#and free oxygen in space

[corvidpolyglot]

man, between the fact that the next scadrial arc is called the ghostbloods and what we've seen of scadrial in the space age via (probably) sixth of the dusk and (definitely) the sunlit man, they... definitely aren't quite being set up to be the good guys here.

[whateveriwant]

The 141 getting you to stay in bed

It gets a little spicy towards the end so 18+ please

Soap

Waking up to the feeling of a numb arm is extremely unpleasant, but you suppose it comes with the territory when trying to cuddle 200+ pounds of rugged Scotsman

You manage to free your trapped limb and roll to the other side of the bed, but that space behind you remains empty for only about three seconds before Johnny's pressing himself flat to your back 

Now with his arms around your waist, he holds you tight to him, mumbling unintelligibly against the back of your head

He drifts back to sleep quickly enough, his grip on you starting to loosen, only for it to tighten again when he feels you try to wriggle out of his hold

The incoherent grumbles from his throat grow increasingly displeased the more you try to shift away from him, until finally he huffs a grumpy, “Quit it,” into your scalp, hooking his leg over yours 

If you still don't listen, he'll have no choice but to take drastic measures to keep you still. Fed up with your squirming, he simply rolls on top of you, pinning you to the mattress below him

You can try beating on his back, telling him that you can't breathe, but he just shrugs and says, “Use my breath.”

Don't even bother trying to explain how oxygen doesn't work like that, because he doesn't care. “Tough,” he mumbles into the crook of your neck. “‘Cause I'm no' movin’.” And by extension, neither are you

Gaz

Kyle is also a stage 5 clinger, but he's less boa constrictor and more baby koala

So when your alarm goes off at 8am precisely, it's no surprise that the man behind you grumbles in protest

“It's Saturday,” he bemoans. “Why you getting up so bloody early?” When you tell him you like to keep your routine even on the weekends, he just groans and mutters, “Five more minutes.”

You can try to squirm and wrestle out of his hold, but he'll just tighten his arm around your midsection, keeping his front firmly glued to your back

But you need to get up! You have to pee for goodness’ sake! 

“Use the empty bottle on your nightstand,” he mumbles into your hair, peeking an eye open as you crane to look back at him. The look you give him at such a horrid suggestion has him sighing. “Alright, fine,” he relents and releases you. “But be quick. Bed gets cold without you.”

Once you've answered the call of nature, don't be surprised to find Kyle waiting for you directly outside the bathroom. He's wrapped up in your comforter like an oversized burrito, only his face and feet visible as they peek out from under the plush cover

With a sleepy pout, he holds his hand out for you, tugging you back to bed with him. Oh, he’ll make sure you get those five more minutes alright. Even if he has to drag you kicking and screaming

Ghost

First of all, don't even kid yourself into thinking you'll stand a chance of waking up before him or sneaking out of bed without him knowing. This man is the epitome of a light sleeper, whenever he does sleep, that is

So when you do finally wake up, it comes as no surprise to see Simon already up too. But just because you're both awake now doesn't mean you have to immediately be productive; quite the opposite, in fact

With how busy and stressed he is all the time, Simon loves nothing more than to just lie in bed with you and do nothing for hours

If you try to get up, he's stopping you with a gentle hand on your wrist, his voice quiet but firm as he commands, “Stay.”

You'll lay back down for a bit to appease him, but it won't be long before you feel guilty since you have so many things you should be doing instead

But actually, no, you don't have  anything to worry about. He's already taken care of everything before you woke up, he humbly informs you

The cat's been fed, the bin’s been taken out to the curb, he's even gotten your breakfast typed up on his phone – just give him the word and he'll place the order

So now when he opens his arms for you, having you bury your face in his chest, you've got nothing to worry about except savoring this moment with him 

Price

John is also a very light sleeper, so it only takes .02 seconds of you trying to stand from the bed for his bear-like snores to cease and his eyes to flit wide open

He'll grab you by the shirt hem, mumbling, “Where’re y’ goin’?” But it doesn't really matter what your answer is because his response is always the same: “No y’r not.” And pulls you back down. “Y’r stayin’ right here.”

He'll lie on his stomach, face smushed in the pillow, a big, warm hand tucked under your shirt resting against your belly

With nothing better to do, you scroll through your phone, catching up on your socials, the news, etc., but it's not long before you hear him grumble, “Put that away, will ya? ‘S too early to be meltin’ your brain with that thing.”

Well, what does he expect you to do? Lie there and stare at the ceiling for an hour? “Expect you to be good,” he tells you. “Don't make me get the handcuffs out again.”

Now that you have to laugh at. If he thinks it's too early to be on your phone, it's definitely too early for that

He smirks, opening his eye just a sliver, and the hand on your stomach begins to rub soft circles. “Is that so?” he taunts, his touch sneakily edging downwards. And when he slips beneath the band of your shorts, well…

Let's just say you're not leaving that bed anytime soon

[nevermind-i-forgot-whats-that]

Sometimes, as much as I love internet communities and spaces, I really think a lot of people have spent so much time in sanitized, morally pure echo chambers that they lose sight of realism and life outside the internet.

I live in Alabama. My fiancée and I cannot hold hands down the street without fear of homophobic assholes. We have an abortion ban with no exceptions for rape or incest. We are one of the poorest states in the US with some of the lowest scores on metrics related to quality of life, including maternal mortality, healthcare, education, and violence. It’s not a coincidence that we are also one of the most red, one of the most Republican states in the Union. In 2017 the UN said the conditions in Alabama are similar to those in a third-world country.

Trump gave a voice to the most violently racist, sexist, xenophobic groups of people who, unfortunately for most of us in the Southern U.S., run our states and have only grown more powerful since his rise to power. The Deep South powers MAGA, and we all suffer for it.

We have no protections if they don’t come from the federal government.

I know people are suffering internationally and my heart is with them. However, this election is not just about foreign policy - we have millions of Americans right here at home living in danger, living in areas where they have been completely abandoned by their local leaders. We need this win.

No candidate is perfect, but for the first time in my voting lifetime I’m excited to vote. I’m excited for the Kamala Harris/Tim Walz ticket because they are addressing the issues close to home. They’re advocating for education as the ticket to a better life, but without the crippling student debt. They’re advocating for the right to love who you love without fear and with pride. Kamala has always been pro-LGBT+ and so has Tim. Again, if you’re queer in the South, we don’t have support unless it comes from the federal government, and we absolutely will not have support if the Republicans regain the White House.

Kamala speaks in length about re-entry programs to reduce recidivism and help people who have been arrested and imprisoned regain their lives. Tim Walz supported restoring voting rights to felons. In the South, you know who comprise the majority of felons? Members of minorities. It’s one of the major tools of systemic racism and mass disenfranchisement, and arguably the modern face of slavery (there are some fantastic documentaries and books that explain the connection between the post-Reconstruction South and the disproportionate rates of imprisonment for BIPOC). Having candidates who recognize this and want to restore the freedom and rights to people who have come into contact with the criminal justice system? And keep them from having to go to prison in the first place? That’s refreshing. That’s exciting.

I would *love* to live in a country where women’s rights are respected, where LGBT+ rights and protections are a given, where we treat former criminals and individuals experiencing mental health crises with respect and dignity. I would *love* to live in a country where education is free of religious interference and each and every citizen is entitled to a fair start and equal opportunities.

But I don’t live in that country. Millions and millions of Americans find their rights and freedoms up for debate and on the ballot.

Project 2025 poses the largest threat to the future of our democracy as we know it. We are being called to fight for the future of our country.

We have to put on our oxygen masks first before we can help others.

You don’t have moral purity when you wash your hands of the millions of us who are still fighting for own freedoms right here.

The reality is that a presidential candidate is a best fit, and not a perfect fit. But comparatively speaking? Kamala is pretty damn close.

[lilybug-02]

Been brainstorming a character for a Minecraft role play named The Pantheon (which you are free to join) FYI They are not fully open yet and there is no Minecraft server atm. <3 This is her without her Helmet on.

I wanted to make an Astronaut type character based off a skin I've been using. The color purple my beloved.

Essentially, she'll have spent all her life in space, traveling through wormholes, and eventually ends up stranded in a shipwreck on the MINECRAFT PLANET (silly name) 💜. I then geeked out REAL HARD, figuring out why she wears her suit everywhere, and found out that Minecraft’s atmosphere probably has a very high oxygen consecration due to the large insects and arthropods (bees and spiders). And since she's similar to us Humans, she would literally get Oxygen Toxicity if she breathed the air too long. The vines and plants covering her body are like a small air filtration system she uses as to not overwork her air respirators. Yippie I love being a nerd.

[reasonsforhope]

Paywall Free

"The protected land includes a one-acre fish hatchery at Unicorn Lake in eastern Maryland and the sprawling Green Ridge State Forest in the west. It includes shorelines, farms and woods around Naval Air Station Patuxent River, and the Chesapeake Forest Lands, some 75,000 wooded acres that are home to species like bald eagles and the once-endangered Delmarva fox squirrel.

None of it can be developed, and all of it has helped Maryland reach a landmark conservation goal six years ahead of schedule, before any other state that’s joined an effort known as “30 by 30.”

The program is part of a global initiative to protect 30 percent of the Earth’s land and waters by 2030. In 2023, Maryland joined the effort and a year later, Gov. Wes Moore, a Democrat, announced that the goal had already been met. Nearly 1.9 million acres of land has been permanently protected from development, and the state has set a new target, to conserve 40 percent of its land by 2040...

Officials, land trustees and environmentalists said a unique set of factors led to Maryland’s success.

Since 1969, Maryland has levied a 0.5 percent transfer tax on real estate sales and used it for Program Open Space, which enables the state to acquire green spaces from voluntary sellers and purchase conservation easements from private landowners.

Owners like farmers and forest managers can still work the land, but agree that it can never be developed, even if the land changes hands.

Crucially, conservation has bipartisan support at the state level, said Elizabeth Carter, a land protection director at The Nature Conservancy. She said federal and state agencies, nonprofit groups and land trusts have worked together with shared goals, which helped the state meet its target sooner than many expected.

“That’s something we celebrate, and it’s exciting,” she said...

Josh Kurtz, Maryland’s secretary of the Department of Natural Resources, said that while the state had to balance conservation needs with development pressures and housing demand, natural spaces were crucial to offsetting planet-heating greenhouse gas emissions and to protecting the Chesapeake Bay.

“Being able to sequester carbon and mitigate climate impacts makes us more resilient in the face of climate change,” Mr. Kurtz said. “It’s also one of our key water quality strategies.” ...

According to Mr. Kurtz’s office, land conservation measures have prevented about 85,000 pounds of nitrogen and 6,000 pounds of phosphorus, which fuel algae blooms and starve water of oxygen, from flowing into the bay each year. The University of Maryland calculated that the state’s trees and forests absorbed and locked away 6.5 million metric tons of carbon dioxide in 2023...

While the state is still pushing toward its 40 by 40 target, there’s been a setback. Facing a $3.3 billion budget shortfall, the Maryland General Assembly recently voted to take $100 million from Program Open Space and other state conservation programs over the next four years. But A.J. Metcalf, a spokesman for the state’s natural resources department, said the programs were projected to generate $468 million through fiscal year 2029, enough to continue to acquire land for conservation “at a normal pace.”

Mr. Kline said he hoped that the state surpassed its next goal. “I would certainly hate to see our foot come off the pedal after 40 percent,” he said. “We feel like we’ve got something pretty special that’s worth protecting.”"

-via The New York Times, April 21, 2025

[thejujvtsupost]

It’s Always Been You

🍎F!reader, pet names: (pip/squeak, my girl, sweetheart,) suggestive but not smut, fluff, hurt/comfort, brief miscommunication and lots of groveling but it works out.🍎

Notes: I struggle with editing. This is totally separate from canon bc I’m heartbroken. It’s also my first lads fic, I’ll ALWAYS be a Sylus girlie but Caleb broke my brain for a minute 😭

Poll for a possible part 2 -> Taglist signup for part 2

Caleb joining the DAA wasn’t the problem at hand…No, it was the fact that you were going to be separated. Spending his last night before he leaves wrapped around each other like you always did when things were tough was the best comfort you could get.

“I’m gonna miss you so much, do you really have to go?” This was going to be the longest you’ve ever been apart since you were kids, and even worse, he wasn’t allowed to have his phone.

This wasn’t any easier on him but he couldn’t just back out. “I’ll be home before you know it, don’t worry too much.” Caleb brushed the hair from your eyes and held you closer, “plus, you get to have six months free of my constant nagging.”

That was absolutely the wrong thing to say, the tears you were holding back finally fell. Your hands that were originally wrapped around his waist were now at his chest, between your bodies and fisted tightly in his shirt. “But I love you and your nagging!” You inhaled like you were suffocating. Perhaps you were, under the weight of his impending absence.

“Shh I know, I love you and being a pain in your ass.” That earned him a wet chuckle. “I swear, as soon as I’m home I’ll fulfill my promise and I won’t leave your side. You’ll never have to worry again, about anything.” A soft kiss to your temple solidified his vow.

It took you a few long moments before you were able to get in a proper breath and process what he said. “You made a promise?”

“Don’t remember? Hm that won’t do. Think back to when you were 18, and that boy you had a crush on rejected you and broke your heart.”

“I’d prefer not to remember that, actually.”

“But remember after? When you still hadn’t come home by dinner and I found you alone at the park?” Large hands ran down the length of your back to help soothe you while he spoke.

You’re still lost but it’s coming back to you. Confessing to your crush in the park was supposed to be perfect— except he not only rejected you, but he made fun of you. You could respect rejection, but the way he humiliated you and made a scene wasn’t something you wanted to think about. “That day was awful.”

“You were so upset. I wanted to beat him to a pulp but you didn’t want to be alone. Remember what I told you? The pinky promise we made? It’s only been four years you know, I’d hope your memory isn’t that bad yet.”

The moment flooded you then with a gasp, ‘You’ll never be alone as long as I live sweetheart, and when it’s time, when I finally graduate and become a pilot, I swear I’ll marry you myself to prove it.’ And at the time it made you giggle, because surely he was just joking to cheer you up, right? “You meant it?”

Caleb chuckled and lifted your chin to look at you directly, “of course I did, it’s always been you and me. Don’t you know that?”

A fresh wave of tears formed as you surged forward to meet his lips with yours- and stopped out of embarrassment before you could make contact. “Sorry, I didn’t- I think I’m just being emotional—”

But the space between you closed once again and before you could overthink it, Caleb was kissing you the way he’s wanted to for years. His lips were all consuming and tender. His palm cupped your face like it was glass and you couldn’t resist running your fingers through his hair. Kissing Caleb felt like home, like everything was right.

He tried to break away to bring you both air but you refused to let him, instead pulling him closer and closer until he was on top of you, spreading your legs to accommodate his size. “Slow- slow down, you still need oxygen.” You shook when he started dragging his kisses down your throat, letting out soft moans when gentle sucks were left behind.

“C-Caleb…”

He pulled back and grew tense as if he was afraid he scared you away, “what’s wrong, you tired?” He was trying to give you an out if you wanted it.

You were certain your cheeks were flushed, you shook your head. “I want… more…”

Caleb groaned and buried his face in your neck “you’re killing me, Pip.”

Had you said something wrong? “Sorry- I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable… I’ll just-” you loosened your arms from around him, thinking you somehow embarrassed yourself yet again.

He stopped you. “You’re not going anywhere, sweetheart. You’re killing me because you have no idea how badly I want you; how long I’ve wanted you.”

“Really?” Having someone like Caleb love you was the best feeling, but him being attracted to you left you wanting him even more.

Deciding to just show you, he ground his hips into yours. And god, it felt good against you. Just that little bit of contact felt better than anything you ever achieved on your own. “You’re-” hard went unsaid. He grunted when you spread your legs wider for him. “Yeah, I am. And if you want me, then you have me. But you can’t take it back, so if you’re not ready for that commitment…”

“Can I tell you a secret?”

“This really isn’t the time for that—”

“Shut up, it’s important.” He sighed and let you continue. Your arms dropped from his neck to hold his face in your hands, brushing the stray hairs from his face. “That guy I had a crush on? I only liked him so much because he reminded me of you. So I’m yours, too. If you want me, then you can take me.”

Words were lost on him so actions took hold, “are you sure?” His kisses resumed their path after meeting your lips, the room grew hotter with each new brush against your skin.

“I trust you, Caleb,” you had no idea your neck was so sensitive, your gasps talking for you. “but I should let you know I’ve never done this before.”

“I’d kill anyone who ever touched you if you had”

“Isn’t that hypocritical? Should I hunt down your past lovers?” You worked his shirt over his head, the dog tag necklace you gave him mere hours ago dangled in front of your face.

He chuckled and discarded your top, your sleep shorts were next. “It’s funny how you think I’d ever want someone that isn’t you.” His revelation hit you full force: he loves you so deeply, there’s truly no doubt to have. “I’d never do this with anyone else.”

Two things happened that night: your bond was solidified, and unbeknownst to you, a life was created

The goodbye was brutal the next day, already missing him terribly before night fell again.

You managed to fall into a routine, though. You would go to work, occasionally spend time with friends— Tara spent the night with you at least once a week to keep your mind off of things; and the days she didn’t you laid in bed desperately wishing he would be by your side.

Your routine was solid, until a month into your separation when you were sick almost every single day. You were fed up by the time a week passed and the day after that you made your way to visit Zayne- who congratulated you because in his words, ‘he and his wife were expecting as well, perhaps they’ll be friends, too.’ Finding out you were pregnant without Caleb with you was difficult, there wasn’t a way to reach him and share the news.

But you weren’t alone anymore. You spent the time you felt lonely talking to your baby now, who definitely couldn’t hear you yet but that didn’t matter. You were kept company with a perfect blend of you and your Caleb.

According to the official statement released last week Caleb would be home any time today, any minute, any second.

The anticipation left butterflies in your tummy, your baby moving with your nerves. It didn’t occur to you that he might not be happy to be a father, that you might’ve been presumptuous that he’d be ready to care for another life so soon.

And when the door flew open, as much as you wanted to jump into his arms (carefully, of course,) you held your breath and waited for him to notice. And of course, because he was your Caleb, it was right away. His happiness and relief fell away to shock and— was that anger? You didn’t expect anger…

“Welcome home, I—”

“Who else has been here?”

“What? I mean Tara has been keeping me company a few times a week but that’s it.”

“What man has been in our home, pipsqueak.” He didn’t phrase it as a question, just a demand. He’s never been so terse with you…

His tone made you anxious, “No one, other than Zayne and his wife for dinner occasionally— Caleb what are you talking about?”

Caleb dropped his bag on the floor with a thud, still not moving from his spot. “I’m talking about the fact that I came home after six months and you didn’t seem to miss me at all, nothing like the way I missed you. How else would you be pregnant? So who is he? Someone from the Hunters Association?”

Oh… he thought… “Oh my god how could you think- I’d never cheat on you Caleb— EVER how could you even think—”

“Well, I certainly couldn’t have knocked you up in the time I’ve been away.”

A knife cut through you at his words, the accusation, the betrayal of thinking you’d ever be with anyone else. And how vulgar it was… Did your first time mean so little? Was it something he just wanted to get out of the way before he left? A sob escaped you, tears spilled over. “You’re an asshole, Caleb.”

His eyes went wide, “I’m the asshole here?”

“Yes! You’re a fucking asshole! I expected you to be shocked but accusing me of cheating on you? Thinking that night was nothing? That’s low. I can’t believe you!”

“That night means everything to me!”

“Ask me how far along I am! Go on, fucking ask!”

That stopped him short, “you mean?”

“SIX MONTHS!” Standing there while he dropped to his knees was barely satisfying. “God I can’t stand you right now! You must’ve lost your damn mind and all your common sense!”

His silence was angering you further, stomping off to the kitchen for a drink of water and trying to calm down was a better use of your time; crying from this much stress wasn’t good for you.

Once he gathered himself he followed you, “Sweetheart… you’re telling me that night…”

“Finally used your brain, did you?”

“I’m so, god I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” His hand reached out to bring you in for a hug but you denied him.

“Do. Not. Touch me.” His audacity made you seethe. No way were you going to give in so easily no matter how much you desired to be in his embrace and reassured.

“Sweetheart—”

“You’re sleeping on the couch. We can decide what to do later.”

His emotions began to overflow, the guilt crushing him; the ring in his pocket practically burning into his flesh. “Decide what?”

“Decide if I should even let you stay.” Your throat felt tight but you continued to hold your sobs back. “Your dinner is in the oven by the way, it’s your favorite so I suggest you don’t let it burn.”

A few hours rolled around before he couldn’t hold himself back anymore hearing your sniffles. You hadn’t eaten dinner, who knows if you had any water, and no matter how (rightfully) mad you were, you still needed to eat.

Grabbing a few of your favorite snacks with a glass of juice instead of the untouched dinner he put in the fridge was his safest option, unsure if seeing the meal would upset you further.

“Pip squeak? I know you’re awake.” Crouching by your side of the bed and setting the snacks on the nightstand, “please talk to me?”

“Go away.”

“You know I can’t do that, you have to eat something.”

You poked your head from the blanket, “oh so you care now that you know it’s yours?”

The jab was deserved but it still earned a wince. “I’d still care even if they weren’t.”

“How noble of you. Sticking around to raise a kid that’s not yours before I even have a ring.”

“Who said I didn’t have a ring?” This time you accepted the comfort of his hand brushing your hair behind your ear and gently cupping your cheek.

Curiosity was a bitch, but you weren’t ready to forgive him yet. “You were really mean.”

“I know, I’m so sorry, sweetheart. So sorry. I can’t imagine you being with anyone else but I didn’t expect to come home to a family either— and I’m beyond happy to be a dad. It’s not an excuse though, never okay to talk to you like that.”

A few leftover sniffles came before he pulled a tissue from the box on your nightstand, opting to dry your tears himself. “Blow,” He said, holding the tissue to help you blow your nose; then offering you the straw of the juice so you could hydrate.

“I missed you so much, I thought you’d still be happy to see me.”

“I’m over the moon, actually. But I hurt my girl, gotta make things right. Think you can forgive me? I’ll earn it forever.”

“Caleb if you ever, I mean ever, speak to me like that again I won’t hesitate to let you talk to the front door. You’ll be out.”

“I’ll cut my tongue out myself.”

“So dramatic as always.” You rolled your eyes, “you mentioned a ring?”

A smile lifted the corner of his mouth, “there’s my girl. You sure you still want it? Or should I earn it first?” He dug into his pants pocket to show you anyway.

“It wouldn’t hurt your efforts.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle fully before presenting the velvet box to you, “I’m pretty close to the ground but if you sit up for me I’ll get on one knee.”

Sitting up to stretch was good for your back anyway, “I think I’ve waited long enough.”

The velvet box opened and your jaw dropped, “picked it out in Skyhaven. Gideon and I helped the elderly owner of a small shop with some boxes he was struggling with in front of his door. Knew it was perfect right away, gorgeous and one of a kind like you.”

“You’re ridiculous, but I love it.” He slid it on your finger and sealed it with a kiss, and you fell into his arms like you’ve wanted to for the last six months.

Pulling away after many minutes of hugs, ‘I love you’s’ and kisses wasn’t welcomed by you. “Now, how ‘bout some dinner? I don’t think snacks are enough, they were backup. Gotta keep you healthy.”

“Did you like it?”

You were pulled to your feet and carried out of the room. “Didn’t eat without you, sweetheart. Having dinner without you and the baby felt empty.”

“Good. You can reheat it then.” You waited for the perfect moment to drop your bombshell, which happened to be when he was carrying a full glass pitcher of water for the table. “We’re having a daughter, by the way.”

The pitcher fell so fast his evol barely managed to catch it before glass hit the ground. It left you feeling smug.

You couldn’t help but cackle at his shocked spluttering, “A WHAT?”

I’m so flattered, I’ve never had so many people interested or had a taglist this long: @pixelcafe-network @kentochronicles @sashisuslover @lunia-likes-pomegranet @elli4ever @mysssticc @kaemaybae @kamisatoaiko @midiplier @jamseashell @llamabois @boba14 @crimsonspring @angrychinchillanoises @ali-shiii @kazbae95 @ifistoptherain @c-I-stinnett @nephelesthoughts @etherealzi @jjoppees @keithkoganeirl

Click here to be added to the taglist for part 2

All divider credits to me @thecutestgrotto

[onlyswan]

summary: in which jungkook can’t sleep, and he can’t stop kissing you either.

> fluff, suggestive / word count: 2.6k

> content/warnings: alexa play seven by jungkook! mentions of s^x, lots and lots of cutie kisses :( they’re in that afterglow <3 oc’s chest is his pillow :(

> in which masterlist!

note: hi hi. here’s ur slice of pure self indulgent fluff 🍰 i just had to write abt this jk :P there’s a reference to in which you always get what you want and jungkook is dying to kiss you 🥹 reblogs & feedback are vv appreciated. i’d love to hear ur thoughts so feel free to scream or laugh or cry <3

—

a fleeting white light passes through your closed eyelids, nearly blinding, as you hear the familiar shutter of your boyfriend’s polaroid camera.

“jungkook,” you whimper weakly due to the sudden disturbance, burying your face on the soft pillows while pushing the camera away.

“shit, shit- sorry, baby-” he winces, guilty of disrupting your journey to slumber, as he scrambles to fix his mistake. “forgot to turn off the flash.”

he places the polaroid face down on the space behind him to give it the time to develop the photo he had taken. much to your relief, the bedroom falls silent once more except for the quiet humming and breathing of the airconditioner. you return to properly laying your head on the pillow, taking a small gasp of oxygen, and jungkook smiles because of how adorable you are for still refusing to open your eyes.

“can i take more pictures?”

“did you turn it off?” you whisper as you stretch your legs to find a more comfortable position, unwittingly pulling down the comforter and exposing your nakedness to the cool air. this gives rise to goosebumps on your skin, causing you to shiver, but your boyfriend is quick to your rescue. he catches the hem before it could slide past your skimpy shorts.

“i did.”

a chaste kiss is planted on your shoulder before it is returned underneath the warmth of soft layers of cotton and fabric.

you sigh, melting back into relaxation. “okay.”

he re-anchors his elbow into the mattress, resting his head on his palm to admire the majestic view of you. jungkook likes this a lot, he lives for it— lying on the bed face-to-face with his sated lover, spending the rest of the night feeling like his heart is not a big enough vessel to hold all the love he has for you. the lights he is yet to turn off have splashed the dark room with a red glow that engulfs your figure as well, escalating his heartbeat, so hypnotic and tantalizing, he finds himself breathing heavier and heavier behind the viewfinder, or maybe he has stopped breathing at all. the shutter briefly fills the silence.

this is… the arch of your back is burned in his mind and he swears he still tastes you on his tongue, but seeing you like this feels so different.

he was consumed by his pleasure and yours just half an hour ago, admittedly almost blinded by his own sweat dripping from his forehead because he simply couldn’t stop wanting more of you, giving himself to you. you weren’t exactly innocent either, with your provocative touches and coquettish smiles, whispering lewd words that was gasoline to the lust flaring up inside of him. he revels in seeing that you’re just as desperate for it as he is, if not more, purely from the way you beseech him with your eyes mirroring stained glass windows. he knows you love it when he fucks you so good it brings you to tears, welcoming the delightful intensity of his nature, and that you were also trying to tire him out so he’d finally feel sleepy, but holy shit, looking at you right now, he wants nothing more but to hold you with utmost gentleness.

wildly concentrated with his bottom lip tucked in between his teeth, he brushes away the hair that fell on your face before capturing another exquisite memory to be burned into film.

jungkook is greedy when it comes to you.

a disgruntled whine slips from your mouth when the pillow underneath your head is replaced by his thick arm, which is then rudely cut off by his lips crashing on yours.

clearly, you’ve grown too comfortable in this relationship.

“i love you.” he drunkenly mutters, instantly going for another kiss and barely finishing his another- “i love you.” before he’s kissing you again.

“babe-” you chuckle then gasp, holding on to his wrist as his tattooed hand loosely wraps around your neck.

“i love you. i love you, i love y- i love you, i love you, i love you, i love you, i love you.” he repeats himself over and over, the volume of his voice gradually getting quieter as he runs out of breath, until his tongue becomes tied. grounded by the feeling of your steady pulse beneath his thumb, he silences himself by tenderly kissing you, soft lips molding with yours for a wordless declaration of devotion this time around.

pure static— there are no thoughts running in your head. your limbs feel numb but tingly. you feel like you’re floating- no, you’re falling. the bed has turned into an abyss and you’re falling endlessly and jungkook holding you close is the only thing that makes sense. you might have to consider this true heaven, nothingness with your everything, when the whole world is lights-out and quiet that it feels like time has been suspended, and the only way to keep track of it is through each pump of your heart.

at last, your eyelids slowly flutter open as he pulls away, and he greets you with that boyish grin. “pretty.”

his hand on your neck moves to stroke your face lovingly, eyes glimmering with various emotions as they wander your features.

“____ is so, so pretty.”

“hm, really?” you hum sleepily, leaning closer to his touch. “thanks to you.”

“me?” his doe eyes widen in confusion.

“you know, for the afterglow. i feel nice.” you giggle brightly at your own half-joke, positively out of your goddamn mind as you hide your warm face on his shoulder.

“ahhh- ah!”

enlightenment then dawns on your boyfriend.

his giggles blend in with yours for a harmony that strikes the same joy as the sound of wind chimes on a windy day.

jungkook tries not to appear too cocky about the compliment, but consequences be damned, he would die satisfying his lover.

“oh yeah, baby? do you now?” there’s a self-satisfied smirk plastered on his face when you take a peek at him, which then morphs into a grin when your eyes meet. “i feel nice, too.”

“nice?” your voice comes out delicate, droopy eyes asking him for confirmation.

“nice.”

he feels a tug at his heartstrings.

“you know what? fucking great… i could never have enough of you.”

it becomes silent for a while. his tattooed hand slides under the comforter, letting his fingers skim across the side of your waist, feather-light touches on your bare skin before he’s pulling you closer to his body.

“i… i don’t doubt that feelings like this can only grow as time goes on but… it’s still amazing that when i think about it, even until now, all the time, i want to be with you.”

he involuntarily breathes out a shaky sigh, ears going red as they do when he’s expressing sincerity from the deepest parts of his soul.

“really, how do you do this…? what is this magic? why- why do i like you so much? i mean, i know why! of course! but, wow!” he squeezes his eyes shut to express his disbelief, clicking his head to the side. “it’s possible for it to be this much? do you get what i’m saying? i just have thoughts like that— love is so fascinating.”

you barely process his words with your brain still in a haze of bliss, but it’s funny, hearing these questions from the same man who has the entire world madly obsessed with him.

oh, this actually sounds familiar. he’s getting all sentimental and philosophical. again. and he’s not drunk. were you that good tonight?

“i won’t give away my secrets just like that. what if you use them on someone else?” you tease him, rubbing your tired eyes and shaking your head as you giggle.

you receive a dirty look from him, clearly offended and uninterested in the thought of putting in the hard effort to impress someone that isn’t you.

“aish, stop talking! i don’t like hearing you talk in that way.”

“then what else am i supposed to do? you’re the one who woke me up.” you retort in annoyance.

but you honestly don’t think there’s any secret to tell. jungkook is in love with you. plain and simple.

“you’re right, i’m sorry. go back to sleep if you want to.”

he dips down to plant gentle pecks on your shoulder, going down on a trail to your neck, and you unconsciously tilt your head to his convenience because he’s bringing the butterflies in your stomach back to life. it feels good, everything he does always feels good.

“you’re seriously not done?” you mumble against his lips, unfaltering with the kisses as if he would run out of them any minute now.

he stubbornly answers with a “no!” as his lips ghost over your cheek.

if only bam was here, jungkook would eventually leave you alone to rest. he would pester him with his late-night burst of affection instead while talking shit about you to your child because you dodged his kiss in your sleep.

“babe, you’re supposed to sleep. you have work later.”

“no, i don’t want to sleep. i… i want to kiss you- baby.” he protests as he continues to pepper your face with kisses, giving your body a particularly tight squeeze when he searches for your lips again.

you blink at him in confusion when he suddenly sends you a look of irritation, eyebrows furrowed and eyes glaring.

“you haven’t even said ‘i love you’ back yet.”

“oh, i haven’t?” you wince innocently. “sorry. i love you.”

but he should be the one apologizing to you, since it’s his fault that you still can’t think straight, or walk for that matter.

you pat around the mattress behind his back until you stumble upon the camera, and it’s jungkook’s turn to be your beloved muse. you scoot away until the lens manage to capture him down to his shirtless abdomen. you watch him in complete awe behind the viewfinder. he squints at you, raising his eyebrows flirtatiously, and he smirks when you chuckle in amusement.

“ah wait- take this! take this! you have to take a good one, got it? i worked so hard on them yesterday!” he eagerly voices out a special demand.

he shuffles to flex his arm infront of the camera, showing off his well-defined triceps and biceps while releasing rich, throaty grunts. totally unnecessary, but so achingly jungkook.

your boyfriend is outrageously, ridiculously sexy— he’s still wearing that stupid black headband he hastily put on in the middle of sex because he got pissed off at his hair and he needed it out of the way so he could ‘properly see his love’s beautiful body.’

you roll your eyes inside your head.

what a fucking tease.

nonetheless, you acquiesce.

the flash goes off.

and another polaroid is crafted into existence that you selfishly want to keep for your eyes only.

“baby, let me see.”

“it’s mine!” you scrunch your nose with a childlike charm, hiding the polaroid behind your back.

he chuckles, hopelessly endeared by you.

“yes, i’m yours.” he coos in response.

and your unguarded heart is once again swept away by the taste of his tongue. the camera becomes an abandoned item. your fingers daintily pushes off his headband in favor of freely tangling them with his silky hair, and it also ends up getting lost somewhere in the sheets as his sweet kisses lull you in a false sense of security… because out of nowhere, that same blazing light burns through your closed eyes for the second time tonight.

jungkook playfully waves the polaroid infront of your face, and his toothy grin is met by your unimpressed expression.

“this is mine!”

he has been waiting to jump into this type of opportunity, to orchestrate a romantic moment to be stolen in film— you can tell by the sparkles in his eyes. reminiscent of that one late night in a tiny photobooth where your younger and clueless selves were cramped in, this is what you and his hyungs often talk about, how much you share the same fondness for the fact that jungkook hasn’t changed at all.

“just how many pictures of you kissing me do you need?” you ask him lightheartedly.

he juts out his bottom lip sullenly, and a few beats pass before he forms an answer. “i always need more for when i miss you.”

you copy his frown. “then what about me when i’m missing you too?”

“hmmm… i want you to always remember me like this, baby.” he melodramatically declares as he picks up the one and only polaroid you’ve taken of him tonight. “can you see my abs too…? oh- it’s not showing yet.”

he looks back at you shyly with a laugh, and he places it back down to let it continue developing.

“i’ll look later. i can’t even keep my eyes open anymore. ‘m so tired.” you sadly sniffle to gain his pity, fluttering your damp eyelashes at him. “let’s go to sleep, please?”

jungkook doesn’t find it in himself to articulate a consolation or protest, not when you’re tugging him down to coax him into laying his head on your chest.

“heaven.” he moans, overcome by contentment.

he adjusts himself a bit to be more comfortable before dragging the comforter further upwards to provide warmth for the two of you, all the while refusing to remove his face nuzzled up against you.

“why are you always like this? can you even breathe?” you chuckle with your eyes closed.

“i love your boobs.” his honest reply comes out muffled, cute for some reason, along with his satisfied hums prompted by your nails lightly scratching his scalp.

“i know.”

he turns his head to the side to look up at you, and he carries on to speak with his cheek squished against you. “i really, really mean it.”

“yes, baby. i believe you.”

a minute of silence passes. the ecstasy still flooding your veins becomes a stepping stone in the pond towards your dreamland, where all is either fantastically perfect or horrifically fucked up.

but then you feel sloppy kisses being deliberately scattered in the middle of your chest, leading down to your stomach, and you get rudely knocked over into the cold, clear waters.

yes, plea- oh no, no, no, no.

“jungkook, baby, stop. i can’t go another round.” you whine pathetically, being driven closer to the urge to burst into tears.

“AH! o-ow- ouch- baby, wha- i swear, i wasn’t even planning on it!” he loudly exclaims in surprise when you harshly pull him away by his hair.

“still…” your voice cracks. “you know i’ll get turned on!”

his chuckles are infuriatingly raspy and of no help at all, ego inflating upon hearing your response and the frustration obviously laced with it.

“okay, okay! i’m sorry! i’ll behave now!”

thank god.

he assumes his previous position, the place that he deems to be the warmest and the coziest. as he wraps his arms around your waist, your fist relaxes into an open palm that cradles the back of his head.

“____?” he mumbles, finally feeling the tiredness seep into his sore muscles now that he’s lying motionless.

“hmm?”

“let’s eat dinner outside after work.”

“…meat?”

“and beer!” he adds, brimming with excitement, and he salivates as he can almost taste them in his mouth already. they are his favorite, after all.

“i’ll come pick you up then.” you drop a kiss on his forehead, and he sighs happily. “but go to sleep or else i’ll kick you out of the bedroom again.”

his sweet embrace becomes an iron grip.

cold and alone, he swears those were some of the worst three hours of his life.

he squeaks in defeat. “goodnight, baby.”

—

taglist in the reblogs! send an ask/dm if you want to be added (or removed) :D

—

[usafphantom2]

Aircraft engine types ✈️

✈️Turbo-Shaft: Used in helicopters and some fixed-wing aircraft, it features a compressor, combustion chamber, and turbine. The turbine drives a power shaft via a free (power) turbine, which powers the rotor or propeller through a gearbox, rather than producing direct thrust. Exhaust gases are expelled separately.

✈️Turbo-Prop: Similar to a turbo-shaft, it powers a propeller via a gearbox. Air is compressed, mixed with fuel, and burned in the combustion chamber. The turbine extracts energy to drive the propeller, with some exhaust thrust. It’s efficient for low-speed, short-range flights.

✈️Turbo-Fan: Common in commercial jets, it has a large fan at the front, high- and low-pressure compressors, a combustion chamber, and turbines. The fan accelerates air around the core (bypass air) for thrust, while the core produces additional thrust via exhaust. It’s efficient for high-speed, long-range flights.

✈️Turbo-Jet: An older design, it compresses air, burns fuel in the combustion chamber, and expels exhaust through a nozzle for thrust. It lacks a bypass fan, making it less efficient but capable of high speeds. Used in early jet fighters and some supersonic aircraft.

✈️Ram-Jet: Operates at high speeds (Mach > 1), using forward motion to compress air in the inlet. Fuel is injected and burned in the combustion chamber, and the exhaust is expelled through a nozzle for thrust. It has no moving parts but only works at high speeds.

✈️Scramjet: A supersonic combustion ramjet, designed for hypersonic speeds (Mach > 5). Air enters at supersonic speeds, is compressed, mixed with fuel, and burned in a combustion chamber, with exhaust expelled for thrust. It’s used in experimental hypersonic vehicles.

✈️Rocket: Uses stored propellants (fuel and oxidizer) in a pressure vessel. Propellants are burned in a combustion chamber, and the high-pressure exhaust is expelled through a nozzle for thrust. It operates in space since it doesn’t rely on atmospheric oxygen.

✈️Gas Turbine: Similar to a turbo-shaft, it’s used for power generation or auxiliary power units. Air is compressed, burned with fuel, and the exhaust drives a power turbine, which can power generators or other systems. Bleed valves and discharge ports manage airflow and pressure.

Each engine type is optimized for specific applications, balancing efficiency, speed, and operational environment.

@Airmainengineer via X

[er1nne]

let him speak

summary: it’s just another chaotic shift in the pitt—until carter tries to speak up during a trauma case and gets talked over, again. you weren’t planning to say anything, but watching him get shut down one too many times pushes you past your limit

warnings : none just standard fluff, a bit of cursing nothing crazy though

word count : 1.2k

author's note : watching ER for the first time & I hate how life + everyone treats Carter for the first season or too, as though life hasn't been harsh enough already. he just needs someone to step in for him :( also, the medical terms and prognosis might be wrong, sorry not in medical school. but you're not here for that anyways

(do not copy or plagiarize, original work)

The trauma room is full. Too full, but honestly, what's new.

It’s the kind of full that doesn’t just crowd bodies—it suffocates focus. Every inch of space is taken. Nurses are shoulder to shoulder, interns squeezed between trays and carts, and the air is thick—humid with breath, sweat, and the stench of blood and antiseptic clashing in the fluorescent light.

The monitors are screaming now, not beeping. The pitch spikes, falls, screams again. No one’s silencing them. Gloves snap onto hands that are already damp with adrenaline, wrists slick, hearts pounding. Every voice is raised, not out of panic—but because no one can hear over the storm.

On the center table lies a man in his early forties—barely conscious, drifting in and out. There’s a fresh, angry scar running down his sternum, ribs mottled in bruising so deep it looks like ink. His gown’s been cut away, exposing a chest that’s rising unevenly. Shallow breaths hitch in his throat. The left side of his body barely moves.

A cold sweat glistens across his forehead. His fingers twitch against the sheets. His blood pressure’s free-falling, oxygen saturation dipping below seventy, and no one’s really processing it. They’re just reacting. Fast. Frantic. No rhythm. No hierarchy. Just noise.

You press gauze to the open wound across his ribs, trying to clear the visual field. Benton storms in next—gloves already on, eyes scanning the room like it’s not moving fast enough. “He’s circling the drain,” he says sharply. “I want a central line, chest tubes prepped, and someone get me a damn ultrasound.”

At the crash cart, two interns are fumbling through drawers, knocking saline vials loose, whispering to each other like they’re afraid to be wrong out loud. Chaos in white coats.

And at the foot of the bed—

Carter.

At the foot of the bed, Carter stands stiffly with the chart tucked under his arm, brows furrowed as his eyes scan the vitals again. The patient’s breathing is shallow, asymmetric. Something’s off. He shifts his weight like he’s about to speak.

He sees it. The pattern on the monitor. The bruising. The shallow breathing that doesn’t match the chest rise. Something’s off. Something subtle but important. He doesn’t look lost. He looks like he sees something no one else is looking for. But he hesitates.

“I think we should—” he starts, voice quiet, uncertain but grounded.

Benton cuts across him immediately. “Push another liter. I want that central line started now. Somebody get surgery prepped. He’s crashing.”

Carter takes a breath, tries again. “I think there’s—”

Carter starts to speak—again—and that’s when your head snaps up.

Because you’ve been watching. From the moment the chaos started, you’ve seen how his words keep getting swallowed whole. He’s not guessing. He’s reading the room. The chart. The patient.

“Get an ultrasound in here,” Doug barks, flipping through the chart. “We need to confirm pulmonary collapse before we put in a chest tube.”

Carter frowns. “But I think it might be—”

You’re across from him, inserting a second line. You glance up at the hesitancy in his voice, the way his shoulders hunch just slightly after each interruption. You catch the way he looks at the screen—like he sees something no one else does.

Your voice cuts in—not harsh, just clear. “Let him finish.”

No one hears you. Or maybe they do, but they don’t care.

Doug’s already turned to an intern. “Go ahead and prep bilateral chest tubes. He’s spiraling.”

“Wait—” Carter steps forward. “If we decompress without checking for tamponade—”

“I said move!” Benton snaps to the team, ignoring both of you now. “Pressure’s dropping—he’s circling the drain!”

You raise your voice slightly. “Guys, just hold up—”

Nothing. Not even a glance.

Carter’s jaw is tight now. His voice lowers, meant just for you. “They’re about to decompress the only lung still compensating.”

You watch him for a second. He’s right. You know he’s right. And they’re still talking over him like he’s not even in the damn room.

You try one more time, sharper now. “Would anyone like to listen to the guy who actually read the chart?”

Benton doesn’t even look up. They keep moving.

“Will someone move?” Benton snaps. “He’s crashing.”

And your hands go still at the IV. You stare at the patient. At Carter. Then back at the room full of men playing hero. Your jaw clenches. Because you’re one second away from ending all of this noise yourself.

“Shut up!”

It tears out of your throat—louder, sharper, and more final than anything else that’s been said all shift. It doesn’t rise above the chaos—it ends it.

The room freezes.

The clatter of the crash cart halts. Gloves pause mid-pull. Even the beeping monitors feel like they retreat, dropping to the background as every head slowly turns. Your boots scuff against the tile as you round the foot of the bed. You don’t yell again. You don’t need to. The fire’s already burning. You cut your gaze across the room—past Doug Ross, who raises his brows but wisely says nothing. Past the pair of interns who now look like they want to melt into the floor. And finally, you land on Benton. Cold. Direct. Daring him to shut you down.

“Would one of you self-important geniuses give him a damn chance to speak? He's here to learn, not stand around like a coat hanger.”

Silence. Dense. No one breathes.

Carter looks like someone just physically removed the pressure from his chest. His eyes are wide—surprised, but underneath that, something else: stunned gratitude and disbelief. Like he’s not used to anyone stepping in, let alone someone like you. He didn't even think you noticed him the way everyone around him is acting like he isn't even here.

He doesn’t speak at first. No one does.

You hold Benton’s stare for another beat. Then, without turning away, you tilt your head slightly in Carter’s direction.

Your voice is steady, clipped, controlled. “Proceed, Dr. Carter.”

That formality isn’t lost on anyone in the room.

He swallows, nods once, then takes a step forward, straightening the chart in his hands like it’s suddenly worth holding again. His voice isn’t loud—but it’s clear now. Confident. Present.

“There’s fluid in the pericardial sac,” he says. “If we decompress the chest now, we risk collapsing the only functioning lung. The right side is already gone—we need to confirm tamponade before we open anything. That means ultrasound. That means draining—not cutting.”

Doug frowns, reaching back for the ultrasound probe. “Right, right. Why didn't I think of that.”

He moves the probe across the chest. Adjusts the screen. Then nods, face shifting from skepticism to focus. “That’s not lung shadowing. That’s cardiac. Look at the compression on the left ventricle.”

Benton doesn’t speak. But his jaw flexes tight. He glances at the screen, then gives a curt nod to the nearest nurse. “Prep for pericardiocentesis.”

No argument. Just movement.

The entire room shifts—like someone yanked it out of autopilot and shoved it back into awareness. Everyone pivots. Everything clicks into place. The chaos doesn’t disappear, but for the first time all shift, it aligns.

You step back from the center, letting the team work. Letting Carter lead.

And in the middle of the motion, Carter glances at you.

It’s brief. No dramatics. Just a look—quick and sharp, like he’s trying to say something he’s never had the space to before. He blushes faintly. Not from embarrassment—but something quieter. More personal. He still clutches the chart like it might vanish if he lets go. His voice is soft. Just for you.

“…Thank you, Doctor.”

You meet his eyes. Hold them just a second longer than necessary. Then nod once, like it’s nothing.

And then the work goes on.

[nemo-writes]

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter seven

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: rain and roadblocks push you to shelter under jack’s roof, where warmth returns in quiet gestures and shared meals. and for the first time in weeks, you sleep through the storm.

⤿ warning(s): stalking

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 3k

The next two weeks feel like breathing under a heavier moon—same oxygen, unfamiliar pull—and all of it soaked in rain. It has poured every night that week, sluicing down the bay windows in Triage, drumming on the roof so hard the ceiling tiles seem to vibrate. The weather channel drones from the mounted ER TV—flash-flood watches, wind advisories, “worst band of the storm due after midnight.” 

Inside, the shift grinds on. 

You also started power-napping like a resident—ten minutes in a darkened alcove, then snapping awake at the Code-Green chime, running on muscle memory and caffeine-free stubbornness. Tiny wins pile up: you nod off less, your notes stay pristine, and the tremor in your hands is gone by midnight instead of dawn.  

Routines sprout. You haul a travel rice cooker into Margot’s kitchen and start packing real food again—ginger-miso broth, quick stir-fries, onigiri in waxed paper. Dr. Ellis claims it’s pity-fuel for her relentless sarcasm; Dr. Shen bows his head in reverence before inhaling two portions. Jack calls them “midnight bento interventions,” devours whatever’s left, then ribs Dr. Ellis that the sodium will outlive them all. Now and then the three of you share a hard plastic bench in the staff lounge while swapping ER legends—Ellis’s lightning-fast intubations, Shen’s dead-pan one-liners, Jack’s dark-humor field tales—each story punctuated by the usual rattle of The Pitt.

Late Thursday, the bays fall into a lull so thin you can hear the HVAC sigh. You’re restocking the supply alcove, muttering about med students who confuse “return items” with “scatter like confetti,” when a shape darkens the doorway.

He’s gaunt—early twenties at best—paper scrub pants slung low on bony hips, hospital bracelet dangling from one wrist. A gray hoodie swallows his shoulders, the hood half up despite the indoor heat. His eyes jitter from shelf to shelf, never settling.

You straighten, clipboard raised like a polite shield. “Hey there. Are you a patient? Need help getting back?”

He steps closer instead, sweaty fingers pinching a folded slip of paper. “You need to take this.”

Instinct coils tight. You keep your voice even. “Let’s head back to the waiting area. I can page the on-call—”

“Just take it,” he snaps, thrusting the note toward your chest.

Your right hand drops to the Mayo tray, curling around a scalpel before you register the movement. The stainless handle is cool, grounding—and dangerous.

“Take it,” he repeats, voice thin and rising.

Before the tension snaps, Jack glides in—silent and immovable—slotting his body between you and the stranger. No raised volume, no theatrics—just an open palm that fills the space.

“Back up,” Jack says, firm and with no room for rebuttal as a diagnostic tone. His stethoscope glints under the fluorescents, badge swinging against his scrub top.

The young man freezes, eyes flicking to the approaching security guard. Ramirez materializes like clockwork, clamps a steady hand around the kid’s elbow, and steers him away. The note flutters to the linoleum like an exhaled secret.

“I’m not doing anything!” the kid protests, but he goes—casting one slippery look over his shoulder before disappearing down the hall.

Silence rushes in. Jack turns to you. The scalpel is still white-knuckled in your grip. His fingers curl gently around yours, easing the blade back onto the tray, then wrapping his other hand over your knuckles—warm, solid.

“Breathe.”

You do—shaky, scraping your ribs on the way out.

“Who was he?” you whisper.

“Probably an unknown admission,” Jack answers, eyes scanning your face for fractures. “Security’ll run his chart. Wrong vibe for our stalker, but I don’t like that he got this close.”

Your pulse skitters. Jack’s thumb brushes over your knuckles once, anchoring. “Shift’s almost done. Come help me bully Ellis into eating something green, then we’re clocking out.”

A crooked laugh escapes—thin but real. The discarded note lies forgotten on the floor; Ramirez will bag it for Gloria’s growing file. You let Jack guide you toward the nurses’ station, his presence steady as bedrock, your fingers laced in his like a tether back to solid ground.

. . .

Dawn hovers somewhere beyond the storm, but you wouldn’t know it. At 06:47 the windows above the ambulance bay are opaque with water, sheets of rain slamming so hard the gutters gargle. The TV in Triage flashes a crimson crawl—major street closures, buses rerouted, “historic rainfall rates.” Every few minutes Bridget’s phone pings with another text: stuck in traffic / bus turned around / can someone cover?

You finish resetting Exam 4, peel off gloves, and glance at the clock again. Three minutes crawl by; the storm only deepens. Somewhere overhead thunder rolls so low it vibrates the EKG leads in their drawer.

Your own phone buzzes. Margot.

Gridlock on Saw Mill Run. Ben’s car is crawling. 45 min at least. You okay to wait?

You thumb back Of course. Be safe. And slip the phone away. Easy enough: log a few more notes, check med-cabinet temps, wipe down the bedside computers—overtime in exchange for quiet.

By 07:45 you’re at the meds cart, auditing narc counts, when a shadow looms. Jack—bag slung over one shoulder, scrubs damp at the collar from some errand to Receiving—stares at you with that flat, unimpressed look he reserves for residents who chart “LOL” instead of “little old lady.”

“What,” he asks, deadpan, “are you still doing here?”

You snort softly, ticking a vial into the ledger. “Working? Also waiting. Margot and Ben are stuck on I-376, apparently looks like a parking lot.”

He doesn’t blink. Rain hammers the bay door behind him; lightning flashes, bleaching the hallway for half a heartbeat.

“So you’re pulling overtime and hoping the river doesn’t relocate into South Oakland?”

“Preeeetty much.”

A beat of silence. Then Jack’s hand closes gently around your elbow, firm but not rough, turning you away from the cart. “Grab your bag.”

“I—Jack, it’s fine,” you sputter. “Really. They’ll get here—”

“I’m driving you,” he says, voice calm in a way that brooks no argument. “I have a four-wheel drive. Let’s go.”

You glance at the downpour pelting the loading dock window. “It’s a monsoon out there.”

“Exactly.” He lifts an eyebrow. “Your options are hydroplaning in Ben’s Civic or hydroplaning with me, who at least has combat-driver training.”

“That’s not reassuring,” you mutter, but the small smile tugging at the edge of your lips is undeniable. 

“It’s the best offer on the table.” He presses the narc ledger into your hands, already sealing the drawer for you. “End of shift. Clock out.”

You open your mouth to argue—close it again. The ledger feels heavier than it should, fatigue seeps in now that adrenaline’s ebbing. Outside, thunder cracks like a dropped backboard, and the lights flicker once.

You sigh. “Fine, but breakfast is on me.”

“Deal,” he says, guiding you toward the time clock. 

You clock out, grab your bag and shrug into your jacket, before following him toward the staff exit where rain claws at the glass. Jack tightens the hood of his parka, then holds out an arm as the automatic door slides open, water roaring on the pavement beyond.

“Ready?” he asks.

You nod, stepping close under the shelter of his outstretched sleeve. Together you plunge into the downpour—his hand steady at your back, the storm booming overhead, but the path to the truck straight and sure. 

Jack’s pickup squats at the curb, rain sluicing off the cab in curtains. He shoulders your duffel before you can protest, flips the handle, and swings the passenger door wide like it’s muscle memory.

“Watch your step—running board’s slick,” he warns.

You climb in. The cabin greets you with a mingled scent of cedar dash wipes, faint engine oil, and the ever-present whisper of antiseptic from spare trauma kits stashed behind the seats. A police scanner—permanently clipped beneath the center console—chimes with bursts of static and dispatch codes: flooded intersections, disabled vehicles, the city groaning under waterlogged asphalt.

Jack tosses your bag onto the back seat, gives the door a solid push, and rounds the hood. Rain drums so hard on the roof it sounds like popcorn. He slides behind the wheel, shakes his curls once, then flicks on the wipers—long, angry sweeps that barely keep up.

“Seat belt,” he says, already buckling his own.

You latch in. The engine rumbles low, a comforting diesel thrum. He pulls away from the bay, tires hissing through standing water, scanner crackling a heads-up about another closure on Boulevard of the Allies.

Outside, Pittsburgh blurs—streetlights smeared into amber streaks. Traffic is a knot of blinking hazards and stalled buses; every alternate route you suggest is echoed on the scanner as blocked or backed up for miles. Jack makes two turns, meets a wall of brake lights, then inches forward for twenty hopeless minutes.

Finally he exhales through his nose—one sharp huff—and eases into a wet three-point turn.

“Call Margot,” he says, eyes on the mirror. “Tell her you’re crashing at my place.”

Your pulse misfires. “Jack—what? No, it’s fine, just drop me at—”

“Not driving you across town in this while you fight to stay awake,” he cuts in, voice calm but iron-lined. “My spare room’s closer than Margot’s, and it’s got thicker locks. She’ll understand.”

“But—”

He flicks you a sidelong look, soft but unyielding. “Humor me. Call.”

Throat tight, you dial. Margot answers on the second ring, background noise of wipers and Ben’s low grumbling. You relay Jack’s plan. She pauses, then mutters something about common sense finally prevailing, and tells you to send a text when you’re indoors.

You hang up, fingers fluttering against your thigh. Rain hammers the windshield, the scanner mutters more closures, and Jack merges onto a smaller artery that actually flows.

“Tea’s stocked,” he says, like announcing the weather. “Couch pulls out if the guest bed creeps you out. And my dog tags jingle in the closet—ignore them.”

A shaky laugh slips free. The tension in your chest loosens by an inch. Outside, the city is half-submerged, but inside the cab the diesel hum and the steady cadence of the scanner feel almost like a heartbeat—louder than the storm, grounding you mile by mile toward something that feels, against all odds, like refuge.

The storm is still in full throat when Jack noses the truck into a covered slot and lowers the tailgate. A sprint through sheets of rain and a three-floor climb later, you’re inside his apartment—soaked jacket already dripping on the entry mat.

The place is unmistakably a bachelor’s but not a mess: clean lines, muted paint, furniture chosen for function more than style—charcoal sofa, walnut coffee table nicked at the corners, a single reclaimed-wood bookshelf holding medical texts, a weathered guitar, and a row of battered field journals. No curtains on the windows, just industrial blinds rattling in the wind.

The air smells faintly of cedar cleaner and gun oil.

Your gaze lands on the far wall: a framed photo of a unfamiliar person in fatigues, smiling wide under desert sun, Jack’s arm slung around their shoulders. The picture isn’t front-and-center, but it isn’t hidden either—just part of the room, as natural as the oxygen you’re breathing. You feel a pulse of something—respect, maybe; curiosity folded into quiet acknowledgment—then let it settle.

The storm growls and the apartment lights stay dead. Jack mutters, “Of course,” and disappears into a utility closet. A second later a low hum rises; backup battery strips blink to life, powering a lamp and the fridge compressor. Gloom shifts to soft amber.

He reappears, already unzipping a folded camp cot from a hall closet. “Guest room’s down here—ignore the tactical gear box; I was sorting it and never finished.” He keeps talking as he moves—pulling a fresh duvet from a storage bin, snagging spare towels, stacking them on the cot as if building a fortress of linens. It’s the rambling you’ve come to recognize: the babble that sneaks out when his battlefield calm runs up against actual nerves.

“Sheets are hypoallergenic, pillow’s maybe lumpy—Shen says I’m pointless without memory foam, but—uh—water heater’s touchy; you flip the breaker twice if it sputters. Breakfast, though—I’ve got eggs, maybe some questionable bread, instant oatmeal if—”

“Jack.” You cut in, nurse-stern but gentle, palm landing on his forearm. “Kitchen. Now.”

He blinks. “What?”

“Told you breakfast was on me. I’m cooking. You drove through a flood and half of Oakland. Sit, or at least fetch ingredients. Let me do something useful.”

For a heartbeat he looks like he might argue; then his shoulders drop, a wry curve touching his mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”

The kitchen continues the theme: uncluttered counters, cast-iron skillet seasoned to midnight black, a French press permanently stationed beside a battered electric kettle. You shed your damp jacket, roll up sleeves, and start inventorying fridge contents by the soft glow of the battery lamp. Eggs, scallions, a solitary bell pepper, leftover rice from who-knows-when—perfect.

Jack lingers like a big, quiet dog at the edge of the doorway until you point a spatula toward a stool. “Park it.”

He obeys, elbows on the island, watching steam fog the window while you whisk eggs and slice vegetables. The generator hum, the sizzling skillet, the rain hammering the glass—they layer into a rhythm that feels, astonishingly, like peace.

You spoon the crispy-bottom rice and silky eggs into two battered blue enamel plates—the kind that look like they’ve survived a few camping trips—and slide one across the island. Jack dives in with the single-minded focus of a man fresh off a twelve‑hour shift and half a gallon of adrenaline. The first mouthful is barely down before he’s humming, eyes shutting like he might float straight off the stool.

“God,” he says, voice muffled around a second bite, “I missed this. You know what this is? This is proof the universe still loves me.”

“Pretty sure that’s just old soy sauce,” you reply, rinsing the spatula.

He points at the food with his fork, earnest. “Recipe. I need measurements—actual numbers, not your ‘dash until it smells right’ nonsense.”

“I’m protecting trade secrets,” you tease, but warmth blooms in your chest. Two weeks ago you could barely boil water without scanning every shadow. Now he’s coaxing you back to habits that meant home.

He polishes the plate until there isn’t a single grain left, then tips it your way so you can see your reflection in the gloss. “Gold standard. Seriously—midnight Bento queen. When you finally retire, you’ll have a food truck empire outside every trauma center.”

You scoff, but your grin is uncontainable. Cooking felt like breathing again—measured, rhythmic, fragrant—and seeing him devour it sparks a glow you haven’t felt since before everything.

After dishes, he pads down the hall and returns with a folded stack: a Navy-gray T‑shirt soft from a hundred wash cycles, and flannel joggers warm as a hug. “These should fit…ish,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. 

You press the clothes to your chest. They smell like cedar, laundry soap, and something unmistakably Jack. He then leads you to his spare room, and hits the  switch by the doorframe, heavy blackout blinds gliding down with a soft electrical hum. The morning storm-light is swallowed whole, plunging the room into a gentle twilight lit only by the hallway spill.

“Told you—better than curtain clips.” He sounds impossibly proud.

You step inside. The guest bed is a double—pillows plump, quilt patterned in muted blues, corners tucked with a soldier’s precision. A battered nightstand holds an alarm clock, a half-read Raymond Chandler paperback, and a small ceramic dish filled with odd coins, medals, and shiny screws—treasures of a magpie life.

The sudden hush steals the breath from your lungs. After weeks of sleepless vigilance, the room feels like slipping into deep water: quiet, cool, encompassing. You don’t realize tears have sprung until he’s there with a box of tissues he seemingly conjures from thin air.

“Need anything else?” he asks, voice gentled down to a murmur.

You shake your head, wiping at your eyes. The exhaustion is total—sinew-deep—but the fear that usually comes with it is absent. In its place sits something fragile and precious: safety.

He hovers one heartbeat longer, as if waiting to be sure. Then he nods, steps back, and eases the door almost—but not fully—closed. His footsteps retreat down the hall—soft thuds on laminate fading into the hush.

You then move to the bathroom, inside waiting a neatly folded washcloth, a still‑wrapped travel toothbrush, and a squat tube of plain mint paste. Everything is utilitarian, almost military in its order, but there’s a care to it that catches your chest.

You run the water—lukewarm thanks to Jack’s fussy heater trick—then scrub away twelve hours of hospital grit. The toothbrush is no‑frills, the soap unscented, yet the feel of clean water over your face is more luxurious than any spa. When the mirror fogs, you swipe a clear line and glimpse eyes already soft with impending sleep instead of panic.

Back in the room, you tug blankets aside but pause. One more thing. By the dim battery lamp you thumb out a text to Margot:

Safe. Jack’s spare room. Power’s out but generator humming. Will call after sleep. 💤

A confirmation bubble flicks up almost instantly: Thank God. Rest. Ben says hi.

You set the phone upside‑down on the nightstand, fold yourself beneath the quilt, and let the mattress cradle sore joints. Water thrums against the windows, the generator hums like distant tide. Somewhere down the hallway cabinet doors click—Jack tidying, grounding himself with small motions—then fall quiet.

Just as your eyelids drift shut, floorboards creak outside your door. His footfall pauses, a silent sentinel. He doesn’t knock, doesn’t speak—simply lingers long enough for you to feel the certainty of guarded space. Another quiet step, and he’s gone.

Your last waking sensations are cedar and rain in the dark, the firm weight of blankets, and the echo of boots walking the watch while you—finally—let go. Sleep rolls over you in a deep, unbroken wave; outside, the storm thrashes, but inside you rest like the dead, safe in the eye of it.

divider credit

[iguanodont]

Emerges from my cave to announce I have created a new sophont

Tentatively calling swimslugs for now, as their designs mostly draw from mollusc anatomy. These small, colorful creatures dwell on a high gravity world dominated by shallow golden seas. Electrical engineering came early in their history, inspired by the ability of some of their native animals to generate electrical currents… and their own natural electroreception. The last few centuries have been peaceful and prosperous; their myriad cultures emphasize an exchange of art, culture, and friendly competition to sport the tackiest color schemes imaginable. Due to the high gravity of their world and their own physical limitations as aquatic creatures, swimslugs have a very limited history of aviation and have been generally uninterested in space travel, despite having been digital penpals with another group of sophonts for generations now…

On their biology:

Swimslug life relies on symbioses with two different organisms: a worm and a sessile “tunicate”. The worm (also simply referred to as an ‘arm’) is functionally a parasite; biting into the flank under the gills of its host early in life and fusing with its nervous and circulatory systems. This union allows the swimslug to develop fine motor control over the untethered end of the worm by adolescence. Most swimslugs only host a single arm; two or more become difficult for most individuals to acclimate to and can lead to health issues. Many genetic and cybernetic variations of the arm are available in the current era. The ‘tunicate’ (I will refer to as the Vase) is essential to swimslug reproduction; all parents spawn into the Vase to ensure a safe shelter and a steady current of oxygenated water for the developing offspring. The average swimslug has at least two fathers; the hybridization of multiple sets of gametes is essential to the proper development of their species. Family groups often consist of the egg layer, her family Vase (these can last for generations), and a 3 or 4 mates, though the particulars vary enormously by culture. Their eggs have a relatively low hatch rate; unviable eggs are consumed by surviving larvae shortly after hatching. The Vases themselves periodically produce free swimming larvae that are affectionately kept around dwellings as pets.

Swimslugs communicate by grinding and clacking modified stomach-teeth, as well as percussing on the adjacent ‘oil-sac’ organ that also serves to regulate buoyancy and store energy. They come in a dazzling variety of colors owing to both their complex hybridizations and genetic engineering. Cosmetic nanobots applied to their slime coats enhance their appearance by functioning as artificial chromatophores.

And that’s the gist of em! Many thanks to @nknatteringly for all the idea pitching and bouncing in their early development, wouldn’t have felt half as inspired without ya. Not sure how much further I’ll develop these guys, they exist mostly as a fun diversion to contrast the gritty, low-tech world of the birgs and a love letter to all the sparkly stuff I liked as a kid.

If you’d like to support my art, you check out these links here

———

Patreon

Kofi

Inprnt

[ilium-ilia]

Daughters with Soft Underbellies

john price x fem!reader | cowboy/outlaw x preachers daughter | masterlist

Chapter Fourteen: dissonance

tw: minor gore, angst, nudity

“My necklace.” 

It’s the first thing you’ve been able to get yourself to utter since the commotion downstairs ensued. Fingers tenderly prod at your clavicles where your mother’s cross is supposed to be sitting, bright and proud among your pristine Sunday best. There is nothing but empty space. A gap where gold should be but only flesh remains.

“What’s that, darlin?” Lottie asks. She’s still got an arm around you as she leads you down the hallway, your bath looming ever closer. Despite her proximity, the silage of her perfume isn’t enough to drown out the cruor cooling behind you. 

“My necklace. It’s gone,” you mutter. 

She hums, but makes no effort to stop or turn around. Lottie’s been given her task, and she seems intent on not straying from it. “I’m sure it got lost durin’ the fight. We’ll look for it after things get cleaned up, okay?” 

A response attempts to bubble up in your throat but it doesn’t quite roll off your tongue. It dies. Crumbles into a powder that leaves you parched. 

The bath is a stark contrast to the last time you were in there. There are no candles to illuminate the room in a buttery glow, nor is there steaming water in the tub with swirling rose petals. Lottie has to flick the electric lights on in order to see anything in the otherwise tenebrous room and when she brings you inside you can only note the long sour stench of lilac rotting into the wallpaper. 

Lottie delicately helps you peel off your overdress once the door is closed before carefully laying it out on the floor. You stare down at the disembodied cloth and your stomach turns at the blood that soaks into the gossamer lace of your bodice. It’s fresh. Bright red and oxygenated. The body it came from is still warm. 

“Come on now,” Lottie redirects when she notices you’re staring for too long. “Have a seat.” 

There is not enough room in your chest for shame to plague your heart when you shed your chemise and let it crumble to the floor. Lottie helps you into the tub where she turns on the spout but doesn’t plug the drain. Algid water splashes onto your bare skin, prompting gooseflesh to ripple along your muscles, but you ignore it as she begins to rinse the gore from the side of your face.

It’s near impossible to get your hair clean. Sticky blood, thick flesh, bone shrapnel—an ended life, the brain of a human stuck to you; all memories, feelings, and desires snuffed out in an instant. It was John’s bullet that did this. He saved you. Again. He’s always saving you, and you’re always bearing the scars from it. 

Once you’re deemed free of the remnants of a silenced life, Lottie helps you dry off with a towel before wrapping it around you and having you sit by the vanity. She sheds her own clothing before rinsing the blood off of her hands and hopping into the tub herself. A shrill giggle cuts through the air as she splashes her chest, breasts aglow with droplets of water. You’re not sure how she can laugh after such violence, or how she can muster a smile at all, but you’re too exhausted to question her on it. 

The sabbath is soaked in blood—white cotton turned red. 

Neither of you put on your soiled overdresses when Lottie’s finished cleaning herself up. You drag your chemise up your body with numb fingers as you stare at yourself in the vanity. Dewy skin from your sponge bath. Chapped lips. Sunken eyes. You’re not sure what to make of this life away from your father. It was supposed to be better, yet so much blood has been spilt you’re not sure it’s worth the endeavor. 

Lottie helps lead you to your room once everything is squared away, leaving behind your bloody Sunday best to rot on the floor. She promises to find you a replacement dress once things have calmed down, but you catalogue this pledge as one given only to tame the rapid beating of your heart and nothing more. 

Your room is silent. No, this whole building is. The lively bar below you has turned into a morgue, and even the concerned patrons speak only in hushed tones. Even drunkards know to respect the dead; to not disturb their final resting places. Lottie keeps up with this ideology as she softly suggests you slip into bed while drawing the covers back. You know full well you will not be able to rest after what you’ve just seen, but you’re too exhausted to argue, so you crawl upon the plush mattress and allow her to draw the blankets over your body as if you’re a child again.

“There, that’s better,” Lottie hums once you’ve settled in. “Alright darlin’ I’m headed back downstairs. I’ll have Katie or John come check on you later, okay?” 

Too enervated to respond, you simply nod as your cheek presses further into the pillow. She stands at the side of your bed for a long while, her presence oozing pity all over you. Then, she leans forward and presses a soft kiss to your cheek. 

“Try and get some rest,” she says sweetly before exiting. 

For Lottie’s sake, you try but fail miserably. Stuck on your side, back turned to the door, eyes staring at the rosy wallpaper before you—there is a dissonance inside your brain that refuses to halt. A saturnine cloud suffocates you, forcing back the memory of a gun against your ribs, a bullet whizzing past your face, the high impact splatter of blood across your skin. 

It’s worse than any slap on your jaw, stick against your knuckles, or verse quoted with seething rancor.

Time doesn’t seem to exist as you lay in bed, so you have no gauge to tell what time it is when a knock sounds at your door. It’s well past lunch. Long enough for your stomach to be growling yet there are no such pains plaguing your stomach. The afternoon sun beats against the windows, but they’re smothered by the curtains, plunging the room into scarlet. Faded red. Like you’re stuck on the inside of a womb. 

“Lamb?” 

The door opens when you don’t respond. It creaks behind you, slow and careful, as John’s voice washes over you. The tone of his voice is strange. As his booted feet clomp towards the bed, you try to pin the feeling. It isn’t until his body sinks into the mattress behind you that you realize he’s here to expiate. 

“You’re not hurt, are you?” he asks. 

“I’m fine.” Short, piercing, and to the point. Your frustration is nameless, and yet it rears its ugly head within your throat all the same. 

John does not allow silence to linger. “I know that can’t have been easy for you.” 

“But I’m sure it was for you.” There’s a snap to your words that doesn’t quite land over the dullness of your tone. A maw without teeth, jaw clenching taut flesh between wet gums, unable to break skin. “After Blackpeak, this must’ve been a walk in the park for you, John Price.” 

He audibly inhales, his frustration nearly devouring him, but you feel the way he prevents himself from snapping the way wolves so often do. A held breath, bitten words—his weight shifts on the mattress. 

“Lamb, I would never hurt the people of Blackpeak,” John says, nearly pleading. 

“I don’t believe you,” you quip. 

“I wouldn’t.” 

“Is that why there’s that nice little poster of you plastered all over the city?” you snap. Your fingers curl into the blanket as you keep your eyes pinned to the wall, desperate to not look at him lest you begin to crumble. “Every town you’ve brought me to, you’ve ended up hurting someone. First that rancher, then those men in Little Wood, and now here. You are a violent man, John Price, and sometimes I worry that you use that gun—that tool—of yours too much.”

For once, you’ve managed to stun him. At least, you think you have. His breathing is so quiet you can’t hear it, and you can’t note a single bit of movement. 

“Upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace, and with his wounds we are healed,” John quotes. “Please, love. Just let me explain. Lamb... Darling, look at me.” 

For all your father’s anger—the brutal acidity that has tainted you since the first time he struck you—your mother’s benevolence always shines through. Carefully, you begin to roll until you’re flat on your back, head and shoulders propped up by the provided pillow so that you’ve got a perfect view of John. He’s sitting on the edge of your bed in nothing but plain trousers. His vest has been removed, leaving him with the half buttoned mess that’s become of his white half-collared shirt. Without his hat, his hair runs free—trimmed inky locks mussed with sweat. 

“The moment you say anything heinous, I’m kicking you out of this room,” you promise. 

John’s chuckle comes tense as his head lowers. “I’ll hold you to that, darling.” 

He leans forward, almost getting too close for comfort, but you don’t say anything when he takes your hand into his. His touch is warm—near clammy. You try not to think too hardly about how much blood has soaked them. 

“The boys and I used to be deputies back in Blackpeak,” he shares. The look on your face must betray your emotions because John’s tittering again. “I know. Doesn’t seem like we’re the type, does it? Most of the locals weren’t too happy with us either, since we’re English. But we were given badges and we took oaths, and we did our jobs well.” 

Images flood your mind of John Price working for the law. Somehow, it seems to fit. A shiny deputy star pinned to his vest, clothes neat and tongue just as sharp, ready to wrangle up outlaws as if he’s wrestling cattle. It’s a stark difference to who he is now—a cynistic man who sees the world in a terribly dark shade of grey. 

“I didn’t hurt those people in the coal mine, Lamb. None of us did,” John continues, squeezing your hand with assurance. “I remember that day well. The explosion could be heard all the way from the office. Kyle and I rode out as fast as we could towards the smoke and screaming. We pulled as many people from the wreckage as we could manage, but it wasn’t enough. So many people died that day, and there isn’t a single moment that goes by that I don’t think of them. 

“At first, everyone thought it was an accident. A misuse of dynamite, or some sort of gas that had been ignited. Then the survivors started talking about masked men who entered the mines with explosives. As soon as that rumor got out, the sheriff tried to shut it down. He didn’t want unrest in the town. That didn’t sit right with me.” 

Finally gathering the courage to partake in the conversation, you swallow. “You went out looking for them?” 

John nods. “I did. And I found them, too. They’d been right under our noses the entire time. Sheriff Shepherd had hidden correspondence with a man named Vladimir Makarov. He’s a very wealthy man from Russia who owns a few coal plants here in The States. A very wealthy, greedy man. Made an offer with Shepherd saying that if they got the old company out of Blackpeak, there’d be something in it for him. So that’s exactly what he did.” 

A wretched dissonance strikes through the base of your skull as you attempt to keep all the pieces of John’s story straight. When it comes to anything outside of Penmosa, you know remarkably little. Each word he speaks sounds like a different language, yet as everything begins to fall into place you find the pit in your stomach unbearably heavy. 

“You’re saying the sheriff did it?” you ask in disbelief. 

“I’m not saying he did it, he did it. Found the letters myself,” John corrects. “I put the papers in the bank where I knew they’d be safe, and I made a plan to meet with the judge in order to bring Shepherd to justice. But I guess word got out somehow, and next thing I knew, my name was plastered all over town with the blame for the explosion and the boys and I were being hunted. We hardly got out of there alive. 

“Those men downstairs? They’re part of Shepherd’s Shadow Company. Led by his protege Philip Graves. They’ve been tracking us halfway across the country just to kill us so that word doesn’t get out about Shepherd’s crimes. We won’t be free men until we get back to Blackpeak and set this straight, and neither will anyone else in town, either.” 

A part of you doesn’t want to believe John. You don’t want to believe that there could ever be so much evil in the world. That so many lives could be slaughtered for such vainglory. But you know he does not take lives so flippantly—at least, not in his mind. When he killed that rancher, it was to protect you, and same with the man downstairs. He is violent to an end, but you’ve seen the tenderness that lurks beneath his exterior. 

John Price does anything for his people, and you think that ideology extends to the citizens of Blackpeak, too. Besides, you always wondered why the papers switched up so suddenly between the explosion being an accident, to it being caused with malicious intent. 

“Earlier, before that gunfight broke out, you were trying to ask me to help you in Blackpeak. What were you going to have me do?” you ask, taking a small detour in conversation. 

John’s eyes soften at your question, and you feel his grip on your hand tighten as he leans forward. “Lamb, you’ve had a rough day, we don’t have to talk about that right now.” 

“I want to know,” you insist.

Here she is—your mother’s daughter—seeing something broken and yearning so desperately to fix it as if your hands were the one that caused the damage in the first place. John’s head lowers for a moment as he looks at your hand. Somehow, this feels natural. The way he holds you and caresses your scarred knuckles with his thumb. 

“The correspondence between Shepherd and Makarov is still in my safebox at the bank. It’s the only thing that will convince a judge of our innocence and bring justice to those workers. I still have the key, but I’d get shot if I went in to retrieve it myself. Same goes for the others, too. But you’re a new face. You wouldn’t have any trouble.” There’s a long pause where neither of you speak. He looks up at you. “You don’t have to do it.” 

“What other choice would you have if I say no?” you question. 

The wide muscles of John’s shoulders tense with a shrug. “Robbery. Sneak in at night. Incapacitate the guards. Apologize to the judge when morning comes and present the papers to him in person.”

“You’d really resort to such a thing?” 

“I’d rather be hung for something I did than something I didn’t.” 

There’s too much adrenaline coursing through your body for you to be laying down as you are now, yet John’s hand has ensnared you, keeping you still. A lamb on wobbly legs, staring up at a butcher. 

“When would you leave?” You’re not sure why the questions continue to pour out of you—the thought of sincerely debating assisting him in such a thing makes you woozy; almost more woozy than the idea of staying behind and doing nothing. 

“If things had gone our way, we would’ve left at the end of the week, but since we’ve been paid such a bloody visit, we won’t be able to linger any longer than we already have. We’ll hit the tracks tomorrow.” He speaks cautiously. Low and slow. Azure eyes study your face, reading the lines in your skin, each divot, every curve. He shakes his head. “I don’t want you to make a decision about this right now.” 

You’re not even sure if you could. Head crammed with new information, the truth coming to light and nearly blinding you in the process; you can hardly see the full picture. Ever since you left Penmosa, you’ve been preparing yourself for John’s departure. For your lives to separate. Yet, this entire time, it’s as if you’ve been practicing for a wound. To mar yourself. The thought of splitting yourself open terrifies you more than you’d like to admit. 

“I was so furious with you,” you carefully confess, words nearly toppling off the tip of your tongue. “I thought I knew why I was so mad. I thought you were a killer; a real killer. But more than that, I think I was so upset because I know you’re better than that. Better than what I thought you were.” 

John’s scoffing titter is poorly hidden, and his fingers loosen against you. “Oh darling, I’m not a good person. You know that. And I’m not much better than any other bastard who comes wandering along.” 

“I think you are. A good person, I mean. I think you just love differently than most; in a way that scares people.” 

For once, John does not have a quip. There is no joke at the expense of your intellect, or anything said to degrade himself; there is only you, him, and the way he holds your hand, delicate, as if it were a petal. Then, the connection breaks. Fingertips leaving you, his hand diving into his pocket instead. You nearly reach for him the way you snatched up your mother’s necklace from her body when you were a child with the word mine tearing at your throat. 

His hand isn’t hidden for long. Pulling free from his pocket, fingers curled into a fist, he presents it to you and carefully unravels them until the remnants of your mother’s necklace is revealed. Your eyes widen. The tenuous golden chain lies in several pieces, swinging freely as if they’re strings caught in the wind. A rock settles in your stomach at the state of it—fractured beyond repair—but the cross sits just as proud as ever in the palm of his hand. 

“I caught the chain trying to drag you over the bar,” John admits as if he had broken it intentionally. “I think I got all the pieces. There should be a jeweler who can fix it up, or at least get you a new chain. I know how much this means to you.” 

Tender fingertips extend towards the charm where you trace each arm of the cross. The grooves are still correct. Your mother still lurks beneath the gold. It’s just as you remember it, and for some reason it makes your bottom lip tremble. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

John only nods before he sets the pieces in a neat pile on the nightstand next to the bed. Then, he mutters something about trying to get some rest, and shares his hotel room number in case you need anything from him. 

Suddenly, there’s nothing but blue. A cloudless sky piercing through you. Deep lake water swimming with life. John leans forward, and for a terrifying moment, you think he might kiss you—for a terrifying moment, you think you might let him. His body curls forward, shoulders stooping, hands leaning against your pillow, creating soft divots until his lips are on your forehead. His trimmed facial hair scratches against your skin, yet you almost can’t feel it over the delicateness of his embrace. 

It is the last thing he leaves you with before departing and shutting the door tight behind him. His footsteps hardly fade down the hall before you’re crying. Knees curling up to your chest, the side of your face buried into the pillow, the spittle of John’s kiss soaking into the sheets—grief overwhelms you in an unspeakable way. In the way only trees who have seen forest fires know. It lingers in the whisper of the wind that still carries the songs your dead mother used to sing, and in the lilies that still miss her caring hands. 

You come undone the way you always have—quietly and palatable. 

Some stretch of time later, you manage to sleep your pain away. You dream of Mr. Beckett’s verdant field with overgrown, lush grass and the sun high above you. Your mother is out to play, dwelling in the full moon that manages to glisten brighter than the rest of the sky, beaming down at you as your giggles drown out the cicadas. 

The ewe and her lamb from Grand Hollow play with you—or rather, around you. Chasing one another, feet kicking up pits of dirt, bleating at one another as their wool darkens with each step. When the lamb trips, falling forward on its face as its knees buckle beneath the impact, you lean down to help the poor thing up before it’s bounding off once more. 

Someone calls your name. When you look up to Mr. Beckett’s porch, you don’t find the town’s sweet bartender, but rather the unruly preacher—your father. He stands with one hand on the railing and the other gripping his undone belt. Tanned leather bends like a loop, fingers gripping the buckle as if it’s his lifeline. He does not speak any further, but you know why he beckons. Pious girl turned miscreant. You need to be set back in your true ways like a doctor would set a fractured leg. 

Instead of following his commands, you look back down at the ewe and lamb. They stare at you with their teeth bared. Instead of flat, herbivore teeth, they bear razors like wolves. 

When you wake up, the sun is still up. There is food in the air, but hunger does not pull at your stomach. There is only sweat. 

Sitting up in bed, you glance over at the nightstand where you find your mother’s necklace still sitting quietly on the corner, awaiting to be put back together again. You reach for it, caressing the design once more, and for the first time since your mother was nearly buried with it, it’s frigid to the touch. 

Swallowing down the tart aftertaste of your dream, you toss the covers off of your body before slamming your bare feet against the floor. You’re not quite sure what happened to your shoes, but you pay no attention to it as you dart towards the door. Rug cushioning your steps, you march down the hallway until you reach the end where a small cubby sports an evening chair and a bible lazily perched on the armrest. 

You knock on John’s door harder than you intend to. The sound it makes is horisont, and leaves your knuckles aching as if they’ve split after another gnarly lesson. He answers the door quickly, but his eyelids are heavy when he swings it open, and you note the multiple cowlicks on the side of his head, sticking up as if he’s been skewered with locks of hair. 

His greeting doesn’t even make it halfway out of his mouth before you’re interrupting him. 

“I’ll help.” 

Lethargy pulling at his features, he tilts his head to the side as his eyes narrow. “Help?” 

You nod. “I’ll come with you to Blackpeak.”

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here

[heron-knight]

long-distance mech pilots don’t need to worry quite so much about traveling light. when you’re walking around in several tons of metal, especially one built to wander, you aren’t quite to the point of needing to choose which of two keepsakes you have room in your bag for— there’s plenty of space for both.

Things are different for interstellar knights.

You see, whether wandering alone or setting off on some quest for their lord, a knight’s only home is their armor. Anything they bring with them, they must carry within that armor, even through battles— and as such, every gram and every cubic centimeter can make the difference between life and death, and every calorie chosen to replace a keepsake can make the difference between survival and starvation. As such, a knight’s inventory is heavily optimized— and so is their armor itself. What matters more, the heating system or the EVA boosters? The extra fuel storage or the emergency release mechanisms? Pick one, and you’ll have no room for the other unless you can cut corners somewhere else. Every single element of a knight’s armor is there because they made the conscious decision to put it there. Every weapon they’ve attached to their shell had to replace some traditional aspect of a life support system. Every inch of their shells are packed full of every system that can fit until it’s tight against the pilot’s skin to leave them bruised whenever they exit their shell.

it doesn’t take long for them to realize which superfluous components are the weakest link.

They start small, at first— often as simple as a haircut to help a tighter helmet fit better. Some try to lose weight, but quickly regret it when they find themselves near starvation on some distant moon. The ones that survive past their first year are the ones that are willing to take things a bit further— the toes on both feet, to make room for a slight jump booster. One of their ribs, perhaps— replaced with a battery that connects to the armor through a cable that winds around bones and muscles. It’s only a matter of time before they do something about those bones and muscles too.

those who have only heard the stories will say that a knight’s armor is their home. Those who have met one, seen them exit their armor and seen just how little is left of the body inside— they will say that a knight’s armor is a part of their body. Integrated into them until they cannot survive without it. Both are wrong. Even some knights cannot pin down the true answer— what they really feel as they connect their armor to the components of it that they have placed inside of them. The best ones do, though. They know it well.

A knight’s armor is not a part of their body. Their body is a part of their armor— their home, to be renovated and optimized as they see fit. To be replaced, improved, amputated and eviscerated so that it can be remade into the glorious works of art that the heroes of the galaxy become as they charge into battle and become a story worth remembering.

As the armor learns to reach into your veins, pulling oxygen from the carbon dioxide you exhale and weaving it back into your blood, the space once taken up by inefficient organic lungs becomes the home of the heating system, warming you from within no matter what part of the void between stars you find yourself in. As it recycles amino acids into proteins again and infuses them back into what tissues remain, you’re free to remove your old digestive organs and find a home for your armor’s main computer, kept safe at the center of your shell. Many knights choose to put their own organic brain down there next to it, incidentally making room for more optical systems in their skulls.

Your armor is no longer simply “a part of you” and you are no longer simply “a part of it.” It is you. You are it. Your bones, its power cells, your organs its systems. You are its brain and its CPU in equal measure and its beautiful exterior plates, painted with the symbols of the lord you serve or simply the cause you stand for, will inspire others to take up arms themselves and let themselves become part of it.

your body, your home, your masterpiece

[deadhands69]

the safe word is 'okaka'

MDNI

Toge Inumaki x gn/afab reader

Warnings/content/etc: established relationship, swearing, choking (not violent), cursed speech use, fingering, oral (m/f receiving), overstimulating. All characters post-cannon in 20s (taking out one thing that happened in Shibuya so no spoilers don't worry)

Turning on the light in your shared apartment, you notice something on the coffee table. A note on a tiny scrap of paper reads “okaka is the safe word”. You begin to wonder: did you fuck up?

Earlier, you'd had a text discussion with your boyfriend Toge Inumaki about him using cursed speech on you. Up to this point, he's only used his cursed technique on you once and that was to move you out of the way of a speeding car. He mentioned it being hard to hold back all the time, especially in bed. You understood. Your sex life was great: passionate, sweet, silly. But having seen him use his speech on missions together, you had to admit it did something for you. Curiously, you agreed. Plus, he’d never hurt you - you trust him completely. He was overjoyed. 

Back to now. 

Staring at his handwriting, you begin to wonder what the evening holds while kicking off your shoes and absent-mindedly hanging up your jacket. 

“(((don't move)))” you hear from across the room. Ashy hair makes its way into your peripheral vision before you feel the warmth of his body press into your back as his arms wrap around you. He’s wearing what he usually does around the house: baggy sweatpants and a fitted t-shirt, mouth left uncovered. The familiar vibration of his lips meets your neck and soft pecks make their way up to your jaw. He's so fucking hot, you think to yourself. This isn't like on missions but better, in a way just for you. You try to lean back into him but your body is frozen. 

His hands slide under your sweater, pulling it off - leaving you in your undershirt. One hand stays lightly on your hip, his thumb making slow circles. The other, makes it's way to cup your left breast - gently at first before squeezing tighter. His grip starts to ache before-

“(((take off your clothes)))” Already? If that's what he wants. Your body acts without effort, peeling off each item one by one until you're completely naked in front of him. His smokey lavender eyes locked on you. He pulls you close again: hands exploring your body while his lips dance softly on the back of your neck. 

His left hand pulls your hips back, shoving your ass into him. He's already hard. His other hand glides down your spine before coming to a pause in your mid back, bringing your body to an arch. 

“(((stay still)))” he whispers. 

His hands resume wandering your body. Pulling, twisting, grabbing where he pauses. Each hard pinch punctuated with a soft kiss. His fingers slide between your legs. You gasp at the pressure and feel him smile against your cheek. Cursed lips kiss you once more while he grinds his hand harder into your wetness. 

“((you're so wet))”, less of a command but you feel it resonate through your body as he slides a finger in. Hearing his voice alone is enough to turn you on. You let out a loud moan and feel him clasp your nipple harder. 

“f-fuuck Toge” you pant. 

He presses the palm of his hand against you, the way he knows you like, while pumping another finger in. Free hand making it's way to your neck. His fingers gently press each side of your throat, testing. 

“Takana?” his breathy voice inquires. 

You nod and he presses harder. Not enough pressure to stop you from breathing or whispering but enough that you feel the lack of oxygen in your brain. Your head is swimming while the pulsing in your gut increases. You feel yourself clench around his fingers and he adds another. In spite of how fragile the situation seems, Toge is your safe space. You're happy to have his hands wrapped around you. 

He's watching your face closely, eyes locked on your mouth. 

“So…Close.” you lightly whisper. His lower hand picks up speed while the hand on your neck drops. The oxygen in your blood overwhelms you while your orgasm hits like a tidal wave. You moan his name and fall back into him, feeling your cum trickling down the inside of your thighs. He continues to pump until your moans turn into whimpers. 

No time to catch your breath, he commands “(((sit on the couch)))”

Your shaky legs stumble you across the room. He sits by your side, pulling himself out of his sweatpants and giving a few strokes. “(((suck it)))” you hear but your head was already on the way down. 

Taking him into your mouth, you begin sucking as he compelled you to. His hands gently stroking your hair, holding it back. Sucking him deeper and deeper before he leans his head down toward yours. 

“(((cum)))” he breathes into your ear and your body contracts around the vibrations of his voice. 

You try to concentrate on the task at hand but it doesn't matter, the view of you writhing on the couch with his dick in your mouth is enough to send him over the edge. Bringing your lips around the base of his shaft, you feel the heat of him exploding into the back of your throat. He groans above you and rubs your hair while you ride out the end of your own explosion. 

He pulls you up into a kiss, sweetly sucking your lips into his. The vibration of his tongue lightly prickling yours before gently laying you back on the couch. You watch as he moves down your body and plants his head between your thighs. Looking up into your eyes, he smiles. You can feel his breathing hot on you before his cursed tongue spreads your lips. Melting into the couch, you run your hands through his silky hair. 

His face pulls back just enough to speak. 

“(((cum)))”

You feel the cursed energy run through you, sending a flood of sensations pulsing through your body. Half screaming, your breath catches in your throat. You grip his hair, pulling hard as he moans and swirls his tongue. 

His hand reaches for yours, his thumb lightly rubbing the back of your hand while you tighten your grasp. 

Pulling back, he presses his cheek into your leg and watches you. A few soft kisses before he moves back in, mouth opening to speak. 

He repeats this again. 

And again.

And again until you're gasping and have lost count. Eventually stopping to make you drink a glass of water before bringing you onto his lap. 

He brushes the hair from your tear streaked face, looking down at the whimpering mess he created. His hand taps your chin, nudging your face to look up at him. His eyes lighting up at the sight of you. 

“Takana?” he tenderly asks. 

“Yeah, I-”

“(((cum for me)))” he pulls you closer as you fall into him gasping once more. 

His lips brush your ear. “You’re doing great”, not quite a curse but the words radiate stronger than most.

“I don't know how much longer I can keep this up” you gasp, clutching his shoulders. 

He holds up one finger. One more. You nod. His hand dips between your legs, immediately sliding two fingers in. You grip the front of his shirt and your breathing begins to quicken again. 

Tentatively, he brings his other hand to your neck, his facial expression a question. You nod once more before a slightly raspy voice whispers “(((cum harder for me)))” 

Here comes the tidal wave. You throw your head into his neck, teeth digging into his collar bone while his hand grips the sides of your neck. But it's too much, it's been hours and the overstimulation wins. 

“okaka” you whine. 

“(((stop)))” he says quietly and it's over. 

His lower hand wraps around your legs, pulling you closer to him. The hand from your neck gently slides up your face, cupping your cheek as he leans his forehead into yours.

15 minutes later, you're cleaned up, back on the couch curled up in your boyfriend's cozy clothes, and burritoed in a blanket. Toge returns from the kitchen, setting tea and rice balls on the coffee table before joining you on the couch and wrapping himself around you. 

“Takana?” he asks, studying your face. 

“I'm great” you smile sleepily, happy to be in his arms.

m.list

[revelboo]

Am I going insane or has no one asked for D-16??? If not them I am going to humbly bEG YOU PLEASE LET ME SMOOCH HIM HE DESERVES IT

Sure! Took me a bit to figure out a plot convenience to get a reader to him, Megatronus Prime, and Silverbolt. 18+ 🌶️

Fight For You

D-16 x Reader

• Hefting his drill, D-16 sidesteps out of the way of a much bigger, cogged bot. The other not even sparing him a glance. Not even seeing him, because miners are barely above drones in their optics. But what he’s doing matters even if they don’t see him. There’s energon because of him and the others, risking their lives to make sure there are no shortages. That no one goes wanting. And if they cut his rations again? It’s because it was needed elsewhere. Cogless bots are smaller, need less even if there’s a vague dissatisfaction he has to keep pushing down.

• Listening to the chatter around you and sipping at the one glass of champagne they’d allowed you, there’s a nervous tension threading through you that’s part anticipation and part, mostly, anxiety. You pick at the steak they’d put in front of you, surrounded by other dishes, caviar, lobster, things so far out of your budget they’re a treat. If you had any appetite. You keep thinking this is likely a last meal and of the six other team members for the first jaunt, only one is tearing into the food. Everyone else as jittery as you are. But most of the drones have come back just fine. They’d captured staticky, conflicting images of a green world, a glittering city, and more. The gate unstable and shifting, but the scientists think they’ve figured out the intervals it swaps to a new location. That your team will be able to step through, take samples and step back out.

• Waiting for Orion and the others to fall into recharge, he heads to the roof of the dorm assigned to miners and tips his face up to the glittering, dizzying beauty of Iacon. Watches a flight capable Cybertronian streak by and wonders what that’s like. To be so free. Orion is the dreamer, though. Always has been. While he’s the realist. Knows that’s not meant for them. “I matter,” he whispers, voice lost in the noise of the city humming around him. Because he needs to believe that. To be satisfied.

• Heart rabbiting in your chest, you shuffle to an awkward halt, lined up shoulder to shoulder with the other explorers. Over the comms, someone’s humming the Jeopardy theme as you face that churning miasma of light and shadow. The government had dug up the gate decades ago, secreted it away to figure out. And it’s definitely not human tech. Already sweating in what’s essentially a space suit, you can hear yourself breathing as you flex your fingers in the thick gloves. They’d kitted you out with your own oxygen and water, the suit dragging you down and you want to look back to make sure the carbon fiber tether is still secured to the winch. Just in case, they said. In case they couldn’t walk back through on their own.

• “Hold,” calls a voice, almost painfully loud inside the helmet as feedback squeals in your ear. “We’ve got a power fluctuation.” And you feel it when the gate shifts, like a hook sank into your gut, tugging at you. Stumbling back a step as power arcs off the gate. Is this normal? There’s a klaxon screaming and your heart drops. Barely hear someone yelling ‘abort’ when the first person breaks and tries to run. The concrete floor under your feet buckling and cracking and you fall, sliding toward that miasma. Someone’s screaming and it might be you. Grabbing at your tether as you slide and someone else falls on you and you both hit that churning surface.

• Venting tiredly, he turns to go back down and get some recharge and feels a soft thump against his ped. And- what is that? A mini-con? A tiny, little bot with a domed, silvery head trailing a severed cable behind it. And it’s soft when he bends to nudge it with a servo. “You okay, buddy?” Head lifting to look for a transport, for any sign of where you’d come from. Knows the wealthy sometimes keep mini-cons as companions, but that tether? Had you run away? Being kept against your will? Denta gritting, he scoops you up and carries you down with him into the dorms. If you are a runaway, it’s none of his business, but mini-cons aren’t pets. No bot should be chained. But hiding you is only going to cause him problems if your keeper comes looking for you. Still, he can’t just ignore you. Can’t pretend he doesn’t see you, because he knows too well what that’s like.

Next

[spidercatweb]

Close Call ★ Emily Prentiss x reader

Warnings: fem!bau!reader, r gets hurt, r has a near-death experience, r goes to the hospital and has to get surgery (she's okay guys don't worry!), lots of description of blood and pain, established relationship, Emily is so so worried about r.

Description: While on a case, r gets hurt badly and Emily is the one to find her.

Word Count: 1.6k

Request: Hiii! Could I request a established Emily Prentiss x Fem Reader where they go on a dangerous mission together and reader get injuried or nearly got hurt, then Emily goes into a protective mode and fusses over reader afterwards?

A/n: this took so long to write eek my apologies... i really like how it turned out and i hope it's good for my first Prentiss fic!!

You wake up with a gasp to the distant sound of Emily calling your name. You can’t see her, and apparently, she can��t see you, because the calling of your name grows more frantic. You attempt to yell out to her – to anyone – but what comes out is a choked gurgle. You spit out a mouthful of blood onto the cold concrete floor.

You shakily lift yourself up to sit against the wall. What happened to me? Your memory is hazy, you don’t remember who or what hurt you. You don’t know where you are. But what you do know is that you’re struggling to breathe, and need your team to find you, or this will be the last place you ever see.

The pain finally registers, you grasp at your blood-soaked side with a cry. You take in jagged breaths, your heart pounds fast. You try to call out to Emily again, you can hear her. You can hear them looking for you. If they could just hear you.

My gun. I have my gun. Guns are loud. Your hands scramble to the holster on your hip. Empty. Shit. Desperate, you look around the room. Your gun is laying in the corner furthest away from you. 

With the strength you have left, you push yourself up onto your feet. You stumble over to your gun, leaning your weight on whatever you can find, fighting the sleepy haze that threatens to pull you in.

You collapse just as you reach your weapon. Grasping it with both hands, you aim the barrel at the open space in front of you, hoping that there’s at least one bullet left in the chamber, you brace for the sound. 

***

Emily hears a loud pop coming from the basement of the building. She rushes towards the sound without a second thought.

“That’s her! It’s her!” Her voice cracks as she fights off the tears forming in her eyes as she sprints through the winding halls, searching for an entrance to the basement. She yells your name once more, waiting, hoping for a response. She listens for any small sound that might indicate you’re still alive.

She spots stairs that lead down to the basement, almost tripping down them as she hurries to you. She doesn’t even check if the room is clear before she rushes to your unmoving body on the cold, hard floor. A trail of blood, your blood, is splattered from one corner of the room to the other. Emily collapses next to you and checks for a pulse. Light, thready. Still alive. 

“She’s in the basement! We need a medic! Now!” She yells into her microphone while putting pressure on your side to slow the blood – the life –  rushing out of you.

“Baby please, please. You’re gonna be okay. You’re okay.” Tears run down her warm cheeks as she cradles your face with her free hand.

***

You come to in the ambulance, someone is squeezing your hand tight, your head is pounding. There’s a stinging, throbbing pain in your side, and there’s an oxygen mask on your face. Your vision is slightly blurred, you blink away this effect and look to your tightly held hand. Who is that? Where’s Emily? The heavily bitten nails give her away, you let out a sigh of relief when you look up to see her face.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay, m’here.” Her smooth voice comforts you.

You mumble, “Emily…Y’found me.” A tear runs down your cheek and she’s quick to wipe it away.

“I did.” Tears stream down her own face as she nods.

The paramedic tending to you, holding pressure on your wound, speaks up. “Try to keep her calm, please.” This is directed towards Emily. 

“Thank you.” You smile up at her weakly.

“No need to thank me, hun. I’m just glad you’re alive.”

Feeling woozy, your eyelids grow heavier by the second.

The paramedic catches this. “Y/n, you need to try to stay awake, okay?” She swaps her focus to Emily, “Could you keep her talking?”

***

When you’re brought into the ICU, Emily is forced to separate from you and stay in the waiting area. The rest of your teammates arrive shortly after your surgery has begun, they join Emily in her quiet worrying.

Hotch and Rossi sit, patient but tense. Though there are plenty more chairs available, the rest of the team are on their feet. Morgan is on the phone with Garcia, reassuring her that he’ll call her as soon as he gets news. Reid leans against a wall, keeping an eye out for any sign of a doctor or nurse arriving with an update. JJ comforts Emily, who’s pacing back and forth, gnawing at her fingernails.

An hour passes. Then another. Emily’s eyes dart towards the nurse that just walked into the waiting room. The team goes silent as the nurse calmly strides towards them. She stops in front of Emily.

“Are you waiting for Y/n Y/L/n?”

“Yes.”

“She’s out of surgery and in a stable condition. She’s resting right now, but we’ll alert you when she’s ready for visitors.” She pauses, seeing that the entire team is closely paying attention. “And, when she’s ready, two visitors at a time, please.”

“Of course, thank you.”

Emily turns to the team as the nurse leaves. “She’s okay.” She lets out a sigh as she finally allows herself to sit down. Morgan places a comforting hand on her shoulder.

***

When you’re ready for visitors, the nurse lets the team know. Emily and JJ are the first to come see you.

Your face brightens the moment they enter the room. JJ stands at the end of your bed while Emily carefully hugs you.

“How are you feeling?” JJ steps to your other side, a relieved smile on her face.

Emily kisses you on the cheek before pulling away.

You answer JJ, “Feeling like I got stabbed.” An attempt at a soft laugh turns into a cough. You take a deep breath, “But other than that, I feel better than before. Just pretty sore. They gave me some pain meds though.”

“That’s good. Everyone’s glad you’ll be okay. Penelope’s already planning a gift basket, so don’t be surprised when there’s one waiting at your door when you get home.” JJ huffs out a laugh.

“Wouldn’t expect anything less from her.” Leaning your head back on the crinkly hospital pillow, you grin.

“I’ll leave you two alone for a second. I’ll send in Spence and Derek in a few minutes, okay?” She brushes a hand over your shoulder as she exits the room.

“Em, stop looking at me like that, I’m okay.”

“You could’ve died, Y/n. I’m going to look at you however I want.” She brings a hand up to your face, cupping your cheek gently. 

Leaning into her touch, you smile.

“And don’t even think about getting straight back to work. You need rest, you’re taking some time off.”

“But Hotch won’t-”

“Ah ah, yes, he will. Trust me, he cares about your health. And really, you wouldn’t be useful on the field anyways.”

“I won’t know what to do with myself, I might go insane staying home for so long.”

“You can stay at my place, I’ll use some of my vacation time to take care of you.”

“Em, I couldn’t, I don’t want to invade your space.” 

She huffs out a laugh in disbelief, “You’re my girlfriend, I like having you in my space.”

Pouting, you take her hand in yours. “You’re too nice.”

“And, if you’re really that eager to get back to work, Penelope might let you help in her office. But, you still need to take some time off, okay?”

“M’kay.” Smiling, you nod.

You spot Spencer and Derek lingering in the doorway, watching the scene silently. 

“Em.” You nod towards them. 

She turns around, still seated on the bed. “Looks like you’ve got more visitors.”

You welcome them into the room with a smile. 

“Looking good, princess.” Derek pats your shoulder a little too hard.

“How are you feeling?” Spencer scans over you with worried eyes.

“Better than earlier, pretty sore though.” 

As soon as he gets a response, he glances over to the few monitors showing your vitals. Just to make sure everything looks fine.

“Dr. Reid,” you tease, “I’ll be okay, I promise.” 

“I know, I was just um- It’s very common to have an altered heart rate for a while after surgery, I was looking to see-”

Morgan interrupts. “Pretty boy, she doesn’t want to hear all that right now, don’t stress her out.” 

“Sorry.” He gives you an apologetic smile.

You giggle, “You can tell me about it later.”

***

Hotch and Rossi come to give you their best wishes, then leave to give you time to rest.

Emily stays with you through the night. She sits on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs next to your bed until you manage to convince her to come lay with you.

She squeezes in next to you, slightly propping herself up in a sitting position so that you can lean on her comfortably. That's exactly what you do. You nuzzle into her chest and wrap an arm around her waist.

Lazily pressing a kiss to her collarbone, you hum, “You're warm.”

“Mhm?” Emily places a kiss on the top of your head. “The meds are really getting to you, huh?”

“No, just love you. You're very nice and warm, and you smell nice. Not like a hospital.” You inhale her faded perfume. The scent makes you feel safe, at home.

“Love you too,” she coos, “you should really get some sleep though. It's late.”

Your eyes have already fluttered shut as she finishes her sentence.

“Goodnight, love.”

Thank you for reading! <3

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My requests are open!

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