#All I need is someone to help me. Not with writing or anything. Just someone to talk to about my ideas and what I'm doing and what I'm

[suguann]

an. a little 'and-they-were-roommates' drabble series to get me back into writing because it's been an age. | masterlist | part two

It starts as a situation built off convenience: he needed someone to take care of his place while he was gone, and you needed a place to stay. 

Simon never thought he’d get anything out of it other than coming home to a house that feels lived-in and the entryway clear of envelopes from months of neglecting his mail—another voice throughout the day besides the intrusive ones in his head that spun like a carousel with the word work etched on top. 

It’s not until you show up on his doorstep, three boxes and a measly duffel bag crowding your arms, that he thinks he really should’ve thought this through better. He’ll only realize this after the fact—weeks late, sleepless nights filled with images of daisy-shaped buttons down the front of a summer dress and a smile that nearly knocks him flat off his feet.

As it is, he’ll blame it on the handful of sleepless hours from tiny airplane seats and energy drinks sleuthing through his system that clouded his judgment, then admit it’s nice coming home to a woman who looks pretty reading a book on his living room couch.

Only his soap-slick fist in his bathroom late at night will know the honest-to-God truth. That is if there was ever a god he believed in. 

He never claimed to be a good man. 

(Can anyone claim to be good in his line of work?)

Just an honest one.

So it goes something like this: he tries not to come off as an obsessed, lonely fuck (the jury is out on either) by just existing in the same space as you whenever the opportunity arises—reading the paper while you make breakfast on the stove he hasn’t touched in too long to remember when, flipping through a book Simon didn’t even know he owned while you water plants you picked up on your way from work, watching whatever you have on the telly before you both go to bed—then he’s on a plane, being shipped out to who knows where with a gun holstered to his hip.

Rinse and repeat. 

The fourth time he comes home after an assignment keeps him away longer than expected, he finds you in the kitchen, covered in flour, a cute, frilly apron tied around your waist that he’s never seen you wear before. A smile curls the edges of your mouth as you look over at him, everything in your face soft and attentive—a vision suddenly takes shape.

You with a ring on your finger, Simon calling you his little wife, getting to hold your hand whenever he feels like it, and not because yours accidentally brushed up against his. His hand fisting in your hair, bending you over the counter, your cheek covered in powdery confectionery, fingers rucking up your skirt and apron because he can.

He blinks once, twice, and the little fantasy falls apart. 

Except you’re still in his kitchen, smiling prettily and happy to see him of all things. Imagine that.

Your lashes flutter, making crescent shadows across your cheeks. “How was your trip?” you ask. “You look more tired than you usually do.”

A shrug, a dismissal. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? I have some tea that might help.”

“Tea.” He repeats to fill the quiet if only to stand there a little longer, his bag still slung over his shoulder and his clothes smelling like recycled air. 

“Yeah, I got it from a friend a few weeks ago when I caught this cold that was going around the office.” Sometimes, you ramble, and he can do nothing more than let you get it out of your system—not that he minds. “I swear it’s nothing janky or anything. Just try it; it might help.”

You’re so damn earnest about it that he can’t bring himself to say no.

“Sure,” he says and watches a wide, satisfied smile stretch across your face.

It’d be easier if you weren’t so sweet and gave a sincere fuck about the comings and goings of his life. If the smell of your perfume wasn’t following Simon everywhere—sugary vanilla faintly clinging to his balaclava even after he’s washed it—as a reminder of what’s just out of his reach.

(A mindfuck is what it is.)

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

This is the freebie of all freebies. Write whatever you want whenever you want how often you want. Save this in your inbox or post it, I do not mind either way. I always love to see what you write, doesnt really matter what :)

You look the man in front of you up and down and don't bother to keep your lip from curling, "No."

"Come on baby," he purred, stepping closer, reaching out to straighten your jacket, forcing contact. He screams of lust. Of the need to dominate and control. He sees what a lot of men see when they look at you.

A fragile little doll. A breakable little girl. A lost little lamb. Someone who just needs a daddy. A protector. Easy prey.

"Touch me," you warn, "and you'll forget to sit before you take a shit." You don't bother to specify whether or not it'll be because you'll mindfuck him until he bashes his head against a wall to make it stop or because Batman, Nightwing, or any number of the other heroes in the vicinity right now will curb stomp him until he's a blithering idiot.

His eyes are lifeless. Like a puppet's. And when his hand closes around your wrist his skin is hot and dry. It feels like crepe paper left in the sun and he reeks of burnt sugar. Target. Suspect.

So before you carry out your promise, you ping Cass. Trusting her to alert Bruce. You might not QUITE be able to mindfuck him into oblivion but NO ONE was ever going to prey on you again. And as he pull you close to his chest, it was immensely satisfying to make him piss his pants in the alley, writhing in wordless unhinged terror as you skipped your new black velvet boots neatly out of the puddle.

"Hn."

"Interesting way to make new friends, Changeling," Clark observed, surveying the scene. Trying not to react to the fact that you look a little too pleased with yourself.

"I did tell him not to touch me," you inform them, watching dispassionately as his sobs turned to vomiting.

"Can you let up before he aspirates things into his lungs," Bruce sighed. At least it was focused rage. And at least he'd probably cooperate as long as they didn't leave him alone in a room with you. That was... something.

And while you don't reply, at least not verbally, he can tell that you comply. Mostly because the man stops writhing and starts gibbering. "Shut up," Batman said rolling his eyes, watching Clark grab him by the back of his coat. "Just tell us what we wanna know or we'll let her do it again. Harder."

"Okay, Okay, Jesus," he protested, "I didn't know I thought she was kidding!" He looked at you and your lip curled reflexively making him flinch. "Everyone always said you were just a joke."

"Let's go," Superman said, "This drug is gonna kill-"

"Anything you wanna know! Just don't let her do it, please!" he pleaded, letting himself be lead away.

"What did you say to him?" Bruce asked, watching Clark load him into a transport where Jason and Dick were loading some others that had been rounded up.

"That if he touched me he'd forget to sit when he took a shit. Granted, I didn't say how."

"Vulgar."

"What was I supposed to do? Scream?"

"Just don't make anyone else piss themselves," Bruce sighed.

"Then don't let Stephanie pick the outfits. She dressed us like sexworkers not nuns and people keep taking liberties. It's gross."

"Point." Bruce admitted. "Point taken." He pinched the bridge of his nose and not for the first time, he just wanted all of you to be little again. You were 19 now. Still a kid. But he wondered if he'd ever stop seeing you as a little girl in his head. Because as Cass took you to the next location and he went to help Stephanie, it took an absurd amount of self-control not to call after you to put on a jacket or something.

[digital-domain]

Purpose

Alastor x Reader // word count 3.4k

You can have you soul back, if you wish. But really…why would you even want something like that?

Tags/warnings: yandere, manipulation, power imbalance, angsty as hell, Alastor owns reader’s soul, reference to Alastor destroying other souls, shadows being far too tangible for comfort

A/N: This was supposed to be a short, simple little thing in my notes app. It did not stay that way for long. I swear I’ll write for someone else after this one (this might be a lie, haven’t decided yet)

You can’t believe that you asked. It was a sort of trance that brought you here, that forced your steps down the hallway, that raised your fist to his bedroom door - and it was your entire fist that knocked, not merely the knuckles of your hand. Like you were threatening to break the wood from its hinges if he didn’t answer. But he wasn’t angry when he let you inside. Only bemused. And even now that you’ve done it, now that you’ve somehow managed to get out the words that have been churning in your mind for months…his demeanor has barely shifted at all. Although of course, it could be an act. It’s still hard for you to tell.

“Is that truly what you desire, my dear?” Alastor’s smile, which you expected to fade somewhat, or at least twitch at the corners in a telltale sign of annoyance, is just as broad as it’s ever been. He towers over you, his hands folded behind his back. “Think carefully, now. It’s already rare for me to allow someone to escape - unheard of, in fact. But taking someone back would be even less likely, so if there’s any chance at all ”-

“I’m sure.” You set your jaw, and refuse to look down, even as the glow in his eyes becomes almost too bright to bear. Even as something stirs in the swamp behind him, threatening to draw your gaze away. “I want my soul. I’ll give you anything to have it back. I’ll”-

“No need to elaborate, darling.” He sounds calm, and just as surprising, he doesn’t sound like he’s lying. “I assure you, I have no interest in any offer you might have had planned. If you want your soul, you can have it.” 

You freeze, your mouth still ajar. It takes you a moment before you can speak again. “Really?”

“Really.” His head tilts slowly as you continue to process his words. “Does that surprise you?”

“Yes.” You’re deeply confused, in fact. You were expecting to have to haggle, if not to beg. You were certainly expecting him to be upset. It shouldn’t - it can’t - be this easy. 

“I give you my word. If you wish to leave, I’ll let you.” He pauses. “However. ”

This is a trick. It has to be. Your eyes dart around the room, as if a map to his true intentions might be lying somewhere nearby.

“It would be irresponsible of me not to help you consider your options. I don’t want you to do anything you might regret. So…tell me.” He sighs, and simply stares for a moment before brushing the tips of two fingers up the line of your jaw, from your ear to just below your mouth. “ If you were to go…” He taps the pads of his fingers gently against your cheek, and lets his hand fall to his side. “What, exactly, would you have to gain from such a thing?”

You blink, still reeling from his feather-light touch. This is not a question you expected to answer, and you stay quiet for a moment too long.

He leans over you, and lowers his face to your ear, as if he’s about to tell you a secret. “I’ll tell you what I think. I don’t think you’ll like it very much…but then again, people never enjoy hearing the truth.” There’s a buzz of static, he disappears and reappears behind you, and you’re left too disoriented to respond. “I think you’d be quite miserable, if you went through with this impulsive little idea of yours.” 

It wasn’t impulsive. Saying it out loud was, without a doubt. But the idea itself has been there for a very long time. 

“Would you like to know why I think that?” 

“No.” You’re not sure, really, whether you’re responding to his words, or to the hand that has landed on your waist. “You’re wrong.” His grip tightens, tugging slightly on the fabric of your shirt, but there it is again - that odd, detached state of mind that you fall into when you need to do something, and quickly, before you think about it and lose your resolve. “I’ll be miserable if I stay. I’ve already been miserable for a long fucking time.” You uncurl the fist you didn’t realize you had clenched, bring your hand to his wrist, and tug it sharply away from your waist. You barely even register your surprise when he lets this happen. 

He reappears in front of you, and waits silently for you to continue. 

“I didn’t think it would be like this.” Your eyes wander to the desk against the wall, to the ledger that you know contains the list of souls under his command. He’s allowed you to witness what happens to the souls - to the people - that displease him, and on more than one occasion, he’s enlisted your help in cleaning up the mess. You always got the impression that he didn’t particularly need your assistance. That it was more about the fun of watching you squirm. “You’re not who I thought you were.”

“How interesting.” He leans forward, eyes gleaming. “I must be a better judge of character than you, then. Because you have never once surprised me.” Without warning, he takes your hand, tugs you close enough to put his other hand on the small of your back, and half-drags you to his desk chair, which he kicks around and deposits you into. 

You glare up at him, hands braced tightly against the armrests, but he only pulls his hands behind his back, and sighs.

“Well, my dear. I would have merely asked you to sit down - as one should do for someone who’s about to receive unfortunate news - but it seems that you’re in a rather oppositional mood. So.” He gestures in your direction, and something slithers over your waist, binding you to the back of his chair. 

Before this all began, you would have struggled. Now, you barely glance down. “Fuck you.”

“Shall I bind your tongue as well, darling?” A dark coil, made of the same unnaturally smooth, unfathomably black material as the first, curls up from behind you and begins to inch its way up your neck. “Or perhaps do away with it altogether?”

You press your lips together, and shake your head. 

“Hmm…if you’re sure.” The second coil retreats back into the shadows, and Alastor looks down at you with an expression far too appreciative for your comfort. “I do love a captive audience,” he muses. “But what I said before does still stand. If, at the end of this little talk, you still wish to leave, I’ll happily release you.” He gestures broadly with an open palm, as if presenting you with some fabulous gift, then quickly flips his hand and points at you, his finger perfectly still in midair. “But first things first. I asked you a question some time ago, and you would do well to answer it.” He stands perfectly straight, and once again interlocks his hands behind his back. “Take some time to gather your thoughts, if you must. I’m not going anywhere.”

You bite hard into the inside of your lip, and swallow your bloody saliva down with all the things you’d like to scream at him. Instead, you avert your eyes, and quietly repeat the question you’d been unable to answer the first time around. “What do I have to gain?”

“That is what I asked, my dear.” The tendril around your waist tightens slightly, as if to force an answer out of you.

“What do I have to lose? ” You keep your eyes fixed on the floor, and force the deepest breath you can manage in and out of your lungs. The air feels heavy and humid, and smells of long-rotten vegetation - or perhaps a half-destroyed carcass, decaying somewhere in the bayou. “When I did what I did…when I gave you my soul…I didn’t think it would be like this. I thought that if I did it, I’d feel safe enough, or - I don’t know - good enough, to make a life here. But I don’t have one outside of you.” You suck in a sharp breath, all too aware of how stilted your sentences are becoming as they pass over the growing lump in your throat. “I live here because of you. And I barely leave because of you. I don’t spend time with anyone else, because I never know when you’re going to show up, and I don’t want to make friends and then watch them get roped into whatever shit you make me do next - and I can’t sleep, because - because you’ve woken me up before, and when you do that”-

You trail off completely as you remember the last time he did this to you, the images in your head far too clear for something that happened in the dark, when you were only half awake: Hand over your face in your dream, falling to touch your shoulder with just enough force to wake you and send you bolting upright. Rise and shine, darling. Smile somehow more vivid than the red eyes glowing above it, spreading wide with a manic delight that you knew was real, too real, and far too close. I’m going to pay someone a visit. They’re not aware of it yet, but I’m afraid it just couldn’t wait. Shadow, on the wall, one that shouldn’t have existed in such a dark room, blacker than you thought anything could ever be. It’s going to be a night to remember, my dear. I wouldn’t have you miss it for the world.  

You don’t want to picture what happened next. In your mind, you skip to when it was all over. When he took your hand, still shaking from the things you’d been forced to witness, and held it tight as he scratched that poor soul’s name out of his ledger. When he set down his pen, which was still dripping a dark red liquid that barely resembled ink at all, and began to turn the pages - you knew what he was looking for long before he found your name, written in impeccable cursive, glowing slightly as he guided you to touch it. I think it looks quite lovely in my hand. Whether he was talking about his handwriting, or about your face, which he’d reached up to touch in that moment, you do not wish to know. Don’t you agree?

Now, you shake your head, as if amending the answer you’d given him that night. You don’t like how you’ve conditioned yourself to say the things he wants to hear. To believe them when you say them. “I knew I’d have to do some things for you. But…” You swallow hard, because you can’t imagine he’ll have any sympathy for you if you cry, and you don’t want to find out. “I didn’t think it would be like this. I didn’t think that it would become my entire purpose.”

“Hmm.” His sigh is light and airy, with none of the weight that your words carried. When he does speak, the condescension is unmistakable. “Tell me, then.” He crouches down in front of you, leans forward, and rests his forearms on your thighs; his elbow digs hard into your leg as he raises his hand and props his face up on his fist. His grin still doesn’t waver, and his eyes appear wider from this angle, shining with something that is, perhaps, meant to resemble sympathy. “If you chose to leave…what would your purpose be then?” He tilts his head, until it’s his cheek resting against his fist, and waits.

And you are silent. Because somehow, in all your fantasies of escaping, you never managed to get to that part. The part where you lived your life, with no one to guide you but yourself.

You don’t know what you would do. But surely, surely, it would be better than this. 

He lowers his voice, and finally, you see his smile recede slightly. It becomes softer, and the glow in his eyes fades somewhat, and it’s all so unexpected that you don’t even question whether it’s real. “I know a lost soul when I see one, darling.” With his other hand, he lazily traces a path up and down your thigh. It would be almost soothing, you think, if it wasn’t him. “There’s a reason I wanted you. And a reason I keep you so close.” He sighs, and you can smell his breath, the hint of whiskey that doesn’t come close to masking the familiar rancid scent beneath. But there’s something sweet there, too. That’s new. “I think,” he murmurs, “that you have more to lose now than you ever did before.”

You try to tell yourself that you don’t want him to keep talking. That you want him to disappear now, and for good. But memories of your old life - your old after life, before he took over - are beginning to press their way forward. They make your stomach churn in a different way than any of his cruelty. 

“There’s also a reason - the same reason, in a way - that you were so easy to win over.” He opens his hand, and lets his cheek rest against his palm. There’s nothing dangerous about the way he’s looking at you now, or at least, nothing outwardly menacing, and you find yourself thinking about the night he approached you. Before anything about him seemed dangerous at all. When his appearance in your life seemed like a glorious stroke of luck.

“It was only easy because I didn’t know anything.” You’re disoriented, looking down at him, and it takes away whatever resolve you had left; your voice comes out quiet and hollow. “I hadn’t been here long. Everything about this place scared me. And I was alone…” You weren’t with anyone that night, but that’s not what you mean. Your chest seems to tighten as you remember those early days. The paranoia that haunted your every step, convincing you that something awful was about to step out of the shadows at any moment. The panic of not knowing how you fit into the world around you, and being sure that you would never truly know. The pure hopelessness of being consigned, for eternity, to the one place where no one in the world has ever wanted to go, and knowing that you could blame no one but yourself.

Alastor raises his head, slowly, and lets his hand drop gently against your thigh. “Well, my dear.” His palm touches first, and his fingers fall lightly, their touch barely perceptible at all until he presses them down in an almost-reassuring squeeze. “You’re not alone anymore, are you?” 

“No." You barely even remembered how it felt, until this moment. To be lost. To have nothing, not even the nightmares of the present, to justify your existence. You didn’t think about it.

You didn’t let yourself think about it. Because thinking about it would mean -

“That’s right. You’ll never be alone again, if you don’t wish to be.”

It’s fake, this comfort. Always has been. But you can’t ignore it, now - the way you want to believe it. If it wasn’t from him, you’d have nothing to comfort you at all. You find your mind wandering to your name in his hand, glowing in his book, and wonder if anyone else will ever think of you enough to write it down.

“As for fear… ” His voice is so soft, now, that you feel the need to quiet your breathing. To inhale slowly, between words, and exhale carefully, lest he pause at a hitch in your breath. “What do you fear most, at this moment?” 

Again, you are silent. This time, it’s not because you don’t have an answer. It’s because the one you have seems far too dangerous to say out loud. 

If you leave, and things are exactly how they were before…or worse…

“Uncertainty is a terrible thing, isn’t it?” He pauses, and glances to the side for a moment before speaking, his gaze snapping back into place so quickly that you barely catch its shift. “I’ll gladly admit to planting the thought in your head. My having done so doesn’t make the idea any less real.”

The tendril binding you to your chair disappears. It takes you a moment to notice the absence of pressure on your abdomen. Even then, you do not move. You keep yourself in place, sitting perfectly straight, because you don’t know what will happen if you don’t. 

You stay exactly where you are, even as he rises to his feet and turns to the side, leaving you a clear path to the door. You watch, motionless, as an arm made of shadow extends along the wall and wraps its long, distorted fingers over the doorknob. 

“Walk away from me now, if you wish. You have my word that your soul will depart along with the rest of you.” The door creaks open, in time with the parting of his teeth, and the appearance of his staff in his hand. Its head pulses with a faint green light. You stare into it, and wonder if it’s your soul that you see flickering in its midst. 

“And if I don’t?” Out of the corner of your eye, you see the gap between the door and its frame narrow slightly. And again, slightly more.

“To be entirely honest… I can’t imagine that I’ll ever feel inclined to give you another chance.” The light on his staff grows larger and brighter, and shifts towards you, as if daring you to pull it out. “On the other hand…” He leans forward, and tilts his head, his spine contorting with the sideways motion until his mouth is directly beside your ear. “If you do leave, that door will close behind you. And it will never open for you again.”

The green light ebbs, just a bit, and you think about the first time you saw it. That night was cold, and damp, the kind of weather that eats away at you slowly, sinking its way under your clothes and skin bit by bit, until you can’t even remember a time when you were warm. The kind of weather that seems to suck the color out from around you, leaving you stranded in a world of gray and black and muddy, desolate brown. The place inside you where you imagine your soul once resided felt heavy, just as waterlogged as every other bit of you. 

And it seemed to lighten the moment you shook his hand. The moment you traded…

It was more than your soul, you think. It was the things you feared. The things you despised in the world, and yourself. They’re all gone, now, because now, there is only one face that makes you feel these things. It’s better like this, you think. 

It’s soon to be out of your hands, either way.

The door eases shut, and you close your eyes, because you do not want to see the green light fade. It’s better not to see. Better to pretend that it was never there at all.

“Well done, my dear.” The filter has dropped from his voice. It was there, distorting his every word, until now. But why say anything about that? You keep your eyes closed, and sit still as he traces the back of his hand down the side of your face. Thinking about flinching away, but doing nothing at all.

“Stay for as long as you’d like.” He sounds different, still. Not sincere, perhaps, but closer to it than he was before. “You’ve gone through quite a lot tonight. I expect it will take you some time to feel like yourself again.” He takes a step back, but remains close, and you don’t have to look to know how intently he’s watching.

There is not much left to watch. You slide your hands down from the armrest, and clasp them together, eyes still shut tight. Head down. If you stayed in this room until you felt like yourself, you think, you’d never leave.

Then again - if you wanted to feel like yourself, you would already have left.

[writingquestionsanswered]

Hi, do you have any advice for indecisive writers? <3 Anything in general would help, I'd love something specifically for autistic people (whose brains shut down the "decising-making centre") too if possible <3

Tips for Indecisive Writers

My number one tip for indecisive writers is to not be afraid to go "old school" and literally pick something out of a hat or roll some dice. For example, if you're deciding between three different plot ideas, you can write each one on a few folded up pieces of paper, throw them all into a bowl, mix it up, and whatever you draw is the one you go with. Or, you could say 1 and 2 are idea #1, 3 and 4 are idea #2, and 5 and six are idea #3, then roll dice. And, actually, if you type "roll dice" into Google, you can roll digital dice and you can choose up to 20-sided dice or customize your own number of sides. This is particularly helpful if you have a list of items, such as several names you're trying to decide between.

If you Google "online decision maker" you come up with a bunch of different online tools. Easy Decision Maker lets you type in a question... for example, "What should I name my character?" Then you can enter up to 26 options. When you click the "answer" button, it chooses one for you. Picker Wheel lets you put in the various options, then spin a wheel to decide.

The trouble I tend to have is sticking with whatever "fate" decides at that point, but one thing I've learned is that sometimes when my brain plays that game... where I roll a 4 meaning I go with plot idea #2, and then I'm disappointed, I know that is because some part of me knows I want to do either idea #1 or idea #3. So, even though it isn't working exactly as planned, I've still accomplished something... I've eliminated a choice. Now I can roll again, with 1 -3 being idea #1 and 4 - 6 being idea #2, and I know if I'm disappointed again with whatever I get, then the remaining choice is the one I wanted all along. For whatever reason, though, my brain can't just make that decision. It needed to go through that process to get there, and that's okay!

Now, as helpful as decision making tools can be, they're not always helpful in the moment, when you're writing and you're not really stuck between particular choices, but rather you're facing an empty void and aren't sure where to take the story next. For me, this is where pre-writing comes in really handy. I always go into a story with a beginning to end summary at the very least so I know where things are going. There's still often some decision making to be done, but I find it easier to do before I write rather than during.

When it comes to finding things to even decide between... like when you're planning your story and you come up empty on something, I find inspiration sources to be extremely helpful. For example, let's say I want to write a romantasy, and I have no idea what I want the setting to be like. That's the worst kind of indecision, because it's not like I can just type four or five locations into a decision maker and let it pick for me. I don't have a list to even pick from. So, looking at inspiration sources helps. Maybe I saw a travel show about Bavaria which really intrigued me... that could be a great inspiration location for my setting. Or, let's say I'm not sure what I want my character to look like. I might scroll through a list of up and coming actors, through the cast of a random TV show or movie, or think about actors in TV shows or movies I've recently seen. As I scan past thumbnails of head shots, when I see someone who looks like my character, I can stop and note down the name or save the photo. And with any inspiration source, if I find myself unable to decide between multiple inspiration sources... it's back to the ol' decision maker!

I hope that helps!

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I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

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[bekkachaos]

Fuck it Friday 🔥

starting this because it's Friday here and I wanna know if y'all would read this because I'm a SICKO and started writing some post-apocalyptic Buddie (because I can't stop thinking about the book All That's Left In The World)

tagging these wonderful people if they wanna share x

@monsterrae1 @the-likesofus @eddiebabygirldiaz @bi-buckrights @shortsighted-owl @elvensorceress @loveyourownsmiilee @doublecheekedkinard @loserdiaz @spotsandsocks @wildlife4life @jackluvsdaniel @belovedbuddie @bidisasterevankinard @wh0rebehavi0r @thewolvesof1998 @bucksbisexualawakening @weewootruck @daffi-990 @spagheddiediaz @honestlydarkprincess @loveyouanyway

He pushed through the pain and got himself back up. It was starting to get dark and he needed to find a sheltered place to rest for the night, if he could call it that. He had barely slept in the three days since he injured himself, even before that it's not what he would have called it. Fitful bouts of sleep and nightmares and evenings in the dark listening to the wilderness come alive and looking up at the stars imagining he was anywhere else.

As he hobbled through the woods he caught a glimpse of something between the trees and felt his heart begin to pound, he was either in so much pain and hallucinating, or by some miracle he had managed to find a cabin for shelter.

He struggled towards it, he couldn't focus on anything other than making it to the door, his hand gripping tight to the wooden porch railing, the other to his makeshift crutch, and then he heard the sound of a gun cocking behind him.

"Not another step."

Eddie was frozen in place. How long had it been since he heard another person speak? Weeks? Months? He wasn't even sure anymore.

"Turn around."

Slowly he shuffled his crutch around, wincing in pain again and still using the rail to support his weight as he let himself look back and past the barrel of the shotgun now pointed steadfastly at his chest.

It may have been odd, given his predicament, but for some reason his first thought was 'so I'm not the last one left'. He knew he wasn't of course, but it was easy to forget that fact.

The man who held the gun stood only slightly taller than he did, shoulders hunched up so his arms looked bigger as he adjusted his hold around the barrel with his finger on the trigger. His jaw was set, nostrils flaring as his unnaturally bright blue eyes stared out at Eddie's unwaveringly. He was intimidating, sure, at least he would have been if Eddie wasn't close enough to see the fear in his eyes. The gun was certainly helping though.

"Not here to rob you," Eddie said, and had he been in better shape he might have put his hands up.

"What do you want?" the stranger asked, inching the gun closer.

"I'm hurt, it's getting dark, just looking for a place to rest," he said.

"Well you can keep walking," he said roughly, and it made Eddie grind his teeth together.

"That's not working so well for me," he growled, and for a fleeting moment the man's eyes flitted down to his leg, the latter half of his jeans torn and drenched in a mix of fresh and dried blood.

"I know," he said, eyes back up to Eddie's. "I watched you walk up here."

"And you're still going to send me away?" Eddie scoffed.

It didn't surprise him, people didn't trust each other anymore. If you saw someone, you stayed away from them unless you absolutely had to. A desperate and hungry person would do just about anything to survive. Lie, steal, kill. Eddie had had plenty of uncomfortable encounters since he left the base, and each one gave him even more reasons to steer clear of people. If you were out on your own, you had to do what you needed to if you wanted to survive. The minute you let your guard down around someone, they'd betray you. He didn't say anything, just kept his hard stare on Eddie as if waiting for him to give in, but Eddie was in too much pain, too tired, too hungry, and too sick and tired of the woods to go back out there. "Listen man, all I need is some shelter, I'll sit under that porch while you barricade that door if that's what it comes too," he said. "But I'm not leaving." "Do you not see that I'm holding a gun to your chest?" he said, raising an eyebrow and making Eddie look him over for a moment. "You're not going to shoot me," he said, and maybe it was not the right time to be calling someone's bluff, but there was something in the stranger's eyes that made Eddie take the risk on it. "And why not?" he asked, an irk of irritation spreading across his face. "Because you don't want to shoot me," Eddie said. "You think I won't?" Eddie nodded towards the side of the gun. "Not with the safety on."

[mayajadewrites]

Sweet Secret (Levi Ackerman x Reader)

Pairing: Levi Ackerman x F! Reader CEO Levi Ackerman coming in hot. I've been wanting to write a CEO Levi/Sugar daddy Levi story for a hot minute. Enjoy! Story Summary: You needed a job. Ackerman Inc was hiring for an in house assistant for none other than the CEO: Levi Ackerman. He's known to be essentially the worst to work with, you decide to take the job and take on the challenge that is Levi Ackerman. Will your relationship remain professional, or will their be monetary value added to the stakes? Or possibly even... love? ao3 Chapter Seventeen: Warmth

The smell of your vanilla shampoo fills Levi's nostrils as he takes a deep breath. Your hair was wet, sticking to your skin as it stretched down your back.

"Stay." Your voice is soft enough to comfort Levi's everlasting mental wounds. You would never know, but the way you speak soothes Levi's soul. He came from a place of violence, poverty, and loneliness that left his body with invisible scars. He was always alone. 

Always.

Until you.

After you changed into your pajama set, your smooth skin rubbing against the fabric of your tank top and shorts. "Can you be honest with me about something?" You take a step toward Levi, letting your chin tilt upwards towards his face.

Levi only nodded.

"You're not one to hold back anyways, so I don't know why I asked." You crossed your arms over your chest, all of your feelings bubbling to your head. You feel like your entire body is on fire whenever you look at Levi. The feelings have become too much to bear alone. 

The past few days have shown you who Levi is, specifically who he is when he's with you. Your entire life seemingly shattered around you and there he was to pick up each and every piece and glue it all back together.

"Spit it out." Levi's voice interrupted your thoughts. 

"Do you feel anything between us? Besides our... arrangement." 

"Be more specific." 

"When I'm with you, I feel like I can be myself. That I can let everything else go and only focus on you and I. You light a fire inside me. When I look at you, it's like theres a whole butterfly garden in my tummy that takes flight."

You watched Levi's eyes follow your movements as you spoke, his eyes blue-grey clouds and you would love to curl up on. Your eyes dragged down to his jawline, studying his chiseled face that was crafted by Renaissance artists. Your hands were screaming to touch him, but you restrained yourself.

"Mm." Levi stands up a little straighter as he peers at you through his half-lidded eyes.

"That's all you have to say?" 

"You bring me... warmth." He finally spoke. You weren't sure what you were expecting him to say, but it definitely wasn't 'warmth'. 

You raise your eyebrow as you wait for him to explain further, to which he sighed and shook his head. He didn't want to explain himself more because he didn't know how to put what he felt into words that were coherent. 

"All my life, I've done everything alone. I wanted to be alone. Never having to rely on anyone, lean on anyone, nothing. Which is why I've never been good at relationships. The women I were interested in, well, I was sort of interested in - they weren't... right. It was like I was trying to succumb to what people were telling me to do. Erwin would tell me it's nice to have someone to come home to. I dated one woman, who I semi-enjoyed spending time with. It was more physical though. There was not really any mental connection which is very important to me. So that ended fast."

You stood and listened to Levi. Your large doe-like eyes watched his mouth as he spoke, making sure you understand every word that he's saying. 

"When I met you, something inside of me changed. It was like I was a block of ice, and you were a small flame. I almost didn't want to acknowledge it was happening. Once I couldn't anymore, I brought up the 'arrangement'. I just wanted more of a reason to be near you. To feel your warmth." 

You can't help but feel tears well up in your eyes. The melody of his words played through your ears - more of those butterflies being released in your tummy. 

"I was serious when I said I want to be there for you through whatever you throw at me. Not as your boss, not as your sugar daddy, but as your man. As your partner."

Gulp.

"The way I feel about you... I've never felt for anyone. I want to create a home with you. I want you to be the mother of my children. I want life. With you." Levi's hands reached for yours. Finally. His touch. You let your hands mend to his as he holds your hands close to his lips, leaving kisses on your knuckles. You watched as his lips left your skin, hoping his touch would forever linger.

"I want you to be mine. I want to be yours." 

You bring yourself closer to him as he speaks and wrap your arms around his body. You press your chin to his chest as you study the expression on his face. 

"I've been yours, Levi. I tried to deny it so many times. I'm yours, unapologetically." 

His Index finger finds your chin as he brings your face to his, eliminating all space between you with a kiss. It's slow, but filled with passion. You drag your fingertips along his body as you reach his neck, tracing shapes along his undercut. 

Levi's tongue moves along your lower lip as he begs for entry, to which you oblige. His breath hitches when you open your mouth slightly, his hands squeezing your plush hips gently. Your skin starts to feel hot as his fingertips sneak into the elastic of your shorts, the pads of his fingers gently pressing against your skin.

You press your body into his as he touch leaves you feeling like you're on fire, the kisses almost fleeting. Levi brought his attention back to your lips, making sure he puts most of his effort there. Your lips were soft, like pillows that Levi always wanted to be on.

"Levi." You take a breath as your heart rate excellerates. "I need you." 

"Tsk." Levi sucked his teeth. "You are so impatient. We're not making love for the first time like this." 

"Are you saying all those other times weren't love?!" You say sarcastically, putting your hand on your chest. "I'm offended, Levi Ackerman." 

"Shut up." He presses his lips to your temple. "Let's go to bed."

[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

Thank you so much @yandere-paramour for commissioning me.

Commission description: I got in a freak accident where in hs where I was in theatre rehearsal and basically a 4x4 fell directly onto my head and I was severely concussed for the Next month. Can you write this happening to Reader and Yves cannot prevent it in time? and he's very upset and angry at himself and Reader is just absolutely fucked up and nearly helpless.

tw: injury, yandere themes

(2632 words)

He oversaw your entire hospital residency. Yves didn't trust the doctors and nurses that were there, he would be the one to administer any treatment. Yves would also be the one to give you bed baths and clean any messes you may have made due to losing some control over your bladder or bowels. Yves had seen all of you.

All he needed to do was talk to a few people, pull some strings, forge a few signatures, and erase a handful of records.

You were in deep throbbing pain, only made manageable by the painkillers you were made to eat. But you couldn't think straight either, everything is just too hazy and foggy. The slightest bit of light bothers you to no end, luckily you were vaguely aware Yves was around to be with you. He knew what to do, he always knew what to do.

You could make out your boyfriend's hushed voice as he spoke through the phone. Squinting your eyes, you could discern a blurry image of Yves holding his smartphone in one hand, and the other typing away on his laptop. You had always found his voice soothing, but it sounded like he was upset, it didn't help that you were barely registering the words he was saying.

Noticing that your drugs are slowly wearing off, Yves quickly ended the call and walked over to you in large strides. You closed your eyes and he didn't say anything, only the shuffling and rustling of what you think came from the medical equipment reached your ears. Occasionally, you open your eyes only to close them again, catching glimpses of Yves toggling with your cannula and a filled syringe.

You were too concussed to question why Yves is doing the nurses' or doctors' job, or if he was even qualified to do so. You were just glad that he was by your side.

Soon, you felt the relief and newfound wooziness from the freshly administered IV painkillers and something else. You were sent to your own world when Yves pulled himself away to clean up and put everything back in place.

You felt him caress your cheek and kiss you on the forehead. After that, you felt the mattress of your hospital bed dip as Yves got on, he tucked himself under your blanket and spooned you from behind.

It was baffling how that wooden plank dislodged itself from somewhere and hit you. Just you, out of all the people present there. He does routine checks on the places where you frequent, the theatre didn't appear to be dilapidated, nor did his numerous tests yield any conclusions that could help him predict this outcome. That damned building passed all his safety checks, likewise, your coworkers weren't a threat to your life.

He buried his head in the crook of your neck, closing his eyes as he breathed in your scent. Yves was deep in thought while he tenderly rubbed the palm of your hands, it's not foul play. If it was, he already knew from the footage from a few dozen cameras he hid around the theatre. Moreover, he did his research on every single one you knew or knew you. The idea of someone trying to end your life is possible, but not plausible.

Yves had replayed that one video over and over again to try and discern the cause of the wooden plank falling from the top. It seemingly... isn't caused by anything. No matter how he digitally enhanced it, no matter how many times he watched it until it was positively seared into his brain, Yves found nothing of note. It just detached from the ceiling and fell. He frowned each time he had to remember the instant it slammed right into your head.

He even paid the theatre a visit just to investigate the site of impact itself. Bewilderingly, he could discern advanced signs of weakness in the surrounding areas that weren't there a day before but would have taken a few months to form through natural means. He swabbed everything and all his tests came out nothing. Yves was undetected by the owners of that building or the authorities because he broke in during the dead of night and scaled the beams quietly and skillfully. He balanced himself on a taut rope while he snapped pictures of the sites.

He called up people who he thought could give him advice and more information about the matter, but to no avail. It's almost like this was caused by something paranormal, there were no conceivable reasons as to how or why this happened. Even if there was, it defied the laws of physics in this reality.

Regardless of how strange and unexpected this event was, Yves was upset that he didn't think of a failsafe for this. He thought of everything but not this, because it was just so implausible.

You groan in discomfort, nothing feels right and you want your mind back now. However, there really isn't anything Yves could do and all the other relatively instantaneous healing methods he knew of would cause more significant harm than good. So, for now, you're stuck like this.

He sighed, murmuring that he was here to assure you. Well, at least this has given him a new set of data that he otherwise wouldn't go out of his way to induce and collect; there is at least that silver lining.

Yves frowned as he parted away from you, despising the cold nipping at him without you as his soft heater. But he has a lot to do, he has to maintain the life that you built for yourself while you're out of commission for at least a month.

He pressed a kiss on your forehead once more, ensuring that you were completely passed out from the drugs before taking out his phone again to make a few more important calls.

-

He transferred you to his humble abode a few days later, after determining that you were stable enough for him to resume your care outside of the hospital. You could barely walk, talk, or open your eyes, you were entirely helpless. Mumbling semi-incoherent words to try and communicate your needs and wants. Luckily for you, Yves clearly knew what you wanted just by your body language alone, so you were never too angry or frustrated that he couldn't understand you.

Unfortunately for your friends and family who would visit you from time to time, you were babbling in a language from another planet. They're either too loud, too panicky, or too pungent-smelling to be around with. It's as if the air was ruined by their presence. Your poor, concussed mind thought everyone else was just idiots and Yves is the only intelligent lifeform there.

Such an attentive man, he is. Yves would politely shoo them out of your shared bedroom when they got too much, he would then spend a few more minutes entertaining them with small talk downstairs before ultimately making them leave the property. The ones who truly care about you are glad you are under Yves's supervision.

However, if you were just lucid enough, you would question how Yves knew that you wanted a blanket from your heavy slurring, how he knew that you wanted to be hugged at that very moment by just watching you blink, how he knew what hurts by an incomprehensible grumble.

A few times, you did catch yourself realizing that you may have been completely unintelligible in verbalizing your wants. Still, he gave you exactly what you needed before you could correct yourself.

You always look forward to meal times, as he would never fail to whip up something delicious yet nutritious enough; packed chock full of vitamins, and minerals to your healing process. The best part was that he would spoon-feed you while sitting on his lap, it's ridiculously comfortable and you felt like absolute royalty. Strangely and fortunately for you, it never once felt degrading or patronizing. At most, you felt heavily nostalgic and had a strong sense of sadness that you couldn't conjure up an idea as to why. But it would all ebb away with every spoonful Yves fed you or every kiss he gave to show his appreciation for your cooperation.

Yves wouldn't allow you to use your phone or watch the television, he wouldn't allow anything in his house to emit too bright of a light. Which you were grateful for since it reduces the pain dramatically, and he would keep you fully engaged by reading stories from his library. They're always so exhilarating to hear as the protagonists always possess a wonderful personality that closely matches yours, allowing you to immerse yourself in whatever whimsical and fantastical world of his storybook. His smooth, baritone voice lulled you to sleep more times than you can count, letting you continue the story in your dreams.

Sometimes, you want to experience that particular story again, so you would pick up the book Yves read from. Only to find that its' pages are seemingly filled with illegible graphite chicken scratch. Asking him about it will lead him to tell you he wrote each and every single one of those pieces, they're all based on your proudest achievements and your life journey.

When Yves promised that he would take care of you to the fullest, he meant it. He wouldn't allow you to shower on your own, nor did he let you stand too long. He prepared a stool for you to sit on as streams of warm water washed over your nude body, Yves would roll his sleeves up and clean you up while you merely remained there in a daze; you didn't have to do anything, Yves would work up a lather on your hair and massage your scalp, he would gently scrub your skin with his smooth hands and apply an impossibly long list of skincare products that leaves your skin happy and glowing.

Yves is rarely apart away from you when you're this needy. And he enjoys it, savoring every second he spends with you. Yves would take his time styling your hair, stroking it, and collecting any strands you may have shed for data. Applying hair oil and caring for your body, he wouldn't have had the chance to do this when you're perfectly healthy, as you would either get too uncomfortable, bored, or too busy for him to do this for you.

In many ways, this accident was a blessing in disguise. For you to make up for all the missed bonding times with him; it's not that Yves is elated with you being severely concussed, but he isn't too upset over it either.

"Is this the color you want for your base?" He asked, ensuring his voice wasn't above the volume threshold. Yves brought up a bottle of nail polish in your favorite color.

You gave him a thumbs up, as nodding can cause you pain.

"What design would you like?" Yves continued asking, putting the polish away so he could begin to prep your fingernails. He had your hand limply resting on a towel draped over his thigh.

You opened your mouth to speak, but it was gibberish and garbled. But you were so used to talking like this and your brain is still healing from the damage, that you couldn't tell something was wrong.

Yves merely hummed in response while he skillfully pushed your cuticles in, they were softened by some cuticle oil he applied earlier. He needed no extra enlightenment even though you spoke in a tongue that no human could ever comprehend easily, Yves already knew what you wanted. He only asked that to give you an illusion of control.

You relaxed to the soothing music playing in the background while Yves continued with his manicure on you, skillfully using his tools to create intricate works of art on your nails. It's amazing how he could do that with laser precision in dim light.

Perhaps you tried holding a conversation with him, and you did. Albeit one-sided, Yves seemingly responds to your words normally as if he truly understood. But he was actually doing some very complex "guesswork" that was apparently accurate all the time. However, if there is one thing for certain, he memorizes all the sounds that left your mouth and movements you made no matter how random or unnecessary.

If thinks that you're getting too under-stimulated, he will recite one of the many stories he wrote for you to listen to and immerse yourself in. Yet, he wouldn't get distracted, continuing his work with elegance and expertise.

You were mesmerized by how he would hold his brush, how he would administer a graceful stroke, and how he would do the details of such an impossibly beautiful masterpiece.

You smiled and cheered when you saw your nails, all that there was left for you to do was wait for the polish to dry. The corners of his lips were also pulled up into a pleased grin, feeling absolutely delighted to see you beaming like that. He couldn't resist pecking you on the apples of your cheeks, as he might accidentally squeeze you out of his cuteness aggression if he didn't at least expel some of it.

He cleaned up after himself and put the items away. You were still giddy over your nails and he was in joy too. Yves then sat right next to you, resting his head on your shoulder and letting his silky, jet-black hair tickle you in the nose.

Yves closed his eyes and relaxed at the sound of your heavenly giggles, nuzzling his head further into the side of your neck to keep the playfulness alive. He would occasionally litter your shoulder with kisses too.

Eventually, the atmosphere calms back down to a gentle lull, where you would be lying on his lap as Yves runs his fingers through your hair. A soft smile graced his face as he watched you stare at his artwork, feeling flattered and honored that you liked it.

Yves always knew the potential of himself enjoying the aftermath of such a tragedy happening to you was there. But he didn't anticipate that he loved it this much. As bad as it sounds, Yves is unwilling to think about the time when you will inevitably heal and leave him alone all over again to live your life.

His smile faltered a bit thinking how you're most likely going to go back to that theatre to work again, cutting the time that he's used to have with you short by a drastic amount. He is going to miss tender moments like these so awfully...

Yves paused when he noticed that you drifted into slumberland, softly breathing as your lips were slightly parted and drool running down the sides of your mouth. Yves chuckled a bit as he wiped them away with his thumb.

He blinked as he thought about the situation at hand even more.

You are such a strong, resilient person, who endured far worse than a measly headache. And it seems like your recovery process isn't too agonizing for you to bear, you're fine.

And, you would definitely be fine if Yves extended that duration for a few more weeks; he needs to make sure that you're fully healed before allowing you to go back into the real world. You would also be fine to consume a bit more sugar than usual, he knows you better than yourself.

Yves brought your hands and grazed his fingertips against your nails to see if it was fully dried. They were, and he gave them each a kiss.

The next few hours were spent with Yves watching you sleep, his green eyes were unblinkingly trained on you.

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

Nameless, Faceless: Part Two

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.6k

Summary: Not even four hours after the case in Canada, you're thrown into another one. This time, without Hotch. You have a sinking feeling he's not just blowing you off to get some sleep. There's something wrong.

Warnings: canon violence, canon language, canon talk of death, methods of kill

Author’s Note: welcome to the first episode of season 5! i hope you enjoy this series just as much as i loved writing it! <3

I do not own anything from Criminal Minds. All credit goes to their respective owners. If there are any warnings that exceed the normal death/kills from the show, I will list them. If you’ve seen the show, then it’s the same level of angst unless otherwise stated.

x

You arrive at his apartment building in ten minutes and immediately head to the floor his apartment is on. The second you step foot onto the floor, you know something is wrong. The feeling in your stomach hasn't gone away, it gets stronger. You knock on his door but he doesn't come to it.

"Hotch? It's me, Y/N. Are you in there?" you ask and knock again.

You take out your phone and call him but when you hear his phone ring from inside, you know something is wrong. You take out your gun and try the door knob which is unlocked. You push open the door and get hit with a wave of familiar energy--George Foyet's. You walk in slowly and notice a few things off the bat. Hotch's keys and briefcase are still by the front door, his phone is on the kitchen table, and there is a large bloodstain on the floor behind the couch. Upon further examination, there is a gunshot in the wall, tables and chairs are turned over, and Hotch is nowhere to be found.

If Hotch is dead, you would have seen his spirit here. Though, he has been stabbed multiple times by George Foyet. How he got in, you're not sure but the entire attack is played over and over to see exactly what went down between the two men. If you're going to have hope in finding Hotch alive or dead, you need help from someone you know who can track him.

"Overtime shift. Penelope speaking," Pen says when you call her.

"Pen, it's Y/N. I need you to listen really carefully. Something's happened to Hotch."

"What do you mean, something?"

"He's been stabbed. There's blood on the floor but he's not dead. I would have felt him otherwise."

"Oh, my God," she gasps.

"I need you to send police and FBI techs here right away. Everyone available."

"Do we need an APB?"

"Only on Hotch. I saw his car outside."

"Someone took him?"

"Yes, I believe so. There's a lot of blood here and a gunshot in the wall. Just get people here."

"Okay, I'm sending an army."

"Pen, I'm gonna have to tell Spencer because he and Em are expecting me back but you can't tell the others. They cannot be distracted. I'm only telling you and Spencer."

"Okay. I'm calling everyone."

You hang up on her and immediately call Spencer.

"Hey, what's up?"

"Listen, don't tell Emily this but something bad happened to Hotch. He's been stabbed."

"What?"

"He's not here but there is a lot of blood here and I felt Foyet's energy here."

"Wait, what are you talking about?"

"Is that Y/N?" you hear Emily in the background.

"I can't come back but just tell Emily and Dr. Barton that I'm away on an emergency. Don't tell the others. They can't be distracted right now."

"What's going on? Is this about Jeffrey?" Dr. Barton asks.

"No, it's unrelated."

"We only have a few hours left here."

"I'm really sorry, I have to take this phone call, okay?"

"What could be more important than my son right now?"

"I assure you, this will take one second. Please, I promise." Dr. Barton walks away and joins Emily's side to go over the files that Penelope has sent over. "What happened?"

"There's a gunshot hole in the wall. I'm guessing it's a .44 but there isn't any blood or tissue spray around it. Hotch wasn't shot."

"Any idea how he got out?"

"Foyet carried him. Hotch was stabbed but there aren't any blood drops anywhere. His body might have been wrapped in something.

"Is he...?"

"Dead? No. I would have felt him."

"Are bureau techs on the way?"

"Yeah, Penelope called everyone. She's the only one who knows."

"Alright, write down everything you see. We'll profile from your notes when you get back."

"How's Dr. Barton?"

"It's a huge list of cases to go through with him."

"Okay, I've got this here. You have Emily with you. Just stay focused."

"Alright, you too."

"What's wrong?" Emily asks when Spencer hangs up with you.

"Nothing. Y/N's been called away on an emergency not related to the case, but it's fine."

That answer seems to satisfy Emily but not Dr. Barton.

"You've got to be kidding me."

"I'm confident that the three of us can do this together. We know he's been killing Hispanic males as surrogates. Did you separate the case files?"

"Yeah."

"How many of the surgeries fit the criteria?"

"Eight-two."

"Let me ask you this. On how many of those dates did you operate on somebody else as well?" Emily wonders.

"Seventy-five."

"Did any of those patients die on the table?"

"Eleven."

"That's where we start. This whole thing is about choice. He's forcing you to play God with your son because the last time you had a choice, your decision devastated him."

"I'm a doctor. I save people."

"It doesn't matter to him," Emily says. "All that matters to him is that you had an alternative and you didn't take it. Now, how many of those surgeries involve patients under twenty?"

"Six. I get a lot of gunshot wounds, mostly gang-related."

"Has a gang or family member ever threatened you?"

"No. At first, when you lose someone it's mostly confusion and devastation. The anger comes later."

Emily and Spencer go through the case files that fit the criteria and come up with six dates that could have been the trigger for the unsub.

"Alright, we have six dates where you operated on a Hispanic male on the same night a patient under twenty died. What we're gonna do is read the names and dates off to you, and you tell me anything you can remember, okay?"

"Okay," Dr. Barton sighs.

"Let's start with January 22nd. I have Tyler Hayes with multiple gunshot wounds. The next day, Brian Douglas was a hit-and-run victim with a lacerated aorta."

"No, not that one."

"March 15th, Devon Marks who was a heroin overdose, and Angela Harris who is another car accident victim in a single vehicle, bleeding into her brain."

"No, this is no use. I would remember if I was threatened."

"Did any of them ask you about your family?" Dr. Barton looks at the clock that is ticking down. "We have time."

"Okay," he sighs.

He tries not to think about his son and the danger he's in as he recalls the patients he's dealt with. The entire school day has gone by without a hitch but there are still a few hours before school ends. Derek, Rossi, and JJ have been very diligent in making sure Jeffrey and the other students are safe from the unsub.

"I talked to Detective Walker," JJ says, "The final bell is at 3:10. He's gonna have a SWAT unit in place at exactly 3:00 to escort kids out. We'll need you to gather the students at 2:45."

"This could all be happening now," the principal argues.

"If the unsub sees us evacuate early, we feel certain he'll kill another random citizen, and this also buys us a day to try and discover his identity. So, we'll have school buses for evacuation, and teachers can brief parents who are here to pick up their kids."

"The key is to keep Jeffrey isolated and avoid panic with the other students. If we can do that, everybody gets out of here safe," Rossi explains.

"Have you cross-checked all the records of employees in the building against Dr. Barton?"

"Garcia's on it."

Derek calls Penelope who answers eagerly.

"Y/N?"

"No. Sorry, baby girl, just little old me. You're out of luck."

"Right. Sorry."

"Did you finish the background check on everyone in the building?"

"Yeah. There's no red flags, no felonies, and no connection to Barton."

"That's god. Alright, I gotta go. There's about to be a bell."

"Alright. Be safe," she sighs.

"Hey, is everything okay?"

"Yeah, I'm just tired."

"Yeah, I hear you. Let's just get this kid home safe and we can all sleep."

"Right."

As soon as Penelope hung up with Derek, she called multiple hospitals in Virginia in hopes Hotch was in one of them. No one has seen or heard of a man named Aaron Hotchner, though one of the hospitals did have someone named Derek Morgan show up recently. With this news, she immediately calls you.

The FBI techs and police did come quickly while you stayed off to the side and replay what happened over and over again. You're not sure how Foyet got into Hotch's apartment but he waited for him and threatened him with a gun only to shoot the wall. They both got into it and knocked some shit over only for Foyet to stab Hotch multiple times. Every time you replay the scene, it leads to more questions than answers.

How did he get in? Why didn't he kill Hotch? Why stab him and take him to a hospital? Your phone rings and you pick it up when you see it's Penelope calling.

"Hey, what's up?"

"I called hospitals to see if Hotch had gotten himself admitted to an emergency room. He's not listed as a patient but someone dropped a John Doe off at St. Sebastian Hospital, and that someone's name was FBI Agent Derek Morgan."

"Foyet took Derek's credentials."

"Why would he drop him off at the ER?"

"I don't know. I'm headed over there right now. I'll call with an update as soon as I get one."

You quickly send a text to Spencer to let him know what's going on so he doesn't freak out about the state of his boss.

Hotch is in St. Sebastian Hospital. I'm headed over there right now. I'll call when I have an update.

Spencer reads the message as soon as it comes in. He knows Hotch is in good hands if you're the one looking after him.

"Are you sure she's okay?" Emily asks when she notices his worried look.

"Yeah, she's fine. She's just giving me some updates."

"I don't understand. These surgeries are all hours apart. I didn't have to choose between patients. If he's punishing me for my choices, none of these fit," Dr. Barton groans in frustration.

"Alright, look at the note again and compare it against the wording on the charts. A lot of times an unsub will unconsciously mirror the wording of situations." Something suddenly comes to Dr. Barton which is evident in his facial features. "Do you remember something?"

"I don't know. It was right after New Year's. There was a car accident. One of the victims was Hispanic."

"New Year? I have it right here," Emily says. "On January 3rd, there was a two-car collision. You operated on someone named Hector Ledezma. That was your only surgery that night."

"I remember that case. Someone else came in, but I didn't operate on him. His name was Jason Meyers."

Spencer calls Penelope to gather more information on Jason.

"Garcia, I need you to find a patient in the system named Jason Meyers."

"He was admitted on January 3rd on life support. Oh, no. He was taken off the ventilator and declared legally dead three days ago."

"Who is his father?"

"Patrick Meyers, age forty-five."

"Get a photo into the school immediately. I think he's our unsub."

"Okay, it's on its way."

Spencer texts you an update on the current case since you're doing everything you can to take care of Hotch, which you appreciate. You can't do anything about Dr. Barton and his son, but you can find Hotch and figure out what's going to happen to him. As soon as you checked into the hospital, one of the doctors met with you and took you to the room Hotch was in. The second you see him, tears form in your eyes.

"He was stabbed nine times, but no major arteries were hit. It's a miracle he's alive."

"When will he wake up?"

"The anesthesia should wear off within the hour, but he's bound to be out of it."

"May I stay here?"

"Of course."

"Thank you."

The doctor checks a few things before giving you some privacy. You pull up a chair next to his bed and stare at his unconscious body.

"You better not die," you say to him. "This entire BAU is my family and that includes you. Do you hear me, Aaron? Don't die."

You hate lying to your team and hope they're doing okay without you. Hotch's medical chart is hanging off the edge of his bed. Your curiosity makes you read over it as if you're going to understand what most of it means. You're very smart but you're not medically smart. However, the initial L.C. in the top right-hand corner grabs your attention. It's the same initial the unsub left on the note for Dr. Barton. You grab the chart and find the doctor at the nurse's station.

"Excuse me, what does L.C. stand for?"

"Living Children."

"Thank you." You walk back into Hotch's room and call Spencer. "I know what L.C. stands for. Living Children."

"Are you sure?"

"Hotch has it on his medical chart. It's administrative. It's when they're afraid a patient's gonna go on life support and they don't have a DNR order."

"What if the unsub was trying to tell Dr. Barton that he is actually the target and that he's gonna leave his son without a father?" The sound of a door opening catches Spencer's attention. "Barton!"

"What's going on?" There is commotion coming from his end and you hear something that chills you to the bone. A gunshot. "Spencer?" No answer. "Spencer, answer me. Please." Still, no answer and you get tears. "Spencer? I can't lose two people I love. Please answer me." Instead of trying to get him to answer, you hang up and call 911 to report the gunshot. "This is Special Agent Y/N from the FBI. I need police and an ambulance to 120 Kensington Road, Mclean, Virginia. Shots were fired and a federal agent is possibly down."

Spencer lays in front of Dr. Barton with a gunshot wound in his knee from the unsub. The unsub was targeting Dr. Barton but got Spencer instead.

"Are you hit?"

"No."

"Get my gun. Get my gun!" Spencer urges.

Dr. Barton scrambles for the gun before the unsub can fire off another shot. Spencer grabs his gun and points it at the unsub.

"Get away from him!"

"Whatever you do, stay down," Spencer says to Dr. Barton before facing the unsub. "Drop the gun!"

"Don't protect him. He killed my son!" Patrick says emotionally.

"He did not kill your son. Your son was killed in a car accident."

"Stand up!" he yells at your boyfriend.

"I'm gonna ask you again, please drop the gun. I do not want to shoot you."

"Stand up, you coward!"

"Mr. Meyers, listen to me. Dr. Barton did not kill your son. Your son was killed by a car, and this is not what he would want. Okay? So, drop the gun. Please."

His words seem to get through to Patrick because he lowers the gun. Tears are streaming out of his eyes, he looks like he's in so much pain, and he doesn't know who or what to trust. Sirens can be heard from down the street no doubt from the call you made to 911. The unsub raises his gun toward Spencer and Dr. Barton.

"Don't do it."

"I'm sorry."

Before Patrick can fire, Spencer shoots him in a spot that's not fatal. Dr. Barton turns to Spencer to help him but the young doctor waves him off.

"I'm fine. Go to him. Kick his gun away. Make sure his gun is not near him."

Dr. Barton kicks the gun away before assessing the wound on Patrick.

"No, don't touch me. Oh, I want to die. Oh, don't touch me," Patrick weeps.

"I need to stop the bleeding."

"Let me die."

"The medics are almost here. Can you keep him stabilized?" Spencer asks.

"Yes, I think so." Seconds later, the ambulance and police arrive. "Hold on, they're right here. Help is coming, alright?" They get out of their car and rush over with equipment. "We need a backboard and a C-collar. Put pressure on this right here. Call ahead to the ER and tell them they got a GSW to the thoracic cavity, and have him redlined to the OR stat."

"You got it."

"Don't touch me," Patrick cries.

Dr. Barton approaches Spencer and inspects the wound on his knee.

"It looks like it went clean through."

"You might have just saved his life."

"Keep pressure on this, okay?"

The team arrives with Jeffrey, and Spencer nods to the doctor's son.

"I'm good, I'm fine. Go to your son."

Jeffrey and his son embrace in a tight hug while the team joins Spencer's side with worry on their faces.

"Are you okay?" JJ asks.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"We'll get you to a hospital."

"No, you need to call Y/N. She's at the hospital with Hotch. He's been stabbed by Foyet."

x

Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

[artemisjpotter]

I have so many thoughts from Penacony’s latest quest that I just gotta rant about, but I’m going to start with Sunday because whew boy do I have a lot of thoughts about him in particular.

SPOILERS FOR 2.2

So we all knew Sunday was a bit of a “control freak” (to put it lightly) in 2.1 when he totally fucked with Aventurine’s mind with that Harmony brain altering shit, BUT this is a whole new level. This man thinks that the world does exist where only the “strongest” survive and the “weak” suffer (all relative terms, but he obviously views them as objective facts). He puts himself in the “strong” category and sees many others as “weak.” Hell, I’d go as far to say that he sees Robin as weak since he thinks she is an idealistic view of the world.

Regardless, he sees himself as the savior of the weak. More than that, he believes it’s his moral responsibility to help others. Sunday feels deeply for the suffering of others, and perhaps this is because he is deeply empathetic. But as we see it’s not all altruistic as he believes. Yes, he wants to end people’s suffering, but on his terms. He believes he is in a position where he can make people live peaceful lives. He doesn’t believe most people are capable of creating this kind of paradise, so he must create it himself. It’s a massive god complex mixed with an obsession of control that leads him to these conclusions.

And that ultimately is why I believe Sunday is antagonistic. There’s nothing inherently wrong with wanting to end people’s suffering—on the contrary, that shows you have deep empathy and care deeply for people. But at the same time, Sunday believes he should be in charge of people’s happiness. As we see in 2.2, he feels the need to control everyone by trapping them in a dream. He doesn’t ask for their consent nor let them leave if they wish. He is completely stripping people of their autonomy because he believes he knows what’s best.

This kind of mindset is actually very arrogant with is paradoxical to Sunday’s actual desires to help others. What makes Sunday believe he can strip people of their right to make decisions? What makes him think he is the one to control people and tell them how to live? That’s not altruistic—that’s the making of a dictator, someone who is so obsessed with power and control that they overlook the rights others have to free will and making their own choices.

So there’s nothing inherently wrong with the great dream he wants to give people. I don’t believe that life means you have to suffer and that it builds resilience. I don’t think suffering must be inherent for you to grow as a person, which is in itself a whole other topic. However, I also don’t believe it’s right to steal people’s rights to make their own decisions, no matter how altruistic you feel that you’re being. When you do that, you play God. You make yourself above everyone which means you’re above doing anything wrong and that your word is absolute. That is not moral and it never will be in my book.

So the TLDR version is this: there’s nothing wrong with Sunday’s desires to give people a great life in a dream, but there is something wrong, dangerous, and immoral about trapping people inside and stripping away their autonomy.

(I can’t believe HSR has me psychoanalyzing characters. That just shows how great the writing is)

[male-fictioner]

I Want You Back

Pairing: Yandere ex-bf Zac Efron x male reader

Category: Yandere

Warnings: stalking, possessive behavior, spying, manipulation, that's it ig

Word Count: 1.1k +

A/n: I had this sitting in my drafts for the longest of times, I finally had to write it. I'm not very good at writing yandere content, as I never have written in before. But I hope you like it.

You had met Zac a long time ago through some mutual friend. At that time you didn't know how things would end up. You and Zac quickly became friends and very close and soon you realised that you might have found someone you love. 

When Zac asked you out you couldn't have been happier. You were over the moon and had a perfect date. This was 4 years ago and within a while, you had made it official with each other. 

The relationship had been great for all the while you two dated. You did not have any complaints and he treated you like a prince and showered you with all the love and gifts. This is why he was so surprised when you broke up with him almost six months ago. 

That decision came when you felt very restricted and tired in the relationship. Don't get me wrong Zac is amazing but you needed to just be alone for a while and he didn't understand that.

Over the last few months, you felt guilty about breaking up with Zac after how well he treated you and loved you. And also because it seemed like the universe wanted you to get back together too. 

Everywhere you would go, you would be forced to remember Zac. Like when you saw this cute teddy bear near the stairs of your apartment complex. It was exactly like the one Zac had won for you at the Arcade for one of your dates. The resemblance was uncanny and made you wonder if it was that very same one. At first you thought maybe it's the effect of breaking up a relationship that lasted 4 years but after a while rather than missing him less, you started missing him more.

Every now and then, you were made to revisit a sweet memory you shared with Zac. This made you reconsider your decision. Made you doubt yourself. Made you think whether breaking up with Zac was the right thing to do. Did you make a huge mistake? Will Zac take you back?

You still weren't sure if you wanted to get back with him. So you ended up deciding to find a quick and easy rebound. Maybe this would help you move on.

Finding a rebound was not difficult at all. Guys nowadays want a quick and NSA fuck mostly. So you hooked up with a good looking guy you found on Grindr. 

This guy was so nice and sex with him was also amazing. After Zac you really hadn't been much physically or emotionally available for anyone and this was a welcome change in your life.

After you guys hooked up, this man asked you if you wanted to go out sometime. You really liked him so you agreed for the date. 

You and him texted back and forth for a couple of days. After careful consideration for both your schedules, you decided on a date, which was a week later. 

Imagine your shock when you showed up to the venue that was discussed, after dressing up nice and sexy, the man did not show up. Not only that, he did not respond to any of your texts, or pick up your call. After waiting almost an hour, you concluded that you had been ghosted. 

Feeling sad due to you getting stood up, you started going back home dejected. And you were standing face to face with the last person you had expected to see. 

“Y/n, what are you doing here?” Zac asked, feigning surprise.

“I could ask you the same thing,” you quipped not wanting to admit you were almost on a date.

“Well I was just passing by. But you look really nice. Very handsome. So naturally I'm curious.” He raised his arms to show that he did not mean to grill me or something. 

“I had a date, but he stood me up.” You admitted rather sheepishly remembering how Zac never made you wait. 

“He must be a fool to miss out on a date with you. I would give anything for that opportunity.” He replied earnestly. 

Seeing him and listening to his words made you feel more guilty. “I missed you,” you whispered, just loud enough for him to hear. All your thoughts and strength went away after realising how much you had missed your ex boyfriend after the break up.

“I miss you all the time,” he confessed. This made your heart melt a little. “Did you have dinner?” 

You just shook your head to indicate ‘no’. 

“Would you like to have dinner with me?” Zac asked, hopeful that you would say yes.

You just replied, “It's a date,” and dragged him along to the closest restaurant.

Over dinner, you discussed everything, including your reason for leaving him. Zac promised to make an effort to better understand your feelings and wants. You promised to let him know if it got too much so he can dial down a little. And with the help of clear and truthful communication, you both got back together.

Well truthful communication on your side at least. Because Zac had been keeping a secret from you that he was sure he would take it to his grave.

The secret was regarding how he got you. All those coincidences that led to this serendipitous moment, were no work of fate at all. They were all in the plot of the mastermind Zac Efron. 

You finding the teddy bear that looked exactly like the one you had from the arcade was because Zac kept it there. He had to go all around the town to find that exact teddy. He had memorised your schedule and positioned the teddy bear exactly in a place where you would spot him right away at the perfect time when you would be coming home from work. He also knew that you wouldn't be able to abandon such a cute teddy bear, you just would take it home with you. And what you could never know is that this seemingly harmless teddy bear was fitted with a camera and microphone by which Zac had been able to keep an eye on his darling and make sure he is safe. And if he needed to beat anyone up if you brought them home with you (which you didn't, making Zac believe that you still love him). 

The fact that he could jerk off to your naked body was just an added benefit. He could see all your actions and he did not believe it to be wrong because he was just taking care of you. 

Every time you would see something related to Zac, it was because he had planned it that way. And he was glad he did because he finally got to have you back.

Now that he had you, he planned to never let you go away from him. No matter how far he had to go.

Your feedback and comments are highly appreciated. Also my requests are open!!

[genshingorlsrevengeance]

(I am so happy to find someone writing for Trails women, thank you for existing)

So, there was an ask about Gundam heavy arms custom. And Cold Steel literally has humanoid mechs. So how about a NC7 Student S/O who does these crazy machinegun acrobatics in a Panzer Soldat, with Juna, Altina, Musse, and Rean(platonic, because Teacher/Student is bad civilisation).

(Trails of Cold Steel) Juna, Altina, Musse, and Rean watching Reader's Soldat perform insane acrobatics

On the Rean teacher/student part, absolutely based.

First of all, Juna didn't even know Panzer Soldats could even jump into the air like that.

Second of all, WHAT?!

(Juna) "H-Hey, are you done showing off?! How did you even do that anyways?!"

Juna is more annoyed than anything.

Okay so MAYBE it was pretty cool, but there's no need to do that kind of showmanship in a damn training exercise!

(Juna) "Stop trying to make the rest of us look lame, S/O!"

She pouts a little in both annoyance, and jealousy.

Altina blinks twice at the sight.

(Altina) "(Y/N), that was entirely unecessary."

Altina did not care that her classmate just performed an impossible feat on a several ton mech.

It was flamboyant to the point of reminding her of Millium.

And she did not like anything that reminded her of Millium.

(Altina) "Please do not risk hurting yourself or the Panzer Soldat during training, (Y/N)."

Her robotic voice requested, brow slightly furrowing.

Musse can't help but clap at the show she just witnessed.

(Musse) "Impressive, S/O! You certainly know how to make an entrance!"

Oh yeah, it was extra as hell but Musse has to give respect where it's due!

She wouldn't want to do the same, surprisingly, since that was a good way to get shot during an actual combat situation.

But in times like this, it made her proud that she could call S/O hers.

(Musse) "Think you can teach me that? I'd like to impress our dear Instructor as well!"

Rean and Valimar just watch in complete disbelief as (Y/N) landed in front of him, inside a giant robot.

(Valimar) "Was that necessary?"

(Rean) "Uh, I think the better question we need to ask is how?!"

Rean has seen a lot of stupid stunts pulled in his short life, but this probably took the cake.

At least until next week, before Musse or Ashe tries anything else anyway.

Rean crosses his arm inside the cockpit shaking his head.

(Rean) "Alright, so you can move pretty quickly. But that doesn't give you an advantage in combat whatsoever!"

(Y/N) "But Instructor Rean, you fly in with Valimar all the time!"

(Rean) "Because he's a Divine Knight! He's powered by...-"

Rean just sighs loudly as he facepalms.

(Rean) "Look, as your Instructor, I cannot in good conscience let you put yourself in that kind of needless danger! Tita is probably going to have to do all sorts of repairs on the legs from that landing alone!"

(Y/N) "...But it was still pretty cool right?"

(Rean) "...See me after Class, (Y/N)."

(Y/N) sigh "Yes, Instructor..."

[interstellarflare]

Don’t Blame Me || Homelander

-PART TWO-

Warnings: Gore, violence, course language, angst, mature themes, 18+.

Summary: After several long and uneventful months since John’s abrupt departure, Vought’s plan to present the Cerberus project to the public as a superhuman taskforce roughly forces you back into working with The Boys. This time, things will be more difficult as new threats arise, and former friends turn against each other. And all for what? Love makes people crazy, and John will stop at nothing to protect you.

Authors Note: SEQUEL SERIES TO BEND AND BREAK. Here it is! The long awaited sequel to Bend and Break. I am so excited to be writing this, I have so many surprises in store that you guys simply aren’t ready for. If time permits with university starting back up again, I plan for this series to be a little longer than its predecessor. Unfortunately the update schedule will remain the same as I will be very busy, but any spare minute I have will be dedicated to getting this series out there. So please enjoy Don’t Blame Me. A tag list is currently open for anyone wishing to be notified for future parts. Gif by @energyending

|PART ONE|

Ever since Stan Edger had come into power, Vought had prospered.

Everywhere you looked throughout the city, there was always some form of advertisement that played on the amazing power of The Seven, and the heroic sacrifice Stormfront and The Deep had made in order to ‘protect the people’.

It made you sick.

Memories from that night haunted you day and night, when they had come to your apartment to kill you. You could still feel the phantom splinters of wood in your skin, your body aching at the memory of Stormfront throwing you into the cabinets. You swore that even after a year, you still had those bruises. Taking a deep breath, you tried to calm your racing heart, and the feeling of panic that began to settle in the pit of your stomach. The noise of the city began to blend together in a chorus of people shouting, cars honking, and tyres screeching.

You closed your eyes briefly, being pushed along by the crowds of people as you tried to calm yourself down. Your hands began to shake, your chest began to tighten. You felt like you couldn’t breathe, and your eyes began to sting with tears. You were growing angry and frustrated with yourself, pushing your way through the waves of people before finding yourself in a small dirty alley. You made a beeline for one of the dumpsters, crouching down behind it as you allowed yourself a moment of silence to calm down. All the noise of the city seemed so distant now as you focused on trying to calm yourself down, breathing through that sick feeling as it threatened to spill over.

You swallowed the bile in your throat, the last thing you wanted to do was vomit in some disgusting alley. The mere thought of someone seeing you like this filled you with an overwhelming sense of embarrassment. As you slowly began to calm down, you lifted your gaze upward towards the sky, and released a long sigh as you watched the small patch of open sky that protruded through the buildings around you. Covered by a thick layer of grey clouds, you could feel a few small drops of rain settle on your cheeks.

A smile formed on your lips, a tired sob escaping you as you allowed yourself to lean back against the alley wall with your body relaxing completely. You brought your knees to your chest and closed your eyes, enjoying the feeling of the raindrops against your skin. As it began to rain harder your smile only widened, but you couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of sadness replace your previous panicked state. The source of this sadness had been playing on your mind since…since John left.

An overwhelming sense of loneliness settled on your chest, another sob escaping you as you allowed yourself this moment of vulnerability. You missed him so much, you needed him, now more than anything. But you couldn’t…you just…couldn’t. He left to protect you, but you felt as if everything was falling apart, more than it already was.

A shadow suddenly appeared over your closed vision, the feeling of the raindrops on your face disappearing. Opening your eyes abruptly, you had to blink in order to see through the blurring of tears, but once your vision cleared, your eyes widened as a grateful smile formed on your lips.

Noir stood before you, staring down at your huddled frame with an umbrella in hand extended over you as he shielded you from the rain. His head tilted sideways as he seemingly looked you over, examining you for any signs of harm, his spare hand clenching into a fist by his side. You grinned at his stance, a small chuckle leaving you as you fixed your position and ended up crossing your legs.

“How did you find me?” you asked softly, giving him a small, embarrassed smile. In typical Noir fashion he remained silent, but there was something about his body language that told you everything you needed to know. You sighed, pressing your lips into a thin line “Okay, different question. How long have you been following me?” You spoke calmly, wiping your eyes and staring up at the Super before you questioningly. Noir’s shoulder’s slumped, his head falling slightly as his head moved back into an upright position. You nodded slowly, the answer coming to you from his silence.

“A while huh?” You mumbled, sniffling lightly as you slowly moved to get up off the alley floor. Once stood to your feet, you brushed off your pants and groaned at the dust and dirt that fell off her clothes. As it began to rain harder, Noir extended the umbrella towards you, wiggling his hand slightly in gesture. You laughed, taking the umbrella from him with a grateful nod before looking him over.

“You know, you’ve only ever spoken to me once. I miss your voice you know, there’s no one around-“

“Oh I know, I’m just used to being quiet”.

You gave him a playful glare, sticking out your tongue and laughing softly. The Supe chuckled, shaking his head as he moved to stand under the umbrella with you. You stared into his eyes through his helmet, releasing a short sight. “It’s good to see you, Noir.”

“You too…” he spoke kindly, gesturing towards you with his hand, “…how long has this been going on?”

“It’s nothing to worry about-“

“Don’t be stupid, Y/n. How long-“

“I’m fine, really…” you tried to deflect, shrugging your shoulders nonchalantly with an exasperated huff  “…really. I just need to work some things out.”

You knew that Noir didn’t believe a word you said, the way his head tilted slightly confirmed your suspicions. But he didn’t question you as you watched his shoulders tense up once again. Just when you thought that the topic had been dismissed, you heard Noir sigh heavily.

“He listens to you, you know”.

Your eyes widened, and your heart began to beat faster. You looked up at the Supe with confused expression, taken aback by his sudden admission.

“…He…he what?”

Noir stepped closer to you, only mere inches away as he spoke softly, “Homelander. He didn’t want me to tell you, and he’s probably listening to us now, but I don’t give a shit. He misses you, a lot.” Your eyes stung with tears once more, but you quickly wiped them away with your free hand. Your heart swelled and your mind raced as you released a shaky breath. “What do you mean he listens?”

“I mean exactly that. He listens to make sure you’re okay, making sure that Stan keeps his promise. If you ever need him, all you have to do is call, and he’ll be there”.

You felt you heart swell as you nodded slightly, releasing a short sigh. The two of you stood in a comfortable silence for a while, until your phone began to ring in your jacket pocket. You groaned, Noir chuckling as you grabbed your phone, and frowned at the number displayed on the screen. You didn’t recognise it, but a strange feeling urged you to answer the call.

Pressing the phone to your ear, you spoke softly. “Hello?”

“Hello. Am I speaking with Y/n Ln?”

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, “It is…sorry, who am I speaking to?”

“Sorry, this is Mr. Lautner. I am the principal here at Max’s school and I was wondering if I could talk to you about your nephew?”

Your eyes widened, your gaze flickering to the Supe beside you as he tilted his head to the side in confusion. “Oh um, sure. Did something happen?-“

“There’s been an incident at the school, and we need you to come in. I understand if you can’t, but we’ve already tried contacting both parents and neither of them have answered their phones. We don’t usually do this, but you are the only other adult we could contact, and Max asked for you.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and but your lip. Anger and frustration bubbled inside you, not at your nephew, but at his parents. Your brother, Michael, should have been available. Since the divorce had been put through, he had a lot of free time lately. And his ex-wife Laura, who knows. But surely, she would take time off work to help her son, right?

You nodded, though the principal couldn’t see you and sighed. “Yeah, I’ll be there in half an hour.”

“Thank you, Miss L/n. We’ll see you soon.”

After ending the call, you clenched your jaw as you gave Noir a thin smile. “I have to go…it was good seeing you.”

The Supe nodded wordlessly, though you knew that behind that mask, he was giving you a kind and knowing smile. You tried gave him back the umbrella, which the Supe declined and gestured for you to keep it. With a small laugh and a roll of your eyes, you waved goodbye to the Supe and left the alley, re-joining the crowds of the busy city as you made your way towards Max’s school.

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[soracities]

Me and my gf of 4 years broke up recently and the last few months, as things got worse, I was writing really well. You know that Siken tweet about the vocabulary of loss being the dictionary? But now that we've finally broken up I cant write anything.

I've always used writing to process things - I need to write stuff, to sound it out, to see if thats how I feel. I don't know what's going on. I assume I'm just not feeling my feelings but I don't know how to do it.

I'm sure I'll be fine, this is not an SOS, but do you have any tips? It feels like Im stuck and its frustrating.

Love ur blog and your kind words, stay safe, have fun, X

I'm really, really sorry about your breakup anon, and I'm sorry too that you're going through such a frustrating an difficult time in the wake of it all. Someone asked about writer's block a while back which I answered here, though I don't know how much of it will help in this particular situation.

I think it's interesting that you make a distinction between processing your feelings and actually feeling them--why are they different? do you think you're removed from your feelings when you're writing to process them? And if so, is writing in order to process something actually putting you in touch with the real, raw emotion or simply breaking it down without fully acknowledging and being present with those feelings?

I ask because I'm also someone who needs to write and sound my feelings out sometimes, but I've found I'm also someone who runs a deep risk of intellectualising my feelings when I do write about them--writing, even when processing, happens at a distance for me and in some ways I've found it's more an escape than a confrontation; my feelings, when I write about them (and I rarely do it because of this, and other reasons), turn into a narrative that circumvents the simple acknowledgement of "x happened. I feel y," and moving on. I'm not saying that this is you, but as someone who often has difficulty feeling my feelings, even through personal writing, it may be worth asking if your writing, much as it helps you process, might also be a way of avoiding a necessary confrontation with your emotions and just sitting with them, before writing about them. As I said, feeling my feelings is something I struggle with, but a dear friend shared this chart which has done wonders for me, so maybe it can help you, too (I hope)

I think it's also important to acknowledge that 4 years is a long, long time to be with someone and then no longer be with them. And if things, as you said, were particularly bad in the past few months before it happened, it could simply be that you, your mind, needs a period of stillness and recovery to full come to terms with what has happened. You have to let the reality of it all settle in, and maybe you cannot write as you used to right now because that settling hasn't fully happened yet; some things don't need to be analysed in the moment--they simply need an acknowledgement and that alone is enough to give some breathing space. I don't know if any of this will help you, anon, but I sincerely hope you can take something from it. I hope in time you are able to come back to yourself in the healthiest way for you 💗

[stevethehairington]

really fucking sick and tired of people who really fucking love the eddie book jumping on people who don't like or are even remotely critical of it's posts and like crusading their opinions around from the top of their high horses and shoving it down our throats.

if you like the book, great! that's awesome! love that for you! i am genuinely glad that you were able to find good in it and enjoy it!!

but not everyone did, and not everyone is going to agree with you. so, instead of going on some grand crusade where you find every single post that includes anything even remotely negative or negative adjacent or even neutrally critical and spending ALL this time and effort trying to provide unwanted rebuttals to every single thing, maybe you should just stay in your lane and find people who DO like the book and chat about it with them.

because i can PROMISE YOU, none of us appreciate it when you come onto our posts and start accusing us of "hating on" the author or "being rude" about her and her work and RIDICULOUS shit like that.

being critical of something and pointing out it's flaws is NOT inherently hating on it. i, frankly, do not know where people got that notion, but it's not fucking true so can we fucking quit assuming it is? and, critiquing something is also NOT the same as saying this is shit and it sucks and the author is a piece of garbage. again, where the fuck that came from is beyond me. you can be critical of something and still enjoy it. as soooo many of you love to point out, it's not perfect, why should it be perfect? so D U H. of course that means criticism can and should arise???

also. hot take (by which i mean ice fucking cold because it's NOT a fucking hot take), but going around toting FALSE facts as part of your "defense" does not make you or your argument look good. you, like the author, should maybe do a basic fact check first. 🙃

tldr, if you like the book, that's genuinely great, but stay in your fucking lane and stop seeking out posts from people who didn't like it to start shit in the notes.

[disaster-catalyst]

another dp x dc prompt that will not leave my brain unless I write it down :

tim drake in a desperate attempt to save/revive a loved one (can be batman, superboy, or whoever else) turns to the ghost king for help

danny, meanwhile, already have been warned by clockwork to not meddle with this particular timeline decides instead to help in some other means

[deus-and-the-machina]

ffxiv garlemald discourse is so funny because people will go "ugh people just cant stand it when things aren't black and white" and then you look at how the empire are portrayed in stormblood and shadowbringers and its like hm. that seems like a pretty intense and accurate display of violent imperialism to me! Wow I wonder why people in this day and age may find it hard to feel sympathy for them or even hate them on principal. god its such a mystery.

the games like 50/50 to me on how it tackles these themes because I actually like the garlemald arc in EW, I think it has a lot of horrific and powerful scenes depicting how self destructive fascist propaganda and beliefs are, but I also think it doesn't go far enough on some fronts. the garleans' xenophobia is most notably and obstacle to getting them to accept the contingent's help, which is what they're there to do,

but there's never an admission of harm from any garleans on the uuuuuuuuh massive amount of war crimes the nations around them are still suffering from they're just kind of like "we misjudged you...but you actually wanted to help us all along" like yeah thats great now can we get you all some deprogramming because you keep talking about returning to your prime and glory days and I think we need to unpack some stuff you really SHOULDNT return to. im not even really talking about EW proper but the patches where things are a bit more chilled out and people are recovering.

It feels like they wanted to have their critique of imperialism and also have things end with the beauty of human connection and reaching out and these things just don't mesh well because hey a lot of your modern day audience is not gonna like having to treat people yelling xenophobic things at the cast and your character with kid gloves after you showed them hours and hours of the awful things these people's beliefs have done. especially in the present day hoo boy.