#I’M SO NERVOUS ABOUT POSTING THIS BUT IT’S FINE

[milk-is-stable]

The Shoot From the Hip Hunger Games: Day 2

Masterpost (<-START HERE! the posts are best read in order)

Content Warning: descriptions of violence, blood/injury, suicide ideation, major character death

The sun rises on the second day of the Hunger Games, and the TV flickers to life as the Capitol anthem plays. A beautiful aerial shot of the arena fills the screen, before the camera zooms down beneath the trees to show the tributes beginning their day. 

The first group the camera shows is the largest: Michael, Pinocchio, Peter, and Sally. The four are sitting around a campfire, roasting a freshly skinned rabbit. 

“How did you know how to set that trap?” Pinocchio asks, and Sally shrugs. 

“Well, I spent a lot of time alone after my sister got married,” she says. “So I occupied myself by reading through all the books in my father’s library. One of them was on wilderness survival, and I’ve always had a very keen memory.”

“That’s certainly a useful skill,” Michael says. “Are we going to stay allies for the time being, then?” 

Peter nods, licking the grease from his fingers.

“I think so. I certainly feel better being in a large group of people.”

“Aye, that’s true,” Pinocchio says, looking off into the trees. “For now, at least.” 

“Then we should decide whether our focus is on other individuals or on alliances. Not to mention make sure we have enough food.”

“We could split up jobs?” Peter suggests. “Have some people make sure we get food, have others go out scouting?”

No one objects to his idea, and after some discussion Michael and Pinocchio agree to go scouting for information on other tributes’ whereabouts while Sally and Peter look for food and clean water. 

“Meet back here by midday to share what we’ve learned,” Michael says, then he and Pinocchio head off into the trees. 

Sally waits until they’re gone, then takes a deep breath.

“Right then,” she says, getting to her feet. 

“I appreciate the fire and the company, but I’ll be off now.” 

“Hang on, what?” says Peter. “I thought we had a plan!”

“You three have a plan, I’m just not going to be part of it.” 

“If you didn’t like the idea, then why didn’t you say so earlier?” Peter asks, and Sally sighs. 

“The idea is fine, I just don’t want to be in this alliance, period.” 

“But staying in a group is so much more dangerous than being alone…” says Peter, and Sally runs a hand through her hair.

"I'm not against the idea of working with another tribute on principle, I just...I don't want to work with either of them, alright?"

Peter tilts his head.

"Why not?"

"Well...I have a sort of...let's call it a gift, for reading people's intentions. And I don't like the feeling of either of those two. Michael is nice enough, but I think whatever it is he's been through has given him a hard edge. Not only that, but he hides it well, and that makes me nervous. I don’t know how long he’d be willing to play allies for."

"Pinocchio seems fine," Peter protests, but Sally shakes her head.

"Pinocchio isn't taking the loss of his sister well, and his grief makes him unpredictable. And unpredictability is the last thing I want to deal with in this place. So I'm leaving, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't follow me."

"What can you tell about my intentions, then?" Peter asks. "I don't want to hurt anyone, why can't we stay allies?"

Sally smiles sadly.

"I know you don't want to hurt me, but you've got a family you want to get back to, don't you? Can you honestly say you wouldn't do what you had to in the end, if it meant you got to see your mum again?"

He doesn't answer, and Sally nods.

"That's what I thought. Take care out there, Peter. I hope for both our sakes that we don't meet again.” 

She turns and walks into the trees, and the shot fades away, before fading into a shot of Inga, Johnny, and Priscilla packing up their supplies for the day.

"Did you have any dreams last night, Johnny?" Inga asks, and the boy nods, picking at his fingernails nervously.

"I dreamed that you found a plant in the woods that we could use to help us if we got hurt, and you were sharing it with me and the boy from Seven."

"Any sign of your brother?" asks Priscilla. Johnny looks at her for a moment, then shakes his head.

"Well, I guess we'd better start looking for some medicinal herbs then," Inga says, slinging her pack over her shoulder. "Luckily, I'm very good at plants and things."

"And we can do some hunting at the same time," Priscilla says, holding up her bow and arrow. "That way we don't have to eat the jerky right away."

"As long as you're sure you can hit your target and not scare it off," Inga says, and Priscilla makes an indignant noise.

"I can too hit a target! I practiced in the training room and I'm a good shot, see?"

She knocks an arrow, pulls back the string, and fires. The arrow flies directly into a bush at the edge of the clearing.

Inga has just enough time to raise an unimpressed eyebrow before a baseball sized rock comes flying towards them from the direction of the bush. Priscilla gasps in pain as the stone strikes her square in the collarbone,  knocking the wind out of her and sending her staggering back. Inga spins, drawing her knife, and Johnny ducks down, making himself a smaller target.

Marty bursts out into the clearing, a manic grin on his face and his hatchet in his hand. He runs straight towards Priscilla and swings the tool at her. She instinctively holds up her weapon to block his blow, then shrieks as the blade of the hatchet makes contact with her fingers where they're wrapped around the grip, slicing them clean off.

She drops her bow immediately, clutching her injured hand and sobbing in pain. Marty moves to swing the hatchet again, but Inga tackles him to the ground before he can strike.

Johnny hurries to Priscilla's side, helping her to her feet, but she looks up at him with tear-filled eyes.

"You have to run!" she cries.

"What about you?"

"You didn't see me in your dreams, did you?" she asks, and after a beat, Johnny shakes his head. "So you don’t have to think about me. Run!"

Priscilla turns and staggers off into the woods, and after a moment Johnny turns and runs in the opposite direction.

Meanwhile, Marty has managed to knock the knife out of Inga's hand and pin her to the ground. He reaches for his hatchet again, but before he can bring it down Inga knees him in the groin. As he lets out a moan of pain, Inga wriggles out from under him and runs into the woods herself. After a moment, Marty manages to get to his feet, his grip on the hatchet tightening.

"You'll pay for that, you bitch!" he shouts, and takes off after her as fast as he can.

The camera cuts to a close up of a berry bush, and a soft voice can be heard singing in the distance, gradually getting louder and louder, as though the singer is walking closer to the camera.

"Lady-bird, Lady-bird, fly away home, The field mouse is gone to her nest"

A hand appears in the shot, pulling some berries from the bush. The camera pulls back to reveal Benjamin gathering the berries into the pockets of his jacket.

"The daisies have shut up their sleepy red eyes, and the birds and the bees are at rest," he sings.

His eyes are distant and bloodshot, as though he spent the night crying.

"Lady-bird, Lady-bird, fly away home. Your house is on fire, Your children are gone. All except one, and her name is Ann, for she hid under the frying pan."

The camera cuts away and shows a view of Julian, who is wrestling with a pile of thin branches in an attempt to get them to stand upright. He tries to use a length of tall grass to lash them together, but he is unsuccessful and the branches clatter to the ground.

"Want a hand with that?" a voice asks, and Julian spins around, brandishing one of the sticks like a baseball bat.

"Whoa, it's okay." Chip holds up his hands in surrender. "I just want to talk."

"...what about?" Julian asks, and Chip takes a deep breath.

"My ally, she betrayed me. She took off in the middle of the night with my food, and I'm not too keen on trying to deal with the likes of Caesar or Robin without help. I wondered if you'd want to team up."

Julian hesitates, but then he nods, and Chip smiles.

"Here. I do have some string in this bag," he says, sliding a small backpack from his shoulders. "Let's see if we can get a lean-to built, then we'll go foraging."

The two begin gathering up the branches and arranging them into the vague shape of a shelter, and the camera zooms out.

It zips over the treetops in a blur of green before leaving the woods behind, coming to rest over the more sparse, rocky landscape of the northern part of the arena. There is movement visible down among the rocks, and the camera pushes in to show Janae and Robin in the throes of a confrontation near the edge of a ravine.

Janae brandishes his makeshift spear, but Robin is armed with a proper, Capitol-made steel mace, and when he swings the weapon it breaks the end off of Janae's filed down tree branch as easily as a child snapping a pencil. Janae's eyes dart around, looking for any chance of escape, but as his foe closes in there's nowhere for him to go. Robin swings the mace, and Janae instinctively leans back to try and avoid the attack. In doing so, he loses his footing, and with a shout of alarm he stumbles backward down the ravine. Robin runs closer, peering over the edge just in time to see Janae's body roll to a stop at the bottom of the valley and to hear a cannon shot echo through the arena. He lets out a sigh, then turns away from the scene, his mouth a grim line of determination.

The camera cuts to show Hugh, who is walking sluggishly through the forest. His eyes are sunken, and his chest rises and falls with short, quick breaths. He looks around as he walks, squinting at the trees suspiciously.

"You can't be here!" he calls loudly into the woods. "You're not here! You leave me alone!" He stops, turns a few times, then shakes his head and covers his ears. "You're not here!" he repeats in a loud voice. "You're gone! We beat you! Get out of my head! Leave me alone!"

As the shot pulls back into an aerial shot, his cries are still audible until the camera finally cuts.

The focus is now on Sally, who is walking through the forest alone. She has taken her jacket off and is using it as a makeshift bag, and it is full of foraged berries, roots, and leaves. The sound of a quiet sob stops her in her tracks, and her eyes dart around, taking in her surroundings.

"Hello?" she calls after a moment, and a sudden hitch of breath draws her attention to a large pine tree.

There, curled up in the makeshift nest that she slept in, is Alexa.

Her eyes are puffy and red, and most of her dark hair has fallen out of her bun and hangs in a stringy curtain around her face. She looks up as Sally approaches, and her face crumples.

"If you're going to kill me, just do it quickly," she says, looking away.

"Hey, take it easy," says Sally, her voice gentle. "I'm not going to kill you."

"No?" Alexa asks, and Sally shakes her head.

"No."

"Oh." Alexa wraps her arms around herself and looks away. "Well, you should."

Sally carefully sits down a few feet away, leaving plenty of space between herself and the little girl.

"Why is that?" she asks, and Alexa sniffles.

"Because it would be easy for you," she says. "Because I am small and weak and useless, and I cannot even last a day in these woods by myself. Because Janusz..." she hiccups, and her eyes fill with fresh tears. "Because Janusz is dead, and it's all my fault, and I don't deserve to be here anymore."

She buries her face in her knees, her shoulders shaking with sobs, and Sally lets out a sigh.

"Oh, sweetheart," she murmurs, edging closer to the little girl and placing a hand on her shoulder. "None of that is true. None of it at all."

"It IS true," Alexa insists. "If I- if I hadn't sent Janusz away, then maybe he...he wouldn't have gotten...I was just trying to protect him, but I did it wrong, just like I always do everything wrong..."

"Do you know how Janusz died?" Sally asks, and Alexa shakes her head.

"I, I guess not, but-"

"Then you can't say it was your fault," Sally says firmly. "You have no way of knowing for sure, and thinking about what might have happened will only make you miserable, trust me."

"I..." Alexa gulps. "I don't want to be here anymore. Not without him."

"I know," says Sally. "But do you know what else I know?"

"What?"

"I know that Janusz cared about you very much. And he wouldn't want you to give up now. He would want you to keep fighting, as hard as you can for as long as you can."

"Really?"

"Really."

"How do you know for sure?" asks Alexa, and Sally smiles.

"I have very good intuition. You could even call it a gift. Here. Are you hungry?" She holds out her makeshift bag of food, and after a moment Alexa takes a handful of berries.

"Everything's going to be alright, Alexa," Sally says, wrapping an arm around the girl's shoulder. "I promise."

The camera cuts abruptly from a close up of Alexa to a close up of Pinocchio as he and Michael walk through the woods.

"I'm not crazy, right? This was the spot?" Michael asks, and Pinocchio nods.

"This is the same grove of trees."

"And yet our supplies are missing, and so are two of our allies," says Michael, looking around suspiciously. "You don't think they betrayed us, do you?"

"I don't know," Pinocchio says, shrugging. "Neither one seemed very malevolent to me, though."

"I don't like this." Michael looks around. "It feels like we're walking right into some kind of tr–”

Before he can finish, a knife comes flying out of the trees and embeds itself into his side. Michael's surprised cry of pain is drowned out by the sound of Caesar yelling as he and Jasper charge towards the campsite. Pinocchio tries to draw his own knife, but he is too slow and before he fully has it ready, Caesar thrusts his trident into Pinocchio's stomach.

"Oh..." Pinocchio's eyes go wide and he falls backwards, hitting the ground with a dull *thud.*  

"That's what you get for messing with us, you little freak," Caesar growls, yanking his trident free.

"Caesar! The other one's getting away!" Jasper calls, and Caesar turns to see Michael staggering off into the trees.

"After him!" he shouts, and the two allies take off in pursuit.

The camera stays on Pinocchio's face and he coughs, blood spurting from his lips as he looks up at the sky.

"I'll be with you soon, sorella mia," he says. "I'm sorry...Papa."

The light fades from his eyes, and as the camera zooms out to show his body lying in a pool of blood, a cannon shot echoes through the arena.

The broadcast will now break for commercial. Please tune in again soon to see what else will become of our tributes on the first day of the games!

Game Summary

Deaths:

Pinocchio was killed by Caesar and Jasper

Janae was killed by Scottish Robin

Kill Counts:

Pinocchio: 2 (Maria, Jimmy)

Inga: 1 (Jim L)

Caesar: 2 (Juliet, Pinocchio)

Chip: 1 (Clarissa)

Jasper: 1 (Pinocchio)

Robin: 1 (Janae)

Game Meta

Pinocchio, more like Pinocchi-noooo.....My heart is broken and my dreams are shattered, but the show must go on. The biggest change today was, for some reason, Michael got another picture of his family from a sponsor. Someone just really wants him to think of his maybe-divorced-maybe-back-together parents, I guess. So I had to come up with original things for him to do that incorporates some setup for things that will happen in the next Night and Days to come. I also decided to make Janae's cliff death a little more dramatic by giving it, at least indirectly, to Robin. (apologies if this one is a little sloppier than the previous days, I didn't have as much time to edit it as I'd have liked. thanks for reading!)

[alor-ika]

Or should I call you Scorch?

How Scorch got his name

Word count: about 1100 words

Warnings: no warnings

Summary: I have never written fanfic before but you have all inspired me. I thought I’d start off with a straightforward rendition of how Scorch got his name for the day 1 prompt ‘you’re hurt.’ New to posting text here so please bear with me! I don't know how to use the cool headers and dividers. :(

RC-1262 looked nervously around at the other commando cadets in the clinical white room. It was just like all the other rooms on Kamino, at least all the other rooms he’d seen. Usually he only trained with his brothers, but today was demolitions training. Just him, Sergeant Vau, and the other cadets selected to be the demo specialists for their squads.

“Are you ready RC-1262?” Vau asked without looking at the cadet. RC-1262 snapped to attention. “Yes sir!” he barked his reply, looking straight ahead.

Vau glanced down at the curly haired boy who was clearly trying not to sound too eager. He’d chosen RC-1262 to be Delta Squad’s demolitions expert because was smart, calm enough, and he’d shown some aptitude for the calculations required to mix the explosives properly. Not enough and you’d be dead. Too much and, well, you’d also be dead. ‘Yes,’ Vau thought to himself confidently, ‘I made the right choice for this position.’

The boy didn’t need to know that, though. “Get everything right the first time, RC-1262. Do not embarrass me.” With that, Vau walked off to join the other trainers.

The cadets were tasked with making increasingly complex and intricate detonators, ones that could blow open doors and blow up droids and organics of various sizes. Scorch was the first one to figure out and complete every objective. Finally, they were on the last – and most complex – detonation exercise.

“Are you sure you want that much baradium in a practice det?”

RC-1262 raised an eyebrow as he glanced up to see who was questioning him. RC-1136. Darman from Theta Squad. One of Skirata’s boys. Soft.

“I know what I’m doing RC-1136” he scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “Worry about yourself and that shabla excuse for a det in front of you.” Darman kicked his seatmate’s leg. “Mine’s just fine, mir’sheb di’kut” he retorted, a bit too loudly.

Vau was on them in a second. “What are you two babies crying about?” he hissed, his gold eyes narrowed angrily.  Neither cadet spoke. Vau grabbed the collars of both their fatigues, lowered his head and repeated the question, letting go of them with a push.

"RC-1136 questioned the amount of baradium I put in this det AND he called me a mir'sheb di’kut." "Sir” RC-1262 added hastily. Darman looked at 62 and the tall stern training sergeant. He scurried to the safety of the next table, leaving his unfinished det behind. All the cadets knew about Vau and Darman did not want to be in his line of fire.

Vau sighed and removed his helmet. He looked around the room imperiously. This was a training class after all, he thought, deciding to give RC-1262 a chance to explain himself. “Well, did you do it properly?”

“Yes sir!” came the enthusiastic reply. “Watch!” he said putting it in the uncovered transparisteel box in front of him. Once he pushed the remote button the resultant puff of smoke and small boom would finally, hopefully, make Sergeant Vau proud of him.

Disoriented, RC-1262 looked around from his position on the floor, a few metres back from where he’d been seconds earlier. His ears were ringing, and his fatigues were damp, the sprinklers in the ceiling having been activated. Someone picked him up and transported him to another room. RC-1262 squeezed his eyes shut and mentally catalogued all his extremities. He knew what happened to cadets who were injured.

A few minutes later, RC-1262 found himself in the medbay, being scanned by a droid-medic. “Am I going to be exterminated?” RC-1262 asked Sergeant Gilamar, trying not to sound nervous. Gilamar, the Mandalorian head medic, glanced over in a not unkindly way. He shut down the droid-medic and explained: “you’ve burnt some skin on your face and cut your head on a chair when you flew backward. Nothing too serious. You’ll be fine in a day or two.” RC-1262 looked around, relieved. He sat up on the med bed. “No, they won’t be terminating you,” Gilamar concluded sternly, thinking of the Kaminoans he’d come to loathe over the past few years.

“You might wish you were marked for termination though,” Sev’s voice sniggered from the corner. Gilamar and RC-1262 looked over to see the three other members of Delta Squad peering at them slyly.

“Once you see what you did to Sarge’s face, you might request termination” Fixer commented, sounding more serious than his brother.

“Oh SHAB” RC-1162 yelped, looking around for Vau. Terminated before he even got to choose a name for himself.

 “Sargent Vau is in there” Gilamar told the cadets, motioning ominously to a second door. The four boys silently made their way to the door, nudged it open, and cautiously peered into the darkened room.

“Is he… Is he dead?” RC-1262 managed to squeak out. Sarge could be mean and rough, but they trusted him, and he always told them that he was teaching them to survive because that was the most important thing for a soldier. The four looked at each other nervously. Surely they’d be terminated for killing a trainer… even Vau.

“Of course I’m not dead!” A haughty voice snapped from the darkened room. Vau appeared in the doorway. The four boys huddled together, backing up.

“But you’re hurt! I hurt you!” RC-1262 gasped, looking at the bacta bandages on his training sergeant’s left cheek, neck, and forehead. Even part of eyebrow seemed to have been burned away.

“No sniveling! Besides, I’ve had worse,” Vau sneered, touching his temple rather gingerly. He looked at RC-1262 sternly. “You did an acceptable job today. You’ll make a fine detonation expert, RC-1262. Or should I call you Scorch?”

Vau opened the door leading to the hallway and waved his squad away. The cadets glanced at each other, confused. They saluted the two trainers and marched out of the medbay before Vau came to his senses. “Scorch!” Sev growled, trying out the name that had been bestowed on his brother. “It’s a di’kutla name but that’s fitting” Boss remarked. The four of them dissolved into laughter,  Fixer poking at Scorch’s bandaged face.

Back in the medbay, Gilamar regarded the other man carefully. He had been half expecting Vau’s wrath, but Vau seemed very much unconcerned. “Walon” he hedged, “I thought you’d be angry with Scor - - er, RC-1262.”

Vau looked to make sure the door was closed and the boys had left. “No, Mij,” he sighed, disappointed to have to explain himself. “It was my fault. I leaned too close to see the measurement line on the detonator.” He paused and looked around again. “But if you tell this to anyone, especially Skirata, you will regret it deeply.” Gilamar saw the slightest tug of a smile on the uninjured side of Vau’s face, but he didn’t comment on that; he simply nodded and passed Vau his jet black buy’ce.

Later that night, RC-1262 lay awake in his bunk as his brothers slept. “Scorch” he whispered to himself over and over, getting used to his name. ‘Yeah, that’s me. Scorch!’ he thought contentedly, finally closing his eyes. “Thanks Sarge and sorry about your eyebrow!”

@deltasquadweek

[timdrakewhump]

did... did that person see a post made by tumblr user "timdrakewhump" and not expect... tim drake in a whump situation?

Giggling yeah apparently. Their whole account is pretty much like that. This account is just a silly thing I do for fun, so I’m not that bothered, but the only mercy is that it was aimed at me and not someone else this time who might have taken it to heart. This is why people are scared to join fandom - post your ideas, post your fanon characters, post your writing and art and media!! For every person spewing hate I am here and I think you’re valuable to the fandom!!!!!

[bloobydabloob]

When you answered the ask asking about your art style (which is a post I keep looking back on bc what you have to say is very interesting) in one of your screenshots of you talking you mention something about how most if not all of your symbolism is self referent and I was wondering what you meant by that!

Hellloooo. I’m glad you found my ranting interesting. Here is some Dirk art I’m probably never going to finish for your troubles.

What I meant by that when talking about any symbolism in my art is that it doesn’t reference outside sources - e.g. where some art might use something like religious concepts, animals, real life events to represent ideas, I tend to use things more like colors, contrasting objects, composition. That sort of thing. So things that are inherently a part of the work itself rather than connections to the real world. If I ever do use symbolism otherwise, it’s usually comic related even still. Although I have done pieces with religious symbolism before too, haha.

I don’t know how to describe it other than “self referential” because I’m not really sure what else to classify that sort of symbolism as. Just… artistic maybe? Non literal? I couldn’t say. I think it all basically just goes along with the majority of my art nowadays being more figurative than literal. Sorry if this doesn’t explain it very well. It’s also funny to think that anyone is “Looking back” on any of my texts posts though, haha. To me I feel like I am just dumping my words on my poor followers. Surprising. Thank you for reading.

[bleue-flora]

Write the autitic c!dream essay🙏🙏

Why I think c!Dream is Autistic - Part 1

[context]

[Part 1] - [Part 2] - [Part 3]

Welp… I guess while on the topic of neurodivergence now is as good as time as any to do this. So, at long last…

Since every version of this essay ended up way too long I’m going to break it into 3 parts, and I'm going to make more generalized statements for the sake of brevity. So, if there are things about this or autism in general you would like more clarification on or know more about, my asks are always open (though I do ask that you please wait to flood my inbox until after you’ve read all parts). I would also like to add that for the same reason of length, I am not going to go in depth on all of the facets of autism and diagnosing it. I am not a psychologist, and this essay is not about defining autism and going into full depth about what it is, but about the specific aspects of Dream and the dsmp that I think point to autism, based on what I know and more importantly my experiences as an autistic person. Having said that, just so we are on the same page - Autism means that our brains are literally structured differently (also known as neurodivergent), which means we think differently and process the world differently, it does not make us inferior or broken or less than larger society (neurotypicals), it only means we are human beings who are wired differently.

Now, for part 1 I’m going to briefly go into the traits Dream has that I think point to autism, keeping in mind that this is not necessarily all inclusive, these are not necessarily autism exclusive, and some of these can be effected with masking and personal growth. 

Highly obsessive - in general and for specific interest, to the point of not taking care of oneself, like forgetting to sleep, eat, shower, or just not caring enough to do so. 

Strong willed, determined and dedicated - not going to give up easily, willing to stay up training or farming for long hours or put in the work especially for our obsession. Our priorities aren’t always productive, but we are not ones for laziness.

Isolated - outcast, odd ball out, set apart, on the outskirts, loner, alone even if surrounded by people.

Highly intelligent - smart, clever, big brained, skilled, knowledgeable to the point of ground breaking (ex: Einstein, Elon Musk, Michelangelo, Beethoven, Leonardo da Vinci…etc)

Trouble with emotions and feelings - from recognizing them, processing them, letting ourselves experience them, understanding them, leading us to often then lash out, explode, or have a meltdown.

All about the facts and truth - sometimes to an abrasive and candid point where it can become more important than how people feel or the main point.

Logical mindset - making decisions based on logic and strategy rather than on emotions to the point of struggling to understand others when they follow no such logic

“Black and White” thinking - right and wrong, good or bad, yes or no, on or off, love it or hate it, friend or foe. Everything is in extremes.

Rule follower, one to fight for justice and for others - we are stubborn and in our strong conviction we are out against injustice and misinformation, fairness and what is right and true is imperative. 

Unable to forgive and forget - hard to let things go. Often have good memories and are able to remember things with the same detail as if it were happening again and not years ago. It doesn’t really fade with time and that makes us easily hold grudges, and hold things and behavior against people.

Resistant to change -  doesn’t matter how big or small nor whether it’s good or bad, we are enemies of change. We like to understand so uncertainty and new things are often disagreeable.

Able to recognize patterns - able to see the full picture, see history repeating itself and people’s behavioral tendencies, which makes us good at scheming and masterminding. We hate change so we want to predict things to avoid being surprised. 

Trouble articulating our point - stuttering and stumbling over our words, because our brains are moving too fast for our mouth to keep up and it’s hard to explain ourselves because our brain works differently. (we’ll talk about this more in part 2)

Struggle with body language? - I mean it’s hard to say given the Minecraft format, but to me wearing a mask could be to avoid having to make eye contact (which I hate) and appropriate facial expressions and stuff like that, which are pretty important in diagnosis. So while some headcanon that Dream wears a mask because he's too expressive and doesn't like being exposed I actually think it might be the opposite and saves him a lot of effort and brain power to not have to worry about his facial expression. :)

Stimming - (yes an ADHD thing but also an autistic thing and it's very common for someone to be both - like me ;D) vocally and physically often when more stressed, again hard to say for a Minecraft man, but I see him constantly moving like pacing the cell or jumping around and stuff as stimming and he does vocally stim on occasion as well.

Or in other words - Reasons I think c!Dream is autistic:

C!Dream = me, me = autistic -> c!Dream = autistic… boom, shortest essay ever XD lol jk 

But seriously it is a major reason. I read a tumblr c!Dream character analysis (don't remember who's) back before I even joined tumblr and related soo much, which is pretty concerning when you relate to a villain - because like wait does that make me a psychopath? but I have empathy and I care and I'm not out to hurt people so why would I relate so much? And that's when I realized I think it is because he’s autistic like me so we think a like... I mean seriously the similarities are scarily uncanny down to things that have happened to me in real life…

Anyways, thank you for reading. I hope I made sense and got the idea across even by not going into super detail on all the points.

[masonheiralscrossbow]

obviously *canadian but i feel like this is how people talked about mason before he well. massacred everyone. lmao

[easypeasylindyvesey]

just letting y’all know that lindy’s arbitration hearing is scheduled for this friday😃😃😃

[thatone-churro]

shoutout to my roommate who blindly fed me panda puffs without seeing the “peanut butter” on the front of the box in big text so now she and my other roommate are watching me like a fucking hawk 👍

[capetowncapers]

My cat versus me telling her “I love you :)” every five minutes. She just needs to know.

[fingertipsmp3]

First volunteering shift tomorrow 😵‍💫

[daryltwdixon]

Joel Miller meeting your parents

this is just a stupid little thing from seeing this gif of him in this post ok thank you and goodnight. Been having writers block so if an idea can get this far on docs I’m posting it

|| fluff, little bit nsfw, daddy kink, old man joel, peepaw joel meets your parents, reader's dad is kind of a hard ass, I suck at flirty banter tbh, cracking up at some of the shit I put in here, enjoy ||

“Baby, I’m serious—” Joel said, but his hands betrayed him, gripping at your hips like he couldn’t help himself as you climbed into his lap. Your knees framed his thick thighs, still clad in worn denim, while his green plaid shirt had come untucked and bunched around his waist. A sliver of soft, tanned stomach peeked out as he leaned back against the bed frame.

“I’m serious too,” you murmured, voice thick with want as you pressed your mouth to his neck. Your fingers wove through his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. “Need you, Joel. Been thinking about this all day.”

“We’re gonna be late if you keep this up,” he rasped, even as his head tipped back to give you more of his throat, groaning low when your teeth grazed the scruff along his jaw.

“Don’t care,” you breathed, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “They’ll be fine.”

You hiked your skirt higher, rocking down against him, already expecting to feel that familiar ache of him beneath you—but instead, your hips stilled at the softness of his lap. You blinked, confused, pulling back just enough to search his face. But Joel wouldn’t meet your eyes. His gaze darted everywhere else, over your shoulder, to the wall behind you, the damn nightstand—anywhere but you.

“…Joel?”

He still wouldn’t look at you. You moved your hands to his chest, flattening them against the flannel, feeling the heavy thudding of his heart beneath your fingers.

“You okay?” you asked, softer now, studying him. He looked nice tonight with his hair slicked back, beard freshly trimmed, and his shirt sleeves rolled up just enough to show off the veins in his forearms.

You cocked your head, more curious than concerned now as you really looked at him. “Are you…” You reached up, cupping his jaw, gently turning his face until his eyes finally met yours. “Joel Miller, are you nervous?”

He let out a long breath, his voice low and a little rough. “Course I’m nervous, baby.”

“Why?” you asked, easing back in his lap. You could still feel the warmth of his hands on your hips, thumbs sweeping slow, steady circles. It was more soothing for him than you now, grounding himself in the feeling of you.

“Any man’d be nervous meetin’ his girl’s parents for the first time,” he muttered, eyes flicking away again. Then, quieter, “Even if they weren’t his own damn age…”

You smiled softly, leaning in to press a kiss to his lips—gentle, unhurried. He let you, kissing you back with a quiet sigh, the kind that said he was trying not to get pulled under. You hovered close, noses brushing, before pulling back just enough to meet his eyes again.

“They’re gonna love you,” you whispered.

Joel gave a dry huff, eyes flicking away. “They’re gonna think I’m a damn pervert.”

“You are a pervert.”

His gaze snapped back to yours, narrowing just a bit, the muscles in his jaw tightening. You didn’t miss the way his brows dipped or how his eyes darkened, heat stirring just beneath the surface.

You bit back a grin, fingers tracing along the collar of his shirt. “It’s one of my favorite things about you.”

He rolled his eyes, still glaring up at you, and you let your shoulders drop, giving in. “Okay, so you’re older than me, who cares? You’re also respectful. And kind. You’re a good man. You even built my cat a window catio.”

That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, though he still wouldn’t look at you.

“And you didn’t have to say yes to any of this,” you added, quieter now. “But you did.”

He let out a breath, one hand tightening just slightly at your waist.

You leaned in, your nose brushing his. “And if I thought for one second they wouldn’t like you, I wouldn’t be dragging you into this.”

Finally, his eyes flicked to yours, unsure but searching.

You gave him a small smile. “You’ve got nothing to prove. Just… be yourself. Maybe with slightly less scowling.”

His lips twitched into even more of a smile then, and you kissed the corner of his mouth, lingering there a moment. “But if it helps…” you murmured, lips grazing his jaw now, “I can think of something to get your mind off it for a minute.”

Joel let out a slow breath, one he’d been holding in the entirety of your reassurances, his head falling back against your pillows again.

You smiled against his throat, lips curved with mischief. “I mean… if you really want me to stop…” you murmured, pressing your mouth to the spot just under his jaw. “I could get off your lap.”

Your hips shifted like you might, and his grip on you instantly tightened.

“But then…” you went on, voice all innocent and sinful at once, “what should I do about all this?”

You reached down, took his hand in yours, and guided it between your thighs, right over your panties, where the heat of you was unmistakable. His palm pressed flush against the soaked fabric, and you felt his breath catch sharp in his chest.

He hummed low in his throat, something dark and approving, and as your fingers slipped away, his own pressed harder. His touch was firm, possessive, like he’d been dying to do it but holding back until now.

“This’s all for me?” he finally muttered, voice rough as gravel. “Just from sittin’ in daddy’s lap, huh?”

You whimpered, rocking into his hand, desperate for more friction as you nodded. He gave it to you, slow circles with his fingers that had your breath stuttering, your thighs trembling around his. Even with the fabric between you, you could feel his rough calloused pads of his fingers perfectly against the heat of you.

“Joel,” you whined, barely even meaning to say it.

With a grunt, he shifted, and suddenly your back hit the mattress with a soft thud. He was over you in a flash, his body heavy and hot as he settled between your legs, looking at you like he was starving.

“You got me all worked up now,” he muttered, voice thick and low as his hands dragged your skirt higher, exposing more of your thighs. “Can’t let you walk out that door like this.”

He dipped his head to your neck, lips brushing over your pulse point before suckling gently. The scrape of his beard followed, rough and hot, as he worked his way lower, mouthing at the curve of your collarbone. Then down further, pushing your shirt up as he went, lifting it just enough to mouth at the soft skin of your chest.

“Let me take care of you,” he rasped, dragging his tongue over the top of your breast, nipping at it like he couldn’t help himself. “Let me take care of this little problem, huh, baby?”

You let out a breathless laugh, your fingers tangling in his hair. “Knew I’d get your mind off it, old man.”

His hands were everywhere now—palming your thighs, gripping your hips, pushing your panties aside just enough to slide his fingers back where they belonged in your wet, glistening entrance. His mouth returned to your skin, kissing and suckling until your back arched and your breath hitched in your throat.

Joel finally lifted his head, eyes dark and hungry as he hovered over you.

“You gonna be the one tellin’ your parents why we’re late?” he quirked his eyebrow with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

You smirked, hands sliding up his shoulders and onto his neck, tugging at the nape of his hair, “I’ll say I had to help you calm your nerves. Blow off some steam. Pretty sure I’m doing everyone a favor.”

Joel huffed a low laugh, shaking his head as he looked down at you. “That so?” he murmured, his smile pulling a little wider. “You’re real proud of yourself, huh?”

You grinned up at him, eyes sparkling. “You’re welcome.”

He chuckled again, the sound low and warm in his chest. But then something shifted, his gaze lingering a little longer, smile easing into something softer. His eyes flicked around your face like he was locking it into his memory. The mischief faded, replaced by something deeper, something heavier.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t playful anymore. It was deep and unhurried, messy and slow, full of everything that had led up to this night, where you were finally taking this next step, where things became even more real. One hand braced beside your head, the other deep inside you between your trembling legs, dragging you closer to the edge with every slow, deliberate roll of his hips.

Your breath caught. He pulled back just slightly, resting his forehead against yours.

“I love you,” he murmured, barely audible, like it had slipped out before he could stop it.

“Love you too, big guy,” you whispered, smiling as you pulled him back down to you.

The porch light flickered on above you as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the worn steps. Joel stood just off-center in front of the door, fingers loosely laced, jaw tense, shoulders drawn up like he expected to be called into a principal’s office.

You watched him for a moment, the way his eyes kept scanning the darkening yard, how his foot tapped once, then twice. He was wearing that soft brown light jacket over the green flannel, the one you loved so much. His hair was smoothed back now, but you could still see the faint tousle where your fingers had been tangled in it less than an hour ago. There was something boyish about how nervous he looked.

You stepped in close and laid a hand flat against his chest.

“Hey,” you said gently. “You’re okay.”

His eyes finally met yours, soft and searching, and you offered him a small smile as your fingers smoothed out the front of his shirt, pressing down a wrinkle that wasn’t really there.

“You’re gonna be fine, Joel. It’s just dinner.”

“Do they know that I’m–?” he mumbled.

You leaned up, brushed your lips over his, cutting him off. It wasn’t hungry or rushed, just soft, sweet, and steady. 

When you pulled back, your voice was quiet. “Relax. Like I said, they’re gonna love you.”

He exhaled through his nose, a little shaky, and gave a small nod. His hand came up to rest gently on your waist, thumb brushing over your hip like he needed the contact to stay grounded.

Then, behind you, the front door creaked open with a slow, familiar groan. You turned just enough to see the porch light glint off your dad’s glasses.

Joel straightened like he’d been caught doing something criminal. “Sir,” he greeted, stepping forward to shake your dad’s hand.

Your father was stone-faced, giving Joel a single nod as he returned the handshake. He stood in the doorway, quiet and watchful, eyes moving between the two of you without a word.

You swallowed, throat suddenly dry.

“Are they here!?” came a familiar voice from just inside. A second later, your mom popped her head around your dad’s shoulder, her hands clutching his arm. Her eyes lit up the second she saw you.

“There she is!” she squealed, practically barreling into you for a hug.

You let out a soft laugh as she wrapped her arms around you, warm and overwhelming in the best way. She pulled back just enough to hold you at arm’s length, eyes flicking over your face like she was making sure you were really here.

Then her gaze shifted.

“And you must be Joel!” she said brightly, stepping toward him with a big smile.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied politely.

“Oh, don’t call me that,” she waved him off, offering her name instead.

You caught the twitch of a smile on Joel’s face as he repeated it, his voice soft with that drawl you knew so well.

She reached out and placed her hands on his arms, eyes roaming over him with zero subtlety. “Well, aren’t you handsome,” she said with a wink.

“Mom…” you groaned under your breath.

“Come inside, you two. Dinner’s nearly ready.”

Joel glanced at you, his jaw tight but his eyes softer now. There was still a flicker of nerves there, but beneath it was something quieter. Maybe even grateful. Like he couldn’t quite believe he got to be standing here, hand still warm from your dad’s handshake, your mom’s voice ringing with welcome, your hand just a breath away from his.

You offered him a small smile, one he returned without thinking, and the two of you stepped inside together.

You leaned up to kiss your dad’s cheek as you passed, and he returned it gently, one hand settling on your arm in a quiet, welcoming squeeze.

“So,” your dad’s voice carried from the head of the table, “what is it you do, Joe?”

“It’s Joel, dad.”

Your father raised his eyebrows like he hadn’t noticed the correction, even though he absolutely had.

“I own Miller Contractin’,” Joel said, calm and steady. “We build houses, do commercial work, though mostly stick to residential these days. All across the county.”

Your dad nodded, still not looking up from his plate, chewing a little harder than usual. “Miller Contracting… That just you, or you got a crew?”

“My brother and I are partners, we got a good crew of guys.”

“Hmm.”

A long sip of iced tea later, your dad’s voice pipes up again: “What kinda permits you gotta pull for that subdivision on the west side?”

You blinked. “Dad—”

Joel didn’t miss a beat. “Depends on the parcel. New builds gotta go through the county first, then the town for inspection sign-off. If it’s remodels or additions, we skip the land survey.”

Your dad finally looked up, eyes narrowing. “And your license number?”

Joel raised an eyebrow right back. “You wanna write it down?”

That earned a chuckle from your brother across the table, who quickly masked it with a bite of roll.

Your dad gave a grunt that could’ve meant anything, then pointed his fork across the table. “You hunt?”

“Not in a while,” Joel said. “Used to. Mostly just keep a few rifles around now, in case somethin’ needs shootin’.”

Another nod.

Then, after a long pause, your dad took another bite and mumbled around his food, “Built that deck out back myself, y’know. Back in ’98.”

“Yeah, when I was 8 months pregnant and bout ready to burst from stress,” your mom quipped with a little scoff.

Joel, bless him, didn’t so much as smirk. “It’s a good build. Still holdin’ up well.”

Your dad’s fork hovered in the air, then he gave a small, barely-there nod like Joel had just passed some pop quiz of his.

You finally started to relax until he opened his mouth again.

“One last question, Joel,” your dad said casually, sawing through his steak.

Joel’s shoulders tensed slightly. “Yessir.”

Your dad glanced across the table. His eyes flicked to your neck, then to Joel. Then back to you. With his knife, he gestured loosely toward your collarbone.

“That a hickey on my daughter’s neck?”

You nearly choked on your water.

Joel froze, fork halfway to his mouth.

There was a beat of stunned silence before your mom smacked your dad’s arm.

“David.”

“What?” he asked, feigning innocence, still chewing.

Joel cleared his throat. Loudly. “I—uh—must be… a-a nasty bug bite or somethin’.”

You stared down at your plate, cheeks on fire, absolutely refusing to make eye contact with anyone.

Your dad just grinned around another bite, like he’d just scored the winning point in a game no one else knew they were playing.

Later, the two of you ended up shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, trading off dishes and bumping hips as you loaded the dishwasher and tackled the giant roasting pan your mom had insisted was “vintage, not ancient.”

Joel rinsed a plate, set it in the rack, and glanced at you with a sly grin. “You always this bossy with kitchen duty?”

You shot him a look over your shoulder. “I’m not bossy. I’m efficient.”

“You barely let me step up to the sink before you were shovin’ the dryin’ rag in my hand.”

“I did not.”

“Reckon ya did, sweetheart. And to think I’m just tryna be a good guest.”

You laughed, nudging him with your hip. “I just know where our strengths and weaknesses lie is all.”

“Uh-huh.” He held up the rag and dish in hand dramatically. “Well, I’m puttin’ it on my résumé.”

“Oh yeah? Skills: contracting, firearm safety, surviving dad interrogation, and above-average dish drying?”

He turned to you, eyes playful. “You forgot exceptional boyfriend.”

You pretended to think about it. “Jury’s still out.”

He gave you a mock glare. “Keep talkin’ like that and you’re gettin’ another one of them hickeys on your neck. Right on the other side. Bet your dad would love that.”

Your eyes widened. “Joel.”

“Symmetry,” he said with a shrug, like it was the most reasonable explanation in the world.

Joel stepped back from the counter, towel still in hand, and playfully flicked it toward your backside. You squealed, swatting at him with your sudsy hand, and nearly bumped into the oven.

You were both laughing when the kitchen door creaked open and your dad leaned inside.

Joel straightened like he’d been caught red-handed again, shoulders stiff.

Your dad gave a long look at the two of you, then cleared his throat. “Joel.”

“Yes, sir?”

“You drink beer?”

Joel blinked. “Sure do.”

Your dad nodded once, like he’d already made the decision before asking. “Come out on the porch. I got a few in the cooler.”

Joel shot you a quick look, like he was trying to read if this was good or bad.

You just smiled and mouthed, go.

He followed your dad out, wiping his hands on a dish towel as he went. You watched him go with a little flutter in your chest.

“Oh,” a sudden thought crossed your mind, “daddy?”

Both men turned.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Yes, honey?”

The silence that followed was crippling.

Joel went stiff as a board, like he’d just realized he’d stepped off a cliff and was waiting for gravity to finish the job. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. He looked between you and your dad with eyes wide as saucers, face draining of color.

Your dad was staring at him. Hard.

You turned crimson, choking on air. “I—I was just... I was gonna ask if you wanted some—Mom said there was pie for dessert. Or maybe it was cheesecake? I don’t–I don’t know. Actually, let me go ask her.”

You slapped the sponge onto the counter and bolted, eyes on the floor, muttering something that might’ve been English as you fled the kitchen.

You sat curled into the corner of the couch, a slice of pie balanced on your lap and your second glass of wine halfway gone. The living room was dim, lit mostly by the lamp beside your mom’s armchair and the soft flicker from the TV, playing some home renovation show you weren’t really watching.

Your mom leaned back, swirling her wine. “So… he’s cute.”

You smiled behind your fork. “Mmhm.”

“And polite. Little stiff.”

“He was a little nervous. Bein’...” you shrugged, “You know, same age as you guys and all.”

Your mom raised her eyebrows, taking another sip from her glass. “Please. Age is but a number these days. The amount of older men I dated when I was your age…” she chuckled to herself at the memories.

You snorted, shaking your head as you scooped another bite of pie, the quiet of the house settling in around you like a blanket.

She tilted her head, watching you with that knowing, mom-look. “He seems like a good man, honey.”

“He is,” you said softly, nodding.

Your mom’s gaze softened as she looked at you over the rim of her glass. “I see the way he looks at you. The way you two laugh together. It's nice… seeing you like this.”

You felt your smile pull a little deeper, the warmth in your cheeks not just from the wine. “Yeah,” you murmured. “It feels nice, too.”

The moment settled between you, quiet and soft until your thoughts drifted to the porch. You tried not to let your mind wander, but it crept in anyway. Whatever conversation Joel and your dad were having out there… you hadn’t wanted to hear it. After the fiasco in the kitchen you just hoped he was alive. But then you heard the back door open, the low rumble of Joel’s voice, and your dad laughing about something involving backyard irrigation, you knew whatever happened, it hadn’t gone badly.

Joel and your dad stepped into the living room, their voices trailing off mid-conversation.

“—and I told him if he tried to DIY those stone steps without checking the grading, he was gonna bust his ass in the first rain.”

Your dad huffed a laugh. “You’re not wrong. Maybe I’ll call your company in spring.”

Joel just gave a polite smile, his eyes finding yours immediately.

Your mom rose to her feet and crossed the room to kiss him on the cheek, then turned to wrap her arms around you. “Thank you for comin’ tonight. Come back anytime, you two.”

You smiled, hugging her tight. “We will.”

“You picked a good one,” she whispered in your ear, giving you a little squeeze before she headed toward the hallway, bidding you goodnight.

You turned just in time to see Joel and your dad shaking hands. It looked firm, respectful, less like a test this time and more like an understanding.

You crossed the room and kissed your father goodbye, and while he didn’t say much, his hand on your back lingered for a second longer than usual. That was about as close as you were gonna get to a blessing.

You and Joel walked out to the truck in the cool night air, his hand brushing your lower back, just enough to feel steady.

Once inside the cab, he pulled the door shut and let out a massive exhale, sinking into the seat like he’d just survived a firefight.

You grinned at him, cheeks warm from the wine and your heart even warmer.

“You did good tonight,” you said softly.

He looked at you like you’d just handed him a ribbon at the county fair. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Really good. You survived my dad. Didn’t insult his deck. Kept it very buttoned up.”

He huffed a laugh, “It is a nice deck.”

You leaned your head back against the seat, looking at him through your lashes. “Kinda hot, actually. Watching you all nervous and respectable.”

He gave you a look. “Few times in there I wasn’t so sure. Thought he might shoot me right then and there when he asked about your neck. And don’t get me started on your stunt in the kitchen.”

You groaned and covered your face. “I didn’t meaaaan it.”

Joel chuckled, the sound soft and low as he reached over and gently tugged your hand away from your face. “Still nearly gave both me and your old man a heart attack.” 

You grinned at him as he kissed your hand gently, one knuckle at a time, “But you’re my old man.”

He let out a breath, shaking his head as his smile tugged wide and helpless. “Jesus,” he muttered. “You’re gonna be the death of me, darlin’.”

You leaned in, bumping your nose against his. “Worth it.”

[bobafetts-princess]

I finished (sort of) two full length fics in the last two weeks, who is sheeeeeeeeeeeee

[luveline]

Hi Jade! (I’ve sent this before so ignore if you aren’t into it) just thinking about a bau!reader (maybe shy!reader??) who’s dating post-prison Spencer but didn’t know him before prison and she sees some footage of season one Spencer (maybe they need to refer to a recording of a previous case?) and she’s just dying at how cute he is 🥹

You’ve barely woken up with your face in a solid shoulder when Spencer’s turning around.

“Don’t,” he says when you whine, slipping a familiar hand over your hip. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

“Too early to make fun of me.” 

“Do you think I’m making fun of you?” 

His talking warms your nose where his head is angled down. Your skin smarts with goosebumps as he trails his hand lightly up your back, down again, the slowest, tumbling touch. You shiver, and Spencer, ever so slightly devious in love, says, “Oh, you’re cold?” with great pity as he pulls you closer. 

You rub your face against his shoulder. “Sorry.” 

“Why?”

“I smell.” 

He hums. “Sort of. Not like sweat, though. You smell like sleep.” His lips touch your cheek.

He lets you ‘warm up’ in his arms for a few minutes, then however long you doze for, lost and too comfortable to bother even trying to wake up properly. Your phone pings a couple of times after it comes out of sleep mode, a sure sign you’ve overslept, but Spencer doesn’t make you move until your stomach growls. 

“Come on,” he says, kissing your nose and slipping you back onto your side of the bed. “I’ll make breakfast.” 

“It’s nearly twelve.” 

“You just woke up, and it’s the first thing you’re gonna eat. You are breaking your fast. Breakfast.” He looks pretty even through achy, tired eyes, all the sleep crusted in your lashes no match for Spencer Reid. How you went so long without knowing him is a mystery. 

You get up only because he told you to and because he looked quite lovely when he did it, not because you want to. The bed is warm, that pit of his arms calling your name, but Spencer’s already rolling out of bed with an eager hand scratching through his hair. Sweat has made them tight and a little darker in the back. You’ll both have to shower at some point, preferably after he’s made you breakfast in bed. 

He can see your expectations on your face, and he laughs as he pulls a t-shirt on over his head. “Get up! I’m not bringing it up here, do you know how badly your sleep cycle is affected when you start doing the wrong things in bed?” 

“What counts as the wrong thing?” 

Spencer laughs again, softer now, and for a moment he traces your face with his eyes without speaking. “Fine,” he says, waving a hand at you as he makes for the bedroom door, “stay there. But only ‘cos you look so pretty!” 

“Thank you!” you call back. 

This time with Spencer isn’t enough. You need ten more years of this, thirty, fifty, you need to wake up in his arms and have him touch you and tickle your cheek with his breath. He’s too far to have him come back, so you resign to hugging him when he returns. 

Your phone pings again, drawing your attention finally. The first notification is a reminder to buy toothpaste today at the grocery store. The second is a text from a friend, the third an email. It’s one from last night that piques your interest, another friend, full capital letters: HELP. 

Her use of a laughing emoji defers any urgency. You click on the text thread and scroll up, puzzled by her previous messages, a link, and a caption: oh my god he was so dorky??? 

You open the video and feel your breath catch in surprise. 

Is that Spencer?

You're not stupid, you’ve seen photos of him and his friends together dotted around the apartment from over the years, and every time you come across that photo of him and Diana at a spelling bee with his huge black-framed glasses you have to laugh, but it’s different seeing him to hearing him. 

He’s so nervous. You can’t understand what it is he’s saying, something about mathematical components to profiling criminals. Jason Gideon stands in the background watching him closely. 

“There’s actually a good joke that–”

“Spencer,” Gideon reprimands. 

You watch in awe as Spencer stammers an apology, his cheeks a little pink. You’ve seen Spencer blush, but this feels different. He looks so young. His hair is straight as a pin. 

“Spencer, did you used to straighten your hair?” you call, hoping he can hear you over the sound of a frying pan popping in the kitchen. “Or do you have a perm now, or what?” 

“What!” 

“I’m confused on the logistics of your hair!” You feel something weird in your chest as on screen Spencer tucks a stray strand of hair behind his ear. It’s a mixture of wanting to eat him and wanting to reach through the screen to stroke his cheek with your thumb. 

Spencer treks back into the bedroom with his pink and white pinstripe apron over his shirt and sweatpants. He smells like cinnamon sugar already. “What are you talking about?” 

“My friend found a video of you and Jason at one of those lectures you did.” 

Spencer presses his lips together. For a moment, he doesn’t speak. “I didn’t do any lectures.”

“Uh, yes you did, liar, and you looked so cute.” You turn your phone to him. “So sweet.” 

He marches to the bed. Before you can stop him, he’s taking the phone from your hand, giving you the world's silliest, tiniest shove when you try to get it back. 

“Cruel,” you quip. 

Spencer stares at the phone screen, then you, “Sorry,” he says, turning pink, “I don’t know why I did that, just– I just–” He frowns deeply. “Can you stop smiling like that?” 

You climb onto your knees, a morning disaster, but when you wrap your arms around Spencer’s waist he looks at you like you’re perfect. His eyes soften, brows relaxing, his irises like dark dimes that slowly dilate as he looks you over. Your phone presses into your back, his arm wrapping around you. 

“You were adorable,” you say sincerely. 

“Not anymore?” 

You rub your cheek against his apron. “No, you still are. Let me watch the video again.” 

“Not a chance.” 

[gregmarriage]

SUCH a ‘do everything you can in certain areas of your life, so you can at least feel like you have something resembling control over it’ girlie x

[sooniebby]

Thinking, about a bottom male reader being the leader of a six member boy group. as your group gains more popularity, you like to check out the fans on Twitter. Through this, you accidentally come across the NSFW side.

Despite being uncomfortable at first, the fics/posts are too good that you end up reading them. You even begin to lowkey ship two of your members after seeing all of the ship edits of them.

It’s all fine and dandy until you finally come across a fic of you and the maknae, your youngest member. For most of the other ship fics, you top so imagine your surprise when this writer has you as a pathetic bottom.

This leads to the whole other side of fics with you as a bottom, a group of fans that disagree with the “alpha male” persona everyone else writes you as. And they continually write the maknae being the one to be your “top”

You almost begin to want that happen to you… the fics always comment on how much bigger he is now. So much of the posts showing videos of how much he manhandled you and how you would always just allow it. Sure, some of their posts were a bit too horny but you couldn’t lie and say that there were a few times he was looking at you like he wanted you.

Needless to say, you were starting to see him a new light. No longer your maknae to take care of. You couldn’t deny that it was also making you nervous to be around him. When did he get taller than you?

and just your luck, after trying to ignore him for a week straight, he comes to bother you in the recording booth. He grabs your phone to use and you don’t pay him any attention until you remember that you didn’t exit out of your side account that interacted with the fandom!

You expect him to be grossed out but instead, he’s almost excited. He practically pins you to the bed, holding you down with ease, as he whispers in your ear.

“If you wanted to get fucked so badly, you could’ve just asked.”

I’m now itching to write this, whatcha yall think?

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Actual Fic

[a-mint-bear]

Comfort Object

Male Yandere x Reader

You see a really weird "job" post online, and the money seems too good to be true. But you aren't really in a position where you can turn it down...

You hope it doesn't get weird.

Parts: [ x / 2 / 3 ]

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It was a very… concerning “job” posting.

But desperate times, and all that. 

It had shown up about a week ago, and it wasn’t hard to see why no one had taken the poster up on it as of yet. 

Bedmate Needed

● 11 pm to 6 am

● $25/hour up front

● Riverside Motel

● Room 44

● Not a sex thing

The last note seemed tacked on in a later edit, but it was still… not great.

You’d have to be either a gullible idiot or a desperate one to go for a job like this. Unfortunately, you were the latter. Very much so.

You couldn’t take another night on the street. It was getting so cold out. The promise of a warm bed was almost enough to lure you in on its own. But the money… 175 bucks just to sleep in the same bed as some internet creep?

Despite the clarification in the post, this had to be a sex thing, right?

You hadn’t gone that far, despite everything. It’s not like you hadn’t considered it… but the thought was too terrifying. Making yourself completely vulnerable to a stranger that could just decide you were less than a person and do whatever they wanted to you? You had to draw the line somewhere.

But at this point, you weren’t sure that there was a line you weren’t willing to cross anymore. 

. . .

The Motel wasn’t the seediest you’d ever seen around town but it wasn’t a place you would’ve voluntarily stayed at even two months ago. Back when you had options. 

Creepy post guy opened the door after a couple of knocks, with an awkward, pregnant pause between them. He wasn’t quite what you expected for an internet creep, but he was still a sight to see.

Really bad posture and dark, greasy-looking hair, with the darkest circles under his eyes you’d ever seen. He looked like he was about to pass out at any second, but he held it together long enough to gesture you into the room. 

“Hey…” His voice was low but he sounded nervous. And so, so tired. “You’re… You’re a little early. That’s…that’s fine. Uh, come in.”

You felt his eyes on you as you passed him, and it didn’t help your anxiousness. Not one bit. 

“Hey so, I-I really…I uh, need a shower.” He stumbled over his words with a breathy, nervous laugh. “Unless you wanna sleep next to a… fuckin’ sweaty mess all night. Do you wanna go first or…?”

You must’ve looked nervous because his eyes went wider, digging into his pocket.

“I wasn’t tryin’ to… Oh, uh…here.” He nodded, pressing the money into your hand. “Up front, just… just like I said. You just…just seemed like you maybe sorta needed one too.”

Some part of you must’ve still had an ounce of pride left because your whole body felt on fire with shame, embarrassment so consuming that you froze up. It had been a couple of days…

He just looked away, seeming like he was embarrassed himself. 

“I w-wasn’t gonna like… try to join you or peep on you or nothin’!” He tried to assure you, eyes darting in a panic and talking a bit too fast. “If I, like, go first? I won’t get mad if you change your mind and leave… I get it. I’m not gonna like… go after you or call the cops or nothin’ like that. I just…”

He stared at the floor, nails digging into his arm as he seemed like he was having trouble breathing.

“I really… I really need this.” He was so quiet, but his voice was so desperate.

You couldn’t really be considering this, could you?

He seemed more like a weird, awkward, sad guy than a real danger or some kind of pervert.

And you really did need a hot shower. 

It seemed like a safer bet to have him go first, if you were really going through with this. And it would give you a chance to look around the room for a spot to tuck away your pocket knife, just in case.

When he was in the shower, you did just that. The spot between the mattress and bed frame would be easy to grab at if things got hinky.

If things got all touchy-feely, as you suspected they would, him finding that on you or leaving it in your pocket when your clothes got tossed wherever would be really inconvenient. 

Steam rolled out of the bathroom when he stepped out, shirtless but with sweatpants and a towel around his neck. He was thin, almost alarmingly so, but you could still see muscle, enough to pose a problem should he decide to overpower you.

This was your last chance to back out, before you’d be vulnerable to this odd stranger.

But even if you left, the money wouldn’t last long, and it’s not like you had any other options. 

You were so grateful that the motel tub wasn’t disgusting, but you would’ve gotten clean regardless. Two days worth of sweat and funk was washed away and it felt so heavenly… But it was hard to relax when you were trying to stay hyper alert of any noise that could be that man trying to get in or even eavesdrop.

But…

Nothing. 

You finished your shower and brushed your teeth, doing everything you could to feel clean that a motel bathroom could provide. And there was no sign of the guy. 

But you had to go back out there eventually. You supposed you could lock yourself in here and get a full night’s sleep indoors, even if it was on the floor of a motel bathroom with your back against the door, but part of you just said “fuck it” and warily peeked around the doorway into the bedroom.

The lights in the room were dim, but warm. He was sitting on the end of the bed, one knee tucked into his chest, staring at the tv as the bright colors of a nightly talk show reflected in his eyes, but something told you he wasn’t really watching. His eyes met yours and you froze.

“It’s almost eleven…” He mumbled, his head resting awkwardly on his shoulder. His hand ghosted over the spot on the bed next to him. “… Will... will you stay?”

So many thoughts raced through your head. What would happen if you laid down beside him? You could probably deal with sex… even if it felt a bit wrong. But if he wanted to hurt you?

Your brain reminded you:

What do you really have to lose?

When you told him you would stay, sitting next to him, you could see him relax. Just a bit.

“If you still want to leave-”

But you cut him off, almost afraid he would talk you out of it after you’d made up your mind.

Avoiding his stare, you told him you had nowhere to go.

The bed was cold, it might take a bit to warm up with the two of you in it, but it was the least of your concerns at that moment. 

“So it’s...” He’d spoken up so suddenly, you hoped he didn’t see you flinch. He was staring at the ceiling, seeming just a tiny bit calmer. “... it’s fine if you just… lay there or h-hold onto me, or play on your phone or whatever, anything is fine. Just… just don’t leave ‘til mornin’. Okay?”

A worrying pause, but you told him you understood.

And that was that. He laid next to you unmoving for almost an hour before you had the nerve to move at all, shifting slowly to your side to face him.

His eyes were shut, his breathing even, but somehow you knew he was still awake. It was like he was trying to sleep but it just wasn’t coming to him. He looked so worn down, like he could just keel over any second. It definitely made him less intimidating, but you weren’t letting your guard down, no matter how much your body was screaming at you to just let go.

Despite your better judgement, you wondered if he really was being genuine about this not being a sex thing. It was a relief, sure, but it just raised more questions.

Why were you here?

. . .

You’d stopped looking at the bedside clock a while ago. It had to have been hours by then.

Your anxiety and dread somehow felt quieter under the lull of impending sleep. Despite everything, your body was at least grateful for a warm bed and hot shower, and if you didn’t sleep there now, you didn’t know when you’d be able to sleep somewhere warm any time soon. 

Every moment that ticked by, you felt your resolve slipping. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, just to let go… This whole situation was weird, but you just wanted to sleep.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He hoped against everything that he would just fall asleep.

Just this once, he didn’t want to have to follow through with it. But he was so damn tired. There was this ache behind his eyes that he could feel in his bones, his mind never stopped racing… 

He could feel your body heat in the bed next to him. You had either been very scared or very considerate, you’d only moved once since you laid down with him. 

He hated that he had to do this. He felt sorry for you, he really did. But it was drowned out by the buzzing in the back of his brain. The constant whispers in his ear. 

There had been so many before now, it was a miracle he hadn’t gotten caught. But this was a huge, dangerous city. Everyone in it was just a blip to anyone paying attention. 

He could feel their skin under his palms buzzing at the back of his brain. How their eyes stared into his, burning with betrayal, fear, helplessness. How he saw them fade away.

How it was the only thing that worked to let him finally sleep. The only thing that quieted the whispers, at least for a little bit. 

Some booked it after getting the money. Some just showed up and straight-up robbed him. Some tried to leave in the middle of the night, thinking he was asleep. But if they stayed and fell asleep, that was that.

He told himself that he gave them all a chance. 

If you managed to stay up all night, you’d be safe. But he really needed this… It was already day three, and he’d never made it past day five without completely losing it. Trying to fight this, it was too hard. The longer he stayed awake, trying to avoid what had to happen, the worse he felt. The louder the voice got. The deeper the ache in his bones. But the more often he did it, the easier it got. And that was worse in a different way. 

It was wrong. He wasn’t so deep in it that he couldn’t see that. The morning after, he always hated himself and what he did. 

But as the days went on, it would all creep back in. And doing it again felt less and less horrifying to him. 

You were scared. He could tell. And you had every reason to be, he told himself. But it just meant it would take you longer to fall asleep. 

He could wait all night. And if you made it the full seven hours, you weren’t what he needed. You’d be free from him, from this. Hopefully you wouldn’t come back, no matter how badly you needed the money.

He wondered what you meant by having nowhere to go.

But he tried not to wonder too much. It would make this harder. 

He could hear your breathing getting slower, your body relaxing into the bed. You wouldn’t last much longer. 

His eyes shot open when he felt you suddenly touch him, tucking your forehead into his shoulder. You weren’t quite asleep, a cuddler? He almost laughed to himself when half-asleep you looked a bit frustrated, like it wasn’t enough.

You muttered something about being cold, lazily scooting your body closer to him up the bed. He felt his breath catch when suddenly, his head was pulled to you, tucked into your chest as your arm circled him. He was suddenly the little spoon, but facing you. He could hear your heartbeat. 

He wanted to say something, wake you up or wriggle free to make what he had to do easier on you when you fell asleep. He felt a hand in his hair, playing with it and idle gentle nails on his scalp. 

It was… nice. Everything felt calm, the buzzing and horrible thoughts were still there but they were being drowned out by the warmth of your skin, the thump of your heart in his ear.

You were mumbling something. He held his breath, trying to hear.

You told him, or whoever you were dreaming about, maybe even no one at all, that he was okay. That he was safe. 

He couldn’t keep his eyes open. Something was different this time. He felt all his control slipping away, and for once, he wasn’t scared. 

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You woke to a sunbeam across your face, and the strange man in your arms, sound asleep. According to your phone, it was 10 am. You were grateful for the extra hours in a warm bed, but would he be mad? Did he have somewhere to be?

You couldn’t remember anything past drifting off next to him, but the two of you were tangled together, he seemed so comfortable.

Now that it was over, and your anxieties were much quieter, you really got a good look at the guy. He wasn’t… unattractive, you supposed. He was all elbows and ribs but laying against your chest made him look so soft and harmless. 

Wasn’t the worst way you’d ever made 175 bucks.

You wondered if he’d shell out the extra 100, or if that would be pushing your luck. 

Either way, it would be best to wake him up.

Gently scratching at his scalp, you told him it was getting late.

You watched as his eyes struggled to open, and for a few calm moments, he just laid against you. After a beat, he gasped and jolted up, head swiveling around the room in a panic.

“I…” He seemed really out of it, almost scared. “I actually…”

He stared at you, eyes wide. You told him it was ten in the morning, hoping everything was okay and if it wasn’t, that he wouldn’t take it out on you.

He grabbed you by the shoulders, and for a moment you were sure something bad was going to happen, but somehow, it was even worse.

He was crying.

Breaking down, sobbing hard as he just kept staring at you. Even with the odd night you’d just had, this was somehow the weirdest part. 

Despite yourself, you asked him if he was okay. He pulled himself together and you were startled again when he touched your face, his thumb gently grazing your cheek. It was tender and sweet, and it was freaking you out a little. Just a tad. 

“You… It was you…”

All you could think to ask was if you should get going, maybe trying to make it seem like you had someplace to be, or were at least trying to be considerate of his time. But it didn’t seem like he was taking the hint. 

He grabbed your hands in his, the sudden contact made you jump. He pulled them to his chest, he was too close. The way he was looking at you…

“Can we… Can we do this again? Like tonight? Please?” He was practically begging, the look in his eyes changing. That nervous, achingly tired gaze was hopeful. And so warm.

“You can have the room, if that’s what you need!” he offered, maybe somehow having picked up on your current situation. “I can pay more too. Just p-please…”

He held your palm to his cheek, staring up at you.

“I need you.”

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a bit of a different one from me, but i kind of liked how it turned out

that feeling when your new yandere was totally gonna off you but you were just too comfy

he's never gonna let you go. you're the only thing keepin him from killing again, ya know?

i don't have a ton of yanderes that actually kill, as odd as that seems. but this guy is one of them

he's not supposed to be a huge commentary on any particular mental health conditions, i did a bit of "research" into psychosis induced insomnia (using that term VERY loosely), but like does he hear voices because he can't sleep, or can he not sleep because he hears voices? who can say? certainly not I, the dummy who made him

i wrote this one pretty much right after my last big deadline ended, but it got reworked a bit cause it just needed some tweaks:

the yandere started out as tired but crass, kind of a dick, and when he switched after that good night's sleep it felt off. It felt more interesting if he was a bit pathetic and creepy, it felt like less of a red flag for the reader to stick around

the reader was originally going to be a straight up s*x worker that got hired by the yandere for him to kill, but it didn't really feel like my place to make that commentary on violence against s*x workers or to more or less soften it with a yandere love interest. it just didn't feel right for something so unserious

but ive been having horrible writer's block lately, so i thought i'd finally put this one out. i need to read/play some yandere stuff and get inspired. let me know if you have any recommendations y'all ✌️