#cavities incoming

[tomatoluvr69]

Ohhhhhh my goddddddddd so I’ve basically been to the doctor three times since turning 18 and aging out of the pediatrician because of my horrible doctor fears and issues. So it’s a MOMENTOUS occasion and the culmination of years of glacial self-work that I felt ready FINALLY READY to sit down and make a doctors appointment for a routine visit!! Like that is give or take a decade in the making…….and all the ethereal alchemical elements were correct so I could finally do it this morning. But the clinic is closed and you can only do it weekdays ☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️ ok guess I am going to the doctor in 10 years probably. See you 2034

[olessan]

I am stressed :(

[not-neverland06]

we're dating? ♡

logan howlett x fem!mutant!reader

One-shot A/N: I've decided using the same X-men name/powers for the reader in my Logan fics is easier because coming up with superpowers is hard and stupid. They call you flux, like once, it's really just a nickname incoming warning for fluff so bad you'll get a cavity Summary: You're on probation from the team and official house arrest after a little accident with your powers. Logan knows you're going stir-crazy so he takes you to the arcade for some fun. And then your friendship takes a weird turn. (80's timeline in mind, but characters not from the 80’s will be mentioned) Clueless!reader

You’d had an accident, a few weeks ago. Well, accident might be downplaying it too much. You’d destroyed the garden and left a ten-foot crater in the backyard of Charles’ prestigious grounds. In your defense, you had warned them all that it wasn’t a good idea to take your cuffs off. 

The metal bands are entirely necessary to make sure you can’t lose control and wipe out everything around you. Manipulation at an atomic level is beyond fatal. You don’t want to think about what would have happened if you’d had the meltdown and the kids were anywhere near you. 

Charles had been able to shut you down, but now he’s keeping you on probation. You’ve been locked up in the mansion, unable to leave until you managed to get your abilities under control. There’s never been a problem with wearing the cuffs before. You don’t understand why he’s so against them now. 

You’re going stir-crazy. There’s only so many times you can pace your room before you start to lose your mind. He’s not even letting you teach classes anymore. You’re stuck training, all day, every day. 

“Focus!” Charles snaps and you resist the urge to turn his bones liquid. Maybe that would get him off your back. 

Instead of killing your friend, you glare at the large tank of water in front of you. You do what you’ve been doing for the past half hour. It fluctuates from liquid to gas to solid, and then liquid again. An endless cycle of repetition that makes you want to melt your brain so you don’t have to do this anymore. 

You drop your hand and huff. “This is pointless, Charles. What’s this even teaching me?”

He crosses his arms, walks over to you, and pointedly glares at the tank in front of you. You roll your eyes and look back at it. “Shit,” you hiss. In your frustration, the glass has cracked and splintered into dust. Water pools around your stool and leaks through the wood of the floor. You flick your wrist, the glass swirling around you before reforming into the tank. The water follows along, droplets lifting from the floor and dropping back into the container. 

“One moment of frustration, of distraction. That’s all it took.” Charles shakes his head and walks back over to his desk. He picks the cuffs up and you slip them silently back onto your wrists. “How can you be trusted to protect your team on the field if you can’t control this? What are you going to do when you’re panicked and fighting for your life?”

Shame bubbles in your gut. It makes you nauseous and forces your eyes to the floor so you don’t have to face him. He sighs, placing his hands on your shoulders and squeezing gently. You glance up at him briefly and he offers a strained smile. 

“This is for your protection, as much as you hate it, Flux. It’s necessary.” You scoff at the use of your X-Men name. Not much of an X-Man if you’re not even on the field anymore. 

“Right,” you mutter. “Thanks for the lesson in incompetency,” you don’t let him respond and slam the door to his office closed behind you. You feel bad the second you get outside and onto the porch. He doesn’t deserve your bitchiness. It’s your own fault you can’t get a handle on this. You don't have anyone to blame but yourself. 

You let out a dramatic sigh, throwing yourself into a rocking chair and running your hands over your face. The once comforting weight of your cuffs is now oppressing. It just feels like a constant reminder of your failure. You should already have a handle on all of this, but you struggle to even manipulate water. 

“Rough day?” You don’t open your eyes as Logan walks by. He takes a seat on the rocking chair beside you, letting out a low groan as he stretches. 

You let your hands drop into your lap, staring at the sunset so you don’t have to face him. You’ve already dealt with enough dejection today. You don’t need to look at him and be reminded that you want him in a way you can never have. 

“Mhm,” you hum, propping your head in your hand as you watch the sun disappear behind the clouds. The sky is painted in hues of pink and orange that seem too hopeful for how you feel right now. 

Logan chuckles, the sound low and gravely. It makes your heart stutter in your chest and you cringe in embarrassment. You know he can hear the way your heart practically beats free of your ribs when you’re around him. You’re sure with that nose of his he can smell some sort of hormonal change in you every time you lay eyes on him. 

You swear you’ve never felt this way about a man before. You haven’t had many boyfriends before, it’s not really common among mutants. Not many people are accepting of you when they know what you are. And some people are too into you. 

But you've had crushes, and none of them have been as bad as this one is. You want to gnaw on him. It sounds fucking insane every time you think about it. But when you train with him and he tears his shirt off, you want to sink your teeth into him and never let go. 

You feel feral around him, a side of you surfacing that you’re not used to. Maybe it’s because of his mutant abilities. They are very animalistic, it’s easy to blame that on how desperately you crave him. 

You hate being around him and despise not being in his presence. It’s conflicting, and more often than not you sound like a bumbling idiot when you speak to him because your brain is going in a million different directions. 

You hear the familiar click of his lighter and then he shifts again. You risk a peek over at him and regret it the second you do. His head is tilted back, eyes closed in relaxation as he stretches across the porch. Smoke leaks out of his lips as he groans in satisfaction. 

You have to pick your jaw up off the floor and make sure there isn’t drool on your chin. This is insane. You’re a grown woman, how does he have this much of an effect on you? He’s not even doing anything! He’s just sitting there and you want to jump his bones. 

You whip your head around, mumbling incoherently to yourself to get it together. Logan peaks an eye open and you miss the mischievous tilt to his lips. “Something wrong?”

I need to have sex with you or I’m going to explode. 

You stutter for a few seconds, getting your mind back together. “Just training with Charles,” you mutter. 

He sits up a little straighter and quirks a brow. When you don’t continue he sighs. “And?” He prods, impatient for your answer. You hope you’re not reading into it, but you think he’s been as disappointed by your absence from the team as you are. He always complains about being partnered up with Scott. You like to think it’s because he misses you. But you’re probably just delusional. 

“And, nothing,” you sigh. Your hands flop against your legs and you glare at the bands on your wrists. “No progress. I still can’t control them without these on, and my abilities are watered down and useless with the cuffs.”

Logan huffs, you’re caught off guard by the sudden warmth on your thigh. You glance down, eyes widening ever so slightly when you see his hand on your leg. It nearly covers the whole thing and when he squeezes your thigh you think you’re going to pass out. 

You’re friendly. But you’ve never been touchy. At least not like this. The placement of his palm is very intimate and you are struggling not to just get on your knees and profess your undying love. You take in a deep breath, looking up at him so you can get your heartbeat under control. 

But looking at him just makes it worse. Because there is so much faith and fondness in his gaze as he looks at you. His lips are tilted up, eyes soft, and you’ve never had someone make you feel so warm and secure from just a look. 

“You aren’t useless,” he tells you. He squeezes your thigh again before he retreats back to his chair. You have to clamp your jaw shut so you don’t beg him to keep touching you and never stop. “You’re just stuck in this house all day. You’ve got nothing to do but sit in your failure.”

You scoff and throw yourself back in your seat. “Don’t remind me. I’ve begged Charles to let me out.” Your gaze drifts to the crater in the backyard. Some of the kids have been working on filling it in, but whatever energy you’d let go of has left a permanent mark. “He refuses to give me permission.”

Logan laughs, the noise teasing and a little mean. Your brows furrow and you glance over at him with a questioning look. He tilts his head in disbelief like you’re an idiot. “Seriously, Flux? Just fuckin’ leave, who gives a shit?”

“Uh,” you think on it for a minute before weakly settling on, “Charles?”

His face falls and you sink lower into your seat. He looks out at the yard, gaze distant. His jaw clenches a few times before he puts the cigar out on the ashtray beside him. He gets to his feet and you think he might just leave. Instead, he turns towards you. 

You’re caught off guard by the little smirk on his face. “Wanna have some fun?”

Only an idiot would say no. 

You grin and place your hand in his, yelping slightly at how easily he pulls you to your feet. You stumble into his chest and are hesitant to back away when his hand drifts to rest on your waist. He looks down at you, smiling, he squeezes your waist once before he backs up. 

“Come on, kid.” He tugs you inside the house, leading you downstairs to the garage. You already know what he’s going for before the door is even open. 

“Didn’t Scott tell you to leave his bike alone?” Logan takes a step inside. He pauses, glancing over his shoulder and grinning at you. It makes your breath catch in your throat, the happiness on his face. You never see him like this around the others. 

You hate thinking like that. Placing too much importance on your relationship with him will only lead to heartbreak down the road. But, you never see him act the way he does with you with anyone else.

“Since when have I ever listened to Cyclops, sweetheart?” 

“Good point,” you mutter, moving to stand next to him. 

He straddles the seat and looks over expectantly at you. “Don’t you need a helmet?”

You shake your head, “Oh, no, it’ll ruin my hair.” You laugh but he gives you a deadpan look. You don’t regenerate the way he does. An accident would be a lot more fatal for you than it would be for him. You huff, “Relax, Lo, I can use my powers.” When he looks like he’s not going to drop it, you let some energy swirl around your fingers. It solidifies the air around your skin, you reach up and flick at his skull hard enough to hear the metal ding. 

He grunts, glaring down at your hand while you grin. “See,” you whisper, sliding onto the back of the bike and wrapping your arms around his waist. “I’m perfectly safe.” He shakes his head and starts the bike. 

The ride to the arcade is spent in silence. Logan always seems to break every speeding law known to man whenever he takes Scott’s bike out. You’re not sure if he does it to purposefully piss the man off, but it makes you cling to him like a wild animal. You feel like if you hit one speed bump you’re going to go flying. 

By the time he parks your legs feel like jello. He laughs a little at the way your face has blanched. Again, he offers you a hand and holds the door open to lead you inside. You’re trying not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but this whole thing is odd. 

You guys are friends. And you’re friendlier with each other than most of the mutants in the school. But this feels different somehow. For one, Logan kind of despises the arcade. It’s an amalgamation of bad smells and loud noises, and it overwhelms his already sensitive senses. You’ve heard him complain about the smell of body odor and fake cheese enough times when you went on a field trip with the kids. 

Secondly, he’s being more touchy than he normally would. You’re not complaining. You weren’t exactly hugged a lot as a kid, mainly just passed between different mutant fetish clubs. Logan isn’t known for handing hugs out so easily. But right now, he doesn’t seem to be ready to not have at least one hand on you. 

Maybe he’s just cheering you up. You need to stop drifting so far into your mind and just enjoy the night. “Alright, what’s first bub?”

You grin and drag him towards the claw machine. “I’m horrible at these things,” you inform him as you put your quarters in. “But, I hold out hope that one day I’ll be able to actually beat this monster.”

Three failed attempts later, it’s become embarrassingly clear that you will never beat the claw machine. Logan isn’t even trying to hide his amusement as you become increasingly more frustrated. There’s a certain point where this game stops being fun and starts to be an affront to your character. 

Logan peers into the machine and asks, “What are you going for?”

“The pigeon,” you mutter. Your tongue pokes between your lips, and your eyes narrow in concentration. You aim the claw over the pigeon perfectly and slam your hand down on the big red button. 

You’re allowed five seconds of celebration before the damn thing slips out of the claws grasp and tumbles into the pile of stuffies below. “Dammit, Bart,” you let the ridiculous name you’ve come up with for the toy slip.

Logan snorts, leaning against the glass while you jam another quarter in the slot. “Bart?” He teases. 

You shake your head and give him a look out the side of your eye. “What, you think I call myself Flux because I’m good at coming up with names?” You give up after the last failed attempt and turn to face him with a huff. 

He clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “Tough luck, kid.” He slings an arm over your shoulder and pulls you towards the concession stand. 

“Shut up,” you laugh, slapping lightly at his chest. 

The rest of the night is nice. He doesn’t play much except for the strength-oriented games. And then you kind of just exploit him for more tickets. By the time you get back to the mansion, you’ve forgotten all about why you were upset in the first place. 

Nothing had gone wrong, you didn’t have a total meltdown and wipe out the entire arcade. You don’t know why Charles was so afraid of letting you out. 

Logan walks you back to your room, his hand heavy on your lower back as you head up the stairs. You’re talking endlessly, filling up any gap of silence with rambling you’ve lost track of. You don’t know what it is about him that invites you to yap the way you do, but you’re always embarrassed by it the second he leaves. 

You reach your door and smile up at him. “Thanks, Lo.”

He gives you a soft smile, his eyes wrinkling endearingly at the corners. He reaches up and brushes some hair off your shoulder. There’s a certain shift in his expression that has your breath stopping short. Whatever else you were going to say to him tumbles off into an incomprehensible whisper. 

He leans down and every inappropriate thought you’ve ever had about him suddenly surges to the front of your mind. Your lips part in anticipation, thinking he’s going to kiss you and your fantasies are going to come to life. 

His lips brush against your cheek so gently you almost don’t feel them. “‘Night Flux,” he leans back and your body goes with him. He backs off with a smile, walking down the hall to his own room. You feel dazed, eyelashes fluttering rapidly as you fan your cheeks and try to come to terms with what just happened.

He didn’t kiss you, but you oddly aren’t disappointed. You go to bed that night with a lovesick grin on your face. Well, you would have. Were it not for the annoyingly British voice ringing out in your head, “Training’s at four tomorrow morning. Consider it your punishment for sneaking out.”

“Fuck,” you hiss to yourself. Stupid fucking telepaths. 

You thought the arcade was a one-off moment. But Logan keeps sneaking you out of the mansion. Charles hasn’t officially lifted the house arrest, but he’s given up trying to keep you inside. Besides, you’ve essentially got a chaperone since Logan is always with you. 

You make lunch for the two of you and he’ll take you out to the woods for a picnic. Or you’ll go to the movies together. Sometimes you don’t even do anything, just linger around each other. You enjoy the company, and you love having these quiet moments together with no one else around. 

Your favorite part of all of this has to be the way he’s started touching you. He’s always got a hand on your leg or back. And if he can’t do that, then you’re tucked into his side. It’s feeding into a starved part of you that you’ve left neglected for far too long. 

It’s only been about two weeks of these fun little adventures and odd behavior. You’re dreading the moment they’ll stop. You’re not sure when Logan’s going to deem you properly cheered up, but you’re hoping it’s not anytime soon. 

There have been a few more moments where you think your friendship might turn into something more, and every time you’ve been interrupted. You’re actually starting to feel a little edged. You’ve been considering just grabbing him and planting one on him. But every time you think about it you get sick to your stomach. 

You don’t want to make a move on him and end up getting rejected. You know he’s just being a good friend and taking care of you so you don’t end up spiraling too far in your head. It’s happened before, when you’ve been struggling with your abilities. He’s just keeping you from shutting down again and you don’t want to make him uncomfortable because you’re hopelessly in love. 

When you walk out of your room this morning you’re immediately smacked in the face. “What the fuck, guys?” You yell at the two kids running past your room. Not the best language for someone who's supposed to be a role model. You can’t be bothered though, not when they’re running around throwing pink rolls of streamer at your face. 

“Sorry!” Mary calls over her shoulder, laughing as she pins a heart up onto the wall. You’re sure Charles won’t appreciate the hole in his old ass mahogany wood. It’s only as you watch her run down the stairs that you register just what is going on. 

There is pink and red everywhere. It looks like Dollar Store Cupid has thrown up all over the mansion. You’ve been so caught up in your attraction to Logan that, ironically, you’ve forgotten what month it was. 

You grumble bitterly to yourself as you trudge down the stairs. Another Valentine’s Day alone and single. How lovely. You spot two kids giggling to themselves by the banister, they lean in like they’re going to kiss and you gag. “Hey!” You snap, and they jump apart, eyes wide with fear. “Quit it, get out of here.” They scramble off and you feel just a little bit vindicated. 

“Not a fan of young love, Flux?”

You groan and roll your eyes, turning around to find a very smug Scott watching you bully teenagers. “Shut it, Summers,” you warn. You point an accusing finger at him and he raises his hands in surrender. Faux innocence played across his insufferable smirk. “When you’re in a committed relationship, you don’t get to judge me.”

His brows turn down in confusion, “Wait, but aren’t you and Logan-”

He’s cut off by the sound of a loud crash down the hall. You both turn around just as one of the classroom doors slams open. A bright pink explosion hurtles from the doors and a throng of coughing students follows. 

Jubilee walks out a minute later, a guilty expression on her face. “Sorry, I was just trying to make it more Vanetine-y.” 

You glance over at Scott, grinning widely at him while you pat his shoulder and walk past him, leaving him to clean up the mess. “Enjoy the young love, Summers.”

You actively avoid Logan all day. You’re already facing constant reminders of how lonely you are. You see kids walking around with baskets of bears and chocolates. Or you catch them passing notes in class with scribbled hearts all over the front. 

There’s only so much a girl can take before she loses it. The last thing you need is to be faced with the man you have the worst unrequited crush on in history. But he doesn’t seem to get the hint. He’s everywhere you go, popping up around corners and trying to catch your attention. 

You keep brushing him off and pretending like you have something urgent you’re going to be late for. Eventually, though, he was going to catch up with you. 

It happens in the kitchen. Most of the kids are in their rooms or the library. The noise has died down and you’re alone. You grumble to yourself, ripping down a pink streamer that keeps drifting across the top of your head and pissing you off. You grab a frozen meal from the fridge and are about to microwave it when he speaks. 

“Huh, thought you’d want something a little more romantic than a frozen burrito.” 

You gasp, clutching your chest and whirling around on him while your heart races. “Logan, Jesus, you scared me.” He’s frowning at you, eyes glaring at the frozen package in your hand. “Um,” you toss it back in the freezer but the look on his face isn’t going away. “Yeah, I might just go with cereal instead.”

He looks at you and then glances behind him. You peer around his shoulder but you don’t see anything. Without much warning, he grabs your wrist and pulls you towards the stairs. “Logan?” There’s no point in trying to resist him, he could just toss you up the stairs if he wanted to. Still, the silence is kind of creeping you out. 

You call his name a few more times but give up when he makes it clear he’s not going to be answering you anytime. There’s a rotten feeling in your stomach. You have this awful idea like you’re in trouble for something. Like a little girl who's gotten her hand caught in the cookie jar too many times. 

He stops you in front of his door and nods towards it. “You want me to go inside?” He crosses his arms and glares down at you. You huff and mutter, “Jesus, fine.” What the hell is wrong with him?

You grab the doorknob to his room, glaring at him while you do. You throw the door open dramatically, taking a step inside and surveying the area. “Wow,” you suck your teeth and shake your head. “You have not decorated at all.”

“Shut up, smartass,” he mutters in your ear. Chills prick at your skin from his proximity. A shudder goes down your spine as the low tone of his voice reverberates through you. “Look a little harder.”

You roll your eyes but acquiesce. Another run over the room finally shows you what you missed. You gasp and rush towards his bed, “Holy shit, Bart!” He chuckles behind you as you pick the stuffed pigeon up. 

“Went back for him after we left,” Logan tells you. 

You glare at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “How many tries did this take you?” He mouths a smug one and you roll your eyes in irritation. You look back down at the pigeon and smile.

He smells like the inside of a claw machine. His head is sewed on crookedly and you’re pretty sure he’s missing an eye. But he’s absolutely perfect to you. You’re about to thank Logan when you spot something metal wrapped around the stuffie’s neck. “What’s this,” you mumble to yourself. 

You slide your fingers under the chain and tug it off Bart’s neck. Logan’s dog tags dangle off your fingers and you stare at him in shock. A sudden cold dread washes over you and you find yourself immobile. “Logan,” you trail off, an unspoken question following his name. 

He smirks, walking towards you and slipping the tags out of your hand. “I wanted you to have this,” he says, his voice low like this moment is too precious to break, “so you know you’re not alone. You’re always so afraid of what’s going to happen if you lose control out in the field. But you forget, you’re not alone. You have me, you’re always going to have me.” He places the tags over your neck, untucking your hair from the chain. 

You don’t even have words for him. It’s such a deeply personal gift. But this also feels incredibly intimate. There’s no possible way for you to reason this away. This isn’t something “just friends” do. 

He seems to prefer your silence, anyway. One of his hands drifts from your neck and cups your jaw. With the utmost tenderness, he lifts your face to his. “Wanted to do this for a while,” he whispers. You almost ask what he’s talking about, but his lips are already covering yours. 

It’s incredibly soft, this kiss, softer than you’re used to. He’s barely putting any pressure on you and it makes you realize that you’re still not moving. You’re just standing there in shock, eyes wide open while the man you’ve wanted since you’ve known him kisses you. 

You drop Bart to the floor and your arms come up to twine around his neck. You finally close your eyes, let your body melt into his knowing he’ll catch you. The second you reciprocate he really kisses you. Neither of you hold back, each of you pouring all the pent-up desire you’ve felt for each other. 

You’ve spent so long dancing around this, around each other. It’s like a missing puzzle piece is returned to you as Logan holds you. You feel full, complete, warmer than you ever have before. 

You part from him - needing air - painfully slow. You don’t want to spend a second away from him now that you have him. You wish you didn’t have to breathe. Wished you could have kept kissing him and never stopped. 

Logan chuckles, pressing a kiss against your forehead like he can read your thoughts. You can feel the dorky smile that’s about to split your cheeks. You bite your lip, hoping it might suppress it, but you know it’s pointless. 

You look up at him with a cheeky twinkle in your eye. “Are you asking me to be your Valentine, Lo?”

He scoffs and pulls away from you slightly. “Do you have to ask your girlfriend to be your Valentine?”

Your eyes widen and your mouth opens and closes rapidly. “I- Well- I mean,” you take a full step back from him and shake your head. “What?” You finally settle on. “I mean, I’m not objecting, at all, but what?”

Logan tilts his head, a disbelieving look on his face. “What do you think we’ve been doing the past three weeks?”

You shake your head, stuttering and struggling for an answer. “I don’t know. I thought you were being a good friend!”

He smiles, there’s no irritation on his face at your cluelessness. If anything he seems to be more endeared to you. “You think I take all my friends on romantic picnics in the woods?”

You sigh, letting out a long disappointed breath. You can’t believe you’ve been so blind. When you think about it, his behavior lately makes a lot more sense. You’re not sure how you were able to trick yourself for so long. 

“Well,” you start, walking back towards him as he pulls you into a hug, “certainly not Scott.” He huffs and shakes his head. You give him a sheepish smile, brows knitted together. “I can’t believe we’ve been dating this whole time.”

He just presses another kiss to your temple and shrugs. “It’s alright, sweetheart, you can make it up to me by being my Valentine again next year.”

There’s something unspoken in his voice. A promise that he’s planning to be around for a lot longer than a year. You smile at him, silently promising the same. “Only if you’re mine.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

a/n: i’m gonna gag actually. Made myself cringe there at the end. I want a valentine next year so bad, it’s sad. But what’s the point of a valentine if it’s not going to be Logan?

end. — I do not own the characters or the comics/movies Wolverine/X-Men, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

dividers by @/thecutestgrotto

[strawberry-jackalope]

I like to think I'm fine and not hanging by a thread, then a little thing happens and I gotta not cry over it

[noisynaia]

𝑀𝑈𝐹𝐹𝐼𝑁𝑆 𝐴𝑁𝐷 𝐽𝐴𝑀

Written for the lovely @pedrostories Secret Santa event 2023

My dear giftee is @katiexpunk, hope you like it! 💕

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader 

word count: 3.2k 

summury: You moved into your new house six months ago, and you love your new home. It is spacious and has a lovely little garden, and it also just so happens to include the hottest single dad with the sweetest little girl you’ve ever met as your new neighbors. Over the months you have gotten to know them more and more. Little Sarah has fallen head over heels for your labradoodle Sofie and often comes over to play with her in your garden, and as you have gotten to know him more and more, you have fallen head over heels for her father, Joel.

note: Pre/no outbreak. Next door neighbors. Fluff. Baking. This is the first fic i've written in seven months, so sorry for being super duper rusty. English isn't my native language. This was supposed to be something completely different, but my laptop broke, (the 'screen part' literally just fell off?!) so I didn't have near as much time for this as I would have preferred, so sorry if this seemed rushed (it sadly was). But nonetheless, happy holidays ya'll! I'm so happy to be back, and aiming to write much more again in the new year ♥︎

Joel stands in the kitchen, staring hopelessly at the empty sugar canister while cursing under his breath, feeling the dull pressure behind his eyes and nasal cavity which usually indicates an incoming tension headache. He had been sure that it was full, but no, it’s as empty as his hope for successfully making these damn muffins. The curse words escape his lips like a symphony of frustration, echoing off the empty walls of the kitchen. Joel can feel the frustration sinking into his bones. 

He had promised Sarah that he would bake muffins for her school function, despite not being a very good nor patient baker. But he would do anything to make his little girl happy. He had thought that they could bake them together, that it would be a fun father-daughter activity, but work and chores and Sarah’s soccer practice and honestly just life in general had gotten in the way of those plans. 

So now he stands here, the night before Sarah needs the muffins, without one of the most essential ingredients. It’s late, way past Sarah’s bedtime, who is sleeping soundly in her room.  Joel would  have to wake her up and take her with him if he’s going out to buy more sugar. But he really doesn’t want to wake her, she needs her sleep, but there is also no way in hell he’s leaving her alone while he runs to the store even if she’s just sleeping. 

As he stands here contemplating his options, you appear in his mind. You do that frighteningly often these days, and deep down he knows exactly why, but he has to suppress it. He is too busy, and too grown, to go around getting crushes on pretty women with cute dogs who move into houses next door to him, and who is always so sweet and funny, and who is so sweet and nice to his daughter, and…. No. He has to stop this. He shouldn’t think about you like this. 

He is mature enough to admit to himself that he is attracted to you, very attracted to you, but admitting to the feelings he has caught is a whole other can of worms, which he is not going to even attempt to look into. He is a single dad to a six year old, focused on taking care of his daughter and providing for her needs.

But in this moment, as he stands in the kitchen with an empty sugar canister mocking him, he feels a tug in his heart, a desperate need for help. He reluctantly gives in to the idea that perhaps you might have some sugar to spare… 

It would be nice to see you, but he also really doesn’t want to disturb you, and something about knocking at your door this late at night gives him a funny feeling in his stomach. 

Joel shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts as he focuses on the task at hand. He glances at the clock on the wall, realizing that time is slipping away. With a sigh, he reluctantly decides that he has no choice but to go next door and ask you for some sugar.

As he walks across the lawn and up to your front door, Joel can feel his heart racing. Why does he feel so nervous about such a simple request? He hesitates for a moment, contemplating whether he should knock or just turn around and forget about the whole thing. But the thought of disappointing Sarah and ruining her school event pushes him forward.  He takes a deep breath and knocks on the door, attempting to calm his racing thoughts.

Shortly after, the door swings open, and there you are, standing with a warm smile on your face. Your eyes light up as you see Joel, and Sofie, your adorable dog happily greets him as well. Joel can’t help but feel his heartbeat quicken even more at the sight of you.

“Hi,“ you smile at him. “What brings you here at this hour?” you ask curiously.

Joel awkwardly shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his nerves getting the best of him. “I hate to bother you, but I’m in a bit of a jam. I promised Sarah I would bake muffins for a thing at her school tomorrow, but I ran out of sugar. Do you, by any chance, have some to spare?" 

Your smile widens, and you tilt your head slightly. “Of course, I’d be happy to help you out. Come on in, I’ll grab it for you.”

Joel breathes a sigh of relief as you invite him inside. He steps into your warm and inviting home, noticing the pleasant aroma from what he guess must be a scented candle or something of the sort. It feels comforting and familiar, contrasting with the chaos and frustration that he left behind in his own kitchen.

He follows you into your kitchen, taking in the sight of the cozy space. The countertops are clutter-free, and a few potted herbs sit on the windowsill, basking in the moonlight. It’s a stark contrast to his own kitchen, which is always a whirlwind of activity and unfinished tasks.

As you retrieve the sugar from your well-stocked pantry, Joel can’t help but admire the ease with which you move around the kitchen. Your familiarity with the tools and ingredients is evident, invoking a sense of calm in him. He wonders how you manage to maintain such a serene environment amidst the chaos of daily life.

Unable to contain his curiosity any longer, Joel finally musters the courage to ask, “How do you do it? How do you manage to keep everything so neat?”

You pause for a moment, a kind smile on your face as you hand Joel the sugar. “Well, for starters, I don’t have a kid," you chuckle, “and I guess it’s just about priorities, and since I work from home, I find that having a clean and organized space helps me stay focused and reduces unnecessary stress.”

Joel nods at your answer. He can’t help but admire how put-together you seem, both in your home and in your life. It’s something he strives for but often falls short of, with the chaos that comes with being a single parent. 

“You’re doing really well by the way,” you smile at him, interrupting his thoughts, as if you can sense his doubts. “Sarah is really lucky to have you.” Joel’s cheeks flush at your compliment, feeling a wave of gratitude wash over him. He never believed he was doing enough for Sarah, constantly doubting himself as a parent. But your words validate his efforts and provide a much-needed boost of confidence. “Thank you,” he says softly, a mixture of appreciation and relief lacing his voice. “I always worry that I’m not doing enough, that…” he pauses. 

Your expression is filled with understanding. “I can’t talk from experience, but I know that parenting is never easy. But trust me, Joel, Sarah knows how much you love her and how much you’re doing for her. And I think you are doing a wonderful job,” Joel’s eyes meet yours, and he sees genuine sincerity reflected in them. It’s as if a weight has been lifted off his shoulders, the burden of his self-imposed expectations slowly dissipating. You speak with such warmth and wisdom, Joel’s heart swells with gratitude for your presence in his life. He never imagined that a simple request for sugar would lead to such a meaningful conversation. 

“Thank you,” Joel says, his voice filled with genuine gratitude. “That means more to me than you’ll ever know.”

 You smile warmly at him, reaching out to gently squeeze his arm. “Joel, you’re a great dad. Don’t ever doubt yourself.” As Joel thanks you once again, he can’t help but feel a warmth spreading throughout his heart. It’s a feeling he hasn’t experienced in a long time, and it fills him with a sense of hope and possibility. Before he leaves, Joel can’t help but ask, “Would you wanna come over for dinner sometime? I am a much better cook than baker and Sarah has begged me to have you and Sofie over and visit.” 

You smile and nod, your eyes sparkling with excitement. “I would love that, Joel.” 

Joel feels a surge of warmth, at your smile. Thanking you again he turns to leave, sugar in hand, he musters up the courage to say one last thing. “I’m happy that it was you who moved in next to us.  It’s been nice getting to know you and having you around.”

You smile warmly, your eyes twinkling, and an almost bashful expression on your face which catches Joel a little off guard. “Likewise, Joel. I’m always here if you need anything, whether it’s sugar or just someone to talk to.” you add the last part with a teasing smile, but the sincerity in your words are clear. 

“I really appreciate that,” Joel says, his voice filled with sincerity. 

“And just so you know…” you give him a bashful smile.“That includes help with baking muffins.”  

Joel feels how his stomach does a flip as he understands what you’re saying. “Would you like to help me bake some muffins?”  

“I’d love to,” you say happily, your smile growing and Joel can’t help but feel a sense of excitement through his body. “I’ll be over at yours in ten, how’d that sound?” you ask. 

Joel’s heart leaps at the thought of spending more time with you. “Sounds good to me.” 

“Cool, see you in ten then.” You grin at him. Joel smiles back at you, feeling a sense of anticipation building within him. 

As Joel heads back to his house, sugar in hand  he can’t help but smile, he had been so tired and frustrated only a little while ago, but now he suddenly feels fully recharged. 

____

Ten minutes… You have ten minutes to make yourself look somewhat decent, in a casual, ‘I’m just going over to my extremely attractive dilf neighbor whom I have a big fat stupid crush on’ way. No pressure at all. 

As you race to your bathroom to check yourself over in the mirror, you take a deep breath to calm your racing heart. You touch up your makeup, adding a touch of lip gloss and swipe on a new coat of mascara, you brush your teeth, and spritz on a little perfume. After making sure you look presentable, you opt for a comfortable yet cute outfit, realizing that you don’t want to come off as too overdone. 

Satisfied with your appearance, you grab a small container of homemade blueberry jam from your fridge. It may not be muffins, but it’s a sweet treat that you can bring to share. With jam in hand, you head out the door, your heart fluttering with anticipation.

As you approach Joel’s house, you can’t help but appreciate the calmness of the night. The moon shines brightly above, casting a soft glow on the neighborhood. You hear the faint sound of crickets chirping, and the warm breeze carries the scent of blooming flowers. Everything feels serene and magical, heightening your excitement.

You reach Joel’s doorstep and take a moment to collect yourself. You remind yourself to be casual and relaxed, even though your heart is pounding in your chest. With a steadying breath, you knock on the door.

Joel opens it with a warm smile, and you instantly feel at ease. His eyes light up as they land on you, and you can't help but blush under his gaze. “Hi,” he greets you softly. “I'm so glad you could make it.”

You return his smile, extending the container of blueberry jam towards him. “I brought some homemade jam. I thought it would be nice with the muffins and I remember Sarah telling me she loves blueberries.”

Joel's eyes widen in pleasant surprise, and his smile widens. “That is so thoughtful of you. Thank you, darlin’.”

‘Darlin’...’ Your heart flutters at the endearment as you step inside his house, the word falling so naturally from his lips. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the air, mingling with the scent of warmth and comfort. It’s a homey and cozy feeling that instantly puts you at ease.

As you enter the kitchen, you notice the ingredients for the muffins laid out, ready to be used. There’s a twinkle of anticipation in Joel’s eyes as he gestures towards them. “Do you want to get started?”

You nod eagerly, not wanting to waste any more time. “Definitely. Let’s make these muffins amazing.”

For the next few hours, you and Joel work side by side, measuring ingredients, mixing, and chatting as you go. The conversation flows effortlessly between you, ranging from lighthearted jokes to more personal stories, and the atmosphere somehow turns more and more flirty, making excited butterflies flutter in your stomach. With each moment, you can feel the connection between you deepening, like ingredients coming together to create a perfect blend.

As the muffins bake in the oven, filling the kitchen with their delicious scent, the two of you take a well-deserved break. Joel pours two cups of coffee, and you find yourselves sitting at his kitchen table, sipping the warm brew in comfortable silence.

The soft glow of the overhead light casts a warm and cozy ambiance over the room. Despite the tiredness in his eyes from a long day, a smile tugs at the corners of Joel’s lips as he watches you take a sip of your coffee. There’s a comfortable silence that envelops the two of you, a sense of ease and contentment that comes from being in each other’s company.

As you set your cup down, you turn to Joel, your eyes filled with a mix of playfulness and sincerity. “You know, Joel, I have to say. These muffins wouldn’t have turned out as amazing as they did without your expert baking skills.” A teasing smirk dances on your lips.

Joel chuckles softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Well, I may have had a little help from a certain someone,” he says, a hint of affection lacing his voice.

You playfully nudge him with your shoulder. “Oh, so now I’m just your personal baking assistant, am I?” you retort, pretending to be slightly offended.

Joel’s smile widens, his eyes sparkling with humor. “No, no, not at all. You’re so much more than that,” he reassures you, his voice brimming with sincerity. “You’ve brought light into my life, darlin’. Ever since you moved in next door, things just feel...better.”

The warmth in Joel’s words seeps into your heart, igniting a deep stirring within you. A connection that goes beyond the simple act of baking muffins is forming between the two of you, growing stronger with each passing moment.

Before you know it, the timer for the muffins goes off, snapping both of you out of the gentle bubble you’ve created. You share a laugh, realizing that you may have gotten carried away in the moment.

Joel stands up and walks over to the oven, his movements fluid and confident. He takes a deep breath, a look of anticipation on his face. “Well, here goes nothing,” he mutters to himself as he opens the oven door and retrieves the tray of freshly baked muffins.

The delightful aroma wafts through the kitchen, filling the air with its tantalizing scent. Joel carefully sets the tray down on the counter, the muffins still warm to the touch. He reaches for a plate and begins arranging the muffins, creating a beautiful display.

You watch him with admiration, seeing the dedication and love he pours into everything he does. In that moment, you can’t help but feel an overwhelming surge of affection towards him.

As you join him by the counter, your hands instinctively reach out to brush against each other, sending a spark of electricity up your arms. Your eyes meet, and in that instant, everything else fades away. It's just the two of you, connected in a way that feels destined. 

Joel's gaze is warm as he gazes at you, and his voice is filled with sincerity as he speaks. "I just want you to know how grateful I am for your help, for everything. You've brought so much happiness into our lives."

You smile softly at him, feeling your heart swell with affection. “The feeling is mutual, Joel.”

Joel takes a step closer, his gaze unwavering and filled with a mix of vulnerability and longing. You can’t help but notice how his gaze keeps darting from your eyes to your lips, and you feel your own heartbeat quickens in response, but a sudden surge of bravery fills you as well. You can’t just be imagining this. “You can if you want, you know.” you whisper.

You can almost see how Joel’s breath catches in his throat by your words, his eyes widening slightly in surprise. He searches your face, trying to comprehend your words. “If I want...what?” he asks, his tone laced with both curiosity and hope.

A soft smile graces your lips as you reach out to gently take his hand in yours. “You can kiss me,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “If you want.”

“I want to, more than anything.” He brings his free hand up to gently cup your cheek, his fingers grazing your skin with tender affection.

With bated breath, the world seems to stand still as your faces draw closer together. The anticipation hangs in the air like an electric current, and as your lips finally meet, it feels like a rush of warmth cascading throughout your bodies.

The kiss is soft, tender, and filled with an underlying passion that has been building between you. It's a culmination of longing, uncertainty, and hope, all coming together in that single moment of connection.

As your lips move against each other, the outside world fades away, and all that matters is the tenderness you share. Time seems to stretch, allowing you to savor each second of this newfound intimacy.

When you finally break apart, breathing slightly heavier, Joel's eyes search yours, seeking reassurance and confirmation. "Was that okay?" he asks, his voice laced with vulnerability.

You smile warmly at him, a sparkle in your eyes. “More than okay,” you reply, your voice filled with sincerity. “It was everything I hoped it would be.”

A wave of relief washes over Joel as he pulls you into a gentle embrace, his arms enveloping you in a sense of security. Resting his chin on the top of your head, he whispers, “I'm glad, because I've been wanting to do that for a long time.”

And in that moment, as you stand in Joel's warm embrace, you realize that sometimes the sweetest moments in life come unexpectedly. As you snuggle into his embrace, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your cheek, you can't help but be grateful for the empty sugar canister and the twist of fate that brought you together. Love has a funny way of sneaking up on people, and you can’t wait to see where this new chapter with Joel and Sarah takes you. With muffins in the oven and love blossoming in your hearts, this late-night adventure is just the beginning of a sweet, heartfelt journey together.

[extinctionstories]

Extinction is always accompanied by unanswerable questions. Absence makes mysteries of the simplest details: the Passenger Pigeon's weight; the Dodo's tail; the diet of the Thylacine.

We know more about some species' cause of death than we do about the life that preceded it. When its last refuge was clearcut in the 1940's, the biggest question about the Ivory-Billed Woodpecker’s disappearance was whether it was, in fact, gone. But another mystery nagged from the depths of the swamp.

Like the Ivory-Bill, the stronghold of the Carolina Parakeet had been old-growth wetland forest—rich with cypress nuts too hard for other birds to crack, and plentiful places to roost and rear young. Though extirpated elsewhere by hunting & the pet trade, the bird should likewise have been expected to persist in the wildness of the Southern swamps. Yet the common parakeets vanished 40 years sooner than did the woodpecker.

A cavity-nester, the Carolina Parakeet made its home not among tree branches, but inside their dead, hollow trunks. The Ivory-Bill was able to drill itself a new nest each year, but a beak made for cracking cypress shells was useless at excavating solid wood, and parakeets were dependent upon whatever hand-me-down hollows they were able to find.

There are other species that live in secondhand nests. And the fingerprints of human influence can be found far beyond the reach of a physical hand.

The honeybee was brought to North America in 1622, and the European imports quickly set off on their own New World conquest, heralds of the incoming tide. In less than 200 years, they were established throughout the lands east of the Mississippi River. Most often, feral swarms would build their buzzing homes inside of hollow trees.

There's no way to know for sure how large a part the European Honeybee played in the loss of the Carolina Parakeet. But we do know that swarming honeybees have been documented stealing nests from the vulnerable ‘Ua'u bird of Hawaii, leaving limp bodies welted with stings beneath their feathers.

We know, too, the impact that our current honeybee-centric system of agriculture has upon the 4000+ species of bee native to North America, 1 in 4 of which is threatened with extinction. Wild bees require diverse diets and habitat to thrive; they struggle to survive amid our sprawling, bug-sprayed monoculture, much less meet the demands of its pollination.

Without the honeybee, it’s often said, our industrialized foodchain would collapse. But, maybe it isn't too late to find ways to prevent everything else from crumbling at our expense.

The title of this painting is 'The Colonizers'. It is gouache on 18x24" paper, and is #6 in my series about the Carolina Parakeet.

[ckret2]

Chapter 33 of human Bill is still the Mystery Shack's prisoner:

Stan takes Bill to get fillings from a creepy dentist in the back of a white van. And also they're handcuffed together the whole time.

Hijinks ensue.

Stan was startled from reading the paper by a shrill up-and-down whistle. Bill trotted into the kitchen, his voice a singsong lilt: "Incoming!"

Stan lowered the paper to glare at Bill. "Still doing that, are you?"

"Of course! I'd hate to scare you." Bill took the chair across the kitchen table from Stan. "Gooood morni—"

"Go away." Stan determinedly returned his attention to an article about the deathball arena construction.

Bill laughed. "You're funny. Anyway!" He noted Stan's plate of eggs and salsa was hidden behind his newspaper, and quietly slid the plate across the table as he spoke. "I need you to do me the teensy, tiniest little favor—"

"Nope."

"Take me to your dentist."

"No." Stan didn't even lower his newspaper. "The last time I took you anywhere, you almost made my niece cry, my brother left a Shopliftaholics Anonymous flier on my bed, and all I got out of it was a crummy ring. You wanna go somewhere, talk to Soos."

But, Bill noted, Stan was wearing said crummy ring. "Spend a day with that loser?" He rolled his eyes. "Please. I'd rather pry out my fingernails."

"You'd probably enjoy that, you freak."

"Not the point." Bill stuffed half an egg in his mouth. "Anyway, it has to be you. I need fillings, and Dr. Illing does them for free."

Stan squinted over the top of his newspaper. "How do you know about Dr. Illing?"

"What part of 'all-seeing eye' don't you get?"

Dr. Illing was a wandering dentist who spent the warm summer months in Gravity Falls. He squeezed his van and trailer into alleys between businesses in town, where he both lived and provided dental services until the police caught wind and chased him and his van out into the woods for a few days. On days with good weather, he'd pop open the back hatch of his nondescript trailer and set up a sign that read "COME INSIDE! FREE CANDY (for new patients)". He didn't attract many customers.

What really made him stand out was his unusual pay structure. He charged typical rates for regular teeth cleaning and dental maintenance; but if a patient had a cavity, he gave them a gold filling for free, and he paid them if he needed to pull their teeth.

Stan thought he was terrific. He hadn't had to pay for dental care in thirty years! Granted, he also wore dentures now; but hey, Dr. Illing had helped pay off Ford's mortgage, and at least the dentures were on the house.

Bill said, "You're the only one in the shack who knows all the places Illing might set up shop. Besides, he might be less jumpy in front of a stranger if an existing patient can vouch for it."

"I can see where you're coming from," Stan said. "But my answer is no, because I don't wanna."

Bill scowled in irritation. He sat back and ate another of Stan's eggs as he reconsidered his approach.

"Stanley—I'm a simple shape," he said. "A simple shape who's used to being coated peak to base in pure, lustrous, 24-karat gold. Having skin makes my skin crawl. I don't need any dental work done, these teeth are fine—but I'd really, really like just a bit of gold, somewhere on my body, so I feel a little more like myself in my final days."

Stan muttered, "You're trying to appeal to sympathy I don't have, Cipher."

"And then, once I'm dead," Bill went on, "I suppose I'll be leaving behind a corpse with a mouthful of free gold that whoever's disposing of my remains can do whatever they want with, do you catch my meaning Stanley?"

Stan lowered his newspaper just enough to grimace at Bill. "That's absolutely disgusting," he said. "But okay, I'm bribed!" He tried to fold the newspaper. "If you want your mouth to fund me and Ford's next year of globe-trotting, fine by me. Least you can do for messing up our summer."

"Mhm." Bill shoveled the last egg into his mouth while Stan was distracted by the paper and slid the plate over to Stan's side.

Stan slapped the paper down. "But we're not telling Ford about this. Agreed?" He offered a hand to shake.

"Agreed." Bill took Stan's hand, with the wrong hand—but before Stan could figure out what to do with that, Bill jerked his hand back like he'd been burned. "We'll take this to our graves."

"Or to your grave, anyway!" Stan laughed loudly, slapping the table.

Bill watched him with a forced smile. "Great. Deal made. Let's go get the magic friendship bracelets and—"

"Ohhh no," Stan said. "I'm not trusting a little bit of colored lace and some mystical hocus-pocus to keep you contained. If we're going anywhere, I'm making sure you can't escape."

"Okay," Bill said, a touch warily. "Fine. How?"

####

Soos took the handcuffs out of his toolbox, removed the key and stuck it in his pocket, and asked, "What side do you want it on?"

"Left," Stan said. "Gotta keep my punching arm free." Bill rolled his eyes. 

Soos closed the cuffs on Stan's left wrist and Bill's right, then tightened Bill's half until it actually held his tiny wrist. "There."

"Ha!" Stan grinned at Bill. "Try escaping that!"

"I wasn't planning to escape."

"Sure, pull the other one." Stan pointed toward the door. "Now... to the car!"

####

They stared in dismay at Stan's car.

The El Diablo was a classic of the 1960s American automotive industry—and it was in terrific condition. (Notwithstanding the recent dents, scrapes, and keyed scratches in the paint reading "TRICK-OR-CHEATER!!") It came with the features standard to American cars of the time, like a steering wheel on the left, and a wide front bench that provided space for multiple passengers to sit to the driver's right side.

Bill was handcuffed to Stan's left side.

"Wow. You're stupid," Bill said.

"I'll break your smart mouth."

"What do I care, we're headed to the dentist anyway." He sighed. "Okay! Let's go inside and tell Questiony how stupid you are."

Stan did not want to tell Soos how stupid he was. "No! How do you know I didn't do this on purpose? Maybe having my right arm free is more important than—er... driving."

Bill considered that with pursed lips. After a pause, he ventured, "Do you want me to drive—?"

"No, no, nope, I am not letting you drive my car, under any circumstances, ever! Not a chance!"

"Then how are we doing this?"

####

Stan gripped the steering wheel with both hands, knuckles white and jaw clenched.

Bill was uneasily cuddled up against Stan's right side. The handcuff forced him to stretch his right arm across Stan's chest. 

They were both wearing tank tops. Their bare upper arms were plastered together with sweat.

They were getting cricks in their necks from how far they were tilting their heads away from each other.

On the radio, a hit 50's soul song crooned romantically, "Oh, my sweet love... you're my lovely sweetie... and I never love you more, than when you're pressed to my side... as we go for a sweet loving car ride..." Neither of them could reach the radio dial without touching each other even more. They'd silently decided to pretend as hard as possible that they couldn't hear the radio.

"Welp," Stan said. "Out of all the times I've been handcuffed in a car, this is one of the worst."

####

They spotted Dr. Illing's "FREE CANDY" sign posted surreptitiously near the barrel and crate factory, and circled the block to park the car in front of a business that looked responsible enough to file a missing persons report if the car was still abandoned there by nightfall.

They tumbled out of the driver's side door with a maneuver that looked like a cross between a waltz and a mugging. Stan kicked the door shut. As they untangled themselves, in a surprisingly decent impression of Stan's voice, Bill said, "Gotta keep my punching arm free. How's that working out for you?"

"Bold words from a guy in punching range, you little—" As Stan finally separated himself from Bill and straightened out, he caught sight of Sheriff Blubs and Deputy Durland halfway up the block. "Oh, great. Cops. Exactly what you want around when you're doing something weird." Stan shook his head. "Well, as long as we go the other way and don't make eye contact—"

"Hi Darryl! Hi Edwin!" Bill stood on his toes and waved wildly. "Hey! Working hard or hardly working? Haha!"

"Oh, hey Goldie!" Durland waved back, and he and Blubs headed their direction. "How've you been, did you have a nice Summerween?"

"Ahh, I was stuck in the house—"

"Bill," Stan hissed. "Whaddaya think you're doing? Do you want them asking questions?"

"Hey," Durland said, "Why're you handcuffed to Stan?"

Bill turned toward Stan. He smiled at him. It was a smile that said I did not think this through.

"You need some help there?" Blubs asked. "I bet we've got a key that matches that handcuff model."

Stan bet Bill would love to accept that offer and go traipsing off with the cops. "Nope! That's fine! Thank you officers, but we're keeping the handcuffs on," Stan said. "Because." He paused. "They're necessary. For... uh... for me."

The cops and Bill watched him expectantly. Bill had that awful gleam in his eyes that he got when he saw an opportunity to make up a story.

"Because I'm old," Stan said. "It's to keep me from wandering into traffic."

Bill laughed, "Yep, that's true!" He jabbed Stan's shoulder with a finger (harder than necessary, he thought). "This guy's cataracts are so bad, sometimes he asks us if he's dying because all he a see is a white light in a dark tunnel! And the way his mind's going, woof—"

Stan growled, "All right you don't have to lay it on so thick—"

"—he's so addled it's like he's completely forgotten the last century of technology, he'll just walk right off the curb and expect the horse-drawn carriages to stop for him—"

"Hahaaa, but we won't bore you with my medical history!" Stan jerked on the handcuffs. "C'mon, Goldie, you're gonna make me late to my heart doctor appointment. You don't want my life on your hands, do you?"

Bill murmured, "Don't threaten me with a good time."

"Hold on," Blubs said. "You can't see? Didn't we just see you get out of the driver's seat of your car?"

Stan and Bill exchanged a look. Stan said, "Goldie's giving me directions."

"Oh! That makes sense," Durland said.

"All right," Blubs said, "We'll let you get to your doctor's appointment. You folks have a nice day."

As the cops left, Bill called after them, "You too! Hey, I'll see you guys at Rainbow Club!"

"See you there!" Durland turned to Blubs. "Y'know, I think Goldie's a step up from that seeing-eye bear."

Bill and Stan eyed each other. "All right, you're not bad at improv," Bill said. "I can respect a decent actor."

"You too," Stan said grudgingly. Bill looked at Stan like he expected a little more than that; but Stan kept his mouth shut. Bill didn't need the encouragement.

####

Dr. Illing's "FREE CANDY" sign leaned hopefully near a gap in the fence around an overgrown lot by the barrel factory. The gap was large enough that a reasonably limber human could duck through with little difficulty; however, Stan was old and Bill was still controlling his alien body like a rookie puppeteer learning the marionette, so they circled halfway around the lot until they found a gate in the fence to push open. They trod across scraggly grass, a row of dying mushrooms, and years-old litter to reach an unmarked white van hooked up to a camper trailer.

The back hatch of the trailer was flipped up to serve as a makeshift metal awning, and inside, a tall, spindly man was snoring atop a military cot in his underwear, using a white lab coat like a blanket. Stan cleared his throat loudly, and when that didn't disrupt the snoring, knocked on the side of the trailer. "Hey! Doc!"

Dr. Illing jolted upright with a yelp, seized an enormous wireless power drill off the floor to point at them like a gun, lowered it slightly as he registered he wasn't under attack, then realized he was nearly naked and yelped again. He tumbled off the cot, flailed his way to his feet, and turned his back to them as he jerked on his coat and buttoned it. "Just—just a second!" He got on one sock, couldn't find the other, and gave up, pulling on his sneakers with one bare foot. "Sorry, so sorry, I must've—just—nodded off for a second, there—"

"Maybe we should have made an appointment," Bill said wryly. "He looks busy." Stan snorted.

Dr. Illing turned around, smoothing out his rumpled lab coat. He was a jumpy, twitchy man with heavy circles under his eyes, short badly-cut hair, and a 5 o'clock shadow that had evolved into a 25 o'clock shadow. His gaze darted nervously between their faces. "Sorry. Hi, hello, can I help you? Are you maybe here for a tooth extraction, or—or perhaps wisdom teeth removal...?" His gaze caught on Stan's face, and he started. "Stan Pines! I haven't seen you since I pulled your last tooth ten years ago! What are you doing here?" His brows creased in worry. "You're—you're not mad about that, are you—?"

"What? No! The dentures are—fine. They're actually lower maintenance than teeth. Sort of. In a way," Stan said. "No, I'm here to refer a new customer." He pointed at Bill.

Bill made a gesture like he was tipping an invisible hat. "Hi there!"

"A customer?" Dr. Illing said blankly. "Oh—yes! Of course, hold on—" He pulled a hospital curtain over the front half of the trailer to hide a dinette covered in laundry and old magazines, lifted one end of the military cot and slid a step stool under the legs to keep it raised, and tugged the arm of a dental light down from the ceiling to aim it at the chair.

Stan said, "So, do I get some kind of referral bonus, or..."

"Oh—sure, sure. Have a, uhh..." Dr. Illing opened a heavy yellow and black tool bag, pulled out a battered cookie tin, withdrew a gold coin, and offered it to Stan. "One of these or something, here."

"Huh." Stan inspected it. No idea what currency it was, but a gold coin was arguably cooler than actual cash.

The dentist batted aside the hospital curtain to grab a tiny stool from the dinette, shook a damp towel off the seat, placed the stool beside the cot, and sat. "Okay!" He clapped his hands. "New customer! What can I do you for?"

Bill had been gazing in naked longing at the bag hiding the gold coins; but at the question, he looked up with a grin. "I'm here for fillings!"

"Ah! Wonderful. No charge for fillings, of course." He started rummaging through his tool bag for supplies. "Do you know which teeth need them?"

"Whichever you think would look best with some," Bill said. "Driller's choice!"

Dr. Illing stopped rummaging to give Bill a perplexed look. "I—sorry, come again?"

"I said I'm leaving it in your hands." Bill climbed into the trailer and put his free hand on Dr. Illing' s shoulder. "I'll be straight with you, Frankie: all that matters is that my teeth do not currently have any gold in them, and I want that to change by the time I leave. I'm not too picky about the details beyond that."

The dentist stared at Bill, then glanced at Stan for confirmation. Stan shrugged and nodded. "Oh-kay!" Dr. Illing wasn't quite smiling, but there was a strange, eager gleam in his eye. "Super! This'll be fun!" He gestured for Bill to sit on the cot. "Let's see what I have to work with."

He ushered Stan in, and pulled the trailer's hatch shut.

####

"Your teeth are amazing," Dr. Illing said, voice hushed with awe. "Perfectly white. Who's your usual dental hygienist? Did you just get these cleaned?"

"Nope," Bill said, forgetting for the third time that humans keep their teeth and their voice in the same hole and he shouldn't talk with the dentist's fingers in his mouth. Dr. Illing quickly pulled his hand back. "Just basic toothpaste, floss, and dish soap."

Dr. Illing shook his head in disbelief. "Well, they look amazing. And no wear at all, remarkable... Have you ever considered having any of these pulled? Do you mind if I take a few pictures?"

Stan shuddered as the dentist pulled out an old film camera and started snapping photos. "Yeesh. I forgot how creepy you are. Kinda glad I ran out of teeth."

Dr. Illing straightened up, snapped off the dental light, and sighed. "Well, I'm sorry to say that all your teeth are pristine. Not a hint of cavities—not even plaque. It'd be a shame to drill such pretty specimens. You're sure you don't want one pulled...?"

Stan grimaced, but Bill pursed his lips thoughtfully, as if he were considering a perfectly normal question. "As fun as that sounds, I said I want to leave with gold today, and the whole extraction-and-implantation process for gold teeth takes ages. Unless you happen to have a little secret magic trick to speed up the process?" Bill laughed, fixing Dr. Illing with a piercing stare.

Dr. Illing looked nervous. "Er—no."

"Then just the fillings. But who knows, maybe I'll feel naughty and be back in a couple of weeks." Bill laughed again. "Just pick a couple of your least favorite teeth to drill into!"

"Okay, suit yourself." Dr. Illing shrugged and fished around in an overstuffed cardboard box under the dinette table. "Let's gas you up and get drilling."

"You can skip the sedative," Bill said. "I don't mind a little pain. I prefer it, actually! It adds some zest to the experience..." He trailed off as he caught sight of the label on the gas canister Dr. Illing had pulled out. He pointed at a word, "I thought that additive was illegal."

Dr. Illing flinched guiltily. "Not in the state where I got it."

"Oh, buddy. I didn't realize I'd climbed into the party van!" Bill settled back on the cot, laced his hands behind his head, and got comfortable. "You know this stuff has something like sixty percent odds of causing hallucinations? Most people get either haloes around lights, or spiders. Go ahead, gas me—I wanna find out which I am."

####

In five minutes, Bill was overjoyed to report that the dental light had a spider halo. He did not explain what this meant.

Since Stan had typically been under anesthesia himself whenever Dr. Illing operated on him, this was the first time he'd had an opportunity to watch the dentist at work. Stan discovered that when Dr. Illing drilled into a tooth, he didn't suck the resultant dust up with one of those little dental vacuums with a plastic tube Stan was more familiar with. Instead, when a bit of dust had accumulated, he reached in with what looked like a cotton swab, wiped up the tooth dust, and scraped it off into a Petri dish; and only then did he use the vacuum to suck out any saliva and continue. Was he saving the leftover tooth dust? He was an even bigger creep than Stan had thought.

By all appearances, Bill didn't handle the gas well. It wasn't that it made him sick, or that he wasn't having the time of his life. It just made him completely forget how to operate a human body. When Dr. Illing told him to hold his mouth open, he also held his eyes open until they watered; and whenever he lost the battle to keep them open, he automatically shut his mouth too, often to his own peril as Dr. Illing shouted about the drill jostling. Within ten minutes, Dr. Illing had given up on convincing Bill to keep his mouth open and instead started giving him blink breaks when he could shut his mouth.

It helped some, but they couldn't do anything about the fact that Bill had fully forgotten he couldn't talk while getting dental work done, and kept up a regular chatter—during which he cheerfully mentioned he'd died recently, attempted to explain that the entire universe was actually an elaborate hologram projecting from the "true" third dimension, and asked Dr. Illing all about the cruise to Panama he'd recently stowed away on (which the dentist hadn't mentioned). During one blink break, as Bill closed each eye separately, Dr. Illing leaned toward Stan and muttered, "So... what's her story?"

Stan tilted his head toward the Petri dish. "What's with the tooth shavings?"

Dr. Illing considered that, slowly nodded, and got back to work.

####

After several hours, Dr. Illing wiped his brow and sighed in relief. "All right, that should do it. You've got fillings on five teeth now." Under his breath, he muttered, "It would have been two, if you hadn't kept talking while I was drilling."

Stan shook his head in amazement. "Doesn't that hurt?" 

"Yes," Bill said. "I've never felt pain like that before. What a rush."

"If you do come back for a tooth extraction, I'm getting a dental gag to keep your jaws open." Dr. Illing finished pulling out the array of clamps and barriers around the filling sites and wearily dropped down onto his stool. "There. The rest of the sedative should wear off gradually over the next few hours. Usually I tell patients to wait three or four hours before eating to let the swelling go down, but..." He waved wearily. "You can do whatever you want."

"Admit it, you like having an enthusiastic patient!" Bill heaved himself off the military cot, forgot he couldn't float, and immediately collapsed to the floor.

"Whoa there—" Stan helped Bill back to his feet. The handcuffs prevented him from getting an arm around Bill's back, so instead he helped keep him upright by firmly squeezing his upper arm. "I don't know about you, but I'm eating as soon as we get home. You made me miss lunch—and for some reason, I feel like I barely had any breakfast." Bill inexplicably found this declaration hilarious. Probably the sedative, Stan reasoned.

Bill waved at the dentist as Stan tugged him out the trailer's hatch, chattering the whole way: "Thanks for the gold, the sock you were looking for is a bookmark in the March issue of Floss Girls, Atlantis is rising as we speak, you have less than seven years to prepare for the plague, tell the little lady I said hi! Byyye!"

Stan squeezed Bill's arm tighter and muttered, "Would you cut that out?

Bill stumbled across the uneven lot. "I made up the part about Atlantis."

"Okay just shut up and stop saying weird things."

Bill attempted to walk sideways all the way back to the car.

####

Stan gripped the steering wheel so tightly, his arms were trembling.

Bill was sprawled all over the front bench, the dashboard, the seatback, and Stan's shoulders.

On the radio, a hit 80's R&B song with a sexy saxophone was playing, "Babe, the sad things you've been through... I swear I'll make it up to you... If it takes a thousand years..."

Bill was singing at the top of his lungs directly in Stan's ear, "I'LL WIPE AWAY ALL YOUR TEARS, WOO!—sax solo!—BA DA-DA DA, BA DA-DAAA—"

Stan turned off his right hearing aid.

Every once in a while Bill attempted to grab the steering wheel and turn it in time to the song, like a kid playing in a toy car; Stan had given up telling him to stop and instead started just smacking his hand away every time he tried. After another smack, Bill draped his arm awkwardly over Stan again, and announced, "I can't feel my tongue at all! I bet I can chew it off!"

"Don't do that."

"The last time my mouth was this numb, my girlfriend had just gotten done with me, haha." Bill stuck his finger in his mouth to experimentally poke at his tongue. "I couldn' thee for the nex' hour from all the thporeth—"

"I swear if you don't shut up—"

Bill flopped his arm across Stan again. "I just realized I haven't gotten any action since I died. Wow. What's normal for humans, couple times a week until you start the slow lingering decline toward death?" He looked straight at Stan. Stan could feel that side of his face start to sweat. "This isn't a weird time to bring that up, is it?"

"Bill, if you say one more weird thing, you're riding home on the roof of the car."

Bill was quiet for three seconds. And then he started poking Stan's bicep. "Your arm's a lot meatier than Sixer's! What's your favorite flavor of cancer?"

####

Mabel asked, "Why are you on top of the car?"

Bill—eyes wide, hair disheveled, one arm hanging through the driver's door, sprawled out clinging to the roof like his life depended on it—replied, "I don't know, it's all a blur."

Stan opened the car door and jerked on the handcuffs. "All right, get off my car."

Bill shakily climbed off, lay in the dirt, and tried to catch his breath. "That was fun. We should do that more often."

"Not on your life."

Eyeing the handcuffs, Dipper said, "What were you doing, anyway?"

"Nothing!" Stan snapped. "Why? Who's asking? I wasn't sneaking the demon out to get a shady back-alley dental procedure!"

Mabel and Dipper stared up at him.

Stan pointed at them. "What are you doing?"

"Going camping," Dipper said, turning so Stan could see his stuffed backpack.

"Something's been stealing Pacifica's alpacas at night, so we're going on a stake-out," Mabel said. "They took Giorgio. It's personal now."

"We think aliens might be abducting them," Dipper said.

From the ground, Bill said, "It's not aliens."

"Ah, taking the law into your own hands. It builds character," Stan said approvingly. "You need firearms?"

They exchanged a glance. "We're good," Mabel said. "Grunkle Ford loaned us his freeze ray. It seems less lethal."

As the kids headed toward the road, Bill finally heaved himself up. "Well, that was fun!"

"No it wasn't," Stan said.

"Your opinion doesn't matter. Anyway—" He shook his cuffed wrist. "We're home, get me out of this thing. It makes you look like my ugly accessory and I want my hoodie."

"I elevate your whole look!" Stan protested. "And I don't have the key, it's with Soos."

Mabel turned back to shout at them, "Soos is out! He's got a dinner date with Melody!"

Stan grimaced. "Uh-oh."

Bill shrugged and said, with a confidence Stan didn't share, "He left the key behind."

####

"Oh man, sorry dudes," Soos said over the phone. "I totally forgot I still had it. Yeah, it's on my key ring. Is that, like, gonna be a problem, or...?"

"It's fine," Bill said, sitting atop Soos's office desk and leaning all the way across it to reach the phone. "Just pass it through the phone, we'll catch it."

"What?"

"Ignore him." Stan shoved Bill's face away. Bill gave him a dirty look as he straightened out his eyepatch, which he'd finally gotten to put on once they were home. Stan spun the desk chair away from Bill so he couldn't try to join the conversation again. "He's hopped up on psychedelic laughing gas. When are you gonna be back?"

"Uh..." Soos thought for several seconds. "Nooot for a while. Abuelita and I were talking about maybe kind of staying the night?"

"Well—pfff—can't you duck out and bring the key?"

"Uhhh. I would but, this is the first time Abuelita and I are having dinner with Melody's parents, and I'm really worried about impressing them parents, and the casserole's about to come out, and I think they might judge me if I leave, it would probably ruin dinner..."

"Okay, fine. What if we drive over to get the key?"

Far louder than necessary, Bill asked, "Stanley can I drive this time—!"

"Absolutely not!"

"Oh sure, that'd be fine," Soos said. "I'll give you directions, Melody's parents' place is in Portland. You got a pen?"

Stan frowned. "Portland."

"Yep."

"As in, outside the magic bubble trapping Bill in town."

Soos paused. "Oh, right."

Well, Stan wasn't about to make Soos look bad in front of his future in-laws. He'd never had in-laws, but he'd seen enough sitcoms to know how messy that could get. "Never mind. We'll figure something out. You kids enjoy dinner." Stan hung up the phone, sighed, and turned to face Bill. (Bill had plucked a figurine of a bulky robot in a cute girly pose off of Soos's desk, and was staring at it in wonder, like he'd never seen overpriced anime convention merch before.) "You got any other bright ideas?"

"We could still call Darryl and Edwin..."

"No way," Stan snapped. "I am not calling the cops for help! Never gonna happen. I'd rather wait for Soos to get back in the morning if I have to!"

"Oh would you." Bill laughed scornfully. "And what do you plan to do until then?"

####

They got TV dinners and grumpily watched Cash Wheel together.

####

(This entire chapter was just an extended excuse to annoy Stan and Bill as much as possible. But mostly Stan. Thanks for reading, and if you enjoyed I'd appreciate a comment or reblog!!)

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

Hi sex witch,

Somewhat unsanitary question incoming. Is it safe to consume your own menstrual blood? Occasionally after masturbating while on my period, I’ve been too lazy to properly clean-up, and have just licked my fingers clean. Are there risks associated with this? Of course I can’t get new STDs from my own blood, but I’m thinking maybe bacteria might pose an issue?

Thanks for what you do!

hi anon,

I'm going to offer you a quote from this 2019 Well + Good article:

According to a gynecologist, the main potential issue when it comes to ingesting period blood is bloodborne pathogens. "There is less to be concerned with if you ingest your own menstrual blood and tissues, as any infectious agents are already in your body," says Felice Gersh, MD, author of PCOS SOS: A Gynecologist's Lifeline To Naturally Restore Your Rhythms, Hormones and Happiness. Still, she says it's best to keep it out of both your mouth and your partner's. "By transferring  [infectious agents] to your oral cavity, it’s possible you could get an infection there. For example, transference of HPV from the genitals to your mouth and pharynx."

so tl;dr that's probably the safest blood you could possibly consume, but it's still always best to wash your hands properly with soap and water when you can.

[f3mme-f4tale]

☾ bound by bloodshed ☾

part one

part two ⇢ word count: 3.4k potential warnings: none really this chapter, except for minor mentions of violence, language, and alcohol. just as a reminder, there will be mentions of blood and gore, sexual content, dark thoughts, violence against women, cannibalism, body horror, and torture later on pairing: seattle!ellie x female reader ☾ mood board

A crash exploded outside on the streets, catching both young women off guard, a few people pounding on the door for shelter. The door remained locked, agonizing screams flooding the streets. They both approached a high window in the far corner, peering out of the grimy glass to see that a pipe bomb must have gone off where a group were traversing. Bodies were strewn about, limbs mangled, and various shades of blood splattered across once barren brick buildings. Chunks of cement mixed with the inner workings of bodies, creating a rancid cloying odor. Fucking hunters.

Eager for action, the adrenaline coursing through Ellie moved her body towards the adversity. Your heart raced. You couldn't help but be awed by the sheer violence of the hunters, especially their thirst for action and their gleeful attitude in the face of such gruesome brutality. You turned away from the window abruptly, feeling disgusted with the cruelty of man. You and Ellie had fought your fair share of hunters, but seeing them hurt even the most vulnerable of people just for the fun of it made them both sick.

Ellie nearly doubled over at the sight herself, despite her own high kill count. A little girl was scratching intensely at shrapnel that invaded her small stomach, its contents nearly spilling out of her. Ellie assumed the older boy lying beside her must have been her brother, whose chest cavity had been ripped open and throat chewed to shreds. A man – a beast – was eyeing the sight from afar with crimson dripping from his mouth. Ellie’s companion soon joined her alongside the outside of the dilapidated building. The explosion alerted any infected in the area of the commotion, a man agonizingly crying for his mom sending the aforementioned beast, a runner, directly for him. You aimed your weapon towards the infected, Ellie pushing it down. 

“He won’t make it regardless,” she says, referring to the battered nature of his legs, pulverized to a pulp. You both remained hidden within the confines of shrubbery, a few more infected alerting their incoming presence with shrieks, ominous clicking noises accompanying distant gunfire. The rest of the group of fateful travelers came barreling through the remnants of the explosion. 

The two women remained silent and still, their backs pressed up against the prickly shrubbery as they listened to the infected getting closer and closer. Their breaths were slow and steady, neither wanting to make any noise that might draw the infected to them. You couldn't help but think how cruel the world had become, that people had to live in this constant state of fear.

Eventually, after the infected had finished off the remaining survivors and the hunters had decimated the last clicker – Ellie shifted her position to get a better view of the carnage, her body stiff and her fists clenched tightly. She couldn't help but feel a mixture of rage and strange admiration for the brutality of the hunters. A coldness seeped into her soul, these hunters showing no remorse for what they had done. She motioned for you to flank the other side of the building, the hunters beginning to spread out to search for any remaining stragglers. Nodding in agreement, the hunters' heavy footsteps and breathing permeated the air. 

You hid behind a dumpster, waiting for your target to come further down the alleyway. You couldn't help but feel a chill in your bones, your heartbeat pounding hard in your chest. Your eyes were locked onto the target, the hunter coming into view. Taking a deep breath, you steady your aim. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Ellie use her switchblade to cut her opponent's neck silently, his cries muffled by the congealing liquid around his neck. Once you released the trigger, stealth would no longer be an option.

You were eager to demonstrate your skill with a gun, as this newer assigned patrolling schedule had you paired with Ellie – someone who is notoriously known for climbing the ranks quickly. You knew each other through Dina, which you were pretty sure Ellie had a crush on despite the other woman being in an on-again off-again relationship with a man. Getting Ellie to talk about any portion of her personal life outside of surface level topics was like pulling teeth. 

With a final glance at your friend, you then released the trigger, sending the bullet straight into a hunters neck. He immediately collapsed, his body lying lifeless on the ground. The few remaining hunters began shouting orders to one another, chaos once again enfolding. You ducked inside the building, taking advantage of a smashed window to gain a better vantage point.  In a hurry to reload your pistol, you accidentally drop a few shells on the ground, the clattering of the ammo echoing through the building. 

Ellie had made her way towards the site of the explosion, a large piece of cement aiding as her shield from enemy fire. The heat of missed bullets pulsed against her skin, her breathing becoming uneven. She kept her attention focused on an individual flanking her, throwing a glass bottle to distract the incoming attack. You took out the woman shooting at Ellie with two bullets to the chest and one to the knee. As the final hunter studied the remains of his comrades, the brunette knocked him over by the blunt end of her pistol, sending him doubling over. Utilizing her switchblade as leverage, she pushed her enemy against the wall of the dilapidated building, but not before the hunter slashed Ellie’s arm with a piece of the broken bottle. The cold steel of the switchblade wove its way through the hunter’s leather breastplate, piercing the harsh skin and cracking against the skeleton. Warm, dark blood festered from the wound. 

"You alright?" You ask, reloading your gun and nudging Ellie's shoulder. Ellie snaps her head over to you, staring at you a bit irritated.

"I'm fine," she mumbles, wiping her switchblade on her jeans before storing it into her back pocket. She gripped her left forearm tight, her fingers coming away copper.  

"God, what crawled up your ass," you reply under your breath, rolling her eyes. Swinging your bag off your shoulder, you dump out half of its contents. Ellie gave another irritated response. Although her voice is stern and cold, you  can still hear the exhaustion and frustration in Ellies’ voice.

"Nothing. I'm fine," she reiterates, struggling to pull a moderately clean bandage around the wound. 

"Quit acting so macho," you scold, successfully retrieving a bottle of alcohol from the bag. You screw off the top and douse a cleaner rag, waiting for Ellie to give in. Ellie's eyes soften and she sighs deeply, finally accepting the help. She carefully pulls back her sleeve, exposing her bloody wound. You press the rag firmly against Ellie’s arm, trying your best despite your own limited medical knowledge. "Well, I'm no doctor, but I think you're going to live." Ellie snickers quietly, her mood beginning to lighten a bit. 

"I hope so." She replies, shifting in place from the rag's pressure against her wound. She sighs and finally laughs. You help her roll an ace bandage around her arm to stop the bleeding and keep it clean. 

"You're bleeding a bit too," Ellie says, her voice coming off as slightly concerned. You glance down at the red line on your abdomen, not noticing its presence until Ellie mentions it. Its presence catches you off guard, and you quickly glance back up at her. You feel your heart beginning to race again at her sudden switch in demeanor, though it's quickly interrupted by a sudden shooting pain that quickly fades into a dull soreness. Your hands pull up the bottom of your shirt, revealing the supple skin garnished with a shallow flesh wound. 

You can feel Ellie's eyes on you with a slight hint of suspicion, which causes a slight urge to impress her to bubble up within you. You're unsure of how to go about it, but you can't help but try to look completely unconcerned about the injury. The pain isn't too bad, and the wound looks more superficial than anything, or at least that's what you're trying to make it look like. Pushing the shirt back down, you try to make light of the situation by using a bit of humor, hoping it'll distract her from questioning the situation too much.

“C'mon," you motion back towards the forest with her head. "Let's finish patrol and then get back to Jackson. Jesse is gonna flip that he missed a hoard.” Ellie chuckles again and nods, although you can feel her eyes continue to narrow, searching your face for any hint of deception. 

"Only because he made that stupid bet about kill count," she finally replies, standing up and collecting her stuff.

"Got any plans when we get back?" you ask, pulling your backpack back on and putting your gun away. Ellie shakes her head. "Nope. I'll probably just hit the sack," she sighs, shrugging her shoulders. 

“No movie night with Joel?” you ask tentatively, knowing it's a sore subject. Ellie glances away for a second. She shakes her head again, although much more reluctantly. “You’re going to have to talk to him sometime Els.” Her expression immediately darkens, glaring at you. 

“Thanks for the reminder,” she mumbles. It’s obvious she’s suppressing a lot of strong emotions. Her cheeks flush and her breaths grow shaky and quick. You keep quiet, instantly regretting treading that line. You both make your way to where the horses are stowed deeper in the forest, away from signs of ruined civilization. Ellie mounts Shimmer as you struggle untangling the reins of a pinto gelding fittingly called Dawn. It isn’t until the two of you are hours past the hunter site and several feet from the Jackson gate that Ellie suddenly dismounts her horse and stops to look at you. “I’m sorry for getting mad.” She apologizes, voice soft, her tone still hinting at lingering irritation. 

“I get it, if it’s any consolation,” you begin, reaching forward to pet Dawn. “At least partially.” Ellie frowns, knowing she really doesn’t.

“Whatever,” She manages, heading back towards the gate. You sigh and rub your fingers against your forehead, dismounting and following your friend. 

“Well, if you want to come over, I’m sure Dina would love to see you,” You offer, trying to push past the awkwardness. Ellie stiffens a bit, shrugging. “I have booze too.” She doesn’t respond, but doesn’t break away from you either after returning your weapons to the armory. Ellie’s expression hints at something on her mind, but she doesn't address it. The pair talk to a few of the council members about the details of their patrol and the unexpected ambush. 

"Dina? Jesse?" You call out upon entering the front door of your shared accommodation, waiting to hear a response. There's a few seconds of muffled whispers before Dina walks out of the kitchen. Her and Jesse were clearly arguing about something, but they paused when they noticed the pair by the front door. 

"How was patrol?" Dina asks nonchalantly, despite the irritated look on Jesse’s face.

"Well, I plan on getting sloshed. Joining?" You raised your eyebrows.

“That bad, huh?” Dina replies. Dina and Jesse share a brief look, still having some tension between them. The two of them give a simultaneous shrug, seeming to agree that it's alright. "Sure. Why not," Dina finally answers.

"Fuck yeah!" you cheer, setting your bag down by the door and making your way to the small kitchen. Jesse gives Ellie a side hug, which Ellie seems to laugh at. The pair's playful banter seems to ease the tension a little. You smile softly at them and then begin your quest to find said booze, Dina hovering over her shoulder. 

"I could use a few shots right now," Dina says.

"Of course my queen, I shall acquire said beverages," you jokingly mock a British accent.

"My hero." Dina replies, feigning a dramatic tone. She then glances over at Jesse, who's struggling to hide a laugh. After a moment, you turn to Dina, the playful manner quickly diminished.

"You two alright?" you whisper, Dina eyeing your hand wrapping around a dusty, but quality, bottle of bourbon. 

“Oh,” Dina sighs, “We’re fine. Just the same old, same old.” You shrug in response, sensing Dina’s wish to drop the subject. 

"M'lady" you say, bowing slightly and offering Dina a glass of the dark liquid, doing the same for Jesse – which earns a snort – and then to Ellie, who hesitates to take the shot, but nods nonetheless when she sees everyone else do so. "And of course," you finally raise your own shot glass, knocking shoulders with Jesse. "One for the squire herself," You finish, before downing the drink.

"M'lady, might I suggest cocktails?" You raise an eyebrow at Dina, willing her to go along with the bit. 

“Only if my faithful knight joins in on the fun,” She replies, matching the exaggerated accent and blowing a kiss at Jesse. He bows before her. 

“Ah yes, your brave, strong knight,” you look over to Jesse and Ellie. “And what say you, knight?” You gesture to Ellie, who rolls her eyes at the implication. 

“Hey!” Jesse quips, his ego wounded by the insinuation. 

“Quiet now, lapdog,” She says to Jesse, barely keeping her amusement contained. He recovers after a few seconds and tries to compose himself before speaking in a mockingly annoyed tone. 

"I am her most loyal servant, and I will do whatever my queen commands of me."

“Ah, yes, yes. Very well,” you continued, fumbling around for a few mason jars hiding within the confines of the makeshift pantry. “The options are dandelion wine or dandelion wine,” you suggest, holding up two jars and dropping the accent. Ellie glances between the jars and sighs jokingly, "Ugh, such a wide variety of choices."

“You try haggling more out of Eugene,” you scold, heart swelling at the comradery once again being restored between you two – at least temporarily. When Ellie picks up the jar, her fingers graze yours for longer than necessary as she takes the drink. An involuntary sigh escapes her as she swallows the first sip of the tart liquid, and you catch a glimpse of her throat as its muscles flex.

The action sends your breath catching in your throat, your heart skipping a beat at a very simple gesture. Then she takes another sip, looking away from you with the corner of her lips curling up slightly. You're taken aback by the sudden shift in her manner, and you have to take a few deep breaths to not give away how affected by it you are.

She leans back against the counter and rests her elbows against the countertop, your eyes seem to brighten at the movement, Ellie catching the way your gaze settles on her arms. Her eyebrows raise in a subtle hint of a dare, her attention fixed on you as if she was waiting for your response.

Before you can respond, Dina's voice breaks the intense moment, her voice full of amusement. "You two gonna keep staring at each other or can I get my drink already?" she asks jokingly, causing both of you to blush in embarrassment. You try to suppress a grin as Ellie lets out a small chuckle, though she still can't seem to look away from you.

⭒⭒⭒⭒

Ellie's restless energy is palpable, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on the couch as she gathers her courage to broach the subject weighing heavily on her mind. It’s the next day and she’s been on edge ever since she overheard Tommy talking to a few people on the council about the run in from the hunters the other day. 

“Hey, Joel?” she voices, glancing over to where he is sitting at the dining table reading a book. He dogears the page he’s on and shifts his position to look at her fully. 

“What’s up kiddo?” he asks, giving her a small smile. His expression is a blend of curiosity and concern, silently urging her to continue.

“I uh, I overheard Tommy earlier,” she starts, chewing on her bottom lip. She knew how Joel would react and her stomach sat unsettled at the impending argument. “I know that he’s assigning a group to go scout further out, to make sure those hunters aren’t regrouping.”

“Let me guess: you want on board?” He questions her, his clear apprehension only serves to fuel Ellie's simmering frustration.

“There's this old abandoned military base about a couple days' journey from here. I heard rumors from some travelers passing through that it might still have some untouched stockpiles of medical supplies and ammunition,” she tries to reason. “They’re probably hiding there.” Ellie's patience wears thin, her frustration bubbling to the surface as she bristles against Joel's attempts to control her.

“That sounds risky, Ellie. Military bases are usually crawling with infected,” the older man remains unmoved, his resolve unwavering as he struggles to reconcile his fears with Ellie's desire for independence. “Let's say I agree to this crazy plan of yours. How do you propose we make it there and back safely?”

“I've been studying the maps and planning out the route! I figure if we stick to the backroads and avoid major settlements, we should be able to minimize our chances of running into trouble,” she argues. Her hands are waving all around in the air, her determination physically seeping out of her. “You don't get to decide what I can handle.” Joel's defenses crumble under the weight of her accusation, his shoulders slumping in resignation.

“Alright, Ellie,” he sighs, running a hand over his face. “I’ll talk to Tommy. If things start to go south, I want you to turn back and come straight home, understood?” She gives him a curt nod, relief flooding her system, unable to shake the feeling of suffocation that comes with being constantly sheltered. With a nod, Joel returns to his book, though his mind remains preoccupied with thoughts of Ellie's safety.

“Dina and Jesse going with? What about your new patrol partner?” he asks, flipping a page. He no longer is looking at Ellie, but she can feel his judgment radiating from across the room. 

“I don’t have to go everywhere with them…” Ellie mumbles, back to mindlessly drawing circles onto the couch. She knows he won’t budge on this though, she was already pushing her luck. The silence between them makes Ellie feel uncomfortable, an unease creeping up her back. 

“Oh c’mon, you’re smarter than that Ellie,” Joel speaks up with a gentle reminder, his attention drifting back to his book. Ellie's face is flush with anger and resentment, even though she knows he's not trying to be patronizing. His voice holds a subtle edge though that she can't help but feel as a jab at her. She’s sick of every single interaction turning into a tense back and forth that leaves her exhausted. Joel remains silent, unaware of her mounting frustrations.

Joel finally sets down his book, giving up on trying to get through the chapter, meeting Ellie's gaze with a subtle nod. He takes a deep breath and sighs, his shoulders dropping a little as the strain releases from his back. "Look, I trust you know what you're doing," he says, sounding much calmer and more genuine than she's used to from him.

Ellie stares at him blankly, unsure of what he's referring to. She knows he's not talking about her ability to hunt or take care of herself, and for some reason, she's irritated by it. His trust feels like a slap in the face, almost as if he's implying she needed his approval to do anything. She clenches her jaw and forces herself to remain silent, swallowing the words of defiance on her tongue.

Joel sighs once again, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms as he gazes out the window. Ellie holds her breath, watching the small cracks of sunlight reflecting off the snow that blankets the trees outside. There are no words exchanged for several moments, neither of them wanting to be the one to initiate conversation. Ellie is almost glad for his silence. The soft hum of the space heater, the sound of their breathing, and the gentle breeze outside are comforting. She wants to just forget about whatever just happened between them, as she's sure Joel can tell.

a/n: hi all! i've been sitting on this idea for while and i'm still apprehensive about it. i haven't read a lot of darker ellie fics and i dont really know if people would be interested in it. any feedback is appreciated it :)

[th3b4dk1dzz]

What if Post-Yellow Jacket Ethan adopted all the magic roller rink kids?

At this point, Lex and Hannah leaving Hatchetfeild probably wouldn't spare him from getting hurt by Charlie and his men. He held him at gunpoint, he knows too much about the fighting rink, and what's more, he may not know where Lex and Hannah are, but Charlie doesn't know/might not believe that (either that or he might use him as bait to lure the Fosters back to Hatchetfeild). He just can't go back to living a normal life at this point.

In the same vein, the roller rink kids aren't safe to go back to their homes. Their parents might not be able to protect their children, assuming they were clearly much more dependent on the rink for income. They might even leave to keep them safer.

Just picture a bunch of superpowered teenagers wanting to rescue Sophia, and the boy Otho posessed showing up on the doorstep of the only person they've ever seen pull one over on Charlie, and Ethan unable to ever turn away a troubled kid in need (especially those who were so friendly to Hannah) just accepts his inevitable fate.

It's not just about his strength or protective capabilities, though. Remember, Ethan now has a huge apartment full of toys and games, which otherwise would go to waste, and has always been the one to cheer both Hannah and Lex in hard times so he would be a great source of comfort to these kids, especially after saving Otho's former victims, they both need that stability and support after what happened to them.

In return, the kids give Ethan a new sense of purpose. The older kids like Sophia and Daniel help out around the place and hold down the fort while Ethan is working and look after the smaller kids.

A comfortable pattern is established of spending the days snooping around for clues about Charlie's operation before crashing out on the bounce house, (which is covered in sleeping bags and blankets to create the ultimate sleep fortress) with take out pizza and whatever movies they can get their hands on.

Duke finds out that Ethan has been looking after a bunch of runaway kids on his minimum income (because you can't hide that sort of thing forever, not from Duke) and after extensively explaining the whole deal to him he agrees to cover for the kids absences, raise funds to help with food and maintenance costs as well as looking into the wealthy clientel who attend the rink fights. He even brings the cat to cheer the kids up.

He lets Miss Holiday in on the secret, and she helps the kids understand and get better control over their new powers without the use of mind milk. She also uses her staff connections at Hatchetfeild High to get ahold of textbooks and old test papers so the kids don't fall behind. This moves Ethan to tears for some reason. Only Duke understands why.

It still hurts, losing the Fosters, for both Lex's lover and for Hannah's friends. But the pain is a lot more numbed when the cavity is filled with new people to love instead.

[missamyrisa2]

(That cleaning ask made me want to pull this mini story back out and write some more~!!)

I don't want to post it here because I'm sure it'll get flagged but you can view the artwork I had done for this scenario here:

Miss Amy struggled and squirmed. She tried and failed to stifle her voice again, and such futile fighting only encouraged her tormentor further. Her outfit hung neatly on a rack nearby. The gentle fuzzy fabric of her cropped sweater and the flirty short length of her denim skirt with the wide belt and flower buckle were by no means a tickle-proof outfit, but anything would be better than the total exposure she faced now.

At times in her giggly delirium the reflection in the many video feeds offering multiple angles of her plight seemed so far away, like it was another helplessly ticklish girl ensnared in this fiendish machine. "Navel cavity is at 43 point! tooo percent lint coverage. Proceeding with water cleanse" the robotic voice chimed with child-like enthusiasm and feminine flirtations. "No not again! Not the waterrrr!!"

Amy pleaded as with a mechanical wind a thick arm lowered and extended a metal nozel, carefully positioning itself as the padded cuffs on Amy's wrists and ankles moved her gently. She summoned her strength to wiggle away from the tip, but the incoming tool simply recalibrated. Amy watched in giggly horror as the water flowed freely into the attached tube, and with a little kick, the apparatus began blasting her sensitive divot with a concentrated stream.

It was like an endless parade of poking fingertips, with droplets scattering on her outer belly like teasing after touches. She shrieked and struggled, the jet following a strategic pattern to clean every tiny bit of her bellybutton. A familiar chime dinged into the bathing room and Amy shook her head, wiggling her toes and fingers.

"No no no!!"

"Feet. And Underarms. Have become layered in sweat. Recommend additional scrub."

"Don't scrub me again!!"

"Scrub approved. Cutie."

Amy shook her head as the cleansing machine's teasing voice and digital face smiled brightly. Mechanical whirls started up as spinning soft brushes spun into view and targeted her feet. The machine gently bent her legs back to hold her soles up for the incoming tools. She cackled out feeling the suds dripping from high into the crevice under her toes, and squealed madly as the brushes moved in to work their tickly cleansing magic.

Next, a gloved hand appeared in front of her and wiggled its big fingers. The robotic hand mercilessly coated her sensitive underarms with soap, careful to ensure the deepest crevice and all the edges were coated before moving to the next as a scrubby brush whizzed down and began merrily shuffling in circles.

How long had the cleaning been going on? Amy lost track a while ago. Certainly a trap set by one of her archenemies, the machine was possibly designed with noble purposes. But whoever set it here loaded a routine which Amy could not break, goals it couldn't fulfill. The cleaning at her belly caused sweat. The cleaning at her feet and underarms put dust and bubbles into her midsection.

Maybe the machine was purposefully doing so? Was it sentient? Such thoughts were lost when she realized her body was giving away a secret. She tried desperately to keep it down, her mind flooding with awful imagery to resist the touch, that soft tease. But it was a losing battle.

Another mechanical whirl as a scanning eye passed down her belly and between her legs with a tingly pink beam. Amy blushed hotly, she didn't want to acknowledge what all this slippery tickling and teasing had been doing to her body, and certainly couldn't hide it.

"Miss Amy is aroused. Controlled ticklegasm is recommended."

"T-Ticklegassm??"

There was no doubt the intent of this cruel cleaning machine now.

"Erotic hydrotherapy approved."

The machine dinged happily as two new implements sprung out from under the digital smirking face. A gentle sponge began slowly grazing her royal jewels, and a fluffy cloth on a robotic appendage started draping against Amy's swollen princess part. She squeaked a gigglemoan, pulling uselessly against the padded cuffs. Her body gyrated and tried to resist the soft supply slick affections.

The soft cloth draped up to the underside of her tip and mercilessly stimulated it with the tickliest of touches, like the flirty kiss of a lover. The sponge kept moving back and forth, cleansing again and again under her most royal areas. Her thighs quivered. The robotic hands began buffing her nipples with detail brushes, and occasionally sneakily tweaking and rubbing earnestly to make her really let out throaty moans.

Her resistance worn down, Amy soon tumbled into a soft ticklegasm amid the flying suds, gigglemoaning herself silly. Her head lay low, body going loose as the sensations rocketed all over her body, her royal milk coaxed out in perky spurts. Every peak of the ticklegasm had her screaming, struggling in the cuffs, and the machine never relented its gentle cleansing extraction and tickly touches.

And the beeps continued as scans rolled over her trembling body.

"High likelihood of residual ticklegasm honey. Engage drainage procedure."

Amy gasped and squealed out her words, trying madly to find any strength to stop as her body was moved into another position.

"Don't you dareeee you ffffff nnnnhh stupid bucket of boltss turn it offfff!!"

But she was helpless to resist as the machine flipped her around and gently spread her legs. From above a large vibrating began descending, and from the side a soft flexible tendril spun into view. Both were shiny and pink, both emblazoned with cute names. The wand was labeled "Finessa" and the tendril named "Caressa".

"Oh what the actual fuuuuuuuuuuckk~!! fuck fuck fuckkk!!!" She started whining and was soon nothing but a stream of desperate laughing moaning f-bombs as Finessa quickly went to work buzzing the underside of her still-throbbing princess part while Caressa was glistening with lubricant applied by the robot hands before diving in between Amy's legs to probe up to her honeyspot.

Her body shook and shivered and struggled and bounced, the sister tools working in tandem to tease Amy along into a further fuzzy ticklegasm with their vibrating tickly touches. As Amy bucked up, Finessa followed and grazed that death spot. When she pulled back, Caressa was there gliding along inside to stroke carefully on that most hidden of tickle spots.

All around, the cleaning tools gradually re-engaged. Scrubbing brushes taunted at Amy's feet. Sponges slid along her ribs and under her arms. The jets tauntingly sprayed whenever Amy was in the middle of a deep belly moan, targeting her navel and thighs mostly but also making sure to get her nipples and toes too. The sudsy jet floated freely, almost whimsically depositing its sparkly tingly bubbles all about this teased helpless body.

This time around, the machine made Amy ticklegasm hard. She was nothing but nonsense and cussing, her body quaking with overload, stuck in an arch as Caressa relentlessly dipped in and out while Finessa held taut but barely touching on the underside of her tip. They tickled and tickled until Amy released all her princess milk, indeed draining every bit.

"Ticklegasm has resulted in a messy Miss Amy. Recommend an extension of cleansing procedure."

[ufoend]

∆ please help us

we can not afford any of our basic needs

i usually try to keep this as light as possible, but i have put this off for long enough that i have to post this. me and my partner desperately need help. we are just two gay people trying to make it alone here with absolutely no support system. *remaking because the first post died

who we are: im j (or jet), im 24 year old trans guy whose had this account since 2014. i married my partner in 2018, we even met on tumblr when we were younger, we've been together for years. my partner is disabled (diagnosed with autism and seizure disorder and others)

what we need: basic needs, help with vet care, dental emergency assistance and general support. our cat had an emergency surgery two years ago that means he needs to be on a prescription diet (hills urinary food) for his entire life. the vet suddenly said we need to bring him in again to get his prescription renewed and we cant order any more food for him until then, which he will not survive without, and he is not allowed to eat any alternative food without risking his life. we have less than half of a 8 lb bag of it which will not last him through the next month. with the vet, food, and ubers to get to the vet and to the only place they sell the food = 200

to try to summarize our situation, we were kicked out by family and made officially homeless for the first time last year. this is right after we moved across states (wa to az) to support my partners family upon their request, only to be subjected to abuse and kicked out directly due to homophobia in an unfamiliar state after a few months. this left both of us and all of our animals entirely homeless. we luckily have an apartment now but our situation isnt stable. we lost all of our belongings at this time, everything we had built, and have not been able to replace them as we have very fixed income. my partner is especially affected by this situation, as it was traumatizing, and they have just had to power through trauma after trauma because of poverty, more than i can say.

i also have severe and painful dental problems that are not covered by medicaid in az and i have no way to afford. this includes wisdom teeth, root canals, and many cavities that will turn into that crazy expensive treatment if i don't fix it. some may remember my post about this (+this) showing the work i need. i cant keep ignoring it, because they are worried about two of the cavities becoming root canals, and i want to prevent another infection, but thats at least 250 each i also lost a cap and need to replace it to save the tooth, but that's at least 600.

we are still not going to be able to afford rent in future months because our EBT was delayed last month and i had to spend money we don't have, and without student loan forgiveness, my partner will not have loans anymore so we are in serious jeopardy even affording rent, let alone bills. our pets (2 cats 1 small dog) also desperately need vaccinations, which is dangerous to keep going this overdue without with their health problems. our dog has also been limping for the past week and he needs to be seen when that is ever possible, at least 65 plus ubers.

any donations would go first to the vet appointment and cat food, then the other needs in order of priority. will keep updating this, i know its a lot and i really don't expect anything as i know it's well over 1000 for it all, i am begging for help with any of this.

we are both students, we are trying to work towards stability, while being stuck here. i do everything i can to bring in money to support us on my own. we make 200 less than rent is monthly. i am in school to become a caseworker so i am aware of a lot of resources in my area, and have applied for everything, but we can not do this alone which is why i have to ask for help. i am so sorry for having to do this but i appreciate any support that i do have because of this website. you guys literally save my life. helping out other poor people and getting helped out on here has been the most compassion ive ever been a part of. dollars, even pennies, worth of donations has kept my cat safe, has affected me in real ways. it actually matters to us, no matter the amount.

thank you anyone who reblogs, donates anything at all, or reaches out

*

p*ypal email (best): ptcustomcomp@yahoo.com

v*nmo: @tobler707

c*shapp: $tobler707

[slvt4em1lyprenti2s]

Protective

Originally posted on my Wattpad @MayaBishop_is_myWife

Jackson Avery x reader

Jackson POV:

Today was a slow day, crap. Never say it's a slow day when your covering the ER. 

Bailey - "Incoming trauma, multiple vehicle collision and cyclist vs vehicle multiple crush injuries everyone be ready!"

What did I tell you? Anyway I go to get a trauma gown on and y/n comes up next to me.

Y/n - "If there's any open breaks I call dibs." Jackson - "Hey! No fair, whoever gets to them first gets it, okay?" Y/n - "Pleaseee, I haven't been inside an OR for days and I think I'm going insane. I pissed off Derek by accident and now he's letting Lexie scrub in and not me." Jackson - "Fine." Y/n - "Thank you so much!"

She exclaimed and then walked off to go wait for the ambulance. See, if it was anyone else, I would've stood my ground but, it's not just anyone it's y/n/n (your nickname) and it's obvious to everyone but her that I like her. But, oh well, she'll get the hint eventually right?

I walked outside just as the first ambulance arrived.

Paramedic - "Male, 31, crush injuries to the chest and lower abdomen, broken right leg and lacerations to the upper left abdomen!"

I see y/n face light up at the mention of a broken limb, she wants to do ortho so, she's into that kinda stuff. It's adorable to say the least.

We wheel in the guy on the stretcher and transfer him to the gurney. We begin to look at the chest to see if there's any liquid in the cavity and thankfully there isn't but. the abdomen began to swell so we knew he had free flowing liquid in there so we went straight to the OR.

Time skip to when they're finished and the guy's in post-op:

Y/n POV:

I'm currently waiting for this guy we just operated on to wake up. Jackson is bedside me, we're leanig against the nurses station as his eyelids begin to flutter. We make a b-line for his room. 

Guy - "Where am I?" Y/n - "Sir you're in the hospital. You werew involved in an accident involving 3 cars and yourself, you were on your bike. Other than your broken leg, which means we will need to keep you in here for another couple weeks to monitor it and so Dr. Torres can look you over and plan your recovery, your other injuries were fixed in the OR. You had some crush injuries that ruptured your spleen but, because we got in there quick we managed to repair it. The other injuries were superficial. For the sutures we will get Dr. Sloan to come in and check up on them ever other day to make sure it's all healing properly. Forgot to mention, Dr. Sloan is a plastic surgeon and Dr. Torres is an orthopaedic surgeon. Any question?" Guy - "Not about the medical stuff but I do have a question for you sweetheart." Y/n - "Go for it." Guy - "You free tonight? Such a pretty girl like you shouldn't be without a boyfriend." Y/n - "Oh, that's very sweet of you but unfortunately I'm on call tonight." Guy - "That's fine, just come visit me sweetheart. A young thing like you could make any man feel better." Y/n - "We'll see, maybe I'll come see you maybe I won't. Goodbye sir." Guy - "Bye sweetheart!"

I walked out of the room with Jackson close behind me. That man is very flattering but kinda creepy. I'm going to put away his chart when Jackson stopped me. 

Jackson - "Hey, what the hell was that?" Y/n - "What do you mean?" Jackson - "Don't bullshit me y/n. In there with the patient." Y/n - "Oh my god Jackson, I was reciprocating emotions it's basic patient care." Jackson - "Yeah comforting them and sharing concerns. Not flirting with them!" Y/n - "Okay wh- Jackson.." My voice calmed down a lot at this point and I looked him directly in his mesmerising green eyes.  Jackson - "What?!" Y/n - "You're jealous." At this point I was giggling at him. His face contorted into a shocked almost offended face but I didn't care because the blush that covered his face made it obvious that I was right. Jackson - "Wha-what, no I am not." Y/n - "Yeah you are don't deny it." Jackson - "I am not."  Y/n - "Yeah you areeee"

At this point he had accepted defeat and took the chart out my hand and grabbed my hand. I didn't question his actions and just followed him like a lost puppy. We came to a stop outside an on-call room and he opened the door and pushed me inside.

Y/n - "Jackson wha-"

I was cut off by his lips on mine. His arms snaked their way around my waist and pulled me close. My hands were around his neck as his soft lips moved against mine. He turned us around and gently pushed me against the door and pulled away briefly to speak.

Jackson - "I was jealous. Okay? I really like you  y/n/n." I tried to speak but he cut me off. "Don't say anything unless you want me to stop."

He pulled me back in and locked the door. He walked me over to one of the beds and gently laid me down. 

Let's just say I didn't get to go back to the patients room that night.

[defectivevillain]

this winding labyrinth, ch7

chapter seven: survival

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader (reader is not gendered, race-ambiguous, and no physical descriptors are used)

summary:

You wish you never met Hannibal Lecter. But you yearn for his presence. You want to forget him. But he never truly leaves your thoughts. Now, you’re left to pick up the pieces of a broken design. A battle of instinct rages on in your mind—one of bittersweet relief and cloying grief, fearless resolve and poignant regret; a clashing between affection and antipathy, pride and pain. What will win, in the end? Only time will tell.

this is chapter 7, act 2 of this broken design. if you haven't read act 1 or chapters 1-6, this won't make too much sense.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

warnings: nightmares, drowning; canon-typical blood, violence, gore, & death. y'all know the drill by now, i think.

If your dreams were vivid before, you’re not even sure how to describe them now. The moment you close your eyes, you’re transported somewhere else. Suddenly, you’re walking with bare feet on muddy soil when wrists shoot out of the damp earth, grabbing onto your ankles and yanking you back through dirt until you fall down next to a decaying corpse… 

Then you’re swimming through a sea of broken glass, every movement burying shards further into your skin. Your blood slips through the fragments, a crimson bubbling sea rising around you until you’re being pulled under by the ferocious current… 

…You’re restrained on an autopsy table, a surgeon making an incision down your chest. Your chest aches, but you suspect the feeling isn’t just from the scalpel. Sure enough, you feel something clawing at your chest cavity and you lurch forward against the iron manacles forcing your wrists down. Claws prickle against your skin and, suddenly, a bright bird bursts from your chest and flies about the room… 

Then you’re standing across from Hannibal, as he stares at you from his confines. He presses his fingertips to the glass boundary and it crumbles to dust in the stale air. For a moment, when you blink, you see bloodstained antlers branching out from Hannibal’s head. When you blink again, he is standing impossibly closer. You’re screaming at yourself to move, run, but you’re entirely frozen. Just as he reaches out, there’s an impossibly loud blaring sound… 

You open your eyes to find yourself tangled in your bedsheets, your alarm making incessant noise. You reach out to grab your phone and turn off the alarm, before rubbing a hand over your face as you try to ground yourself to reality. These dreams of yours aren’t helping your sleep at all, and you sometimes find yourself staying up later in the foolish hopes of outrunning the horrors you know you’ll be met with when you close your eyes. 

There’s a buzzing sound ringing in your ears—an aftereffect of the dream. You clamp your hands over your ears, surprised that the effort actually dampens the sound. Then you glance at your nightstand and realize that your phone is ringing. You stare at it for a few moments in confusion, before groaning and picking it up. There’s an incoming call from Jack—you immediately accept and push yourself up to a sitting position, before bringing the phone to your ear. 

Jack neglects a greeting. “There was a murder,” he says. Immediately, all of the thoughts you’d been trying to push away—namely, the Tooth Fairy killings and your conversation with Hannibal—come flooding back. You take a short breath in. “A prisoner at Baltimore State Hospital died yesterday; he choked on his own tongue.”

Foreboding clings to your skin like a vice. Jack doesn’t need to provide any more detail, because you can already picture—with almost complete certainty—who the victim was. All you need to do is close your eyes and remember the disgusting feeling of saliva on your cheek, followed by the ice-cold shiver that ran down your spine as you saw the fury gleaming in the Ripper’s eyes. Just as you expect, Jack confirms that the victim was Miggs—the same inmate who you had that rather unpleasant interaction with but a few days ago. 

You’re lost for words. Thankfully, Jack isn’t expecting an answer from you. “Chilton wants you here,” he continues, a hint of annoyance creeping into his tone. “Now.” You’re still sitting in bed at this point—and Frederick Chilton isn’t exactly a person you’d rush out of bed to assist. 

“Tell him I’ll be there this afternoon,” you answer after a moment’s contemplation. You have plans to visit Abigail today—which you refuse to reschedule. Plus, you need to review the case files and autopsy reports before returning to the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. “And if that’s not soon enough… then too bad.” Chilton isn’t your boss—Jack Crawford is. And you know Jack has far more pressing issues than a house call from a hospital administrator. 

Your suspicions are correct, because Jack doesn’t argue. “Got it.” The call ends and you groan, rubbing a hand over your face roughly in an attempt to fight off your exhaustion. It’s a bit earlier than you intended to be awake, but you know you won’t be able to fall asleep again. Conceding defeat, you brush your teeth and get dressed before heading out to the kitchen for a light breakfast. 

Not long after, you find yourself taking notes on what you know of the Tooth Fairy so far as you sit on your back porch, wind whipping at your skin. The cigarette dangling between your fingers is a small comfort, and it doesn’t provide nearly enough warmth as you desire. Even as you try to focus on the imminent threat—the Tooth Fairy—all you can think about is your interaction with Hannibal. You should have known that he would aim to harm Miggs. Indeed, that vicious snarl on Hannibal’s face was indicative of what was to come. You should’ve fucking known. Then, maybe another person wouldn’t be dead. Then, maybe you wouldn’t be sitting on your porch with this selfish guilt crawling around in your chest. You have no right to be guilty—you practically allowed that murder to happen.

…Right? 

You’ve caught yourself getting stuck in that mindset rather often recently. Your psyche loves to assign you the guilt and award you the responsibility. Sometimes, you know it’s deserved. But, in cases like this—in situations like the murder of Miggs, where you were just a bystander—you feel like you’re giving yourself too much credit. 

There’s only so much time you can spend mulling over the details of the Tooth Fairy killings and refreshing your memory before you find yourself growing agitated. You’re buzzing with restless energy, your foot tapping against the deck impatiently. Your thought process has grinded to a halt; the just barely visible trail has now gone cold. It’s frustrating to have so little information on this killer, especially when you know exactly when he will kill next. You feel as if you’re just fighting against the inevitable, at this point. But murder should never be inevitable. The BAU needs to find a way to get this guy behind bars. 

You shake your head and push yourself to your feet, collecting your materials into a relatively coherent pile and moving back inside. The sky is looking a bit overcast, and you’d rather not have raindrops scattered across the files. Besides, it’s nearly time for your visit with Abigail, you realize as you look down at your watch. 

You’ve been visiting her off and on since the encounter with her father in their home—since he sliced his daughter’s throat and stared right through you, those eerie, dusty green eyes pinning you in place with ease-

Safe to say, your memories of Garret Jacob Hobbs still aren’t buried, even after so many years. He’s the first of the many voices sounding in the cacophony of your mind. 

You push thoughts of the murderer aside and walk up the path towards the building. You sign in with the receptionist and walk over to the waiting area, taking a seat on the couch. It doesn’t take long before Abigail makes an appearance, and the two of you exchange greetings before you walk outside, settling on one of the benches under a willow tree. The wind rustles through the leaves and there’s a slight chill to the air, but it’s far from unpleasant. You place your hands on your knees and try to pretend as if you aren’t feeling tense. You’re here to speak with Abigail—you can abandon thoughts of bloodstains and corpses until you leave. 

For a few minutes, Abigail and you sit on the bench in companionable silence. You get the feeling that Abigail is trying to figure out her next words, and your instinct is proven correct when she breaks the silence moments later. “I’ve been placed into a foster home,” she reveals. 

You raise your eyebrows and try to study her reaction. She doesn’t exactly look thrilled. Actually, on second thought, Abigail looks as if she wants to be happy—but she’s preventing herself from being hopeful. You suppose that’s a normal reaction, for someone who’s been through what she’s been through. “That’s wonderful news, Abigail,” you say with a smile. The smile on her face flickers and you frown. “What’s the matter?”

Abigail sighs, clasping her hands in her lap. She is being uncharacteristically evasive. You decide to be patient and wait for her to gather her composure. Eventually, she takes a deep breath. “I… I’m scared.” The admission seems to take a lot out of her. She’s avoiding your gaze now, staring ahead at the building she’s been practically trapped in since she woke from her coma. 

“What are you scared of?” You hum, genuinely curious. You don’t want to patronize her, so you try to ensure that your expression is as open and honest as possible. 

Abigail is silent for a bit. “Disappointing them,” she eventually admits. You try to digest that confession. “And I feel like… I don’t deserve this. After everything I’ve done…” Everything she has done, indeed. Abigail was not entirely innocent in her father’s crimes—and she was more than just complicit. She helped him source his victims, pretended to make friends with them so that they would let their guard down. Maybe that’s why you have formed such a kinship with Abigail: you both know cruelty; Abigail and you have both been victims and perpetrators. “What if they don’t like me?” Abigail whispers, so quietly you nearly convince yourself you imagine it.

Then you’re abruptly reminded that, above all, Abigail is still a young girl—practically a child. Your throat burns a little as you process her statement. “They’ll love you, Abigail.” You’re quick to reassure her. 

“What if they don’t?” Her voice cracks and your heart breaks a little. 

“Then you can make a break for it,” you respond with a dramatic wink. The remark successfully diffuses the tension that had been settling in the air and Abigail laughs. A small part of you wants to offer for her to stay with you, but you know that’s a foolish promise to make. You suppose it’s normal to want a family—every human craves connection, in one way or another… regardless of how that connection may manifest. But you’re not deluded enough to think that you have all the necessary tools to be a parental figure to Abigail. You’re busy enough fighting off your own demons. Abigail deserves a normal life, and you’re not able to give that to her. 

(Maybe, in another world, you would be able to provide her with a quiet, ordinary life and a loving home. Maybe, in this other world, you would have someone to share that responsibility with you—someone who cares about Abigail just as much as you, someone who would protect her with all the ferocity and compassion that she deserves. Someone like…)

Your thoughts are veering into dangerously fantastic territory. You shake your head and try to shift your focus back to the conversation, ignoring the deluded (but compelling) calls of domesticity and belonging. Ultimately, you have never belonged. And you don’t see that changing any time soon. 

“So… it may be a while before I see you again,” Abigail says, tearing you out of your reverie. You stare at her for a few moments. 

“That’s okay,” you then reassure her, upon seeing the guilt written all over his face. “You’ll be busy—going to school, hanging out with friends. You won’t even think about an old geezer like me.” You smile, hoping to cheer her up further. Your efforts seem to work, because a smile rises on her lips. 

“Shut up,” Abigail says with an amused huff. “That’s not true.” 

“It is true,” you say, a fond smile growing on your face. You hope she’ll be able to move on from all this and live a normal life: go to school; hang out with friends; and engage with her hobbies. You can only hope that Abigail’s father doesn’t haunt her mind the same way he haunts yours. “And I wouldn’t want anything less for you.” You maintain. 

A pleasant silence descends across the air once more. A gentle wind blows through the trees and Abigail sighs. You mimic the gesture and she smiles. You’re not sure how long the two of you remain seated in companionable silence before an orderly appears in the doorway of the building and taps her wrist, indicating that your time is almost up.

You dig your hands in your pockets and find the item you intended to give her, turning it over in your hand and hesitating for a moment. Abigail follows your gaze and looks at it. You realize it’s too late and take a deep breath, offering her the object. “If you ever need me,” you say pointedly. 

Abigail takes your business card and looks down at it, raising her eyebrows. “Ooh, how professional,” she teases. You roll your eyes. The orderly motions pointedly and a sudden sincerity stifles the air. “I’ll make sure to text you.” She promises, the resolute gleam in her eyes indicating that she will not go back on her word.

You stand up and she does the same, before turning towards you and reaching forward to hug you. There’s a kind of sadness lingering in her movements, in the unspoken way she tucks her head into your chest and stays there. It’s clear she’s still nervous about the whole foster parent affair, and you don’t blame her. “They’re going to love you,” you assert, resisting the uncharacteristic urge to ruffle her hair. 

“I hope so,” she murmurs against your shoulder. 

“They will,” you reassure her. They’d better, you think darkly. The two of you eventually break apart and Abigail regretfully traipses back to the building, leaving you to walk to your car with conflicting feelings of relief and stress. You get the feeling you’ll see Abigail again, but it may be a little while. You’ll be busy with work and she’ll be busy adjusting to a new lifestyle—a peaceful one. 

Overall, your visit with Abigail was a welcome distraction from everything going on; unfortunately, the moment you start your car and pull out of the parking lot, all of your anxieties come rushing back. You’re supposed to meet with Frederick Chilton. Supposedly, he wants to speak with you. You can only hope that your conversation won’t be centered around getting you to participate in a consultation appointment with him. 

And, to your immense fortune, Chilton doesn’t mention a consultation appointment once. Perhaps he’s finally accepted that you’re not interested in participating in a vulnerable conversation with him (or a conversation at all, if you’re being perfectly honest). Instead, he levels you with a wary gaze as you enter his office, his eyes tracking your every movement. You settle for standing in front of his desk with your hands shoved in your pockets. Admittedly, you’re feeling pretty restless—but you don’t want to give Chilton the satisfaction of knowing that. 

“You wanted to see me.” You prompt, after a few seconds pass and the administrator doesn’t make any move to address you.  

“I’m assuming Jack has briefed you,” he says, cutting right to the chase. You nod and he pinches the bridge of his nose. “The prisoner who died was Miggs… His cell was near Lecter’s.” You aren’t very surprised and the thought briefly makes you feel guilty, before you remember why exactly Miggs was imprisoned. “When I went to review the security footage, I noticed something interesting,” Chilton continues ambiguously.

The look on his face is nothing short of pure suspicion. You’re quickly losing patience with this circular conversation. “What?” You demand tersely. 

Chilton doesn’t seem surprised by your sudden rudeness. Instead he just exhales slowly, clasping his hands on his desk and looking at you with an unreadable expression. “There was an altercation between you and the victim.” He states. 

“Yes, he spit on me.” You recall, unable to hide your distaste. Chilton grimaces in sympathy. It’s a fleeting gesture—one that is performed for pretense, rather than out of genuine sentiment. Although, you’re sure he’s had similar experiences with prisoners—what with his position as the hospital’s head administrator. 

“Immediately after, you spoke to Lecter.” Chilton continues. This is just one of the numerous reasons you don’t like Frederick Chilton: when he has the opportunity to speak, he monopolizes it. He likes hearing the sound of his own voice, so he’ll go into painful and unnecessary detail for his own amusement. You always struggle with being patient in these moments, and right now is no exception. “Then, hours later, Miggs turns up dead. That seems like more than mere coincidence.”

You grit your teeth, catching the implications of his statement immediately. “You think that I spoke to Lecter and ordered him to kill Miggs?” You repeat, a little indignation seeping into your voice. You’re trying your best to remain calm, but it’s difficult when you’re being accused of a murder you didn’t commit. “Why would I do that?”

“Miggs spit on you, disrespected you,” Chilton answers. It’s an incredibly weak justification, and it almost looks as if he regrets uttering it. In your infinite generosity, you give him a few moments to take it back. But he doesn’t move to apologize or rescind his remark, so you’re forced to acknowledge it.

“My pride isn’t that easily wounded,” you scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. “I think you know I didn’t sic Lecter on him just for a simple discourtesy.” 

“Men have been killed for far less.” That may be true, but you wouldn’t kill someone over a small act of disrespect. You want to think you wouldn’t kill at all, but you’re afraid it’s a bit too late for that. Your victims cackle in your ears, reminding you of your cruelty and hypocrisy. 

Chilton is staring at you expectantly. You remember that it’s your turn to respond. “Yes, it’s probable that Lecter killed Miggs,” you acquiesce. “But I didn’t ask him to do that.” He did it of his own accord, you know. Arguably even more frightening. 

“Even so…” Chilton breaks off. 

“Just stop,” you interject, before he can hurl any more unfounded conjecture at you. “You’re grasping at straws here. Not to mention, if you checked the security footage, you would know that I left the building after that encounter. There’s no way I would’ve been able to get back in and have another conversation with Hannibal.” You don’t notice the slip until you see Chilton raise a brow, and you’re quick to continue speaking. “Besides, if you wanted to know what he said to me, you could’ve just asked.” You suspect that’s been the prime motivator for this conversation. Chilton likely knows that you didn’t commit the murder—he’s just trying to lead you into a verbal trap in which you reveal details of your conversation. 

“Very well,” Chilton acknowledges with a gesture of mock-surrender. “What did he say to you? The footage shows you about to leave, before you return to Lecter for a few moments.” He recalls, glancing at his computer before looking at you again. 

“He was calling my name,” you remember. “I went back.” I’m not sure why, you neglect to say. “He asked me if Miggs spit on me. I told him that he did. He said it was discourteous. I told him it would be fine.”

“And then?” Chilton asks, practically leaning forward in interest. 

You smile. “Then I walked away.” You answer. 

Chilton visibly droops and you just barely manage to hold back a laugh. Honestly, you can’t believe he had the audacity to try to play mind games with you. You’re a criminal profiler and investigator—you’ve spoken to far more dangerous personalities and have manipulated people far more threatening than Frederick Chilton. The fact that he thought, even for a moment, that he could talk circles around you is insulting—and it speaks to his towering ego. 

“Now, I want to speak to Lecter,” you assert. I’m not letting this visit be a complete waste of time, you think to yourself. You’re already here—you might as well try to squeeze some more answers out of Hannibal. Will you actually get any valuable information? Probably not. But you won’t know unless you try. At least, that’s how you try to justify it to yourself. The voices don’t like that justification, though—Franklyn whispers that you’re just like him, that you just crave his full attention-

“Knock yourself out,” Chilton sighs dejectedly, tossing you his keys. You’re roughly torn out of your thoughts and you just barely manage to catch them, surprised that he’s trusting you with his keys after he just finished accusing you of murder. Your thoughts must show on your face, because Chilton just shakes his head in disbelief. “It’s been a long day.”

You decide to leave it at that and leave his office, heading downstairs and pacing down the hall lined with iron bars and dehumanizing cages. The prisoners aren’t nearly as rowdy as they’ve been in the past, and you think you make it all the way to the final door before Hannibal’s cell without being harassed or insulted. That might just be a record, you think to yourself wryly as you unlock the security door with Chilton’s door and shut it behind you. Immediately, your eyes aren’t drawn to Hannibal—but to another cell. 

Miggs’ cell is empty. There’s a sizable chunk taken from the toilet (evidently, that’s what he threw at you). More worrying, however, is the rather large, light pink stain marring the floor. It’s clear a janitor was tasked with mopping up all the blood that Miggs left behind. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem like all of the blood came out. You shake your head and rip your eyes away, that familiar nausea prickling at the back of your throat. 

When you settle in front of Hannibal’s cell, you realize that something is different. Hannibal is seated at his writing desk, staring down at the cracked wood as if it holds invaluable secrets. He looks up when you take another step, but you’re too busy looking at the empty shelves behind him. Consulting your memory, you realize that his books aren’t crowding the shelves anymore. 

“Where are your books?” is somehow the first question that leaves your lips. Hannibal clearly doesn’t expect the question, because he blinks for a few moments before helplessly quirking his lips as he turns to face you. “Chilton took them?” You ask before he can answer. 

“Yes,” Hannibal nods. The irritation that is normally hidden behind layers of his mask almost seems to froth and bubble over, spilling over his frame and tightening his posture. He clasps his hands on the desk and stares at you, studying you. You’ve gotten used to the feeling of being shoved under a microscope and relentlessly examined with attentive eyes, yet it doesn’t fail to unnerve you. 

“I’ll speak to him,” you suggest after a few moments. Getting Hannibal his books back may help him to trust you, which could prove beneficial in the long run. But that’s not the real reason you’re offering, is it? “In the meantime-” You try to continue. 

“Will you really?” Hannibal interjects, staring at you scrupulously. There is little emotion in his voice—no sign of hope or gratitude. The statement is spoken with an entire lack of substance. Perhaps captivity is slowly eating away at the man. Somehow, you doubt it. 

“Yes, I will,” you promise before you can consider the consequences. Why did you do that? Somehow, you felt pressured to agree—and Hannibal hadn’t even formed any expectations for you to do so. You just volunteered to speak to Chilton on his behalf… entirely of your own accord. And that troubles you. You thought you were maintaining a professional distance, but your actions are speaking to something deeper. 

“I would be grateful,” Hannibal says. “There is little to do in this cell.”

Now you’re feeling guilty. You’re falling prey to his mind games, knowingly, yet you aren’t doing anything about it. You are an entirely willing deer prancing about near a lion’s den. “Books keep the mind at bay, I’m sure,” you murmur. You’re speaking before thinking and it shows. “Anyway, that’s not what I came for-”

Hannibal inexplicably gets up from his seat and you flinch. He paces towards the glass barrier, until he is a mere two or three feet from you. Then he inhales through his nostrils. The man’s brows furrow and his expression turns pinched. “You smell of smoke,” Hannibal remarks astutely. His eyes flit up and down your form, likely looking for evidence of your new habit. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t notice sooner,” you say guardedly. Indeed, from what you remember, he has always had a keen sense of smell. That primarily manifested in him making those eerie types of comments, but you also noticed his nose scrunch at unpleasant scents when he thought no one was looking. 

“I noticed the moment you approached the glass, before our most recent conversation,” Hannibal confesses. You frown. “I dismissed it as a once-off occurrence… It appears I was incorrect.”

Silence. You don’t know what to say. Hannibal seems content to let the silence drag on painfully, as he just stares wordlessly. Just when you’re growing to be a little too uncomfortable, he breaks through the quiet air. “Tell me, do you enjoy the thought of lung cancer?” He hums lightly. 

You don’t bother dignifying that statement with a response, instead burying your hands further into your jacket pockets. Your fingers find the steadfast cold metal of your lighter and you take a deep breath. A cough is building in your throat and you tilt your head to the side and cough into the crook of your elbow. You don’t need to look at Hannibal to know that he’s staring at you with a knowing expression, but you find your gaze pulled back to him (as it always is). You’re instantly surprised by the sight of Hannibal frowning at you. You were certain he would take pride in foreseeing your suffering, but instead, he looks concerned. Surely you must be seeing things. 

“Does it bring you solace?” Hannibal breathes. You don’t need to ask him to elaborate, but he does anyway. “Burning yourself from the inside out, that is.” Admittedly, you have thought about that before. A part of you, however small, does take solace in the fact that your new smoking habit is slowly destroying your lungs, rendering them entirely inedible to a cannibal. Maybe this is just a small delusion you’ve allowed yourself—one fleeting act of resistance against a never-ending, surging tide. 

The Chesapeake Ripper is waiting for an answer. Inwardly, you find amusement in the realization that, out of all the things you’ve done, smoking is what bothers Hannibal. You have done far more cruel, dangerous, and self-sabotaging things—but this is where he draws the line. Once a doctor, always a doctor. 

“I’ve grown used to the flames,” you mutter. 

He doesn’t find your answer satisfactory. That much is clear, from the way his lips are pulled tight in a thin line to the disappointment lingering in all that remains unspoken between you. “And to addiction?” Hannibal asks. His presence before you now is one big contradiction: his words are non-confrontational, yet there is a combative desire written in the harsh lines that sew him together. 

“You’re not my doctor,” you snap, with a bit more bite than usual. You take a deep breath and rub a hand over your face roughly, shaking your head in disbelief. Hannibal remains entirely enigmatic—too unpredictable for your liking. One moment, he’s murdering an inmate; the next, he’s attempting to warn you off of smoking. These interactions never fail to give you whiplash. 

“Very well,” Hannibal acquiesces, clearly sensing that he won’t get more information about your harmful coping mechanisms. Before you can get in another word edgewise, Hannibal is continuing to speak. “Send in Dr. Chilton, will you?” You’re being effectively dismissed. Somehow, you feel humiliated. This entire time, you were foolish enough to think that you were controlling the conversation, that you were the one with the power. But that was never the case. Your presence, your existence behind these nondescript walls was always his to dictate. 

“Sure,” you respond through gritted teeth, cursing yourself for letting your guard down. You turn on your heel and walk away, very tempted to ignore his farewell. You eventually settle for throwing a wave over your shoulder as you depart, lost in thought. 

You come back to yourself as you’re standing in Chilton’s office. You blink dazedly and look around you, confused as to how you got here. You don’t remember walking back through the halls, but you must’ve—otherwise you’d still be standing in front of Hannibal. You rub at your eyes roughly and try to collect your composure, painfully aware of Chilton staring daggers into you as you stand there. He’s nearly vibrating in curiosity; unfortunately for him, it takes you a few minutes to regain the ability to speak. 

“He’s asking for you,” you finally utter. Chilton nods and steps out of his office. You stand frozen in the doorway until you hear the doors to the hall shut behind him. Then, as if possessed, you move to his desk and look down at his computer screen, which is focused on the surveillance camera feed for Hannibal’s cell. For a few minutes, Hannibal remains seated at his desk in solitude. Then, Chilton appears in the hall. The camera feed is slightly grainy and there’s no audio, but you try your best to ascertain what’s happening from their nonverbal gestures and posture. 

“I need to speak to Jack Crawford,” Hannibal says.  

“And why should I listen to you?” Chilton scoffs. Chilton is standing at least a foot away from the glass wall. You’re starting to think the administrator has a bit of a complex when it comes to Hannibal. Now that the Ripper is behind bars, Chilton is foolishly convinced that he is the one who holds the power. But Hannibal’s surrender was tactical, and you’re almost certain that he has something more up his sleeve. 

Hannibal doesn’t respond, instead staring at him silently. It’s abundantly clear that the man isn’t very fond of Chilton. 

“Fine,” Chilton responds. “But don’t expect to be getting your books back any time soon.” He adds.  

You’re left to speculate on the nature of their conversation, and you’re forced to make your escape once you notice Chilton leaving. You manage to make it out of the building before he returns, thankfully. As you drive home, you can’t help but think about the interaction you just witnessed. While you don’t know what the two men discussed, you do know that Hannibal will likely get his way. 

And indeed, he does. Unbeknownst to you, within three hours, Jack Crawford is standing before Hannibal Lecter’s enclosure with an annoyed pull to his lips. Moreover, the next time you visit Hannibal, you will notice that all of his books have been returned to him—in addition to the toilet seat and his drawings, which were both removed as punishments. These occurrences will serve as yet another reminder of the power Hannibal holds. He is no ordinary prisoner—no ordinary killer, no ordinary man. 

“You are far from ordinary,” Hannibal had told you once. Even now, years later and separated by a seemingly impenetrable wall of glass, his voice echoes down the halls of your mind palace and slips right past your defenses. You spend the rest of the evening trying to suppress old memories.

next chapter

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[saritapaleo]

Finally, my next series: the oft maligned Oviraptorosaurs!

This is one of my favorite groups of dinosaur and I feel like I haven’t drawn them (well) as often as I should. With their parrot-like beaks, flashy crests, and surprisingly graceful, birdlike appearance, you’d think these dinosaurs would be more popular in the public eye. But unfortunately, an initial misunderstanding of the behavior of the type species, Oviraptor philoceratops, led to this entire group of dinosaurs being portrayed in most dinosaur media as ugly, lowly, egg thieves.

Oviraptor philoceratops is known from a single, partial skeleton, a nest of fifteen eggs, and the fragments of a juvenile. Discovered in the 1920s in Mongolia, it was assumed that this Oviraptor met a grisley end while trying to raid the nest of a Protoceratops. It was named Oviraptor (“egg thief”) philoceratops (“fondness for ceratopsian eggs”) just to drive the point home. However, in the 1990s, numerous other oviraptorid species were discovered in brooding positions: crouched over their nests with wings outstretched, showing that this was common behavior for oviraptorids. Their eggs matched the eggs found in association with Oviraptor, and their hatchlings matched the small fragments of juvenile dinosaur found at the nest site. It would appear Oviraptor had died sheltering its own nest, probably from an incoming sandstorm, yet had been immortalized forever as an egg thief.

Oviraptor philoceratops is estimated to have been about 1.6 meters (5.2 feet) in length and about as tall as a medium-sized dog, though the only known specimen is missing most of its bottom half. It had toothless jaws with a robust beak. Its preferred diet is unknown, though the remains of a lizard were found in the body cavity of the fossil, suggesting that they were at least partially carnivorous. It is generally hypothesized that they had a similar diet to modern parrots: using their strong beaks to crush nuts and seeds, and would largely eat plant matter. They would have probably also opportunistically fed on small animals and, yes, maybe even eggs for protein. (Though perhaps it’s best not to base its whole identity on that possibility.) Oviraptor’s skull was damaged in the fossilization process, and its crest is missing, though there is evidence of one having been there. I based its crest off of related species. This, like in all things paleontology, may be subject to change someday if more fossils are found.

Living in the Late Cretaceous Djadochta Formation of Mongolia, Oviraptor would have been adapted for an arid environment dotted with arroyos and oases. The most common dinosaurs here were Protoceratops andrewsi. Other ornithischians lived here as well, such as the ankylosaur Pinacosaurus grangeri and the pachycephalosaur Prenocephale. Small pseudosuchians like Gobiosuchus and Shamosuchus would have frequented the watering holes. There was a wide variety of lizard and small mammal species, which may have been snacks for Oviraptor. But Oviraptor would have had to share any prey with more carnivorous predators such as the famous dromaeosaur Velociraptor mongoliensis, and the troodontids Archaeornithoides and Saurornithoides. A yet unidentified Tyrannosaurid also stalked this locality, which would have certainly preyed on the small Oviraptor.

This art may be used for educational purposes, with credit, but please contact me first for permission before using my art. I would like to know where and how it is being used. If you don’t have something to add that was not already addressed in this caption, please do not repost this art. Thank you!

[tepkunset]

I make 71k/year, it's not rich - middle class, sure, but not rich, especially with housing costs where I am (city, US). not to mention student loans that had to be taken out to make that 71k eat up a large part of the paycheck. I'm not saying it's not significantly more comfortable than 17k, but it isn't rich to the point of not having to worry about things (e.g., went to the ER, still had a big medical bill that set me back, not getting medical procedures because I can't afford them, still driving a kinda shitty car because a new one is not affordable, etc.)

I have student loans too, that I can't pay at all because I don't make enough money to do so. Because I can't pay my student loans, the government pays them. Because the government pays them, it doesn't matter how good my credit score is, I can't even get a credit card. I rely on e-begging for things my family needs to survive. We live in a low-income building with mouldy insulation, sunken ceiling from rain damage, and leaky windows that the NS Housing Authority that owns the property refuses to fix. We have a busted up car that's been running on winter tires all summer because we couldn't afford to change them in the spring, so now we need new winter tires come this winter and only god knows how the fuck we'll find a way to buy them. My mother needs new glasses, but we can't afford to get her any. I have a two cavities in my mouth that I can't afford to get filled. Whenever we have a crisis, I also rely on e-begging because there is no "set back", there is just nothing.

TL;DR buy me some food to earn some sympathy