#and like!!! i did get better!!! my stitches are cleaner now! i have a better handle on how to make things look consistent!

[save-the-villainous-cat]

Im a sucker for married couples. What about a stoic, grumpy, gentle hero with a bubbly, emotional villain, and them having an argument?

Just a whole bunch fluff honestly.

“Look, it’s not that bad.”

“Not that bad? Not that bad?” The hero was usually the most self-controlled person the villain knew. They were calm, sometimes a bit cranky or seemingly unemotional but overall caring and often incredibly adorable (even though they didn’t want to hear that).

Right now, however, they almost seemed to burst. The villain knew they were more angry at themselves than at them.

“I can wash the bedding next time, my love. It’s really not that big of a deal,” the villain tried but they already knew the hero didn’t want to hear any of that.

“Sweetheart. You bled through the whole bedding. You’re insane if you think I’ll let you do any kind of chore for the next month,” the hero said. They pressed their lover back into the bed which they’d previously made and sat on their hips, pushing them into the soft clean sheets. They pulled up the villain’s shirt to look at their stitches. For a moment, they seemed much too sad.

“Darling, it’s okay. Really,” the villain whispered.

“I could’ve made it cleaner,” their spouse said. “I’ll be more focused next time, I’m sorry.”

The villain grabbed their wrist and squeezed it.

“It’s a perfect stitch, darling. I should’ve told you that I was injured.”

“It’s gonna leave a scar.”

“That’s what stab wounds do.”

They stared at each other for a long long time and the villain felt so bad for not telling the hero. They were a team, goddammit.

The hero’s gaze jumped back to the wound.

“I’m gonna get you one of those big band aids that you don’t like.” They stood up, still resigned, and the villain could feel how the mattress was moving up. They absolutely hated that feeling. It always meant the hero was leaving. For patrol, for work, even leaving to go into the next room felt horrible.

Their entire life, the villain had been alone. No one had cared for their well-being nor their interests. But the hero did, surprisingly so. When they had confessed their feelings, the villain had thought it to be a joke. But it was quite true.

“Are you mad at me?” the villain asked before the hero could reach the door. “I know communication is hard for you and that’s okay but if you’re angry with me, please let me know. You can text me if that’s easier than speaking.”

The hero froze, their back still turned to the villain. It took an eternity for them to turn around.

“My love, I am not mad at you. Fuck, did I make you think I am...?” They frowned, pursing their lips, staring at their feet. “Shit, I was too harsh, you’re right.”

Their eyes found the villain’s again.

“I’m sorry, baby. I’m not mad at you, I am worried about you. I feel bad for not noticing sooner. You didn’t want to cuddle yesterday, I should’ve known that something was up from that moment.”

“Seriously, I am the one who’s to blame. I didn’t want to bother or upset you. I know you well enough, I know you’re not thinking like that. I am sorry.” And then, the hero smiled softly. It was something that didn’t occurr often. It was a sad smile.

They walked over to their spouse and the villain felt the imminent relief as their hands found theirs.

“I love you so much, you know? And I’m sorry I didn’t communicate. Sometimes, the past just...” They didn’t dare speak more, too caught up in their own whirl of thoughts.

“I will never hit you for telling me how you feel,” the villain said softly. “We’re healing together, remember? I am not them. You’re okay. We are okay. I’ll be more careful next time so the situation doesn’t escalate, alright?”

They cupped the hero’s face gently.

“I’ll try to talk more,” the hero said, tears in their eyes.

“I’ll try to be less self-destructive,” the villain said, lump in their throat.

Interestingly enough, their promises made the world a better place.

[moongothic]

Do you ever start a project, thinking it'd be a fun thing to make, only to realize halfway through you hate and have literally no use for it and then get stuck unsure what the fuck you should do with it

Yeah

This is my Bag of Regrets

Okay so around March of 2023 I made my first-ever crochet bag out of the leftover yarn I had from my Blanket of Darkness. I loved how that bag turned out, but even then I realized I could've done a better job had I lined the bag, which I should've done really early into the project.

So.

I ended up with a bunch of this super thin cotton yarn, in a few colors. We're not gonna talk about how I got the yarn, I just ended up with it. And I did not know what to do with it, because the pink and the dark maroon-y color just are not my colors, at all. I do not like them what-so-ever. And so like, I had to figure out something to do with the yarn, didn't wanna waste it. And for some god damn reason I thought I could practise making more crochet bags using this yarn.

Like in theory, this was a fine idea.

But I don't even like pink, what the fuck am I going do with this god damn thing now.

But I was a fucking idiot and did not think about that fact until I was like 80% done with it

Anyway, I thought it'd be fun to try doing a checkerboard pattern on the tiny crochet bag. This was a huge mistake. I don't know what the fuck it was about it, but I had the worst time of my life trying to make sure the squares were even, with the same amount of rows and that the corners met at the right spots- like sometimes I made the right amount of rows but the corners didn't meet at all and sometimes I did the wrong amount of rows but the corners did meet. It was a fucking nightmare to crochet. I had a horrible time. Making the front and back panels took me months and I had to restart it so many times just to get it right. It was bad, I hated it man

Also, by the way. I don't mind working with thin yarn at all, but because this was a thin COTTON yarn, I just. The yarn has no stretch, it is hard. Working with it made me feel like I was going to cut off my left finger as the yarn was rubbing against it as I was crocheting.

The bottom piece of the bag was done in that dark purple-maroon-y color with... I can't even remember what stitch I did, it was something Alt Knots has a video tutorial for on their YouTube though

But, I made the three crochet panels

Then I cut out the piece of fabric I would hand-sew the crochet pieces onto. I have a ton of this red-brown fabric that I have no idea wha to do with, and I figured it would work fine for this (since you're not supposed to see this fabric anyways) so I cut the pieces from it

Pinned the pieces down and then I just sewed the pieces onto the fabric. I decided to use sewing thread so it'd blend into the crochet better (being a fine thread and all), using white for the checker board pieces and a dark red/maroon-y color for the bottom piece

Forgot to take a photo of the bottom piece but it's fine, you get the idea

Then I cut out the lining fabric. I didn't really have any fabric that would actually match the checker board crochet at all, and I didn't want to buy anything so I chose to use this black fabric (with itty bitty roses) for lining

Cut the pieces and pinned them down facing each other

I think I originally wanted to do the sewing by hand for a cleaner look but I wasn't happy with it, so after I did my innitial hand-stitching I went over it with a sewing machine, getting as close to the crochet but without sewing over it. And after checking it was okay, I cut the excess fabric and did some clean up to help keep the fabric from fraying.

Folded the pieces inside out and they were looking decent!

Now yes, I did still have to hand-sew one side shut for each piece, but it wasn't a big deal, though sadly because I had to make sure the handsewing wasn't visible on the outside of the bag, this was going to be a visible flaw on the lining anyways

You can see what I mean on the top edge of the bigger piece (with the white thread)

In hindsight I probably could've sewn the edge shut with a mattress stitch or something instead of going through all the fabric, but alas, I was stupid and didn't not realize this at the time

Sidenote I took like 5 month break from this project after finishing the front and back piece but before I did the bottom piece. Because yeah, this was around when I realized I hated what I was making and that I had no idea what the fuck I was gonna do with it once it was done. And I just could not get myself to even look at it, for months. And it HAUNTED me, made me feel bad about not having completed it every dang day. But yeah, finally in March I got back to it after finishing my last crochet blanket. Because I wanted to start another project but I did not want to start anything before finishing this fucking thing so yeah.

(Oh yeah I also I grabbed some metal accessories from my mom's stash that I attached to the bottom piece, so the bag can have a widdle handle)

With the pieces all done, it was finally time to sew them together. And this I was going to do by hand sewing them with a mattress stitch. I started by just attaching the smaller piece to the bottom, making sure it was centered right, and carefully sewed it together, starting from the middle and making my way up the sides, one at a time.

I did very specifically do sewing on the red-brown fabric

And it was looking good, according to plan!

Did the bigger piece the same way, and then all I had to do...

...Was clean up, by mattress stitching the crochet pieces together. Chose to use white because I figured I'd rather have small amounts of white peeking through on the bottom piece than have the dark red/purple on the front pieces. Though thankfully the white yarn isn't even that noticable, it sinked into the stitches quite nicely

With that done, I did this one final little touch-up. On checker crochet pieces you could kind of see my starting row, as the row had quite large holes in it. And I wasn't a huge fan of how it looked, so I just took some of the white yarn and wove it into the loops to fill it out

One final thing I did but didn't bother documenting was the strap. I did considder crocheting it, and even started it, but I did not like the stitch I was trying to use for it, and at this point I was so fucking done with the project I couldn't be bothered. I had some white cotton ribbon with nothing to do with it, so I decided to just grab some of that to make a lil strap. It's... not great, it's just that the ribbon is quite thin so it FEELS really flimsy. But I had reached the "I don't give a fuck anymore" stage and so. Yeah whatever

My shitty little bag of regrets is done. Yay.

I probably could've done something to clean the edges of the bag better because you can see the red-brown fabric peeking through, but... Like I can't think of what I could do to fix that, and again, I'm at the point where I don't have the energy to even try anymore

It's done, and that's what matters

Probably throwing it in the trash because what else am I gonna do with it

(Final note; I did have left-over yarn from this, but I used that yarn to make tiny mesh fruit/grocery bags. Ones I will actually use! Yay)

[crushedsweets]

neeed to hear the context behind ur most recent art. please enlighten us

you guys dont even know how excited i get when someone asks smth like this abt my art or headcanons or au.

i actually wrote liek a fucking essay oh my god im so sorry anon ill have the actual drawing context after the big bolded caps

TW for typical creepypasta story type stuff

anyway ok UNNECESSARY BACKSTORY: liu spent a long time trying to just psychologically recover from everything. he hated jeff and he hated the memory of everything. jeff signature murders would occur every now and again, each time liu would fall into a deep depression. the murders stopped for a while, and everyone believed jeff 'retired' or died. liu was conflicted about it. until Jeff committed his final full-blown 'jeff fashion' murder (janes family) in tuscaloosa alabama. liu had another breakdown and ended up moving to tuscaloosa because he was completely convinced he needed to find jeff again because he could fix it (or die trying and he'd be fine with that too)

nina was always one of those girls obsessed with 'true crime' but like.... the murderers instead of the cases. she was 12 when jeff's first rampage happened and she just fell head over heels in love with this freak. she began to act out, miss school for days, sneaking out to meet older people, etc etc. eventually she did the classic jeff smile cut into her face(she pussied out on making it like jeffs, so she has cleaner, less noticeable scars) . she started getting severely bullied (for being creepy and worshipping a literal murderer) and her parents sent her to live with her grandparents in mississpi. she started stalking liu through social media and whitepages when jeff was presumed dead. but eventually, jeff's final murder happened in alabama(a state away from her) and after turning 18, she ran away to go find jeff convinced he would 'save her' from the life she created for herself. nina got wrapped up in slenderman business because of her constant Tom Foolery. she met her idol

JEFF IS A BAD PERSON IN EVERY SENSE OF THE WORD. he did a beautiful job in using his #1 fangirl and enjoying the worship. she scrambled for pennies to afford an apartment, she'd sleep on the couch if he wanted to use her bed, she's ride her bike hours to go get weed or something from rando drug dealers that give better deals to pretty girls, make him food, do his damn laundry, literally anything and everything bc THATS HER MAAANNNNN (no he isnt.)

jeff DOES NOT GIVE A FUUUCK about everything nina does for him . one day he finds her trying to creepily get into contact with liu (and liu actually responded) and he loses his shit and stabs her and goes on and on about how 'you ruined your own useless fucking life your family is never going to take you back you did this to yourself' etc. he didn't intend to kill her only cuz he knew she'd forgive him and he liked all the shit she gave him

NOW ABOUT THE DRAWING ITSELF:::::

afterwards nina gets patched up from jeff stabbing her, she has some weird 'liu will save me' spiral (not romantically just in a very literal 'he can fix this' way). liu's been on his own spiral since finding out jeffs alive which is the only reason he even gave nina the time of day. eventually she ends up at his house to 'talk about jeff' bc she sent him creepy pics proving she knew jeff yadayadayada.

im not sure the exact conversation i imagined for the drawing, BUT liu eventually says something that sets nina off and she tears at her stitches and breaks down and drips blood all over his kitchen talking about 'I CAN MAKE HIM LOVE ME AGAIN I JUST NEED YOUR HELP PLEAAASEEEE' or something.

liu's a good man, much to his own detriment, and can't help but comfort this kid who's bleeding and crying in his kitchen at the fault of his own brother. he's all too familiar with wanting to repair his relationship with jeff, despite the amount of rage, betrayal, misery, etc he felt at jeffs hands. he doesn't ACTUALLY want to reconnect with jeff, but it's a very deep internal longing for the baby brother he once had that VERY RARELY overshadows his hatred

i want to reaffirm that liu does not feel positively about jeff at all, does not want to see him, and only moved to alabama b/c of a long ass mental health crises and is now too wrapped up in new financial commitments(plus jane) to move again. and now he feels obligated to help nina

he just misses being a big brother :( not so much the jeff part

also none of this at all is shipping at all i am terrified at the idea of people taking anything romantically . even if nina is in 'love' with jeff its purely for the story/horror . ITS ALL REALLY BAD

[terresdebrume]

Messrs Payne and Rowland's Adventuring Agency

Part 1: the arrival of young Crystal - 20

If you're a newcomer this is a note that you can find all previous parts of this via the writing index tags on my blog (see pinned post)

"Of course you do," Charles says, smiling softly at Rebecca even as his arm reemerges from under the blanket, exposing the still bleeding holes in his shoulder. "And I'm sorry we can't take you to her right away."

Besides Crystal, Rebecca makes a disappointed little sound, and Crystal puts a hand on her shoulder, hoping the gesture will bring her some comfort. Mr. Payne isn't saying anything, but at least he's not looking at the kid like she's an inconvenience anymore. He's fiddling with vials instead, most of them empty, until he finds one that has some glowing green liquid in it.

"How about Mr. Payne sends a message to her once he's done patching me up?"

"I already informed her parents of Rebecca's retrieval," Mr. Payne points out.

"Oh come on," Crystal starts, but Charles cuts in with a smile:

"I know you did, but it wasn't from Rebecca herself. Surely you can help one little girl feeling a bit more comfortable before we can bring her home, can't you?"

Charles twists under his blanket, sending a smile over his shoulder, and Crystal is pretty sure she sees the moment Mr. Payne caves to the request.

"Oh, alright," he sighs explosively, punctuating his words with the pop of an opening cork. "What message should I relay?"

He drops some of the mixture in the first of Charles' wounds, making him jump and hiss in pain. Crystal hisses in sympathy, remembering at the last second not to let her hand clench around Rebecca's shoulder.

"Uh... That I'm sorry I went out on my own," Rebecca says, her voice audibly tightening with every word, "and fell into the serpent's nest. And that I got you hurt. I promise I'll take care of the chicken all week and—"

"Well that is simply ridiculous," Mr. Payne says, pouring some of his potion into another wound on Charles' back and patting his shoulder when he hisses again. "I may not hold children's intelligence in great esteem, but even you can see that we acted of our own volition."

More potion goes into Charles' wounds, sizzling like water dropped in boiling oil, but leaving the skin underneath cleaner and already looking like it wants to close down. Crystal rolls her eyes and bumps against Rebecca's shoulder. The poor girl looks on the verge of tears.

"Ignore him," she says, "he's an insensitive old man."

"I am not old," Mr. Payne protests, making Charles chuckle. "Mr. Rowland!"

"Sorry!" Charles says, "Sorry."

He doesn't sound very sorry, but the exchange at least makes Rebecca smile. Crystal rolls her eyes again, but she can't help a smile of her own as she turns back to Rebecca.

"Look, he's a bit mean but he's not wrong. We're the ones who decided to come get you. Nothing that happened to us is your fault."

"But if I hadn't gone so far out of the city—"

"Then it'd have found someone else to take," Crystal says firmly. "None of what happened is your fault, and now you know better than to come to the coast on your own, yeah?"

"Yeah," Becky says in a small voice, her eyes on the fire.

Next to them, Mr. Payne says:

"I'm afraid this is as far as that potion can stretch. I shall have to close the last one with stitches."

Crystal turns back to them, and frowns when she finds Charles' wounds half closed already, patches patches of Charles' burn scar poking behind them as if the new wounds were nothing but an overlay. Mr. Payne is already rummaging down in his material, reemerging with a needle which he takes care to thread before he speaks without taking his eyes off Charles' back:

"Now that young Crystal has dealt with the nonsense, what message should I relay?"

"Uh... That I'm coming home soon, and I love her and dad, and uh... I miss them. Oh, and also I love Pepper, and if we can have pureed carrots for dinner tomorrow! Oh, and also how big the snake was!"

"Let's maybe wait until you're there to tell them about the snake, yeah?" Charles says wrinkling his nose as the needle pokes him again. "These things are only twenty five words you know."

"Very well," Mr. Payne sighs again, making Crystal want to chuck something small but solid at his head.

He pauses his stitching just long enough to cast his spell, relaying Rebecca's words in a much more clipped tone and sewing Charles up all the while. After a brief silence, he cuts his thread off and hands Charles his nightshirt, turning towards Crystal and Rebecca in a way that hides Charles from their view.

"Your mother loves you," he tells Rebecca. "She says she, your father and your dog are all well and impatient to see you, and promised pureed carrots and a cherry tart."

"Yes!" Becky exclaims, "Dad makes the best cherry tart!"

"Wonderful," Mr. Payne deadpans. "Now if you please, we have all had more than enough emotions for the day. To bed with you, young lady!"

"But I'm not tired!" Rebecca protests, which Crystal assumes means she'll fall asleep the second her head touches a pillow.

"Then you can just come and see my room," she tells the kid. "There's a tree in it. Mr. Rowland made it special for me."

"A tree?" Becky exclaims, all but bursting out of the blanket, making Crystal his with cold and jump to her feet.

"Yep. Come on, I'll show you."

The room is warm, but between their dip in the water earlier and the contrast with the temperature under the blanket, Crystal doesn't want Rebecca to risk catching a cold after all. She hushers Rebecca to the bedroom, blanket draped around her shoulders like a cape, and leaves Charles and Mr. Payne behind without a backwards glance.

[kylieneko]

I made another thing

Mistakes were made, some of which were intentional, lessons were learned, and now I made another thing. Based on the Easy "Little Black" Tank Top pattern by Mama In A Stitch.

I had this craft kit I picked up when I originally set out to learn fibercraft stuff and . . . it's junk. I can tell it's junk, and I have no idea what I'm doing. The individual yarns were unlabeled, probably because that would have meant committing to a yarn weight. The moral of the story is just by a decent ball of yarn. It made sense in my head, but clearly I should have done more research as I would have been warned away.

Wanting to at least do something with this yarn, I picked this tank top pattern because it was very simple. The choice of colors was the least vibrant colors first earth tones for autumn, which is coming soon in the northern hemisphere.

So let's cover the intentional mistakes:

skeins were approximately 30 yards (but some of the others in the kit were far shorter)

to use up yarn, I joined yarn when I ran out, not when it would make a cleaner join with the changeover on the wrong side (though this worked out mostly that way on the front panel by sheer coincidence)

color coordination was done entirely whimsically

pattern called for size 12mm needles, but I only had up to 10mm and wasn't buying more at this time.

because this was a YOLO project, the top panel was knitted bottom up because why not.

This worked out well enough. It's acrylic, so it's like wearing a plastic bag, but it might actually work as a fall tank for around the house. When the temperatures drop. It's way too heavy as a summer top with this material.

The front panel came out better than the back one because by that point I actually started to find a rhythm and more consistent tension, but also I managed to rescue my dropped stitches instead of picking up the previous row loop and wondering where the gap came from.

The cast-off on the back panel was done way too tightly. I did better with the front panel's cast off but for any other garment with a proper neck-hole, I should probably learn the more stretchy castoffs when binding off at the top.

Things I would do differently next attempt:

Stretchy cast-off, especially anything done bottom-up

Cable cast-on?

Maybe another few rows? I like my tops just a bit longer.

Probably use a cotton blend

Probably use weight 3 DK yarn?

Probably get the larger needles

Do a single color, that's more my style. But still not black. Black is not a good summer color where I live.

[masterwords]

What if Hotch and Morgan accidentally mix up their bags. Maybe Morgan is getting out of the shower by the time he realises he's got Hotch's clothes and his old ones are covered in dirt from travelling to a dump site.

Okay so this one went right into my brain the minute I saw it and I sprinted it in two 20 minute sessions so it isn't pretty and it is far from poetry but...I just adore the idea so much. Considering the awful things I have to write in the couple of chapter stories that need updates, this was a REALLY nice and much needed break. So...THANK YOU for sending this to me. You made my night. I hope you enjoy where I took it.

Words: ~1600

Pairings: Hotch/Morgan

Warnings: a kinda funny timed erection/masturbation & some dog bites/stitches at the end

**

It was a long damn day. That was all Derek could think as he waited for the water to heat up. He'd been dreaming of this shower after a day of running around through swampy woodlands.

When they caught this unsub, he was going to have some serious words for him. For starters, his feet were blistered and raw, and his boots were ruined. His favorite boots. He'd wiped them off the best he could and set them beside the heater in the window to try and dry out, but he held little hope they'd ever be right again.

And that infuriated him to no end. He hoped desperately that the shower helped his piss poor mood, because he had two hours and then he had to get back to the station. Two hours to remove mud from every nook and cranny and hopefully get a little sleep while he was at it.

It did help. Water poured over him, nearly hot enough to burn him if he let it stay in one spot too long, and when he'd finished with the soap he even gave himself permission to sit on the floor of the tub and just indulge a few minutes of sensory deprivation...just water coursing down over his head, eyes closed, breathing through drenched lips with his knees pulled to his chest. It worked wonders, at least until his butt started to go numb and he had to shift, to stretch out his legs and wiggle his toes and finally get out of the watery sanctuary.

His go-bag was waiting for him on his bed, untouched from the moment he'd arrived. Naked, he wandered through the room basking in the warmth on his damp skin while he sucked down a huge glass of water. He was parched and drank another glass before he felt better. Human again. And he still had an hour and a half before he had to be back to the station so he sprawled out still naked on the bed like a starfish and fell fast asleep with his alarm set for a half hour. That would be plenty, just a refresh. He could sleep anywhere.

Waking from a dreamless sleep, he rolled on his side and glanced at the clock just to be sure. Double check the time. The last thing he wanted to do was be late and piss anyone off. Still plenty of time. He hit snooze and let himself take another ten minutes. It was less restful but the freedom to do it felt almost decadent.

That sinfully good feeling of sleep slipped from him quickly when he opened his go-bag, expecting to pull out his gray sweater and black cargo pants, a staple. Warm enough to be comfortable in this region, nice enough to be casual but not overly so...but instead he found plastic dry cleaner bags with crisp starched button downs and slacks. Fuck.

Immediately, because he really couldn't think of anything else to do, he texted Hotch.

Think our bags got switched. Sorry man. You able to bring me mine?

He waited, cross-legged and naked on his bed. Hotch was always attached to his phone, he didn't let it worry him. Except no return text came. Nothing. Complete silence. So he tried again, and when that failed, he tried calling and was surprised to find it had gone straight to voicemail. Fuck...fuck double fuck.

He thought about calling Rossi, he'd been with Hotch all morning, maybe he'd know...but Rossi's phone went straight to voicemail too. Now he was worried and pissed off. If he and Hotch were even relatively the same size he probably couldn't be too concerned but the idea that he'd be comfortable in those tailored slacks and crisp shirts was absurd.

He also didn't have a choice. Two of his teammates weren't picking up their phones, and it was possible they were just out of reception range but it was also possible they were in trouble.

He pushed past Hotch's boxers and ripped open the pants bag, tugging them on with a grunt. If his clothes were even a little bit wearable again he wouldn't bother but they were soaking wet and filthy. More than that, they'd already been picked up by the hotel's laundry service. He could go naked, he could hide in his room, or he could stuff himself into Hotch's clothes and make the best of it.

The pants were tight but not as bad as he'd envisioned, it was the shirt that tugged uncomfortably beneath his armpits and hugged his biceps too tight. He was going to tear right out of this thing like the Hulk.

He didn't look half bad, though. He couldn't breathe or he'd pop a button, but he looked good. Slick. Hotch wore fucking nice suits. He always knew that, of course, but he'd never felt that fabric against his skin. It was odd, the knowledge that this shirt and these pants had been tailored to fit every curve of Hotch's body and while he destroyed their integrity, feeling those places gave him pleasure. The narrow angle of his hips, how lean Hotch was, it was so unlike him but it almost felt like having the other man against him and it was with no small amount of irritation that he realized he was feeling a little fuller in the pants than before. Now was not the time for an erection. He closed his eyes and smashed his hand against it, humming an old hymn his grandmother used to sing him like it might help. Then he recited some football stats and walked around, trying to shake it out. What the fuck was wrong with him?

They'd been seeing eachother for a little while, which would explain the stupid bag mix-up, but he'd always been in total control of his body before. Then again, he'd never gone commando in Hotch's pants before. This was ridiculous. The type of situation a thirteen year old with no control over their bodies or minds got into, not a full grown man.

Yet here he was. So, he did the only thing he could think to do...he unzipped the pants, let them drop, and dealt with the situation rather than fighting it. Faster, more efficient, and maybe he'd finally achieve that better mood. At this point he just felt like he was the butt of a cosmic joke.

He only hoped Hotch wouldn't be angry. This wasn't exactly going to prove that they'd been sleeping together, it could be an innocent mix up on the jet or in the SUV, but it was definitely going to put ideas into heads that he didn't want there. And Hotch would be more than a little upset at losing that control.

There wasn't anything he could do though, because Spencer was knocking at the door telling him it was time to head back. And when Spencer saw him in Hotch's clothes, looked him up and down with his brows drawn together in that confused look he got when he was putting together pieces to a puzzle that didn't make any damn sense...well he just smiled and shrugged and said don't worry about it, kid.

As it turned out, Hotch and Rossi's phones were off because they had gotten into trouble. The kind that landed them in an Urgent Care soaking wet getting stitches and antibiotics. Hotch glared at Derek in his clothes but didn't want to share much of the story, which didn't bother anyone too much because Rossi recanted the whole thing in grave detail. They'd stumbled on the unsub, and the K9 units managed to get him down but not before the unsub's dogs tore through them. Hotch had a wicked bite on his forearm and Rossi's calf was ripped up.

“Is that my shirt?” Hotch asked while the medical assistant cleaned his wound and prepared it for the nurse and her stitches. Derek pursed his lips and twitched his eyebrows, gave him that what the hell do you think? look and sighed. “It looks nice on you.”

Drugs. They must have already give him a shot of something to take the edge off, because he wasn't behaving the way Derek had anticipated. Probably for the best. “Our bags got mixed up.”

“I know,” Hotch said quietly, leaning his head to the side so he didn't have to watch the stitches go in. “That was my fault, I grabbed the wrong bag in my rush to get off of the jet. I'm sorry.”

Derek shrugged and pulled up a chair, deciding it was probably the right thing to do to sit with him. Reid was with Rossi, everyone else was back at the station packing up. The minute he sat in the chair, he felt the shirt tighten impossibly behind his shoulders and the seams began popping quietly. Pop pop rrrrip. The sleeves had been put under maximum strain. He sighed.

“I'll replace the shirt.”

“'S'ok,” Hotch mumbled, blinking sleepily against the pain meds they'd shot right into his vein along with the antibiotics. He was a lightweight when it came to those things. “I get your sweater.”

“What am I gonna wear?”

Hotch only smiled in that strange lopsided way he had and stared at him, and somehow Derek knew whatever was on his mind wasn't something he'd say out loud, especially in a hospital in front of their teammates who were pretending with every shred of decency they had not to stare at the two of them. It was barely working. “Deal.”

[dawnthefluffyduck]

I have doodles but not enough to make a doodle dump, so here's this rug I worked on yesterday while my mom was sewing together a quilt she's been working on. Just finished it tonight but I started on it back in like, December? It's just been an extremely casual project (this was not my original idea, btw, I based it off this tweet I saw a whole ago). All that's left is to do a whip stitch around those edges and he's good to go :D I'll probably hang it up somewhere

First day of work was today, and it went well :D I'm at a publix deli; seems I can't escape food service just yet :')

Today was just three hours of training videos. One of the managers also gave me a walk around the store. It's really nice, and much much much much cleaner than the Papa Johns I'm coming from 🤮

Funnily enough, as we were walking around, one of the guys from the produce section came out from the back to help restock, and when he came saw me, he just kinda stared and walked towards me while pointing. I noticed and audibly gasped when I actually got a second to look at his face. My percussion teacher from high school?? The dude I spent half of my time at school with?? The guy I haven't seen in over two years?? We're co-workers?????? The odds for that happening are so ridiculously low because the city I live in is huge, but I'm really excited to be able to talk to him again, even if we're in different departments :D

I'll probably blab more about work later but for now I'm kind of looking forward to it (alongside the perpetual dread of it, of course). I won't tag and clog up your notifs, but if you're reading this, thank you again Mr. Crow for your kind words, they really did help me get through today a lot better ^-^

[artificialflav]

This glorious creature here, is my pride and joy. I have given him the name Papageno.

I've had him for about three years now, he has been a big comfort item for me. Which means he did get some wear and tear. His og back seam stitching eventually broke, leaving a big hole and spilled stuffing everywhere. After this first repair he was never fully stuffed to how he used to be. Which I always felt bad about. So, when I finally acquired the right soft stuffing, I preformed surgery once again. I wanted to get him back to his original form, and give him a cleaner, and strong back seam. The pictures show how he presently looks after this latest repair. He is ten times better now. But his age is defiantly showing, as he can't keep his head up well anymore. (The last picture shown is how a brand new pig looks like. You can compare that with how Papageno looks.)

Mofmo Friends is a collection of cute merch centered around this style of stuffed animal. I genuinely can't find a lot of info in English about these plushies. I also am not sure where you can easily find them for sale. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time when I got Papageno.

Mofmo Friends have released a wide selection of stuffed animals that rang from a baby bear to a walrus. The animals seem to have come in 2 different sizes Small, and Large. Papageno is a large, his dimensions are 14in long, and 10in high. He's pretty solid, and soft. I don't know how much he weights. He is stuffed with very soft fibers, and has beans in his feet.

Mofmo Friends seems to be associated with Craftholic, but I have no way confirm this or the Mofmo Friend's origin. They sold many other things besides the plushies, but they were all themed after the animals. It even shows that they sold clothing and accessories for the plushies. I am positive they are still making and selling products today, I just am not sure on where to find them reliably.

If you have any info on Mofmo Friends please keep me updated!

[dumbkiwi]

4 am means it's time to clog up your dash with personal posts anyways looking at ppls embroidery and my own realizing both how far ive come and how much more i can still learn/do is very cool. no i dont want to write an email in japanese.

[lesbian-deadpool]

At Worlds End

Avengers

Part Nine: Shawarma Place and Showers

Words: 1,441

Warnings: Grief, tears, insinuated sex

Summary: The aftermath of the battle, and after a tearful shower, you get a get at your front door.

Ko-Fi

Commissions

(Not my pics)

---

It was hard to keep your eyes open.

It was hard to keep chewing.

You were going to fall asleep in your seat at any moment. Exhausting finally hitting you. Those three coffees from earlier doing nothing to help you now.

It was slight. Just a soft nudge, really.

Pulling your eyes open, you found the beautiful red-head already watching you after pushing your outstretched leg under the table with her booted foot, where you sat across from her, between Thor and Tony.

She threw you a soft smile, eyes content with the outcome of everything.

Sleepily, you gave her one back, finally swallowing the bite that you had been slowly chewing on for the past five minutes.

You grunted as you got up, thick words on your lips, "I gotta go home."

"Are you sure?" Tony asked, peering up at you, "Don't you wanna finish your food?"

Shaking your head, you replied, "Nah, I gotta get home while I can still move. I need a shower and to sleep for at least fifteen hours."

"I'll call you in the morning."

Patting the billionaire's shoulder as you passed, you wished the rest of the team, a goodbye, called a thank you to the workers and then exited the building. Hoping that your apartment complex hadn't been touched by the invasion. Far too tired to deal with all that bullshit, too.

---

It appears that luck was on your side. Because as soon as you stepped foot in front of your building, you found that it was perfectly intact. Not a scratch in sight.

Stumbling through the door, you began pealing off the uniform that appeared to be glued to your body. Considering you had been wearing it since the stint in Germany, you couldn't really see why it wouldn't be.

Sweat, blood, and grime kept it against your skin. That feeling of standing up after sitting on hot leather surrounding you with every limb you pulled from its kevlar casing.

Boots strewn across the floor. Underwear and socks followed soon after as you staggered into your bathroom, heading straight for the shower, bumping into walls and objects as you did.

You didn't even care that the water was beyond cold as it pelted against your back, steam slowly rising as it warmed up.

Hands pressed against the tilled wall, eyes glued upon the drain underfoot, watching as blood, dust, and dirt flowed down, seemingly almost neverending.

All at once, everything hit you.

Tony's possible death.

The battle.

Coulson.

Your head lowered further, tears slipping from your eyes.

You may have won the war. But that doesn't mean there weren't losses along the way.

---

A yawn racked from you as you dried your hair with a fluffy towel, only dressed in fresh underwear when a knock rapped against your door.

"What are you doing here?" you answered the door with the towel not laying around your neck.

Still wearing her suit, but face cleaner now, stood Natasha, blinking up at you from under her lashes.

No words were spoken as she pushed you deeper into your own apartment by the hand on your chest. Using the towel to pull you down into a kiss as she kicked the door closed.

Looks like you weren't getting any sleep after all.

Not that you particularly minded all that much.

The sky was black as you woke hours later.

Shorts were the only thing adorning your body, with a first aid box you had plucked from the bathroom between your haphazardly spread legs.

Natasha's eyes were closed as you fixed the butterfly stitched to the cut upon her head, nothing but the sheets covering her naked form.

"There you go," you uttered, removing your hands from her, voice slow, not wanting to disturb the peace filling the room. Natasha's green eyes finally blinked open, while you packed up the kit, "All better."

Her voice matched yours as she spoke to get your attention, "Y/N."

You hummed, her hand coming to the back of your neck, pulling you back in for another kiss, moving to lay back down on the bed.

"What? Again?" you mumbled against her plump lips, throwing the first aid kit away.

Natasha hummed now, nodding against you.

'God,' you thought. You were sure this woman was insatiable.

---

The sun had risen a short while ago. After everything that happened the previous day, and night, you had entirely forgotten to close the curtains.

After only a few hours of sleep, you awoke to the bright light, the beautiful red-head curled into your chest.

It was peaceful, the morning you shared with the woman.

Her fingers trailed across your collarbone, with your arm wrapped around her, breathing soundly, watching the playing television across from you.

Every channel you flicked through showed the exact same thing.

News segments upon news segments.

"Despite the devastation of what has been confirmed as an extraterrestrial attack, the extraordinary heroics of the group known as The Avengers has been to many a cause not only for comfort, but for celebration."

Another channel, going from a news reporter, to another interviewing people in the streets.

"It's just really great knowing they're out there. That someone is watching over us."

"I love you, Thor!" Your chest shook with how hard you were laughing, at the woman's cry, watching her cut into the group.

Natasha chuckled herself. More so at your reaction than anything else.

Sighing happily after your sudden laughing fit, you changed the channel once more.

This time the image showed a man having his beard shaped like Tony's.

Another channel.

The Senate holding an emergency session.

Flick.

A parade being held in celebration.

Flick.

A kid gushing about the team's heroics.

Flick.

A man getting Steve's shield tattooed on him.

"When's somebody gonna get a tattoo for me?" you joked, gesturing to the man in the chair, with the remote in your hand.

"Maybe when you have a symbol."

"My symbol is my fist in the bad guy's face."

"I think Hulk's already taken that one."

Flick.

A couple responding to the attack.

"I don't know. I don't exactly feel safer with those things out there."

"It just seems that there's a lot they're not telling us," his wife added.

Flick.

Time Square lit up with thanks for your team.

Flick.

Two older men in a park, playing chess.

"Superheroes in New York?" one remarked, scoffing, "Give me a break."

You hummed. "Never can doubt how stupid humans will be. They won't believe this, but they'll believe in lizard people."

Flick.

A kid wearing an Iron Man mask, playing with who you assumed was his dad.

Flick.

Somebody spray painting 'Thank You Avengers' on a wall.

Flick.

A New York Senator, questioning The Avengers.

"These so-called "heroes" have to be held responsible for the destruction done to this city. This was their fight. Where are they now?"

Natasha scoffed into your bare skin.

"Prick."

Another hum from you. "Yeah, we saved the world. You're welcome! I think we're allowed a few days rest. You think he'd be asking this if the army rolled up and wrecked the place fighting those things?"

"It's not like we didn't try to keep it contained."

"Tough questions are being asked about The Avengers themselves," the reporter began, as the picture moved from the Senator to the many pieces of artwork that had been made in honour of your team, "Their sudden appearance and equally sudden disappearance-"

Flick.

A blonde woman, from right after the battle, still covered in dirt and wearing her waitress uniform, spoke to an interviewer now, once that was obviously criticising the actions of your team.

"What, that this is all somehow their fault?" she asked, "Captain America saved my life. Wherever he is, and wherever any of them are, I would just... I would want to say thank you."

"At least some people still have some brain cells."

Flick.

Flick.

Flick.

Flick.

"Would you stop flicking through the channels?" Natasha questioned, pushing herself up on your chest, beginning to wrap the sheets around her nude body.

"There's nothing on! They're all talking about us- Wait. Where you going?" you asked the red-head as she sat up, moving from the comfort of the bed, tugging the sheets along with her, and from your body as she did, "Hey, I'm naked and cold!"

From the foot of the bed, sheet wrapped around her, Natasha peered over her shoulder at your naked form, sprawled out on the mattress.

A smirk pulled at her lips as she sultry spoke, "Yeah, you are."

God.

This woman would be the death of you.

---

At Worlds End Taglist:

@nicomcu, @underoostarks, @soft-emo-witch, @infrunamix, @tashakink, @thewidowsghost, @whataloadof, @neverylee, @diaryoflife, @readings-stuff​​​, @arti-sts, @transbi-spidey, @romanoff-regiment, @iliketozoneout, @pawiie, @natsxxsimp​

Permanent Taglist:

@imnotasuperhero, @veteranwerewolf95, @marvelfansince08love, @higherfurther-romanova, @lesbian-x-blackwidow, @sestra-inestro, @thelastavenger-3000, @mixed-fandom-mess, @wannabe-fic-reader, @vancityfire13, @wouldirunofftheworldsomeday, @007giu, @fayhar, @xxromanoffxx, @poptartpoppyy, @wlwfanfictionss, @diaryoflife, @pointconji, @readings-stuff, @tokyo-liv, @imadethisblogbecauseiamasimp, @natashaownsmyheart, @marrymemcgrath, @scorpiosloveletter, @idkevenfuckenknow, @wandanatfan, @izalesbean, @iblameitonclint, @bizarrealex, @lorsstar1st, @bak3rio, @heybitches-amirightbitches​, @lokisjuicyass, @marie-yt-blog, @mrswandaromanoff, @red1culous​

SFW Taglist:

@peggycarter-steverogers, @natalia-quinzel, @stupendoussportspaperempath,

[melancholyshadow]

under pressure || s. rogers

summary: (y/f/n)‘s medical knowledge is put to the test.

pairing: steve rogers x female!reader

warnings: cursing, mentions blood, mentions gunshot wound, mentions treating gunshot wound, mentions of blood, medical talk, IVs

an: yay the second part! sorry it took so long, i’ve been visiting family. also i don’t know a lot of medical terminology or how to properly take care of a bullet wound, but i did my best and researched as much as i could. and also again, like everything i write, this doesn’t take place in a specific part of the mcu timeline, i just pick which character models i like best and put them together!

tags: @capstopavenger @celineann91 @before-we-get-started @hopefulbonkvoidland @hallucinatingbitch

READ PART ONE

“F.R.I.D.A.Y, where are they?”

Tony was basically running down hallways, leading deeper and deeper into the compound. The female voice came to life, “Operation room three.” And the voice disappears again. Preemptively, you began moving your hair away from your face, so it didn’t get in your way.

“What happened?” You heard Tony ask as you went towards the sink, scrubbing from the tips of your fingers all the way up to your elbows. “Some guy got a hold of one of Bucky’s guns and shot him.” The woman explained, Once you finally turned around you noticed her applying pressure to his wound, hands drenched in his blood.

Your hands slid into your gloves without issue, and you finally approached the table. The woman removed her hands as you got closer, and the man on the table was grunting in pain, wiggling all around, trying to run from the pain. The shirt had already been torn away from his body, but the amount of blood made it hard for you to see the true damage. After finally wiping away excess blood, for a moment, you finally managed to get a glimpse. You were perplexed for a moment, not sure what you were seeing, but then it finally registered. You noticed the bullet was still there, the very tip was sticking out of the skin.

“The bullet didn’t exit all the way, I need to take it out. We need to sedate him.” You told Tony, continuing to wipe away blood. “We don’t have time,” He was right. Steve was losing way too much blood and his heart rate was consistently dropping. “Wanda, use your witchy mind control thing.” Tony looked towards her, you could tell she was shocked, but it didn’t last long.

She moved closer to Steve’s body, she began fluttering her fingers around his head. His body stopped moving, and his eyes glassed over, before closing completely. You would have thought he died, but his heart monitor said otherwise. You could see his chest rising and falling slowly.

Everyone silenced, you could feel them all watching you. You had gotten over the stage fright in moments like this, because that was the least of your worries. Grabbing an elongated pair of tweezers, you made contact with the golden bullet. The thin tip of the tweezers allowed you to pull it through the open wound. It hit the metal dish next to you with a loud ‘clink’.

“Find me a clotting agent.” You glanced over at Banner, who immediately went rummaging through cabinets and drawers. Clotting agents are a powder that creates strong scabs to reduce heavy bleeding. “I need some monofilament sutures.” Turning towards Tony now. Monofilament sutures were the better option for abdominal closures because they reduce tissue damage. You had the man with the metal arm apply pressure on Steve’s wound while you grabbed a cleaner pair of gloves.

“This is really gonna hurt.” You glanced at Wanda, warning her that Steve was probably about to fight back hard. You poured the blood-clotting agent onto the wound, and his body jumped, you could see his eyes moving back and forth under his eyelids. Wiping away any excess powder, you began to stitch up the wound. Moving as fast as you could while still being precise. Finally, after cleaning the puncture one last time, you covered it with a fresh gauze and securing it with some medical tape. Almost on cue, everyone, except Steve, let out a relieved sigh.

“I have a nurse coming now to look over him for the night.” Tony said, joining you at the sink to wash up. “Awesome.” You were relieved, scrubbing at some blood spatter on your arms. “You did good there, champ.” He smiled, nudging you with his shoulder while he lathered soap onto his hands. “Thanks.” You smiled, grabbing a paper towel to dry off your hands.

As you left the room, you glanced back at Steve who was hooked up to a couple machines. An IV in his arm for fluid, and one in his hand for medication. Once the bleeding slowed down a little more, they were gonna add another IV for a blood transfusion, making up for all the blood he lost.

“Do you need some help?” You peaked your head into the kitchen, seeing Vision cleaning up from dinner. He turned around, a plate in one hand and a rag in the other. “I would appreciate that.” He said in a monotone voice. You were convinced that was the only way he could speak, being basically a robot.

You walked between the kitchen and dining room, accumulating all the plates and utensils. Vision ran everything under the faucet for a moment before placing it in the dishwasher. “Thanks for the help.” He said, placing the last glass on to the top rack of the dishwasher and pressing start. “Of course, thank you for dinner.”

“You did phenomenal there.” Vision placed a hand on your shoulder, and the corners of his mouth raised into a smile. Well, you used the term smile very lightly, it looked painful, he was still clearly learning how to properly communicate through facial expressions. “Not a lot of people can’t work so well under pressure.” He added. You thanked him for the kind words, and the two of you parted ways.

Your exhaustion didn’t hit you until you stepped onto the elevator to go up to your room. Rubbing your eyes, irritating them further, you felt like you could fall asleep right then and there. You pondered on it for a moment, seriously considering it, but before you could make up your mind the elevator doors opened. The hallway was dim, windows on either end, but it was nearly eleven at night so they offered no lighting. As you walked down the hallway you pulled out your keycard, swiping it over the sensor.

The room was quite large, a king sized bed positioned in the middle of the back wall and nightstands on either side. There was a dresser and desk across from each other, one on either side wall. You tossed your bags off the bed and onto the floor in front of the bed. As you flopped onto the bed, your eyes fluttered closed, and within seconds sleep overcame you.

“Good morning, champ.” A familiar voice greeted you as you walked into the kitchen, it was Tony. “Good morning.” You said back, stretching your arms over your head. Grabbing a mug, you filled it with something to drink, taking a seat at the island, across from him. “How did Steve do last night?” You asked, taking a sip from your mug.

“Well, I checked on him at 1, Bruce checked on him at 3, and then I checked again at 6.” He explained, blowing away some steam coming from the coffee in his cup. “Each time we came in, the nurse said his vitals had been normal, and the bleeding had not completely stopped, but it was slowing significantly.” He continued.

“I was gonna go check on him here in about…” He glanced towards the clock on the oven, “...thirty or so minutes.” He looked back at you. “I can check on him, I wanna take a look under the bandages and assess what our best options are.” You insisted, now you glanced towards the clock, 8:34 a.m. “Sounds good, champ.” Tony smiled, leaving the two of you in a comfortable silence.

After getting dressed into something other than pajamas and a couple detours, you finally found your way to Steve’s new recovery room. Knocking quietly, you heard, “Come in,” so you pushed through the door. “Good morning!” You chirped. “Hello.” He said with a tired smile. “How’re you feeling?” You asked, making a pitstop for a metal tray, filling it with gauze, medical tape, a pair of gloves, and betadine. “Sore.” He laughed a little, wincing immediately afterwards.

“Well, the good news is, you’re gonna be fine.” You smiled, placing the metal tray on a rolling cart, bringing it to the side of his bed. Stretching the gloves over your hand, you noticed a new, a third, IV, completely red. You assumed he started his transfusion sometime last night. “All your vitals stayed consistent over night, and the bleeding has reduced immensely.” You explained, pulling over a small stool to sit on. “So, what I’m gonna do is take the gauze off, clean the wound, inspect your stitches and put on a clean gauze.” Steve nodded. He shifted slightly, laying his head back and staring at the ceiling. Avoiding the sight of his injury, you assumed.

You lifted the thin paper gown up slightly, it had been cut into a shirt instead of a gown so that the wound was easily accessible, eyeing the large patch of gauze. It rested on the left lumbar region, or the area above his right hip. There was a quarter-sized red patch on the white material, right above the entrance of the wound. You placed fingers on either side of the injury, and slowly pulled off the soiled gauze with your free hand. “You must be, Dr. (Y/L/N).” Steve spoke, you could tell he was talking through his teeth, the gauze had gotten caught on one of the stitches, causing a little pull, “Yes I am,...” You answered, pouring betadine onto a clean gauze, “...but please, just call me (Y/F/N.)”

You studied the stitches for a moment, determining how far along the regeneration progress was and it was almost astonishing for less than twelve hours. “Thanks to your excelled regeneration rates, I’ll be able to pull these stitches out tomorrow morning.” You slowly wiped the gauze over the wound, making sure to not put too much weight into it. It left a thin layer of brown stain on his skin, and you carefully placed a new bandage onto it, securing it with some tape.

“You are all cleaned up.” You announced, pulling his shirt back down to his hips. “I’ll have you hooked up to these IVs for a couple more hours, but you should be able to join us all for dinner.” Smiling, you checked off some boxes on Steve’s clipboard, writing your findings and his release time and date. “And I’ll take those stitches out before I leave in the morning.” It was silent for a moment, as you cleaned up the station. As you reached for the door to leave, you heard Steve clear his throat, making you look back. His voice filled the room, “See you at dinner.”

For the rest of the day, you went around meeting the rest of the Avengers. Since last night, you didn't really have that option. That woman with Steve ended up being Natasha, and the man with the metal arm was Bucky. Of course, like everyone else at this compound, you had seen their faces before on the news, articles, or tabloids, but their names never stuck with you like Tony or Banner.

“There he is!” Bucky cheered, raising his beer up towards the ceiling. Some turned their bodies towards the door of the kitchen, and others followed his gaze. Everyone copied Bucky, holding up their drink up high. “Thanks guys.” Steve smiled, he was still clutching at his side, nursing it with each step he took. Bucky pulled a chair out for Steve, making it easier for him to take a seat at the table.

Instead of making Steve stretch across the table to make his plate, it was just passed around the table, and everyone scooped a little bit of each dish onto his plate. “I like this, maybe I should get shot more often.” Steve joked, bringing a spoon full of something up to his lips. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s a good plan.” Sam, better known as Falcon, said, causing everyone else to chuckle.

Natasha cleared her, standing up from her chair, glass in hand. “I just wanna make a toast to Steve.” She said, focusing her attention towards him. “For not only being a great captain, but one tough son of a bitch.” Natasha raised her glass high, and so did the rest of the table, cheersing one another.

“Language.” Tony said, in a mocking tone. Everyone at the table busted out into laughter, practically gripping at their stomachs in pain. You laughed a tiny bit as a reaction to everyone else, not understanding the big joke. You also noticed Steve didn’t find it as funny as the rest of the table. “Oh it’s an awful story.” Steve said, noticing your confusion. “No, it’s a masterpiece.” Tony said between pained laughter.

After Tony filled you in, and everyone finally calmed, Steve pushed his chair back, placing a hand over his injury as he tried to stand. Bucky put a hand on his shoulder, trying to stop him but Steve muttered that he was fine. He grabbed his drink, and stared at you. “I would also like to make a toast.” His glass in the air.

“I’d like to make a toast to (Y/F/N), for basically saving my life last night.” He smiled at you, and you felt your cheeks warm up, eyes landing in your lap. There were some ‘whoops’ and clapping for a moment, and you could hear people tapping their glasses together.

“Thank you guys, and thank you Steve.”

[watermelonlipstick]

The Hunter With The Dragon Tattoo

This is a request for anon, who asked: 

i don’t know if your requests are open, but if they are, could you do one where the reader has tattoos that dean doesn’t know about and then he sees them when he has to stitch them up after a hunt? (maybe like season 1 or 2 dean) thank you!!!

And then wrote to me privately that they have a dragon tattoo on one shoulder.

It was a lot of fun to write; tons of opportunities to slip in some good classic rock references! I miss in the super early seasons when Sam and Dean seemed to rag on each other pretty much constantly. I hope this is what you were thinking of!

Title: The Hunter With The Dragon Tattoo

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader (gender neutral)

Word Count: 2589 

Summary: Dean is surprised to discover the reader has tattoos.

Warnings: canon-appropriate violence/mention of blood, swearing, fluff!!

           Sam moves to the middle of the front bench to shuck off his coat as Dean is getting out of the car, and gives it to you with a long arm over the leather. “Can you hand me that blue jacket?”

           You have to over-rotate to use your other hand to grab it, keeping your grip tight on your own shirt in the most bastardized version of a sling. Sam, of course, notices.

           “You think it’s broken or dislocated?”

           A hard chuckle blows out of your nose. “Really hope it’s just dislocated, I’ll tell you that.”

           He gives you a sympathetic smile as he throws on the blue jacket and zips it all the way up to his neck. It looks like he’s covering something up and naturally, he is, thin hoodie and t shirt underneath drenched with enough werewolf blood that it’s clinging to his chest almost pornographically. But his face is untouched and he has use of both his arms which is more than can be said for you or Werewolf Shiner Winchester, making him the only reasonable choice to send for gauze and ACE bandages at the closest pharmacy.

           Dean stops his grimace-covered stretching just outside the car and opens your door with an outstretched hand as Sam slides into the driver’s seat. “You coming?”

           Taking his hand with your good one, you let Dean close the door behind you without any of the normal grumbling about treating you like you’re made of porcelain, in an effort to keep your face neutral around the jolts of pain through your shoulder. Sam pulls out of the motel parking lot ultra-gently like it’s his first day with a learner’s permit the way he does when he knows Dean is watching. It makes you smile to yourself as exhaust dissipates across the cracked blacktop.

           Crossing the asphalt with tired strides Dean opens the motel door for you too, and you walk in before him. “Is that yours?” he asks, dropping his coat on the cheap couch and wincing through the removal of his flannel. In the light of the room you’re better able to see his black eye and realize it’s going to take weeks for that to go away, not relishing another inevitable conversation about makeup to sell a G-man cover story. It makes it so much easier for the families of victims to believe you’re legit when none of you look like you’ve been in a bar fight, but getting Dean to believe cover-up is in the name of the greater good is an uphill battle on the best of days.

           “Is what mine?”

           “The blood you’re covered in like nacho cheese. Dude, if that’s all over the car—”

           He deserves credit for trying not to smile as you try to look over your shoulder like a puppy chasing its tail, but he does guide you over to the mirror on the wall to see. He’s right, blood has seeped all down your coat, sticky and shiny like syrup. It’s far too wet to be from near 30 minutes ago when you got in the car. “Fuck, I really like this jacket.”

           “You have like 5 just like it taking up space in my trunk; you’ll live. Here, take that off, I’ll stitch you up.” Dean starts rifling through his bag for supplies, rolling some kinks out of his neck.

           “It doesn’t even hurt, I just need you to pop my shoulder back in so I can take a shower.”

           “I don’t give a shit what hurts, slugger. You’re going to pass out in the tub if you keep up the stuck pig act.”

           You roll your eyes and reluctantly try to slide your arms out of the jacket, wincing when you jostle the dislocated arm. Dean takes the sopping coat from you and tosses it into the kitchenette sink from where he stands, the concern coloring his face when you look back at him not reassuring you at all. He puts the floss-threaded needle he’d had in his hand between his teeth and starts pulling on your collar.

           “Shoulder first,” you insist, done wiggling and writhing out of clothes before your shoulder is where it belongs.

           Dean’s mouth tightens into a firm line but he backs up to give himself enough room to shove, an exasperated hand beckoning you. “Okay, you ready?” he says around the needle, looking like a farmer field medic with a piece of hay.

           “Yeah just let me—FUCK,” you grunt when he catches you off guard without any preamble, clutching at the shoulder for a moment until you could take a deep breath. You do a test rotation and are happy at the relative lack of pain, trying not to be frustrated that Dean didn’t warn you so you wouldn’t tense up.

           “Shirt off.” Dean’s tone is firm and precise, no room for discussion, as he gets out a lighter and watches intently to heat up the needle.

           “Wow, you sure know how to make someone feel special,” you hum, feeling much looser without the shooting pain from your shoulder. The buttons of the flannel come undone relatively easy, but the fabric makes a sickly wet thwack as you snap it down to rest around your elbows.

           From his spot at your side, you see Dean’s face contort in surprise and watch as he reflexively reaches out a thumb to rub the skin of your shoulder.

           “Ow, what the hell?” you flinch.

           “Has this always been here?” he asks, partly amazed but mostly incredulous as his eyes trace the inky lines of the dragons where they wind around your skin.

           “I wasn’t born with them if that’s what you mean.” You can tell he’s truly shocked because he doesn’t even react to the jab, just hovers a gentle fingertip over the tattoo. “Earth to Dean? I thought you were all scared about me bleeding out.”

           He gulps and clears his throat before covering with a smile that’s a combination of cheeky and shy. “Right, yeah, sorry. Just didn’t realize I was in the presence of The Tattooed Wonder.”

           “Hardly, I only have a few. Now start stitching before I change my mind and wait for Sam; his are way neater than yours anyway.”

           “Few? Where are the other ones? Girls on the back of your leg that hula when you walk?”

           “Nice try.”

           He bites his lip before shifting the strap of your tank top off and sponging the back of your shoulder with a wet towel. When he unceremoniously pours a slug of whiskey over the wound you feel it for the first time and hiss, adrenaline and distraction of the joint pain worn off.

           “Sorry,” he murmurs, already dragging floss tight on a stitch with his teeth and moving on to the next as quickly as he can, half-humming that old Queen song, “gonna get me on the track, got a dragon on my back.”

           You weren’t lying earlier when you’d said that Sam’s stitches were usually cleaner, but Dean is being very careful in a way he usually isn’t—Chicks dig scars, Sammy! Stopped the bleeding, didn’t it?—and you tip your head back to check his work. The extra time he’s taking is to match up the back of one of the dragons, ripped open by a werewolf claw and currently held together by the delicate pinch of Dean’s index and thumb.

           It’s tough, but you manage to grab the reins on a smirk. Dean doesn’t notice, too focused on trying to keep the damage to your tattoo at a minimum. The gesture and the concentration are impossibly sweet, even though you’d long accepted that ink injury was inevitable with your lifestyle.

           When he’s done, callused fingertips tugging the last knot in place, Dean grabs the whiskey again. “Hold still,” he breathes, close enough you can feel it dance across the skin of your neck, and you hope he can’t see the goosebumps trailing down your arms like ivy. “That should do it. You can grab the first shower, but it’s big enough that some gauze on top for a few days wouldn’t hurt.”

           “Thanks,” you answer, startled and annoyed at your own voice when it creaks a touch. The flannel feels gross and heavy with blood, so you pull your arms out entirely and reach to drop it in the wastebasket.

           “I can deal with that if you want,” he offers, ruffling the velvet-short hair at the back of his neck. “The coat too. Not the first time getting blood out of clothes.”

           “Oh, okay. Uh, thanks. That would be really nice.”

           Dean only meets your eyes for the most fleeting moment when he takes it before biting his lip again and nodding to himself. You get to your feet and gingerly slip the displaced straps back over your shoulder, feeling the shift in energy in the room and not knowing what to do with it. Settling for a jocular little punch to Dean’s bicep, you grin at him. “Thanks for putting me back together, doc.”

           Sam comes back a couple minutes after you’ve closed the bathroom door with a translucent plastic bag full of first aid supplies. “In the shower?”

           Dean looks up from where he’s sitting on the couch and hands Sam the beer he’d already gotten out of the fridge in anticipation, his leg bouncing rapidly. “Yeah. They have everything?”

           His younger brother nods and accepts the bottle, taking a sip before laying out his haul on the coffee table and tossing the bag. “You okay?”

           He glances up with a quirked eyebrow. “Just tired, man.”

           Sam waits a silent beat, giving Dean a chance to spill whatever it is.

           “Did you, ah—did you know Y/N’s all inked up like a friggin’ sailor?”

           Sam chuckles and runs his tongue over his teeth. “A sailor? Y/N’s only got a few tattoos, dude.”

           “You knew?”

           “Of course I knew, some people like to learn things about their friends. That’s why you’re acting weird?”

           Dean scowls over the glass lip of his beer before taking a long pull. “Not acting weird, sue me for being surprised we’re working with the goddamn Hunter With The Dragon Tattoo.” His voice is low and surly like a kid on the edge of a tantrum even he knows isn’t worth it.

           “Y/N can do whatever they want, Dean. It doesn’t matter if you like the tattoos, you’re not their dad.” Sam’s barely keeping the giggle out of his voice, enjoying Dean’s frustration the way only a little brother could.

           “No, I don’t—it’s not that I don’t like them,” Dean stammers, the end of the statement fading off as a flush starts rising in his cheeks. He knows he’s said too much and Sam jumps on it.

           “Wait—you do like them, don’t you?” He crashes onto the couch, long limbs just enough in Dean’s space to be irritating. “I bet you loooooove knowing about those tattoos—I bet you’re dying to see them.”

           “Shut the fuck up,” Dean growls, kicking Sam in the thigh with a socked foot. Sam blocks him and starts laughing hard enough it makes him rattle all over like he’s on a rickety rollercoaster. When he finally catches his breath Dean is still pouting to whatever syndicated sitcom he’d thrown on. Over the tinny TV speakers they hear the shower turn off.

           “You know, if you’re feeling shy I could say something for you.” Sam’s grin is ten steps past cheeky, firmly planted in devilish, and he waggles his eyebrows suggestively over top of dimples perfectly sliced into his cheeks.

           Dean’s eyes widen like a cartoon and his voice is a gravelly hiss as he grabs a tight handful of Sam’s t-shirt, now crisp with dried blood. “Sam, I fucking swear to God—” but the threat is ineffectual, sheepish panic clear as anything on his face. The glint in Sam’s eye brightens and he twists out of his brother’s grip before he can react, crossing the room in a few huge steps so he’s nearly face to face with you when you open the bathroom door, Dean leaping off of the couch to chase him and slamming into Sam’s back when he stops short.

           “Whoa, Jesus—you scared the shit out of me,” you breathe, one hand on top of your fresh t-shirt to still your racing heartbeat, fistful of dirty laundry in the other.

           “Just need that second shower, didn’t mean to freak you out!” Sam smiles, warm and light and genuine. “Thanks! Gauze is on the table if you want it.” he says as he slips past you with a friendly and familiar kiss on the cheek, wink that you can’t see to Dean over your shoulder as he closes the bathroom door fast enough that the mirror next to the frame barely even steams.

           “Hey, could you—” you start.

           “Hey, do you—” Dean says at the exact same time. You both chuckle, and you can’t tell if you’re annoyed or not that the little charge in the room didn’t dissolve while the dried blood on you had rinsed down the shower drain. Dean holds up an open palm to indicate that you should go first.

           “Could you cover those stitches for me? The skin is kind of catching on my shirt.”

           “Uh, yeah. Definitely.”

           Shaking your hair loose and hanging the towel it was in on the back of a kitchenette chair, you sit on the edge of the bed to tug the collar of your t-shirt as far onto your shoulder as you can. Dean snatches some medical tape and a couple 4x4s from the table and sits down next to you, the heat coming off of him soothing the chill of the few remaining drops of water cooling on your skin. “I’m gonna need more slack than that,” he says, trying to be matter-of-fact but not quite covering the gooey softness around the edges that are making his voice more sultry than gruff. You try to pull harder on the collar but it’s already digging into your neck. The hand holding the gauze floats down to Dean’s lap while he rubs his jaw with the other. “Do you—could you just take it off?”

           You roll your eyes at him.

           “Or live with it, see if I care.” He holds your gaze, and that stubbornness you recognize.

           Reluctantly, you move your arm inside the shirt and slip it out from under the bottom hem, squirming in a way that covers your chest while exposing your shoulder. When he sweeps the shirt back you reflexively jolt away from him like you’ve been shocked. “Not being fresh, just don’t want to tape it in,” he murmurs.

           “I noticed you put the lines together really straight; thanks for that.”

           “Only took an extra second.” He rips another piece of tape off a roll with his teeth and is being so deliberate that now you’re sure he’s stalling for another few seconds to keep touching you but you don’t care; the feeling of his fingertips on your skin is tender and delicious.

           “If I knew you were going to be that careful, I would’ve been letting you do my stitches this whole time.”

           “Guess I’m just a regular damn seamstress,” he smiles, finally smoothing the last tape and only surreptitiously glancing out of the corner of his eye as you tuck your arm back into its sleeve. “So seriously, what’re the other tattoos?”

           “I’m sure you’ll see them soon enough,” you whisper as you stand up, committing to memory the way it makes Dean’s pupils flare as you ease under the scratchy motel sheets on the opposite bed.

-

Thanks again for reading! If you liked it, check out my Masterlist or send me a request!

Tags: @sams-sass @vxnderlindes @deanwinchesterswitch @akshi8278 @itsjensenanddean @flannellover67 @weepingwillowphoenix @tj-drinks-tea @whatareyousearchingfordean @winchestergirl2 @winchest09 @samwisethegr8 @fawnxng @nurse-sarahrn @lovers-in-japan-reign-of-love @thewinchesterandreidwhore @deanwanddamons @stressedoutkitten @winchestershiresauce @tatted-trina6 @percico-heronstairs @downanddirtydean @moosewinchester-deactivated2021 @queenoftheunderdark @lyarr24 @wonder-cole @sergeantsea​ 

And as always, if you want to be on my taglist, were on the taglist and changed your handle, or I lost track of it, please let me know!

[cherry-lipbalm]

a son of a bitch in a camper van. spencer reid.

3.9k words.

masterlist

the gif’s a bit blurry yet he’s still endearing x

in which things happen just like that.

Local law enforcement, accompanied by the BAU, have been sitting in a besieging of this goddamn camper van for so long now that the majority of them were highly considering setting up a tent. If it hadn't been already, it sure as hell was scraping up to be a long night.

Spencer couldn't feel his feet, and he had given up on aiming his gun at the RV a long time ago. The sheriffs had been handing out fold-up chairs for those who were observing any potential activity and hadn't resorted to lounging in their cars.

Morgan had offered his to Spencer, who took it gratefully after he got up from falling on his ass when Derek pulled it out from under him. Spencer was only just about to jump on him when they spotted Hotch's glare from over his shoulder. This is a crime scene they could practically hear him say, so Spencer settled for a harsh shove on his colleague's arm and they left it at that.

And that was probably the most exciting thing to have happened over the course of this man-watch; and that was... three hours ago, now? Time, at this point, had become unsubstantial.

"Are we sure he's even still in there?" Morgan asked, gesturing to the derelict camper van a few yards away from them. He had retrieved another chair, and was sat behind the barricade of police cars, but nonetheless held tightly onto the gun resting in his lap.

"I think so," Spencer squinted over the red and blues, assessing the vehicle. If you could even call it that; the thing was basically crumbling to pieces. As much as he believed it, he couldn't comprehend how someone was actually in there, and for so long. It looked uninhabitable.

"The whole thing’s surrounded," a new voice interjected into the conversation, "he went in, and hasn't come out. Detectives say they can see him walking about now and then."

Morgan and Reid both turned in their chairs. If the dire situation surrounding them wasn't so obvious, one could have easily believed they were on a fishing trip of some sorts, except one should know that Morgan had already taken Spencer fishing once, and the result was... eventful, to say the least. A trip to the ER and five stitches later, Reid vowed to never do anything with Morgan ever again.

"Hey, sugar. How you holdin' up?" Morgan greeted, relaxing back into his not-so-relaxing chair.

Y/N sighed, a guttural groan emitting from the exudation of her breath. She looked up to the sky, and was thankful that at least they had a pretty night to look at, because this guy was not moving any time soon.

Reid and Morgan both assessed her as she stepped out from behind their set-up, coming out of the shadows almost menacingly, into the light of police sirens and the distant lamp beaming from inside the camper van.

"I'd be holding up a lot better if this bastard did something," she said. Her feet crunched the soil as she grabbed a spare chair and planted it next to Spencer. He tried to resist the urge to pull back her chair. Emphasis on the word tried.

When Y/N's bum didn't connect with the seat, the realisation hit her too late and all she could do was let out a yell while she headed straight for the ground.

"Oh, you dick!" She cried when she plummeted into the grass. Looking at her mud-ridden hands in disgust, she didn't hesitate to wipe it on Spencer's beloved dress shirt, making sure to taint his sweater vest too.

"Hey! Hey!" He retracted frantically, shoving himself into the side of his chair to get away from Y/N and her hands that could deposit any more Earth onto him. All the while, Morgan laughed his head off, almost facing the same fate as Y/N when his chair leaned back from his laughing fit.

"Children," Hotch called, reprimanding them over Y/N's grimaces and the boys' amusement, which quickly ended when they saw the Unit Chief striding over.

"Did you see that, Hotch? That's harassment in the workplace!"

"Can I please remind you that we are on a crime scene. We are the FBI, and no doubt are going to make a lasting impression on local law enforcement, is this really how you want to be remembered?"

The three fell into sullen expressions, bowing their heads ashamedly as to not make eye contact with him. But Morgan was still snickering subtly behind his hand, and Spencer was biting down on his lip to avoid a sudden burst of laughter that he knew would be more than inevitable while they were being scolded due to the pseudobulbar effect; he'd explain it to them when they were no longer being rebuked.

Eventually Hotch did walk away, leaving them with a castigating glare Y/N knew she wouldn't be able to shake. In response, she took the subsequent silence as an opportunity to slap Spencer on the arm, hard.

"Ow!" He hushed, immediately rubbing his bicep where he was sure a bruise would be forming. If he wasn't aching he would be impressed that she managed to inflict so much pain from so low down.

"Nice one, you got me in trouble with Hotch!" She hissed. Derek had resumed laughing.

"Sorry, teacher's pet," Spencer called her. Then, whispered here we go to himself at what he had just unavoidably instigated.

"Coming from you?" Morgan and Y/L/N said simultaneously, a snark tone to their words. He pursed his lips and looked to them blankly, rolling his eyes at their unified laughter.

They all eased a bit after that, despite the wake of Hotch's wrath. Spencer pulled Y/N up from the ground, and then began to aid her in wiping the soil from her trousers, prompting an awkward encounter when he realised his hand was right on her ass. She gave him a glare, and he raised his muddy hands in surrender while he sat back down, leaving her to do it herself.

When she was somewhat clean, she dragged her chair back and sat in it, pointing a warning finger in Spencer's face as she did so to let him know not to try anything sneaky.

When she relaxed, Y/N thought the scenery was quite nice; get rid of the police cars, black SUVs and the serial killer less than ten metres away from them and it could make for an ideal holiday destination. All they needed was a couple of beers and a bonfire.

Ah, fire. Warmth! Y/N was beginning to forget what it felt like. She wrapped herself further into the complimentary FBI jacket she'd been given upon her arrival to the team. It made for cool recognition, and got her into a lot of places, but, god, did it do fuck all for practical thermal purposes.

"You're cold?" Spencer queried when he noticed her enveloping her arms around herself.

"Freezing," she replied.

"You should go in the car. Emily put the heating on in there earlier, it'll be warm now."

"What? And leave all the fun for you guys? Over my dead body," she turned her head to shoot him a smirk. He inhaled deeply, faltering a smile in her direction and let a comfortable silence fall between them. Y/N even painted on a genuine grin for him, and let the blush she felt warm her up from the cold.

The next few minutes after this go very quickly, but from what Y/N can barely grasp, it goes like this: the camper van's door is thrown open, and out comes this beast of a man who, if he had them, would have had guns blazing. This is evident from his demeanour; the word beast did not originate from his physique, no, he is a fragile, small boy, but the way he is yelling and screaming is nothing of the juvenile sort. And so, he is doing his yelling and screaming and, frankly, taking no prisoners.

All he has on him is a revolver, but it's enough for every police officer and agent to swing into action. Spencer and Morgan's chairs both fall to the ground upon the abruptness of how they suddenly stand, guns drawn. Y/N is already one step ahead of them, and fails to shield herself from their unsub behind any car door like everyone else had the sense to; even if he were without weapons, they were facing the human embodiment of the word danger.

Spencer shouts at Y/N to defend herself, but she pretends she doesn't hear because this bastard made her wait four hours in the freezing cold, the least she could do was have an eye on him, so Spencer takes her cover.

Which turns out to be the fault in this story, because Spencer loves Y/N. And anyone with a pair of eyes can see it and, unfortunately for them, their unsub happened to have a pair of eyes.

He sees the way this pipe cleaner of a man is aiming his gun at him so determinedly, and how his gaze is switching between him and this girl in a frivolous FBI jacket. And he's already blissfully aware that there's no way he is getting out of here alive, but if he is going down then he's sure as hell taking someone with him. He only has one bullet and figures it's a 2 for 1 deal judging by the way pipe-cleaner man is so obviously in love with shitty-jacket girl. And then next thing anyone knows is Y/N is on the ground again but this time a bullet has buried itself in her chest.

Spencer takes the shot, and then a few more even though their unsub has fallen to the ground. And as much as he wants to rush over to Y/N he knows he doesn't have the emotional capacity to see what state she is in, but what he does have is rage, and a whole lot of it, so he just keeps on shooting. He's already dead but that doesn't matter. He keeps shooting until his barrel is empty and Hotch is pulling him away.

A detective approaches the unsub, even though his fate is more than assured, while a flurry of people surround Y/N, falling to her side, but she's only asking for one.

"Spencer," she utters. It hurts for her to talk or even breathe but she knows the pain will only continue so she pays the small price of adding to it in order to make sure Spencer is by her side for the remainder of it all.

Morgan grabs the boy, shakes him from his trance and then pushes him through the crowd so he can kneel beside Y/N. The squelching noise of his trousers drenching in her blood almost makes him vomit, but he swallows it down for Y/N's sake. He already covered her in mud, he knows better than to be sick on her too.

"Y/N," his voice trembles, but the way he turns to shout at the people around him is so full of strength and fury that people jump immediately into action. He yells for an ambulance, even though there's already one on scene and it's just behind them, but what else can he do?

"I'm fine," Y/N manages, "I'm fine."

She was not, indeed, fine.

She tries to scramble to her feet, but finds she can't even attempt sitting up without a pain searing throughout her whole body, ripping her nerves apart like resolute Velcro.

"It's alright," Spencer says, panicked as he tries to keep her from hurting herself. He brushes the blood-stained hair from her face but regrets it when he sees how it's contorted in pain. Thankfully, she soon relaxes, until he realises that's not a good thing at all.

"No, no, Y/N, stay with me alright? Can you do that? Listen to me!"

So he's yelling at the girl he loves, which is no use because she can't hear him and her eyes are already closed. He's so desperate that he pushes her eyelids open himself, but what lies underneath is unresponsive. He holds his hand tightly over what pulse she has left.

Y/N is dying in Spencer's arms. And she can't help but think that if she was to go, she wouldn't mind it to be here and now. But, with what lingering conscious remains, she realises it wouldn't be her who would have to face the repercussions of her death, it would be her friends. Her family. Spencer.

Spencer who had done nothing but love her ferociously ever since they had met; silently and from afar, but passionately nonetheless. She loved him too correspondingly and too much to kill him with the grief.

So she takes a breath.

But he doesn't even have a chance to say goodbye, never mind ask to go in the back of the ambulance with her when she is ripped from his grasp and placed onto the gurney. The ambulance doors slam close and he forgets what it feels like to move. Morgan's hand on his shoulder feels foreign, and when he does eventually move, it's a surge of chaos.

Their unsub isn't receiving any medical attention, because Reid sorted that out irrefutably, so there's really not that many people around and Morgan isn't even fully aware to stop him when Spencer steals his gun from his holster and marches to the corpse lying in the grass. Surrounded by the greenery, the son of a bitch looks almost peaceful so, when Spencer is unloading the bullets on him, he makes sure to add a few in his face for good measure.

This time, no one stops him.

———

"How is she?" JJ asks, who's only just arrived at the hospital in a hurry after receiving the call. She's pretty tenacious considering the situation, especially when you compare her to the ball of pink and panic standing next to her.

"Is she alright? Oh, God, please let her be alright," Garcia utters. She's straight in Derek's arms, who's been crying but to no one's acknowledgement because they all decided they need to be strong, for Y/N's sake. Still, it doesn't stop JJ shedding a few tears from moment to moment.

"She's in surgery," is all Hotch says, because it's all he knows. One minute he was scolding her to get off the ground and the next he was begging her to.

JJ takes a seat immediately next to Emily, and they unanimously clutch onto each other's hands. Opposite them, Morgan and Garcia do the same. It is here that JJ realises the person who should probably be in the company of his friends the most, isn't.

"Where's Spence?"

"Bathroom," Morgan tells her. "He's been in there a while. Won't talk to anyone."

So when Spencer does come out, almost on cue a few seconds later, everyone stands up attentively and tries to decide whether they will ignore his red eyes. They do, and Spencer sits down in a chair next to Morgan. He virtually collapses into his side.

Morgan is reminded of their fishing trip turned ER trip a few months prior. From the way Spencer is resting dependently on his shoulder, the days are identical, except this time Spencer's pain isn't physical and can't be fixed with five stitches.

Everyone looks at Spencer with evident pity, so he burrows himself further into Morgan's t-shirt. When Derek feels the wet indication of tears, he stands up with an arm wrapped around his shoulders and says "let's take a walk".

Spencer doesn't want to, but he's already reached the grieving stage and his body and mind are no longer connected. The only way in which they are associated is that Spencer's mind is mush and his limbs are moving so similarly sluggishly that Morgan is verging on dragging him along the hallways.

Just when Spencer is thinking that Morgan has really just brought him to aimlessly wander the corridors, his friend stops him and holds onto his shoulders. He notices how he has to look away for a moment because he never really managed to register just how bloodshot his eyes were.

"Listen here, pretty boy. You got a girl in there who is fighting for her life. She is, without a doubt, scared, okay? So you need to be strong for her and for yourself, alright? And when she pulls through, because she will, you've gotta take that strength, and you've gotta use it," Morgan said. He was prodding a finger to Spencer's chest to try and get his message across, but he had no idea what that message entailed.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying you gotta get your girl, man," his shoulders dropped.

Spencer's face portrays a small smile like he always does when he's hopeless, and his mutterings are almost drowned out by the incessant beeping of hospital machinery, but Morgan catches them.

"What if I don't get a chance to?"

They're interrupted then, much to Morgan's gratitude, because he really didn't know how he was going to respond to that.

Hotch is at the end of the hallway, his chest rising quickly in a pant. Spencer fears the worst.

"She's out."

And suddenly, nothing else matters. Not to Spencer, at least. He shoots off down the hallway like a rock in a catapult; so quickly that Morgan doesn't even ascertain his disappearance until the news has sunk in and he's chasing after him too.

He keeps thinking that. Nothing else matters, nothing else matters. He repeats the mantra in his head while he meanders frantically through the halls; he lost sight of Hotch a while ago when he raced past him and now he's realised he doesn't even know where Y/N is. Nothing else matters he justifies when he bumps into a nurse during his frenzy and doesn't have the time nor consideration to apologise.

When he reaches a small empty square, with four hallways sprouting from it, he cradles his hands behind his head and tries to control his breathing; something he's forgotten how to do correctly. He steps forward, hoping his feet will just know where to go.

Somehow, they do.

He's only taken one step, but when he advances into the hallway to his right, he hears someone breathe his name; it's weak, and feeble, but he'd know her voice anywhere.

His mouth is already agape when he looks over. The door is wide open, just like his eyes with a mixture of hope and fear-stricken astonishment. Inside the room the team is crowded around the bed, looking down on the fragile agent.

Just like before, he forgets what it feels like to move. His feet are stuck in place and even though his mind is racing there is no telling his limbs to do... anything. So, for now, he just peers into the room. Y/N's eyes are begging him to enter but he can't bring himself to do it. If he walks in that means it's real. The heart monitor, the bandages, the dried blood coating her neck that the nurses missed in their clean up: it's all real.

"Reid, trust me. This is a hell of a better ending, okay? This is the one you want," Morgan clasps his hand down on Spencer's shoulder, hissing to him to try and spark some kind of unlikely reaction, but to no avail. Spencer didn't even realise Morgan and Hotch had caught up to him.

He enviously watches them enter the room with such ease. They kiss Y/N's cheek and hug her close. Morgan leans his hands on the end of the hospital bed and tries to talk to her, but she's only looking at Spencer with betrayal in her eyes.

Before Spencer can whisper a futile apology and rush out of the hospital, his brain almost goes into override, suddenly providing him with all the reasons he should do anything but that.

He sees Y/N's face, the way she smiled at him before. The way she's always smiled at him. He hears her laughter, feels her touch. He feels the warmth he experiences whenever she is near. And suddenly, again, nothing else matters.

Nothing but you.

Hotch instinctively lets a hand hover over his holster due to the precipitous manner Spencer barges into the room with. The sole of his shoes squeak against the floor in his hurry and Y/N would grimace if she had the space to because next thing she knows Spencer's lips are on hers and his hands are encasing her face in a way that doesn't make her feel claustrophobic like she always thought it would.

She can't help but think how embarrassing it is that her coworkers are watching this scene unfold —her boss too, and she knows he'll probably be obliged to give them some talk about appropriate behaviour between colleagues, but she doesn't care. Nothing else matters but Spencer.

He doesn't stop there, Spencer wants to kiss her more and Y/N is more than happy to allow it. Her fingers can only fondle the wrinkle of his shirt because it hurts to much to raise her arms, but Spencer is practically lying on top of her and she can get a good feel of his torso through the clothing. His warmth radiates onto her and she hums happily against his lips. When he begins to pull away, she grabs onto his tie and doesn't let him.

She thinks a few of the team have turned around, because it's eerily silent except for a few sniggers from —who she assumed— Morgan, and excited squeals from —who she knew was— Garcia.

When Spencer pulled away, successfully this time, he let out a deep breath.

"I'm sorry," he croaked.

"For what?"

"I should have covered you."

"Shut up. From what I've heard you covered me pretty well," she said, and Spencer knew she had been told about his vengeful face-shooting incident. He bowed his head, and smiled weakly when Y/N pulled him back up from his tie. It became less weak when she pecked his lips.

"I'm okay," she whispered to him, like they were the only ones in the room, "we're okay. He's gonna rot for it."

Spencer nodded, and what he couldn't say in words he made up for in affection: his kisses were short, but none lacked the passion that was necessary to tell her how he felt. She felt every one of his kisses throughout her body. Where her chest ached with the pain of being shot now burned with a feverish love for Spencer.

"I, uh, I am going to have to hold a seminar on fraternisation next week," Hotch leaned forward to interject, which worked a treat in eliciting the laughter needed to brighten the mood.

Those that had turned swirled back on their heels and beamed at the new couple. Spencer sat on the edge of Y/N's bed, his hands encased around hers and resting on his lap. They exchanged assuring glances momentarily within the soft conversations of the team.

When Y/N looked up to Spencer again she smiled, and he knew she was thinking the same thing as himself: these people matter, and you, you matter the most.

fin.

[hermits-that-craft]

In My Dreams (Will You Remember Me?)

Flower Husbands Fic - Chapter Eight - Stay a While, Stay a While

Ao3 in the comments

“Aeor give me guidance.” Scott prays, kneeling in the back parlor. “Because if you give me strength, Rivendell will lose her allies to my hand.”

Scott leans back on his heels, fighting not to push his head into his hands. “I know you chose me, as your champion and the king of Rivendell, but we have been allied with idiots.” Scott grumbles. “And they want to attack Jimmy for being your champion, so I’m pleading with you for guidance.”

Scott sits in silence as dawn breaks over the mountains, listening to the serenity that the break of dawn brings.

Or what is supposed to be the serenity of the break of dawn, because one of his guards is fighting with someone. Not a physical fight, from the sounds of it, but a verbal one. Scott stands from his position on the floor, leaving an apple under the golden deer that he parents claimed represented Aoer as an offering. Scott adjusts his cape, putting his crown on his head, ready to aid his guards in getting rid of whatever disgruntled merchant decided to go straight to his house instead of his council to air their grievances. 

“You cannot demand council with our ruler, even Rivendell’s closest allies cannot do that.” She snaps, and Scott shivers. Eloise is always harsh, preferring to terrify potential threats away than calm them. Though, its not often that she has to bring up their allies to send merchants down the hill, towards town.

Scott opens the door, ready to call Eloise off, when he sees him.

Jimmy stands in the doorway, nervously holding his hands in the air. He wears the stupid codfather head, but he also glows in the light of the early morning golden hour. The snow glitters around, and the fish hybrid shivers in the wind, but Scott can’t help but to blink. It’s too early to form thoughts about this.

Aoer he’s got it bad for this man.

“Stand down, Eloise.” Scott says, finally find his voice, though its stuck in his throat and he’s not going to be able to speak to Jimmy in private if he’s asked to. “He’s a guest here.”

“Of course, your highness.” Eloise says, lifting her hand from her sword. “Shall I escort him to your office?”

“There’s no need, we’ll be in the front parlor.” Scott smiles, and Eloise glares at him for a split second before she steps aside.

“Enter, Codfather.” She says, her voice saccharine. 

“Uh, thank you?” Jimmy says, walking into Scott’s home. Eloise rolls her eyes, shutting the doors behind him.

“I’m sorry about her.” Scott says. “She’s at the end of her shift. I assume your night guards are like her?”

“Um, sure.” Jimmy says. “They’re certainly something.”

“If they’re rude to you, you ought to fire them.” Scott says, but Jimmy doesn’t seem to be listening to him.

“It’s beautiful in here.” Jimmy’s voice is barely audible, a breath on the wind, but Scott’s filled with pride anyway.

Jimmy looks over the intricate carvings on the archways, the gilded railings that lead to the higher levels. The codfather runs his hands reverently over the embroidered tablecloths, as though nothing in his home is worth even the silver stitchwork. It fills Scott with a subtle pride, though his house doesn’t look lived in - what with the maids and cleaners ensuring that nothing is ever out of place, that dust never settles on the rafters, let alone the tables - Jimmy now knows that Scott could afford to take care of him, to give him a life that's more than comfortable.

“What’s this?” Jimmy asks, and Scott walks towards his potential partner. “It’s beautiful.”

The golden statue of Aeor rests on the mantle, glittering in the light. Jimmy holds onto his clothes, as though he doesn’t want to touch it. Scott fights back a soft smile at the gesture, its kind of the man to do, even if unnecessary. Aoer would not care if one of his statues was touched, even if it were touched by someone who knows not of the god.

“It’s a statue my parents gave me” Scott says. “It’s supposed to keep me and my loved ones safe while I’m at home.”

“This is your house?” Jimmy gawks. “These two rooms are as large as my entire house.”

Scott winces, turning to avoid offending Jimmy. Why would the founder of an empire live in a hut? Sausage and Fwip built their castles outside of the town that they were given to rule over, why didn’t Jimmy build himself a castle, something fit for someone his stature.

Jimmy deserves better.

“It is my house.” Scott admits. “I built it myself, when my parents told me that I was their heir.”

“Did they?” Jimmy asks, something sad infecting his tone. “That must be nice, your design skills are impeccable.”

Scott flushes a deep crimson, blinking a few times as Jimmy giggles. That damned giggle, that mad Scott stumble over his feet as they danced during the ball, the one that makes the words solidify in his throat, that he can’t get a single syllable out. He can’t even think, just focusing on that giggle.

“Do people not compliment your builds often?” Jimmy asks, cocking his head to the side, and Scott catches a glimpse of Jimmy’s eyes.

Ocean blue, and full of mischief.

“Not to my face.” Scott lies, not wanting to vocalise the words that fight to escape his throat. “Can I ask why you’ve come over? I’m fine with this being a social visit, of course, but we’ve never exactly had those.”

“I wanted to apologise for the ball.” Jimmy says, so quietly that Scott’s heart shatters.

“You have nothing to apologise for.” Scott says, softly, ever so softly. He needs to reassure Jimmy. No one should sound that upset with themselves over a party that they didn’t even ruin. “You made my night, it was nice to dance with you.”

“I promise that I would see you soon, after that dance.” Jimmy says. “And I didn’t. I’m sorry, King of Rivendell, please accept this gift as an apology, even if you do not accept the apology.”

And Jimmy offers him a flowering blue orchid, growing in a small, hand painted pot. It’s a strong plant, the soil is wet and the flowers bright. The pot has green paint around the borders, and a silver ribbon is wrapped around the pot, tied in a neat bow.

“It’s beautiful.” Scott says, carefully taking it from Jimmy. “How do I care for it?”

“Strong light, high humidity, periods of dry soil altered with periods of heavy watering and airflow around the roots.” Jimmy says, and Scott can hear the smile in his voice. “I’m sure you’ll be able to care for it well.”

“What if I kill it?”

“Then I’ll bring you a new one.” Jimmy offers, watching as Scott carefully puts it on one of his tables. Scott watches the cod hybrid rub his arms, as though he was cold, but its rather warm in Scott’s home - kept a perfect temperature for everyone, so why would Jimmy be cold?

“You alright?” Scott asks, looking at Jimmy. “You’re rubbing your arms.”

“It’s a bit cold in here.” Jimmy sounds embarrassed, and Scott watches as he nervously shifts his balance. “It’s alright though, I’ll be fine.”

“You’re from the swamp.” Scott realises aloud. “Take my cloak, as recognition of my forgiveness.”

Scott takes his cloak off, handing it to Jimmy. Jimmy holds it as though its made of the most precious material, running his fingers over the stitching in a way that screams reverence. As though this cloak means something else, something more to Jimmy. 

Scott didn’t just intrude on some Cod Empire custom, did he?

“I can’t accept this.” Jimmy says, pushing the cloak back into Scott’s hands. “It’s too good for you to hand away. I’ll be alright, keep your cloak.”

Scott frowns for a moment, the cloak in his hands. Jimmy is a guest, not even an elf who could adapt to the cold quickly, and he’s a cod hybrid. He needs the warmth, he’ll get sick rather quickly if he doesn’t accept the cloak. Then Lizzie would kill Scott, and take back her blessing. Not only that, but it could take months for Jimmy to heal. So Scott needs to improvise.

Without thinking, Scott wraps his cloak around Jimmy’s shoulders, pulling the other man close to him as he does the top button up, taking care to ensure that he doesn’t damage the silk thread that keeps the button on. He can hear Jimmy’s breathing hitch as he does, and Scott looks down into the man's eyes, watching as something unreadable passes through them.

“Now you’ll remain warm.” Scott says, slightly breathless as he steps back.

 Jimmy looks up at Scott, and pulls the cloak closer around his shoulders. The cod hybrid steals Scott’s breath away, even though Scott can’t see his face. The cloak pools at the floor around Jimmy’s feet, the arm holes slightly too low to be practical, but he looks stunning anyways.

“Could I offer you tea, or breakfast?” Scott asks, standing in front of a plush armchair. It’s his favourite chair, though due to the fact that it’s situated in the front parlor he doesn’t use it often.

“I had breakfast before I came, but tea would be nice.” Jimmy says. 

“I’ll have that arranged, if you want to take a seat?” Scott says, smiling. He waits for a moment, as Jimmy chooses a seat, before he walks into the back parlor.

Scott quickly crosses into the kitchen, watching as one of the chefs jump in surprise. He’s already had breakfast, and it’s far earlier than he would normally arrive for a snack or a break from meetings with stuffy officials. Scott offers them an apologetic smile, and they roll their eyes, smiling at him.

“How can I help you, your highness?” They ask, turning away from kneading the bread.

“Could I bother you for some tea?”

“Meeting’s going that poorly?” They ask, washing their hands in the sink as they turn on the redstone kettle.

“I have a guest over, and he asked for some?” Jimmy deserves nice tea, and Scott hopes he’ll like it.

“The codfather’s over for a social visit?” They ask, incredulous. “You never have social visits, let alone with one of our allies' enemies.”

“He’s nice.” Scott says, watching as they pour the tea into two tea cups. “I’d like him as an ally.”

“Considering how Arel saw you put your cloak on him, I think you’d like him as more than just an ally, your highness.” They smirk, putting four biscuits on a tray. “Are you able to carry this out yourself or do you need someone to supervise the pair of you?”

“You aren’t my father, Cyran, nor my mother.” Scott says. “I can carry this, and we don’t need a supervisor.”

“Don’t make a mess of the front parlor, my lord.” They tease, passing Scott the tray. “I may not be your parents, may Aeor guide them, but I am your eldest member of staff. You were so young when I was bought onto the staff, you’re still the boy who hide behind my skirt from your tutors.”

“Please stop telling people about that.” Scott mumbles, embarrassed.

“Stop leaving your guest unattended. It’s rude.” They say, ushering Scott to the door. “I don’t want you back here until your guest has left, Scott.”

And they shut the door on Scott, making him laugh silently. Of course they kick him out to attend to the guests, they’re so stubborn. He should give them a raise.

Scott carefully carries the tray of drinks and biscuits through the back parlor, silently opening the door to navigate to where Jimmy sits. Jimmy’s looking out of the front window, watching as Rivendell bustles about as families take their children to school and adults attend to their jobs. The sun beams down, reflecting off of the snow and casting a glow into the front parlor, just as Scott intended when he designed the build. Scott places the tray down, startling Jimmy.

“Thank you.” Jimmy says, as Scott passes him a cup. “I’m not keeping you from anything, am I?”

“Not at all.” Scott lies through his teeth. His guards will inform the advisors that he’s busy, after all. Potential allies are more important than sitting through another meeting that leads to nowhere. “Am I keeping you from anything?”

“Nothing that I can’t get done later.” Jimmy takes a sip of his tea. “This is amazing.”

“Thank you.” Scott smiles. “Are you doing anything important tomorrow? I have a meeting after lunch that I must attend, but I would love to give you a tour of Rivendell.”

“I have a meeting with Fwip tomorrow.” Jimmy says, and Scott’s heart stops. “I’m going to his base to arrange a trade agreement, but maybe next Wednesday?”

“Did Fwip arrange the meeting?”

“He did.” Jimmy nods. “I don’t want to spark a war between us by entering the Grimlands uninvited.”

“Do you know what you’re going to ask him for?” Scott says, ignoring the pit beginning to form in his stomach. Fwip is something, an enemy of the Cod Empire and someone who believes that Jimmy is Aeor’s champion, which means he could harm Jimmy.

But it’s just a trade meeting, and Fwip has honour. He wouldn’t harm Jimmy during a peaceful meeting.

“Probably some gunpowder.” Jimmy shrugs, before a ring sounds from his pocket. “Oh, I’m sorry!” Jimmy pulls out his communicator, looking at the caller id before wincing.

“Something the matter?”

“I was supposed to meet with Joel now.” Jimmy winces. “I should go.”

Jimmy moves to take the cloak off, but Scott stops him, gently moving the other rulers hands from the button. Jimmy looks up at Scott, and though Scott can’t see Jimmy’s face, he can tell the codfather’s surprised.

“Keep it.” Scott murmurs. “You can return it when you come back for the tour.”

“Thank you.” Jimmy says, taking his hands from Scott’s. “I’ll see you next week.”

“I’ll see you then.” Scott smiles, walking Jimmy to the door. “Fly safely.”

“I will.” Jimmy says, walking away from Scott’s home.

Scott shuts the door, leaning on it with a sigh. Something isn’t right about this, something is so intrinsically wrong with Fwip inviting Jimmy to his empire for a meeting that Scott’s stomach turns with fear for the other man. Jimmy’s naive, the ruler of the youngest empire in this world. Even Shubble’s empire is older - just from a different dimension. Scott needs to ask Aeor to protect Jimmy. Surely they will.

Scott wonders if Jimmy liked the bouquet of roses that he left for him.

[bioodorange]

||How I See The Pastas||

© @frozensriracha, for some help with visuals!!

This was originally supposed to be how they looked but I decided to go for mental aspect and explain why as well PLEASE like, reblog and share your thoughts on this in the comments or inbox

Below the desciptions are images i’ve compiled and some art (if you know the creator please tell me so i can credit them) for a visual

dont forget to like reblog and share your thoughts with me, I spent a few days on this so i’d appreciate this

Jeff the Killer

So lets start with the obvious- jeffs pasty white toothpaste lookin skin

But realistically he wouldn’t be completely covered in scars

It would be blotchy, with pink fleshy patches among the burns

He most likely has contracture scars, third degree burns that turn the skin a pale white and tighten the skin

This explains his gaunt features and skin color

Now we have to take into account the vodka that was splashed on him, he’d probably have worse burns there with exposed flesh and damaged nerves

This would result in gnarly exposed skin, a damaged scalp and maybe damage to his teeth and eyes

Realistically, Jeff wouldnt have burned off his eyelids that alone would have resulted in blindness and death

Than his smile, his signatuure mark would probably be more of a gangly bloody scar mess

Pastas heal faster and aren’t really human, he’d have to recut his smile pretty frequently making it pretty jacket up because ltes be honest hes far from clean

ANd than his hait being chard black is very unlikely because as nasty as he is he s h o w e r s

not very frequnetly given his living situation and untreated burns but people can figure out how to wash hait and not much else

also i think its funny he’d shower with a plastic bag on his face to avoid getting soap in his nasty infected scars-

His hair would probably be dry and cut unevenly, more of a dark brown color with blonde undertones

Not to mention his burned scalp, hair probably wouldn’t grow there so he’d have a cool unintentional side shave

Jeff would also be a tall individual, he cant really eat, snacking on things from his victims homes giving him a more skeletal build

His personality and mindest is about as pretty as his face- but he most likely has a very screwed up headspace

Lacking in self care, maturity and sanity its fair to say he’d be a brash and violent person

Fun Fact: While researching this I learned that some versions of the joker had facial scars in the shape of a smile

Ticci Toby

So tobys age, unlike a lot of pastas, is pretty well agreed on, 19

So unlike when he was first a proxy toby most likely has stronger facial features and facial hair

Because shaving and hygiene isn’t first priority for pastas (gross-)

He stands around 5′7 and has grayish skin

Toby i feel is picky about foods, not only is it hard for him to eat its hard for him to keep food down

He’s malnourished explaining his thin figure and grayish skin

His hait is dark brown and a curlish mess, unkempt but short so it doesn’t get in his way

I’ve always seen him with a small gap in his teeth, because I can

And since toby can’t feel shit I wouldn’t be surprised if he tried to eat rocks simply because he fuckin could

So some chipped teeth that are a bit uneven

Along with his CIPA and not eating enough Toby would bruise easily and have lots of scars, from things like cutting his finger on accident or getting mauled by a racoon

I wouldn’t be surpised if some of his joints were a bit screwed up, because whenever theyd beak or fracture he wouldn’t notice, this would probably happen a lot causing them to not heal correctly

One of tobys habits is nailbiting but he cant te;; when too far is too far

His fingers may be abit odd looking, knobby and discolored nails because of how exetreme his habit is

Would most likely have bandages around his fingers frequently to prevent the habit

So theres a lot of debate about tobys cheek was it the CIPA or the car accident, I beileve the accident because his other cheek is completely fine, theres damage from the OUTSIDE to inside and considering his sister died in the accident its unlikely he survived unscathed

Fun Fact: only a small handful of people have ever been diagnosed with CIPA, less than 500 (documented) cases around the world

Bloody Painter

So Helen is often seen as quiet emo painter boy 

but uh no <3

Personaly i beileve he suffers from narcisistic personality disorder, exetreme importance and that he is always victorious and gets what he wants

This sporuts from the constant heavy invalidation from classmates, toxic friends and neglect from his parents

He doesn’t hang out with people because he doesn’’t lie them its because they never let him in the past and he beileves he’s better than them

But this also links to deep rooted insecurity and social anxiety/being inept completely

Him being nice is basically so you like him, he wants validation amd admiration not love

Unlike the other pastas he’d be a more clean well kept one a helthy figure and some tattoos bevause he can

I beileve he lives in socity, finding hus victims in girls and men alike who fall for his charm

he uses hhis skill and ordinary appearance to blend in on the streets

From his behavior helen most likely keeps his hair a bit shorter and clean

He always looks his best

Has chapped, and picked at lips because of his anxieties

Aswell as his breakdowns- his identity is completely in his head, he is very unsure of who he is and takes the delusions in his mind as reality

Unrelated but paino fingers-

And finally in order for his art to be as perfect and amazing as him, he has to be apart of it

Thus using his own blood in his pieces and the body parts of those he admires

Covers his scars with clean bandgaes

But his paintings turn brown and dry out, he’s always in need of a new medium

Is most likely anemic from all the blood he looses and has a paler skintone

Clockwork

ahh yes finally someone who knows what self care is-

helen, i love you buddy but you need to stop 

But anyway natalie has a stronger, athletic build

She often chases her victims and gets in altercations, relying on strength most  of the time

on that same note, this would defintelty cause many scars on natalie

Wether it was a bite mark or scars from a kitchen knife, shes got lots of scars

A few even on her face

Now, for the clock in her eye that thing is like holding her skull together at this point, realistically

She is probably delicate and cares for it becaise 1) it hurts 2) if it gets screwed up that could cause a lot of problems

natalie would be a smart person, I wouldn’t be surprused if she had a few other stray stitches or bandgaes wrapped around a fresh wound

For more visual-ish things uh m u l l e t (credit: @cum-looking-sock-mf in a chat like 4 months ago)

She has one, fight me on it

but also thick and curlish hair so I also riase you

Undershave

just y e s

I can also see her getting tattoos over certain scars on her arm, just to make them look not so ugly

I feel like clockwork wishes things worked out better

Wishes for another chance but knows she’ll never get one

Thus her taking goof care of herself

Natalie throws herseld into her “work”, keeping her body in shape and killing people

Its a way to avoid her life and that it is- a huge, sad mess

Shes an outgoing impulsive individual, confident but questions her actions

She’s also unstable- protective and loyal but explosive and strong 

Jane the Killer

Jane is the final one, im sorry I couldn’t do more theres a photo limit and I wanna bash my head into the wall

Now a main different between her and jeff is she had surgery and lie treatment

Janes skin is still greatly scarred but it is greatly healed

She takes care of it and had skin grafts

Her face is disfigured, a scarred smile and burns around

But unlike Jeff she doesn’t recarve the cut so its a cleaner line and a lot healthier

Janes hair took a rather long time to grow back, but it did! 

She has a slightly long pixie cut a bit choppy but she doesn’t mind

Her wife definetely cuts it for her and you can fight me over that

I can see Jane having a lot of facial trauma, scars around her nose and cheeks

She was young when she started killing and went for the over the person, pin them down kill which didn’t work out

She switched to a silenced pistol after awhile, you know like a smart person

Janes arms and legs are in alright condition where most of the burn trauma is on her back

She has a leaner but healthy figure but like boobs-

Like clockwork and Helen she takes care of herself

She doesn’t kill as frequently, going after a few of jeffs victims before him and is of course, actively hunting him down

Her eyes are a pale green and she wears makeip to fill in her eyebrows because those bitches take a long time to grow back

fun fact: jeff has no eyebrows, fight me

[songsformonkeys]

Bullet wounds & Bandages (dave york x reader)

Pairing: Dave York x reader

Summary: Dave shows up outside your door one evening, hurt and bleeding. You help patch him up.

Rating: Pretty safe. Some mentions of injuries but nothing worse.

Warnings: None

Notes: Written for @yespolkadotkitty​ who made the request below. She offered to beta too but it seems I have zero patience tonight so I’m posting anyway (sorry, bby, I love you <3). So the inevitable mistakes are all my own. You have been warned.

Bullet wounds and Bandages

It's just after eleven on a Sunday night when there's a knock on your door. You're already in your pajamas, curled up in front of the TV with a mug of tea and you eye the door suspiciously, wondering who would be coming for a visit at this hour.

Setting the mug down on the coffee table, you pad over to the door on bare feet. The floor feels cold in comparison to where they had just been wrapped up in a soft blanket.

When you look through the peep-hole in the door, your first instinct is to scream. Outside of your door, in the half-dark of the corridor, stands a man whose face is mostly covered in blood. Your heart feels like it's stopped mid-beat and your mind flashes back to The Shining, that you had stupidly watched on TV last night. Was this man gonna break in? And where was your phone?!

You're pulled from your thoughts when the man outside speaks. He says your name, closely followed by ”Please” and you know that voice. He shifts and as the light from the overhead lightbulb hits his face in a different way, you recognize his face too. It's Molly's dad. You've been Molly's tutor for little over a year now and while you've talked to her dad quite a lot and have even been asked to stay for dinner a few times, there's nothing in your relationship that warrants showing up at the others doorstep, looking like you'd been run over by a car. Yet here he is.

It takes you a moment to get your body working to pull the door open.

”Mr. York!” you exclaim as he almost topples over the threshold. You catch him and as your hand lands on his upper arm, it's wet with something warm and sticky. You don't need to be a genius to figure out what. The coppery smell in the air is strong enough that you can almost taste it.

You kick the door shut and lock it before hurriedly guiding Dave into the kitchen. He drags his feet and looks like he's one nudge away from falling over. You manage to get him seated on one of your kitchen chairs and in the brighter light of your kitchen, you can more clearly assess the damage. Dave has a split eyebrow, which seems to be the cause of the red mask on his face, and blood is dripping down his left arm and onto your floor. His shirt is horizontally split open and there's a long, slightly curved wound across his chest, like a fleshy grin.

”Mr. York, stay here! I'm gonna call an ambulance!” you tell him but before you have a chance to move, his right hand captures yours, pulling your attention back to his face.

”No ambulance,” he croaks and you give him a disbelieving look. Is he currently aware of the horrific picture he's currently making? ”I just need you.”

For the briefest of moments, your body has a wildly inappropriate reaction to those words and something flutters to life low in your gut, but then you have to laugh.

”Dave,” you say, switching to the more informal way of addressing him in hopes of establishing some sort of authority here. ”You're hurt. You need medical attention.”

”And you're a nurse,” Dave reasons.

”I'm a nursing student!” you protest, the pitch of your voice rising just a little.

”You graduate in three months. You'll do fine. Just follow my instructions and I'll tell you what to do. I promise I'm not dying. I just need you to be my hands.”

”I...” You glance back towards the living room, where you're pretty sure your phone is somewhere on the couch. Dave sees you looking.

”No ambulance,” he grounds out and there's a clear tone of annoyance in his voice now. It leaves no room for further argument and there's something about the way he says the words that makes you think he would physically stop you if you attempted to get to the phone now. You sigh and Dave's shoulders relax as he recognizes your defeat.

”I have a medkit in my jacket,” he tells you and jerks his head towards his left side pocket. You fish it out and inspect its contents. It's quite an impressive kit and you wonder what a man like Dave needs a kit like this for? You thought he had an office job - something with the police but an office job nonetheless. Or maybe it was just the tailored suits he always wore that had tricked you.

Dave guides you through what needs to be done. You help him out of his jacket but are forced to cut him out of his t-shirt. It's already torn and he assures you that it's no greater loss. His torso is smeared red with blood and you grab a clean kitchen towel, wetting it under the kitchen tap, before carefully cleaning away the worst of the blood to be able to better assess the damage. The slash across his chest isn't very deep and you think you'll be able to get away with taping it shut. The arm worries you more. There's a small, circular wound that's still bleeding sluggishly. Your eyes widen with realization and you look up at Dave's face.

”You have been shot,” you tell him. It's not a question. Dave nods and places his big hand over yours, where it's resting on his left forearm. It's only then that you realize that your own hand is shaking.

”I have. But don't worry about that now.” Don't worry about that now?! You have half a mind to slap some sense into him with the bloody towel. Gunshots were definitely something to worry about, in your professional opinion.

”What happened?” you can't help but ask, because curiosity gets the better of you and you can't imagine a scenario where Dave York would get shot.

”Work stuff,” he tells you, ”I'm sorry, Sweetheart, but I can't go into more details than that, right now.”

The affectionate nickname is just enough to distract you from further inquiries and Dave takes that opportunity to continue.

”I'm gonna need you to fish the bullet out and sew the wound shut. There's a pair of surgical pliers in the kit as well as needle and thread.” He speaks way more calmly than anyone with a bullet inside them has any right to. Like you're the patient that needs soothing here. It feels a little embarrassing and so you steel yourself and try to distract yourself from the circumstances of this medical exercise and just focus on getting the bullet out. It works.

Dave sits patiently through your ministrations but the strained breathing gives away that he's not as unaffected as he looks. You apologize for the pain, even though it's not your fault. There's nothing you have at home that could lessen it right now. Not unless he drinks himself unconscious and if he did, that might come with additional problematic side effects.

”Are the girls at home?” you ask, trying to distract him, as you sew the bullet wound shut, ”Because if they are, we need to call someone. Even if you don't want anyone else involved, you have to do that. I'll sew you to the chair if I have too! But you can't leave them alone, Dave.”

Dave looks up, something curious in his eyes. Then he shakes his head.

”They're at Carol's place this week.”

”Good.” You place the last stitch on his arm and move to tape the wounds on his chest and eyebrow shut. Dave closes his eyes as you gently wipe a clean corner of the towel over his face, cleaning the blood from the crow's feet around his eyes, the beautiful curve of his nose, his smooth cheek and the corner of his lips. He opens his eyes when your thumb lingers just a little too long on his soft bottom lip – the fabric of the towel, the only thing preventing a kiss. You pull away and turn to rinse the towel off in the sink before he can see more in your gaze than you would like. Have you had a crush on Dave for the better part of the year that you had been working there? Yes, but that is besides the point and more importantly, hardly the reason Dave has come over tonight.

”You can use the bathroom to clean off the rest of the blood, if you like. I'm gonna clean up here.”

You don't turn but you hear Dave get up from the chair with a pained groan before slowly shuffling off towards the bathroom.

You clean up the kitchen and hallway as best you can but the smell of blood still lingers and you know you'll have to go over it again and do it even more properly tomorrow. But right now, you're a little too jittery for mopping the floors.

Looking down, you realize that you've got some of Dave's blood on your pajamas and also that you've stepped in it and are leaving footprints where you walk. You clean off your feet and quickly disappear into your bedroom to change into a clean pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt before Dave is done in the bathroom.

When he emerges from the bathroom, still half-dressed and shirtless but a lot cleaner than before, the two of you stand awkwardly on opposite sides of the living room for a few seconds before Dave breaks the silence.

”Do you think...maybe I could stay for the night?”

”Oh thank heavens! I was worried I was gonna have to argue with you about that too,” you say with a relieved sigh. That makes Dave smile faintly.

”Thank you.”

Dave does argue a bit, however, when you tell him to sleep in the bed while you take the couch. But you make a convincing case explaining to him how the wound on his chest is going to have a much harder time to seal up properly if he sleeps cramped up on the couch, and Dave eventually gives in. He wishes you a good night, casual in a way that you might be with someone you'd just had a drink with, not someone who'd just been inside your arm with pliers, fishing out a bullet. Then he disappears into the bedroom.

You go to your hallway closet to fetch an extra set of bed sheets. You're not sure if Dave minds sleeping in your sheets but you at least want to be a good host and offer an alternative.

When you get back to your bedroom, you hear Dave cursing under his breath and find him struggling to open the buttons of his pants with one hand. The other hand hangs limp and bandaged at his side.

”Oh, you need help?” The words are out before you have fully processed just what it is you're offering and Dave replies before you have time to take the offer back.

”Please,” he says and hangs his head in defeat. Too late to take anything back now.

You set the sheets down on the edge of the bed before walking over to him, feeling your chest restricting your breathing as you get closer.

You stand in front of him and Dave meets your gaze before you look down.

”Buttons,” you say stupidly, ”Trickier.”

Dave huffs out a laugh and you feel the soft gush of air against your face. His breath smells faintly of mint, like he's been chewing gum earlier. Before you can completely chicken out, you reach for the hem of his pants, picking at the fabric to help him unbutton his pants. You go slow, trying to touch as little as possible of him, but the fabric of his jeans is stiff, making it more difficult to get the buttons free. You can see why he couldn't manage on his own. On the second button, your fingers slip and your knuckles accidentally brush over the bulge of Dave's cock. He jumps slightly and his breath stutters. You apologize instinctively, as if you've hurt him. Dave doesn't respond and as you quickly move onto the next button, you no longer feel the huffs of warm air on your face so you're not sure Dave's even breathing anymore.

When the last of the button has been popped free, you take a step back. Dave's working hand twitches as if he's about to reach for you but then stops himself.

”There. You think you can manage the rest on your own?” There's a pleading note to your voice. If Dave asks for any further help undressing, you don't think you'll be able to survive with your dignity intact. Dave hears the plea too and he nods.

”Yes. Thank you. Again.”

You smile and give him an awkward little wave before fleeing out of the bedroom.

As you stretch out on the couch a few minutes later, you try very hard not to think about Dave's reaction to the brush of knuckles and the fact that he's currently almost naked in your bed.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, you wake up before Dave does. Your couch is comfortable enough but it's not ideal for lie-ins. So you get up and start the coffee-maker. Then you wait for Dave to emerge from the den. But he doesn't.

In his defense, you hadn't told him to set an alarm but, for you, the daylight had also come with the realization that you have a lecture today that you can't miss. A lecture that would start in about an hour. If you wanted to make it on time, you would have to leave soon.

You walk over to the bedroom and knock softly on the doorframe. There's no response and suddenly you worry that Dave might have gotten worse during the night. Maybe there had been an injury that you had missed?

Carefully, you push the door open and look inside. Dave is stretched out on his back on your bed, his injured left arm laying along his side while the right one is resting on the pillow above his head. You follow the line of his right arm, along his bicep and the dark patch of hair in his armpit, down to his chest. Most of it is covered by the sheets and you can only just see the white bandage peeking out. There's a foot sticking out at the bottom of the blankets and you don't know why the sight looks so endearing to you.

Dave looks relaxed but he doesn't stir as you move into the room and you want to make sure he's really okay and that he hasn't bled through his bandages.

The one on his arm looks okay when you lean in to inspect it. The one on his chest, you can't properly see, so you reach out to lift the blanket just a fraction, without disturbing him. However, when you do, Dave's right hand shoots out like a cobra and grips your hand like a vice. It hurts and you gasp out an ”I'm sorry!”

Dave immediately loosens his grip when he realizes it's you, but he doesn't quite let go.

”Is everything okay?” he asks, voice a little rough with sleep.

”Yes. I'm sorry. I was just gonna check you hadn't bled through. I didn't want to wake you,” you explain. Dave only nods and pulls the blanket down for you to check.

”Help yourself,” he says with a soft smile and you wonder, is he even hearing himself?!

The wound on the chest seems to be in okay order as well. You tell Dave as much and also inform him about your lecture. You tell him that he can stay until you get back, if he still doesn't want to go to the doctor. Dave accepts the offer of staying and you're part annoyed and part hopeful by that response.

When you move to back away, he captures your hand again, and holds it flat against his diaphragm. You can feel him breathing under your palm and your fingers twitch with the urge to touch more of him.

”Thank you,” he says solemnly, holding your gaze with his.

”You're welcome,” you say, forcing yourself to pull your hand free from his loose hold. ”I'll see you when I get back.”

”I'll be here.” It feels both like a promise and a threat.

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

Taglist:  @yespolkadotkitty​ @agirllovespancakes​ @beccaplaying​ @pedropascalito​ @ohpedromypedro​ @synystersilenceinblacknwhite​ @knittingqueen13​ @pedropascallion​@scarlettvonsass @heatherbel​ @ahopelessromanticwritersworld​ @larakasser​ @fromthedeskoftheraven​ @seawhisperer​ @mourningbirds1​ @alwaysbethewest​ @thegreenkid​ @keeper0fthestars​ @pajamasecrets @phoenixhalliwell​ @mrschiltoncat​ @ilikechocolatemilkh @dornish-queen​ @phoenixhalliwell​