#and I say this as someone who does happen to enjoy both

[nomie-11]

Figure Skater!Vi x Figure Skater! Reader - Like Flying

masterlist!

*note: Vi and Y/n are in high school in this AU

Time to Nationals: 5 months, 0 weeks, 0 days

The grin on your coach's face was downright evil. She was clearly enjoying your suffering as your panicked eyes darted between her and the girl with bright pink hair next to her. 

“As I was saying,” Mel continued, her arms crossed in front of her chest. “This is Vi, she’s your partner for the time being.” 

Your jaw dropped, furiously shaking your head. 

“No. No way!” You fervently denied. “Does she even know how to do a lift? What happened to Jayce! Nationals is in five months, that’s not nearly enough time to get used to a new partner!”

Coach Mel just grinned a little wider. “Jayce tore his rotator cuff and is out for the rest of the season. Vi is your best bet at hitting nationals with a bang, and she’s looking to switch from solo free skate to duos, so this will be beneficial for the both of you.”

You opened your mouth to argue—Vi looked like she belonged in a punk rock band, not on the ice. And she hasn’t skated duos yet? She wasn’t even in skating clothes, for god’s sake. She was wearing ripped jeans and cargo boots!

“Ah!” Mel interrupted before you can even get a word out. “Save your complaints for someone who wants to listen to them. Vi knows how to do the tricks you need her to know. Stretch and get on the ice.” 

With a suppressed groan and the hardest urge you’ve ever had to roll your eyes, you just nodded and muttered a quick “yes, ma’am,” before slipping off your skate guards and stepping onto the rink. 

You tugged at the sleeves of your practice jacket, trying to channel your irritation into something other than glaring at the infuriatingly calm figure strolling toward the rink. Vi, as it turned out, wasn’t a total beginning, but her whole vibe screamed chaos in a way that didn’t mesh with the precision and discipline you lived for in skating. 

Your coach clapped her hands sharply, breaking you from your thoughts. “Alright, warm up together. Start with some side-by-side moves, then work on synchronization.” 

Vi smirked as she stepped onto the ice, her movements fluid and confident, her combat boots and jeans swapped for training clothes and a pair of beat up skates. “Don’t worry, Princess,” she drawled, her tone teasing. “I promise not to drop you.” 

You bristled, your cheeks heating. “Let’s see if you can even keep up.” 

—---------------------------------

Time to Nationals: 4 months, 3 weeks, 4 days. 

The first week was an exercise in frustration and patience. Vi was strong—absurdly so—but her timing was off, and her edges weren’t as clean as yours. During a particularly rough attempt at a pairs lift, she lost her balance and stumbled, sending you tumbling into her arms. 

“See?” she quipped, catching you and holding you upright with ease. “Didn’t drop you.”

You shoved her away, your face burning. “Try harder next time.” 

—------------------------------

Time to Nationals: 4 months, 1 week, 2 days

It wasn’t all bad, though. By the third week of working together, you had gotten used to each other’s patterns. Vi’s lifts had become sharper, her footwork more fluid next to yours, and you became more trusting. You hadn’t yet attempted what had once been your and Jayce’s signature move—a death spiral—but she was tossing you up into the air easier and easier with every practice. 

“You’re not bad at this,” you admitted grudgingly after practice, laying back on the ice, both of you completely spent and sweaty after hours of relentless conditioning as per Mel’s orders. 

Vi grinned, her chest heaving beside you on the ice. “Was that a compliment?”

“Don’t get used to it.” 

—----------------------------------

Time to Nationals: 3 months, 2 weeks, 3 days

As the time passed, you couldn’t deny the chemistry you two shared on the ice. Twist lifts became effortless, your bodies moving more in sync than you and Jayce ever had, as if you’d been partners for years. The adrenaline from landing a perfect throw jump or pair lift had you grinning uncontrollably, and Vi’s smile was just as infectious. 

After one particularly rough session, the two of you were stretching in the locker room, the soft lights casting a warm glow over your features as you pressed yourself further onto the mat by your locker. Tilting your head upwards, you matched her gaze, and Vi reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair from your bun behind your ear. 

“You’ve got talent, Princess,” she said softly, smiling up from her impressive split. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” 

Your heart fluttered, and you shoved the feeling down with practiced ease. “Don’t get all sappy on me now.” 

—---------------------------------

Time to Nationals: 2 months, 1 week, 6 days

The problem wasn’t just that Vi was good at skating—no, that wasn’t a problem at all. It was the way she made you laugh when you were frustrated, the way she caught you effortlessly during lifts, the way her hand lingered on your waist a fraction too long. But every time your thoughts strayed into dangerous territories, you stomped them down, reminding yourself that you didn’t like her that way. 

It was during an off-ice practice that it all came crashing down. You and Vi were practicing a star lift, a trick you had never managed to nail on the ice, with her hands firmly planted on your waist, until she finally managed to let go, holding her arm out in a position that finally had Mel happy. 

She held you up there for one second, then another, then another, until you had been up in the air for a full minute, every muscle in your entire body tense and poised, until you rolled down into the dismount, firmly held in her arms. 

When she set you down, she grinned. “Told you I wouldn’t drop you.” 

You stared at her, heartbeat loud in your ears. “I—I never doubted you,” you stammered, your denial crumbling. 

Her faze softened, and for the first time, you saw something in her powder blue eyes that made your chest ache. “Good,” she murmured, her voice low. “Because I’ve got you. One the ice and off.” 

And that was when the realization hit you like a ton of bricks: you were falling for her. No, scratch that—you had fallen. You had fallen for a girl. 

—-----------------------------------

Time to Nationals: 1 month, 3 weeks, 1 day

It had started with little things. You’d forgotten the sequence of a spin, mistimed a jump that hadn’t been a problem in months, or pulled out a death spiral too early, sending you both crumbling to the ground. Mel’s sharp words and kind eyes would snap you out of your daze, and you’d brush it off as exhaustion. But the truth was gnawing at you, unrelenting: you couldn’t stop thinking about Vi. 

Her smile, the way she called you “Princess” with that infuriating smirk, the way she steadied you during the lifts like you weighed nothing. It was distracting. Worse, it was dangerous. 

You weren’t gay. You couldn’t be. That wasn’t part of the plan. You’d always pictured yourself skating at nationals, nailing every jump and spin with perfection, earning scholarships, and making your parents proud. Falling for your punk-rock skating partner?

Absolutely not on the agenda. 

—-----------------------------------

Time to Nationals: 1 month, 2 weeks, 2 days

It was during a waist lift—a move you’d done a hundred times before. Vi had lifted you easily, her hands firm on your waist as you extended your arms and prepared for the dismount. But your focus slipped—the way she was holding you, the way she was touching you—instead of planting your landing, you panicked, your legs tangling underneath you awkwardly. 

Vi tried to catch you, but the momentum was too much. You hit the ice hard, the breath knocked out of your lungs as you skidded across the smooth surface of the rink until you hit the barriers with a soft thud. 

“Whoa, whoa—hey!” Vi’s voice was panicked as she crouched beside you. “Are you okay? Did you hit your head? Talk to me.” 

Your chest heaved as tears pricked your eyes. It wasn’t just the fall—it was everything. The pressure, the confusion, the unbreakable weight of feelings you wouldn’t dare admit to yourself. 

“I—” Your words got caught in your chest as she lifted you to a sitting position, her grip underneath your shoulders gentle and strong. “I’m fine,” you choked out, but the tears spilled anyway. You pressed your hands to your face, your shoulders shaking as everything inside you came crashing down. 

And Vi didn’t say a single word. She just sat next to you on the cold hard ice as you sobbed until your ice time was up, and the hockey kids came in. 

—--------------------------

Time to Nationals: 1 month, 2 weeks, 1 day

You didn’t go into the rink the next day. You couldn’t. The thought of seeing Vi—of facing everything you were feeling—was too much. So you sat outside the rink instead, leaning against the cold concrete wall with your knees hugged to your chest. 

You told yourself that you were just taking a break, that you’d go inside in a minute. But hours passed, and you stayed rooted to the spot, lost in a whirlwind of thoughts. 

What if everyone found out? What would your parents say? What would Vi say? 

You heard footsteps before you saw her. Vi rounded the corner, her skate bag slung over one shoulder as her combat boots hit the pavement, already back in her casual clothes after practice. 

“You weren’t at practice,” she said simply, sitting down beside you. 

You didn’t respond, staring at the ground instead. 

She waited a beat before continuing. “You scared me yesterday, you know.” 

“I’m fine,” you muttered, but your voice cracked. 

“No, you're not.” Her tone was soft, but firm. “Talk to me.” 

You shook your head, the tears threatening to spill again. “I can’t.” 

“Why not?”

“Because you wou;dn’t understand!” The words burst out of you before you could stop them, your voice breaking. 

Vi was quiet for a moment. Then, she reached out, her fingers brushing against yours. “Try me.”

You looked at her then, really looked at her, and the weight of everything you’d been holding back threatened to crush you. “I—I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you whispered. “I can��t think straight anymore. And you—you make it worse.” 

Vi blunked, her expression unreadable. “Worse how?” 

You swallowed hard, your hands trembling. “You make me feel things I’m not supposed to feel. I can’t—I’m not—”

“Gay?” She finished gently. 

You flinched, the words hitting you like a slap. “I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice small. “I’ve never felt like this before. And I don’t know what to do.” 

Vi exhaled slowly, her gaze trained on the pavement in front of the two of you. “First of all, there’s nothing wrong with you. Second… it’s okay to feel scared. I was, too, at first.”

You stared at her, your heart pounding. “You…?” 

She nodded, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah. It’s obvious, right? Took me a while to figure it out. But you don’t have to figure everything out right now. And you definitely don’t have to do it alone.” 

You didn’t say anything in return, but the weight in your chest eased just a little, her words wrapping around you like a lifeline. Maybe, it would be okay. 

—-------------------

Time to Nationals: 1 month, 1 week, 4 days

One chilly afternoon, Vi met you at the rink with an unusual entourage. Trailing behind her were two kids—a tiny girl with bright blue hair clutching a stuffed bunny, and a boy with white hair who tightly clutched Vi’s hand. 

“What’s this?” you asked, raising an eyebrow as Vi grinned at you. 

“Introducing my little sister, Powder, and her best friend, Ekko,” Vi said proudly, ruffling Powder’s hair. “They’ve been bugging me to let them skate for ages. Thought you might want to help me teach them. You know, something fun for a change.” 

Powder looked up at you with wide, hopeful blue eyes. “Vi says you’re the best skater ever. Can you show me how to twirl like a princess?” 

Your heart melted a little despite yourself. She was so cute. “Of course,” you said softly. 

What followed was a chaotic but heartwarming afternoon. Powder clung to your arms for dear life, while Ekko, full of bravado, tried to show off and immediately fell on his butt. Vi laughed so hard she almost toppled over herself, and even you couldn’t stop smiling as you guided Powder through her first shaky glide across the ice. 

By the end of the session, Powder declared you her “favorite princess,” and Ekko demanded a rematch against Vi on who could skate fastest. Vi leaned against the boards, watching with a soft smile. “Told you they’d grow on you.” 

“They’re not so bad,” you admitted, catching her eye. “Thanks for this.” 

“Anytime, Princes,” she said, her voice warm in a way that made your heart stutter. 

—---------------------------

Time to Nationals: 0 months, 3 weeks, 5 days

“Y/n,” one of your friends waved you over to the window of your physics classroom. “Who is she?” Your friend pointed down to Vi at the gate to your high school, her pink hair catching the late afternoon sunlight. 

“A friend.” You replied, a tad too rushed as you grabbed your papers from the desk and started to shove them into your backpack. “I’ve gotta get to practice, see you later?” 

Your friend nodded, not really making a motion to move from the windows. 

“Thank you Mr. Heimerdinger! I’ve got to run to my locker and head to the rink.” You called as you darted out of the door and down the hall to grab your skate bag. In less than a minute, your skate bag was slung over your right shoulder book bag over the left as you darted down the hallways down to the front gate. 

“What are you doing here?” you asked, your heart doing an involuntary little flip. 

“Thought I’d walk you to the rink,” she said, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. 

You blinked. “You know I can get there on my own, right?’ 

“Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?” she shot back, grabbing your school bag and slipping onto her own free shoulder. 

It became a routine after that. Every day, Vi would meet you after school, her presence an anchor that steadied you when your thoughts threatened to spiral again. She’d walk you to practice carrying your bag, and then, after you were both sweaty and exhausted, she’d walk you home, filling the air with her easy laughter and stories about Powder’s latest antics. 

One evening, as you stood on your porch, she paused before leaving. “Hey,” she said, her voice quieter than usual. “You’re doing better.” 

You swallowed the lump in your throat and managed a small smile, a bit of blush rising up to your cheeks. “Yeah, I guess I am. Thanks, Vi.” 

Her grin returned, but softer this time. “Anytime, Princess.”

—--------------------------

Time to Nationals: 0 months, 0 week, 6 days

It was seven days before nationals, and Mel had made it very clear you were to stick to your strict diet. No sugar, no junk, no exceptions.

“Let’s make this as easy on Vi as possible, okay?” She had said, and you responded with an eager ‘yes’ because you were an idiot in love. No sweets, no pastries, and absolutely no cupcakes. 

So naturally, Vi showed up at the rink with a cupcake. 

“Vi!” You hissed as she held it out to you, the scent of vanilla and frosting wafting through the air. “Are you trying to get me in trouble?” 

She smirked. “Relax. It’s just one cupcake. Besides, I figured you could use a little pick-me-up.” 

You hesitated, torn between guilt and the overwhelming urge to devour it. “I’m not supposed to—”

“Live a little,” she interrupted, her smirk softening into something gentler. “You’ve been working your ass off. You deserve this. I can handle you plus an extra cupcake.” 

With a sigh, you took the cupcake, breaking off a small piece and popping it into your mouth. It was perfect—sweet and comforting in a way you hadn’t realized you needed. 

“See?” Vi said, her eyes sparkling. “Was that so bad?” 

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress your smile. “You’re impossible.” 

“You’re stuck with me anyways,” she quipped, leaning against the boards as she watched you eat. 

As you finished the last bite, you caught her gaze, and for a moment, the world seemed to shrink to just the two of you. “Thank you, Vi,” you said softly, meaning more than just the cupcake. 

“Always,” she replied, her voice low, and the warmth in her eyes made your chest ache in a way that was starting to feel almost familiar. 

—------------------------

Time to Nationals: 0 months, 0 weeks, 0 days

The crowd was still roaring, the lights unbearably bright as Vi lifted you up onto the top step of the podium and stepped up after you. Gold medals hung heavy around your necks, the ribbons digging into your sweat-damp skin, and bouquets of flowers rested in your trembling hands. 

You’d done it. 

Months of blood, sweat, and tears—of doubts and fears and broken-down days—had all led to this. Your free skate had been perfect, every lift effortless, every step breathtaking. The arena had held its breath as Vi spun you through the final move—a death spiral, her hands firm in yours, your head inches from the ice. And when the music ended, you both stood there, panting, clutching each other as the audience erupted into applause. 

Now, standing here under the harsh spotlight, you were supposed to be smiling. But all you could do was stare at Vi. Her pink hair was matted with sweat, her face flushed from exertion, but her eyes—those steady, warm eyes—were locked on yours. 

For a moment, it was just the two of you. The screaming crowd faded, the cameras didn’t exist, and the world slowed. 

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but Vi was already moving. 

She cupped your face with her free hand, her palms cool against your overheated skin, and then she kissed you. 

It wasn’t rushed or hesitant. It was firm, certain—like she’d been waiting for this moment for forever. Her lips were soft against yours, and the weight of months of confusion and denial melted away in an instant. 

The crowd went silent for a split second before erupting into even louder cheers. Somewhere in the chaos, you heard gasps, whistles, and someone—probably Powder—yelling, “That’s my sister!” 

When Vi finally pulled back, her forehead rested against yours, and she was grinning so wide it was infectious. 

“You okay, Princess?” she whispered, her breath brushing against your lips. 

You let out a breathless laugh, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “I’m fantastic.” 

Around you, confetti rained down, flashed from cameras sparkled, and the world cheered for the two of you. But none of it mattered. 

Because here, on the top step of the podium, gold medal heavy on your chest and Vi’s hand in yours, you finally let yourself feel it—no fear, no hesitation, just her. 

And it felt like flying. 

-------

this totally isnt based off of my own experience

If you enjoyed this one shot, please check out my other series!

[cyanrendipity]

#youre correct op but also#nononono i think kabru could Absolutely catch kira#like . gestures to kabru deducing laois’s party being the ones to help them each time(? i may be misremembering)#and how he reads laois as not being Malicious when they thought each helpful encounters were thefts#actually having kabru and light meet would be really funny because its kind of like a mirror?#not exactly of course if it was then i wouldnt like kabru as nearly as much as i do#but its like. putting up personas to get info out of others (Maybe i am so sorry kabru. but thats true for light)#the internal monologues. trying to get into the mindset of whos around them. like on the surface level i feel like light and kabru would ac#t Exactly like each other first meeting- humble but smart and.. not nice but. well-rounded#the only trouble kabru would have would be proving it probably. but at the same time i feel like he could figure something out yknow?#i also wonder how he would feel about the kira case? like hes definitely killed people in the dungeon for crossing him and his team but he#seems to generally want to keep innocent lives.. alive. gestures to the utaya incident#would he think that the killings are deserved or would he think its Too Much- kira crossing a line in a way#its been awhile since ive read dungeon meshi so i . sont know#also to any kabru fans if i misinterpreted him please correct me. i enjoy kabru greatly its just been a While

You come over here, you. You get it (It's me op, reblogging here cause I got shy about rambling about death note) anyway

THEY ARE SIMILAR IN A SENSE BUT ALSO COMPLETE OPPOSITES

Both of them are "willing to crack some eggs" for the "greater good" but there's a massive difference in what this greater good is! For Kabru it is to stop a massive tragedy from happening again, he believes adventurers should be working towards stopping something like Utaya from repeating, he wants to find the truth about Dungeons and whoever is acting in self interest like the corpse retrievers is an obstacle he's willing to get over. For Light the "greater good" is "creating a world for people who deserve it" for Light there's objectively people with more worth and less worth than others, and he thinks of himself as the best person to judge who is who.

One of them is willing to sacrifice people to stop an immense tragedy from happening again the other one is willing to sacrifices people cause he feels like it's his right to do so! They're not the same!

Light hates humans even before he becomes Kira he would never do what Kabru does to save them, everything he says about creating a new world for good people is bullshit he spews for his own ego U_U

Kabru would be able to realize the hypocrisy of Kira right away like L and realize it's dangerous for someone like him to have that power (perhaps he would realize it would be dangerous even for himself to wield it, similar to being a dungeon lord)

Anyway like these replies said, Kabru would def make the Kira killings stop if he found Light, I wont count is as catching him tho, eliminating is not the same thing, bad Kabru, play by the rules (<3)

(oh yeah the difference is that "solving" the Kira case means proving it, I think that's harder than just knowing Light is Kira and dealing with him outside justice)

Now would Kabru be able to catch Kira? Probably not, but can you imagine? The amount of silent staring while thinking in actual death note is nothing compared to what that could be

[feitanii-ll]

“ GUMI’S HOME!! “

pt. 1 pt. 2 pt.3

✭ Pairing: Satoru Gojo x fem!reader (romantically), Megumi x reader (platonically)

✭ synopsis: Megumi grows to learn that he does have a family. Or, raising Megumi with Satoru.

✭ Contains: SEASON TWO SPOILERS! (I think it’s common knowledge by now, though. HEAVVYY FLUFF, more bickering between Satoru and little Megumi. Megumi being sassy again, more use of y/n in this chapter, tiiiiny angst BUT IT GETS HAPPY AGAIN. GUMI IS SUCH A CUTIE PATOOTIE.

September, 2007. Two days prior.

It’s another quiet night in your home. Far away from the bustling city, in a comfortably still neighbor with the right amount of peace that you just adore during times like this. It’s a home that you’ve made yours and decorated to your accommodation. Four bedrooms, three bathrooms, and a backyard— not to mention paid off completely, thanks to your adoring man, Satoru Gojo.

Much to his pleasure, you’ve made it your own personal haven. Adorning it with the things that both you and your sorcerer boyfriend enjoy.

Because it’s only the two of you, you never found reason to utilize any of the other rooms, opting to keep it as an emergency guest room (though with how protective Satoru is over you, you knew he’d never lead anyone over to your house). And so, you opt to only use your shared room, which leads to now.

The first time you hear about fushiguro’s child is in your room, getting ready for a night with your partner. It’s been a while since he’s slept over at this house, so you were properly excited to finally have him all to yourself. But before the cuddles and kisses could begin, he walks over to where you’re seated at your oak wood vanity, body language you’ve never seen before in your man before now.

You turn to face him, taking in all his pretty glory— hair down and damp from his shower. You note his clothing, smiling shyly at the just-a-tad-bit-tight tank top that exposes his defined arms. And in true Satoru fashion, his lounge sweats that seem a bit too pricey to be simply for sleeping. And as much as you want to take in the glorious sight of him, you refrain as you take note of the way he rubs at the back of his neck and leans against the wooden vanity, facing you with an unreadable expression. He looks so.. conflicted?? And that piques your curiosity and worry.

“Oh, my.. someone’s stressing,” Satoru is comforted by the sound of your voice as you try to lighten the mood. You can tell, as he’s always been an expressive person. “What’s the matter?”

At your question, he sucks in a breath between his teeth, as if unsure what to say.

“Just.. you’re not gonna believe what the hell happened today. I- I didn’t tell you I was doing this, because I didn’t think you’d approve—“

“Satoru…” you warn in a low tone, though you were really just hoping that he hadn’t gotten himself into any unexpected trouble.

“Hey, I didn’t even explain yet! It isn’t even bad, really,” his body goes back to his usual animated way, which relives you. “It’s just.. I met the kid.. his kid. I found him.”

The words were so bland out of context. But it takes nothing for you to connect the dots. Despite this, your voice still calls out, hesitant,

“You… you talking about fushiguro’s kid?”

Your eyes go wide in shock when the man nods his head, and you stand up.

“Satoru Gojo, you went looking for him?” You ask in disbelief.

“Listen, it didnt go as bad as you’re thinking it did!” He raises his hands up defensively, “I swear, I really just wanted to meet the kid, but turns out he’s like, super strong. I can feel it.”

“Who cares?? What the hell were you gonna tell him, huh? That you killed his father?” You hissed, eyes still widened in shock.

“That’s just the funny thing—“

“It’s not funny!”

“No no, I mean,” he begins to backpedal before he pauses, chuckling to himself and wiping a pale hand down his face, much to your dismay. “Baby, please, listen to me when I say this.” He sighs, taking your hand. You weren’t upset at him, and he knew that. You weren’t just surprised by his uncalled for antics, like usual.

“I’m listening.” you pout, looking up into the bright eyes of your man. His hand squeezed yours and he sighs.

“He didn’t care.” He states, sounding just as surprised as you’re about to be.

“…what? So, you told him.?” You squint.

“No no, I was going to, but, before I could even say the man’s name he just straight up said that he didn’t care. According to him, he didn’t even know him all that well. He never saw him, and doesn’t care to, and he told me that he isn’t interested in whatever he has going on. He’s completely stoic.” Satoru explains the story, passionately shocked as if it was just the most mind boggling thing in the world.

You’re surprised too, unable to believe that a boy so young could be so… cutthroat. And about his own parents. Though, you took into consideration the circumstances between the two.

Though, if you were being honest, you didn’t really care much about the zenin either. More focused on the young boy.

“Well, where is he now? Is he in school? Does he have a home? Oh my goodness, how old is he now?”

Your questions don’t surprise Satoru, as you’re always one to worry too damn much about others.

“The kids fine.. he’s hellbent on being independent. And, if I’m not mistaken, he lives with someone. I heard a young girls voice when I was walkin’ away. A… sister maybe—“ he ponders, and you gasp, distraught.

“Oh, my goodness..” you press a hand to your heart, “Satoru, you have to do something. I mean, how old is he? About.. 6? That boy needs some stability. And if he does have a sister, so does she—“ you state firmly, and Satoru sighs.

“Honey, I’m sure they’re fine. He’s a tough kid.”

“Yeah. A kid, ‘Toru. Just because he’s “strong” and has some sorcerer ability, does not mean he’s safe. A lot of kids get their abilities at a young age. Including me.” You lift a brow, tilting your head knowingly. “And you. And that doesn’t mean he doesn’t need a… a figure, in his life.”

Satoru takes in your words, gnawing the inside of his cheek.

At his silence, you sigh and lean in, kissing his cheek and whispering against it.

“The least you can do is check up on him… like you did today. Get to know him a bit more, and about his situation, you know? Take him to the park, the arcade— ice cream, something, just—“ you sigh, and you feel the familiar weight of his hand sliding gently up your back to gently rub at your shoulder, as a touch of reassurance.

“Okay, oookay, my dear,” he hushes you with his words, trying to soothe your ramblings. “Always so passionate, my love.” He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your head. Then your nose. Then your lips before pulling back with a smile.

“I’ll keep an eye out for him, alright? I’ll kidnap him if I have to. I’ll be totally subtle about it, too.” He grins.

“Yeah..” your brows furrow and your expression drops, “why do I feel like you’re lying?”

He simply laughs again and scoops you up into his arms, peppering your face with kisses. Your cheek muscles tighten as your smile slowly grows at how much it tickles. You hug him back, knowing you’re stuck in the sorcerer’s grasp (not that you’re complaining) for the rest of the night.

You hum in delight, closing your eyes. You know your man will make the right choice.

September, 2007. Present day.

The rain continues to pour, thick raindrops slapping at each and every window pane. You and Satoru are sat on the couch, facing a tiny Megumi fushiguro who sits just angled from the couch, nursing a cup of hot chocolate, clad in some fresh new clothes that were just a bit too big for him. They were the smallest of your clothes that you could find and allow him to wear until his clothes were finished drying in the laundry room.

“…I guess I forgot my house key at school. Tsumiki’s at a sleep over, and I don’t know anyone else.”

You squint your eyes as you listen intently to the boys explanation as to why he has arrived here so abruptly. Such a coincidence that Satoru had given him the address just yesterday whilst on their little mochi excursion. You also can’t help but realize just how right Satoru was when he told you that Megumi is very nonchalant and stoic, unless he’s bickering with the older man.

“Man.. I’m sorry the days has been so hard on you. You know, you’re more than welcomed to stay here until the rain lets up!” You smile, resting a hand on satorus knee and patting it slightly, a silent cue to get him to add on.

“Of course! You’re welcomed here whenever ya want! The three of us will get along just well!” He smiles, animated and genuinely excited to have the new, tiny company.

“When the rain lets up tomorrow, we can head to the school and see if your key is there.

Megumi’s face shifts from blank to annoyed in a second.

“That’s just the thing..” he grumbles, “it’s Friday.”

For a second, the words don’t really make sense, until you think hard. They’re out of school.

“Oh, shit. School’s out for that little renovation period in the city, yeah?” You turn to Satoru. A small part of the city was closed for some slight improvements in the streets, meaning every building within that vicinity is meant to be closed for the time being.

“Oh, you’re right..” Satoru trails off. “And that’s supposed to be for—“

“The month.” The bundle of annoyance frowns harder. Both you and Satoru share a look.

“A month, huh.. ? surely your sister will be back by then, yes?” He asks, and Megumi freezes.

“Riiiight?” Satoru presses again, and Megumi huffs, dipping his head almost in shame.

“No…”

“No?” You question, “I thought she was just at a friend’s house?”

“I lied… she’s out the country for an exchange program. She’s staying for a quarter, and won’t be back until November.” He mumbles quickly, head still dropped. “Sorry.. I didn’t think this would happen.”

Your mouth drops open in shock, and you glance between Satoru and the smaller boy.

“Wh, what was the plan while she was gone?” You question. Who the hell was taking care of those two??

“Hm? What do you mean? Just the usual..” he lifts his head, face still a bit pouty in embarrassment. “Go to school, come straight home.”

“—alone? That’s extremely dangerous. What about food? Bills? Fucking, basic hygiene?” You question harder, and the other two can sense your growing frustration at the situation.

“I mean.. I eat at school..” he states like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, but he never realized how bad it sounded coming out of his own mouth. You feel your heart sink at the ridiculous idea that this boy and his sister were surviving off of nothing but school lunch. You didn’t know much about Toji fushiguro, or the woman he married, but what you did know was that no child deserved to starve and go hungry. Not when it could be prevented.

You look to Satoru, and to your relief, his face reflects the seriousness of the news.

“So, you’ve been scraping by.. how?” Satoru questions.

Megumi shrugs, suddenly not feeling too keen on drinking the hot chocolate you’ve prepared for him.

“Tsumiki usually deals with that stuff.”

“So what was the plan now that she’s away?”

There’s a slight pause, and the beat of silence is all you need to know before you grip Satoru’s bicep and give him a pleading look. He soothes your worried look with a kiss to the head before facing Megumi.

“Kid, where’s your sister?” Satoru asks, and the boy’s brows furrow.

“Some American school…” he mumbles, thinking hard. “New York, i believe. Other than the education, she wanted to find a better paying job. So that when she comes back, we’ll be set for the year.”

“Alright. First thing tomorrow, I’m getting on a plane and heading over there.” He states firmly, and you nod in agreement right along with him.

Megumi is surprised at just how… casually he could up and buy a plane ticket over seas. Was this dude made of money?

“I’m bringing her back, and it isn’t up to discussion as to where you two will be staying from now on.” Satoru stands from his spot beside you, immediately reaching into his back pocket to pull out his phone, typing furiously. He’d probably skip a day of class again, to which you’d have to make up an excuse for him to your teachers for the umpteenth time.

Megumi’s eyes follow Satoru as he bustles out of the room before shifting back to you.

There’s nothing but silence between the two of you for a moment. With the exception of the continuous rain from outside the home. Tiny nails scratch at the porcelain mug, almost nervously before he sets it down on the coffee table. You watch Megumi swallow as he gathers his next words, and as you take in his body language, you note that this is the most expressive he’s been since you’ve met him.

“Does that.. am I really staying?” He questions, and you’ve never seen him look so confused. Brows furrowed in pure disbelief.

You hum, nodding, “Satoru and I have made up our minds. You’re six, Megumi. Scraping by, it’s.. it’s no way for a boy like you to live. Your sister may be in a bit of a shock when she finds out, but I’m not backing down on this. I will not, in good conscience, let you and your sister stay alone.”

He continues to stare, as if he still didn’t believe you. And maybe he didn’t.

You sigh, standing up and approaching the longer chair he’s sat in and crouch down to his level.

And god, does Megumi hate it when people try to get on his level. To try and understand him, like they could ever understand whats going through his mind. As if anyone knows.

But the way you do it… he doesn’t feel the arrogance in the position from you, compared to other people. It doesn’t stop him from continuing his frown, but he feels more inclined to pay attention to what you’re about to say. Because… your eyes show no signs of deceit. Which is what Megumi looks for the most.

“Megumi…” you trail off.

“—Why?”

You go to speak, but he beats you to it. And you don’t need to ask again to understand his question.

“Because… because I care. We care, Satoru and I. Maybe we weren’t the best of friends with your father. And no, we don’t get anything out of doing what we’re doing for you. But who the hell cares when you’re living in a beat up home somewhere, Megumi? We want you safe.”

And it’s about as simple as that. You cared. And it seems Megumi excepts that answer.

He watches as you smile at him and move your hand up to ruffle his hair. He doesn’t flinch away— but there is a burning behind his eyes and an ache in his tiny heart that he can’t seem to explain to himself as it’s happening.

“I’m so sorry, Megumi.. for the way things are. But Satoru and I are gonna make it better, yes?”

He feels your hand slide from his spiky hair and to his cheek. The action is confusing until he realizes just how oddly warm they become. Confused, he goes to speak, but feels his voice is constricted, and his nose is nasally.

“Oh, megs..” you giggle a little, “don’t cry.”

Cry?

Was that what he was doing? Hell, he’s pretty sure that the last time he’s ever cried was when he was pushed out of the womb. He’s never cried, and the thought of breaking down in front of a stranger makes him hide his face in his much too large shirt— you giggle, a little louder this time as you scoop him up into your arms in a comforting hug. To which he accepts without any resistance.

“Oh, ‘gumi.. now I’m gonna cry!” You faux weep, pouting. Though the moment was definitely hitting you dead in the feels.

“Who’s cryin’? In here??” You hear from behind you.

Satoru walks up from behind, shock and an amused smile on his face as he watches the scene before him. His own heart aches at the sight of the little boy, but he knows this is a joyful moment rather than a sad one. Megumi was on the right path to living better.

You glance at the sorcerer who smiles, taking a seat on the arm of the couch and gently ruffling the boys hair as he continues to hide his blotchy face into his shirt.

Things were looking to be just fine.

──────

You and Satoru stand in the doorframe of the guest room, watching as Megumi shuffles into the small twin and under the blanket. You pout, leaning against Satoru’s chest as you speak,

“Sorry it’s not the best. We hardly ever use this room.”

To you, the room was probably the blandest in the house. Simply used for emergency. Nothing but a twin bed stuffed into the corner of the room, a cheap nightstand, and a lamp inhabited the space, much to your dissatisfaction. Your priorities is were to 1.) being Tsumiki back. And, 2.) accommodate to the two accordingly. Satoru squeezes your shoulder.

“One step at a time, babe. He’ll be just fine for the night! We two can stay in tomorrow and do some shopping with the card while I’m airborne, yes?” He presses a kiss to your cheek, and the words and touch comfort you.

“That sounds good… Megumi?” You ask.

“Sounds fine.” He shrugs nonchalantly, a huge contract to just and hour ago. “May I sleep now?”

“Oh, of course… here.” You whisper, shutting off the light for a moment. The room is pitch black, completely overcome with darkness for a moment. There’s some slight shuffling to be heard before the room lights up again— a nightlight.

The glow is a soft yellow, and reaches to the center of the room before fading out slightly.

“Ta-da! Think of it as a… welcoming gift.” Satoru chuckles, and you nod, hanging on his arm as you wait for megumi’s reaction.

And of course, he doesn’t. His face is about as blank as a sheet of paper. The silence makes you deflate a bit, smiling nervously and waving it off.

“You’re a big boy now, I know… it’s silly. I can shut it off—“

“No, no— please. It’s nice, thank you.” He says quickly, and moves to fluff out his pillow. Both you and Satoru share a look of excitement and take his pillow-fluffing as a cue to let the boy finally sleep.

“Right… goodnight, Megumi.” You and Satoru whisper in unison, slowly shutting the door.

And now that Megumi is completely alone, finally…

He lets the smile he’s been holding in ono his face, and lets the tears of relief and joy finally fall.

──────

taglist,,

@anything4yoongi @alpha-mommy69 @s4ikoo1 @moonchhu @kianatrg @emryb

[princessofgotham777]

Detective Dick Grayson (Part One)

Fic type: ongoing, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff

Summary: You have similar abilities to Rachel Roth, only you don’t know it yet. When you’re attacked by the cult who serves Trigon, Nightwing saves you and Dick Grayson promises to help you.

Hey so I know this is kinda cringy but all fanfic lowkey is💀 If you don’t like it don’t be rude just move on😃🧍‍♀️. I don’t write smut. If you liked the Titans show and liked that characterization of Dick Grayson you’ll probably like this fic. The concepts I’m gonna be taking inspo from are Titans and CW arrowverse shows cause I grew up watching them. There also might be some comic lore here and there. Of course I don’t own any DC characters this is purely fanfiction. I hope you enjoy!

Warnings: Violence

Part One: Detective Grayson

You regretted it all. Graduating from your college in the heart of Gotham, getting accepted there four years ago, going against your parents wishes and moving to the most dangerous city in America. The city known for lunatics in masks and relentless criminals. But most of all you regretted going out when you knew there was a serial killer whose profile was girls just like you. Mid twenties, female, hell you even looked like the other girls who’d been killed. You weren’t sure how the whole vigilante system worked but you were pretty sure you weren’t Batman and the countless Robins priority.

You had no idea where your attacker went. You simply stood against the sewer wall with your arms tied to a pipe. You tried to break free but it was hopeless. You noticed the sewer water rising quickly. “Shit,” you say. You keep tugging at your restraints so hard your hand and wrist starts to bleed from the force you’re using trying to break the zip ties. The water reaches your waist and you begin to cry. “Help!” You scream. There’s no sign of your attacker, and no sign of anyone coming to help. You tug and tug but all it does is cause you more pain. “Help me! Please anyone!” You scream as the water crawls up your neck. You breathe deeply as the water covers your head. You tug on the zip ties and they don’t budge. You’re about to completely give up when you see something move in the water. It’s a man with a blue bird symbol on his chest. He cuts the zip tie and guides you to where he must’ve came in. He lifts you out of the sewer so now you both are lying in an alley in Gotham City. You cough up the water, gasping for air.

“Breathe,” the man says as he places his hand on your upper back. Finally you’ve coughed all the water out of your lungs.

“Who are you?” You ask as your head spins.

“Nightwing,” he responds. You notice his black mask and eye paint as well as his armored acrobatic suit with the blue symbol. A vigilante has rescued you and you are severely oxygen deprived so you pass out.

You open your eyes to find yourself in the hospital. There are white bandages around your hands and wrists from where the zip tie cut. The harsh florescent lights burn your eyes. You can feel an iv in your arm and notice you’re wearing a hospital gown. You begin to sit up when a voice says, “take it easy.” Beside you sits a man with dark brown hair and tan skin. He’s wearing a brown leather jacket, black pants, a white shirt and tie.

“Who are you?” You ask him.

“Detective Dick Grayson,” he says as he holds up his badge. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Y/N Y/L/N,” you say.

“You’re at the hospital Y/N, you know why?” He asks.

“I was fucking kidnapped and trapped in a sewer to die when…when someone saved me,” you say.

“So you remember what happened?” He asks.

“I guess so,” you say.

“Can you remember anything else?” He asks.

“There was…somebody saved me. It must’ve been one of Batman’s old robins, the one with the blue bird on his chest,” you say.

“Right that one’s called Nightwing…I think,” he says awkwardly. “Do you remember being kidnapped?” He asks.

“I was walking home. I knew there was a killer on the loose but I figured it was just another day in Gotham. I was right outside Crown Point when this guy came up behind me with a knife. Then he knocked me out and I woke up tied to a pipe in the sewer.”

“Do you remember anything about the man? His height, hair, skin or eye color? Even what he was wearing?” He asks.

“Um, he wasn’t much taller than me. I didn’t see his face, only his hand that held the knife to my throat. I remember his hand was pale as a ghost and he had a blue jacket on. I think it was denim.” You say. Dick is about to say something but the Doctor comes in. She gives you some paper work to fill out and discharges you.

“Would you let me give you a ride home? Make sure you’re safe,” he asks.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll meet you in the hall,” you say to politely tell him to get out so you can change. The hospital gave you some clean clothes but they were pretty big on you. You and him walked through the parking garage and you were quite surprised when the car he stopped at was a small silver Porsche.

“This is your car?” You ask.

“You like it?” He says.

“It’s alright,” you say sarcastically as you get in.

Pulling into your appartment parking lot he asks, “would you let me walk you up?”

“Course, thank you,” you say.

You two walk up the stairs to your apartment.

Standing outside the door you say, “thanks for the ride, and walking me up.”

“Of course,” he says softly. “If you remember anything or if you feel unsafe at all don’t hesitate to give the GCPD a call and make sure to ask for me so you don’t have to deal with any bullshit alright?”

“Okay,” you say. “Thank you again.”

“You’re welcome,” he smiles as he begins to walk down the stairs.

You go inside your apartment and lock the door behind you. Suddenly someone comes up behind you and wraps their hands around your throat. You gasp for air and hit the man in the face. “Detective Grayson!” You scream. Dick here’s you from the stairwell and races back to your apartment. “Help!” You say as you attempt to run from the man. He catches you and tackles you to the floor. “Help!” You scream again.

“Y/N!” Dick yells. He tries the door but it’s locked. He kicks it down to see you struggling with the man on the floor. He grabs the man and pulls him off of you. “Get the fuck away from her!” He begins punching him not bothering to hold back. The man gets the upper hand and punches Dick in the face. He runs out of your apartment and Dick chases him down the stairs as you follow. In the parking lot Dick tackles him. The man once again gets the upper hand and you go behind him and jump on him to pull him off Dick who appears to be unconscious. The man throws you off of him, gets in his car, and speeds away.

“Detective!” You say trying to get him to wake up. He opens his eyes and sits up rather quickly.

“Fuck,” he says grabbing his neck. “Are you alright?” He asks.

“Yeah, physically anyway. Are you?” You ask.

“I’m fine,” he says standing up. “Clearly this guy has some problem with you, his victims have escaped before and he never bothered going after them again. Somethings different about you,” he says.

“What the hell could be want with me?” You ask.

“No idea but you’ve gotta get out of here,” he says.

“I have no where to go,” you say. “My sister lives in Central City but I don’t wanna put her in danger,” you say.

“It’s no problem. I can get to the bottom of this and while I do, if you’d like we can go hide. I can protect you,” he says.

“Where do you suggest we go Detective?” You ask.

He smiles slightly and says, “call me Dick.”

Hi, I hope you enjoyed reading. Any positive feedback is always appreciated. Remember to like if you liked the fic and follow if you want to see more like it. I have a pretty long ongoing series that’s Jason Todd x Reader so if you’d be interested in that please check out my Masterlist. Thank you for reading🩷

Here’s a link to my Masterlist if you’d wanted to check it out.

Masterlist

[drdemonprince]

THANK YOU for talking about being aroused by the memories of being assaulted. i thought i was crazy or maybe an evil liar and that it was just me that felt that way. shame is a hell of a drug i didn't even consider it might be a somewhat common response!

Oh it's highly common. The body responds to stimulation and penetration with physiological arousal! That happens so that nothing gets teared or hurt! There's also a huge endorphin rush to getting pushed around, pressured, or assaulted, and it's not uncommon to have a highly sexual response to all of that energy.

It's also especially common to cum during assault if the assailant is a partner with whom you have an ongoing relationship. I was being domestically abused by a partner, so I was getting sexually stimulated by someone I found attractive and who knew how to get me off. It's hardly surprising that my body responded to that, especially when you add into the equation that I already had a fetish for control. This is an unspoken element of why some people stay in abusive relationships -- there's some allure to the power dynamic or the abuse does get our bodies physiologically going, and we're attached to the person emotionally, so sometimes we keep going back to that well. Eventually I had to learn to replace my desire for control and forced sex with explicitly negotiated kink, but the deep dark secret of it all is that I personally enjoyed both, sexually.

I consider a lot of my CNC -related kinks to be a fun, exciting lemonade that my brain made from the lemons of having been assaulted multiple times. If you have anything like that, I say enjoy it as best you can, give yourself a little aftercare if needed, and don't worry about it!

[weewookinard]

Mariee darling are you still taking make me write requests?

Can I ask 👶🏻👶🏻👶🏻👶🏻, please? ❤️

Hi Gabby!! Kinda late but I finally wrote some lines, for you and for @kyellin who asked too on my comments 🥰 Here are some lines for my fic where Abby and Tommy have a kid together! I wrote next part just here if you want!

This part will be very emotional 🥹

Tamara has never been keen on napping as a child, but she falls asleep from exhaustion as soon as her father's car door closes. From time to time, Tommy looks at her in the rear-view mirror, laying eyes on that little body exhausted from running around the huge museum, demanding to discover more and more, her stuffed toy under her arm. The mammoth is still clutched to her chest, and a light snore emerges from her half-open mouth. She looks so peaceful, so happy. Tommy wipes a tear from his cheek. Why can't he enjoy the day the three of them have just had? Why does an awful feeling twist his stomach? He should be relieved. His daughter hadn't rejected his boyfriend, and his boyfriend hadn't pushed his daughter away. On the contrary, Evan was loving, bonding with the child at breakneck speed. Perhaps a little too hastily, in fact. The picture of Tammy throwing herself into his arms to say goodbye, cheek pressed against his, making him promise to take her back to the museum, is heavy on the father's shoulders. It's overwhelming in the worst way. Isn't this all he's ever wanted? A strong family, at the side of his true love, his daughter in his arms. Their daughter. He feels stupid for having dreamed for so long of the day when he'd find someone capable of loving Tammy as if she were his own, and then getting scared the day it finally happens. It's all moving too fast. Evan and Tammy should have needed time to discover each other, to learn about each other. He should have been able to witness the changes, to guide them gently along the right path, step by step. He should have been able to act as a barrier in case things got out of hand, in the right stance to protect them both. Instead, he watched helplessly as the accident unfolded, unable to prevent the disaster. Evan and Tammy had collided, and to pull them apart might well destroy them, leaving only debris. Another tear, another snoring exhale from his daughter in the back.

thank you both 🥹🥹

Make me write more here ✍️

Or

Start this story from chapter one 👶

[rtfics]

I'm popping in only because a friend told me about this post.

Hi. Professional writer here. Warner Brothers and Tim Burton would never look at unsolicited screenplays. You'd need to have an agent and an extensive CV as a professional writer. Unless you're already a seasoned pro there's no way Burton would look at your script. Besides, for his films Burton creates the ideas and works with the screenwriters; they put words to what he wants to happen. And he adds and removes things during filming. He doesn't just take someone else's script and turn it into a film.

Also, and this is very important: You can't write a script with someone else's characters. You don't own the copyright to any of the Beetlejuice characters. If you try to make money using someone else's characters that's theft and copyright infringement. You can be sued. So the idea of your selling a Beetlejuice script is moot. Can't happen.

Dear god, don't send your script to screenplay contests or any place online that says you can sell screen plays. These are ripoffs. If you seriously want your script to be sold you need an agent.

You can't just send a script to a movie studio or a director and expect it to be read. People try this all the time, which is why pros only look at work sent to them by agents. The agents do the vetting for them. Being a member of the WGA means nothing. Being a member does NOT mean anyone will read your script. You have to be represented by an agent, and one with a good reputation.

And double dear jeezus god, do not go to AI for information. Go to the library and get a book about screenwriting written by a screenwriter. AI is shit.

Becoming a professional screenwriter, or pro writer in any genre, takes hard work and dedication. There's no easy way, no short cut. Websites that promise you such are there to take advantage of your ignorance and steal your ideas and/or your money. If you're not willing to do the necessary work -- which BTW will take years--- then just stick to fanfic writing.

Read I Will Not Read Your F*%!ing Script by screenwriter Josh Olson. I include it below. Believe me, his sentiments are the same for all directors and movie studios. This article is about looking for feedback, but it's the same for those who want to sell a screenplay:

We know you’ve been working very hard on your screenplay, but before you go looking for some professional feedback, you might keep in mind the following piece by A History of Violence screenwriter Josh Olson.

I will not read your fucking script.

That’s simple enough, isn’t it? “I will not read your fucking script.” What’s not clear about that? There’s nothing personal about it, nothing loaded, nothing complicated. I simply have no interest in reading your fucking screenplay. None whatsoever.

If that seems unfair, I’ll make you a deal. In return for you not asking me to read your fucking script, I will not ask you to wash my fucking car, or take my fucking picture, or represent me in fucking court, or take out my fucking gall bladder, or whatever the fuck it is that you do for a living.

You’re a lovely person. Whatever time we’ve spent together has, I’m sure, been pleasurable for both of us. I quite enjoyed that conversation we once had about structure and theme, and why Sergio Leone is the greatest director who ever lived. Yes, we bonded, and yes, I wish you luck in all your endeavors, and it would thrill me no end to hear that you had sold your screenplay, and that it had been made into the best movie since Godfather Part II.

But I will not read your fucking script.

At this point, you should walk away, firm in your conviction that I’m a dick. But if you’re interested in growing as a human being and recognizing that it is, in fact, you who are the dick in this situation, please read on.

Yes. That’s right. I called you a dick. Because you created this situation. You put me in this spot where my only option is to acquiesce to your demands or be the bad guy. That, my friend, is the very definition of a dick move.

I was recently cornered by a young man of my barest acquaintance.

I doubt we’ve exchanged a hundred words. But he’s dating someone I know, and he cornered me in the right place at the right time, and asked me to read a two-page synopsis for a script he’d been working on for the last year. He was submitting the synopsis to some contest or program, and wanted to get a professional opinion.

Now, I normally have a standard response to people who ask me to read their scripts, and it’s the simple truth: I have two piles next to my bed. One is scripts from good friends, and the other is manuscripts and books and scripts my agents have sent to me that I have to read for work. Every time I pick up a friend’s script, I feel guilty that I’m ignoring work. Every time I pick something up from the other pile, I feel guilty that I’m ignoring my friends. If I read yours before any of that, I’d be an awful person.

Most people get that. But sometimes you find yourself in a situation where the guilt factor is really high, or someone plays on a relationship or a perceived obligation, and it’s hard to escape without seeming rude. Then, I tell them I’ll read it, but if I can put it down after ten pages, I will. They always go for that, because nobody ever believes you can put their script down once you start.

But hell, this was a two page synopsis, and there was no time to go into either song or dance, and it was just easier to take it. How long can two pages take?

Weeks, is the answer.

And this is why I will not read your fucking script.

It rarely takes more than a page to recognize that you’re in the presence of someone who can write, but it only takes a sentence to know you’re dealing with someone who can’t.

(By the way, here’s a simple way to find out if you’re a writer. If you disagree with that statement, you’re not a writer. Because, you see, writers are also readers.)

You may want to allow for the fact that this fellow had never written a synopsis before, but that doesn’t excuse the inability to form a decent sentence, or an utter lack of facility with language and structure. The story described was clearly of great importance to him, but he had done nothing to convey its specifics to an impartial reader. What I was handed was, essentially, a barely coherent list of events, some connected, some not so much. Characters wander around aimlessly, do things for no reason, vanish, reappear, get arrested for unnamed crimes, and make wild, life-altering decisions for no reason. Half a paragraph is devoted to describing the smell and texture of a piece of food, but the climactic central event of the film is glossed over in a sentence. The death of the hero is not even mentioned. One sentence describes a scene he’s in, the next describes people showing up at his funeral. I could go on, but I won’t. This is the sort of thing that would earn you a D minus in any Freshman Comp class.

Which brings us to an ugly truth about many aspiring screenwriters: They think that screenwriting doesn’t actually require the ability to write, just the ability to come up with a cool story that would make a cool movie. Screenwriting is widely regarded as the easiest way to break into the movie business, because it doesn’t require any kind of training, skill or equipment. Everybody can write, right? And because they believe that, they don’t regard working screenwriters with any kind of real respect. They will hand you a piece of inept writing without a second thought, because you do not have to be a writer to be a screenwriter.

So. I read the thing. And it hurt, man. It really hurt. I was dying to find something positive to say, and there was nothing. And the truth is, saying something positive about this thing would be the nastiest, meanest and most dishonest thing I could do. Because here’s the thing: not only is it cruel to encourage the hopeless, but you cannot discourage a writer. If someone can talk you out of being a writer, you’re not a writer. If I can talk you out of being a writer, I’ve done you a favor, because now you’ll be free to pursue your real talent, whatever that may be. And, for the record, everybody has one. The lucky ones figure out what that is. The unlucky ones keep on writing shitty screenplays and asking me to read them.

To make matters worse, this guy (and his girlfriend) had begged me to be honest with him. He was frustrated by the responses he’d gotten from friends, because he felt they were going easy on him, and he wanted real criticism. They never do, of course. What they want is a few tough notes to give the illusion of honesty, and then some pats on the head. What they want — always — is encouragement, even when they shouldn’t get any.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to tell someone that they’ve spent a year wasting their time? Do you know how much blood and sweat goes into that criticism? Because you want to tell the truth, but you want to make absolutely certain that it comes across honestly and without cruelty. I did more rewrites on that fucking e-mail than I did on my last three studio projects.

My first draft was ridiculous. I started with specific notes, and after a while, found I’d written three pages on the first two paragraphs. That wasn’t the right approach. So I tossed it, and by the time I was done, I’d come up with something that was relatively brief, to the point, and considerate as hell. The main point I made was that he’d fallen prey to a fallacy that nails a lot of first-timers. He was way more interested in telling his one story than in being a writer. It was like buying all the parts to a car and starting to build it before learning the basics of auto mechanics. You’ll learn a lot along the way, I said, but you’ll never have a car that runs.

(I should mention that while I was composing my response, he pulled the ultimate amateur move, and sent me an e-mail saying, “If you haven’t read it yet, don’t! I have a new draft. Read this!” In other words, “The draft I told you was ready for professional input, wasn’t actually.”)

I advised him that if all he was interested in was this story, he should find a writer and work with him; or, if he really wanted to be a writer, start at the beginning and take some classes, and start studying seriously.

And you know what? I shouldn’t have bothered. Because for all the hair I pulled out, for all the weight and seriousness I gave his request for a real, professional critique, his response was a terse “Thanks for your opinion.” And, the inevitable fallout — a week later a mutual friend asked me, “What’s this dick move I hear you pulled on Whatsisname?”

So now this guy and his girlfriend think I’m an asshole, and the truth of the matter is, the story really ended the moment he handed me the goddamn synopsis. Because if I’d just said “No” then and there, they’d still think I’m an asshole. Only difference is, I wouldn’t have had to spend all that time trying to communicate thoughtfully and honestly with someone who just wanted a pat on the head, and, more importantly, I wouldn’t have had to read that godawful piece of shit.

You are not owed a read from a professional, even if you think you have an in, and even if you think it’s not a huge imposition. It’s not your choice to make. This needs to be clear — when you ask a professional for their take on your material, you’re not just asking them to take an hour or two out of their life, you’re asking them to give you — gratis — the acquired knowledge, insight, and skill of years of work. It is no different than asking your friend the house painter to paint your living room during his off-hours.

There’s a great story about Pablo Picasso. Some guy told Picasso he’d pay him to draw a picture on a napkin. Picasso whipped out a pen and banged out a sketch, handed it to the guy, and said, “One million dollars, please.”

“A million dollars?” the guy exclaimed. “That only took you thirty seconds!”

“Yes,” said Picasso. “But it took me fifty years to learn how to draw that in thirty seconds.”

Like the cad who asks the professional for a free read, the guy simply didn’t have enough respect for the artist to think about what he was asking for. If you think it’s only about the time, then ask one of your non-writer friends to read it. Hell, they might even enjoy your script. They might look upon you with a newfound respect. It could even come to pass that they call up a friend in the movie business and help you sell it, and soon, all your dreams will come true. But me?

I will not read your fucking script.

Josh Olson’s screenplay for the film A History of Violence was nominated for the Academy Award, the BAFTA, the WGA award and the Edgar. He is also the writer and director of the horror/comedy cult movie Infested, which Empire Magazine named one of the 20 Best Straight to Video Movies ever made. Recently, he has written with the legendary Harlan Ellison, and worked on Halo with Peter Jackson and Neill Blomkamp. He adapted Dennis Lehane’s story “Until Gwen,” which he will also be directing. He is currently adapting One Shot, one of the best-selling Jack Reacher books for Paramount.

©2009 Josh Olson. All rights reserved.

So I'm still serious about writing that BJ3 script but I found out about all the requirements needed to join the Screenwriters Guild so its unlikely I'll be able to join. I had thought of joining since Warner Bros does not accept freelance scripts. As I said I'm still serious about getting my script into Tim's/Warner Bros hands. Does anyone know of any screenplay contests or anywhere where you can sell screenplays online? I really want to help all the Beetlebabes dreams come true by making Beetlebabes canon this time.

[scrapyardboyfriends]

The absolute unhinged behavior on all sides of the 911 fandom is both extremely comical and deeply concerning to watch. It’s not that serious y’all. Get a grip.

[puhpandas]

I think the reason beckory works well is that tony has a habit of getting self righteous and in his own head about things but Gregory isnt afraid to tell him off or call him out about things. the point of tony in ggy is that nobody ever told him that how hes treating other people isnt good, so that's why he got so bad. but tony would be close to Gregory and have every rational reason in the world to listen to Gregory so when he would say something like "you're treating ellis badly and that's not what a good friend does, you need to do better" hed actually listen and take it into account and improve himself

[mossterunderthebed]

[talentforlying]

father grimaldi: forgive me, lord, for i have sinned. constantine: — understatement of the bloody century, that is. father grimaldi: the chapel is closed to the public! who are you? how did you get in here . . .? constantine: did you know vatican city has the highest per-capita crime rate of any nation state in the world? i'd have thought a touch of breaking and entering's pretty much par for the course around here.

so #1, an undeniable slay.

#2, how long do we think he was sitting in the confessional booth waiting for the guy to wake up from ellie's fake vision quest. like an hour? checking his light, practicing his Big Reveal Pose TM? he probably brought a book with him and just shoved it underneath the seat cushion when it was time to show off.

#3, knowing how intensely he studied & continues to study in order to teach himself magic at such an absurdly advanced level without any teachers to formally guide him? and how that level of dedication would absolutely carry over into researching a mark / making sure he had every corner of a confidence scheme nailed down pat? i like to imagine that the day before this meeting was spent with his severely under-caffeinated ass parked at a public library computer, squinting at articles for 'most important things to know about vatican city before you travel' or 'top 10 little-known facts about vatican city' and using the back of his boarding pass to take notes on what would be the best throwaway line to blow off all the usual questions with.

also, he probably woke up still in his travel clothes less than two hours before this scene and had to hustle to get suited up in time for his Dramatic Apparition. the demon blood was boiling so bad in that chapel that it was giving him a killer migraine. he didn't get breakfast so his stomach was growling the ENTIRE time. but all that meant was he had plenty of room to eat UP the runway and that's EXACTLY what the fuck he did.i'm

[inkskinned]

what is with men being mad any time a woman raises her voice where did that even come from. someone posted a video of a small electrical explosion, and the top comment was of course the woman screams. the second comment is women try not to scream challenge, level impossible. i had to go back and watch the video again. there is, somewhat fainty, a little gasp emitted off-camera, more of a yelp than a scream. it is mostly lost in the crack of the explosion. afterwards, you hear her voice, shaken, say, are you okay?

i am helping one of my friends train her voice pitch lower, because she wants to be taken seriously at work. she and i do each other's nails and talk about gender roles; and how - due to our appearance - neither of us have ever been able to be "hysterical" in public. we both appear young and sweet and feminine. she is cisgender, and cannot use her natural voice in her profession because people keep saying she appears to be "vapid". we both try to figure out if our purposeful voice lowering is technically sexist. is it promoting something when you are a victim to it?

a storm almost sends a pole through a car window. in the dashcam, you can hear the woman passenger say her partner's name twice, crying out in alarm. she sounds terrified. in the comments, she is lambasted for her lack of calm. how is that even fucking helping?

in high school, i taught myself to have a lower voice. i had been recorded when i was genuinely (and righteously) upset; and i hated how my voice sounded on the phone speakers when it was played back. i was defending my mom, and my voice cracked with emotion. it meant i was no longer winning the argument: i was just shrieking about it.

girls meet each other after a long summer and let out a little joyful scream. this usually stops around 12-14, because people will not tolerate this display of affection (as it has the effect of being passingly annoying). something about the fact that little girls can't ever even be annoying. we are trained to examine each part of our lives (even joy) for anything that could make us upsetting and disgusting. they act like teenage girls are breaking into houses and shrieking you awake at 3 in the morning. speaking as a public school educator: trust me, it's not that bad, you can just roll your eyes and move on. it does not compare to the ways boys end up being annoying: slurs in graffiti, purposefully mocking your body, following you after you said no. you know, just boy things.

there's another video of a man who is not allowed to yell in the house, so he snaps his fingers when he's excited about soccer. the comments are full of angry men, talking about how their brother is unfairly caged. let him express himself and this is terrible to do to someone. eventually the couple has to address it in a second video: they are married with a newborn baby. he was trying not to wake the infant up. there is no comment on the fact women are not allowed to yell indoors. or the fact that it could have been really alarming or triggering for his wife. sometimes i wonder if straight men even like women, if they even enjoy being in relationships with them.

for the longest time, i hated roller coasters because it always felt inappropriate and uncomfortable for me to scream. one of my friends called me on it, said it was unusual i'm so unwilling. i had to go to my therapist about it. i don't like to scream because i was not raised in a safe situation, and raising my voice would have brought unsafe attention towards me. even when i am supposed to scream, it feels shameful, guilty. i was not treated kindly, so i lack a basic form of self-protection. this is not a natural response. it is not good that in a situation of high adrenaline - i shut up about it.

something very bad is happening, i think. in between all the beauty standards and the stuff i've already discussed - this one feels new and cruel in a way i can't quite express. yes, it's scary and silencing. but there's something about how direct it is - that so many men agree with the sentiment that women should never yell, even in an emergency - it feels different.

is the word shriek gendered automatically? how about shrill or screech? in self defense class, one of the first things they tell you is to yell, as loud and as shrilly as you can. they say it will feel rude. most women will not do this. you need to practice overcoming the social pressure and just scream.

most women do not cry out, even when it's bad. we do not report it. we walk faster. we do not make a scene. what would be the point of doing anything else? no matter what we do, we don't get taken seriously. it is a joke to them. an instagram caption punchline. we have to present ourselves as silent, beautiful, captivating - "valuable."

a woman is outside watching her kids when someone throws a firecracker at them. she screams and runs towards her children. in the comments, grown men flock together in the thousands: god. women are so annoying.

[gojosprettyprincess]

❝​REPAYMENT​❝

Synopsis - Oh no! What happens when the big, massive strong man that saved you during a very dangerous war, wants something from you in return for his bravery?

Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!reader

Warnings - Dub-con, mentions of killing people, creampie, ass play, size kink, he stuffs his gloves in your mouth, he's possessive, mentions about keeping you with him. Dark content. this was kinda rushed so sorry for any errors!!

Art credits @umkochannart on twitter!

A/n - I NEED HIM, SOMEONE PLEASE

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

“Oh my— fuck! Sir, please we shouldn't be doing this, someone might see!” you stammered, legs trembling as your panties lazily pooled around your ankles. You mewled at the feeling of his hard, cold gear slapping against the mound of your ass, making the flesh ripple against his clothed pelvis. You keened as the wooden table dug into your stomach as you held onto the edge for dear life.

His cock was so thick and long—perfectly curved as it stretches open your tight, compressed walls to alter his girth. He grunts, feeling your tight little pussy eagerly fluttering around his invasive dick as you blabber on and on about your little worries about getting caught. Of course, you minded that a stranger man was destroying your pussy, but that was the least of your worries right now. The thought of getting caught and someone seeing your vulnerable self—almost naked, being pounded against a small table in the supply room by a big solider that's fully clothed, except for the crotch of his pants that's zipped down to free his aching cock, that's currently having your cunt drooling—making a mess all over his thick combat pants, made your mind hazy and your cunt throbbing in both excitement and frustration.

“Aww don't worry bout' that darling—I’ll just kill them for you so they won't say anything, will that be better?” he chuckles, his gloved hands digging into your hips as he deeply thrusts himself inside your dripping pussy relentlessly, fucking every single brain cell out of you. For someone who is “scared”, your pussy sure as hell was soaked and aroused.

He smirked under his skull mask at the feeling of your sweet pussy throbbing in tight circles around his cock to his words. “Oh? What a dirty little slut, does my talking about killing people make you horny? Such a sick little bitch, this pussy is clenching around me like it's fucking addicted to my cock, you a virgin, darling?”

Your eyebrows furred together at his sick wordings, you felt on the verge of losing your mind as the feeling of pure pleasure clouded your mind. “No, M’not!” you whimpered out, your tits grazing against the wooden table as your gushy pussy leaked all over his veiny shaft, every thrust had your pussy coating his cock even more with your filthy juices—as if you were enjoying it, or maybe you were?

“Oh yeah? Well, your cunt sure is fucking tight and warm—squeezing me so hard for someone that's a whore, whaddya say I keep you here and split open this little pussy whenever I feel like it?” he chuckles darkly, a huge palm slapping your bouncing ass as it jiggles against him, you moaned, tears prickling at your tear line as his thick, filled balls slaps against your poor clit, creating even more friction that had you seeing stars.

“No! Sir—can't, you promised you'll let me go after this!” you muttered, feeling so stuffed by the big man’s cock. “Shh, shhh I'm just joking with you doll” he laughs wickedly, perverted eyes moving down to where the two of you were lewdly connected. His eyes fixated on your other little neglected hole, which's already coated with some slick from your pussy. He eagerly pulled off one of his gloves and placed it on the table. You jolted unexpectedly when he stuffed a thumb deep into your mouth, he pressed his weighted chest onto your smaller back—getting closer to you as he whispered, “Get it all wet and lubed up, it's for your own good, darling”, you were confused and oblivious to what he'd be needing his thumb for but obeyed him anyways, not wanting to make the big man angry.

You whirled your tongue around his finger, making sure to get as much spit on it as possible. After, you hummed, letting him know that you were done. He pulled his finger out, sticky drips of spit coating him. Your eyes widen with fear when you felt his fat thumb circling your virgin asshole, he spreads the spit all over the shy, fluttering hole before sinking it in little by little. “Fuck! Sir—please be gentle, never had anything in there!” You yelled as you cried out in pain of your untouched hole getting stretched out. He quickly picked up his glove and shoved it into your mouth when there were footsteps heard thumping outside the room. “For heaven's sake, please shut the fuck up or I’ll really kill someone. I'm not joking darling. You’re mine now and I won't let other eyes see what's mine” he said in a stern tone. He hissed lowly at the feeling of your asshole swallowing his whole thumb in, all the way to the hilt.

“Such a tight little asshole, M’honored I’ll be the first one to break open this pretty ass”. Your muffled cries got louder as he pounded his hefty cock harder into your pussy, making it gushing all over him as he fucked out more and more juices out of your body. Soon the pain turned into pleasure as he started wiggling his thumb inside of you, feeling it exploring your tight walls. Your moan grew sweeter and more fucked out as you felt your orgasm washing over you—his huge cock tip nudging against your G-spot bullyingly, making your mind hazy. He felt it—felt the way your pussy grew more wetter and tighter around his length, taking him in all the way in as he pants. “Fuck darling are you gonna cum? Go on baby, you can cum, cum all over my cock, you slut”. He ordered, letting his thumb hooked into your butthole as he uses three other fingers to rub wet circles around your clit.

You moaned out, standing on your tippy toes as you clenched both holes tighter around him, making him hiss as you squirted all over him—your filthy mess splattering all over his uniform and gear as he fucks more and more juices out of your dirty pussy. He groaned loudly as you made a mess all over him—he never had someone squirting on him before, so it drove him fucking crazy. He lands slap after slap on your ass cheeks—making the flesh red as you whimpered. “Such a messy little whore, you really squirted on a random man you don't even know? You really are a little slut, I'm definitely keeping you darling” he laughs out, feeling his orgasm following him. “I’m gonna stuff this cute little pussy so full of my seed, gonna drain it so deep inside you baby, it'll come out your mouth” The whole room reeked of sex as he towered over you, his massive cock snugly engulfed by your little pussy, so tight and warm for him. He moans louder, splitting out a few curses as he pulled out his thumb out of your ass, making your little hole wink at him at the loss of his finger. He used both hands to grip your hips, holding you steady as he used your body as a little fuckdoll, manhandling your little body to meet his cock halfway as you felt his cock twitching inside of you.

“No please! Sir not insi-” Too late, hot ropes of warm sticky cum spurted into your poor hole, filling it up as your eyes roll back. “Fuckkk, ohh fuckk yesss, such a good little cumslut for me” he moaned out with ecstasy as he emptied into your warm pussy—after so long.

Tears rolled down your cheeks as he stilled himself into you. He bent over once again, his chest and gear touching your back as he whispered to you. “Don't worry sweetheart, I’ll take good care of you, will fucking kill anyone if they dare look in your direction. You'll be mine forever, pretty”.

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: nsfw, dubcon, yandere, omegaverse, forced/accidental bonding, subjugation

♡ part one

♡ fem reader

Once you wake up in the morning, you feel… changed.

Your body feels full—as though you’d indulged too much last night—heavy and sticky and sore all over. There’s a strange taste in your mouth—sweet, somewhat salty, and metallic. Geez, you’re head’s pounding—how much did you drink last night? No, this feels different from a hangover—more full-bodied than that—a withdrawal of some kind or another. You must have done more at the party than drink, and yet, you can’t remember having stayed there all that long. No, you left with someone. That’s right. You went with… that overgrown Omega.

Oh no.

“Good morning, sleepyhead!”

He comes in only wearing a pair of snug boxers—body stacked with brawn, not a single hint of Omega-like softness aside from his tousled bed hair. There’s a big toothy smile on his face—eyes are creased in cheer while carrying an overfull breakfast tray. You know you’re hungry, and yet you can’t bring yourself to feel anything but sick to your stomach by the horrid sight of his flaunted neck, decorated by a gory ring of your bitemark.

No. No, no, no, no, no! Fuck! “Tell me that’s not what I think it is…”

He laughs lightly with an awkward smile, apologetically scratching the back of his neck while balancing the tray in the other hand. “I’m afraid so…”

The world stops spinning, and for a moment, you think it might actually never start up again. Your throat snares, and you think you might throw up. How the fuck could this happen?

He sets the tray down next to you, then himself. The whole bed takes waves upon his weight. You remain still—eyes unrest and mouth hung.

“Hey, I know this might not be what we had planned, but…” he starts.

But you don’t let him finish before declaring, “I’ll take full responsibility.”

There’s nothing else to do, you think. The red string of fate has tied the two of you together. It’s sealed.

“There is no going back now.”

His face expresses shock, but if you’d taken a closer look, he’d probably not be able to hide it—the overwhelming sensation of victory. Oh, bless your Alpha pride. He knew you would say that.

He smiles softly. “I’m in your care then.”

It’s a work in progress after that—slow in the beginning, but that’s to be expected. You never pegged yourself to be the type who got caught up in the unmendable mistakes of a one-night stand, but then here you were—mated with a stranger, moving into his apartment because it’s bigger and closer to work, sharing the same bed and eating the same meals and helping each other through one another’s ruts and heats.

He's still no closer to being your type. In fact, he’s the total opposite—too giant to give you even a semblance worth of superiority over him. A couple of days ago, when he’d been searching for the remote in the couch you were lying on, he’d taken to pick you up instead of just asking you to move. It was completely humiliating. He’s so brazen, and it’s starting to become clear he’s doing it all on purpose!

He doesn’t get fussy when you state your claim of being the one on top—no, but what he does instead is somehow worse, going along with it with snide praise, grinning up at you, his big hands weighing heavy on your haunches as you roll them, calling you his good girl. It seems to humor him how it angers you—chuckling behind your hands as you layer them both atop his mouth, growling at him to “Shut up!”

No, he doesn’t mind letting you take charge. He rather enjoys the view of watching you ride—working so hard to appease him while he rests pretty and admires your body—all soft edges and plush curves. You tire quickly, though—poor thing, why don’t you leave the rest to him?

You had rejected it the first few times he’d offered. Your bruised pride simply wouldn’t have it—you’d rather you both stop than let him finish you off. But a couple more nights and you’d quicker come around than either of you expected—perhaps worn down by his constant nagging or simply fed up with your own failure—you let him assist by bouncing you on his lap.

You wouldn’t admit it to his face, never, but you’d enjoyed it far more than you could have ever thought…

Thankfully, your face in and of its own glory told him all he needed to know. It didn’t take long before he’d taken full advantage of it, nor for you to begin allowing it without being asked. Soon you were letting him fuck you against the wall, making the entire room shake—wall creaking and shelves rattling, pictures falling down. You hold your tongue and hold on tightly, arms and legs wrapped around him—moaning sweetly right by his ear. Fuck, you even bite him again.

As time passed, you came around to indulging more and more of his antics. Letting him fuck you from behind—hard and heavy and deep—thrusting into you while grappling your waist. You even go down on all fours when he does it—digging your claws into the sheets.

Lying belly-up beneath him still makes you feel nervous—and slightly ashamed—almost convinced something’s wrong with you for liking it. And yet you can’t help it. You know any other Omega wouldn’t fuck you like this. They wouldn’t have the stamina, the drive, or the desire. Not like him, who does it all like it’s his nature even when it shouldn’t be.

Guess you’re both freaks.

♡ BNHA – Deku, Kirishima, Hawks, Amajiki ♡ JJK – Gojo, Geto ♡ HQ – Kuro, Oikawa, Miya twins, Tendou ♡ BLLK – Reo, Nagi, Bachira, Isagi ♡ DS – Doma ♡ WB – Suo, Togame

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[curryshesus]

jeon jungkook fics that had me going feral

hi guys, here's a part 2 to my favorite jjk fics on tumblr! note that many of these fics contain 18+ content. you are responsible for the content you consume! as always, if you enjoyed any of these fics as much as i did, please take a moment to send some love to the authors! part 1 | other bts members

➺ cold nights & blurred lines - by @awrkive

summary: jungkook and you have been in a sexual relationship with each other for four months now, and it’s casual for the most part. but as time passes, you can’t help but feel that some of the lines suddenly got blurred in the process. is it a cliché to blur the lines with your fuck buddy? it definitely is. will you do something about it? both of your emotional constipation have a hard time saying yes.

➺ night crawlers - by @alphabetboyluvr

summary: jungkook’s always been good at running. track, field, red lights, shit outta luck. drugs, now, too. but he doesn’t expect to run into you. in your shared lecture halls, sure. maybe. but not down the back alleys of daerim at ass o’clock in the morning. there are only three types of women he ever sees in daerim: hookers, sugar-babies and addicts. you aren't any of those; you're a trust-fund baby who can get percocet on private repeat prescription, if you really want it. he's sure of it. so it then further begs the question: why the fuck are you here?

➺ this is how you fall in love - by @jeonqkooks

summary: after years of drinking and clubbing most days of the week and leaving every gig with a different girl on his arm, jungkook feels what it’s like to want someone with his entire being.

➺ the dilf installments - by @mercurygguk

summary: this series follows jungkook’s life as a divorced father. but wait, how exactly does one balance being a father, a boyfriend, a friend, and a respectable boss at the same time? read the installments below to find out!

➺ ultimatum - by @parkmuse

summary: your pervy, idiotic boyfriend just so happens to also be your friendly neighborhood Spider-man (in bed).

➺ a hero's journey - by @hansolmates

summary: jungkook and jisoo are the mightiest power couple. however, one drunken confession and that whole facade fades in an instant. you realize that maybe you need to break from your unvaried life for a bit and be the hero of your own love story

➺ tempest - by @kooktrash

summary: you’ve always considered your life to be more mundane than you would like to admit. it was a constant cycle of the same things over and over again that when you meet jeon jungkook at a bar, of all places, you didn’t expect to see just how much he would change your life and those around you. he’s got an air of mystery around him with his charming good looks and a violent past that you slowly begun to unravel when it feels like everything is going perfect.

➺ by its cover - by @gimmesumsuga

summary: the one where Jungkook makes a horrifically bad first impression.

➺ slow dancing - by @yoonia

summary: when your countdown appeared on your wrist right in the morning of your eighteenth birthday, you had thought that perhaps the universe was on your side, especially since the final seconds were already ticking so soon. You just never expected to have your first meeting with your soulmate to be the day when you had to let him go. But hope was not lost when you still found love without the bond, and Jungkook showed you that it was possible to find happiness beyond the system that was written for you. Except that the universe doesn’t seem to have enough of its game, when your past sacrifice comes back hitting you straight in the face, just when you had believed that you had written off the perfect ending to your bittersweet tale.

➺ e s p r e s s o - by @joonberriess

➺ hold me closer - by @ahundredtimesover

summary: when you're asked to look after your parents' house and meet them before they go on vacation, you, Jimin, and Jungkook take the trip to your hometown of Busan and relive memories of your youth. While your new relationship has you feeling like a lovesick teenager with all the affection that Jungkook shows you, you're still you - a professional trying to make it in the corporate world, and an eldest child trying not to disappoint her parents. And that turns out to be your undoing, as a little blunder causes a rift between you and Jungkook, resulting in a trip that you might as well have messed up… Not if your brother can help it, though.

[reidrum]

close to home | s.r

pairing: spencer reid x reader

a/n: this has been rotting in my brain for days now i hope you enjoy the angsty comfort this brought me <3 my requests are open (guidelines in pinned!) or if you wanna just chat hop in my ask box :) gonna hopefully work on a smut fic in the next week so keep an eye out hehe

cw: angst, hurt/comfort, protective!spencer, afab!reader who uses she/her pronouns, non bau!reader, cm type violence, reader sustains injuries from unsub, vague description of injuries, maeve mentions, derek being a good friend, spencer being so in love with reader, this takes place probably a year after maeve, inconsistencies with tls and characters but who cares

wc: 2.4k

summary: the bau is working a local case when their unsub strikes again mid investigation, hotch tells reid and morgan to go check it out but spencer finds the address of the crime to be a little too familar

_______________________________________________

Whenever the BAU has a case based in the D.C. area, it’s always a little easier on the team. Familiar stomping grounds, ease of resources, no major time difference, and everyone can sleep in their own beds. The hard part about home cases is knowing there’s a serial killer in the place they know deeply, with people they cared about deeply.

Spencer and Callahan are in the middle of the bullpen staring at the giant white board with all the evidence they have so far. The unsub has been killing women in their mid 20s in the local dc area, with the mo currently unknown. there had already been two victims, both killed in their homes. Spencer was currently trying to analyze all the information the case had alongside with what Garcia was able to provide, and he was still hitting a dead end. Morgan had joined them at some point too, trying to offer what he could remember from the crime scenes but to no avail. He felt his eyes straining and dropping so he decided to get more coffee, but was stopped by Hotch and Garcia entering the bullpen.

“Police just got a 911 call about a break in, but there’s a witness this time. She was home when it happened and it looks like he didn’t expect that and tried to knock her out before escaping. I think it sounds like our unsub. Morgan and Reid, I need you to go check out the scene and interview the witness, see what she remembers.” Hotch explained.

Morgan and Reid nodded as Garcia spoke up, “I just sent the address to your phones, it’s a house on Hillcrest so it's not that far from here.”

Spencer froze. he had to have heard wrong, she did not say Hillcrest, “Did you say Hillcrest?”

“Yeah, Hillcrest Drive. It’s like, a 15 minute drive, not that far.”

He felt his heart drop to his feet, a sinking feeling building in his gut. That was the street you lived on. He tried to ground himself with logic, the probability of it being your house is only 10%, but he was dreading asking the fated question.

“Garcia, what’s the house number?”

“Reid, I already sent it to your pho-“

“Garcia, what is the house number,” he spoke again. 

Please don’t say 1159. Please don’t say 1159. Please don’t say-

“1159.”

Fuck. The color drained from his face, and the nausea was building to a head quickly. Spencer hurriedly tried to think through the last time he spoke to you. Last night? This morning? He doesn’t check on you as much as he does when he’s not on a case, but oh my god why can’t he remember the last time he saw you.

“Reid,” Hotch bellows, finally breaking spencer out of his trance, “What is it? What do you know?”

He shook his head, “Nothing. Morgan, let’s go.” he grabbed his jacket and booked it out the door.

Morgan, Garcia, and Hotch all looked at each other in concern, before Morgan spoke up, “I’ll see what’s up.” The latter two nodded softly, though the worry didn’t let up in their eyes.

Morgan walked up to the car to find Spencer repeatedly trying to call someone on the phone, clearly unable to get through and getting really frustrated.

Spencer was alerted by Morgan’s presence hearing the car unlock but he didn’t even look at him, just immediately got in the car and strapped his seat belt. Morgan joined him in the drivers seat giving him a wary look before turning the car on and pulling out of the bureau.

“Okay Reid, spill it. It’s obvious you know who lives here.” Morgan speaks up.

“Just drive, please.”

“Because if you know something, something that could help the case, it would be helpful if we knew.”

“Morgan, just drive.” he borderline yells.

He raises his eyebrows at his raised voice, “Listen kid, i’m just trying to help you. I can see you’re upset but we’re on the same side, you know that.”

Spencer takes a shaky breath, feeling another shade of guilt at yelling at one of his friends, for something he didn’t even know about. He’d kept you a secret for many reasons— your relationship with him was still new, and he just wanted to keep you to himself for a bit. After what happened with Maeve, he felt especially more responsible at keeping you safe and making sure you didn’t get tangled up in his line of work.

Some job he did of that.

The one thing he regrets about how he handled the Maeve situation, was not asking for help until it was almost too late. For not doing anything about her stalker when he was part of one of the most famous fbi teams built to find people like that. He’d always live with that guilt, but he vowed not to do that with you.

He loved you so much. You were so kind, and smart, and beautiful. A breath of fresh air after feeling lost in a dark tunnel for so long. You were so understanding when he explained what he did for a living, and what had happened to him and people he cared about as a result. He still remembers what you said to him when he told you that you could have an out, if you wanted.

“Any risk is worth taking if getting to be with you is the consolation prize.”

Tears welled up in eyes thinking about the memory. If you were willing to take any risk, then he should be able to as well.

He cleared his throat, and Morgan’s ears perked up, “My uh, my girlfriend lives there. Where the unsub, at- attacked.” he voiced softly.

Morgan looked at him for a beat while driving, Spencer missing the way his face dropped. He tightened his hands on the wheels, and without hesitation he turned the lights and siren on and shifted gears to speed up.

__

The car pulled onto your street and the first thing Spencer sees is the flashing light of the ambulances. Morgan doesn’t even put the car in park before Spencer’s bolting out hoping he can find you quickly.

He’s asking all the paramedics he’s passing if they’ve seen you or know if you’re being treated, were you transferred to a hospital and he didn’t know. The tunnel vision slowly overtaking him until he hears a voice breaking through like sunlight call out his name.

He whips his head in the direction he heard it come from, and he’s never been more grateful to be met with the beautiful sight of you. You watch his eyes widen and let out a sigh before running over to where you were sitting in the back of the ambulance. He’s definitely not thinking when he goes in to hug you, not even knowing the extent of your injuries. He’s overtaken by the desperate need to hold you in his arms so he knows you’re safe and okay.

“Hi,” you choke out muffled, “Funny seeing you here.”

He pulls back to inspect your face, taking note of a small cut above your left eyebrow and the beginning splotches of a bruise forming on your lower jaw. His heart aches so much looking at you, knowing what happened to you and who did this to you.

“Hi, honey,” he lets out tearfully, “Are you okay? I mean, of course you’re not. But what did the paramedics say? Did they give you anything? Are you sure they checked all your injuries? You know what, let me go call the guy over. I’ll be two seconds.” his panicked ramble fading off as he rounds the truck you’re sat in to find the emt.

Upon his extensive questioning of the man who treated you, he found out that you had sustained a minor concussion from when the unsub swung at you with an umbrella, superficial cuts caused by a broken vase you threw to defend yourself, and a dislocated shoulder from getting shoved into the wall.

You were okay, but at what cost.

The EMT leaves you two and Spencer sits himself next to you on the rig. He wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you as tight as he can and the other hand cradles your head into the crook of his neck, holding you so tight he’s hoping he can squeeze the bad memories out of you. It’s at this moment of feeling safe and sound in his arms when the adrenaline of your attack wears off.

Spencer hears a small whimper and feels a few hot tears trickle down his neck, your breathing gets faster as you’re attempting to beat your body’s fear response. The slow build up of sobs starting to rack your chest, and he immediately holds you tighter.

“It’s over, baby, they won’t hurt you anymore. I promise.”

You sniffle, “I know, I just can’t believe this happened. To me. To us. It’s not fair to you.” trailing off the last two words.

“To me? Wh- what do you mean?”

You take a deep breath, “I don’t mean to bring it up again, I just know how eerily similar this is to a past experience you’ve had. and I hoped that I wouldn’t be in a position to make you feel that way again. I don’t know why this happened, I'm sorry.”

He looked down at you incredulously, genuinely unable to believe that you were sitting next to him on an ambulance, beaten up with bruises and scars after a home invasion attack, worried about how he would feel when he got to you. It was enough to finally let the swell of tears saved up in his eyes fall.

“Oh sweetheart,” he chokes out, realizing you’ve been trying to be brave for him this whole time, “What happened is not your fault, do you understand me? My job is to always worry about you and your safety. When Garcia said the address I…I couldn’t even process it, I don’t even know how I got to the car,” he shook his head, “But I am the last person you need to push your emotions down for. I will always take them in stride and love you even more for that, okay?”

“Okay,” you take a shaky breath, “I love you.”

“I love you.” he leans down to press a kiss to the crown of your head.

Both of your heads look up at an approaching figure, who you quickly recognize to be SSA Derek Morgan. You knew Spencer hadn’t told the team about you yet, so you tried to sit up independently as fast as you could before he came over and suspected something.

Spencer’s grip didn’t let up when he bent down and whispered, “It’s okay, he knows.” You look up at him with wide eyes when derek finally reaches you.

“Reid, I already talked to the detectives and we’re good to go when you’re ready,” he turns his body to you and gives you a comforting smile, “Hi sweetheart, I’m Derek Morgan, it’s nice to meet you.”

Spencer rolls his eyes at the nickname while you giggle softly, “Hi Derek, I’ve heard so much about you. It's nice to finally meet you too.”

“I wish it were under better circumstances,” he sighs, “Listen, I know it’s all still really fresh for you, but it might help the case if you’re able to come in for a cognitive interview, or even talk to a sketch artist.”

Spencer doesn’t miss a beat before protesting, “Absolutely not. We can do it later, it’s fine.”

“Reid-“

You look up at him placing your hand on his chest, “Spence, It’s okay. I want to help, please.”

He rests his hand on top yours and gives it a light squeeze, “Okay, but i’m not leaving you alone for a second.”

“I didn’t think you would.” you smile.

“Alright lovebirds, you can have your private time later, we should go now.” Derek teases.

Spencer groans, “See, this is why i didn’t say anything.”

“You think I’m bad? Wait till Penelope meets her.”

__

The three of you pile into the car before starting the drive to Spencer’s apartment so he could get you a change of clothes and other things you might need. You end up falling asleep in the back seat, the final stage of your shock sinking in like a rock. Spencer checks on you from the rear view mirror and sees you passed out, and smiles.

“She’s cute,” Derek starts, “Can I ask how long?”

“Nine months.” he replies, fishing for something out of his pocket.

“Pretty boy hid a girl from all of us for nine months? Maybe we’re not as good profilers as we thought.”

“Imagine that,” he laughs, and gestures to the item in his hand, “Look.”

Spencer’s holding out a well loved photo booth strip with three pictures, of you and Spencer from the time you went to a local county fair. You’re sitting in his lap, mostly due to the cramped space and the expansive limbs. The first picture is the two of you holding up finger guns attempting to be as back to back as you can. The second picture, you intended it to be a normal one where you both smile at the camera, but spencer couldn’t take his eyes off you and the picture captured the love struck gaze he had on you. The last one you were about to tell him the idea for it, when he grabbed your face and pulled you closer to kiss you, neither of you knowing when the final picture snapped.

The edges were worn out and frayed, clearly broken down by the oils on his fingers from pulling it out frequently. It was his most treasured item, a constant reminder of what was always waiting for him when he got back from grueling cases, and how lucky he was to have you in his life.

“You look really happy, kid.” Derek says, thinking about the many times he’s seen his friend at rock bottom, the things that have been so brutally taken from him, and the suffering he’s had at the hands of his job. His heart warms for his friend, who seemed to finally catch a break.

“I am.”