Iām finally doing this. Iām a 19 turning 20 year old digital artist. I do 2d art mostly but Iāve been trying to do a little bit of 3d.
Iāve been wanting to also do comms for a while now so that I can pay for my college expenses and all that. If yall want to commission me you can either dm me here or go to my vgen but that still isnt really finished.
Thats all for now folks!
Will be putting links later on.
Comms status: CLOSED
Vgen (just started so under construction): https://vgen.co/SorryImStupidRn
Synopsis: She never had an ordinary life. Her dreams aren't made of hopes and beginnings, but of endings. She witnesses the deaths of strangers, acquaintances, and loved onesāsome peaceful, others terrifying. And worse: a simple touch reveals how each person will meet their end. No matter how hard she tries, she has never been able to change what she sees. Until she meets Dean Winchester.
Warnings: death; suicide (not involving main characters); Death (the Horseman of the Apocalypse); plus-size!Reader; use of Y/N (I try to avoid it); platonic relationship with Sam Winchester; enemies-to-friends dynamic with Castiel; future romantic involvement with Dean Winchester; a touch of "weirdo!Reader" (itās just who I am); visions of death; plot twist (though maybe not much of one if you pay close attention); smut; strong language; more warnings to be added as the story progresses.
The Pitt x Reader x Batfam, Dr Robby x Wayne!Reader
This is my Masterlist for my crossover series between the Pitt and the Batfamily (and by extension a few other DC superheroes and villains) - it's a little bit of a slow burn romance
The reader is the sister of Bruce Wayne, she works in the ER, wading through the slough of patients. But maybe she finds a little bit of balance in the form of her attending. The catch is, no one at the Pitt knows who she really is or who she was? How long will that last?
Chapter 1: Day In , Day Out
Chapter 2: Just One of Those Days
Chapter 3: The Day It All Started (for him)
Chapter 4: The Day It All Started (for her)
Chapter 5: Days of the Past
Chapter 6: The Day That Just Won't End
Chapter 7: Just A Few Days
Chapter 8: When the Days Just Feels that Bit Heavier
Mini Chapter 8.5: Shark Has A Heart
Chapter 9: Going to Remember This Day ā„ļø
Chapter 10: Days of Newfound Bliss
Chapter 11: Crash My Day
Chapter 12: What A Day
Mini Chapter 12.5: The Daily Scoop from Supes
Chapter 13: A Day Without You Feels Like Forever
Chapter 14: Days Apart
Chapter 15: Take a Day Off, They Said, It'll Be Fun, They Said.
Chapter 40: Days Wrapped Up In Your Embrace... š
Below are a few chapters following their lives after Chapter 40, exploring little snippets of their family life! š (I just couldn't resist!)
Mini Chapter: Gentle Mornings
Mini Chapter: Bring Your Daughter(s) To Work Day
Baby Sitter Chronicles:
Mini Chapter: Cold Water Only ft. Jason Todd & Damian Wayne
Some Mini Chapters Still Incoming.
But Overall the Story is Complete!! š
THANK YOU TO EVERYONE FOR ENJOYING MY STORY!
Find my Main Masterlist Here
*Iāve left the readerās age as vague, but as she is Bruceās younger sister Iāve sort of written it in mind of being about early to mid 40s around about. While it is an x reader, using the last name Austen as a cover. (I promise there is a good reason for this) You can imagine her appearance however you wish, as an adopted or blood sister of Bruce. Iāve tried to keep any description as open for interpretation.Ā
*Iām not basing the batfam off of one strict thing (but am using a fair few images from WFA just cause I like the consistency and their visual portrayal) š¤·āāļø
(I've also posted this onto my ao3 under RedSakura101)
Likes, Comments and Reblogs are always welcomed and appreciated ā„ļø and thank you to those enjoying my little fic! I am lowkey freaking out at how many people are reading and liking this š„¹
Feel free to let me know if youād like to be tagged š
my little side blog for all things ryland grace and the other goslings!
main blog - ao3 - requests and suggestions always welcome!
š¶ļø = nsfw
RYLAND GRACE
grace have mate, question? (f!reader) 11.4k PART 1 - PART 2 - rocky and grace talk about the mates they left behind. grace finally gets around to making a video log for her
doctor's visit (gn!reader) 11k š¶ļø PART 1 - PART 2 - you find it harder and harder to ignore the cute scientist that always sits next to you during your meetings
boredom (gn!reader) 3.6k š¶ļø - (y/n) is bored and ryland is stressed. why not solve both problems at the same time?
field trip (gn!reader) 1.1k - ryland and (y/n) take their pebble class on a field trip
tight squeeze (m!reader) 2.7k š¶ļø - your intimate relationship with ryland takes a new step
rude awakening (gn!reader) 2.5k - your first time meeting rocky doesn't go well but ryland is oh so happy to have someone to hug
nook rivalry (gn!reader) 3.6k - when your little piece of heaven in the library is threatened, you take it personally aka your relationship with ryland has a rocky start
drabbles/imagines/headcanons
uncle grace
showering with rylandš¶ļø
ryland's hair headcanons
squirting on ryland's faceš¶ļø
dad ryland/best husband - part 2 - part 3
clicker trainingš¶ļø
ryland ball printš¶ļø
HOLLAND MARCH
don't be mad (f!reader) 3.1kš¶ļø - holland misses out on family date night and you're not pleased. he uses his hands to try and make it up to you
drabbles/imagines/headcanons
sfw/nsfw general holland march headcanons š¶ļø
neighbor!holland - part 2 - part 3 - part 4
neighbor!holland and a poolš¶ļø
holland and lingerieš¶ļø
sub-top holland š¶ļø
holland in the bath
holland in the bath nsfw versionš¶ļø
when holland is horny and you're notš¶ļø
sharing a cigarette
COLT SEAVERS
lights, camera, action! (f!reader) 5.8kš¶ļø - tom ryder backs out of acting in a sex scene at the last minute. colt, tom's stuntman, graciously takes his place as a body double. the line between faked pleasure and real intimacy get a little blurry in the heat of the moment
drabbles/imagines/headcanons
colt being tom's stand-in for a sex sceneš¶ļø
bending you over the hood of a truckš¶ļø
LARS LINDSTROM
sunday blues (f!reader) 5.9k - lars meets a new face at church and becomes attached to her and her unborn son
drabbles/imagines/headcanons
morning lars š¶ļø
DRIVER
full fic coming soon!
drabbles/imagines/headcanons
69ing with driverš¶ļø
GROCKDRIAN
late to the party (afab!reader) 3.1kš¶ļø - ryland comes home after teaching to find that his mates decided to have some fun without him
drabbles/imagines/headcanons
mating giftsš¶ļø
you get some eggsš¶ļø
twitching in your sleep
ERIDIAN!READER AU
meeting grace - getting used to grace
soft things lover reader who is becomes obsessed with grace's squishinessš¶ļø
dom or sub?š¶ļø
pre-grace hc's - courting r & a
grace is a reader hog - grace's favorite?
you are the only one that can comfortably sit on grace (r & a are jealous)
top/dom!reader - adrian instructing you with brat!rockyš¶ļø
grace learning about your bullies
reader in heat - sex pollen š¶ļø
laying eggs
you get praise after a hard day š¶ļø
soulmate au
textile lover reader
realizing your mates will die before you
pairing:Ā sam winchester x reader, dean winchester x reader
word count: tbc
rating: explicit
summary:Ā itās 1997. youāre sixteen and summer is in session. oh, and you are deeply in love with dean winchester. the only issue is, dean doesn't love you back. so what are you supposed to do when you're stuck with the winchesters for the entire summer? well, his brother of course.
tags/ warnings: set in late 90s, pre-canon, ages have been shifted a little, smut, loss of virginity, p in v sex, oral sex, underage drinking, unrequited feelings, everythings just a little chaotic,
notes:Ā dont know how many parts this is going to be based on the song crush by ethel cain
Keepsake
previous - masterlist
Ghoap/female reader - omegaverse au
Youāve found some footing outside your room.
In the last week, youāve managed to carve out some sort of existence in the house. There are bookshelves in what you assume is an office, and youāve found titles there that help occupy your time. Sometimes you even sit on the couch in the living room, eager to escape the same four familiar walls of the bedroom. You come out for meals too, since no one has brought food to your door again, breathing through your mouth as you try to block out their scents.
It doesnāt work.
TheyāreĀ everywhere.
Their scents, their bodies, even their clothes. You find shirts shoved in couch cushions, jumpers hanging over the back of kitchen chairs or the stair railings. Theyāre in the living room in the evenings, in the kitchen in the morning, at the table for dinner. One of them is always at breakfast, talking to you even if you donāt respond, keeping you apprised of the day.
āJohnnyās out until the afternoon, chasinā down a lead. Iāll be here if you need something.ā
āGonna go out for groceries. Dāye need anything?ā
āSimonās on a perimeter walk. Dinnae want to scare ye, but we thought we heard something in the woods last night.ā
ItĀ doesĀ scare you though. The looming threat, the fact that someone wants to kill you, is always in the back of your minding, haunting you like a bad dream. Youāre afraid to step foot outside the front door, and whenever you hear them talking in low voices that abruptly stop once you enter the room, you fear the worst. They swear, again and again, that youāre safe, but the worry never goes away, it just lurks in the back of your mind, reminding youĀ whyĀ youāre here, why youāre trapped in this house with your mates, a logical, sensible thing turned insane as you balance rational thought with instinct.Ā Your safety is an ever changing thing, crossing lines in your head, trying to do backflips to figure out who you need protecting from.
The outside threat, or them.
Your pills arenāt working.
Itās the fourth morning in a row where youāve swallowed your usual dosage, one suppressant, one blocker, one painkillerā¦ and feltĀ nothing.
No relief. No numbness.
Nothing, except for the pounding behind your eyes, the nausea crawling up the back of your throat, the never ending muscle cramps.
Itās taking a toll.
āDove?ā Johnnyās voice cuts through the static between your ears, the impossible tug of war youāre playing with yourself.Ā They should be working. Is it because youāre too close to your alphas? Are they being overpowered? Is your body working against them, making you sicker?
Simon says your name, but you ignore him.
Is it even possible? Could their proximity override the effects of your medication? Did the doctor ever say anything about that?
A hand touches your face. It snaps you back to reality and you jerk away, shocked.
Your reaction doesnāt deter Johnny though, whose fingers are brushing across your brow.
āYeāre warm, sweetheart. Ye feelinā alright?ā You nod, but donāt say anything, tongue heavy like wet cement in your mouth. Johnny looks down at your breakfast plate and frowns. āYe barely ate.ā
āNot hungry.ā You croak. You lean away from him. Heās too close, and the urge to crawl into his arms and press your nose to his neck is overwhelming. You think it could help you,Ā heĀ could help you, be a balm, soothe your pain, take it away and-
Stop.
You shoot to your feet. The movement is too swift, too sudden and you sway, your lack of balance automatically moving Johnny forward, his hands on your arms, holding you steady. āWhoa, easy. Ye alright? Do ye need to lay down?ā
āI donāt know.ā You look away, trying to hide from their gazes, Johnnyās bright and concerned, Simonās dark and focused. Two walls closing in on you, squeezing you from both sides.
āMaybe ye should go back to bed, try to get some sleep. Or do ye want to lay on the couch?ā You shake your head.
āNo, noā¦ Iāll go back to bed. Iām probably just tired.ā An obvious lie, but you canāt admit to them how badly youāre hurting. Your pride wonāt allow it.
āAlrightā¦ā Johnny says as his hand slowly moves from just above your elbow to your back. āLetās go get ye comfortable.ā You stiffen, try to pull away but his touch stays firm, grounded at the base of your spine like an anchor, steering you towards the stairs.
You look over your shoulder before taking the first one. Youāre not sure why, something pulls you, some sort of gravity, your eyes finding Johnnyās, and then Simonās behind him. A foul yearning ricochets through your soul, your body, a desire unlike anything youāve ever felt spreading through your blood.
An infection.
They made you sick.
Theyāre making you sick, still. Somehow.
Buried deep, the want burns, begs you to lean in, to give up, to give yourself over. To fall into their mercy and their attempts to soothe you, to let them have you. It takes considerable effort to fight it. To gnash your teeth together and refuse to let it out.
You hold your breath all the way up the stairs, letting the fire grow in your lungs until you reach your bedroom, head swimming as you collapse into the mattress. You should tell him to leave, but you canāt. The effort would be too much.
āJusā rest.ā Johnny murmurs, back of his hand pressing to your forehead again as he brings your blankets up to your chin. āIāll check on ye in a bit.ā You scowl.
āIām fine. Just tired.ā You bite out before rolling onto your side, staring straight ahead at the wall. He sighs as he stands, shakes his head.
āIf ye say so.ā
Youāre full of restless energy when you wake up.
Itās after sunset, the only light in your room coming from the small lamp thatās on your bedside table, hazy yellow light spilling out from behind the shade.
You feel a bit better, more clear headed, but thereās thisā¦ unsteadiness under your skin, something volatile and turbulent trying to get out. Your chest feels too tight, your hands are trembling.
Anxiety, you think. Has to be. Youāre not immune to it, have plenty of experience with stomach twisting worry, though itās never felt like this. Itās a new manifestation, a new way of your body worrying, fixating.
The blankets youāre hidden under are too heavy now, constricting, and you sit up, glancing around, looking for something that may have triggered your discomfort.
Thereās nothing, except for the empty bedroom.
The bedroom thatās too large, too open.
Itās problem needing to be fixed, and you know what to do.
You pull the mountain of pillows apart, stacking them in misshapen rows around the edge of the bed, effectively creating a wall between you and the door. All the blankets come next, the extra ones, the weighted one, folded and then unfolded, arranged so each hem is ready to be pulled up over your face at any time to hide you from the world. You reorganize too many times, unable to stop yourself from pulling them around the center of the bed, bundling them up into cozy little groups, ready to be laid in, or on, however you want. You rifle through your duffel, looking for more clothes, comfy pants and shirts, their cotton lengths or fleece insides bringing you a tiny bit of peace as you shove them between edges. The bed is smaller now, and youāre enclosed like a castle sitting inside formidable walls. Tucked away. Safe.
But it still doesnāt feel right.
That feeling in your body, the one stretching and straining in your bones, twisting you from the inside out, hasnāt gone away.
You eye the lamp.
Itās too high, you decide. Too tall. It needs to be on the ground, and you place on the carpet at the corner of your bed, just next to the table so the warm yellow glow is somewhat muted.
Better, but still not right.
Maybe itās the scent. Everything smells like clean laundry, all the blankets and pillows bearing the same lavender, freshly washed smell, the one that you get from the expensive detergent.
Nothing smells like you except for your clothes.
You grab at a blanket and work the edge of it over your wrists, your neck, your face, doing the same over and over with the others. You rub your face on all the pillows, breathing them in as deep as you can, trying to figure out if the contact is making a difference, or if itās a fruitless endeavor.
It should work.
It should.
You look around. Up. Down. Eyes dragging from each corner to the next, looking for an offender. A reason.
The closet catches your eye.
Maybe itās too big,Ā you wonder.Ā Maybe the room is too large, too much. Overwhelming.
You crawl off the mattress on hands and knees, shaking hands reaching for the closet door.
Itās dark in here. Nearly empty, but you can fix that. Easily.
You drag everything youāve assembled on the bed to the floor, pulling it inside the closet piece by piece, lining the walls with pillows, arranging the blankets so theyāre perfect for burrowing, snuggling.
Still not completely right, but better. Something is still off, but this is safer, darker. Everything you need.
Youāre not sure how long youāve been buried in the mountain of your own creation when the bedroom door opens.
Could be hours. Could be minutes. Time is a little blurry.
Everything is a little blurry, if youāre honest.
The pounding in your head has returned, a small headache that grew between your temples until it was beating like a drum, forcing your eyes closed, pushing you deeper into your pile of softness. It soothes you somehow, makes things feel not as terrible.
You stay there, curled up, when the door creaks. When thereās a silent pause, and then footsteps, and you donāt move when the closet is opened, the small amount of light at the back of the alpha causing you to wince.
Simon.
Sea salt and leather floods the space, and you realize with dread itās a part of what youāve been missing, that itchy, anxious feeling under your skin partially calming as steps closer.
His knees crack as he crouches, lowers himself in front of you, without a word. The silence settles like a tightrope, too dangerous for you to walk, to speak. You watch him inspect you, the closet, the blankets and pillows, watch the calculation unfold in real time.
āThis is nice,ā he murmurs, running a hand over some of the blankets, ābit small for your nest though.ā The horror is immediate.Ā Is that what this is? Is that what youāve done?Ā It has all the markings of nesting, all the telltale signs, but for some reason, you can't see it. You've nested before, but it's never felt likeĀ this.Ā
No. Youāre not nesting. You just needed to get comfortable. The room was too big, too open toĀ them.
āItās not a nest.ā You growl, instinctively pulling a blanket up to your neck. āI was justā¦ I needed to get out of bed.ā He cocks his head.
āItās not? Sure looks like one to me.ā Dismay burns in your blood, and your scent turns sour. Distressed. āItās okay,ā he soothes immediately, āyou did good, dove. Itās a good nest.ā Heās speaking to your biology, your hindbrain, and your omegaĀ preens, the instinct inside of you lighting up at the praise. Itās like a knife in your heart, this betrayal of your sense, and the horror only grows as you start to purr, the light vibration coming from beneath your ribs earning you a small smile from your alpha.
Stop.
Stopstopstopstop please stop-
The purring gets louder. Your stomach tosses, bile burning in the back of your throat, but you canāt stop it. Youāre paralyzed, immobile, two factions fighting for control, and you canāt do anything but lay there as his hand comes to rest on your ankle, thumb pressing in, down, working against you in a slow circle. āSuch a good omega.ā
ThatĀ snaps you out of it.
The praising of your designation is always something that has disgusted you. Itās dehumanizing, reduces you to a role, a biological factor and nothing more. An omega is the same as any omega, when it comes down to it. All driven by need, by instinct, preening and purring and desperate for knots and bites. Animals down to their bones.Ā
You won't let that become who you are. You can't.Ā
You kick his hand away and scoot back, deeper into the corner. The purring and pride has vanished, and in its place is a black rooted, snarled mess of fear and anger and pain. Thereās a moment where you think heās going to tighten his grip and hold on, but it doesnāt last. He stands instead, looks down as he towers over you.
āDinnerās ready.ā You shake your head.
āIām not hungry.ā Itās not true. You woke up with an appetite, and even with thisĀ situation, this confusion, the anxiety, the pain, everything, itās still there.
āYou need to eat.ā Youāre about to refuse again, but his eyes narrow. āDo you need me to bring you downstairs myself?ā He will, you know it. You donāt doubt he will drag you out of this closet and down the stairs.
āN-no.ā You hate the stammer, the proof in it. How it exposes you, shows how scared you are, how unsure. How this entire situation has changed you, took your life and dumped it upside down.
āCāmon then.ā He extends his hand, and the part of you thatās growing out of control tries to take it. Your arm twitches, moves like itās being played by a puppeteer. Itās only once your fingertips almost brush his that you yank back with a scowl. He chuckles. āSuit yourself.ā Heās not leaving, not until youāre out of the closet, and you know that. He could force you, bark at you, drag you out. Heās got you pinned to the ropes, no choice but to do as he says, so you reluctantly crawl forward on your hands and knees, unsteady as you start to stand from being curled up all day.
You give the closet one last look before you close the bedroom door, its dark mouth beckoning you, waiting patiently.
It knows youāll come crawling back before the night is over.
summary ĖĖš¢Ö“ą»Ö“ sam keeps dreaming about a stranger he canāt name, canāt find, and canāt stop drawing
pairing ĖĖš¢Ö“ą»Ö“ sam winchester x reader ( gn )
wordcount ĖĖš¢Ö“ą»Ö“ 695 genre ĖĖš¢Ö“ą»Ö“ angsty
warnings ĖĖš¢Ö“ą»Ö“ psychic premonitions, nightmares, implied danger, sleep deprivation, distress, obsessive sketching
notes ĖĖš¢Ö“ą» Ö“āą» consider supporting my work .į gif cr. to @/headtraumasam
the first time sam dreams about you, he thinks itās nothing.
a strange face caught in the clutter of sleep, no different from the hundreds of people he passes in diners and gas stations and motel lobbies without really seeing them. the dreamās blurred at the edges, softened by rain and smoke and whatever his mind decides to use to keep him from understanding it. he sees your profile beneath a flickering streetlight. the turn of your head. your hand reaching for something he canāt see.
then you look directly at him.
sam wakes with your eyes burned into his memory and his heart hammering so hard it hurts.
he lies there for a while in the dark motel room, staring at the water stain on the ceiling while dean snores faintly from the other bed. the clock reads 3:17 a.m. thereās no reason to make anything of it. heās tired. everythingās been strange since jess. his mind doesnāt know how to rest properly anymore.
still, he reaches for the notebook on the nightstand.
he draws you before the details disappear.
his first attempt is rough. a curve of your jaw, the shape of your mouth, the faint line between your brows as you glance over your shoulder at something behind you. he presses the pencil too hard and tears the paper near your cheek. when he finally puts the notebook down, his hands are trembling.
the second dream comes three nights later.
this time, youāre running. sam canāt see where you are or whatās chasing you. he hears your shoes hitting wet pavement, your breath catching in your throat, the sharp scrape of your palm against a brick wall when you stumble. neon light flashes across your face in brief, ugly colors. red. blue. red again. thereās a sign somewhere above you, but every time sam tries to read it, the letters smear together and vanish.
you turn a corner. something reaches for you. he wakes before it touches you.
āsammy?ā deanās voice drags him back into the motel room. samās sitting upright, sheets tangled around his legs, lungs pulling in air too quickly. deanās already switched on the bedside lamp, eyes narrowed with sleep and concern. ānightmare?ā
sam rubs a hand over his face. āyeah.ā
ājess?ā the question lands gently.
sam looks toward the notebook on the table, where your faceās already waiting beneath the elastic band. āno, uhā¦ just random.ā he doesnāt explain.
after that, the dreams come almost every night. never enough. always too much. he sees fragments of you in places he canāt identify: your reflection in a dirty bathroom mirror, your fingers closing around a set of keys, your mouth parting around a word the dream refuses to let him hear. sometimes youāre afraid. sometimes youāre angry. once, impossibly, youāre laughing at something outside the frame of the vision, your whole face softening with it, and sam wakes with grief sitting strangely beneath his ribs because he has no idea who you are and already knows he doesnāt want anything to take that sound from you.
he fills page after pageāyour eyes. your hands. the coat you wear in one dream, the necklace or chain or thin flash of metal at your throat in another. he draws the streetlight. the blurred sign. the pattern on the wallpaper behind you when youāre standing in a room that feels wrong before anything even happens.
dean catches him one morning at a diner, pencil moving over the corner of a paper placemat while his coffee goes cold. āwhoās that?ā
your face looks back at sam from the table, unfinished but familiar enough to make his stomach turn. āi donāt know,ā he admits.
deanās joking expression fades. sam stares down at the sketch, at the dark shadow heās drawn behind you without meaning to, and something cold settles through him. he doesnāt know your name. he doesnāt know your town. he doesnāt know whether he has days or weeks or hours before the thing hunting you finally catches up. all he knows is that somewhere, youāre still in trouble.
and every time sam closes his eyes, you get a little closer to disappearing.
ź. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.
You were in the middle of clicking through channels on the TV when your phone rang with a call from your best friendās mom. A heating pad clutched to aching stomach, tears pricking your eyes as you forced yourself to pick up through the excruciating pain (you had stable periods for a year so you didnāt know why this one was so bad).
āHello?ā You greeted, trying to even out your voiceālast thing you needed was your friendās mom fretting over you like a sick kid.
But when her voice cut through the other end, it was already shrill with panic, āyou need to get over to her house now,ā she criedāpractically screaming, āthey took herāohāthey took my baby!ā You sat up straight and scrambled up. You knew exactly who she was talking about: your best friend, her youngest daughterāher baby, the woman who gave a speech at your wedding, the woman who told you through tears that no matter what you were the most important person in her life.
āTook her where? Whoā? Whatās happening?ā You rushed out, tugging on some slippers and grabbing your keys. āIām on my way to her placeājust take a breath and tell me.ā
Through sickeningly deep sobs, she managed to heave out that her daughter had been taken by men in mask and military gear without warningāand the only reason she knew was from her doorbell camera footage.
You told her to call police while you hung up and called the one man you knew who could help: your husband, Simon.
He usually answered on the first ring, but call after call there was nothing. It still rang fully, so his phone was onāwhy wasnāt he picking up. You called again as you parked your car outside your friendās place, her mom crying in the driveway as policemen took her statement and sealed the scene.
āSimonāitās an emergency, please,ā you whispered desperately as your phone pick up your message, swallowing thickly before hanging up and putting it away.
Her mom latched onto you in seconds, leaning on the girl she once kicked out of her house for eating all the cookies for the year one field trip the night before.
āDid you show the police the footage?ā You asked her, pulling her over to sit in the driverās seat of your car, hoping to rest the bones she constantly complained about aching.
āYesādid I show you?ā She asked, scrambling for her phoneādesperate for something to do other than sit and wallow in the fact her daughter had just been kidnapped.
A video filled her screen, grainy and desaturated, but sure enough it depicted men in military outfits storming up her driveway from an unmarked black car, forcing their way in, and taking her by her armsā¦but she wasnāt fighting.
Not in the fawn or freeze response way, no, her eyes were rested, a slight smile on her face, as if this was a normal interaction. She wasnāt yelling or screaming or crying, it almost looked surreal considering she was kidnapped.
A grunted mess of words weaved it way out of the receiver and you paused.
You turned up the volume to the max, replaying the last ten seconds.
āGet āer out of here,ā a voice that was so unmistakably your husbandās that it made your heart drop to the concrete under foot said. You excused uourself shakily, rounding the car with your phone in hand and called your husbandās workāa local renovation business.
You were going crazy, you had to be. The audio was shaky, at best, and the accent just so happened to match. Did that mean it was your husband? No, not at all, you were acting crazy.
But just as you were about to hang up the unconnected call, a click sounded and you were patched through.
āR&A Construction, how can I help you?ā A woman asked.
āHi, my husband works with you all and heās not picking up his phone. Itās an emergencyācan you get him? His name is Simon Riley.ā
āSimon Rileyā¦? Um, sorry maāam but we do not have anyone here that matches that nameāno one with that name has ever worked here, in fact, itās family run soā¦,ā the woman trailed off slowly.
The call disconnected after your minutes of silence as you stood there, phone in hand, eyes fixed on the pavement. The man who had pushed his mate away from you in that bar, who had taken your heart the first time you saw him, who promised to marry you after you had whispered that you loved him for the first time, who wiped your tears as you both kissed on the alter the day of, and who held you so gently despite your fears in the coming nightsā¦that man had lied to you since the moment you met.
You mindlessly tapped on his contact one more time. No answer: expected.
An automated voice asked for your message, and you left it clearly: āSimon Riley, you better get down here and explain what the hell is going on or donāt come homeā.
ā” Weaponised (longfic, super soldier!reader, angst no comfort, hurt) ĖŹā”ÉĖ
ā” āSweet As Sugarā Civilian,Baker!Reader x Lt Simon (series, fluff,romance, completed) ĖŹā”ÉĖ
ā”A Rookie and Her Lieutenant (multiple parts, series of oneshots, roommate!au)
TASK FORCE 141
ā” Nocturnal Activities (owl!hybrid reader)
ā” Failure (puppyhybrid!reader, hurt/comfort, fluff, some tf141)
ā” Playing with his mask (cathybrid!reader, crack,fluff,some tf141)
ā” Movie night(request, comfort for a previously suicidal reader)
ā” Overstimulated (fluff)
ā” Social Anxiety (fluff/comfort)
ā” Weapons Designer (req,platonic,fluff)
ā” Someone to rely on weapons Designer x Gaz:
ā” Neglected (weapons designer)
ā” forgetting if youāre a cat or human (shifter!reader)
ā” Accidentally crushing him (shifter!reader x Soap)
ā”Caught in their beds (seperate drabbles for each, slightly suggestive)
ā” Paintings under your bed (artist!reader)
ā” Tightness in your chest (ghost) pt2 (gaz version)
ā” Afraid to make yourself known (Price) ĖŹā”ÉĖ
ā” His first sergeant(Price, platonic or romantic)
ā” Sick days (continuation of above, Kyle Gaz x Reader)
ā” Neglected Beta (all alpha141, angst, happy ending, toxic 141(simon is the nice one here)
SIMON GHOST RILEY:
ā A Light that Never goes Out (angst,hurt/comfort, anxiety, attachment disorder)
ā Ticking Time Bomb (angst,hurt/comfort, dissociation) ĖŹā”ÉĖ
āWasps, Hornets and cuddlingā wait what(paranoia, hurt/comfort, fluff) ĖŹā”ÉĖ
āIn the Water (request, thalassophobiaāfear of the ocean), comfort, fluff)
