosphere. See how I used words like "majestic," "bustling borders," and "enchanting forest"? These are the types of words that make the story more engaging.

Vivid Descriptions. See how I replaced descriptions like "too dense" with "lush forest surrounding it was far too dense"? By doing so, I provided a full mental image of the challenging landing situation.

Emotions. See how I expanded on Amy texting Cream? "Her fingers danced across the screen like graceful butterflies as she typed her response, a melody of words crafted with care and affection." I infused the text messages with emotions so we know how Amy is feeling.

[best-fictional-marine-reptile]

PETRIE IS THE BEST FICTIONAL PTEROSAUR!!!!!

Despite Swoop's absolutely legendary performance, Petrie has secured a decisive victory, and is thus crowned the Best Fictional Pterosaur! Petrie will join Mononykus in our hall of fame, from the Best Fictional Dinosaur tournament from last winter.

A huge thank you as usual to everyone who voted, especially those that reblogged polls and replied to posts! I wasn't around as much this time due to work related stress, but I still had a lot of fun, and I hope you did too!

We'll definitely be taking a short break, but this ptournament (rip that pun) did prove to be a very successful test of the automation I wrote to manage these tournaments for me, so rest assured, we have more to come!

[aloysiavirgata]

Unremarkable house, Brother Bill, rooster

Mulder is in the big hammock out back, sprawled like a Roman Emperor. The chickens are out, pecking for bugs among the goat droppings. He has a lemon shandy in a frosty glass. He has a tomato sandwich with tomatoes from their garden and homemade bread. He has Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell next to him.

He has misgivings.

Scully enters his field of view, stage left, “Mulder, you’d better put those damn chickens away before he gets here, especially Francisco. That rooster is a complete menace.”

She glares at the enormous bird. They’ve had a few scuffles, she and Francisco. There have been Band-Aids and three stitches.

He slurps at his drink. “You don’t think your brother wants to see my big cock?”

She is silent for a long moment. Then, “I swear to God I will literally kill you, Mulder. I will shoot you and I will bury you out here and I will put a big gazebo over your grave and every time I sit in it I will think about how much you had it coming.”

She stalks back to the house.

“Jesus,” Mulder says to the chickens. “Someone is in a mood.”

***

It’s an awkward greeting, but not as awkward as he’d imagined. He and Bill have always hated each other, which makes it easy to pick up where they’d left off, like two enemy pirate captains running into one another at a bar in Tortuga.

Bill, per usual, looks like he was waiting for the Dulcolax to kick in. Douchebag plaid shorts that Rob Petrie wouldn’t have touched with a ten foot golf club.

He sweeps his sister up in a massive hug and she got rather teary and Bill, to his credit, looks a bit pink around the eyes and nose as well. He puts his sister down after a moment, smoothing her hair.

Bill and Mulder then acknowledge one another’s undeniable existence on the material plane. Shake hands like sulky but well-mannered children after a baseball game.

***

Now they’re on the deck while Mulder tends the grill, three gorgeous steaks from a neighbor’s cow before him.

“It’s beautiful out here, Dana,” Bill says.

“Mostly Mulder’s doing,” Scully replies, sipping at the wine her brother had brought. “He’s honestly a wizard with this property.” She glances at him when she says it and he smiles back.

“Really?” Bill says. “Well, color me impressed. Mulder, I had no idea you were such an adept little homemaker.”

Mulder moves the steaks to a serving platter. “Oh, sure. Dana just uses me for cooking, yardwork, and sex.”

Bill chokes on his beer and Scully closes her eyes for a beat the way Anne Boleyn must have when they led her from the Tower.

Mulder sets the platter on the table, uncovers the potato salad and the asparagus. Sourdough rolls and goat-milk butter.

“Now Bill,” he says, “you tell me if that steak is too rare and I’ll pop it right in the microwave for you. Let me know if you need anything else, some A-1 or ketchup or anything at all. I want you to feel at home.”

Absolute daggers in Scully’s eyes.

Bill coughs lightly. “Everything looks fantastic, thank you both.”

“It was good of you to make the drive, Bill,” Scully says, loading up plates with food. “I know it’s a bit of a haul.”

Bill smiles indulgently. “Couldn’t be this close to my kid sister after so long and not swing by!”

“Though we would have understood,” Mulder says, warmly. He butters a roll and passes it to his brother in law. “Never feel obligated.”

Bill narrows his eyes as he accepts the bread. “Thank you.”

“I’m going to need some new pictures of the kids,” Scully says brightly. “Matthew must have grown six inches since that school photo you sent, Bill! And Mom says Claire has lost two teeth.”

“I’ll tell Tara to send some,” Bill says, puffing up.

They eat in silence for a time. Knives cutting through the tender steaks and stabbing into waxy potatoes and young asparagus. Butter dripping down chins.

“It’s a shame William isn’t growing up here,” Bill says, wiping his plate with another roll. “Dana, how could-“

Her fork clatters to her plate and he shuts up.

A roaring silence like an event horizon.

“Bill,” Scully says, sweetly. “We have the most beautiful rooster to show you.”

[ap41cu5]

Hello! I just finished watching Ghostbusters Frozen Empire because of your recommendation, and OH MY GOSH!! Lars is absolutely the type of character that i find attractive!!

I actually have a request for him! Here me out, A Lars and Female Reader, where she's his apprentice/assistant, and she secretly has feelings for him. But she feels guilty about it because he's essentially her boss! And she keeps having fairly sexual fantasies about him, normally when she's asleep or zoning out. But then, one day, he actually makes a sudden move on her, and she genuinely believes that she's simply having another fantasy again!

Reverie or Reality

Lars Pinfield x Fem! Reader Rating: Slight NSFW - Suggestive Themes Genre: Fluff Word Count: 2922 A/N: i hope this was what you were looking for! since ive never written for lars before, i dont know how in character he is, but i hope you enjoy!

His hands gently held your waist as his lips gently pressed into the soft skin of your neck. Your nails dug into the back of his uniform as you winced under his touch.

You carefully took in his scent, the feeling of his hands around your waist as they slowly–

“Could you grab me the syringe?” Lars requested, holding his hand out while his eyes remained fixated on the petri dish in front of him. 

Your eyes shot up and you were immediately broken out of your trance. You quickly brushed away any thoughts regarding the wildly inappropriate fantasy as you quickly got up from your seat. Pulling your goggles down so they hung loosely around your neck, you quickly set down your marker and rummaged through the tool tray. 

As the main parabiologist, Lars mainly took on the hands-on aspects of each project. He would directly manage and study the biology of any and all possessed objects you encountered, while you calculated the physics and math behind it. Your job consisted of serving as both a theoretical physicist as well as Lars’ apprentice. Both of which you didn’t mind, and quite enjoyed. Math was always your forte, and working with Lars was always enjoyable. You loved learning new things, especially from him.

Listening to him ramble on about science and how fascinating he thought it was with that same glint in his eyes as usual, there was something about how passionate he was about the paranormal that made him vastly different than any other scientist, or even any other person, that you knew of. He was sweet, had a delightfully dry sense of humor, not to mention easy on the eyes.

Hastily rushing through the tool tray, your fingers finally met the plastic surface of the syringe as you quickly placed it in his outstretched hand. Your fingers just barely brushed over one another’s, momentarily causing your breath to get caught in the pit of your throat. 

As his eyes never left the microscope, he motioned for you to come closer. You quickly scurried beside him, the smell of his cologne being an all-too-familiar scent. 

His fingers were curled around part of the microscope, the veins in his hands being strangely attractive as he pushed his glasses back up his nose. His lips were slightly parted, and his waist was notably narrow. 

He stepped aside, “have a look through the microscope.”

You almost didn’t hear him with how good he looked at that moment, the lamplight highlighting his features as he looked back at you. It took you a few seconds to process his request, your eyes momentarily traveling down to his lips before you hastily nodded and positioned yourself in front of the microscope. 

Lining your eye up with both of the lenses, you observed the spore-like objects in the petri dish.

“Just looks like regular fungus,” you commented.

“Give it a moment, now,” he replied, his eyes glued to you as he waited for your reaction.

A sudden purple, plasma-like substance seemed to shoot throughout the fungi, immediately sparking your interest. A small gasp escaped your lips as you quickly adjusted the zoom knob in an attempt to observe a larger area of the dish rather than the single, concentrated area. 

“Fascinating…!” You whispered under your breath, craving to see more.

“That was paranormal energy. I collected it off of our latest subject. I wanted to see if the paranormal energy was concentrated down to the cellular level, and it seems we have our answer. Why it only travels in spurts rather than a constant wave is still a mystery, however. But I’m working on it,” Lars explained, laying a hand on your shoulder.

His touch immediately made you tense up as you bit the inside of your cheek. 

“While you’re here, why don’t you take some of that serum I made the other day and try dropping it into the dish again?” Lars suggested, giving your shoulder a gentle pat.

You scoffed, “so it can explode in my face again? I really don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“It’s all part of improving. You want to learn more about parabiology as my assistant, no?” he nudged you, pointing to the bottle of green serum.

Giving him a hesitant nod, pulling your goggles back up as you carefully reached for the serum, grabbing the pipet next to it. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, desperately hoping you wouldn’t create another huge mess like last time. While Lars didn’t seem too worried about it, part of you really wanted to impress him, to be someone he could admire in the same way he was to you. 

You gulped, carefully measuring to make sure you had exactly one drop in the pipet before you dropped it into the petri dish. You could feel Lars’ eyes on you, and you weren’t sure if his presence was more comforting or nerve-racking. 

Your hand trembled above the petri dish as you painstakingly held the pipet at just the correct distance. Like ripping off a band-aid, you finally squeezed the liquid out of the small tube, as the singular drop landed in the petri dish with a faint “ploop!” sound. 

Prepared to back up and get a faceful of fungal matter, the substance in the petri dish only exhibited a small ‘poof!’ as a miniscule smoke cloud shortly followed. 

Immediately, your face lit up as you quickly turned to Lars.

“I did it!” You celebrated, a big smile gracing your features.

“See, I knew you could do it.” Lars lightly smiled back at you, your eyes traveling back down to his lips again before you quickly looked away.

“I– uh, was there anything else you needed?” You quickly asked, praying to God he didn’t notice the subtle glances you’d take at him.

He seemed to think for a moment, “yes, actually. Could you please disinfect the syringe from earlier as well as this scalpel?” Lars asked, handing both of the tools to you.

“Yeah, yeah sure,” you stammered, quickly making your way down the hallway to the disinfecting station.

Letting out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding in, you felt as though your knees could give out at any moment. Your hands were trembling and your face still warm, your infatuation with him was truly getting out of hand. 

Turning on the water, you sprayed some of the sterilization liquid onto the scalpel first, carefully spreading it across its metallic surface. 

This is getting out of hand. I can’t feel this way for him. We’re nothing more but coworkers. He’s my boss, I’m his assistant. Maybe even just an apprentice, at this point. But he’s just.. so…

No– no! How would he feel if he found out you were thinking about him in such a manner? He’d be disgusted! I’d need to find work elsewhere, no doubt. He’d never want to see me again! I really, really need to control–

“Ouch!” You winced, a small patch of red forming on your fingertip.

Looking down at the scalpel, then back at your finger, you realized that you accidentally nicked yourself while you were embarrassingly deep in thought about the man you were working under.

“(First Name)? Are you alright back there?” You heard Lars shout from the lab.

“Uh– yeah! Yeah, I’m fine! Sorry, I’ll be over in just a second!” You unconvincingly called back, rummaging through all the different cupboards looking for a pack of band-aids. 

Lars took off his goggles, growing curious and a tad bit worried. It never took you this long just to sanitize used tools before, not to mention you sounded awfully suspicious just then.

You groaned, Lucky never reorganized the drawers after she used them, making it impossible to find the god forsaken box of bandaids. You could feel the blood dripping down your hand as you stood back up to search the upper cabinets. 

“Damn it, Lucky,” you swore under your breath as you stood on your tippy toes, searching the very top of the cabinet.

“(First Name)?” Lars inquired, approaching you from behind.

Your head immediately shot towards him, stumbling back a bit. You hadn’t even noticed him approaching.

“Sorry, sorry. I don’t mean to take so long. I just accidentally nicked myself with the scalpel. But it's no big deal, I just can’t find where Lucky put the band-aids for the life of me,” you exasperatedly sighed, ripping open another drawer.

He sighed, taking a few steps closer. “Let me take a look,” Lars gently requested, holding one of his hands out. 

“No– no, really it’s alright, you don’t have–”

“(First Name).”

You gulped at his stern tone, hesitantly holding your hand out for him to take.

He sighed, his thumb gently tracing your palm as he patted down the cut with a paper towel, soaking up all the excess blood. He slowly brought your hand up closer to his face, his eyes meticulously scanning the small cut. The feeling of his hand against yours made your face beet red all over again as you prayed he didn’t notice that you were trembling.

“Just, relax,” he reassured you, grabbing a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and pouring some of it onto a cotton ball.

“This is going to sting a bit, okay?” He braced you before he gently dabbed the ball of cotton onto the cut.

You winced, struggling not to pull back as he gently blew on the cut. He continued for a few seconds until the stinging finally subsided.

He held your hand by the wrist as he tossed the cotton ball into the trash can, grabbing a box of bandaids out of his pocket.

“You just carry band-aids around?” 

“You can never be too prepared,” he shrugged. “Don’t touch any of my experiments, alright? We don’t want that cut getting infected with whatever germs those ghost-infested objects may carry.”

You nodded, following him back to the lab. His touch was comforting, too comforting. You liked him too much– way too much. 

Stretching, you returned to your desk, mapping out any equations that needed to be solved. You sighed as you tried to keep a steady grip on your pen, the pressure on your fingertip causing it to ache. 

“Where’d everyone go?” You inquire, looking around the empty room, leaving just you and Lars alone together.

“They left ages ago. It’s nearly midnight. Had you not realized?” Lars replied, taking a granola bar out of his desk.

Late nights weren’t uncommon with Lars. Going home early for either of you was amongst the rarest of sights to behold.

“No, I guess I must’ve lost track of time,” you replied, fighting to keep your eyes open.

He glanced back over to you, “you look tired, (First Name). Why don’t you head on home for the night? You deserve it.”

“No, no, I’m okay. I just need to finish up these last few equations and I’ll be on my way. Promise.”

Lars sighed, taking one last worried glimpse at you.

“Alright, but only because you promised,” he remarked before pulling his goggles back on.

Begrudgingly getting up out of your seat, you grabbed a marker and began solving the last equations up on your whiteboard. With a sigh and a hand tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, you got to work. 

The only sound breaking the deafening silence was the noise of your marker squeaking against the white board along with the occasional yawn from either of you. 

But it was just so hard to focus.

The way he so carefully held your hand to tend to your cut, he didn’t have to, but he did. He was gentle with you, and sweet. At this point, you were almost certain your feelings for him stretched beyond just the point of infatuation. Far past the point of just infatuation. 

The countless times you’d spaced out during a project thinking about him was awfully embarrassing, and frankly you don’t know how no one around you noticed. Or even how he hadn’t noticed, for that matter. But you weren’t complaining in the slightest. He’s your boss, you can’t imagine how disgusted he would be if he ever found out how you truly felt about him.

“(First Name)? You alright over there?” Lars inquired, looking up at you from his station.

“Yeah-! Yeah, I’m fine,” you replied, confusion lacing your voice.

“You’ve been staring at the whiteboard for the past 5 minutes,” he added, taking his goggles off from around his neck.

Shit. 

You felt your face grow hot with embarrassment as you quickly turned back around to face the whiteboard.

“I’m alright! No need to worry!” You stammered.

You could just barely hear the sound of Lars’ boots tapping against the floor behind you as you tried as hard as you could to solve the next part of the equation. But it was like your mind blew a fuse and you couldn’t think at all, even the skills required for basic arithmetic escaped you.

“What’s on your mind?” He asked, his hand finding its way to your shoulder.

You couldn't find the words to respond, like you were in suspended animation. You stood frozen, marker in hand and eyes glued to the whiteboard.

“(First Name),” he paused, “you’ve been acting differently for a long while now. And I.. have a theory.”

You hesitantly turned to face him, setting your marker aside. 

“Oh– it’s just– it’s nothing, really!” you stammered, hoping to come up with something coherent until your rambling was quickly interrupted by the feeling of Lars’ tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he murmured as his thumb gently traced along your jawline.

What is happening!? Does he really feel the same way? No, I must’ve fallen asleep at my desk after he helped me with my cut! Does this mean I’m lucid dreaming? But this dream feels awfully realistic. There’s no way..!

“L-Lars..?” you murmured, just barely above a whisper.

“It appears my hypothesis was correct,” he replied, his eyes studying you.

This isn’t real. I’m asleep, I’m dreaming, I have to be! 

His thumb traced along your chin, then gently traced along your bottom lip.

“I hypothesize,” his eyes traveled down to your lips, “that you, (First Name), have feelings for me.”

What a realistic dream. Okay, I’ll bite.

“And if I do?” 

His expression quickly changed to a bit of surprise, you were almost never this forward. 

“You’re feeling awfully bold right now,” he commented.

“Awfully. I’m surprised I haven’t woken up yet,” you mumbled to yourself.

He quickly pulled back, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

“What?” He asked, his head tilting.

You paused for a moment until it finally dawned on you.

“Holy shit– holy shit, this is real,” a hand slapped over your mouth as you felt your face burn in pure embarrassment.

You were just about ready to dig yourself a hole under a rock and live there for the rest of your life.

“You’ve been dreaming about me?” Lars inquired, an all-too-familiar smirk appearing on his face.

You grumbled into your hands, not daring to look at him.

He chuckled a bit, “there’s no need to be embarrassed now, is there? I’m sure you’ve already figured out by now that I feel the same way.” He gently pried your hands off of your face.

You stared down at the floor, your heart beating out of your chest as he carefully pulled you closer. 

He gently pushed your chin upwards, “look at me, (First Name).”

You gulped, your eyes darting around the room before finally landing on Lars’ eyes.

“Would– would it be alright if I kissed you?” He asked, his face ever so slightly heating up at the request.

You’re not sure what came over you, but you didn’t even give it a second thought before you quickly thrust your lips into his. He stumbled backwards a bit, but quickly steadied himself as his arms snaked around your waist, pulling you flush against his body.

A groan escaped his lips as he melted into you, one of his hands gently tugging on the back of your hair. You both pulled away just for a split second for air before you quickly enveloped each other in another kiss. All the pent up desire you had for him seemed to flow out of you, every inch of him taking over your senses.

“You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this,” he grumbled, planting a chaste kiss just below your ear.

You whimpered at the contact. The feeling of him kissing your neck was better than you could’ve ever imagined. Your fingers intertwined with his soft curls, gently tugging on them, eliciting a low groan from the significantly taller man. Each kiss sent a shiver down your spine, hitting you directly in your core.

He quickly pulled away, his breathing was heavy and his cheeks were flushed.

“We.. we should stop. I’d– I’d like to take you out first. At least before we do.. anything,” he explained, pushing his glasses back up his nose.

Your neck felt cold without his touch, but you agreed anyway. A small smile graced your lips as you looked back up at him.

“I’d love that,” you stood up on your tippy toes, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Tomorrow, 8 o’ clock? I’ll pick you up,” he added, one of his hands resting on the base of your neck.

You beamed, “I would love that.”

[petrichoraline]

*walzes in* i just started watching it because i felt like it BUT

WHAT

for those who did not know jaeyoung isn't his first bl role 🫶

[zepuckinghockey]

NHL Wedding Season 2024

We're back again for another summer of NHL weddings! If you'd like to see last year's, check out this post.

If you see something wrong or someone missing, let me know! I'll continue to update this list until September when the weddings fizzle out. I appreciate the replies, reblogs, and asks with corrections and additions ❤️

6/7/24: Adam Larsson: (private wedding, no idea)

6/19/24: Jake Evans: Brendan Gallagher, Joel Edmundson, Tyler Toffoli, Nick Suzuki, Joel Armia

6/22/24: Max Jones: Trevor Zegras, Jacob Bryson

6/26/24: Adam Fox: (looked to be just family)

Josh Anderson: Nick Suzuki, Max Domi, Nick Foligno, Seth Jones, Cam Atkinson, Scott Hartnell

6/29/24: Ryan Pulock: Matt Martin, Noah Dobson, Casey Cizikas, Oliver Wahlstrom, Adam Pelech, JG Pageau, Josh Bailey, Mat Barzal, Anthony Beauvillier, Cal Clutterbuck, Bo Horvat, Simon Holmstrom, Pierre Engvall, Mikey Reilly

Jake Oettinger: Mason Marchment, Tyler Seguin, Ty Dellandrea, Wyatt Johnston

7/3/24: Mason Marchment: Jake Oettinger, Tyler Seguin, Ty Dellandrea, Brandon Montour, Mike Carcone, Owen Tippett, Sam Reinhart

7/6/24: Nic Hague: Cody Glass, Owen Tippett, Zach Whitecloud, Alec Martinez, Shea Theodore, William Karlsson, Keegan Kolesar, Nic Roy

Brendan Gallagher: Cole Caufield, Nick Suzuki, Carey Price, Jeff Petry, Chris Wideman, Tanner Pearson, Nate Thompson, Philip Danault, Christian Dvorak, Jake Evans, Sam Montembeault

7/7/24: Adam Fox 2.0: Ryan Reaves, Kevin Rooney, Will Cuylle, Vincent Trocheck, Jacob Trouba, Barclay Goodrow, Alexis Lafreniere, Blake Wheeler, Jimmy Vesey, Jonathan Quick, Ryan Lindgren, Braden Schneider, Sammy Blais, Ryan Donato, John Marino

7/10/24: Elias Lindstrom: (haven't seen any NHL guests)

7/11/24: Jared McCann: Jordan Eberle, Yanni Gourde, Vince Dunn, Jamie Oleksiak, Jaden Schwartz, Matty Beniers, Will Borgen, Kailer Yamamoto, Justin Schultz, Andre Burakovsky, Ryan Donato, Darnell Nurse, Brandon Tanev

7/13/24: Jack Campbell: Tyler Toffoli, Jake Muzzin, Kyle Clifford, Evander Kane

Alex Carrier: Frederick Gaudreau, Mathieu Joseph, Jimmy Oligny

Pierre Engvall: Simon Holmstrom, Owen Wahlstrom

Andrew Mangiapane: Johnny Gaudreau, Rasmus Andersson, Mikael Backlund, Noah Hanifin, Erik Gudbranson, Mack Weegar, Troy Stecher, Jonathan Huberdeau

Kyle Connor: Zach Werenski, Evgeny Svechnikov, Connor Hellebuyck, Tony Calderone

Eetu Luostarinen: Niko Mikkola, Lundell Anton, Aleksander Barkov

Tyler Madden: Alec Turcotte, Akil Thomas

Zack MacEwen: (haven't seen any NHL guests)

7/18/24: William Carrier: Mathieu Joseph

7/19/24: Kaapo Kahkonen: (haven't seen any NHL guests)

7/20/24: Jamie Benn: Tyler Seguin, Joe Pavelski, Jordie Benn, Jason Robertson, Roope Hintz, Joel Kiviranta, Miro Heiskanen, Esa Lundell, Ben Bishop, Luke Glendenning, Ty Dellandrea, John Klingberg

Alex Killorn: Yanni Gourde, Pat Maroon, Brandon Hagel, Nikita Kucherov, Victor Hedman, Zach Bogosian, Anthony Cirelli, Luke Schenn, Ryan McDonagh, Tyler Johnson, Blaine Gabbert, Cam Brate, Andrei Vasilevskiy

Thomas Chabot: Josh Norris, Brady Tkachuk, Tim Stutzle, Mathieu Joseph

Sebastian Aho: Teuvo Teräväinen, Jesperi Kotkaniemi, Seth Jarvis, Antti Raanta, Nino Niederreiter, Jesper Fast, Jani Hakanpaa

7/22/24: Michael Bunting: Mitch Marner, Auston Matthews, John Tavares, Jake Muzzin, Morgan Reilly, Fred Anderson, Wayne Simmons, Alex Kerfoot, TJ Brodie, Kyle Clifford

7/26/24: Jake Lucchini: (haven't seen any NHL guests)

7/27/24: Connor McDavid: Leon Draisaitl, Darnell Nurse, Zach Hyman, Evander Kane, Cody Ceci, Evan Bouchard, Vinny Desharnais, Brett KUlak, Connor Brown, Ryan Mcleod, Derek Ryan, Stuart Skinner, Philip Broberg, Warren Foegele, Devin Shore, Kyle Turris, Luke Gazdic, Zack Kassian, Patrick Maroon, Sam Gagner

Carter Verhaeghe: Matthew Tkachuk, Aaron Ekblad, Evan Rodrigues, Stolarz, Ryan Lomberg, Nick Cousins

8/3/24: Travis Sanheim: Travis Konecny, Scott Laughton, Shayne Gostisbehere, Joel Farabee, Morgan Frost, Tyson Foerster, James Van Riemsdyk

Connor Ingram: (haven't seen any NHL guests)

Cody Glass: (haven't seen any NHL guests)

8/4/24: David Pastrnak: Taylor Hall, Tukka Rask, Patrice Bergeron, Brad Marchand, Zdeno Chara, Charlie Coyle, Hampus Lindholm, Jeremy Swayman, Linus Ullmark, Torey Krug, David Krecji

8/9/24: Alex Tuch: Shea Theodore, Zemgus Girgensons, Tage Thompson

8/10/24: Tyler Johnson: Yanni Gourde, Ondrej Palat, Mathieu Joseph, Ryan McDonagh, Alex Killorn, Pat Maroon, Reese Johnson, Adam Gaudette

8/17/24: Cale Makar: Gabe Landeskog, Nathan MacKinnon, Erik Johnson, Bo Byram, Darren Helm, Andrew Cogliano, Josh Manson, Kurtis Macdermid

Zachary Sanford: (haven't seen any NHL guests)

Mike Amadio: Zach Whitecloud, Ben Hutton, Brett Howden, Nic Hague, Nic Roy

Andrew Copp: JT Compher, Tyson Jost

Ryan Johansen: Colton Sissons, Luke Kunin, Roman Josi, Matt Duchene, Dante Fabbro, Cam Atkinson, Ross Colton, Miles Wood

8/23/24:

Roope Hintz: Tyler Seguin, Esa Lundell, Patrik Laine,

[berlioz-the-kitten]

Petri Dishes and Plastic Wrap

ACT THREE: PRESERVED

Brian Moser/Reader

Summary: Y/N was brought in for a psychological profile contract after the Ice Truck Killer case starts gaining momentum and the department begins to feel the pressure. She reviews old case files, offers insight, and quietly builds profiles. What no one knows? Y/N used to work at a private sanitarium in Georgia—one that got shut down after multiple patient abuse reports. She even kept a journal on a particular patient who had dissociative tendencies, surgical skill, and a fixation on reconstructing human bodies like art. The file? It got buried. Now in Miami, Y/N starts receiving odd notes—sketches of bodies in glass boxes, neatly preserved. No threats. Just… acknowledgments. And when she meets Rudy Cooper, the charming prosthetics specialist brought in to consult on a limb pattern, she gets the feeling she’s being studied.

TW: Graphic depictions of death and body preservation (artistic context), Emotional coercion and grooming culmination, Moral ambiguity and complicity in serial murder, Mentions of dissociative mental states / identity collapse, Psychological domination disguised as romance / intimacy, Unreliable memory / trauma erasure, Faked death / staged suicide (brief), Stalking and post-trauma haunting (ongoing), Canon is a sandbox.

It was past midnight when he showed up again. No call. No text. Just the soft knock on her apartment door, rhythmic and patient—like he knew she was awake. Like he knew she’d open it.

She did.

Rudy Cooper stood there, but something about him was gone. The pleasantness. The posture. The warmth like sun-dappled water.

Gone was the man who charmed his way into forensics labs and wine-stained evenings.

In his place stood Brian Moser—and though he hadn’t spoken his name yet, Y/N knew. The truth settled between them like fog, inevitable and damp.

He stepped inside without being asked.

“Rudy,” she said, carefully.

He tilted his head.

“No,” he replied. “Brian.”

She closed the door behind him.

He walked into the living room like it was already his, glancing at the bookshelf, the photos she never hung, the empty tea cup still on the table from hours ago.

He turned back to her. "You always saw more than anyone else. Even then. Back in Georgia. I think that’s why I never tried to lie to you.”

She watched him with the stillness of a hunted animal—one that’s not afraid, just calculating.

“So this is your confession?” she asked.

He smiled. “Confession is for people who want absolution.”

He stepped closer. Close enough for her to feel the heat of him, the weight of something ancient in his gaze. There was no pretense anymore. No mask.

“There’s one piece left,” he said softly. “One part of the installation. Of the story.”

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled something out: a folded blueprint of a room, hand-sketched and marked with deliberate precision. A glass box in the center. Elevated. Spotlit.

He handed it to her like a gift.

“You’re the only one who’s ever understood the structure. The meaning. The control. You saw the pattern before anyone else did.”

Her fingers curled around the paper, knuckles white.

“I don’t want to kill you,” he continued, voice quiet. “That was never the point. This isn’t about death. It never was.”

She looked down at the design. It was perfect. Cold. Beautiful.

“Then what is it about?” she whispered.

His eyes searched hers, and for a moment, something that almost resembled tenderness flickered across his face.

“It’s about completion,” he said. “And I think you’re the only one who can stand beside it and not look away.”

He reached out then, fingertips barely grazing her wrist. Not controlling. Not threatening.

Inviting.

“You don’t have to say yes,” Brian said. “But I hope you do. Because every masterpiece needs someone who can understand the weight of it. And you… you’re the only one who’s ever listened.”

She didn’t answer.

Not yet.

But she didn’t pull away.

The file sat open in front of her, bloodstained photos glinting beneath lamplight, victim details outlined in her own crisp, clinical handwriting. Her notes had grown darker in tone lately—less detached, more specific. And the profile… it was no longer a sketch of an unknown killer.

It was Brian.

It had always been Brian.

But now, the lines between documentation and devotion were beginning to blur. The way she wrote about his patterns, his poses, the intent behind his work—it read like a eulogy in progress. Or maybe a love letter.

She had all the evidence she needed. She could walk it in tomorrow, straight to LaGuerta or Deb, and it would only take a few hours before warrants were issued, press conferences scheduled, statements made. It would end in blood. It always did.

And yet—she sat still.

Because Brian’s final tableau wasn’t just about the victim.

It was about her.

He had asked, not demanded. He had looked her in the eye and given her what no one else ever had: not love, not even respect, but understanding.

He had handed her the blueprint like a proposal. An offer. A place beside the art instead of above it or beneath it.

If she let him finish—just this once—it wouldn’t mean letting him disappear forever. He could be caught after. She could orchestrate it. She could control it. She could preserve the symmetry.

Letting it play out could be the cleanest end. The most complete.

But was that justice?

Or was it complicity?

Y/N stared at the photos again, hands still, mind racing. The last potential victim’s name already circled in red. A woman. Pale. Slender. Dark hair. Too much like her. It was a warning. Or a mirror. Or both.

She reached for her phone once, hand hovering over the contacts list.

Dexter. Deb. Doakes. LaGuerta.

But her hand didn’t move.

Instead, she turned the phone off, folded the blueprint with care, and placed it back inside Brian’s file. Her fingers brushed against the edge of the red ribbon still tucked inside the folder—the one from her glovebox. The one she’d never thrown away.

Preservation is not always mercy, she had once written. Sometimes, it’s simply the refusal to interrupt beauty.

And maybe, just maybe…

She wanted to see how it ended.

Because the line between the analyst and the accomplice was thin.

And she had always walked it barefoot.

It happened in a warehouse—abandoned, of course. Somewhere between the city’s gutted industrial skeleton and the marshland that swallowed evidence whole. Dexter had traced the patterns. He’d followed the bloodless crime scenes, the perfectly arranged limbs, the artful coldness of it all.

And it had led him to Rudy Cooper.

To Brian Moser.

To his brother.

He’d come with the intent to end it. Wrap the kill room in plastic. Deliver justice in the only way he knew how.

But he wasn’t alone.

Y/N was already there.

She stood off to the side, shadowed, still, like a painting someone hadn’t finished yet. Her coat was buttoned. Her hands were empty. Her expression was unreadable, composed as always—except for her eyes. Her eyes were lit with something Dexter hadn’t seen before.

Not fear.

Alignment.

Brian turned when Dexter entered, smiling like it was a family reunion. Like the blood hadn’t dried beneath his nails. “You’re late,” he said. “We were just finishing.”

The tableau was behind him: a woman, preserved but untouched. She was alive. Tranquilized. Spared. For now.

Dexter didn’t look at the woman. He looked at Y/N. “You knew.”

She didn’t deny it. “I did.”

“How long?”

“A while.”

His stomach turned—not because of the betrayal, but because of the recognition. That mirror he always feared. She’d always been too calm. Too precise. She didn’t just profile monsters—she understood them.

Brian stepped between them, his hands raised like a priest delivering a blessing. “She’s not like you, Dexter. She doesn’t pretend to be normal. She never has. That’s what makes her perfect.”

Dexter’s grip tightened on the scalpel in his pocket. “You’re using her.”

Brian’s voice went low. Intimate. “She’s choosing this.”

And Y/N didn’t move.

She didn’t run. Didn’t cry. Didn’t plead.

“I see both of you,” she said, voice like steel beneath velvet. “You kill to silence the chaos. He kills to show its symmetry. And I…” She swallowed. “I want to understand it. To witness it.”

She looked at Brian—not with adoration, not even affection. With purpose.

“I don’t need to be saved,” she told Dexter. “I was never yours to protect.”

That was the moment Dexter realized he was too late.

Not just for the woman strapped to the table—but for Y/N.

Because she wasn’t a victim in this story.

She was already part of the design.

The final tableau was already in motion when Dexter arrived.

An underground space—half-forgotten, half-flooded—somewhere beneath the bones of an old courthouse set to be demolished within the month. The scent of mildew clung to every surface, but beneath it lingered formaldehyde, copper, and lavender. It was colder than Miami should’ve allowed. Too cold.

Brian was there, sleeves rolled, blade in hand, eyes alight with that familiar calm he wore like skin.

Y/N stood beside him.

Not restrained.

Not threatened.

Present.

She turned when she heard Dexter’s footsteps. She didn’t startle.

“Don’t,” she said. Just one word.

He kept walking.

The scene behind her was nearly finished—a body arranged in an upright tank, filled with preserving fluid, limbs disarticulated and reassembled with surgical precision. The spinal column had been cleaned and mounted like vertebral calligraphy, and above it, etched into glass:

"To the woman who never looked away."

On one side of the installation: sketches from Briarcliff—shadows of a younger man, faceless, hunched in the corner of a therapy room. On the other: a bloodless, Miami crime scene photograph, laminated, perfectly aligned with the trajectory of a red ribbon suspended in the fluid like a heartbeat.

Brian stepped back and wiped his gloves clean, eyes on Dexter now. “She gave me time,” he said. “You can have whatever comes after.”

Dexter raised the scalpel.

Y/N stepped between them.

Not panicked. Not dramatic. She simply moved forward and blocked the line. Her gaze didn’t waver.

“I won’t let you stop him yet,” she said, voice tight. “Not before it’s complete.”

“Y/N—” he said, low. A warning. A plea.

But she didn’t blink. Didn’t budge. Her fingers were trembling just barely where they gripped her coat sleeves, but her jaw stayed set.

“You take him now, and all you’ll have left is a corpse and a mess. Let him finish—let this be the end—and you can have your justice.”

Brian didn’t speak. Just stood still behind her, blood drying on his forearms, the work gleaming in the tank like a cathedral window. It wasn’t gore. It was design.

Dexter hesitated.

For one breathless moment, he considered slicing past her.

But then—he didn’t.

He stepped back. Just slightly. Eyes on the tank. On Brian. On her.

The choice had already been made.

And in the hours that followed, while the fluid settled and the glass fogged, Y/N wrote in her journal for the last time:

He gave me a cathedral made of bone and silence. It is not love. It is not hate. It is recognition.

I was never the subject. I was the mirror.

By morning, the building was empty.

Brian was gone.

And the masterpiece remained.

She didn’t cry when she did it.

Y/N Morrissey had never been sentimental. Not in the way people expected. Not with mementos, not with memories. But her journals—those were different. They weren’t just records. They were witnesses. They were every observation, every insight, every moment she had spent cataloguing the minds no one else dared to understand.

Especially his.

She waited until the city went quiet. Not the quiet of peace, but of exhaustion. Of aftermath.

The final tableau had been discovered. It would take weeks for the department to piece together its meaning, and even longer to realize that the woman Brian Moser had chosen to honor with it wasn’t a victim at all.

They would never know she stood in front of Dexter Morgan and made him wait. That she allowed a killer one last act of creation. That she chose not to run.

And so—she burned the evidence.

She took the box from the top shelf of her closet. It was heavier than she remembered, the journals stacked neatly inside like preserved organs. Each one was marked. Numbered. Labeled. She’d always been precise. That was what he liked about her.

Y/N placed them one by one into the steel sink of her kitchen, flicked the lighter, and set the first page ablaze.

The flame caught fast—ink curled, paper blackened, smoke rose. It smelled of scorched memory.

She didn’t look away.

As each journal turned to ash, she fed the next into the fire. No hesitation. No remorse. Just release.

The last one—the red-threaded leatherbound volume labeled #79—lingered in her hands.

She ran her thumb over the cover. Thought of Georgia. Of red doors. Of the boy who never blinked when he talked about detaching things. Of the man who offered her a place beside the masterpiece instead of under it.

And then she let it go.

The fire took it all.

When it was over, she stood in the smoke-thick room, alone with the silence.

Y/N Morrissey, who had once kept records so no one else would have to, now had nothing left to prove what she’d seen. What she’d chosen. What she’d allowed.

And she felt lighter than she had in years.

The mirror had been shattered.

And she had stepped through the glass.

It happened fast. Clean. Controlled.

Like everything Brian ever did.

There was a body, of course—a man pulled from the canal with the face barely intact, hands mutilated beyond print analysis, teeth removed with surgical care. The torso bore wounds eerily reminiscent of the Ice Truck Killer’s earliest victims. Enough to suggest revenge, or suicide, or a final act of madness.

LaGuerta bought it. So did the coroner. The press spun it as poetic justice, a killer consumed by his own pathology.

Dexter didn’t believe it.

But he didn’t fight it either. Something in him—wounded, exhausted, ashamed—let it lie. Maybe he didn’t want to admit that he had failed to finish what he started. That someone else had stepped between him and the kill. That Y/N had chosen the monster over the method.

They held a briefing to close the file. “Case Resolved.” A memorial for the victims was arranged. Miami Metro moved on, hungry for the next headline.

But Y/N knew better.

The staged death was his parting gift. A vanishing act designed not to fool her—but to protect her. To end the performance, seal the narrative, and allow them both to disappear from the stage.

There were no more visits. No more sketches. No more tokens left in gloveboxes or boxes of wine at her door.

But every now and then—

—when she walked past a butcher shop and saw a display arranged just so,

—when a chalk outline in a crime scene photograph aligned too perfectly with one she’d diagrammed long ago,

—when a red ribbon found its way between the pages of a returned library book—

She knew.

He wasn’t dead.

He was preserved.

Not in body. Not in evidence. But in the space he’d carved for her in his design.

And she?

She lived as though she had been sculpted, too.

Not marked by trauma.

But chosen by it.

She requested the transfer herself.

Cited burnout. Emotional fatigue. Said all the right things in all the right tones. Miami Metro signed off without protest—she’d done more than expected, stayed long past contract. There were rumors, of course, whispered in corners and breakrooms, but no one had evidence. No one had answers.

Dexter didn’t say goodbye. Neither did she.

She packed her apartment in a single day—books boxed, clothes folded, art taken down without sentiment. She left behind only one thing: a single post-it note, stuck to the inside of the desk drawer.

Not everything beautiful wants to be understood.

The new city was colder. Quieter. Rain more than sun. She liked it that way. Fewer questions. A new badge clipped to her coat. A new name on her office door: Dr. Y/N Morrissey, Consulting Forensic Psychiatrist.

She didn’t decorate.

Didn’t hang degrees. Didn’t smile in the hallways.

She just worked—methodical, clean, clinical.

But once a month—like a clock with its own blood pulse—something arrived.

Not through the front desk. Not through interoffice mail.

Always slipped under the door. Folded neatly. Heavy paper. Precise lines.

A sketch.

Never violent. Never grotesque.

Anatomical poetry.

Hands reaching toward each other, bones curled mid-motion, spines like cathedral arches. Sometimes, they mirrored her posture. Sometimes, they mimicked her movements from cases only she had touched.

Sometimes, they looked like her.

No name. No threat.

Only the red ribbon, coiled in the center of the fold like a kiss on the neck.

She never spoke of them. Never traced them back. She burned each one after studying it. All but the ribbon—those she kept, tucked inside the lining of her coat like red nerves, stitched close to her heart.

Because Brian wasn’t haunting her.

He was reminding her.

That once, they had stood on the same side of the glass. That once, they had built something beautiful in blood and silence and understanding.

And maybe—

just maybe—

they weren’t finished.

[orbleglorb]

wanted to do three days in a row of blasetober drawings, so. here's some georgias at ~10:30 pm

[ID: a drawing of neerie mccloud being swept back from elsewhere, with a tumblr post by gayarsonist at the top, which reads: "accidentally indulged in too much 'me time', turns out i've been reported missing for over six months and presumed dead by most local and national authorities." neerie is a brown person with a cloud for hair, wearing a brown aviators jacket, black shorts, and a teal shirt. neerie looks a little surprised. /end ID]

[ID: a drawing of nanci grackle "saying" the following tumblr post by precariouswizardry: "'poor lab safety' this. 'hazardous work environment' that. fucking live a little," while holding a vial of mysterious liquid and a petri dish of a mysterious black substance and rolling xer eyes. the next panel shows niq nyong'o responding with charlesoberonn's reply to that post, which reads, "'A little' is exactly how much time you'll live." Nanci is a fat white person with spiky black hair and wearing a bright green jacket with purple fur trim over a pink tshirt. niq is a fat black kenyan woman with her hair done in braids and wearing a muted green cardigan over a yellow shirt. the right arm on the cardigan is knotted to accommodate her amputated arm. /end ID]

[miyuki-fenn]

Trying my hands at TWST adoptables, please take them before I get attached... Reply or DM if interested :) Paypall n cashapp only (I'm open to trade offers but it'll need to be good)

Right: Ben Puckerby - $20 USD (SOLD) Heartslabyul 3rd year - Twisted from Sour Bill

Left: Petri Radcliff - $20 USD (SOLD) RSA 3rd year - Twisted from Perdita

[ersatz-ostrich]

See You Again

Chapter 1: The Coffin

Jason Todd x f!Reader

You were just a teenager when you lost your best friend, Jason Todd. Years later, your life is turned upside down, and you find your way back to him. He's changed. You've changed. But you wouldn't have it any other way.

[A/N]: Me? Publishing a Red Hood fic that's been sitting in my drafts for months? It's more likely than you think. Jason is such an interesting character and there have been so many takes on him and his story that I've lost count. All I can do is hope that I do his character justice, and that I can deliver something worthy to all of the Red Hood girlies (gn) out there!

Anyways, in this fic, f!reader is a researcher at STAR Labs Los Angeles for the Polestar program, a secret research operation investigating an ancient virus revived from the permafrost of the Arctic. She gets infected with the virus while trying to keep it from falling into the wrong hands—and that's when she meets the Red Hood.

Warnings: DC-typical violence

read here on ao3

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masterlist

STAR Laboratories Los Angeles

9:43:42 PM PT

The Coffin

You hated working in the Coffin.

The Coffin, as some of your coworkers called it—a cramped bunker of a cleanroom with thick concrete walls and vault-like hatches—was practically hermetically sealed from the rest of the world, and for good reason, too. 

The Coffin, STAR Laboratories LA’s so-called Sterile Research Unit, housed world-killers. 

They were all around you, housed in huge humming floor-to–low-ceiling freezers, in vials and Petri dishes. If one of those samples got out and contaminated the outside environment, you would have a huge, messy problem on your double-gloved hands. 

Located in the basement and separated from the rest of the facility by a sizable aseptics and decontamination unit, the only living things that shared the space with you were the dormant pathogens labeled and tucked away in the Coffin’s freezers. Chatter filtered through the radio comms unit on your lab bench, which you used to relay information with the rest of the researchers, your coworkers, involved in the Polestar study. 

“L/N, how are we doing down there?” A voice crackled through the comms. It was Dr. Davis, one of the senior researchers on the Polestar program.

“Hey, Davis. I’m happy to report that the Polestar vaccine prototype seems to be well on its way,” you reply, hearing the whoosh of your breath inside the respirator you donned before entering the cleanroom. “The vaccine seems to be pretty stable right now. I’ll continue to run tests.” You heard Dr. Davis’s hum of approval through the comms.

“Great to hear, Y/N. Just wanted to make sure you weren’t d—” It was an inside joke among the Polestar researchers that the Coffin was where bad researchers who half-assed their theses in grad school went to die. The sterile bunker was indeed a daunting place to run tests, with all of its doomsday-looking decor and freezers full of deadly viruses, but you had spent enough late nights in and out of decon to make the Coffin feel more like the world’s worst bathroom stall-turned-office cubicle.

“Dr. Davis?” You finally turned your gaze to the comms unit. “Dr. Davis, do you read me?” You could hear the faint sounds of commotion filtering through the comms; cacophony that should never be heard in a laboratory. “Is anyone there?” Someone started screaming—you recognized the voice to be Dr. Lee—and your heart jumped into your throat.

The sound coming from the comms unit suggested that the radio on the other end of the line had fallen to the floor. The speaker emitted more crackly yells. 

“ Doctor—” It was Dr. Davis. He was alive, but barely. The sounds of fighting rose around him. “Doctor—dammit, Y/N, do you hear me? Stay where you are and barricade yourself in the Coffin, they’re coming for the—” Dr. Davis’s voice cut out, replaced by garbled radio feedback. Right before the radio dissolved into static, you swore you had heard him howl in pain. You stared at the comms, heart thumping in your ribcage. You were beginning to sweat in your hood and coveralls and the respirator felt heavy on your face. You tore your attention from the comms to survey the frigid lab around you. The Coffin had been reserved by the Polestar program so you could test small lab animals to observe the virus’s behavior in living organisms and develop a vaccine for it, so most of the work laid out on the benches was Polestar’s. Cages sat in neat stacks, housing the lab rodents you had been studying. You could care less about the unbelievably expensive machinery or the infected rodents that could infect humans should they escape the Coffin, though; a dip into STAR Labs and the CDC’s research grants for Polestar would replace it all. Your eyes darted around the Coffin, eyeing the huge, heavy hatches that kept you encased inside the bunker. Whoever was outside, they’d have to get through aseptics and decon, which would keep them busy for at least a few minutes as they forced their way inside. 

“Oh, no, no, no,” you muttered to yourself as you swept glass vials and syringes around on your workbench into a cluster, creating a disjointed melody of clinking glass and metal. The rats began to turn restlessly in their cages. Your breathing picked up, coming out in short, shaky breaths as you ran from countertop to countertop, stowing away glassware still full of solutions and dumping solids into the trash—you’d get back to them later, if there was even a later for you. Screw how much that stuff cost by the gram, and screw how much time you’d spent synthesizing and isolating those precipitates.

No time to think about that , you thought to yourself as you rushed back to the workbench where your radio and the vials sat. You stared at the assortment of glass vials and syringes, panicking. They can all go in the freezer, right? Or the storage vault, or…

There was no time to think. You rushed to the freezer with trays full of vaccines and viruses alike in your arms, hurriedly punching in the code and scanning your retina to open the door to the walk-in freezer. The door unlocked with a hiss, and you silently begged the automatic door to open faster as you heard the sound of a squad’s worth of footsteps stomping through decon. Squeezing through the opening, you all but shoved the tray into the nearest vacant bottom shelf and sprinted out, hammering the button to shut the freezer doors.

You heard clanking against the entrance to the coffin, one, two, three…

A blinding flash of light followed by a deafening explosion shook the Coffin, and you instinctively turned away to shield yourself. You saw tongues of flame licking the entrance to the Coffin, flooded with red light. 

Oh, shit. 

How many of the substances stored in the Coffin were flammable? You hoped the explosion that blew the enormous hatch to the Coffin off its hinges and the flames that followed hadn’t reached far enough to hit the flammable substances storage unit. 

Behind the rubble of the hatch stood a cluster of black-clad figures, outfitted with bulky body armor and gas masks. They swept the Coffin with the muzzles of their rifles before stepping over the threshold and into the Coffin. You stifled a gasp and ducked behind one of the countertops, hoping that you weren’t spotted. Maybe you could find something heavy, like a fire extinguisher, and taken one out—

“Gotcha.” 

You couldn’t help the shriek that escaped your lungs as you whipped around, grabbing the nearest thing off of the countertops—a ring stand, luckily enough, and not something more expensive or fragile—and swung it in the direction of the voice. Your eyes widened as the heavy base of the ring stand failed to meet bone—and was instead stopped in its path by a strong, gloved hand around your wrist. Your hands shook as the hand’s owner, wearing a gas mask with round, reflective discs for eyes, lowered the ring stand with one hand and aimed the barrel of a handgun at you. 

“What do you want from me,” you choked out, your mouth feeling dry as you stared down the cold black barrel of the gun. The soldier chuckled, their voice—his voice?—deep and gravelly, muffled by the mask.

“Just your cooperation.” With a jerk of his hand, he lifted the ring stand, still attached to your hand, and forced you out into the open. “You know what we’re here for.” He wrestled the ring stand from your grip and tossed it away, the heavy thunk making you wince. He took your wrist in a crushing grip, and adrenaline shot up your spine. 

“I’m just a lab aide. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You replied quickly, not quite confident in your skills as a thespian (or a liar).

“Oh, yeah, Dr…” Still holding the gun in front of your face, they cocked their head to check your badge. “...L/N?”

Shit.

“You know how it is…the job market’s pretty tough for Ph. D.’s these days.” You chuckled nervously. “Seriously, though, I’m just here to wash glassware.” The soldier laughed coldly.

“You seem pretty calm for somebody staring down the barrel of a gun…I bet you’re smart. Bet you know a lot about all the super secret research in this shithole, too.” You couldn’t see it, but under his mask, his gaze settled upon something on the floor. “Maybe you could tell me a little about this thing right here.” You followed his line of sight and felt your blood go cold.

How could I have—

He nudged the syringe with the toe of his boot so that it rolled right to you. It took all you had to keep yourself from lunging for it. Your eyes caught the biohazard symbol printed on the label and you felt yourself die a little inside.

The Polestar virus was on the floor. The deadly ancient virus you had resurrected was in a syringe on the fucking floor. 

“Hmm, not sure how that got there—” Your words were taken from you when the barrel of the handgun made contact with the flesh of your chin, forcing your head back.

“Enough! Tell us where the virus is and maybe the actual lab aides won’t have to mop your brains off the fucking floor.” You grimaced.

“It’s right there,” You replied through gritted teeth. “In that syringe.” Keeping the gun’s sights on you, the soldier stooped to pick up the syringe. “It’s in a liquid suspension that was supposed to be for the rats. We were running tests—” You caught yourself rambling before you could divulge anything more damning. Maybe it was the gun pointed at your head and your life on the line, but you felt like your brain was out to lunch and had thrown out all common sense before it left. “—well, the bottom line is…just don’t break that syringe. The virus inside is viable and dangerous.” The soldier laughed again, this time more arrogantly.

“I don’t c—”

“I’d listen to her if I were you.” You, the soldier—everyone in the Coffin—turned to the source of the modulated voice. A huge silhouette passed through the sanguine lights of decon. The glint of the red helmet caught your eye first, then the red bat insignia splashed across the figure’s armored chest. 

Huh.

That posture—the way the helmeted figure stood to make himself look bigger—tickled the back of your brain. Your train of thought, however, was stopped short by your captor yanking your wrist and wrapping his free arm around you in a headlock. He trained his gun at the red helmet before you, who produced a pair of his own firearms.

“Don’t shoot,” your captor barked, and you realized what was in the hand that was clutching the fabric of your PPE. You struggled to break free, but the body behind you felt like a pillar with armor for cushioning. “Or she goes with me.” The helmeted Bat slowly lowered his weapons, which earned a smug huff from your captor, whose grip loosened on your PPE. You sighed in relief and started to extract yourself from you felt his arms quickly wrap around your neck again, making you cry out.

“No!” The helmeted figure called out. You heard the crack of the gunshot and the sound of the bullet meeting flesh. You felt warm blood—not yours—splatter on your face and trickle onto your coverall and you shuddered. You felt the soldier, impossibly heavy, slump over onto your body and slide to the ground. The gunfire of his squad mates erupts around you and you see the red-helmeted newcomer duck behind a glovebox and return fire. You dive for cover, watching the soldiers drop behind you. You see the red helmet emerge again to take out the last of the soldiers, engaging in hand to hand—these fighters seemed to be highly trained—and putting the occasional bullet through the weak points of their armor. The last bullet casing fell to the floor with a resounding ping! and you heard boots moving towards you once more. 

“Are you okay?” 

It hadn’t occurred to you why the soldier had held on so tightly to your PPE—you hadn’t felt the little prick in your collarbone when the gunfire had started. Dread pooled in the pit of your stomach as you slowly lowered your gaze to where the syringe stuck out above your clavicle, only dredges of fluid left, the black-and-yellow biohazard symbol turned up to the light like a bright and deadly flower. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[A/N]: We are hitting the ground running! Hope that was a good start to this fic.

Likes and reblogs are appreciated!

[lcdrarry]

LCDrarry 2024 Round-Up Post | Week 5

On Sundays during our posting period, we won't post new works, instead you have time to catch up with the works that posted during the week and hopefully leave lovely comments for our creators.

Happy reading, commenting and sharing! ;)

~Your LCDrarry Mods

PS: Please have a look at the author notes and tags on AO3 for additional information. Thank you!

PPS: Please share far and wide! Thank you!!

***

Fic

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Black Sheep

Prompt: "Shaun the Sheep", 2007-2020 Prompted by: Anonymous Author: Anonymous Word Count: 10,808 words Rating: Explicit Warnings: smut, dirty talk, praise kink, soft d/s dynamics, begging

Summary: “You know, Potter, maybe all you need to win is a little—incentive, let’s say.” “An incentive?” Harry asks, his interest piqued. He takes a step closer to the fence, and then another one, until he’s standing so close that he can smell the intoxicating scent of Malfoy’s expensive cologne. “Shall we say that if you win, you can have whatever your heart desires?” Malfoy replies with a smile. “Anything.”

Read it now on AO3.

***

Jackknife To The Heart

Prompt: "Mad Max: Furiosa", 2024, George Miller Prompted by: Anonymous Author: Anonymous Word Count: 11,723 words Rating: Explicit Warnings: Gunfights

Summary: Draco licked his lips, slow and sensual. He climbed over Harry’s lap and slid down onto his knees. “Keep making love to me, darling,” he said, gazing up at Harry, something starry in his eyes; and then he pulled down Harry’s pants and took his cock in his mouth.

Harry sucked in a breath, threw the shifter into gear, and drove.

Read it now on AO3.

***

the beating of our hearts (is the only sound)

Prompt: "Pacific Rim", 2013, Guillermo del Toro Prompted by: @stavromulabetaaa (stavromulabeta on ao3) Author: Anonymous Word Count: 12,675 words Rating: Explicit Warnings: canon (Pacific Rim) creature grossness

Summary: Do you want awesome, kickass fights between giant robots and aliens??!?!?

Go watch Pacific Rim.

This is a story about two flawed men who fall in love during an apocalypse.

Read it now on AO3.

***

Draco Malfoy's New Guide to Old-Fashioned Dating

Prompt: "How to Lose a Guy in 10 days", 2003, Donald Petrie Prompted by: @sleepstxtic Author: Anonymous Word Count: 52,377 words Rating: Teen and up Warnings: Non-Consensual Drug Use

Summary: When Harry's job as an auror is threatened by his perceived negative attitude towards Death Eaters, he makes a desperate gamble with his boss to save it. Bring a Death Eater as his plus-one to the company holiday party. Unfortunately for him, there's only one person he can think of to ask...

Meanwhile, in order to save his best friend Pansy Parkinson from a terrible social fate, Draco Malfoy makes a bet with Pansy's mother. He believes that old-fashioned, traditional courting methods are the best way to repel, not attract, a potential suitor. Now, if only he can find a wizard who has no clue about those methods...

Read it now on AO3.

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A Ferret, a ScarHead, a Weasel, and a Baby

Prompt: "Three Men and a Baby", 1987, Leonard Nimoy & "Taken", 2008, Pierre Morel Prompted by: Anonymous Author: Anonymous Word Count: 91,420 words Rating: Explicit Warnings: Angst, Anxiety, Epic Fight Scene(s), Canon-Typical Violence, Hand-to-Hand Combat, Blood, Muggle Weapons, References to Past Child Abuse, Abduction, Injuries

Summary: They say becoming a parent is an unparalleled, priceless joy. Draco Malfoy finds himself putting that theory to the test when the star witness in his dangerous illegal potions case entrusts him with a powerful wish: protect her newborn baby at all costs. Now, it's up to Draco to fulfill that wish despite the looming threat of criminals hunting for the child. To think, just the day before, he was fretting over his inappropriate feelings for his annoying, bespectacled git of a housemate—not the mechanics of changing nappies!

Thank Merlin it takes a village to raise a sack of flour, ah, child.

Read it now on AO3.

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