IM SO FUCKING SCARED, MIGHT NOT SHOPLIFT IN MY TOWN AGAIN
I was watching ABC news clips on shoplifting for some tips on what LP look for in shoplifters… guys, im so fucking MAD. It was a random ass, and quite popular, video and they were talking about some shoplifting ring happening NOT ONLY MY STATE, BUT MY TOWN. I watched a video of a girl getting taken down at the place i go to REGULARLY to lift. Doesnt sound to scary right? No Big deal? No dude. No. I am literally shitting bricks here, apparently, cops will DEFINENTLY be called, they have cops who WILL track you down if you drive off, different big businesses from all across my town (not just conjoined shops and outlet malls) GET FUCKING TOGETHER AND TALK ABOUT THE BIGGEST SHOPLIFTERS THEYVE BEEN CATCHING ON CAMERA?!?!? WTF!?!?! So heres what the did on the program, they all were seeing this one women constantly stealing from these stores for a while. So they sent an undercover cop to befriend her and soon acted as if she as well had intrest in shoplifting. Once they started lifting together, the target of the lifting trusting her new “friend” and showing her how she stole, the “friend” documented what she stole, how she did it, and where she did it. Thus, showing the police her trade and practice. When she was apprehended, they made her drive them to all her accomplices houses and have them arrested too. I have never been more shook in my whole life. If LP in my town are this serious about shoplifting…should i even dare risk it? So, moral of this story, DONT TRUST ANYONE, DONT TRUST YOUR NOT BEING WATCHED, BE SO. FUCKING. CAREFUL. PLEASE.
Summary: Bucky has moved into a new apartment, not knowing that its previous tenant thinks they still live there. And he’s the only one that can see them.
Word Count: 1,673
Warnings: Talk of a car accident. Coma.
A/N: This fic has been in my documents, outlined, for the past year and a half. I hope you all enjoy it. It’s one of my favorite plot-lines EVER.
The white-washed walls are the only
barriers to muffle the woman’s sobs. She folds herself over the body of a young
woman, barely in her early twenties and already battling to keep herself alive.
The only sign of life in her is the ventilator, pumping artificial breath into
her lungs, and the stable beeping of the heart monitor. The doctors hold hope
in that she’ll wake up, there seems to be no brain damage, nothing seems to be
halting her from waking up. Yet she does not. And the wails continue day in and
He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.
Because I’ve been so excited about the recent Person of Interest season finale, I decided to revisit my older paintings of Reese and Finch - they are among, if not actually, my favorite portraits I’ve ever done, and deserved some touchup and refinement. This show has come so far and raises such interesting questions - it’s a privilege to paint these characters (and hopefully I’ll do more this year during the hiatus!)
i am so here for cop maggie who owns every single room she walks into and who always does her job and trusts her own instincts as much as i am here for soft maggie who is guarded but never stops smiling and has literal stars in her eyes when she looks at her girlfriend
“I didn’t ever think we’d be here, like this.” - Andreil ... Pretty please ! :D xxx
There’s a cuckoo clock on the wall of Betsy Dobson’s office, an ugly little thing with a vaguely orange patina and a hand painted figurine inside. It announces the end of your appointment, hell or high water, and Neil spends his mandatory sessions staring it in the face.
Betsy waits patiently and scribbles notes, usually. Nudges her things around her desk. Plucks cardboard answers out of Neil and files them away like they’re wafers of golden insight.
This particular appointment is not (strictly speaking) mandatory, but Neil’s hackles are all the way up anyway. It has everything to do with Andrew lounging at his side, making eery small talk with Betsy in the sprawling sun. Neil stares at the clock, and waits.
“Can we trouble you for some input, Neil?”
Neil glances over at her, then back at Andrew, where he’s regarding him with a truly colourless expression. More like he’s scrubbed it clean than the usual mask overtop of his emotion. Neil considers that Betsy, Andrew, and him might be an unusual group of people to cluster in one place like this. He realizes tentatively that they might be two of the people Andrew trusts most in the world.
Neil’s shoulders relax a little. “Input?”
“On your season. You have some tough contenders coming up in the semifinals, or so I’ve heard,” Dobson says, smiling encouragingly.
“You were talking about exy?”
“Yes, your lack of interest was unsettling,” Andrew says.
“That’s rich, coming from you.”
“I’m glad we could do this,” Dobson interjects. “It’s been enlightening, so far.”
Neil narrows his eyes at her. He can’t imagine what she’s gleaned from the three sentences total he’s spoken to her, but he supposes therapists will give unnecessary meaning to anything. “Great. Then can we get on with it?”
“Rude,” Andrew reprimands, eyes vaguely fixed over Betsy’s shoulder. Neil follows his line of sight to her framed certificates of merit, graduation, psychiatry degrees and various clippings lauding her achievement. Neil glares at the side of Andrew’s face. He fed Neil her credentials without even having to speak.
“This room has seen much, much worse manners, as I’m sure you know, Andrew.”
Andrew nods at her, and Neil’s frown deepens.
He’s only here because Andrew kept scribbling Dobson’s number on his belongings and suggesting to Wymack that Neil’s performance was suffering for his mental health. He’s been half wrestled into this chair by suggestions.
He had struck a deal with Andrew as a very last resort. If I’m signing up for someone to overanalyze my personal life, you — as a part of that life — have got to come in with me.
Andrew had simply shrugged and come along. It hadn’t even put a dent in the momentum of the whole thing. And now Neil’s pinned by Dobson’s overly fixed eyes and Andrew’s familiar presence between him and the door.
“So. ‘Getting on with it’. How are you feeling?” Betsy asks, ballpoint poised over an already half-filled page. Neil scoffs. His eyes wander to the clock again, and he pulls at his armbands. She waits, and the warmth of her eyes and the sun and Andrew’s thigh pressed into his is all a bit much.
Andrew pinches his leg and Neil startles, catching his hand instinctively. Betsy watches this exchange over her glasses, and jots something down.
“I feel fine,” Neil reiterates. “I’ve had a couple of nightmares, but. Otherwise fine.”
“What kind of nightmares?” Betsy asks. He sighs. He knew it was coming, but it still stirs the pot of his blood flow a little faster.
“Bad ones.” Neil bows his head. He feels Andrew watching him, and he knows it’s not a demanding kind of watching. It’s a safety net. He looks up and meets his eyes, trying to give him permission without opening his mouth. They’re getting better at that.
“He relives Baltimore,” Andrew says, toneless. “Or Christmas. Or Thanksgiving in Columbia.” Neil flinches at that one, at the simple way it comes out of Andrew’s mouth, like it doesn’t burn his mouth and his whole throat to say it. (Like it does Neil’s.)
He’s extremely aware of giving away more than he ever has in front of a therapist. There’s something about Andrew at his side that twists all the faucets in his head so they run clean and hot.
“And how frequent is “a couple” of nightmares?” Betsy asks, expression serious.
“Every few days.”
“Every day,” Andrew corrects.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think this is your appointment, Andrew,” Betsy chides, smiling, but Andrew looks unapologetic. “Do you think you can give me a little insight into those bad dreams?” she asks Neil, her pen moving independently from her forward-facing eyes.
His stomach squirms. He watches the clock, and when the ticking gets to him, he switches to Andrew’s face. “I’m back… there. Like I’m watching it from outside. That’s it.”
“I would guess,” Betsy starts, putting her pen down, and tucking mousy hair behind her ears. It looks peculiarly like she’s throwing gloves down. “… that that’s not it.”
Neil swallows. “It’s— I freeze up. I can smell my own face burning off but I can’t move, even though the cuffs are off. Sometimes I wake up that way, and my body doesn’t work.” Every word feels like it’s a crown being pried off a tooth.
“It’s weird as shit,” Andrew interjects. “I’ve never seen night terrors or sleep paralysis from the outside.”
Betsy tilts her head, thoughtful. “It’s more common than you’d think. There are a few things you could try,” she says, riffling around in her desk and producing a pamphlet. “Giving yourself some time between practice and bed to wind down, trying for more hard REM sleep hours. Herbal teas. Dream journalling. Different things work for different people.” She hands him the pamphlet and he stares without taking it.
“I don’t really have any hours to spare,” Neil says, flinty. “And excuse me for doubting tea and journals, but I think you’re mixing me up with someone who isn’t a torture victim. Thank you, though.” Andrew looks at him and Neil shrugs. “I said thank you.”
“I’m just giving you your options,” Betsy says, unfazed. “It also sometimes helps to have someone else there.” Her eyes slide over to Andrew.
“Well it’s not helping,” Neil says, crossing his arms.
“It also helps, believe it or not, to talk to someone about it.” She picks her pen back up. “You see yourself as a torture victim?”
“I’m pretty sure that’s the definition for someone on the receiving end of torture, yeah.” His nerves seethe.
“Maybe you should start seeing yourself as a torture survivor,” Betsy muses. “Just a thought.”
Neil look down at his own hands, the criss-cross of mostly healed scars, the easy fist he can make without feeling any twinges at all, now. “Maybe,” he lets himself say, and his chest pulses with loss. Like that ‘maybe’ was the pop of a stitch.
“And maybe Andrew’s helping more than you think,” she continues. Neil nods without thinking, and Betsy leans back in her chair, a smile curling her mouth. “Did you ever imagine when we met, that we’d be sitting here having a productive appointment like this?”
“I didn’t ever think we’d be here, like this.” He looks at Andrew, who hasn’t stopped looking at him. “I guess it might work, for a while.”
For the first time, when the clock chimes at the end of the appointment, Neil startles. He wasn’t watching.
Prompted from the screenshot of that cop on Tinder with the bio: “Ever shouted Fuck the Police? Well, here’s your chance.”
Derek shut the door behind him with a sigh and sat down on the floor, stretching his legs out in front of him. He hated parties, and he was pissed that Laura had dragged him to the New Year’s Eve one she was hosting at her apartment. She did a really good guilt trip, though, so Derek was there. And now, he was curious how long it would take her to realize that he was hiding in her closet. He was hoping for at least a 20-minute break away from the endless small talk.
He pulled out his phone and swiped idly through the app screens, hovering his thumb over the little flame icon. Laura had created a Tinder account for him a few weeks ago—very much against his wishes—but he’d only been on it a couple times, and he’d never swiped right for anyone. He’d never really done the online dating thing; it just hadn’t really appealed to him. It seemed to encourage quick decisions based just on someone’s looks, and well…Derek had enough of that already.
He was bored, though, so he opened the app and immediately swiped left, wincing at the cheesy shirtless mirror shot of the first guy that popped up. Derek swiped left again, for a girl whose bio just said NO DRAMA, and then couldn’t hold in the little snort at the bio of the next guy. “Ever shouted Fuck the Police? Well, here’s your chance.”
Derek’s gaze drifted up to the photo, and he swallowed hard. This guy, Stiles, what kind of name was that, was seriously attractive. He was really working the cop uniform in the first photo, all broad smile and bright eyes. Probably taken at the pride parade, if the crowd behind him and the rainbow flag were any indication.
Derek swiped through the rest of the pictures—one of him with a dog, one of him shirtless on a beach, one of him playing what looked like a pickup baseball game—and audibly exhaled. He was definitely Derek’s type, tall and lean with broad shoulders. Before he could talk himself out of it, he swiped right. The app notified him of a match, and Derek couldn’t stop the little inward preen at the thought of this guy swiping right on him, too.
He ran with this foreign streak of courage and tapped the message button.
That is the worst pick-up line I’ve ever heard.
Derek had no idea what the typical messaging etiquette was on Tinder, but Stiles replied just a minute later.
Request: HI! i recently read your entire master list and it’s amazing!! If you could, would you write an ABO fic with Alpha! Dean where like he finds his true mate but she’s nothing like the girls he normally goes home with.
Pairing: Alpha!Dean x Omega!reader
Word Count: 1,500ish
Warnings: smut, language
A/N: I have so much fun playing with these ABO fics…
Not all Muslims, not all blacks, but yes all cops? Or am I looking at your post from a wrong angle. I'm in no way "pro-police" and think the police force is nothing more than a bunch of pawns used by capitalists pigs in their hideous game of Chess, but I do also know that if someone shot my uncle and said he was a machine used by the state to kill black people, I would be absolutely disgusted by them, because he's definitely far from that.
Saying not all Muslims and not all “Blacks” (FFS) is not the same thing at ALL. Policing is a JOB. A job where every police office agrees to enforce the laws, no matter how unjust, violent, and evil they are. You acknowledge this yourself in your ask, cops choose to participate in a system that perpetuates injustice.
Just look at the way that police LEGALLY worked ON ORDERS to break up the Standing Rock protest and prayer camp. An extremely militarized police department used tear gas, armored vehicles, rubber bullets, flash grenades, sound cannons, pepper spray, water cannons, batons, etc. against these unarmed people. They acted on the requirements of their job to perpetuate anti-Native violence and racism.
Another example would be anti-homeless laws that some states have. There are laws in place to keep the homeless off the street, hell my state has tried to pass laws to make it illegal to feed the homeless. And who enforces these inhumane laws? Who is arresting the homeless and putting them in a system that places fines on these people? Then who is arresting them again for not paying these bullshit fines and keeping them in the system cycle?
Your totally nice family member who is a cop is a part of this system. Every cop is a part of this system. It’s. Their. Job.