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[cut-cosmetics]

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[joeloverture]

fair's fair | pervy!dbf!joel x f!reader

masterlist | notifs blog

pairing: pervy!dbf!joel x pervy!f!reader summary: [no outbreak] joel shoves you in his sweaty pits as a 'joke'. warnings: (18+ mdni) pervy!dbf!joel, age gap (early to mid 20s/38), somewhat mutual pining & sexual tension, joel in a wifebeater and jorts, reader has hair, smacking joel's ass like god intended, degradation, sweaty!joel, musk kink, armpit kink!!!, coming untouched, joel calls reader 'kiddo', 2 spanks, m!masturbation [no use of y/n] word count: 2.1k a/n: in another life, i'd be sorry for this fic. in this life, i am not. as always, a shoutout to the effervescent @lovesickonmybed for moodboard curation + creating this au. love to @seventeenpins for taking a glimpse at this + inspiring me. ty esquire team.... hooooly shit. pls suspend your disbelief if you can't come untouched we're here for a good time not a realistic one. btw you're all pussies for chickening out of the pit fics you 'planned' to write after this esquire photo fell into our laps /j

You awake to a rattling crash on the other side of the wall that you share with your dad’s combination garage/man cave. With an exaggerated groan, you peel yourself out of your creased sheets. Maybe the raccoons that have been terrorizing your garbage cans have finally broken into the garage. You’re still in your pajamas — a low-cut tank top and some bloomers that are entirely too short on you — when you rub the sleep from your eyes and shove your feet into your slippers to investigate. 

The house is quieter than dust so early in the morning. Your dad’s out at work, and the rest of the neighborhood is just beginning to wake up. There’s the tstststststs of the Adler’s sprinkler system and the birds are chirping. In the mudroom, you snatch up a broom and wrap your fist around it. You listen through the paneling of the door for any hissing or scuttling, but hear nothing. You are not looking to get rabies today.

You poke your head out of the door, broom pointed at the ground like a staff. Immediately, you’re blinded by a slice of sunshine cutting through the very much open garage.

You’re about two seconds away from sprinting back inside to call 911 when you see the unkempt, sunkissed hair of none other than Joel Miller.

You set the broom gently back against the wall. Joel’s not a threat – at least not to anything but that traitor between your legs. He’s just your dad’s buddy; drinking buddy, fishing buddy, jack-of-all-trades buddy. He’s also no stranger to those borderline goo-goo eyes you give him. How could you not? He’s just so broad and muscled and God, you swear up and down that you stare more at his ass than anyone has ever stared at yours.

Sometimes, if you’re lucky, he’ll even give you shit about it. Bending over directly in your line of sight at block parties, ‘play wrestling’ with you on the dock by the lake whenever you jokingly call him an old man, or, in one very special instant, giving your ass a smack that sent you into an hours long tizzy.

You deserve to give him shit about it, too.

After all, he’s the one ferreting around in your dad’s garage in the wee hours of the morning. You pad into the garage, footsteps muffled by your slippers as you navigate around your dad’s pickup. You catch a better look at Joel when you pass the truck bed. And, for better or for worse, he’s dressed like a slut.

His ribbed white wifebeater stretches over his wide chest, grass stains scattered along the small of his back. Sweat darkens the hems of his shirt under his armpits, glistening and beading on the back of his neck, too. In true dad fashion, he even has on jorts. He’s bent over your dad’s tool bench, thumbing around an assortment of screwdrivers. His denim-covered ass sticks out. A smile spreads across your face.

You slip around the truck and take soft step after soft step until you’re right behind him. You can’t help but notice a cocktail of his pheromones and B.O. surrounding him. He must’ve been outside for a while now with all of the stains he’s accumulated on his shirt already. You keep your breathing muted so he can’t hear you as you reach out and — smack!

Joel shrieks, shooting upright. His head slams into the shelf overhead and a few bolts go toppling onto the concrete below. He cusses like a sailor as his hand goes up to rub the back of his head, nursing where a lump will probably be in a few hours time. Joel whips around to see you, smothering your giggles behind your hand. “You little shit,” he huffs, still scratching at his head. You don’t miss how his cheeks are firetruck red. “The fuck are ya doin’?”

“Me? The fuck are you doing, Miller? Stomping around my dad’s garage at, like, the asscrack of dawn–”

“Nine in the mornin’ ain’t the asscrack of dawn, sweetcheeks,” Joel says. Then, he holds up a set of pliers. “Mower shit the bed. I’m thinkin’ Sarah stole my pliers to make necklaces, but she hasn’t fessed up yet. Your pops said I could borrow his.” He stretches, giving you a long whiff of his scent. The groan he lets out stirs something in your stomach, much to your chagrin.

“I think the mower is the least of your worries,” you say, wrinkling your nose. “You reek. Shower shit the bed, too?”

“You try doin’ yard work in 90 degree heat, kiddo. See how much you smell like that strawberry raspberry peach whatever-the-fuck soap you’re usin’.”

You roll your eyes so hard you’re surprised you don’t see the back of your skull. “Rosemary eucalyptus,” you correct under your breath.

“Hmm, what was that?” Joel asks, tossing the pliers down onto the workbench. “Gotta speak up.”

“Rosemary eucalyptus,” you say. “But I bet you wouldn’t know. What do you use? 18 in 1?”

Joel grunts. “Real funny.” He takes a step closer to you, lips taut with a smirk. “How ‘bout you find out?”

You don’t have time to question what the hell he means – he just cups the back of your head with one of his wide palms and shoves your face directly into his closest sweaty pit. “Mmmmph!” you protest, mouth sealed shut against the thatch of hair that’s spattered across his skin. You hold your breath for as long as you can, but eventually, you’re forced to suck in a breath through your squished nose. His musk, sweet and just as sharp, fills your airways. Your clit all but jerks between your legs in humiliation, drawing a whine out of your throat.

Joel chuckles, ruffling your hair. It’s enough to make your thighs clench. “You’re a little freak, huh?” He presses harder on the back of your head, so much so that you almost get a mouthful of his underarm.

“Youuu dick!” you try to say without opening your mouth too far. It comes out muffled against his sweat-pearled skin. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to push him off of you.

Another wry chuckle comes from above. Joel bends his arm so that his elbow is wrapped around the back of your head, effectively trapping you in his funk. “Come on, huff ‘em. Practically fuckin’ asking for it earlier, all ‘a that mouthin’ off. So now you get a mouthful of my pits. Fair’s fair, kiddo.”

Embarrassment ribbons through your body, the kind that makes you leak into your panties against your will. Still looking for a way out, you squirm against his ironclad hold.

It’s only good for making him land a heavy-hitting slap across your ass. You yelp, a new wave of slick saturating the drenched gusset of your panties. You jump where you are, hips bucking into nothing – for escape or pressure, you’re not entirely sure. “Unless you wanna go over my knee instead?” Your face sears with humiliation.

Tentatively, you snuffle a bit against his pit, biting into your cheeks at his musk. It makes you cough a little bit – he’s been carrying the smell of cutting grass and his own sweat all morning.

“Yeah, thought so. But you can do better than that, sweetcheeks. I said huff, not fake an asthma attack.” You whimper, this time sucking in a longer breath. Here he is, holding you down, secure against his pit as you're left with no other option than to take what he gives you, when he gives it to you. All you can smell, feel, touch is just Joel, Joel, Joel. It makes you lightheaded.

Your clit is practically a kickdrum between your thighs, pulsing and doing more work than your head. You try to angle yourself so that you can rub your clit against Joel’s leg, but he puts a stop to that real quick. “Gettin’ all wound up just from being where ya belong, your pretty little face in my pit?” You mewl, reaching for Joel’s sides. You bunch your fists in the fabric of his wifebeater, and he allows it.

“Since you’re so eager to complain about it, how ‘bout you clean me up, huh?” He nudges his pit against your face again, and, confusedly, you furrow your brows. You can’t see much of him, but you do see the edge of his mouth tip up in satisfaction. “You got rocks for brains? Lick, kiddo.”

Hesitance drives the soft kitten lick of your tongue, swiping up and down across a very small portion of his pit. He loosens up on his grip on you, giving you the slightest bit more reign. You try to tell yourself that you’re scared of what he might do if you disappoint him, but hell if you don’t want this as much as he does, tongue, nose, face buried in his pits. Some sort of ultimate form of worship between the two of you.

You lave your tongue across his pit, eyes fluttering with each stroke. You swirl it in the crease of his arm, sucking his goddamn hairs clean with the fervor you’ve picked up. Enthused now, you bob your head up and down. Your clit responds, throbbing with a heartbeat of its own.

You’re panting, inhaling and exhaling him, lapping up his musk like a fucking dog, gone from reluctant to eager. Your clit twitches faster and faster, and you swear that arousal must be tacky on the insides of your thighs, leaking through your panties all over the front of your bloomers, but you can’t do anything about it. You can’t even grind against Joel – you can only slurp against his armpit, something like desperation having replaced all of your previous mortification from when he’d shoved you there in the first place.

You’re so preoccupied with pleasing him that you don’t even notice the thumping of your clit, picking up speed and pressure. Your body seizes in between your greedy little licks. You feel yourself weaken before you stiffen.

And maybe it’s the way Joel keeps groaning with each movement of your tongue. It could be how he exhales, “Kiddo,” in a raspy voice, both demeaning and endearing all at once. But in the end, it’s how he says, “Mmmm, such a good goddamn tongue. Bet it’d feel so good on my cock,” that breaks the dam between your legs.

You shudder, coming completely undone with little moans and whimpers in Joel’s arms without so much as a hand on your clit, just your face smothered in his pit. Drool runs down your lips and across your chin as you jerk and weaken in his grasp. If you weren’t so underwater, so far gone, you’d be able to hear him saying, “Fuck – whoa, whoa, whoa,” trying to stop you from falling on your ass in the middle of the garage. His hands card across your sides as he props you up against the workbench. Your vision blackens at the edges from the intensity of your orgasm, and you’re still coming, at least you think you are, when you blink yourself back to awareness. You’re wide-eyed, tears brimming at your waterline, incapacitated in a way that you didn’t know you could be.

“Holy shit,” you gasp when you finally fully come to, slumped over the workbench, still half-clinging to Joel. “Fuck.”

Joel looks stunned, looking you up and down as if he can’t get enough of you. His eyes land right between your thighs, where, sure enough, you’ve ruined your bloomers. You still feel like deadweight, and you struggle to stand upright. You’re not sure you’ve ever come so hard even with someone’s hands all over your. Joel’s glistening with even more sweat, and it’s impossible to miss the glaring bulge in his shorts. He clears his throat after a minute. “Oughta go get cleaned up before your daddy gets back for his lunch break, kiddo.”

You stumble upright, drenched in sweat yourself now, Joel’s lingering scent still pervading every breath you take. “Y-yeah,” you manage, nodding. You feel out of your own body, stumbling towards the door. You’re so wet that you can feel it with every goddamn step. Fuck Joel Miller, cocky piece of sh–

You’re immediately returned to your own body by the resounding swat Joel lands on your ass. You jump, shooting a glare over your shoulder. He puts his hands up, pleading innocence.

You’re not surprised when you crawl out of your shower, smelling of rosemary eucalyptus and dripping water all over the floor, only to see Joel’s mower abandoned in the middle of his yard. Even worse, you aren’t surprised in the slightest when you squint through your bedroom window, Joel sprawled out across his bed, hips bucking in-time with his fist before catching your eye and spraying ropes of cum all over his abdomen.

You mouth at him through the window with a taunting little wink, Clean yourself up this time.

#oh what i wouldnt give to get lost in that mans bottomless pits #vetty's words 𓇢𓆸 #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfic #joel miller/reader #joel miller fic #joel miller smut

[princessbrunette]

Kook!reader Mouthing off to jj and he looks up from whatever he’s doing and is like “ you better chill out or Ima tear that ass up” and her spoiled ass has never been spanked or anything so she thinks he’s bluffing and says he’s too pussy or something. So he just raises his eyebrows and 10 seconds later she’s over his knee confused, and he ends up making her cry bc she needs someone to show her who’s boss 🤭(I need this pls write it)

♛ ⋆˙₊˚⊹♡

jj always got very concentrated and serious when he worked on his bike. it required his full attention, his lips pressed in a thin line with that crease appearing between his brows as he switched out tools and wrenches at whatever he can to fix the problem he’s facing with it. he’d learnt over the years to fix it by himself, hell — he could probably take the bike apart and rebuild it with his eyes closed. it was sexy, seeing him like that— the one downside was it meant less attention for you, and for a girl so spoiled that was a nightmare.

you sit on a stool near him as he works on twisting bolts and sorting wires on an inside panel of his bike. he doesn’t mind you being there, what he does mind is your constant nagging and unnecessary chatter. if it was too much for jj, it must have been bad.

“dont know, babe. it’ll be done when it’s done.” his eyes flutter with irritation as he answers your whining for what feels like the tenth time that minute.

“y’said that last time. you know i came alllll the way to the cut to hang out with you and you’re spending’ all this time with your bike.”

“well, y’haven’t even been here an hour and i told you i’d be done soon. so quit the whining, yeah?” he warns, and he thinks he’s finally shut you up— being met with purely peace and quiet as he continues working away. that is until, you pipe up once more.

“maybe you should date the bike then. seein’ as you love it more than me.”

the tool in his hand clanks against the ground as he drops it, using the same hand to run over his face, releasing a quiet hum of frustration as he tries to gather himself. he stands, turning fully to you with a malicious grin and a tongue in his cheek. you stare, wide eyed and unbothered, feet still swinging.

“i don’t know how your mommy and daddy deal with you back on the kook side’a the island— but over here this lil’ attitude you got goin’ on ain’t gonna fly too well with me, alright? cut it out ‘fore i make you.” he’s made his way over to you, jaw tight and big eyes flickering between yours. you tilt your head, a challenge.

“like you’re gonna do anything about it.” you tease and he chuckles, shaking his head.

“alright, okay— yeah, let’s see shall we?” he asks before he’s dragging you off the stool by the arm and leading you inside.

not even five minutes later, and he’s got you folded over his lap in tears, his large hand relentlessly coming down on your sore ass cheek, each hit making you squeal.

“did i say stop countin’? ‘cos i’m pretty sure i never said that.” he tilts his head, raising his voice just a tad as you hiccup and sniffle.

“seventeen.” you sob, holding onto his thigh for dear life.

“yeah. three more. you’ll think twice next time before you pull that kook shit on me, huh?”

“m’sorry jj!” you whine and it’s met with another spank.

“yeah, i bet.”

“eighteen!”

after you’ve had all the attitude smacked out of you, the blonde cradles you on his lap, rubbing his lips together guiltily as you cling onto him. you had to learn your lesson though, so after he made sure you were okay and got you anything you needed — he headed back outside to finish up on his bike.

he left you to sulk and think about your actions, and just as he was finishing up on his bike— he hears the quiet padding of your feet approaching once more, standing as quietly as you possibly could until he looked over, giving you permission to speak.

“i’m sorry, jj.” you mewl and he throws the rag he was wiping his hands on over his shoulder, pushing himself up to stand.

“i know, babydoll— you’re good now, yeah?”

you respond by lifting up your hand unsurely, pinching a wad of cash. “what’s that?” he asks, placing his tool back into its box.

“money to get the bike fixed so you can spend more time with me.” you sniffle quietly, unsure how he’s gonna take it. he chuckles, snatching his hat off and pulling you in for a hug, his arm around the back of your neck and hand rubbing your lower back.

“i finished with the bike, you goof.” it comes out muffled as he kisses the crown of your head. “and whilst i appreciate the gesture, there’s no freakin’ way i’d let anyone touch my bike.” he pulls back, offering you a friendly smile before pressing a kiss to the tip of your snotty nose and then bringing his fingers up to pinch at it, wiping the snot away. you crinkle your nose, and he starts to walk you backwards. “c’mon, let’s go inside.”

♛ ⋆˙₊˚⊹♡

#anon #jj maybank prompt

[ghoulishsleep]

The Doctor | Part 1 | The Mandalorian

> Part 2

summary: When the Child falls ill, the Mandalorian seeks a familiar doctor.

pairing: eventual Din Djarin x OC afab!reader (no physical descriptions; reader has relatives, a surname, and backstory/personality)

word count: +1.3k

a/n: I actually pulled myself out of a seven-year fic hiatus to do this. My writing is rusty™, so please be kind! And title suggestions would be stellar. 🥴 That one detail aside, I have a lot of backstory in mind, honestly to the point that "reader" is really just an OC who I'm writing in second-person. Debating third tbh. I'd love for any feedback (esp on Mando) and I hope to have a writing masterlist & another installment up in the near future! eta: thanks to local-fanfic-addict for the name suggestion!

warnings: rated T, minor descriptions of illness, referenced character death

-

A petulant cough from Din Djarin’s side cuts through the hiss of the gangplank rising behind him, a smoked visor tilting downward to regard the small lump in his knapsack. It hides the grimace upon his lips, the crease in his brow, at how miserable the Child seemed.

“Hang in there, kid. Not much longer,” Din murmurs, more to himself than the feverish body at his side – to steel his normally calm nerves – orange-tipped gloves passing in comforting strokes across roughened duraweave.

When he accepted a job on the last planet, the Child seemed fine, with a sniffle that could have been written off to the perpetual cold both aboard the Razor Crest and the planet they were on. Nearing the mission’s end, however, the Child was sweltering and had a deep, wet cough that obviously racked his tiny body.

First, panic. 

Din hadn’t the slightest idea as to how to care for a sick child. He hardly cared for himself properly and was only getting a feel for this bizarre parenthood. Of course, he was unprepared – utterly helpless to soothe the Child’s fitful crying. Din couldn’t help but shout while digging through the storage compartments at the paltry medical supplies upon the ‘Crest, which included a few tiny bacta pads and untouched nausea medicine (which, if he were honest with himself, had probably been aboard since the ship was manufactured).

Then, a realization.

Upon a moon several hours away by hyperspace was an old acquaintance. One who had saved his hide many years before, who would be safe for the Mandalorian and his foundling.

With much haste, Din concluded the mission – handed over a quarry (whose horror was suspended in carbonite), accepted payment, and quickly departed the frigid planet. Where he touched down was quite its contrary; verdant and temperate, known most predominantly for its abundant botanicals and as a picturesque, if underdeveloped, retreat. Warm air rushes beneath Din’s helmet as he treks through the streets of the quaint port town.

It had changed since his last visit, years ago, but remained relative enough that his memory could guide his measured footfall. He didn’t allow himself a chance to reminisce, carrying onward through the central marketplace to the edge of town, where sat a modest building labelled simply in Aurebesh:

doctor  apothecary open

Beneath the sign, the door is set open, voices carrying faintly from within. Two feminine and the grate of a masculine-programmed droid.

-

Days on Chaira were slow – simple. (Save for the occasional excitement from its residents, most often the arboriculture and logging industry nestled in the nearby mountains.) Once living there full-time, you’d quickly learnt why your father decided to settle down on this moon, of all in the galaxy.

Following the morning’s appointments, you slipped into the minutiae of managing the small clinic, bottling or compounding common medicines, writing up orders for a future supply run, and preparing files for appointments in the coming days. All the while, your resident 2-1B unit went about sanitizing surfaces and tools and tidying up.

Settling in for a late lunch at the front desk (just to be safe), you called your mother via holopad, through which you updated one another daily. You detailed your morning thus far and – for the systematic difference – your mother her entire day.

“Is 2-1B around?” Your mother’s query causes your eyes to flit upward in time to see the droid round the corner. Just how she always managed to ask of him right as he entered each time was beyond you.

“Yeah, right here,” you hum around a mouthful of peppery herb salad, pushing the puck transmitter closer to his side of the desk so he can wave an appendage to your mother. Meanwhile, you shovel another forkful of salad into your mouth.

“Salutations, Sola. I hope you are well. Isn’t it,” 2-1B pauses thoughtfully. “A bit late on Yavin 4?”

“Oh, please, 2-1B,” grouses your mother, and you can see the smile in her projection. “I’ll go to bed soon; I just had to check in with you two.”

Your eyes wander while they chit-chat, gazing out the door for several moments before you notice the head of a shadow pause just within view. You crane your neck and lean forward on your elbows to get a better idea of who (or what) is lingering outside, which 2-1B catches on to and turns as well.

“Mom, I think we might have a walk-in,” you share quietly, pushing your bowl off to one side.

“Alright, my loves. Talk to you tomorrow.”

“Love you, mom; talk to you tomorrow,” you reply gently, and 2-1B pipes up in a farewell of his own. Just before the gracious image of your mother’s expression blinks away, the stranger finally crosses over the threshold (a wall of metal – beskar), commanding your attention, and your jaw falls momentarily slack.

Mandalorian.

But not in the mottled hues of flaking paint and common metal you so distantly recall. Instead, the portion of armor you can see from the drape of his cape is brilliant silver.

As you slowly rise to a stand behind the desk, you stuff down your awe, a spume of trepidation releasing in your chest.

(You can’t help wondering if this is the same one–)

“Pardon the interruption, but I need to see Doctor Vancil. Urgently.”

“I–” It takes everything in you not to crinkle your nose and press your lips thin at the assertion, at the underlying desperation that still finds its way through his vocoder. This wasn’t a spiel you’d had to deliver in some time. Allowing your eyes to close, you draw a deep breath before regarding the collected but imposing figure in your lobby.

“My father, Doctor Vancil, is one with the Force,” you answer, noting how the shiny helmet rears back slightly. “In his stead, my– his droid and I have been continuing his practice. 2-1B can check you out, and I’ll see to it that you get any medications you may need.”

You swear you catch the quietest, clipped end of a curse from the man before you, whose helmet slowly turns toward 2-1B. A slight, terrible cough followed by a coo emanates from somewhere at his hip level, causing your eyes to widen. 

A child? 

In a bag?

“I’ll accept your help – but no droids.”

Along with his dry declaration, the Mandalorian idly gestures two orange-tipped fingers toward your companion, and you nearly feel offended on his behalf. Yet the temperate droid, having gleaned much of his personality from your father, with whom he had been partnered almost all of his existence, understood your capability and responded with a “very well then” before toddling down the hallway at his back.

“Very well,” you parrot with an inkling of uncertainty. You collect your datapad as you round the desk to the same side as the Mandalorian stands, a small sweep of your arm beckoning him to join you, “We’re going into an exam room two doors down on the left. No droid.”

A modulated hum is nearly drowned out by the heavy trod of the Mandalorian’s boots as you shut the door gently behind the two of you and go to wash your hands at the small counter basin. He occupies the space almost uncomfortably, T visor sweeping its primitive decor of jars of cotton buds and tongue depressors, and a hanging plant with cascading purple leaves.

“So, what brings you in?” You glance over your shoulder and draw from your usual repertoire of starters, unsure how to address the child noise at his hip – which was now a soft babble.

“My foundling,” he clarifies, brushing aside the weathered cape to reveal a knapsack at his hip. From within it, he produces a wrinkly, green-skinned creature with large eyes and ears unlike anything you’d ever laid eyes on. “He started getting sick two days ago, and I’m not sure what to do.”

You nod slowly, contemplatively, trying to school your expression into professional impassivity. Although not a species you’d helped yet, it was a baby. (Probably.)

“Okay, I should absolutely be able to help. I just have a few questions to begin.”

> Part 2

-

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#i'm not even sure how to tag this tbh #ALSO catch me mortified posting my fanfiction to tumblr for the first time ever #even when i wrote a lot it never saw tumblie here #god help me #the mandalorian #din djarin x reader #mandalorian x reader #star wars x reader #the mandalorian x reader #mando x reader #star wars

[fuckyeahfightlock]

Whumpril 2024

-14- Urgent Care

As soon as the knife slid, Harry knew it was bad.

"Ow!" Then, "Shit!" He grabbed for the nearest tea towel and twisted it hard around the end of his finger. Adam's eyes widened with panic at Harry's sharp voice, the flurry of activity as he wrapped the wound.

"What is it?" he demanded, and his gaze scanned the scene on the worktop: chunks of white-fleshed potatoes, the glinting silvery steel of the butcher knife, the blonde-wood chopping board. Blood. Blood. Blood. Harry marveled that such a mess had been made in the time it took him to react; he thought he'd been quick. He held out his hand, blood already soaking through the two layers of tea towel even though he was holding it tight. Adam gave his arm a push from below. "Put it up, above your heart."

Harry did as he was told. "I need to sit down," he said, barely heard himself over the rush in his ears. His vision was going grey at the edges.

"Sit, sit." Adam guided him quickly onto one of the kitchen stools, balanced Harry's elbow on the counter there so his hand was pointed toward the ceiling. "I'll have a look." He did not sound as though he wanted to.

"Don't," Harry urged. "Can't stand blood," he added, half-laughing at himself, feeling less faint but otherwise no better.

"Wait just one second," Adam directed him. "I've got a first aid kit." Adam opened kitchen cupboards one after the next, then pulled out drawers, at last dashed for the bath. Harry closed his eyes and chewed his lip. The towel was making his finger tingle toward numbness but he was afraid to loosen it. There was blood visible on the corner of his palm, just a thin trail, already drying into the tiny creases in his skin.

Adam returned and opened a red canvas bag that resembled a shave kit, pulled things out and set them aside until he came up with what he wanted: gauze pads, betadine swabs, white tape--and a half-moon shaped needle already threaded, in a clear plastic envelope. Harry groaned.

"We might not need it," Adam reassured him, and tucked the needle away under the edge of the bag.

"We should go to Emergency," Harry said, and even as Adam shook his head, he knew that of course they couldn't. "Fuuuuuck," he moaned on a long exhale.

"Nevermind, we don't know anything yet. Here." Adam maneuvered him, took hold of the twisted tea towel. Harry gripped the edge of the counter. "It might not be so bad. Look away, or close your eyes." Harry looked at the ceiling. His leg began to jitter with nervous energy. He felt the pressure loosening as Adam removed the towel. "Not so bad," he soothed. Harry felt the air stinging the wound, the unpleasant throb of blood rushing back into the fingertip; he'd wrenched the towel around it into a near-tourniquet. "I don't think it needs a stitch. I'll just clean it and wrap it up."

"Is it still bleeding?"

"Just a little. Don't look if you don't want to."

Harry did not want to. Adam was efficient about tearing wrappers open, readying supplies.

"This might sting a bit," he warned. At first the antiseptic was only cold, then it did sting, and not only a bit. Harry sucked his breath through his teeth. "I know," Adam cooed at him. "That hurts. All done." He began folding the gauze pad into a particular shape, testing it around and over the tip of Harry's finger, in between each motion wiping away fresh blood, still seeping. Once he'd got the gauze right-sized, he placed and held it, not too tight, not too loose.

"Done?"

"Not quite. Can you just hold this right here. Not where the cut is," Adam grasped for Harry's other hand, guided him to lay the tip of his finger in the right spot. He yanked off tape, cut it off with his teeth.

"You shouldn't use your teeth as a tool," Harry told him. "My mum always said that."

Adam smiled slightly as he wound the tape into place around the pad. "I always heard not to use your fingernails," he said. "My friend who did drag on Tuesday nights in 1997 used to say that."

"She sounds smart," Harry said, relieved to have anything to think of other than the cut on his finger, the sharp sting of the knife's blade zinging through his skin.

"Mm," Adam allowed, doing final touch ups to his handiwork. "She's dead now. And really wasn't very smart." He shrugged and started clearing away the refuse--balled up the blood-soaked tea towel so Harry wouldn't see the stains, crumpled paper wrappers, dropped the horseshoe needle back into the first aid kit. "Done. You can look now, there's nothing bad to see."

Harry examined the bandage; it was bulky and bright white, and seemed like it would work. Adam moved on to cleaning up the mess on the chopping board, screening it with the angle of his body, his back toward Harry, and after a few moments, Harry mused, "I wasn't sure it would bleed. I wondered."

Adam became still but didn't turn around. "Did you do it purposely?" he asked, and Harry couldn't discern exactly the feelings behind it, but just in case.

"No," he lied. "No, I didn't do it purposely. Why would I? Nearly fainted dead away at the first drop of blood."

Adam resumed his work. "All right," he said mildly. "Just checking."

#ficlet #writing is easy #All of Us Strangers #whumpril 2024 #whump #longest one yet

[the-hole-in-terzos-shoe]

Now Paint a Pair of Eyes

In which Reader paints Papa's face.

Papa x Reader, 800 words.

I'll get better at the info at the top. I used Italian phrases like "cara mia" but hopefully that isn't a barrier to anyone doing a reader insert! If anyone has suggestions there I'm open to them! Enjoy!

✨🕯️📿⛪📿🕯️✨

Papa positioned himself at his vanity, always looking breathtaking in the warm soft lighting there. But this time you were positioned between him and his tools, in a chair facing him, as he perched on his padded, embroidered stool that he always painted himself upon.

No doubt this is a different set up than the usual, and funnily enough this all started as a joke, but your sweet Papa just had to see it through.

***

"Papa, your stage makeup could use more dimension," you giggled to your lover, swatting him playfully on the chest as you lounged in bed together.

"What do you mean, cara mia? Don't you think I am beautiful?" He cut his eyes at you playfully before leaning forward with a kiss to your forehead. "I think I am beautiful."

You huff out a small laugh, burying your head in his chest. "Of course you're beautiful, my Papa. I just think your paint could be..." you start searching for the right words, "Elevated! To capture your striking features. You know, a little highlighter here, some gold paint there?" You joke, poking his face as you list ideas.

"GOLD?! Papa Emeritus wears black and white."

***

And that's how you ended up before him, your hands diving into his makeup brushes and various compacts and pallettes, giving your take on his ceremonial image.

Your hands shook, hopefully imperceptibly, for many reasons. What if you got the base paint wrong? You certainly weren't as practiced as he was at it. But also, you were simply buzzing with excitement. Although it had begun as a joke, you'd always hoped for the day you would get to adorn this man with makeup, fretting over every little detail and worshipping every curve, crease, and damn- that jaw.

He sat in silence, very serious, and very uncharacteristic of him. You expected him to flinch or giggle or try to mess you up, but it never really came. You think he was really wanting to gauge your talents, see your ideas come to fruition.

As you prepared to paint the distinctive black around his eyes, you gently propped your pinky on his nose, bracing your hand. Papa looks you straight in the eyes, whispering softly, "My nose is so delicate, isn't it?" The unexpected joke earning a snort from you and breaking the serious tone.

From then on, it was hard to make eye contact with him without giggling like a school girl, and you didn't want to mess this up. He wore a shit eating grin for quite a while after, but let you continue blackening out his eyes, powdering them after to keep it from creasing.

After getting the base makeup just right, you embellished the look the way you had envisioned. It wasn't much, but you thought it would capture his visage even better than his paint already did, with a little highlighter here, some gold paint there. It looked gorgeous in the dim lighting of his chambers. While you were quite proud of yourself for effectively capturing the image in your head, you were nervous he wouldn't like it or find it "girly" or something.

"You ready to see it, Papa?"

His arms shoot up theatrically, covering his eyes, but careful not to touch your hard work, "So ready, my sweet," his lips stretch in a goofy smile.

You move to stand behind him, covering his hands with yours. "Okay," you whisper right next to his ear, as you guide him to drop his hands.

Upon seeing himself, he inhales sharply through his nose, sitting up straight and eyes widening, "Oh, mi amore..." He leans towards the mirror, turning his face left and right, gently gracing his fingers across his jaw, "I could never wear this while performing..."

Your heart sank. He shakes his head, looking down momentarily, before turning to you with a bit of a frown, "The fans... They couldn't handle it," he deadpans at you. "The Ghouls would forget how to play their instruments! You've made me just gorgeous!" He gestures his arms out wide, before wrapping them around your waist for a warm embrace.

"Oh, Satanas, Papa, you scared me! I thought you didn't like it!" You exhale, sinking your fingers into his hair, looking down at him.

"Well I'm supposed to scare you! I'm spooky!" He jokes before picking you up over his shoulder and tossing you down on his soft bed. Crawling on top of you, his rumbles, "Yes, cara mia, this paint is for our eyes alone." He places a soft kiss to your lips and grabs at your waist needily.

"Careful... You'll smudge it, my dear." You brush your fingers through the hair at his temples.

"Hmm, yes," he practically growls, "I plan on smudging it..." as he sinks his face into your neck, planting love bites across your delicate skin.

Now paint a pair of eyes

And let's watch as it dries

Remember always, that love is all you need

Tell me who you wanna be

And I will set you free

#fuck it #i wrote it myself #couldnt get that shit off my mind #also i kinda wrote this with papa iv in mind #but i think it could be any of them #esp terzo #so yeah #also i know i used cara mia #but hopefully anyone could insert themselves here!!! #i just wanna be inclusive ya know? #ill look into more gender neutral italian terms #papa emeritus iv #papa emeritus iii #papa emeritus #papa emeritus ii #papa emeritus i #papa iv #papa copia #papa emeritus 4 #papa terzo #shitghosting #ghost band #the band ghost #fanfic #imagine

[embroidery-pro]

All about sewing tools

Sewing Tools for Professional Results As with any profession or hobby, using the right tools can make all the difference in the world and can make the difference between amateur or professional results. Even if you’ve only sewn a few projects and collected some basic sewing tools, it may be time to learn about some of the advanced sewing tools designed to give your project that professional edge. Most sewing projects can be completed without the following tools, but as you improve and fine-tune your skills and develop an affinity for quilting, home decorating or clothing construction, you’ll find these tools indispensable for saving time, increasing accuracy and simplifying tasks Cutting Tools Needlework Scissors and Snips Small, 3"- to 5"-long needlework scissors or snips are indispensable for clipping close to the stitching line or trimming intricate areas of a project. They can be used wherever your large bent-handled shears can’t reach. Snips have spring-loaded handles. Keep a pair alongside the sewing machine, at-theready to cut stray threads. Rotary Cutter Used with a self-healing mat and a clear plastic ruler, rotary cutters are ideal for straight cuts in one or more fabric layers. Look for blades that can be easily removed and replaced and a handle that is comfortable. Rotary mats and rulers are made specifically for rotary-blade cutting, and the materials don’t dull rotary blades as other products might. Both the mat and the ruler feature gridlines and angles for cutting accuracy. See more about: rotary cutters Measuring & Altering Tools Grid Board Use a large grid board under the fabric and pattern to align the fabric grain while pinning and cutting. A padded grid board allows you to pin into it when stretching or blocking fabric. Some have ironing surfaces that are also helpful for fusing large fabric sections. Consider a rotating grid board if your space is limited. Mats and wide rulers used for rotary cutting are actually modified grid boards used both underneath and on top of the fabric. See “Rotary Cutter” above. French Curve or Fashion Ruler These rulers have a variety of curves to mimic the body’s curves and are used when altering patterns. It’s helpful for the simplest length adjustment and indispensable when actually changing the style of a garment. Depending on how you turn the ruler and what segment you use, one ruler gives you all the curves necessary to complete pattern lines when altering or drafting patterns. Marking Tools FabricMarking Pens The space-age chemicals used to make these clever pens become more high-tech every day. The disappearing ink allows you to mark most projects at the exact location needed—even on the fabric right side— without fear of staining or discoloration. Look for an ink color that is in high contrast to your fabric, and for accuracy select a fine tip. Choose a water-soluble pen for long-term projects, when you want the markings to remain until you remove them with water. Air-soluble pen inks disappear within a few hours and are ideal for fabrics that can’t be washed or dampened. Some air- and water-soluble pen manufacturers caution against exposing marked fabrics to sunlight or the heat of the iron because heat may set the ink permanently. Always test the pen on a scrap of the fabric before using it on your project. Pressing Tools Tailor’s Ham Resembling a ham, this pressing tool is used as a base or a mold when pressing curved or shaped seams. It’s available in several sizes and should be covered on one side in cotton and the other in wool. The ham’s curves are designed to mimic garment curves and are used to set the shape of collars, lapels, sleeve caps and more. Point Presser & Pounding Block The raised points of this wooden tool allow you to press deep into a corner without creasing the surrounding fabric. The base is used as a pounding block, or clapper, to flatten seams. Needle Board A flat, flexible board with a bed of short needles placed very close together, a velvet board or needle board is used for pressing napped fabrics, such as velvet and corduroy, without crushing the fabric’s pile. A lessexpensive, and less-effective, version of a needle board features a canvas backed fabric with a raised pile front that takes the place of the needles. Sewing Tools SewingMachine Needles Sewing needles are designed for the type of fabric, thread and stitches you’re using. Using the right size and type of needle will greatly improve your sewing success. For more information on choosing the best needle for your project . Tip: A stitching problem, such as skipped stitches or looping or shredding threads, at firstmay appear to be a problemwith themachine when actually it’s a call for a new or better-suited needle. Bodkin Used for drawing elastic, cord or ribbon through a fabric casing, bodkins are available in several different styles. The pincer is usually the shortest with teeth at one end designed to clamp down firmly on ribbon or elastic and pull it through a tubular casing. Longer versions have a safety pin style closure at one end, and the slimmest version, designed like a large sewing needle, has a large eye for feeding narrow cord in narrow casings. A bodkin’s ball-point end comes in handy for turning fabric tubes right side out. Point Turner A point turner is a hand-held, pointed plastic tool designed to poke into tight corners. For crisp, sharp corners and points, use this tool to push out the corners of collars and cuffs before pressing. The opposite end is flat or rounded; use it to hold open seam allowances while pressing, so you don’t burn your fingers.Basting Tape Much faster than hand basting with needle and thread, use narrow, paper backed basting tape to hold zippers, bias tapes and trims in place while stitching. Fray Preventer A drop of this liquid on the cut edge of a woven fabric will bond the edges and prevent the fabric from raveling. Before using, test the product on a scrap of the actual fabric, or in an inconspicuous area of the project. Allow the test piece to dry thoroughly. Then wash, dry and press it as you would the finished project, to be sure the product doesn’t discolor the fabric. Read the full article

#embroidery #embroidery designs #embroidery machine #embroidery tips #sewing #sewing machine #tutorial

[kaiapaia]

I wanted to read some flirty, rival art thieves to lovers with Akaashi, so I wrote a snippet. Hope you enjoy!

Pairing: Akaashi Keiji/Reader

Content warnings: One mention of jumping off a roof, otherwise none. No pronouns used.

WC: 1498

Rating: G

Moonlight filters in through the skylights high above you, casting a silvery glow over the darkened halls of the museum. Part of you wishes you could go explore the shadowed exhibits while you have the place to yourself, but the distant noise of the security guard’s boots on the stone floor remind you that not only are you not alone, you’re working. 

Quietly, you use your multitool to open the security panel. You gently rifle through the wires to reveal your target, and splice in the USB stick that’ll play a loop of the undisturbed hallways for the security cameras, allowing you to approach your target. Just in case, you make sure that your mask is secure over the bridge of your nose before you exit the closet. 

Double checking that the security guard has passed, you slip out and pad into the exhibit. All the lights have been shut off, but the glass cases are lit up by the moonlight that pours in through the glass ceiling, making the facets of the gemstones twinkle. It’s a veritable feast of options, and you can’t help but admire the tiaras, brooches, necklaces, and more as you imagine how much you could get for them. Unfortunately, you only have time to grab one, and you know exactly which bauble you’re going to leave with tonight.

Careful not to touch the glass, you approach the case. This particular display is a collection of early Tiffany items, donated to showcase the style of the era. Your piece is displayed in the center, a beautiful double stranded necklace of finely cut emeralds and amethysts set in fine gold, with art noveau scrollwork decorating the gemstones. It’s stunning, and more importantly, exactly what your client asked for. Smiling under your mask, you kneel down next to the case and gently swipe your fingers along the base until you find the crease that marks the opening of the control panel. 

Pulling out your multitool, you open the panel and flick on a pen light. It’s easy enough to find the wires for the pressure sensors, and with a snip from your tool the lights flicker off. Another snip and you cut the alarm, leaving the jewels completely vulnerable. The last step is to pick the lock on the glass case, which is accomplished with a few delicate turns of your wrists. 

As you reach into the case to grab your prize, a soft sound catches your attention. High above you, one of the skylights opens, and you see a black tendril of rope fall. A figure slides down the rope, landing with a soft grunt on the stone floor. Even in the dark, you’d recognize those blue eyes anywhere. You’ve seen them many times before, usually right as he swipes your target right from under you. A feeling of glee warms the pit of your stomach, and only grows as his midnight blue eyes drop to the necklace in your hands.

“Too slow, birdie,” you tease, tucking the necklace into a pouch on your belt. You have just enough time to throw him a two-fingered salute before he lunges toward you, and you pivot on your heel and dart out of the room. He’s hot on your heels, doors and arches passing by in a blur as you hurtle through the museum. You see him reach for you out of the corner of your eye, and you shift your weight and pivot at the last second to watch him dive and miss you as you run the other way. 

You run to the stairs, and you don’t hear his footsteps behind you as you race up to the roof. Your backpack is stowed safely where you left it, and you’re making your preparations to escape when the door at the top of the stairs gets thrown open. He’s standing there, chest heaving, eyes fixed on you, and for a moment of stillness you size each other up under the stars. 

It’s hard to tell who moves first, but the important thing is that you’re just a beat too slow. You take a step to the side, preparing to make your jump to safety, but he’s prepared after your fakeout and anticipates your movement, racing to grab you just before you leap. You fall to the roof in a tangle of limbs. He successfully grabs your wrists and rolls you underneath him, the two of you coming to a stop chest to chest and panting heavily. His lips quirk up into a wry smile as he stares down at you. “Looks like I’m too fast for you,” he breathes, close enough that you can feel it against your skin. 

You struggle underneath him, and he tightens his grip on your wrists. It’s a battle of wills in the dark, until suddenly a siren rings out in the night and startles both of you. This time it’s you who’s a second faster. You wrap your legs around his waist and use his surprise to free your wrists and flip the two of you, pinning him to the ground. 

“Nope, definitely too slow. Better luck next time,” you mock him with words he’s teased you with before, and practically purr with satisfaction at the frustration that fills his eyes. You let your lips ghost along his cheek, nipping at the corner of his jaw before you pull away. “See you around, birdie,” you say, blowing him a kiss before you run and leap off the roof into the night. 

A few days later, you’re making the final preparations to meet your client and hand off the necklace. He’d insisted on a public place, which worked out fine for you because the place he’d chosen was a gala to celebrate an art gallery opening. You’re already seeing dollar signs as you imagine the kind of items you’ll be able to lift from the rich people you’re about to rub elbows with. 

You make a few final touches to your outfit, the last one being to tuck the necklace into a special pocket sewn into the seam of your clothes. You give it one last pat for good luck and head out the door, whistling jauntily as you picture the things you want to do with the paycheck you’re about to receive. 

The gala is already in full swing by the time you arrive fashionably late. The city’s elite are here, decorated in strings of diamonds and ropes of pearls that glitter under the chandeliers. You snag a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and find a good spot against the wall to watch for your client. 

To your surprise, a tall gentleman in a suit cut to accentuate the trim line of his waist stops in front of you, sketching a small bow as he offers his hand for you to dance. You’re about to refuse, but then your eyes meet midnight blue, framed in inky lashes, and a cheshire grin curves over your lips. You set the empty flute down on a nearby table and take his hand, and he pulls you out onto the dance floor.

“Fancy meeting you here, birdie,” you say, resting your hand on his shoulder as he leads you into the waltz that’s currently playing.

He bends his head down to yours, the tips of his inky curls brushing against your head. “I believe you have something of mine,” he replies, and you can feel the curve of his smile against the shell of your ear. 

You make a sound of mock indignation. “Are you trying to steal something I have rightfully stolen?” you tease. “What happened to honor among thieves?” 

“The only thing I’d steal from you is a kiss,” he says, midnight blue eyes twinkling as his arm tightens around your waist. 

“Is it really stealing if I want you to?” Over his shoulder, you catch a glimpse of your client making small talk with a real estate mogul. “There’s my date,” you say, taking a step back. 

He catches your hand as you slide it from his shoulder and brings it to his lips, meeting your eyes as he presses a kiss to your knuckles. “Till next time, then,” he whispers against your skin. You can’t help the way your eyes follow him as he steps back into the crowd. 

Shaking your head a bit, you make your way over to your client. Before you approach, you reach into the pocket that holds the necklace, only for your fingers to swipe against empty fabric. You stop in your tracks, and dig your hand into the pocket to make sure that you didn’t just miss it. Immediately, your eyes scan over the ballroom, and at the edge you catch midnight blue. He’s wearing a teasing smile, and he waves to you, and under the lights of the ballroom you catch a glimmer of emerald and amethyst in his hand. 

Looks like that next time will come sooner than you thought.

#haikyuu x reader #akaashi x reader #akaashi x you #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu x you #kaiawrites

[cricutdesignspacea]

7 Must-Have Cricut Machine Accessories to Elevate Your Crafting

Cricut machines are undoubtedly incredible, but what makes them interesting are their amazing accessories. Without tools and supplies, anyone cannot fully use the Cricut machine. Since Cricut offers so many accessories, it’s always tricky to know what you need. Many of you may not know the importance of Cricut machine accessories, and here I am going to tell you. So, I will share the list of Cricut tools with you in this blog.

The best thing about these accessories is that they are available in affordable ranges and on almost every e-commerce platform. Hence, finding it will not be a troublesome task for you. Once you know a little about them, let’s get started with my blog to learn must-have Cricut accessories for beginners.

1.  Cricut Basic Tool Set

Cricut’s basic tool set is first on my Cricut machine accessories list. This is because, to make a perfect project, you’ll start from the basics. This tool set has things for peeling, trimming, and peeling. The weeding tool is the one that helps you pick up the things you have cut.

You’ll get a spatula that is used for large projects to take off the cuts from the mat without spoiling them. Then come the tweezers that are used for cleanups, and scissors are also there to cut things precisely.

More advanced tools are available, but this basic Cricut tool kit is just amazing, and I always use these tools while working on small or bigger projects.

2.  Cricut Cutting Mats

If you are a Cricut user, you already know about Cricut cutting mats. But do you know about all four mat types? I’ll tell you here. All these four mats are used for different purposes. So, let’s start with the first type, the StandardGrip mat, which is the common mat that everyone has. But it’s not ideal for all types of projects.

The second type is the Light Grip mat; it is used for paper and light materials that need more care. On the other hand, a Strong Grip mat is used for thicker materials such as vinyl. Then comes the fourth one- Fabric Grip mat to cut fabrics. So, that’s all about Cricut mats.

3.  Cricut Bright Pad Go

It’s one of the most useful time savior Cricut machine accessories for serious crafters. They make bigger projects at once, and then they spend hours to weed off the things they don’t want. This hustle gets more troublesome when they can’t spot all particles at once and spend even more time in it.

That’s why Cricut has a Bright Pad Go that provides more light to make the weeding easier. Moreover, this tool is rechargeable, and you can have full control over its brightness by adjusting it according to your needs. So, take it anywhere where you want to make your favorite stuff. So, a Bright Pad Go will never let you miss a chance to be creative.

4.  Cricut Scoring Stylus

A scoring stylus is one of the perfect Cricut machine accessories for working on paper and cardstock. This accessory will help you get a good crease for cards, envelopes, paper flowers, boxes, and many other things. This tool is perfect for people working on a 3-D project to create a straight line and will save you time.

5.  Infusible Ink Pens and Markers

If you want to make a design with your handwriting, you must use Cricut’s infusible ink pens and markers. So, no matter if you are making a custom shirt, mug, or bag, you can easily put your quote onto it using them.

These tools are high quality and work best to transfer your designs effortlessly. However, you can’t use them without a Mug Press or Easy Press. These accessories are excellent and work best for your creative projects where you can actually use your own handwriting.

6.  Cricut Ultimate Gel Pen Set

Cricut never misses the point of impressing its users. And its ultimate gel pen set is one of the best Cricut machine accessories you can work with. The ideal use for them is on greeting and invitation cards. Moreover, these gel pens are the best tool for writing slogans. And anything you want to put on a paper.

The set includes all the vibrant colors that you will surely like. With the bold collection of colors, Cricut made these pens extremely desirable.

7.  XL Scraper

This is the best tool for cleaning your Cricut mats and scraping off the materials to avoid wrinkles and bubbles. This tool is amazing as it maintains your mat and shapes your designs. As it’s available in an extra-large size, it would be an ideal option to make your projects look the best and save big money in the long run.

Also, it will save you time by quickly cleaning off the mat. You can even go for a smaller scraper tool if it is too big for you. So, I hope you find this tool interesting and useful.

Conclusion

Finally, we have discussed almost all the amazing Cricut machine accessories you should try in 2024. And I’m sure you must have tried many of them before. So, for all who haven’t tried them yet, please go for them and make your projects even more interesting and unique. These Cricut tools work best for small to larger projects and also are inexpensive. So, it’s worth it to get them.

#must-have Cricut accessories for beginners #Cricut Design Space Login #Cricut New Machine Setup #Cricut Machine Accessories #cricut machine setup

[ulrichhorsebarns]

How to Keep Your Gable Horse Barn Well-Organized?

Before you shut the barn doors in summer, take some time to identify the potential safety threats and health hazards around your horse stable. You can do various things to improve the environment of your gable horse barn, whether you run the barn or keep your horses boarded. Ulrich’s prefab gable horse barn kits are one of the popular purchases among horse owners because of their easy-expandable features. One can easily design gable structures with roof pitches of their choice. Here are some of the most full-proof tips on keeping the barn clean and organized once you have bought them.

Declutter Your Barn

An orderly horse barn serves as a healthy space for horses of all ages because they are simple to maintain and even easier to keep dust-free. Other benefits of such an organized barn are that it saves you time during chores and is aesthetically attractive to visitors and riders. Obsolete barn equipment and unused items kept in the utility or tack room or sitting at the corners of your barn can invite annoying pests like insects and rodents, cobwebs, and dust. Try sorting through the equipment and removing all extraneous items like old horse blankets, corroded farm equipment that no longer works, or even supplementary buckets. You can consider donating unwanted items to non-profit organizations, selling them to raise funds or using them for animal rescue. Only retain tools that are in perfect working condition.

Make Some Space for the Horses

Look around the barn and see what you can eliminate to reduce potential hazards. The barn aisle is the perfect place to begin with. Keep it clear, or your horse might collide or get entangled in items that would injure them. Look for worn-out horse feed buckets, exposed nails, or sharp edges across your stall walls that can be cut. Watch the stored equipment, leads, halters, sheets, and blankets. They shouldn’t be within the reach of your horses, as if they end up tangling in them.

Consider Deep Cleaning

Make fuller use of broom, rags, and scrub brush followed by elbow grease for a safe environment. Clear all the cobwebs as they can ignite a fire. Sweep the storage areas regularly to eliminate rodent droppings, debris, and dust for a good breathing environment. Scrub the feed buckets of your horses every day using a mix of water and white vinegar to reduce grime buildup.

Install Clever Storage Solutions

It is important to keep things clean. While it might be tempting to keep your horse’s gear inside the tack trunk, there are other unique storage solutions that you can come up with. Keep a laundry basket or bag inside your tack room to store your soiled items. This will make your job of keeping the towels, wraps, and saddle pads clean. In the case of compact floor space inside the barn, use the walls for storage. Consider adding bridle racks or mounting saddles for various equipment. Add racks, blanket bars, or wooden shelving to achieve crease saddle pad storage.

If you have found these basic steps to keep your gable barn organized and useful, it is time to install one soon. Ulrich offers the most premium-quality all-galvanized steel-made prefab barn kits of various types and sizes. Their gable barn stands out because of the galvanized finish pipes, posts, and wall trims, all of which make them twice as durable as standard barns. Other features include a heavy corrosive rib roof and the addition of overhangs on every side of the barn to keep it cooler and protect the horses from heat and rain. To get an overview of the gable barn, visit the website now.

#gable horse barn

[petriquors]

— simmer (daichi x gn!reader)

— pairing !! timeskip!daichi x gn!reader

— genre !! hurt/comfort

— word count !! 1.3k

— warnings !! allusions to depression (reader)

— author notes !! self-indulgent, food as a metaphor for mental health, garlic imagery, etc. this was originally hurt-no-comfort but then daichi told me otherwise.

you always double the amount of garlic in any recipe even if it’s your first time making it. daichi stopped asking, “are you sure, love?” stopped joking, “are you fighting off vampires?”, and started coming to love the sweet-and-sour smell of garlic simmering in oil. nothing makes him hungrier, he realizes, and nothing makes him long for the tiny kitchen you share quite like this.

you call the steel garlic press he bought you your best friend. it’s a little thing, unassuming and free of cute patterns or animal shapes, but it does the job you need it to with comparable results. he saw the labor it took to mince the little cloves as you wielded your kitchen knife with a samurai’s precision. all it took for him to introduce you to the wonders of kitchen tools you previously disavowed (“why on earth would i buy a tool for just one thing?” you asked, with a look so incredulous that he almost believed you) was one slip of the knife, one tiny cut on your left ring finger, of all places. he knew he needed to protect you, but, damn it, someday you would need that finger for the ring he wanted to slide onto it.

he usually stays out of the kitchen, leaves it to you not because he’s afraid of you and your impeccable knifework (well, he was, when you diced a carrot with such horrifying speed that he could only think of the myth that ‘if you can bite a baby carrot, you can bite off a finger’). he leaves the kitchen, your domain, your temple, all to you because he loves watching you work and is afraid of himself, distracting you.

so instead, he’s made himself a little shrine to you at the kitchen island and found a priest’s chair in a barstool (which, to his credit, he spent months choosing one with the right amount of cushion and back support and everything). he watches, listens, smells, and feels with his heart baking in his chest.

his reverence makes him the first to notice when your temple walls begin to crumble. 

your kitchen smells like nothing when he comes home late one night. now, daichi is not a stupid man; he feels no anger, knows not to ask about it in a patronizing ‘where’s dinner?’ sort of way. your choice to perform the labor of love that is preparing meals will always be exactly that: your choice. and he will always be grateful.

when you catch sight of him, you scramble out of bed the way that garlic skin skitters across the countertop. “pizza!” you shout, and he has to resist the urge to look around because, really, what’s going on?

“i meant to make pizza,” you clarify, already padding off to the kitchen. too quick. too jumpy. something is wrong, but he’s afraid to reach into the flame and let himself be burned. so, he lets you take the lead. “i have dough, and sauce, and cheese, and it’ll only be twelve minutes in the oven, so i waited for you. you don’t mind, love?”

daichi blinks a few times before meeting your worried eyes with a soft smile, because what else can he do? “that sounds perfect.”

you reach for the garlic press, and he hesitates before turning to take his shower, leaving the kitchen to you.

“let’s get your favorite takeout,” you mumble one saturday night while scrolling through your phone, too lost in twitter threads to notice the crease in his brow. something about your voice sounds wrong to his ears, like a puppet copying you: the person who used to take saturday night to adorn your kitchen with pots and bowls and the fragrance of a new dinner idea born from your careful hands.

“sure,” he agrees because, in spite of the warning bells, he always trusts in your plan.

but, it’s edging close to 9 pm, and that’s long past any reasonable time for dinner. it feels stupid, now that he’s placing an order with the local ramen shop, that he let it go so long. you always have a plan. you know what to do. you’re strong, you can handle yourself. 

the bundle of blankets on top of your bed has him searching for the you that he knows while berating himself for not doing something about dinner sooner.

when the ramen finally arrives forty-five minutes later, it doesn’t have the acidic bite that he’s hoping for. emptying his bowl doesn’t fill him up, especially when you go to bed without finishing your food.

the garlic press clatters to the counter, and daichi is at your side before you have time to flinch at the sound.

“it’s just,” you mumble, words floating out of your grasp like with wispy smoke of incense. “i just…”

he hushes you with a gentle breath slipped through teeth. kisses pepper the side of your head, but you barely feel them as you stare down at your hands, cold and pressed to the countertop, and a lump builds in your throat. you feel like a ghost watching your former self, like a pendulum clock trapped in a routine: back, forth, slice, lift. all that you love is too much, and you’re burning, desperate for it all to stop.

“how did it get this bad?” you choke out, unable to look at daichi, the man you hold above all other things in the world, who you can’t bear the sight of. because you failed him. he has relied on you for so long that when you feel yourself slipping, he comes down with you, and how could you ever forgive yourself for that?

“dunno,” he admits, gently, “but i’m here to help you if you want to come back to me.”

“why?” you gasp.

that’s the stupidest question he’s ever heard (and he’s heard many) but he doesn’t have the heart to tell you that. “because my love for you is endless, no matter what happens to you or what you need from me.”

your eyes go blurry and you bow your head in the most solemn apology you’ve ever given. you feel charred around the edges, darkened and twisted beyond recognition, beyond being desirable, like something that should be thrown away. you don’t remember how this started, why it’s become so much, but your brain, lungs, and heart are full of smoke and you can’t find your way through the fog.

you can’t find your way to him. so, he reaches out on his own, hand and heart outstretched for you to grab.

the dinner you tried to make gets pushed aside so he can pick you up and place you on the counter as delicately as he would handle the most beautiful strawberries at the market.

he grabs your cheeks, holds you, warms you from the outside in until your gooey center begins to solidify, come together into something recognizable. you sniffle, and he’s there, delighted as ever to see you in spite of the worry in his eyes. his fingers knead your cheeks like dough, bringing blood back to your face, feeling back to your skin, and you breathe.

you need him. he needs you. both of you realize this at the same time, and he rests his forehead against yours in an apology of his own.

“let me help,” he, uncertain, whispers for the first time since you began to share a kitchen. it isn’t his domain, nor his temple, but it is yours; and as your keeper and protector, he would learn to meet you where you need him if it keeps you out of the fire.

suggestions open; reblogs appreciated !!

🔖: @charlie-jay @datingdonovan​ @therescrackinmytea​ @chi-anpan​ @hinatawa

#haikyuu headcanons #haikyuu hcs #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x you #haikyuu angst #hq headcanons #hq hcs #hq x reader #hq x you #hq angst #daichi x reader #daichi x you #daichi angst #maria writes

[equestrianwritingsstuff]

Injured Part 2

@canigetanamenforbritney here you go!

Part 1

Warnings: hospital setting, refusal of medical attention, pet names, surgery, negative discussions of someone, stitches, descriptions of medical care, painful wound tending, exhaustion, begging, mean caretakers

*not edited*

~

"He needs surgery."

"Yeah, yeah I get that. That's not the problem. The problem is, you won't perform it."

"We aren't about to waste supplies on a villain, Hero."

Villain fumbled with consciousness- played with, frolicked with it- until it because a drifting manner. Awake here and there, hearing bits and pieces of conversation. Then the blissful euphoria of sleep. Those moments of painfree unconsciousness were what he longed for, craved.

He didn't understand his situation. He knew that there were people around him, but they didn't seem to be doing much. Only periodically pinching his elbow, leaving him floating in serene waves.

Was this what care felt like? It didn't seem like much, maybe Villain just had an active imagination- dreaming about endless words of compassion, a light touch to his cheek... maybe those sensations were just fantasies.

The people... they seemed to speak above Villain in rumbling tunes. Never aimed at him and even in his foggy state he knew that they were strictly clinical.

It was, to say the least, disappointing.

Very disappointing.

Maybe he did just expect too much.

《~~》

Hero paced around the hospital bed as the nurses argued amongst themselves. Villain was stable, but not faraway from slipping. Why did she have to do this to him? A dagger in his side, concussion, broken ribs, dislocated shoulder... the injuries went on above this.

And then the fact that he was doomed to actually take care of himself in this state? The very idea that Hero expected him to jump back on his feet- it was disgusting.

How could she be a hero when she allowed someone to suffer?

She saw the trails of blood, the discarded bandages, the opened cupboards. He struggled. Struggle to stay alive.

"We could get fired if we operate on him. Honestly, just hand him over to the center."

"What is wrong with you!" Hero exclaimed when she heard that utterance. "A life for a job."

"You beat him up," that same nurse pointed out, crossing her arms. "Stop your hypocrisy, you are not better than us."

"Yeah if it wasn't for you, he wouldn't be here," another chimed in.

"Shut up! Shut up! All of you, shut up!" Hero growled. "I will pay for the surgery and take full responsibility. If he doesn't die, he will be permanently disabled."

"We know."

"Yeah I know you know," Hero said, huffing and giving an awkward smile. "You know and yet you still don't do anything about it. What kind of sick doctor are you?"

"One that follows the law."

Hero was silent and thrusted her hands through her blonde hair.

"It's nothing against Villain-"

"Yes it is!" Hero roared and flung herself next to Villain's side. His eyes were halfway open. Hero sighed, "Should I give him another dose?"

"No," the head nurse said. "Let him wake up."

Hero waited and waited, foot tapping and teeth clenching in anger, as Villain became more and more accustomed to his surroundings.

"H-hero?" He croaked, nervous fear evident in his eyes.

"Yeah, it's me."

"Mm care... caring f-for for me?"

"Trying to."

Villain groaned and threw his head back suddenly, pain gripping every one of his features. Tears formed in his eyes and as sudden as the outburst happened, he stilled and collapsed back onto the bed.

《~~》

Everything hurt.

The drugs must've worn off, inviting the pain to eat him whole. Villain groaned and tossed his head about, punching the mattress with clenched fists even though that hurt and...

Villain cried out. Even Hero stepped away from that primitive noise.

Why was he is pain? Why did he have to go through this?

Because I am a villain, he answered himself. Stupid stupid stupid! He shouldn't have delved into the evil side of the world, should've applied for the College of Heroics or be a normal civilian or anything other than villainy.

He cried, his chest shuddering. Small squeaks escaped his mouth. Even the boisterous nurses ceased their banter, looking in pity at the sobbing human on the hospital bed.

"We'll operate, but we won't give him anesthesia," the head nurse conceded.

《~~》

That was good.

Not ideal, but good.

Hero helped slide on a blue hair net over Villain's head. Wild eyes darted around, creasing at the edges every once in a while, as the pain flared up in many places all at once. His breathing hitched as well.

"What are they doing to me?" Villain wheezed, fingers tapping. Anticipation etched at his body.

"You'll be fine," the hero soothed, rubbing her fingers together. After the surgery...

"Cuff him," one of the nurses ordered, wrapping Villain's wrists and ankles with soft, padded bracelets of leather. He stiffened before instinctual motions kicked in and he struggled.

"Don't. Don't do that," Villain pleaded as he watched the nurses inhibit his only chance to fight and to escape. He gulped, pressing his head back into the hospital bed like his pain was forgotten. But the irregular heartbeat on the monitor betrayed his real sensations and emotions- pain and fear.

Hero frowned at the distressed face before looking up at the nurses.

"Should've we give him something? Like a muscle relaxant? Make the procedure easier?" Hero asked, but immediately wished she hadn't for the villain's face contorted into an expression of pure terror at the mention of "procedure".

"Maybe," one of the young nurses whispered, but the head nurse brushed the idea off with a firm "no".

"Let's begin," that same nurse said and approached the writhing villain. "Begin incision on his right side where we assumed a piece of residual metal is from the dagger."

"Let's not do this," Villain begged, pulling madly against the restraints, but the nurses did not pay attention.

Just as the sliver of metal was about to protrude into Villain's skin, Hero spoke up,

"Where is the doctor? You know, the one who actually does surgeries."

"Why does it matter?"

"Because you weren't trained for this."

"So?"

Hero was silent, but her gaping mouth spoke loads for her.

"Hero," the head nurse chuckled. "This is a villain. A half-eaten cheeseburger in the trashcan. Relax hon."

Hero bristled at the pet name, but didn't do anything rash. She just pulled up a chair and sat at Villain's side. He looked up at her with large, pleading eyes that broke Hero's heart.

"It'll be over soon," Hero promised. Villain's face relaxed slightly, but his muscles stayed tense in waiting for the inevitable pain.

"Begin incision."

Villain mewled as the thin knife slipped into his skin, right above the infected flesh. His toes and fingers curled in, then stretched out.

"Okay stop," Villain said in a hurried manner. His brow furrowed, nose twitching. "Stop."

Hero placed a hand on his shoulder, but it did nothing to quiet his protests.

"Located the residual. Tweezers."

A tool made of two grated prongs took the place of the knife. Villain sighed as the knife marked its leave with a clatter, but his muscles immediately seized when the bloodied particle was removed.

"Staples."

Villain's eyes widened as a nurse pulled his skin together, shoddily and lazily stapling it. Villain screamed, jerking around each time the plunger cinched his tender flesh together.

Hero wrinkled her nose. The nurses weren't even bothering to use actual medical tools. Literally, the stapler was from the school section at the local Walmart.

The nurses topped their kindergarten artwork with a thin line of some numbing ointment, but that was all. A tiny gift, a mug saying "The Best Teacher Award" on teacher appreciation day.

The next injury the nurses fixed was the dislocated shoulder. Two nurses positioned themselves on both sides of the shoulder. Without warning, they pushed the joint back in.

Villain arched his back up in a desperate feat to escape the miserable pain. He clenched his teeth, holding in a scream that Hero knew just wanted to go.

Then he fell back into the bed, breaths full of pained whimpers.

"Okay. I think we tortured him long enough," Hero said, angling herself to give a more authoritive stance.

"We are taking care of him?" The head nurse replied, purposely making her statement an authentic question.

"Just give him something. At least something to take the edge off," Hero pleaded. "Can't you see? His world is nothing but pain."

"No."

Hero sighed, shook her head, and went back to Villain who now had tears streaming out of half-lidded eyes.

"Make them stop," Villain whispered, not even looking at Hero. "I'd rather be hurt. Rather be hurt at home."

Hero felt a twinge of pity, listening to Villain's requests. It was saddening to say the least, someone so hurt just wanting to go home if it meant that they could escape the extra pain of care.

Pain of care, now that didn't sound right.

Hero grabbed Villain's head and stroked it, but the tears and whimpers did not cease.

After a good few hours, the villain was throughly exhausted. He could barely stay awake, just dozing off even as caffeinated nurses shakily sewed the millions of cuts together.

Hero slowly stroked Villain's head, watching as his eyes drifted shut. She smiled. Sleep was his only escape from the pain.

#villain whumpee #injured villain #hero caretaker #reluctant caretaker #heros and villains #whump #whumplr #writing #surgery

[tales-unique]

FAITH, LOST VI

The softness got me like 😩 I hope you enjoy it! ♥

@maddi-bug & @chelseareferenced & @actual-trash-goblin

Chapter 6

Heisenberg is gone for longer than usual. It's to be expected, given how swift and intense the explosion was, only this time you're aware of just how much you miss him when he's not there. It’s cathartic, no longer having your feelings hidden in the deepest parts of yourself. Upon reflection, you realize that you enjoy the power struggle between the two of you and that there is no shame in it. Pleasure, you had come to learn, wouldn’t compromise your dignity or pride in yourself, and wasn’t something to be demonized or resented. Weightless from this revelation, your mind drifts to the last words he spoke before leaving you; we aren’t done here . Fire blooms in your stomach, dripping lower until you’re squirming where you sit cross-legged on Heisenberg's bed. Your skin still tingles from where he held you in his rough grasp, white noise erupting all over your body. It’s clear just what the phrase implies , but at the same time you have no exact idea what to expect when he returns and that’s part of what makes this all so thrilling . Though even with all the positive feelings that come with this, you can’t help but still feel conflicted. You find yourself lost in the moment, sent adrift in a vast ocean with no lifeline.

Now, it wasn’t as though you hadn’t had sex before, because you had. It was only once, in the hayloft of the village stables with a young man named Nicolai that you were fond of. He worked in the fields and you often saw him on your way to Church, where he’d smile and wink at you. He’d happened upon you when you’d lingered near the edge of the fields one day after morning Mass, bashfully accepting when he proposed that you go somewhere quieter together. You remember that his kisses were soft, but he was a little pushy, and once he was done that was it. No real connection, no real passion, just motion until you were both done, and even then you weren’t completely sure if you were done. Then a week later he was dead, mauled to death in that very same hayloft by a Lycan, along with a girl from your congregation named Irina. You can only imagine the reason why she was there with him that day. It sat, bitter like poison, within you for some time after their deaths, knowing that this hadn’t been the special thing you had been led to believe; this divine virtue that needed to be protected until you were lawfully wed, where all would finally make sense. Then you met Lord Karl Heisenberg and everything was suddenly turned on its head. Since you had come to the Factor you had been exposed to a more sexually charged and free environment, with Heisenberg's flirtatious teasing a regular occurrence, as well as his sarcasm and moods, culminating in the spark that set all this motion when he had you pinned to the desk in his office. You were given no room to avoid it, no chance to hide behind demureness and virtue, and because of that you were able to grow . You now embraced what this freedom could give you and it was all because of his pushing. At first it didn’t sit well with you, it squirmed and fought, but the disquieting sensation dissipated easily and you were left with an insatiable hunger for all things you had been denied, scandalous or otherwise. Biting your lip, a devious little thought fills your head; you needed to thank him when he came back.

When Heisenberg does come back to you it's already well into the night, and in anticipation of his return he finds that you’re not in your room when he looks, instead, amusingly, you’re actually in his . Sound asleep, you’re curled up on his bed with the sheets clutched in your dainty fingers up to your face. He watches from the doorway the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest as you breathe and the way your long lashes kiss your cheeks. You’ve clearly been busy while he was gone, having ordered the disheveled work desk to semi-neatness so he can at least still find his things. Straightened papers, pens put in the holder, lined his tools up for easy access. It’s something he doesn’t outwardly thank you for, but  has most certainly come to value. You don’t overstep, you merely aid, and it’s in these quiet moments of downtime that he realizes how much he appreciates the little things you do for him. Yes, it began with your faith and devotion to Mother Miranda and her decree for you to serve him, but he isn’t naive enough to believe that’s all there is to it. Not now, anyway. You don’t have to be caring towards him in your servitude, in your own little ways, like becoming annoyed with him when he tells you he hasn’t eaten all day or hasn't drunk enough water while working. Soft, kind-hearted things; things he isn’t used to. Trying to be as quiet as he can, Heisenberg walks over to where you lay, settling on the edge of the bed by your side. You squirm in your sleep as his weight dips the mattress but you don’t wake up, merely curling up tighter with a soft sigh. He watches your sleeping form with pinched brows, the uncomfortable intensity of yearning twisting knots within him. A hesitant hand comes to brush your cheek with his thumb, cupping it gently. Such tender affections were not something the Lord was known for, or used to receiving from others, given the magnitude of sins he had performed at the behest of his hatred for Miranda, her manipulations and betrayals, and his insatiable need to be free of the confinement he was forced into. Ulterior motives were second nature in his world, the lesson that kindness and affection were a means to an end instilled in him from an early age. Yet the compulsion, new and alarming, to give in to your motiveless warmth had wormed its way deep inside, threatening to shatter him from within. Not that he wasn’t trying to fight it, he was . Like a wild mustang refusing to yield to anyone, he twisted and pulled and snapped at the feeling, it’s tendrils repelled as much as he could, but he was slowly weakening to its constant attacks. It just wouldn’t leave him be . The realization was harsh and unforgiving that you are well on your way to becoming someone that would, in time, serve to weaken him, grinding down his walls just as the sea wears away the rocks on its shores until they resemble nothing of their former selves. The thought irks him and in a childish display of spitefulness he pulls his hand back from your face, lips curling into a snarl. His fingers burst with static, punishing him for prematurely cutting the contact, and he tries to smother the sensation by tightening his hand into a fist. It doesn’t help. He can still feel it and he hates that he misses it, like some love-sick pup! It ties his stomach in knots and sets his blood aflame. He’s hyper aware of you laying behind him, overwhelmed when you turn over and your knees press against his back. Lulled by your gentle, slumbering breaths, a calming serenade, Heisenberg’s hand slowly unfurls to rest on his leg. Though he’s still very much on edge. The dizzying free-fall into such conflicting emotions sends him nauseous, reeling from the sudden severity of it. You were just a weak, pathetic human , for fucks sake! You had no right to come barging into his life and start wrecking shit up with your pretty smiles and warm eyes! All those selfless moments he tries so desperately to poke holes in, only to find that they’re as sound as a concrete wall. It has him doubting, however minutely, the thought that everyone was out to get

him and that scared him. Quickly standing, he decides even being in the same room as you is too much. Everything is suddenly stifling, the heat cloying and making his throat burn. He doesn’t even check to see if he’s disturbed you as he exits the room, head throbbing mercilessly. There’s nowhere left in the factory that’s safe from your influence; the rooms smell of you, the hallways echo with your voice, his things marked by your touch — you’re everywhere , encasing him. And he doesn’t help that fact when he finds himself standing in the middle of your room. His keen senses are overwhelmed by the space, your space, but it isn’t so disarming this time. No, now he’s growing to like it against his better judgement. You’ll ruin him and he’s slowly coming around to the idea of letting you do it, too. It makes him sick, that thought, but it doesn’t really matter as he sits down on the couch where you sleep, fingers smoothing over the sheets you’ve neatly folded over it. There’s a twisted sense of irony in how he finds comfort in being surrounded by your things, as little as they are, when trying so desperately trying to get away from you. It doesn’t make sense, but since when did anything in his fucked up life? "Fuck," he moaned, the word drawn-out in his frustration as he laid his head back to stare up at the ceiling.

"Heisenberg?" The Lord tilts his head to look at where you stand in the doorway, your tender question alerting him to your presence. You're a picture of post-slumber beauty; hair dishevelled and fluffed up on one side from where you had been laying, eyes hazy with sleep, your top languidly slipping down one shoulder, creased from your rest. Your brow is pinched as you regard him, gently padding over to where he sits. "Sleeping Beauty finally wakes up, huh?" He chuckles, casually slinging his arm over the back of the couch. “Did you enjoy sleeping in my bed?” He teases with a smirk. “You were gone too long,” you retorted, fixing him with a tired glare, pulling your legs up as you settle down beside him, “and you don’t let me down into the lower levels with you, do you?” “I know, but this was serious,” Heisenberg sighed, his free hand coming to pinch the bridge of his nose, screwing his eyes shut in frustration, “one of the fucking conveyor lines decided to go ka-pow !” He punctuates his statement with a mimic of the explosion, both hands involved before dropping down limply. “It was jammed. I got it under control but the fallout was, well, messy ,” he explained, taking off his glasses and putting them aside on the couch arm, along with his tossed coat and gloves. You frown at the way he drags his hands down his face, sighing deeply. He’s exhausted and there’s nothing you can really do that you haven’t already tried. “At least it’s fixed now, yes?” You ask softly as you turn to sit cross-legged, facing him. You have a look of worry creasing your features and Heisenberg is quick to hide the rising emotion with his usual swagger. “Of course it is, why do you think I’ve been gone so long?” He scoffs, shaking his head. His leg begins to jiggle under the weight of your wary gaze, knowing that he’s not fooling you in the slightest. You’ve seen enough of him, the vulnerability he has, to know an act of bravado when he’s conjuring it. It’s unsettling to know that you have a means of undermining his power over you now, that you can call his bluff with somewhat decent accuracy, and he fully expects you to embrace that power. So when you gingerly move to nestle into his side, back resting against him with your head leaning against his arm where it lays slung across the back of the couch he’s pleasantly surprised. He should know better, you’ve always been soft . Even when you’re being fierce towards him and you blaze like a thousand suns it comes from a place of tenderness and care, something he doesn’t think he’ll ever truly understand about you. “I missed you.” It’s barely a whisper and even his keen hearing is strained to pick it up. There are a million sarcastic and teasing responses that he could choose from to say, and very much would have, if not for the fact that you’re right there , disarming him with a distant, non-threatening kind of affection that has him weak. It’s easier, he assumes, for you to not look at him when you tell him your truth and he’s grateful. Those big doe eyes, filled with gentle fondness, that you have when you’re being this way might just send him into overdrive at this point and he hasn’t yet come up with a game plan on how to deal with it. “Yeah?” It’s a simple response, but there’s a slight break to his voice that betrays the tempest of emotions swirling within. The air is charged with anticipation, a prickling static that is so close to erupting, all because you’ve got him going fucking soft . “Mhm,” you hum, pressing your feet into the cushions to distract yourself. Your face is ablaze with colour, your skin burning. To be so open, so raw , in such an intimate setting as this was completely foreign to you, and it didn’t help that the one you were experiencing it with was Lord Karl Heisenberg . A silence, pregnant with the onset of a coming storm, rolls over you both and you sit, listening to the sound of each other's breathing. Your heart is hammering in your chest, the hummingbird threatening to break free. White noise suddenly erupts across your body when you feel him shift, ever so slightly,

and his arm comes across your front to pull you closer. The movement is awkward, marred by a lack of experience with this kind of action, and you too have to move in order to be comfortable. It takes a moment or two but soon you both find a happy medium.You rest your cheek against his arm, nose lovingly brushing against one of the many raised, white scars that littered his skin. If only he could be so bold in this way. His body stiffens instinctively when you continue with your ministrations, resisting the urge to pull back, to push you away. His scars were a source of contention for him, among many other things, some known to you and some not, given how he had come to have them. But you didn’t seem to mind. That he now knew for sure from the way you lavished them with gentle attention, carefully tracing the lines with your dainty fingers. You even dare to press a gentle kiss to one that curls into his wrist, feeling the way his pulse jumps wildly under your lips. “I didn’t realise you had so many,” you murmur, looking over his arm with interest. He’s never spoken outright about them, but they were hard to miss. There was nary a patch of skin, seen or unseen, that didn’t have one of some kind, or so you presumed. You had no doubts in your mind that he would keep their origins from you and you wouldn’t presume to have leave to ask, but in this moment anything could be possible. Stranger things had already happened, after all. However, when he remains quiet you frown, pressing a lingering kiss to the spot, a silent apology for having been so prying. His pulse jumps again and suddenly you're pulled in closer, tighter. You gasp at the sudden shift, feeling him lean in, nosing your hair, taking in it’s scent. “You’re pretty brave tonight, huh?” He rumbled low into your ear, making you stiffen. He wanted to touch you, only this time it was different from before. It was driven by an unfamiliar desire to give intimacy as he had been given, to gain back the power you had taken. Or so he told himself. You were his, Mother Miranda had said as much when she gave you to him, but now he wanted to be yours , too. “I—” You swallow your nerves, turning so that you could look up at him with wide eyes, “—did I go too far?” It was hard to know when you had crossed a line until you were already well beyond it, incurring his wrath, so you were understandably wary, and it irked him to know that he was the source of your constant insecurity. He really was a shitty person, like you had said before. “Not at all,” he stated, lips quirking in a smile at the way your gaze softened, a bashful smile crossing your face. This thing, whatever it was that you had, was a delicate, fragile little bloom that he was striving to keep, to protect . In his mind he knew there may not ever be another chance for something like this for someone like him and so he was determined not to lose it. Not to his siblings, not to that bitch Miranda, not to anything or anyone . This time the silence is more comfortable for the both of you, his fingers drumming a nonsensical tune on your arm as you rest against him — the last vestige of his anxiousness and nerves. You don’t hold it against him, instead allowing it to lull you into a peaceful doze. Your weight, like an anchor to his wayward ship, is pleasant and he finds that quietness can indeed be peaceful. With you at his side he’s grounded, electrified but contained. It’s surreal, but he’s addicted to the odd sensations your affection gives him. It’s nothing like the sexually charged tension of before but in some ways it’s even better . He doesn’t ever want it to end, you and him, in this still, secret moment, and that worries him to no end.

#RE #RE8 #RE 8 #Resident Evil #Resident Evil 8 #Resident Evil 8 Village #RE Imagine #RE8 Imagine #RE Imagines #RE8 Imagines #Resident Evil Imagine #Resident Evil Imagines #Karl Heisenberg #Karl Heisenberg Imagine #Karl Heisenberg Imagines #Karl Heisenberg x Reader #Heisenberg Imagine #Heisenberg Imagines #Heisenberg x Reader

[utterlyinevitable]

Hurricane (Part 8)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr. Rebecca Lao) Rating: T+ Warning: angst Summary: A hurricane is falling over Boston. Edenbrook has been evacuated and some very different doctor’s end up seeking shelter together.  

A/N: The ending is trash. But it’s my trash. We’ve got one more chapter to go and then that’s a wrap on this project! 

________________________________________

Naveen drove the car back to the cabin before parking it on the cobbled drive, the engine shutting off with a quick flick of his key. Still caught in an awkward silence as heavy as the rain clouds above, the trio padded back towards the cabin. Ethan watched Becca out of the corner of his eye, holding a few paces back with Naveen to let her approach the porch first. In the doorway, Sienna was waiting with two bath towels draped over her arms. A wave of relief washed over her petite form as she saw them; her big eyes softening and bottom lip quivering with all the emotions she saved for the worst of outcomes.

“Becca!” Sienna called as she closed the distance between her and Becca, wrapping her soaking wet friend in a hug around a large, plush towel. “Are you okay? What happened?” 

For someone who’s life nearly drifted away with the current earlier, Becca seemed strangely quiet and calm. She didn’t even look at Sienna; darkened eyes trained on her peripheral, towards the unrelenting waters. “I’m fine, Si. Just went for a little swim.”

Sienna looked at her with critical eyes, not believing a single word coming out of her friend’s mouth. She would have said something in any other circumstances, but she was too thankful that Becca was breathing at the minute. This conversation would have to wait. She turned her attention to the other rogue swimmer now coming up behind them, handing him the other towel still draped on her arm.    

“Ethan, are you okay?” she asked the attending, her trained doctor’s eyes scanning him for obvious injuries. 

He took the offered towel gratefully. “Please, there is no need to worry about me.” He wiped his face first then draped the burgundy fabric over his shoulders, shivering as the cold wind caught his wet clothes, “Where’s Jenner?” 

Sienna nodded towards the ajar door, her arms still wrapped securely around her best friend. “In with Elijah.” 

Ethan nodded and went inside to his dog, sparing one last glance towards a despondent Becca on his way. 

With a small, resigned sigh, Sienna turned her full attention back towards her friend and guided her to the door. “Come on, let's get you cleaned up.” 

Sienna led Becca inside and up to her room. Elijah didn’t notice the girls as he was in deep conversation with Ethan in the archway to the den. For that, Becca was thankful; they could just slip upstairs and rest.  

 As soon as the girls reached the threshold of the master suite, Sienna closed the door softly behind them and reached for her friend, her eyes severe now that they were blessed with the privacy they didn’t have earlier. “You okay?” She asked with a concerned hand gripping Becca’s forearm; her tone of voice emitting a firm warning that she would accept the truth and nothing else.

Becca shrugged Sienna off, taking a step back to shed her wet clothes and throwing on her pajamas. Biting her tongue this round, Sienna gathered up the strewn garments into a pile and wrung them out in the bathroom, making a mental note to wash them once the power came back on. Becca didn’t waste a single second before immediately crawling under the covers while Sienna watched with a very careful eye.  

Sensing the stare, Becca sighed heavily. “Si, I’m fine. Truly.” 

Her friend wasn’t convinced. “That’s what you say, but you were literally being ripped down stream, you could have died.” 

“But I didn’t.” 

Light pads of sock-clad feet walked to the bed with private determination and sat on the edge of the mattress, her eyes begging. “Talk to me, please.” - a hand reaching for the top of Becca’s thigh - “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

But Becca wasn’t waving, keeping her gaze on the darkwood bedpost in front of her to avoid Sienna’s concerned one. “That I really need to sleep. I’m exhausted.” 

“Bec-” 

There was a knock at the door, making both ladies tense in place. Sienna reluctantly moved to open it and was met with Dr. Banerji’s warm smile, his medical bag cradled against his hip. 

Ever in dire situations like this one, the senior doctor never seemed to run out of positive energy. He stepped in the room and glided closer to the bed, a comforting smile decorating his lips. “I’ve come to take your temperature and listen to your lungs,” he informed them. “And I’m not taking no for an answer.” 

Becca rolled her eyes, but didn’t argue. She swung her legs off the bed and sat on the edge, letting Naveen inspect her. Thankfully, she only had a few cuts on her hands that were in need of bandaging, most likely inflicted while she fought to hold herself against the current earlier 

“How are you feeling?” he asked as he applied ointment and bandages to her palms.  

“Tired.” 

“As expected,” he nodded. She wasn’t forthcoming, so he made sure to update her on what has been going on downstairs; “Ethan has a gash on his leg. Dr. Greene is stitching him up.” The gossiper in him carefully gauged her reaction while his more romantic side hoped to see something pass along her features, possibly akin to relief, but he was disappointed there was nothing but the tired eyes of a woman who’s been through hell that afternoon. 

She felt his critical gaze searching her. The third one silently scrutinizing the last hour; and it made her blood begin to boil.  

“I didn’t need rescuing. I know how to combat a riptide. What he did was stupid,” she clarified, indifferent to his comment.  

Naveen chuckled and offered her a kind smile, although one that hid a hint of seriousness in it. “We both know exactly why he did it, Becca.”  

Becca scoffed and shook her head, looking away. 

The older doctor sighed and put away his medical tools. He obviously wasn’t going to get anything out of her tonight, and he’d been around this kind of temperament long enough to know when to resign. It was almost comical just how similar she was to his protégé, especially when it came to their ironclad stubbornness. “You’ve been through a lot today, dear. I’m prescribing you some much-needed rest.” 

Becca rolled her eyes.

With a taut smile, Naveen gave her a gentle pat on the shoulder before taking his medical bag and leaving the room.

  While Naveen was with Becca, Sienna had excused herself to make some tea. The petite resident was now staring at the kettle, transfixed, but not actually watching the steam spill out into the shadows of night. The worry for her friend still ever present in her mind and the creases on her forehead. In a daze Sienna poured two two mugs full. 

She was just setting the kettle back down on the hob when a gruff sound had her jumping out of her trance and turning on the balls of her feet.  

“Let me,” Ethan said quietly. 

The two shared the same despondent look, though one of them had a deeper reason for it. 

Sienna’s eyes expertly roved over him. He’d changed into clean pajamas, his hair wild and partially dry from drying it in a towel. His weight being carried on one side of his body, no doubt from his injury. His eyes were dark, and there were prominent purple circles under his eyes. And his large hand was extended towards her, waiting with all the patience of a dying man. 

With a small smile, she hands the mug over without a single reservation. 

And Sienna watches intently as Ethan gingerly makes his way through the cabin and up to Becca. 

 *

In the few short minutes she was left alone Becca snuggled deeper into the blankets. Rolled onto her side so her back was to the door and her face buried in a pillow begging her to spill everything all over. 

Over her tormenting thoughts she recognized the patter of footsteps against the hardwood of the hallway and sniffled all the emotion back. If Sienna saw her crying it’d become a much bigger thing than Becca ever wanted it to be. She’ll save her tears for later. 

When the steps grew louder, crossing the threshold, Becca muttered, “You should just sleep here tonight instead of going up and down to check on me.” 

“Do you think that’s wise?”

Even in the minimal light of the candle on the dresser Ethan could see her stiffen. Could hear the discontented sigh that escaped her when his words met her ears. 

He stood suspended in the doorway, questioning every instinct he thought he knew.    

Becca shifted under the sheets, moving to sit up in bed. 

“Thought you were Sienna.” Her tone was still and level and wildly indifferent as she chanced a look at him.  

“Sorry to disappoint,” he muttered back. Crossing the distance Ethan held out a mug to her; “Are you okay?” 

She took the offering, a forced smile on her lips. “Peachy.” 

“Becca…”

“I’m fine, Ethan.” She groans, deflating. “What do you want me to say?” 

“You can start with why you’ve been upset with me all day.” 

Becca couldn’t help the absolutely indecent chortle that erupted from her. 

“I’m not upset with you. I’m mad at myself.” 

Ethan made a garble akin to Huh?

And that just fueled the fire that’s begun to rage within her the last day and rivals the treacherous storm this hurricane caused. 

“Why did you come after me?” She all but spat the accusation. “It was so reckless and stupid. You could have been hurt. You have stitches for Christ’s sake!” 

“You could have drowned. I wasn’t going to let that happen.” 

The audacity in his unbridled poise had her stirring under the sheets and gripping the mug tighter. 

“Superman Complex already belongs to someone else. Why, Ethan.” 

It was a standoff between them. Him in his dry clothes - white tee and gray sweatpants, standing at the side of her bed. Becca was shielded by the blankets but still sitting tall and commanding for someone of her stature. He couldn’t read her ever-telling body language in the dim light of the master bedroom. All he could make out was her silhouette, rigid and doing all she could to cloak herself behind an unsuccessful curtain of hair.  

Holding onto the sliver of revelation he had earlier, Ethan spoke truthfully. 

“Because I care about you. You have such a fulfilling life ahead an-” 

It certainly didn’t have the intended impact. For she cut him off with a resoundingly offended; 

“Can you stop.” 

His darkened azure eyes were wide with panic. “What -” 

“I’m sick of these mind games.”

Her tone was flat, and that scared Ethan Ramsey more than anything. It would be better if she was yelling. He found himself wishing she was yelling even if he had no inkling as to what this argument is actually about.  

“I know you care about me, Ethan. But is that all this is?” 

She finally looked him in his eyes. The darkness of the room complimented the depths of her darkened irises, and he couldn’t see a single emotion in them. All he could see was all of his failures. 

“I - I’m in too deep with you. I may have almost drowned this afternoon, but it was nothing compared to this choking feeling of swimming in all this doubt and uncertainty.” 

He moved towards her. Placing his mug on the bedside. This close he could just begin to make out the hurt in the creases of her frown. 

“Becca,” he reached for her. His hand suspended in midair, waiting for her permission to cup her cheek. 

Instead, she looked down at her fingers tracing the Edenbrook logo on the pristine white ceramic mug between her palms. 

Ethan waited. 

And waited. 

Frozen in place until she said something, anything. 

“Be honest with me,” the words came out on an exhale. “No one else is around. Just me.” Her voice so frail as she turned her whole form towards him. “Tell me.”

The outstretched fingers on his hand curled inwards. His fist raised -- once, twice punching against an invisible opponent as his inner self weighed all his options.

He could tell her - he could finally be truly honest. 

He could do what’s right. 

He could lay everything out there and let her take the reins. 

More realistically, he could continue to hold onto the values he’d had all his life. 

The longer the silence hung between them, and the pattering of the storm echoed throughout the bedroom walls, the more a reality without her became apparent.

Rebecca Lao is a strong woman - he knows this. And Ethan is ever so aware that she won’t wait for him forever. If her stint today told him anything it’d be that it is he who couldn’t survive a life without her. 

Every millisecond that passed, every slight turn of her head and stroke of her finger against the mug, he knew he was losing her. And for once, Ethan Ramsey - renowned doctor, known for his belligerent voice and affluent vocabulary - couldn’t find the words.  

Just as she let out a disquieting breath, he took the leap. Knees pressed flush against the side of the mattress. Long, deft fingers grazing the quilt at the side of her hip. His eyes never leave her. Becca was looking down as if all hope was lost. As if his silence spoke for him.  

It didn’t - 

“I want to be with you.” 

Becca felt like the air had been stolen from her lungs. How long had she been waiting to hear them? How long has she been hoping Ethan Ramsey would commit to only her with a promise of forever? Far longer than she’d care to admit, that’s for sure. 

Ethan watched her lips part, her jaw slacken. Every pretty feature he adored more than life itself stunned stiff. 

In true fashion Becca schooled her features as soon as his words rang through the mahogany room. Bitter words formed on her tongue, accompanied by a desolate huff, 

“You sure about that?” 

Not a single hesitation as Ethan responded, “Yes.”  

“You sure have some fucked up way of showing it.” She watched him from the corner of her eye, shifting in his place and a rueful tug at the corners of his mouth. 

Ethan kneeled down beside the bed, coming to her level, “I know.” 

This is never how Becca imagined getting Ethan Ramsey down on his knees. All those fantasies didn’t join a near death experience or a fight. 

His palms spread out on the quilt. All of him itching to touch her. If he could touch her, everything would be okay. 

A beat forced itself between them. Ethan staring at his fingers inching towards her above the horrid colored quilt, and Becca looking blankly at the top of his head. 

And then she murmured;  

“I can’t be with you if you’re going to treat me like shit all the time.” 

“It was never my intention. I just want what’s bes-” 

“Best for me, I know. But you don’t get to dictate that. It’s my life, I’m a big girl. I can make my own decisions.” 

He was listening. He was guilty and listening. 

“I want you, Ethan.” 

Those words were like music to his ears - to know she really, truly shared the sentiment. His deep blue gaze flickered up to her; staring at her from under long lashes and hanging on to her every word. This was everything they’ve both wanted - a proper admission of devotion. Then why did she look so sad?  

“But not if you’re going to keep pulling away from me.”  

Ah. There it was. All his faults coming back - his one mistake at abandoning her after she needed him most digging deep.  

“I’m sorry. All of this was to protect you. I’ll always, always protect you.” 

Becca’s heart skipped a beat at the unbridled conviction in his tone against her better judgment.  

“I don’t need a hero, Ethan.” Becca shook her head in kind admonishment. “I want a partner. Someone who will let me make mistakes and just hold me through it at the end of the day.” 

A bolt of lightning cracked in the distance. Their stare on one another so strong, devoted, that she couldn’t see through the clear blue of his irises and deep into his soul the moment the fleeting lightness peered in. 

“Okay,” was all he said.  

He responded quickly and with such fortitude that she couldn’t help but be skeptical. 

Becca rose a brow. 

Ethan moved closer and grabbed her hand, adding a squeeze. 

In a low voice she said, “I want to make the most of the time we have left. If I get a job elsewhere… I don’t want to regret anything.” 

His brows pulled together as this little known fact wormed its way into his rationality. “You’re thinking of leaving Edenbrook?” He held onto her hand just a bit tighter. 

“I don’t know,” she half shrugged. “If…”

He finished the question for her. “Of course you’ll have a job. The spot on my team is yours.” 

“Yeah, I know. But if…” Becca didn’t know how to accurately explain her fears. If they didn’t work out after all this would she still be able to work with him? Would he be able to? What if she received an amazing offer elsewhere. What happens to them if she takes it? 

“Can we not think about this right now.” 

Taking both her cold hands in his, Ethan simply nodded. 

He could feel the scary stirring in the pit of his stomach. Every pang of it subsiding the longer her warmth was within reach. The last of his fears overtaken by the most adorable sound as she stifled a yawn.  

Ethan let go of her hand just long enough to brush some strands back from her face. Un-showered and salty from the day’s events her cheek was still soft under his touch. He leaned up to press the lightest of pecks to her forehead. 

Ethan was less than a few centimeters away from where she wanted him most. One movement and it could all be right and well. Becca brushed her nose against the stubble of his chin, coaxing him downwards. She could feel his grin against her skin as his stubble marked her nose. Every second he didn’t succumb, the tip grew redder and redder. 

Ethan pulled back - too far for a quick descend down to her lips - and Becca almost threw a tempered fist into the mattress. Almost. 

He was looking at her with such reverence it made her whole entire body tingle. Like his stares were the hand of Da Vinci trying to capture her image - immortalize it for the rest of time. Trying desperately to paint this to memory - this moment where everything for them seemed to change for the better. This was the moment Ethan Ramsey knew. 

Becca was mere inches away. One more movement and she would know - know that he is irrevocably her. One more movement and he’d seal their fate. 

Her eyes flickered down to his chapped lips, and this time she didn’t look away. This time there was no enchanting classic playing on the television, just the person before them. This time Ethan was thankful for her focus. He let out the breath he was holding in. Watched her eyelids flutter as the warm gust met her lashes. Leaned in and listened. Listened to the erratic thumping. Thumping of his heart or hers or the hurricane, he didn’t know. 

Didn’t care. Couldn’t give a damn about anything other than her. 

Their lips met. Softly, tenderly. The shortest, most endearing kiss they’ve ever had. Neither wanting to ruin this with overzealous lust.  

They pulled back, unencumbered smiles gracing their features; and then she yawned again. 

Light with strange happiness, Ethan gently pressed her back into pillows. Pulled the covers around her to tuck her in. 

He kissed her chastely once more. Then pulled away. 

Every step he took from her side of the bed had her chiding herself for being so stupid for believing him this time. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. 

Ethan moved through the darkness. The raging winds of reality jolted through them, pounding on the expansive windows. Getting louder and more unruly the further he got. 

But then he did something so unexpected. So surprisingly unlike the man she thought she knew. 

He pulled back the covers of the other side of the bed and slipped in. Ethan shifted closer and closer atop the king sized bed until his arm wrapped around her waist, the other snaking under her neck. Becca welcomed him without a single hesitation or ill thought. This is exactly what she hoped for yesterday. 

Ethan had that smile - that one smile reserved only for her - as he dove into the covers with her, never intending to come back up. Their sweet embrace was all the sustenance he needed to survive. In this moment - and all of them to come, he’s sure - he and Becca were the only two people in the universe.

The storm outside was moving miles and miles away. 

________________________________________

A/N: there was meant to be a cute bathtub scene at the end before they went to bed. it required too much effort so it got the axe. oh well! thanks for sticking around <3

@openheartfanfics​ @choicesficwriterscreations​ 

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#open heart #open heart fanfic #choices open heart #ethan ramsey #ethan ramsey x mc #ethan x mc

[enochianribs]

p r o j e c t l a z a r u s (outlast au) pt 1.

Dean, a supernatural investigative reporter, receives an anonymous tip that something terrible has happened at what is supposed to be the long abandoned Novak Institute. As things quickly go south, Dean finds himself trapped within the rotting halls, pushed further and further in even as he tries to escape. What he discovers underneath the mountain may very well be the death of him.

read on ao3 here | or under the cut.

 The tip was anonymous but he’d followed it in good faith. If the lead was anything he’d hoped for, he’d have the story of his lifetime.       If    it was good. A huge if, but he was getting about that desperate for a big break, especially since he was still competing with Henriksen and Ash. Half of the time he couldn’t figure out where the fuck they were getting such gold mine stories. The bastards.

 He parked the Impala outside the gate, a tick of paranoia etching itself in his spine that someone would see him and yank the story out from under him. He debated covering Baby with branches and then realized that there was literally      no one     around. Outside of the sound of dry leaves blowing across the cracking blacktop and the breeze rustling the dying aspens, there was not a sound.

 Feeling stupid, he grabbed his small duffel bag and double checked its contents: his video camera (getting a little outdated with all the new tech but he’d bet his life on its durability), his flip phone (yeah, yeah, he knows), the first aid kit (he always brought it with when he went into abandoned buildings after stepping on that rusty nail that one time), a flashlight, the EMF detector (made it himself), and the switchblade (stolen from his father).

 The tools of the trade, if your trade was being insane and stupid and reporting on old urban legends and ghosts and demonic possessions and shit. Y’know, normal stuff. The kinda job you could tell someone about on the first date.

 With the contents all accounted for, Dean locked Baby up, shoved his keys into the bag and took a deep breath.

     Show time.  

 Beyond the crumbling brick wall towered the Institute in all of its fading glory, its architecture dated and magnificent even as the clay tile roofing broke and shattered at its base, creating a minefield of broken pieces sharp enough to dig through the tread of his boot if he wasn't careful. The hedges were overgrown and misshapen, and most of the exterior windows were broken. Dean could only assume from local teenagers trashing the place. It must have been beautiful back in the day, a hidden gem among the peaks. Fuckin’ kids.

 According to an old newspaper article, the Novak Institute was closed down in 1982 for financial reasons and had been avoided by every sensible local like it was cursed ever since. It was founded in the early 1880s by a man named Charles Shurley with a simple goal: fund and research miracle cures. The stuff of angels, as the word of mouth story went. After his death in 1930, his wealthy in-laws took over and kept his goal in mind as they expanded into even more experimental treatments for all kinds of medical and psychological ailments.

 Folks from around the world came to be healed, and the Novaks—   Shurley’s in-laws—  were damn      good    at it. They sought to push the boundaries between modern, traditional, and experimental medicine and frequently did so successfully.

 In 1970, a woman by the name of Naomi Novak took over the Institute, and (though it had always been a private facility for the wealthy to turn about their health for the better) she privatized the institution completely. Within a year it became a family owned research facility. Rumor was that members of the Novak family suffered from a mysterious condition, one that they kept behind closed doors and drawn curtains and that she was hellbent on finding the fix for it.

 From there Dean took every tale he'd scrounged up from the small mountain town down the road with a grain of salt. Urban legends all started somewhere, but along the way they lost the truth, and that was usually where the scary stuff kicked in.

 Still, the story went that it had been the wrong direction for the family to take, and they immediately stumbled into financial struggles that eventually dragged the entire thing down around them. In '82 they closed their doors, for good.

 Except, two days ago Dean received an encrypted email. Sent out in mass, he suspected. The contents of the email was straight up bizzare— since he'd received it, he'd kept a printed copy tucked into his back pocket, folded up and folded up again until the creases wore thin and threatened to tear.

It was in the mountain. They told me not to look. I did anyway. She told me not to look. By the time I send this, it will be too late. The Novak Institute needs to be burned to the ground. Don’t look. Just light the match and let it go.     

Dean’s issue was always the same.      Of course     he was gonna look. That was kinda his whole job—  stick his nose where it shouldn’t go and see what bit it. In fact, he      wanted     something to bite. That would be his big break. He just had to haul ass the other direction the second something chomped down and pray that he caught it on camera.

So here he was, sticking his nose where it shouldn’t be.

To the left of the main doors sat an armoured convoy. Its doors were closed, and it looked surprisingly free from rust, if it has been sitting there for a couple of decades.

 The model of the car was somewhat new, Dean realized.

 "Huh," He stopped in front of it, swiping a finger along its hood. Inspecting the pad for dust, it came away blank. His finger barely left a trail. The vehicle was spotless. It couldn't have been sitting there longer than a day with the way the wind swept dust across the open courtyard. "Weird."

 The convoy should have been his first red flag, so scarlet it must have been dyed fresh with blood. It wasn't.

 Dean pulled one of the ornate handles on the front door, but it didn't give an inch. They were made of a solid piece of wood, heavy duty. There was something vaguely fortified about the place. Hospitals had welcoming doors, encouraging people to come and get better. These, Dean could tell by the massive iron hinges they hung from, were bolted shut from the inside.

 Dean tried the other handle just in case. Nothing. He sighed, and tugged out his phone. 4:10 PM. One bar of signal that kept flashing in and out of existence. In October, the sun would be going down soon…and he was only supposed to be checking it out today. His plan was to come back at sunrise for a full day of sunlight and investigation.

 Down the expanse of shattered windows, a piece of glass skittered out across the cobblestone. His head jerked up and instinctually, he called out a inquisitive "Hello?"

 No one answered, but he heard, with straining ears, what sounded like footsteps shuffling further into the building.

 What if someone had beat him here? He hadn't been the only person the email was sent to. There was a chance that coming back tomorrow meant he lost the story to someone else. Henriksen would never let him hear the end of that. Dean had boasted that he had something      big,    had left in the middle of the night to get here before anyone else. No, he was not going to let Henriksen win another bet against Ash.

 Almost drowned out by the sound of the continued breeze, Dean heard a door slam shut inside the Institute. A stone sank past the bottom of his stomach down to the floor. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and the insidious feeling that someone was watching him crept around his psyche until he had no choice but to look back over his shoulder. The courtyard remained the same: desolate, abandoned.

 "Fuck it."

 He should've pulled his switchblade out, just in case, but he settled on the flashlight, fingers wrapping around it tightly. The light was really starting to die beyond the snowy backdrop, warm sunlight fading into a sickly orange glow that bathed everything in sight.

 "Just one room." Dean muttered to himself, and shouldered the bag, brandishing the flashlight with a grimace.

 This was a stupid idea.

 Like a statuette too close to the end of a table, Dean hoisted himself carefully over the edge of broken glass and hopped into the room blind. Darkness greeted him, enveloped him in an unknown that would consume him and spit a cracked reflection back out. All it would take was a little push in the wrong direction to send him toppling to the floor.

 The halls of Novak Institute were filled with hands just itching for something to break.

#mine #* #YEEHAW #did i repurpose my old monstrous edits? #yes #but tbh the edits were made with this specific AU in mind anyways so i don't even feel bad about it #also because they FUCK #project lazarus

[remadra]

BORROWER GORDON AND LITTLE BENREY COMPLETE!!!!

I’m so glad I finished, these two took a while- and I promised myself I wouldn’t touch it anymore so no more adjustments gbyfhdsss

my process of sketch to complete under the cut!

First I do my sketch, which can range from general lines to more detailed like I did here! I don’t really use the artist skeletons for poses I’m used to using, but they do help with proportions. I still used the line down the face for symmetry and circled the heels! If I’m doing dynamic poses, or ones with different perspective than head-on, I’ll use the full reference skeleton and round it out with circles to get a feeling before I set in on solidifying the sketch. Since these designs are character concept and the sketches are pulled from individual ref sheets, I went with whatever I thought was cool at the time. Then I darkened what I was set on having with my pencil tool. (I use FireAlpaca, and work with 2px-5px brushes)

This is the stage where I also take into account any changes, like removing Benrey’s boots here. I didn’t get a shot of how I changed them, but essentially I took the same approach as with on paper. Erase and get a general shape down, then check it against the rest of the design.

Next is the line art layer, where I trace all the outlines first. Big creases, edges, places where material changes and dark shadows are first. I used a 5px pen for these lines, and it looks nice and clean compared to the sketch when I’m done! As I line, I make my final decisions on what I’m including. I removed stitches and lines that I didn’t feel were needed to get the point across, as well as leaving out the extra square of padding on Gordon’s chest armor. I also added a few more seams to Benrey’s pants, to get a more patched-together feel. Then I started using (very lazy at some points) hatching to denote shadows. This is important for me because I have a tendency to not darken and blend my shadows enough. It leaves my lighting to look very flat, so I force myself to take into account more drastic shades by adding in the dark brown I use for lining. This layer takes the most time, and it’s where I get pickiest. When I color, I’ll still be going back and adjusting the hatching to blend more smoothly with whatever tone I’m using. At that point, I usually shrink my pen down to 3px.

This is usually when I erase my sketch to color on the layer under the line art, but this time I added a new layer and moved it under to keep the sketch!

I do my general flats, comparing the tones to where I want to draw attention to! I want Benrey’s eyes to stand out, so I use a cold yellow and (nearly neon) blue against faded browns and red toned shadows. With soft dark blues and the bright red of his Coke can armor, the Little’s skin tone is a bit less unnatural than if I used green and yellow. I want to draw attention away from Gordon’s lack of facial hair, since in this AU, Gordon is trans and doesn’t have a beard (yet.). Even though I knew from the start that I was going to be running with this, beardless Gordon still looks weird to me. So I grabbed a relatively bright tan and orange compared to the rest of him for his shirt. Lucky for me, this also emphasized the creases and how ill-fitting Gordon’s clothes are. I used straight greys for the metal knee and shin guards on Gordon, which ended up looking very blue next to the browns and tone of his pants.

All of my shading is happening at the same time. I use the default watercolor brush with a size of 2px to 15px and blend as much as I can. For stitches or tiny areas surrounded by an overwhelming color, I go back to the 4px pen. I color pick by picking out the edges of the line art on top of the color and go with that since it’s usually a lot darker and shades quickly.

During the whole process, if I’m feeling something’s off, I get a second opinion from an outside source. It’s helped me avoid some really awkward art!

Aaaand that’s my drawing process!

#hlvrai #hlvrai benrey #hlvrai gordon #borrowers au #littles au #borrowers and littles au #frenrey #benrey #benry #frenry