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deadsetobsessions · 4 months

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Edit: thank you @tetranationaltortoise for pointing out that the Red Spot is on Jupiter instead of Saturn! Fixed it! You’re not nickpicking, you’re providing very appreciated constructive criticism (and a basic fact check I should have done lol) <3

Danny, as usual, hadn’t meant to become the local cryptid. Local being extremely relative, as his locality in this instance is… space.

He just wanted to have some relaxation time. He just wanted to do some homework, chill on Mars or something, and then call it a day.

This hero business was taxing and Danny took his breaks when he could. Take that, work-life balance! Just kidding, Danny had no work-life balance. His life is a mess and he's overworked.

What was it that Superman had said in that one interview?

“Evil never sleeps."

Apparently, that also meant Danny never slept either.

“Hrk!” Danny snorted awake, looking around wildly at the vast expanse of space to see what woke him.

….

Yeah, that’ll do it.

In front of him, merrily floating through space, is the battered remains of what used to be an asteroid and a mecha that’s a weird combination of Gotham’s vigilante hero, Batman, and Metropolis’ Golden Boy, Superman.

The vibrations of the collision had shaken Danny awake.

Danny got up, baffled as hell and half asleep still. He floated to the giant Bat insignia tumbling around, inching closer as he saw the- oh hell, that’s so cool, it’s a plane!- cockpit and the passed out hero inside of it. Danny clicked his tongue, the sound swallowed by the lack of air.

He shoved the plane closer to earth, passing it to a bewildered (and both beat up and stressed out) Superman, who did a double take at the glowing green boy chucking him the Toy-maker Batplane.

Danny had waved, blinked out of visibility, and had gone back to his nap.

After phasing inside the plane and nabbing a batarang from Batman’s pouch, that is. Danny will consider it payment for the clean up service he’d unwittingly signed himself up for.

And so went the first encounter.

——

The second time he met the so called Big Leagues, Danny had just come back from fighting Dan. He wanted a break, dammit, and if staring at Saturn’s gorgeous rings and gaseous formations helped him sleep better, then that’s what’s going to happen.

Then, a similarly green glowing Green Lantern “landed” to where he was floating curled up. Danny knew about Lanterns. Their council often tried to meddle in his court.

“Hello,” the Ring projected its Lantern’s words to Danny’s head. Danny tilted his head without looking at the Lantern. “I’m John Stewart. What are you doing out here, kid?”

Danny thought this guy had a nice, soothing voice. Powerful, as Latern tended to be, but infinitely kind.

Danny decided that this one wasn’t immediately on his shit list.

“Phantom.” He said, and the Lantern asked him to repeat it as the glow of his ring enveloped the halfa.

“Phantom. Are you lost, Phantom?”

“No, just dead.”

John Stewart paused. “…Dead?”

“I’m a ghost,” Danny raised his hands and phased it through the Lantern’s arm.

“Ah,” the man said, flustered. “Right. So… you’re just…”

“Hanging out.” As he talked to the Lantern, Danny had a rather amusing idea. He rotated himself- turned- towards Jupiter and pointed to the Red Spot. “That’s actually my grave.”

John Stewart paused. “I’m sorry…?”

“My grave. Don’t disturb it. It’s rude,” Danny lied through his sharp ghost teeth. “Your council disturbed my grave the last time they stopped by and it took ages to get it back right.”

The green Lantern shield enveloping Danny flickered as John Stewart went through the five stages of grief. To be fair, the council had last visited this solar system... a couple thousand years ago, so John was no doubt rapidly doing some mental math regarding Danny's age.

“The council disturbed your grave…?”

“Not that they knew it, those pretentious weirdos.” Danny pretended to be offended, just to see the struggle on John’s face as he debated defending the council or telling a dead child their grave didn’t matter. Because Stewart was a hero, he went with the latter.

“I see. I am sorry, on their behalf.”

“Eh, whatever. Just make sure they don’t do it again. So… what can that ring do?”

——

"Hi. Could you not litter in space, please?"

Wonder Woman whirled around, sword out and pointed at Danny.

"A... child? Who are you, child?"

"I'm not a child-! You know what, it doesn't even matter. See that?" Danny waved at the pieces of shattered meteor and smashed up alien tech floating outside of the watch tower. "Littering is not cool."

"How did you get in here?"

"I'm Phantom. This is kind of my neighborhood." Danny let his mouth run, sleep deprived and exhausted. "I'm dead, that's how I got in here. Could you not litter in my backyard, please?"

He had better things to do than cleaning after full grown adult heroes.

"Oh, you are the ghost child Lantern mentioned! I see! My apologies, the clean up will be starting in a bit." Wonder Woman slid her sword back into its sheath.

"Great. Nice meeting you. I'll stick around to make sure you young whipper snappers clean up properly."

With that, Danny sunk into the floor. After a moment's deliberation, he decided to take a nap in the floor vent.

——

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Danny jolted awake once more. Ancients, like mentor, like mentee. Robin stared at him, awkwardly wriggling through the floor vents.

"I'm taking a nap here," Danny grumbled. "What are you doing in the vents?"

"Me? What are you doing in the vents? I'm allowed in here!"

"Wonder Woman knows I'm here," Danny replied. She knows... probably? "I'm Phantom."

"Robin."

"So... what are you doing?"

"Knowledge is power," Robin intoned, clearly imitating the Bat.

Danny stared.

"... You're stalking the JL?"

"Information gathering!"

"Stalking," Danny concluded, ignoring Robin's grumble. "Yeah, okay. If you need help, let me know, I guess."

"I don't need help." Robin paused, tilting his head to the side like a particularly curious bird. "Unless you're up for some pranks? Green Lantern's been getting on my nerves lately."

Danny frowned at him. "I like John Stewart."

"You've met- no, not him, the other one."

"Oh. What do I get out of it?"

Robin reached into his belt pouch and pulled out... a bag of marshmallows? How the hell did that-? Ah, right, hammerspace.

"Oh, wait, can you eat this?"

"I'm dead, not tasteless. I love marshmallows, hand it over. I'll help out."

"Deal."

——

"I swear to god, Spooky, there's something in the walls. It's even creepier than you!"

Batman grunted. He'd stop Robin if he went too far and it started affecting Lantern's abilities on the field, but as far as the Dark Knight was concerned, the Green Lantern had it coming. Robins were vindictive on a good day. If Hal hadn't learned that from Dick, then Jason's retaliation was well deserved.

"Oh, maybe it's the ghost!" Hal said, looking around with his ring glowing.

"I thought John said he was a godling?" Diana polished her sword as she looked on in amusement.

"The boy." Batman grunted. "Not human, his pointed ears and green skin is proof of that. Did J'onn say anything?"

"Not yet."

"Whatever he is, he saved Batman. He's welcome in the Tower," Superman tilted back as his hearing picked up on Robin's and Phantom's snickering.

#batman #danny phantom #bruce wayne #jason todd #nightwing #the justice league #hal jordan #john stewart #green lantern #wonder woman #diana of themyscira #diana prince #clark kent #superman

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theladysunami · 7 months

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I had the most hilarious thought!

A reverse transmigration AU, only it’s Bingge’s wives that keep popping into the modern world.

Shen Yuan is house sitting at his parents’ place while they’re on an extended trip. A few days in he discovers Ning Yingying wandering around the place, in her full Xianxia wife-of-the-emperor garbed glory!

She’s confused, Shen Yuan is confused, and they haven’t a clue how or why she’s there.

A display of spiritual powers manages to convince Shen Yuan she’s not just some insane cosplayer, so he does his best to be a polite host and accommodate his sudden guest. Surely Binghe will show up to ‘save’ her eventually so Shen Yuan wants to ingratiate himself, but in a polite, platonic way, so he doesn’t get himself killed as a kidnapper or for seducing Binghe’s wife.

Then the next day, Liu Mingyan shows up. A few days later, Sha Hualing is there. Then Qin Wanyue. Then the little Palace Mistress. Etc.

This is going to be a problem!

Is there some sort of dimensional leak in PIDW’s inner palace? Why do all of Binghe’s wives keep showing up??? How is Shen Yuan supposed to entertain all these people and keep them from wreaking havoc on the city and/or destroying his parents’ house? He’s just a regular guy!

Thank god his parents' staff are on vacation, and they have guest rooms to spare, but still. The food delivery services are giving him weird looks, and surely his parents will eventually review his credit card statements and notice all his sudden odd purchases of women’s clothing.

I’m not sure what all the modern interests of the wives would be, and where Shen Yuan would take them on outings, but he’s for sure a much better host then he realizes. He ends up encouraging them all to expand their horizons in ways they never would have while stuck in the harem with its expectations and politicking. (For two I have thought of: Liu Mingyan definitely finds meimei’s danmei stash in her old room at some point, and it would be hilarious if Sha Hualing was introduced to online PVP games and became the queen of epic gaming trash talk).

Bingge does show up eventually, and it turns out he had been trying to break into Shen Yuan’s world himself the whole time, only some type of misfire or portal issue kept nabbing the various wives instead.

Pretty much all the wives stuck in the modern world adore Shen Yuan by that point, so of course they’re all fine with Binghe bringing him back to join the harem. He’s great! Binghe had better treat him well though, or else.

#Shen Yuan #Binghe's Harem #Luo Bingge #Luo Binghe #Bingge #BinggeYuan #BingYuan #BingQiu #SY #LBH #LBG #SVSSS #Scum Villain's Self Saving System #SVSSS Idea #Story Idea

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heartfullofleeches · 6 months

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Going to do a small ramble since janitors been getting some misgendering.

Imagine if for a second, janitor just corrected people on their pronouns. Like, sure their in a chaotic fast food place but the least a customer can do is accept the pronouns the fucking cleaner of the establishment uses. Maybe after a long hard day of work, FF! Reader just gives sulli a hug. They deserve it even in this murder happy and very questionably run fast food joint. Maybe they even just chill after hours in the building to just hang out. Idk personally think there's not enough fluff for them. (Side thing : what if janitor just had a they/them pin? I've seen more recently at least in my area service workers have rainbow or fandom pins and I think it'd fit them.) -🍭anon (sorry I haven't spoken in awhile, been very busy with life)

[I'll do you one better- FF Reader being the one to correct the customer. TW: Mention of misgendering]

"Um, excuse me, Sir? There's still no paper towels in the bathroom."

Why do they even bother? They've expressed their grievances to this customer multiple times - both in fact of them being busy with other work, and that the customer had mistaken them for something they weren't. They've tried to let it slide. They've tried to gently inform the customer of their preferred pronouns. No dice. Their head was pounding from the fumes of the chemical they worked with, and this was doing nothing to help it. Why did they come into work today.

"Listen, I'll get to it once I'm done mopping. How many times do I have to tell you I'm not a-"

Soft squeaks resonate from the freshly cleaning floor as heavy steps race across it. A hand nabs the bottle of cleanser out of the janitor's hands - aiming the nozzle directly in line with the customer's eyes as its finger clamps down on the trigger.

The customer screeches - throwing their hands over their face to shield themselves as their eyes sting and vision blurs.

"Begone." Steadying your aim, you blast the customer with another face full of the unholy solution filing the bottle in your hands. Had to be some powerful stuff to get out the stains you see on the daily. Despite their arms blocking majority of their face, you manage to get a spray of the mixture in their mouth. They retch - tears and saliva dripping down their face as they spit.

"Agh! What the hell is wrong with you!"

"The fuck's wrong with you? I've been watching you all morning. There's a line between a mistake and being an ignorant asshole, and you've crossed it buddy. Go on, get - shoo, get the fuck outta here."

"I hope you know you've just lost a paying customer!"

"You say that like it's a bad thing. Go ruin someone's else's day."

The Janitor watches as you chase the customer out of the establishment, hurling obscenities and hitting them with another jet of cleanser whenever they turn to look back. You toss the now empty bottle at the hood of their car as they crawl in and speed away. Their heart pumps so loudly they can barely hear your steps as you return to their side.

"Sorry about using all your cleanser. Wanna go pretend to look for more in storage room and sneak out the back?"

The Janitor deadpans. "I used to think I was in love you.... It's gone far beyond just a thought now."

"I know." You throw your arm around their shoulder - allowing them to dump their weight on you as they go weak in the knees from the contact. You half carry them out the back door, sneaking off to where their van was parked outside. You hold your hand out for their keys which they readily give you. You help them into the passenger seat before walking around to the driver's side and hopping in. The Janitor's hand reaches over the divider, stopping just short of your arm.

"You good?"

Their head falls to your shoulder - voice strained as they rub at where their eyes would be. "Yea....Yea, I'm good. Thanks by the way."

You place your hand over theirs, squeezing it gently. "Eh, you and I are the one's keeping the hellhole in shape.. You deserve more respect than you get sometimes... Ready to ditch this place for the night?"

"....Please?..."

#yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere x you #yandere oc #yandere scenarios #yandere insert #yandere headcanons #yandere #yandere blurb #Fast food reader #yandere fluff #soft yandere #yandere drabble

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lunarw0rks · 11 months

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Old Bones | Chapter Three

Summary: After fleeing a toxic relationship, you fear for your safety and hire a bodyguard. He's masked, impassible, and damn good at what he does.

Warning(s): strong language, suggestive language, guns/gun violence, death, gore/medical gore, blood, canon-typical violence

Word Count: 4.1k

A/N: I think this is my fav chapter so far, lemme know what y'all think... sorry if it's medically inaccurate but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ also the bastard finally has a name !!

꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ GHOST MASTERLIST // have a request? ♡¸.•*' ⋆ ⚘ 🕊 ˚✧ ₊˚ʚ prev. chapter | next chapter | playlist | ao3 ver. ꒦꒷ O.B MASTERLIST

Vaded

“Squeeze trigger slow, don’t forget to breathe.” His fingers are overtaking yours, contorting yours so they’re using the proper form.

Even if you wanted to make a mistake, his frame was caging you in, stomach pressed deeply into the curve of your back. You do just that, firing at the glass jars lined up several feet away. Not a solid hit, but closer than the others.

Simon steps back, lowering the cock of the weapon for you. “You’re hesitating. There’s no time to hesitate or you’re dead.”

“I know that.” You spit back. The fluster of continually missing, as well as being dragged out here nearly every day was getting to you. Not to mention the heat of the sun beating down on you, successfully blinding any shot you take.

“Then do it properly,” He stands near the jars in front of you now, crossing his arms over his chest in impatience. “You think I have time to ponder when I’m holding a gun to someone’s head? I don’t. I shoot first.”

Such a prick—an insufferable prick at that. His words only escalated the sour mood you’d had during this whole morning of make-shift boot camp.

You raise the pistol again, lining up the sights and tracing along his figure being outlined by the rays of sunshine. You exhale like you’d been coached, jerking the sights to the jar closest to him and squeezing the trigger.

The mason jar explodes, laying askew on the pallets he’d set them up on. He doesn’t jump in surprise, or lose his composure.

“Better. You might actually have a chance… If he’s a statue.” His lack of reaction only pissed you off more, practically wiping any form of a smirk you had after your first lucky bullet. You switch the safety back on, for his well-being as much as your own, and toss the iron to him.

He catches it without a second thought, returning it to the sack of weapons he’d brought to train with. A week, and you’d just barely made it to pistols. Not to mention, on your toes the entire time because there’s been nothing but radio silence on your spouse. Not a letter, not a piece of mail, no sign of a tail—nothing.

He begins the drive back from the countryside, somewhere about an hour out of town where none of the trigger pulls would be heard. His eyes are glued to the unpaved road in front of him, as usual. One hand on the top of the wheel, and the other taking up the entirety of his center console, leaving you little room to breathe.

“I’d say, you’re ready to carry one.” Simon’s words nab your attention. “Just don’t shoot at me again, or you’re shit out of luck.”

You don’t doubt the power of carrying, but it’s new nonetheless.

Perhaps his harsh feedback held weight, and you ‘might’ have a chance in hell of defending yourself. Might—as in, nearly none at all.

Thank the stars for that insufferable prick, then, because whether you want to admit it or not, his services are needed.

—

The weight of the piece is something you’ll have to get used to.

You refused the hip holster, to Simon’s annoyance, of course. Instead, it’s going to remain tucked into your waistband, the icy metal of the .38 revolver digging into the soft flesh of your tailbone.

He’s in the shower now, where he usually spends about two minutes anyways, despite you packing now. Bullets were your words now, if necessary. This situation was past legalities, or forms, or numbing and intrusive questions in the courtroom.

Three sharp pounds on the front door, and you’re already at your feet. The shower shuts off, and Simon has walked out with a towel concealing his waist and already started for the door.

“Wait.” You’re looking through the peephole only greeted with the sight of a badge and an impatient officer. Simon steps back a bit, watching the encounter from the hallway as droplets run down his frame.

Once you’ve opened the door, the officer holds out some sort of form. The prospect of an officer at your door has prevented you from hearing his introduction or caring to take a look at the badge. The only words that find you are ‘husband’ and ‘defamation’.

He doesn’t bother to let you respond, just shoves the form onto the entry table and gives Simon a sickened glare. At first glance, probably thinking Simon is your side piece showering off after a night of adultery.

The officer has retreated down the steps of the complex, leaving you unable to process anything. Simon doesn’t say a word, just retreats to his room to finish dressing, as if there wasn’t almost a dead cop laying in the foyer.

Your hands shiver as you skim through the document, seated at the kitchen table. You couldn’t believe the bastard—cops and judges already on his payroll, coming up with some bogus claim of defamation—all while you’re left with no evidence of the latter.

He’s returned quickly, resting his palms on the table as he soaks in the information. “You’re not going to that trial.” The paper is taken from your fingers, forcing you out of your discomposure.

“I’ll go to prison if I don’t show, Simon.” You respond quickly, wondering what the hell he’s getting you roped into.

“No, you’ll be dead.” He leads, the palms on the table turning to tight fits. “Once you’re in the courtroom, he’ll have access to you, or whatever shitty motel you’ll be staying in for months. You’re not going.” His commands are nearing that of a hardened soldier.

“This is my life you’re talking about. I can’t just pack up and run from the federal government. He’s not going to kill me, he’s going to try and put me in jail, then throw away the key.” Your tone has heightened, but his hasn’t.

He takes a few steps back from the table as if trying not to blow his top. “You’re hiding out in a shitty apartment, sobbing in the middle of supermarkets, and you’re confident in that assessment?”

“If he wanted you in jail, he would’ve planted evidence on you. I’ll repeat myself. You’re not going.” Simon sighs sharply, trying to calm himself again. “We need to get out of this apartment for now, before more police poke around and find you packing heat.”

The lack of decor, luggage still in the corner, non-perishables you’d bought—all for the inevitable moment he finds you. That moment was here, and now you were packing it all away. Somehow the place looked less pitiful with it all packed away and stuffed into his backseat.

—

You were somewhere in the countryside, only in the opposite direction of the shooting range you were at that morning. He hadn’t stopped once during the long ride and wasn’t planning to. You were in a small town before you knew it—someplace you’d never heard of, and probably with a population that doesn’t reach triple digits.

The barren landscape you were passing in the near forties seemed to continue forever. The endless crop and winding paths would provide cover, but the scenarios playing in your head depicted worse.

The entirety of the town was in a cluster—a few gas pumps, a motel, a pharmacy, and a diner—all of which much older than you’d been alive, visibly decaying under years of neglect.

His truck rolled to a stop, parking in the empty lot of the motel. You two seemed to be the only ones rooming in this apocalyptic townlet, and you were grateful for that, at least. He retreated into the office and returned holding a key to your room.

You climbed out, retrieving the duffel that had your entire life packed into it. His bag of weapons was slung over his shoulder, and he carried it as if the weight had no effect. He’d stayed quiet the whole trip, and it continued well into entering the shared space.

Two beds, a bathroom, and a kitchenette. Nicer than you expected, albeit the exterior painted a different picture earlier.

Your stiff limbs freed themselves when you sprawled out on the bed you claimed, remaining in disbelief of the situation at hand. You were on the run again, but this time not from him—from the law. How long could this go on? Living in motels, with an overbearing male roommate? Especially one without a sense of humor; the spiteful cherry on top.

He closed the curtains with a jerk, forcing you to stare at the dated floral pattern they had, instead of the secluded view outside. There was no time for error, especially when it was someone other than the law to figure out you’d skipped town.

Just when you’ve begun to close your eyes, he’s loudly rifling through the luggage sitting on the floor, muttering curses under his breath. You sit up in bed in a huff, glaring into his back. Finally, he pulls out the bottle of Kentucky, pouring himself a generous glass, before thumping it down onto the faux-granite counter.

“Seriously?” You sigh, sitting yourself up on your arms.

He takes a few seconds, savoring the burn running down his throat. “Gonna need it. Helps me focus.”

“We’ll need to pick up a few things at that pharmacy, so get up.” There’s no chance in hell he’s leaving you here alone, despite the store only being a few blocks away. Bickering only greeted you with an icy glare, so you grumbled to your feet, slipping into the jacket you’d removed only minutes before.

In usual fashion, he’s a few steps behind you, watching the few people that are out and about at the moment, most of which are retirement age.

You’re inside the pharmacy now, practically tapping your foot at him as he grabs the supplies you two might need. More non-perishables as well as a small kit used for camping. It was clear to you this little “road trip” wasn’t going to end soon—and he was quite used to being on the run.

As soon as he’s placed the bills on the checkout counter, you’ve exited the store, nearly skipping back to his truck. He begins the short drive back, but his eyes keep darting between the rearview mirror and over his shoulder.

“We have a tail.” He snarls, continuing to divert further from town. “I’m gonna make sure we lose it.”

His words make your hairs stand, whatever the hell he meant by that was nothing pretty. He was getting further from town, so whatever his plans were needed absolutely no witnesses.

“Gun?” You ask, looking over your shoulder at the black Mercedes creeping closer.

He nods, still frantically assessing his four corners. The road signs have disappeared again, and you’re back to crops and trucking warehouses. You lift yourself off the seat a bit, retrieving the revolver you previously had tucked away. You check the cylinder, indeed seeing six bullets loaded inside—bullets he’d filed X’s into the tips himself—they “blew a nastier hole” that way, according to him.

It’s in your lap now, as you bounce around from his speed increase. The tail does the same, nearly bumper to bumper with his trunk now. Simon diverts, trying to ensure it can’t clip it, but the unpaved road before you is already unsteady enough when you’re going straight.

The Mercedes clips into the side of his truck, but the size difference between the cars only causes it to swerve. Simon turns abruptly, making the tail believe he’s taking a right. In reality, he swerves left, causing the confused driver to go straight into the metal fence lining the road.

You only see the wreckage briefly; crushed hood, steam rising from the hood, and no further movement from the driver.

He slams the brakes, pulling off to the side. He pulls out his much larger caliber pistol, slamming the truck door behind him. He’s gone to make sure he finishes the job.

Your fingers find the lock button, about to hear that click, when the passenger door is whipped open, and you’re face down in the gravel before you know it. Your gun is askew somewhere, having been ripped from your hands.

The assailant's fingers dig into your scalp, forcing you to kneel on the sharp pebbles. He’s surely one of the men your husband hired. His nose is busted, and there are small shards of glass embedded in his face that he’s too determined to mind.

This was the moment fate caught up with you, just like you’d thought it would. Either with you dead in your apartment, or staring down the barrel of a gun like you are now—disarmed and on your knees execution-style.

He cocks it, pressing the metal into your temple.

The unmistakable crack of a gunshot echoes through the countryside, causing both of you to jump in surprise. Had Simon been ambushed? Was he already bleeding out in the dirt?

He seems to think the same, a lordly smirk spreading, revealing his bloodied teeth. You snap your eyes to the stars above you. His leer is not going to be the last thing you see—the night sky would be.

The ring in your ears is louder than the gunshot itself. Warm sprinkles have splattered across you now, dripping down your neck. But you’re not dead. Not clenching a bullet hole either. You have to look down to be sure, examining your body with sanguine hands.

Instead, it’s the man with a hole in his head crumbled in front of you, still your pistol in his dead fingers. The ringing subsides, but your eardrums are muffled slightly like you’ve just had your head underwater.

“Bastard got me,” Simon stumbles back, making you sigh in relief, “—came out of the fuckin’ backseat, didn’t see him.” He’s sputtering, putting a flat palm against the stab wounds on his stomach, while the other is against the door of the truck.

You use the truck for support as well, feeling the stray pebbles that were still digging into your knees, not to mention the crimson seeping into the fabric of your clothes, sticking to you. You snatch your pistol back, stuffing it back into your waistband.

He’s barely upright now. An uncanny sight at best, seeing him struggle to hold his own weight.

“We need to… Clean this up…” He takes his palm off the truck, but it’s returned when he nearly stumbles again. He’s fighting himself, forcing himself to be the one in charge here. Simon glowers down at his abdomen, lifting the saturated fabric. It’s worse than you expected, not in the deepness of the punctures, but how much blood he lost in the scuffle.

You can tell he wants to speak, to give you some sort of instruction, but the pants coming from him are too severe. He slides down the truck, leaning against the large tire for support. He’s gone even paler than usual—you can tell through the eyes of his mask.

His chest is rising and falling rapidly, at least. But it won’t be soon if you don’t do something.

It’s a blur; grunting and using all your might to put the dead man into the bed of the truck. You open the door to the backseat, finding the foil blanket in the camping kit Simon bought. You cover the bed, so his corpse looks like nothing more than a lump of firewood, or hay, or something other than what it is.

The skinny flashlight finds its way between your teeth, as you scoop and kick the dirt around to cover up the blood. The storm clouds forming are your only hope of washing away any evidence of this bloodbath. You shine the light on the side of the car, where some of the splatter had cast. You wipe it away with your sleeve, leaving only small traces of it.

Finally, it shined on him. A half-conscious Simon, who you can barely lift into the truck. He gives a little way, but your arms are putty by the end of the ordeal. He’s slumped in the seat, and you haven’t bothered to buckle him in.

You climb inside the driver’s seat, reversing quickly to make it back to the motel. The lack of guests will make patching him up easier, but the prospect of what unfolded is not providing much comfort. You’re speeding down the strip of unpaved road, eventually greeted by the few street lights illuminating the town.

You slow when you reach the parking space, claiming the one directly across from your room, so transporting Simon is easier. Luckily, the few residents that live there have retreated in for the night, leaving no prying eyes around.

You palm his pockets, locating the room key. There’s no time for slippery fingers or trembling hands. You make way for yourself and him by opening the door first, then pulling him out of the truck. He’s putting as much weight on himself as he can, but you’re left to do most of the literal heavy lifting.

Simon was otiosely dropped onto his bed, left to writhe only for a few seconds while you grabbed the rest of the camping kit from the backseat. When you return and lock the doors behind you, you’re quick to dig through the luggage for pieces of clothing. Ones you can put underneath his torso to prevent the mess his wounds are going to make.

You fish the knife he kept in his pocket out, cutting through the soaked t-shirt fabric. It glides off easily, allowing your amateur eyes to feast on the punctures. They aren’t deep, clearly not done with enough force to do serious internal damage, but there’s enough for the blood loss to be his biggest problem.

Simon must’ve finished him off before he could rough him up more—you could tell by how jagged the last stab was—like the man’s blade had been ripped away hastily.

“The bourbon…” He murmurs, bringing the bottle to your attention. Something you’ll be able to use. The self-medication that was slowly killing him might just be his saving grace.

You zip to the counter, unscrewing the cap from the bottle. He nods his head, bracing himself like he’s been through his a hundred times. He probably has, for all you know. The fawn-tinted liquid sizzles at his wounds, both disinfecting and irritating the reddened, puffy flesh.

He’s gritting his teeth under the mask, clenching one of the towels you laid out for dear life. Still, handling the pain better than you expected. You, on the other hand, were minutes from spewing.

The blood was coming out faster than you could keep up with, and no matter how many times you dug through that camping kit, it was only small bandages and ointment. You had no choice, you had to get to that pharmacy.

First, you’re hunched over the sink, scrubbing away the crimson coating you. You take off your jacket, ridding yourself of your bloodied clothes. One of his hoodies will have to do, and it will cover the remnants remaining in your hair. From how squeamish the sight was making you, you could swear you were paler than the man actively bleeding out.

Next, you’re out the door again, darting down the slick streets. Those storm clouds you saw earlier had begun to rain down on you. Good for the crime scene miles away, but not for your joints. That taste of blood, pinching in your side as you forced yourself to keep going, closing in on the pharmacy eventually.

Heaving in the first-aid aisle, grabbing any sterile gauze you see, then a box of gloves. Of course, the selection is limited. The townsfolk probably aren’t playing mob doctor like you are right now.

Once you’ve made uneducated guesses on what to get, it’s like you’re reminded of the dying man in your hotel room. There’s no time to pay, and no active cameras—no time to question the logistics of it all. Besides, the geriatric clerk barely gave you a passing glance when you stormed inside.

You’re out the back door, looping around the building until you’re back on the sidewalk again, racing with the supplies hooked under your arm. You’ve only been away minutes, but those were precious minutes where he could’ve hemorrhaged even more.

The rain putters heavily, coating your lashes like it did in the parking lot of the supermarket, daring you to stumble in disorientation.

You fiddle with the key, nearly kicking the door down when it struggles. It gives way eventually, and you’ve slammed it, already sitting on the edge of the bed. He kept a hand on his wounds while you were away, luckily, but he’s starting to slip again.

You peel Simon’s large fingers away, then look at the supplies before you. You rush to the sink and sterilize your fingers, darting your gaze from the sink back to him.

You look down at it—the engagement ring you haven’t been able to take off all this time.

“Fuck it.” You mutter, tearing it off your finger. It clatters somewhere in the sink, and you leave it there to get back to Simon. You tear the cardboard encasing the gloves, slipping them onto your trembling fingers—partially from the cold rain, as well as the know-nothing decisions you’re going to make to treat him.

Stitches are out of the question, so you’re going to have to pack the wounds—something you've seen on a medical show once. You unravel the roll of gauze, cutting off small sections of it with the knife, and then get to work.

He’s lucky he’s knocked out because he’d probably cringing right now—from your medical care, not your fingers digging around at his wounds.

You loop the bandage around your index finger, trying to recall the steps. You push it deep enough to prevent it from bleeding through, stuffing the gashes in a zig-zag pattern. One by one, you move to the next wound until they’re all packed.

If these stabs had been any deeper, there would be two bodies in the bed of the truck right now—one of which would be the owner. Opportunely, they hadn’t bled through the gauze so far.

The exhaustion caught up with you quickly, but you were determined to keep an eye on him. Without him, you were screwed, plain and simple. He wasn’t going to die and leave you with this unexplainable mess, one that he got you into when he took you on this hellacious joyride.

—

You must’ve dozed sometime in the night because the sunrise was peaking through the gaps of the curtains when your eyes opened. Not to mention, Simon was shoving you away from him, grunting as he was finally able to sit up.

He peered down at the evidence of the unpractised medical attention you’d given him. His fingers found the bottle of Kentucky still on the nightstand, and he took a slug from it, feeling the tension release a little bit.

The sight of the room surprised him a bit—the medical supplies and luggage thrown around, the clothing laid out below him, and not to mention the blood still dried on your fingers.

He finds his footing, despite the frazzled expression you’re maintaining. He’s been here before, in fact, been closer to death many times. This was nothing to Simon—“just a scratch” as he’d say. He grabs one of the only clean shirts left, slipping it on to cover himself.

After he’s taken another drink, he turns to you, standing above you with authority. This was no longer a game of cat and mouse, it was past that now. He had bigger problems, like the corpse in the bed of his truck, and the prospect of more of those men coming.

He finally finds the words when he sees you’re no longer wearing your ring. “What’s this bloke's name, the one who sent his dogs on us?”

You shake your head in confusion, but his clenched jaw is persistent and only going tighter. You’re forced to swallow the lump forming in your throat. You, too, can tell things are changing, and it’s become more personal for Simon than he’d like to admit.

You utter his name, as he’s forced you to reveal it. “Cal. His name is Cal.”

He takes a sharp inhale, taking in the information. The hands that were resting at his sides have now turned to fits. “After we take care of that problem in the back of my truck, we’re gonna find this bastard.” You could swear steam would be coming out of his ears by now.

He grabs his truck keys off the table and starts towards the door, growling something under his breath that you didn’t make out,

“I’m gonna find this bastard…”

TAGLIST: @random-thot-generator @littleobsessionsandlifeslessons @illyanam1011

#mw2 fanfic #mw2 #simon riley #simon riley x reader #call of duty #ghost mw2 #task force 141 #task force 141 x reader #simon riley smut #simon riley fluff #simon riley angst

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tmuse-ac · 7 months

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How do rose swap! Y/N and Moon meet? How did Y/N meet sun and Eclipse?

What does Y/N think of the Celestial trio?

OH! What a great question and I was in the middle of drawing something that relates to this question when I got this ask, so it's your lucky day! And lucky for me too: STORY TIME and INFO DUMP!

get your tea ready mates, LONG POST!

Out of the three, you meet Moon first when they get hired as a security guard to help Vanessa take care of the place. She immediately signs up Moon to patrol the daycare section, including the main entrance (even though that's technically not part of the daycare), the Daycare Theater, and under it. Vanessa very much finds you annoying because you would follow and talk to her any chance you got since you get bored of cleaning. Moon's take away from his meeting with you is that you remind him of his friends: excitable but sweet. Vanessa doesn't mind if they keep you company as long as Moon's makes sure that you don't bother her. Moon likes talking to you :)

Then time flies a tad and you're finally able to meet Sun! He is able to get a job as your assistant as you and Fazbear Entertainment have been getting many complaints about your uncleanliness as well as your creepy appearance and nature, staring into the abyss while thinking about your new favorite human.

You remember being told a lot of Moon's roommate. Mostly rants about how they never sleep properly because they've been trying to get college work done in and then staying up the rest of the night to clean every spot in their apartment. Moon told you that he hopes by Sun getting this job that they can work on getting a proper schedule.

You were very excited to him so when he arrives on his first day, bright and early at 6 am with Vanessa and Moon guiding him in, you are very quick to give a pleasant hello! Unbeknownst to you, Moon also talked to Sun and Eclipse about you too! Sun was very surprised to find that you are much taller than he thought, and he doesn't know what to think about how that makes him feel. He finds many things you both have in common... and some things that you don't. All around he finds you as a pleasant rock to talk to and be friends with much to your happiness for a new friend and another favorite human!

You're hugger, by the way. You have to make sure Vanessa doesn't catch you since you're technically not allowed to touch staff at all. You were so excited however that you completely forgot Vanessa was one of the people who escorted Sun to meet you and nabbed them up right away. Sun was very surprised but didn't mind too much.

Now onto Eclipse! You meet him much later than the other two as well as during a time when he didn't work for Fazbears. Even though you looked pristine, on the inside you were very messy and ragged. You tried the best you could, but often would forget. Sun and Moon noticed pretty quickly and when trying to bring you to Parts and Service to get fixed, you were quick to decline, run, or hide. They decided to see if you would be up to trust their friend Eclipse, who is a great mechanic and is very close in getting their degree in robotics. You were hesitant but agreed. You were glad you did, because you made another great friend, and they became another one of your favorite humans!

Eclipse definitely finds you interesting because of your AI and all about "human-ness" that Fazbears has been able to create. From a friend standpoint, however, they adore you and took to you much faster than the other two. He also absolutely loves that he can finally look up at someone when talking to them.

Here's something from some point in the nearer future when Fazbears grabs Eclipse up before their rival in the west could.

I hope you enjoyed this info dump because again, I love giving them :)

#roleswap!au #petrixmuse art #petrixmuse answers #sun fnaf #moon fnaf #eclipse fnaf #ruin eclipse #the daycare attendant #sun x reader #moon x reader #eclipse x reader #dca au #fnaf sb au #fnaf sb #fnaf security breach #fnaf ruin

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nabservice · 2 years

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! ما اومدیم

ناب سرویس مشاوره، طراحی و فروش کلیه تجهیزات تهویه مطبوع، با همکاری معتبرترین برندهای ایران و جهان با تضمین قیمت و کیفیت !

www.nab-service.com

#business #hvac nab service aircondition #heating #کولر گازی #فروشگاه اینترنتی #خرید حضوری #خرید اینترنتی #ناب سرویس #nab service

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rambunctioustoons · 3 months

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The celestial bot thrumming so intently, convinced anymore strain he'd pop a metal joint. Eyes fixated down to the shaking movements of his palms.

Today had been a terrible day, but nothing out of the ordinary. Fussy kids eating up the time needed for the other kids. Sun stretched out further than his fingertips could reach and wrangle the troublemakers out of harm's way in time. All it takes is one booming shrill of a voice advocating for chaos for all hell to break loose.

Every attempt to heed the storm and aid him met with a snappy strained pleasantry. He's got this, he's made for this! You've only got one fleshy squishy body, don't push it now. Some kid puts a little too much strain on his wrist joint, that's just show biz! And these crazy kids demand an encore!

Every attempt so far in the early evening air to talk to him met with a question about your well being. A comment about that funny thing you were both there to witness but not actually all that funny! How many minutes he had left before Moon would take the reins, and did you really really wanna spend the next half hour talking about how he feels? Silly, feeble, kind friend. He's just fine.

But he's not. Sure if there had been a way to see Moon flickering in those bright vacant eyes, you'd be giving each other the look.

No more chores left to do, none that he'd let you do anyway. Too high strung. Things snatched from your hands as he forcibly twists fate on the limits of his abilities. Trembling himself apart.

Little you could do to evade the inevitable parts & service visit if he kept pushing like this, so you've hatched a plan.

“Laundry-”

“Done and done! Done twice!”

“Folded sheets-”

“Pristine and crisply folded. Would you really need to check that?”

“Books-”

“All put away and alphabetical like they should be!”

You grin. “... Fairy lights?”

“Put away insideee theee closeet-....” Words dragged out in a dwindling song-songy tune, his faceplate whipping around to face you. “-why are you asking that? They're out of season, Friend.”

“I'll put ‘em to good use then!” You chirp, hands placed on your hips. “Closet?”

Sun squints skeptically. “Yes. Closet.” Eyes fixated on you, suspiciously. You ignore this, of course. Waltzing your way over to the Daycare storage closet. Gathering up the supplies in your arms. Awkwardly leaning down in the naptime nook as you pass by, nabbing a book at random. Using your foot to toss a few throw pillows atop of the pile.

Sun squints at you. “Whateeeever it is you think you're doing, just know, it won't. Work!”

“I’m taking a reading break, don't care what you do. ” You chime. An offended gasp piping up behind you. You duck into one of the corners on the ground level of the play structure. Tying the flat sheet to the gridded bars inside the small space. Weaving the corded battery powered lights inside, flicking them on. Flickering flimsy bulbs of light, shimmering a yellow hue on the play structure bars still visible. It wasn't perfect, but. Cozy enough to hopefully lure a creature right into the trap.

All you had to do was wait. Plopping yourself down in the makeshift blanket fort. Carefully cracking open the book, nesting the hardcover against your thighs. Not actually reading the words of course. Too focused on the shuffling outside the play place, jiggly footsteps alluding playing a game of who cracks first, and you intend to win.

Every fiber of your being trying not to beam with a grin, when Sun eventually ducks his head into the space, craned down to observe the hurried fruits of labour.

“There's still a lot to do, y’know.” He says. Tone wobbly, uncertain.

“I know,” You say, turning the page. “And there's even more to do tomorrow.”

“Sooooo,” He drags on, one hand gripping the caged siding. “We should keep going.”

“Sure.” You hum. “Five minutes.”

A disgruntled sound reverberates from your friend. Shoot. He's on to you. All or nothing now. You cheekily pat the remaining space on your legs. Worth a try, but not at all expecting him to take you up on it. A gesture of sincerity of course, glancing up at him. Pulling you into his lap aplenty times in moments of distress, or sorrow. Or to impishly move you aside because whatever you had been doing, was taking much too long.

Difficult as always to follow his eye line. Making a guess his gaze is fixated on your torso. Hands folding to his chest, restlessly squeezing his intertwined palms. Faceplate trained slightly down, you recognize this. A conversation you're not part of, and very little business pondering on. Turning back to the book, rolling your shoulders.

Sun, careful and hesitantly steps into the space with you. Kneeling down in front of you, paying him little mind. He's exhausted sure, but one wrong jeering word from your mouth and he'll scamper right back out away from you. Quiet whirring and rhythmic tapping atop of one bell. Words a blurry haze along the page to read at all, terribly distracted by the striped pants lingering above the peripheral. Sure if he made any sudden movements, you'd equally skitter out of the play structure too.

Sun reaches hesitantly for the book. Index and thumb pinching the pages on either side of the hardcover book. You let him, smiling up at him gently. He never really indulged in much book reading, much more of a collaborative storyteller. Eagerly adopting any silly, outlandish detail a guest would pipe up with during play time.

Pulled from your musing as he closes the book, setting it aside.

Careful movements as he closes the space between the two of you. Contorting himself down with much less graceful ease than you'd ever seen, and flops right in your lap. Faceplate pressed flat against your tummy, gangly arms quick to encircle your torso. Slumping his weight down as he lets out a shaky faux breath. Full heartedly admitting defeat, solidified as he speaks up.

“Today was bad.” Words lightly muffled, for effect of course. His speaker box didn't reside in the mouth rested against you.

“It was.” You affirm gently. Resting your arms along the backs of his shoulders, met with a small twitch underneath you. His arms squeezing you tighter after a good few moments.

“How much longer?” He inquires hesitantly, tilting his head up to see you.

“Lost count.” You tease softly.

His rays twirl once, in place of an eye roll. Plopping his face to rest back against you once more.

“Five more minutes then.”

“Five more it is.”

#sun x y/n #sun x reader #daycare attendant fnaf #daycare attendant sun #sun fnaf #moon like. briefly mentioned lmao #fluff #idk if its tooth rotting but it is to ME #writings #drabble

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glorified-red · 2 years

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Petnames (Damian Wayne x Reader)

summary: Damian calls you by your name while grocery shopping instead of the usual petnames, you're not a fan.

word count: 1,330

warnings: a vaguely suggestive sentence This is entirely based off of a TikTok I saw, I wish I could link it but I lost it. I really wanted to go more into Damian's Arab culture so this is the start :)

You rolled the cart forward, leaning your body weight onto the handle bar. Shelves stacked on top of shelves obscured your vision, aisles filled to the brim with expensive foods you didn’t even know existed.

Who cooks with saffron? Like seriously.

Damian insisted on going grocery shopping today and you didn’t hesitate to tag along, enjoying the peaceful company that his presence always brought. He was currently sifting through the tiny bottles of herbs in front of him.

Sesame seeds were gently placed in the cart alongside the lemons he picked out earlier, taking his time finding the perfect one for later tonight. Cumin found its way in the cart as well, set down right next to the yeast.

Damian’s cooking was one you had come to adore. He spared no expense when it came to providing you with a proper meal. He was fueled by his desire to provide, the act of service lover in him thrived on the sensation. So as he began to explore his culture’s cuisine, you were a constant support for him.

His new favorite pastime was experimenting with different flavored spreads, trying to perfect his own recipe so he could write it down in the household recipe journal right next to Alfred’s iconic banana bread and Tim’s new tofu recipe (created the second he learned Damian steered clear of animal products as much as possible, a vegetarian leaning slightly vegan if he could).

Damian had spent hours trying to learn how to craft dough from scratch, the fragile pita was a task he was willing to overcome with patience. Each time his hands would be covered in flour, the kitchen turned into a warzone of attempts. One batch was cooking, one was cooling, one was in his hands, and one was set aside to rise. You’d join him every time, sitting pretty on the counter while he worked, listening to the soft hum he let out as he concentrated.

Damian would kiss you in between, his cheeks dusted with flour that he barely noticed.

“You’re gonna get flour all over my clothes,” you’d whine in the kiss, complaints falling onto deaf ears as he kissed you deeply. His hands would settle onto the counter on either side of you, caging you in with his body.

“I’m sure you’ll manage just fine,” he’d smirk.

His sleeves would be rolled up after you insisted he wore an apron, he refused until you put it on him yourself. You’d tie the apron around his waist, the second you finished he’d pull you into a kiss in thanks. You’d blink and his hands would be under your thighs, lifting you onto the counter with the soft words of “I’ll need a taste tester.”

He’d hand you a small spoon every so often, watching your reaction with so much intensity it almost made you laugh with how serious he was about this. His eyebrows would furrow into the scowl as he waited for your feedback while you tasted the creamy hummus.

“It tastes amazing,” you’d gush, the flavors bursting to life on your tongue with how all the spices meshed together.

The satisfaction on his face was always worth it. It was small, but the pride blossoming inside of him was always so endearing to you. Your word of praise sunk straight into him until his heart felt lighter.

You’d flick flour at him as the night trailed onwards, smearing wet dough right on the tip of his nose so you could see him go cross-eyed.

“Oh you are going to regret that.”

“Am I?” you’d feign, holding back your own laughter.

By the end of the night, you’d be out of breath with giggles, socked feet sliding across kitchen tiles as he chased you. He’d always nab you, wrapping you so tightly against his body with no hope for escape. You’d fight until your clothes were covered in just as much flour as he was.

He’d smell of freshly cut herbs and the feeling of home. His tongue would taste of his marvelous cooking, an addicting essence you’d chase after well into the night while your dirty clothes lay discarded as an afterthought.

The clink of glass against the metal cart brought you straight back to the grocery store. You could feel the tingle on your lips from the memory. You coughed, looking up to find Damian deciding between two types of chickpeas. They slowly became a staple of the household, an easy protein substitute for Damian alongside tofu.

“Y/n, did you end up liking this one?” He turned to you, holding up the lightly colored kabuli package. The peas rattled against each other as the bag shifted.

You went to respond but your brain stuttered to a stop.

“What?”

Damian quirked up an eyebrow before repeating himself: “Did you enjoy the last hummus I made with these or did you prefer the other kind?”

“No, before that.”

Now Damian was really lost. “I said nothing before that, we haven’t spoken since I last asked you about the oils.”

You remembered, debating between the traditional olive oil or the more expensive avocado oil.

“You said my name.”

Damian nodded slowly, looking at you with a bewildered expression, one he used when he was trying not to call you a fucking twat.

“I did, yes.”

“Why did you call me that,” you almost pouted. “Are you mad at me?”

He scoffed, taken aback completely. “No,” the syllable raised with his surprise but he held it firm, reassuring you solidly. “It’s just your name.”

The chickpeas were long since forgotten, his hands falling beside his thighs as he leaned against the cart.

“What did I do?” you asked, your heart sinking.

Damian couldn’t tell if you were being serious or messing around with him. He spoke slowly, “Am I not allowed to say your name?”

You fully pouted, your words feeling embarrassing the more the conversation continued. “You just always use a nickname like beloved or love, you only ever call me by my name when you’re mad at me.”

The corner of his mouth twitched upwards, a playful feeling settling behind his eyes. He didn’t realize how much those names meant to you, he’d remember that next time.

“No I don’t,” he remarked, the playful retort falling from his lips easily.

“Yes you do!” you laughed, if you were closer you would’ve punched him in the shoulder (not like he would’ve moved or anything, but it got the message across all the same). “Cmon, Dames, what did I do?”

“You didn’t do anything,” Damian said. “I merely wanted to grab your attention so I could know which flavor to buy.”

“Then take it back,” you huffed, crossing your arms over your chest.

Damian looked at you with a bored expression. “Excuse me?”

“Take it back,” you demanded, standing firm in your words. “Call me something else.”

“Is that really necessary?”

You pleaded with your eyes, willing every ounce of puppy dog sadness into your gaze. Damian narrowed his eyes in return. You were playing a dirty trick, knowing his weakness and exploiting it. He stood unwavering for a single moment, staring straight into your eyes with his own.

But in the end, those eyes would always make him cave.

“Fine,” he sighed, rolling his eyes in feigned annoyance. “Beloved, darling, love of my life, habibti,” the arabic term of endearment rolled off his tongue with ease, it always made your chest flutter, “What flavor would you prefer?”

You smiled wide, a big toothy grin that made your eyes sparkle.

Damian tsked, “Are you satisfied now?”

“Yes,” you beamed, your hands falling from your chest and back onto the cart handle. “And the desi one, it’s creamier.”

Damian plopped the bag into the cart. “You are such a dork.”

You hummed, “You love me, don’t lie.”

“Do I, Y/n?” Damian smiled, turning away to exit the aisle.

“Aye!” You followed after him, hearing the soft chuckle from afar.

Taglist ♡

@anothertimdrakestan

@cherry-dropp

@missredrobin

#Damian Wayne x reader #Damian Wayne x you #Damian Wayne x y/n #Damian Wayne #robin #robin x reader #robin x you #robin x y/n #dc #dc comics #batfam #batfamily #batboys #fluff

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princeloww · 3 months

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The Real St. Judes: Gartloch Hospital - History (abridged)

The Scottish Lunacy Act of 1857 saw the creation of the Glasgow District Lunacy Board. The act, through these boards, aimed to establish and operate "district asylums", which would house patients unable to pay for the already existing "Royal Asylums".

In 1889, the Gartloch Estate was purchased by the City of Glasgow for approximately £8600 (~1 million today). The Glasgow District Lunacy Board were to turn it into an asylum for the mentally ill, and Gartloch Hospital would open in 1896.

In the early 1900s, a tuberculosis sanitorium was opened.

During World War II, Gartloch was temporarily transformed into an Emergency Medical Services Hospital; the psychiatric patients were transferred and housed in other hospitals. After the war, the tuberculosis sanitorium was shut.

Gartloch would fall into the hands of a different board (Board of Management for Glasgow North-Eastern Mental Hospitals), after joining the NHS in 1948.

Although there were 830 beds in 1904, by 1990 there were apparently only 530 - this being just under the amount available when it first opened.

In its last few years, Gartloch would fall under the Greater Glasgow Community and Mental Health Services NHS Trust. In 1996, the hospital officially closed, and was essentially abandoned, until 2003, when plans to turn Gartloch into a village began.

Now, there is a village, "Gartloch Village", surrounding the hospital. The main body, the iconic front we see in Donna Franceschild's TOTA, standing derelict and with boarded windows.

Oh, it's also apparently haunted, according to two nurses.

What was the hospital like?

I've nabbed these (like most of the other information - although I cross-referenced the rest (such as the years) from wikipedia and some other archives) from this article on hiddenglasgow.com.

I was born and lived at 2280 Gartloch Rd (East Cottages) of Gartloch Hospital. My Father, Bill Milne was the Bacteriologist at Gartloch Hospital Laboratory. My Mother was Helen and was the hospital hairdresser. My memories of Gartloch are the most wonderful memories ever. We had the most perfect childhood. The children of employees were involved in lots of differant ways. I remember especially the farm. Our house looked onto the busy fields and the Bishop Loch. We spent many happy summers pickinf tatties with the patients. And in the long cold winters, skating on the Bishop Loch. Christmad parties in the hospital involved all the staff, their children and patients. We got to know many of the patients who had been there most of their lives. Some had been admitted the the unit because of ''having a child out of wedlock'' I have so many stories to tell this page is not big enough! I would love to hear from anyone who remembers Gartloch or who lived/worked there.

Pattie Milne [04/02/2004]

I was talking with my gran t'other night about Gartloch (her maw died in there!) and she remembers these two women that used to walk about when she went visiting. One of them was about 4 foot nothing and the other about 6 foot. They walked up and down the hall, not saying a word to each other, but every now and then the taller one would repeatedly slap the little one on the head (that story seemed funnier when my gran told it!).

Crusty [30/01/2004]

There are a few more interesting stories on the linked article, so if you're interested, I recommend you check them out.

Finally: Takin' Over the Asylum (and other pop culture)

Takin' Over the Asylum aired on the 27th of September, 1994. The six-part drama was filmed in a disused wing of Gartloch, while the hospital was still open and functional. The hospital would close only 2 years after the airing of the show.

Gartloch's iconic, gothic towers would play a key role in the show, and be instantly recognisable to any viewer of TOTA.

Although it shut down in 1996, TOTA would not be the only media produced about the hospital. Wikipedia states that a film was produced in 2005, named (appropriately) "Gartloch Hospital", that covered the history of the hospital. This film went on to win an award in 2007, at the Scottish Mental Health Art and Film Festival, for "Best Factual Film".

Although hidden away, Gartloch hospital has an undeniably interesting history. Personal accounts from the hospital seem to paint it as a fun place, where patients and staff seemed to get along. Knowing the horrors of early mental health treatment, and the abuse many would suffer in these sort of places, we can only hope that these accounts are true and create an accurate image of life surrounding the hospital.

And I wrote all this because I really like David Tennant. Good night

Note the decorative peaks on the towers - they are absent from the rest of the photos. They were reportedly removed in the late 1930's.

SOURCES

Very interesting archive that goes into the history of Gartloch: (link) (source of above images)

Timeline and personal memories: (link)

Overview: Wikipedia (gartloch, Takin' Over the Asylum)

#watch this get 0 notes #david tennant #takin over the asylum #campbell bain #takin' over the asylum #taking over the asylum #donna franceschild #eddie mckenna #fergus mckinnon #fergus mackinnon #francine Boyle #rosalie garrity #history #gartloch hospital

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angelt0rres · 11 months

Text

time for me to answer the question thats been plagueing this fandom (me) for centuries (minutes)

How Often Did the M*A*S*H Crew Attend Mulcahy’s Services?

Colonel Blake

Henry would attend for holidays and whenever he felt he had a personal crisis. Lorraines affair, his second child, those were times where Henry would be on the front pew trying his best to focus on the sermon (and failing, groaning with his head in his hands and distracting the father terribly).

Colonel Potter

Colonel Potter is almost always there Sunday morning, 5 minutes before so he can nab his usual spot (even though everyone knows not to sit there). The only times he doesnt make it (besides emergencies of course) are those rare, beautiful mornings where his body practically pulls him up and onto Sophie for an early morning ride.

Major Freedman

Sidney tries to attend a service whenever he’s in town, mostly because he enjoys Francis’ unique perspective in his sermons, but he also has a self described intellectual fascination with all different religions. He has all different religious scriptures in his office in Tokyo, he brushes up as often as he can so he can better relate to his religious patients.

Majors Houlihan/ Burns

I put these two together because they only go together unless the other is sick or indisposed, in which case the former doesn’t go at all. They attend regularly unless they’re preoccupied… 😉

Major Winchester

Charles never cared for church, he almost never goes unless he’s truly bored out of his skull- or on holidays. When he lived with his parents in Boston he would make excuses to why he wasn’t able to attend, a habit he curiously continues with Pierce and Hunnicut even though they couldn’t care less. All about keeping up his image, I guess?

Trapper/Hawkeye/BJ

Another case of both parties going or neither going at all. Trapper and Hawkeye wouldn’t go unless they could tell Francis was low in spirits, both trying to lift him up by attending and singing the hymns as over-the-top as they could. Hawk and BJ keep that tradition alive, but BJ drags Hawkeye to a few additional services when he can, too.

Klinger

Klinger LOVES going to church even though he isn’t religious. He gets to show off his best outfits, sing his heart out, and (most of the time) spend quality time with Mulcahy, Potter, and Radar. He only doesn’t go when he’s too hungover or tired from excessive weekend debauchery but he keeps a lid on that since he loses most of his money gambling on Fridays.

Radar

Radar didn’t go to church as often when Henry was in command, though he still attended at least once a month as a promise to his mother. He goes more often now that Potter is around because of that paternal bonding he doesn’t even realize his subconscious is seeking. He also genuinely likes sticking around to ask Mulcahy questions about the bible. He loves some of the larger than life books of the old testament- people like Sampson and Androcles remind him of his favorite comic book heroes which Francis invokes to help him relate to the scripture.

#m*a*s*h #mash #mashposting #hawkeye pierce #charles emerson winchester iii #max klinger #trapper john #sidney freedman #charles winchester #colonel potter #sherman potter #radar o’reilly #margaret houlihan #frank burns #bj hunnicut

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metamatar · 10 months

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A Railway Protection Force (RPF) constable on escort duty fired 12 rounds from his automatic service rifle, first killing his senior and then three passengers on board the Jaipur-Mumbai Central Superfast Express early Monday, officials said.

While two of the dead passengers were identified as Asgar Abbas Ali (48) and Abdul Kadar Mohamed Hussain Bhanpurwala (64), the identity of the third passenger was being ascertained

A purported video of Chetan Singh speaking to passengers while standing over Asghar’s bloodied body was went viral on social media in which the RPF constable says:

“Pakistan se operate hue hain, tumhari media, yahi media coverage dikha rahi hai hai, pata chal raha hai unko, sab pata chal raha hai, inke aaqa hai wahan… Agar vote dena hai, agar Hindustan me rehna hai, toh mai kehta hoon, Modi aur Yogi, ye do hain, aur aapke Thackeray”

(‘They operate from Pakistan, this is what the media of the country is showing, they have found out, they know everything, their leaders are there… If you want to vote, if you want to live in India, then I say, Modi and Yogi, these are the two, and your Thackeray’)

#hindutva #new stage: get cops to start killing in major cities #india #cw: violence #people just existing in public like. christ

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holy-hysteria · 1 year

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“I’m Here for You, Doll.” || tlb David x Reader

A/N: Hey guys. Depending on how well this does and everyone’s opinion on it i’ll most likely make a part two. Also, if you like this feel free to make send me a request. I’ll right for pretty much any slasher. Enjoy!

————————————————————————

There it was again. That feeling. The feeling of someone watching you. Watching your every move.

The feeling had plagued you for the past couple weeks. Walking home and around town became an anxiety inducing task. The fear of someone lurking, ready to nab you at any moment lurking in the back of your mind. But the feeling wasn’t nearly as potent as it was when on the board walk. You had moved to Santa Carla about two months prior, ready to start your life. You found a job at the diner on the boardwalk that paid extremely well and cheap apartment that was fairly nice. You enjoyed life and has little cares— until a couple weeks ago.

They came in while you were working the evening shift, hooting and hollering as they sat in one of your booths.

“Evening, what can i get you guys?”

You had approached the table without really even giving the group a once over. Look up from your note pad you finally took the time to take the men in. Black leather. And a lot of it graced your vision. Three blondes and a brunette. Oh shit. This was the biker gang your coworkers had been telling you about.

Shaking yourself from your thoughts you direct your attention back to your job as you waited for their reply, but nothing came. Instead, they ignored you. Giving you a sideways glance before heading back to their conversation.

Huh. Okay then.

“I’ll give y’all a minute then,” you deadpanned as you turned around to head behind the counter. You had better things to do with your time then dote on a bunch of pricks. Grabbing a rag you began to wipe the counter off, filling up the time. You watched as you hand made circular motions against the linoleum top, occasionally scrubbing at a stain left by a mess child. Then you felt it. Turning to face the group of men again you met the owner of the piercing stare. He was blonde. And not a natural blonde either. Bleach blonde. Not only that he had a short mullet and wore what looked to be multiple heavy coats on top of each other, along with leather gloves. His state was ice cold, making you wonder if they had been trying to get your attention and were becoming impatient. The strange thing was, he was the only one staring.

Setting the rag down you made your way from behind the counter and back to their booth while shooting the blonde an apologetic smile, hoping you hadn’t made him wait too long.

“I’m sorry about that, are you guys ready to order?”

Even with your apology and your inquiry to their needs, his glare didn’t diminish.

“Nah babes, we’re good. Just gonna sit here for a while okay,” replied a different blonde that looked strangely like a copycat of Dee Snider.

“I’m so sorry but you can’t just sit here without ordering. So either get a water or something, otherwise you’ll have to leave,” you replied in your best customer service voice.

“Look we said we didn’t want anything to leave, k?”

What the fuck, is he deaf? You head been here since 5 this evening and it was now approaching midnight, closing time, and you’d be damned if some stuck up kids were gonna keep you from going home.

“I said get out if you’re not getting anything. You deaf or something?” All politeness was gone from your voice as you spoke. The group then turned to you with a look of shock on their face. But that expression didn’t last long as they began to laugh at you.

After giggling like a group of little girls for a good 3 minutes, they picked theirselves up and left, all while that blonde still stared at you.

That had been two weeks ago. And your intuition told you that group was the reason for the constant feeling of being watched. Maybe you should have just gotten your boss to kick them out instead. If you had done that, maybe you wouldn’t be looking over your shoulder every few seconds while your hands griped your keys right i between the spaces of your fingers.

• • •

Your eyes scanned your surroundings as you made your way for the door of the dinner. It was supposed to be your night off, but your coworker need someone to come in and cover the last few hours of their shift and you were the only willing to take it. You push the door as you walk in, watching as your feet carry you across the checkered floor into the back.

Clocking in and grabbing your apron, you swing the door open walking out into the dinning area. Grabbing your pen and paper, you begin to walk to behind the counter as you hear the chime of the front door.

“Evening! Have seat where you’d like and i’ll be with you in a min-“

Turing around, your greeting to the new customer is cut short. It’s him. The guy whose state has been haunting you for the past two weeks.

A smirk graced his features as he relished in the unease that was undoubtedly shown on your face. Without breaking his stare, he made his way to a corner booth in the back of the dinner.

Your mind was racing a mile a minute. Why was he back here? What does he want?

You swallowed your nerves and made your way to his booth.

“What can I get for you?”

“Water, unless you’re gonna kick me out again,” he smirked.

“Did you come here for a water or to be another rude customer?”

“Neither actually.”

What? Then why the fuck is he here?

Your brows furrowed in confusion as you contemplated his response.

“Then why are you here?”

“I’m here for you, doll.”

#tlb x reader #tlb david #tlb imagine #tlb fanfic #tlb x you #the lost boys #the lost boys 1987 #the lost boys david #the lost boys x reader

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