#DNA clustering

[npd-confessions]

hate it when you bring up the fact you MIGHT have npd and its all "oh you can't have npd!! ive never seen you act like a narcissist"

OF COURSE YOU HAVEN'T?? I HAVE COVERT NPD!! EVEN I DIDN'T REALIZE I HAD IT FOR LIKE 3-4 YEARS!! HOW THE FUCK COULD YOU??

— 👽🧬

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[tamarabeck]

More walking

[reiding-writing]

hi!! can you write more of the banter between enemy!reader and spencer but like now he goes beyond limits and like tells her the team would be better without her in their lives or something drastic and then she either goes missing or badly injured by the unsub??

404. /spencer reid/

if spencer is going to continue shutting down all of your ideas for leads in front of the team, then you’re going to track the unsub down yourself. you don’t need his approval anyway.

s1!spencer x enemy!reader 5.8k angst. series masterlist. main masterlist.

CW | typical criminal minds violence, spencer is a real twat, details of kidnapping and grievous bodily harm, catatonic trauma response. imagine this like halfway through season one.

The moment you step into the precinct, you feel it in your chest—a tightness, a heaviness. It’s not just the fatigue of being called in at 3 a.m. or the smell of stale coffee and desperation thick in the air. It’s the kind of tension that says we’ve been chasing ghosts and getting nowhere.

You glance across the briefing room. The local PD is gathered awkwardly along one wall, arms crossed, faces pinched with defensiveness. They’re not happy to have the FBI here. You don’t blame them—getting sidelined in your own case is a bitter pill to swallow. But this unsub isn’t playing fair.

“This is the third victim in two weeks,” the lead detective mutters, flipping through crime scene photos projected onto the wall. “Each time, the unsub leaves a note. Always handwritten. Always addressed to us. Sometimes directly to me.”

Morgan leans forward, eyes narrowing. “He’s taunting you,”

The detective scoffs. “He’s gloating. This one said, ‘You didn’t catch me last time. What makes you think you’ll get it right now?’”

“Classic narcissistic behavior,” Elle murmurs. “But there’s more to it,”

Hotch’s voice is calm but pointed. “He’s not just showing off. He’s testing you. He wants to see if he can outsmart us next.”

You shift in your seat, arms crossed, gaze flicking from photo to photo. The unsub’s pattern is clean, almost surgical. No evidence left behind, no usable prints, no DNA. Victims all abducted within ten miles of each other, murdered within 48 hours, left posed—like the unsub wanted the scene to say something.

Spencer sits to your right, scribbling notes in that tiny chicken scratch of his. You pretend not to notice the way he looks over at you when you suggest a geographic clustering theory.

“I think we should be focusing on the clusters—if the unsub’s circling familiar territory, it could give us a window into their comfort zone. Maybe even a home base,”

Spencer doesn’t even look up. “Or they’re using the local geography as a red herring. Throwing us off on purpose. Which is more likely with his intelligence level,”

You grit your teeth. “Or maybe you just don’t like when someone else has a theory first.”

There’s a flicker of tension across the table. JJ coughs awkwardly. Spencer finally glances over, his eyes sharp behind his curls.

“Just trying to eliminate bias,” he says flatly. “You might want to try that sometime.”

It starts small. A glance. A jab. You throw it back, and the fire spreads.

—

You and Spencer used to be good at this—banter, playful jabs, mutual intellectual sparring. It was light. It was fun. 9 months of almost playful hatred. And somewhere along the way, it stopped being any of those things.

You know why, you both do. But you’re still too stubborn to actually address it. So now, every briefing is a minefield.

“He’s organised,” you say, tapping a finger on the evidence board. “He’s probably keeping souvenirs. There’s no way he’s not revisiting these crime scenes in some capacity,”

Spencer rolls his eyes. “That’s a reach. He’s already getting his fix from the letters. Revisiting is more common in disorganised killers with obsessive traits. But, by all means, let’s base our strategy on assumptions,”

You round on him, the heat rising in your chest. “You always do this—cut people down because they didn’t quote a research paper in their suggestion. Not everything is from a journal article, Reid. Some of us work off instinct

He doesn’t blink. “That’s a shame.”

The room stills. You can feel everyone watching you now—JJ's uncomfortable glance, Morgan’s frown, Hotch’s silent disapproval. Elle shifts like she wants to step in, but thinks better of it.

You clench your jaw. “Just because your IQ is the highest in the room doesn’t mean your word is law,”

“And just because you talk louder doesn’t make you right,”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Gideon’s voice cuts through the tension like a blade. “We are not here to flex egos. We’re here to stop a killer.”

You force yourself to look away, biting down on every retort itching to escape. Spencer doesn’t say another word either, but you can see it in the way he tightens his grip on the pen—he’s not finished. Not even close.

—

By midday, the briefing is over and you’re elbow-deep in case files, staring at photos of victims and crime scene reports that blur together. You’re trying to hold onto the idea that this is about the work, not about him, but Spencer’s voice grates in your head like static.

“Victim number two was killed in a different manner,” you point out, “which might indicate a loss of control or a change in the unsub’s emotional state,”

Spencer scoffs from across the room. “Or it might indicate that your profiling is, yet again, based on faulty interpretation,”

You look up slowly. “You’ve got a real talent for being insufferable,”

He shrugs. “Just pointing out the facts,”

“You’re not pointing out anything. You’re just undermining me. Again.”

He walks closer now, arms crossed, eyes full of cold disdain. “Maybe if you weren’t so obsessed with being right, you’d actually be useful,”

Your jaw clenches so tight it hurts. “And maybe if you got over the sound of your own voice, we wouldn’t waste half our cases cleaning up your messes,”

Spencer steps in even closer, and now it’s personal. “You’re reckless. Impulsive. You go off instinct like it’s a badge of honour when really, it just makes you sloppy,”

You fire back without thinking. “You’re emotionally stunted and completely incapable of functioning outside a textbook,”

The words hang in the air like a punch.

Silence spreads. The local cops glance over from their desks. One of them murmurs, “Damn,”

Then Gideon slams his hand on the table.

“Enough,”

His voice is sharp, final. “Both of you. I don’t care how long this has been brewing—this is not the place. You’re acting like children, and you’re making this entire team look like amateurs,”

You glance down, throat burning. Spencer doesn’t say anything. He’s stone-faced, but you can tell from the twitch in his jaw that he’s stewing.

Gideon’s not finished. “I don’t want to hear another word out of either of you unless it pertains directly to the case. Are we clear?”

You nod. Spencer doesn’t move.

“Are we clear?” Gideon repeats.

“Yes, sir,” Spencer mutters.

You don’t trust yourself to speak.

As you start gathering your files, Spencer’s voice cuts through the tension one more time—this time quieter, but not quiet enough.

“You know, we probably would’ve caught him already if you weren’t dragging us down.”

The words hit like a slap. You freeze.

The room goes dead silent.

Spencer looks away like he didn’t just say it. Like it didn’t just split something open.

You don’t respond. Not with words.

You finish collecting your files, slam the folder shut, and walk out of the room without a glance back.

—

You don’t say a word as you walk out of the precinct. You don’t slam the door or stomp your feet—there’s no drama, no outward explosion. Just a quiet, ice-cold silence that coats you like armour.

Let them think whatever they want. Let him think he won.

You move with purpose, jaw tight, eyes fixed ahead. You’re done trying to reason with people who have no interest in listening—especially a certain genius with a superiority complex. You tried to play by the rules, work within the team, but apparently the team doesn't think you have anything worthwhile to offer.

Fine. You’ll do it on your own.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket—JJ, probably, or Hotch, maybe even Gideon trying to pull you back into line. You ignore it. Instead, you pull out your notes, flipping through the photographs you took earlier, the ones the team waved off as nothing—redundant, too similar to previous kills, “unremarkable,” Spencer had called them.

But they weren’t. Not to you.

The unsub had made a mistake. A small one, but a mistake nonetheless.

In victim three’s crime scene photo, the position of the body had been ever so slightly rotated compared to the first two—enough that most wouldn’t care, wouldn’t notice. But the shadows were wrong. There was too much light coming in through a window that didn’t face the same direction as the other houses in the neighborhood. And the blood pattern—it had streaked upward at an angle.

Someone had moved the body. After the kill.

You’d mentioned it in passing. Spencer had dismissed it as “grasping at straws.”

Well, straws were all you needed.

—

You hole up in a dingy motel room a few blocks from the latest crime scene, spreading every case file and crime scene photo across the bed like a map to something only you could see. Your eyes flicker between documents, stringing together tiny inconsistencies—the make and model of the air conditioner in victim four’s apartment, the mismatched doorknob in victim one’s home, the off-center towel rack in number five’s bathroom.

The unsub didn’t just kill these people. He replaced things. Adjusted details.

Controlled them, even after death.

You flip back through the files, heart hammering now, and scan the addresses again. You map them out on the motel’s bedside notepad, drawing circles, checking distances between the apartments and the kill sights. Mixing and matching scenes chronologically or otherwise. And then you stumble on it.

A perfect crescent, not random but intentional. All ten locations arced around a center point—a forgotten stretch of suburbia with an abandoned cul-de-sac, a place zoned for housing development ten years ago that never got off the ground.

It’s the only place the unsub hasn’t struck yet.

It’s also the only place that could tie them all together.

You glance at your phone again. The screen is blank. No new calls. No new messages. Not from the team. Not from Spencer.

And maybe that’s a good thing. You don’t need him to validate you. You don’t need anyone.

You grab your gear, shove your files into your bag, and drive.

—

The cul-de-sac is quiet.

Not in the way quiet neighborhoods usually are, but dead quiet. No birdsong. No dogs barking. Just a biting, eerie stillness that settles in your bones the moment you step out of the car.

The houses are in varying states of decay—some half-built and gutted, others with boarded windows and cracked sidewalks. You grip your flashlight tighter as you move through the overgrown path between two units.

You keep your gun low, your ears straining for sound.

The data you gathered had pointed you to the house on the far end—the only one with signs of recent activity. The windows had been cleaned. The door, repainted.

You creep up the porch, careful not to make a sound. Your breath clouds in front of you, and the air feels colder here somehow. Heavier.

You reach for the doorknob. It turns easily.

Unlocked.

That should’ve been your first red flag.

The interior is dark, but not untouched. A table in the front room is neatly set for two. Plates. Silverware. A bottle of wine. It looks more like a dinner party than a murder scene.

You sweep the room, clearing corners, keeping your steps light. Nothing jumps out at you, but your gut won’t stop twisting.

Then you notice it.

On the wall.

A photo.

Your heart stops.

It’s you.

Snapped from the side, no more than a few hours old. Shot through the window of your hotel room, small map of the city in hand. The image is taped to the wall with surgical precision. Below it, a tiny note, one you have to walk right up to to read.

Congratulations.

You barely have time to react.

There’s a sharp sting in your neck.

You reach up instinctively, but your fingers are already clumsy. You turn, try to raise your gun—but the world tilts violently.

A face emerges from the shadows. Smiling. Calm.

“You should be more aware of your surroundings,” he says, almost apologetically.

And then everything goes black.

—

You drift in and out of consciousness. Time becomes slippery—your mind fogged, your limbs numb. Every now and then you feel something cold against your skin, a tug at your wrists, the uncomfortable pinch of something sharp near your ankle.

When you finally come to fully, you’re tied to a chair.

Hands bound behind your back. Ankles strapped to the legs of the chair with zip ties. Your head throbs, and there’s a metallic taste in your mouth—blood, probably.

The room around you is dimly lit. It’s not the main house anymore. You’ve been moved.

It looks like a basement. Concrete floors, unfinished walls, a single exposed bulb hanging overhead.

There’s a table nearby, neatly arranged with tools—not weapons. Instruments. Brushes. Tweezers. Surgical gloves.

You inhale shakily. You’ve seen what hems done with them before.

“You’re awake,” a voice says behind you.

You flinch as he steps into view.

The man is unremarkable in every way. Tall-ish, average build. Brown hair, clean-shaven. The kind of face you’d pass on the street and forget within minutes.

“You came here thinking you’d be the hero,” he muses, walking around you like he’s inspecting art. “They all do. You think your badge makes you invincible.”

You don’t say anything. You’re still trying to conserve what little energy you have, mentally calculating your options.

He crouches in front of you, smiling. “You found me. That makes you smart. Smarter than the rest of them, maybe.”

You meet his gaze, steel in your voice despite the pain. “They’ll come looking for me.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” he replies. “I’ll lead them right to you if I have to. Whether you’ll be salvageable though, is up for debate,”

He walks to the table, picking up a small silver scalpel, running a gloved finger down its edge.

“A portrait is a powerful thing. It’s like capturing a snapshot of a person’s soul. Of course no true portrait is taken without the proper preparations being put in place first.”

You don’t flinch. You don’t show fear.

You just stall.

“They’re going to kill you,” you say evenly. “The second they find out what you’ve done, you’re done.”

He tilts his head, amused. “Then I guess we better speed things along,”

—

The sun had long since set when the rest of the team finally packed up for the night. The precinct lights buzzed with the kind of fatigue only unsolved murders could generate. Tension still clung to every surface, like dust no one could wipe away.

You’d been gone for hours.

And no one noticed.

Gideon assumed you’d taken some space after the confrontation—he’d scolded you both sharply enough in front of the local cops to warrant that kind of retreat. Morgan figured you’d gone to cool off, maybe back to the motel, maybe to follow up on a lead solo out of spite. JJ worried but didn’t say anything, not wanting to stir the already tense dynamic. Elle even offered to call, but Hotch had waved it off.

“She’s probably just blowing off steam,” he said. “We’ll regroup in the morning.”

And Spencer?

Spencer hadn’t said a word. Not one. He’d returned to his paperwork, methodically scribbling notes, analysing patterns, and doing everything in his power to ignore the hollowness you’d left behind.

He told himself you were being petty. Immature. Childish, even. Storming off like a petulant child after a simple observation.

But by morning, the quiet had stretched too long.

The motel clerk confirmed you never came back last night. Your room key remained untouched. Your bed, still made. Your rental car, gone.

JJ’s face turned white. “She always checks in. Always.”

Morgan’s voice was sharper than usual. “She would’ve called if she was going somewhere. Even if she was pissed.”

Elle was already reaching for her phone, scanning through emergency numbers and local hospitals. “We need to start looking now.”

Hotch gave a tight nod, reaching for his radio. “She wouldn’t go dark this long, not in the middle of a case. Not without telling someone.”

Then Gideon walked in with a manila envelope in his hand, face grim. “We just received another message.”

Everyone stilled.

He handed it to Hotch, who opened it slowly, bracing himself. Inside was a note—typed, this time—and a single, polaroid photograph.

JJ read it aloud, voice catching:

“At least one of the FBI Agents you corralled to help was intelligent enough to track me down. Too bad they weren’t prepared for the aftermath.”

Hotch turned the photo toward the group.

You.

Bound, unconscious, head lolled to one side in what looked like a concrete room. Your face was bruised. Blood smeared your temple. Your hands were zip-tied behind you, your body slumped forward like a discarded puppet. The lighting was dim, shadows slashing across your figure like jagged teeth.

A basement. A storage room. Somewhere hidden, somewhere wrong.

JJ gasped.

Morgan swore under his breath.

Elle closed her eyes and muttered, “No…”

And Spencer—Spencer leaned forward slowly, brows knitting as he examined the image.

“We need Garcia to enhance it,” he murmured, already reaching for his phone. “Maybe we can track down the camera. Or a reflection. Or—”

“Well,” he added suddenly, voice clipped, “She obviously wasn’t that intelligent if she got caught,”

The words dropped like a stone in still water.

The entire room turned toward him.

“What did you just say?” Morgan snapped.

JJ’s mouth dropped open. “Spence—”

But it was Gideon who moved first, stepping forward, voice low and dangerous.

“Say that again,” he said, “and I will bench you for the rest of this case.”

Spencer blinked. “I didn’t—”

“No.” Gideon cut him off. “I don’t want excuses. I want action. You think you’re the smartest person in the room? Good. Prove it. Use your genius to get over yourself and find her.”

The silence that followed was heavier than anything anyone had felt since the case began.

Spencer stared down at the photo, jaw clenched.

And then, finally, he swallowed his pride and got to work.

—

He isolated the enhanced image on the screen of his tablet, pushing aside his guilt and anger like clutter on a desk.

Don’t think about what you said.

Don’t think about the way you looked when you walked out.

Don’t think about the fact that you might not be okay.

Focus. Analyse. That’s what he’s good at.

“Lighting first,” he said aloud, mostly to himself.

He zoomed in on the image, filtering the background. The bulb overhead was exposed, casting distinct shadows.

“That angle suggests a single overhead source,” he muttered. “No side lighting. Probably a basement. At least eight to ten feet deep underground.”

He paused, adjusting the contrast on the image. “There’s no natural light at all, which rules out windows. Walls are unfinished. Cinderblock. Mortar lines are tight… That’s not a pre-’80s build. It’s too clean,”

Morgan leaned in. “So what—newer construction?”

Spencer nodded. “Late 90s or early 2000s. This wasn’t improvised. It was planned. It’s structurally sound, like a finished or semi-finished basement that’s just… been stripped down,”

Elle pointed to the corner of the image. “What’s that? Right behind the chair,”

Spencer zoomed in again. “It looks like… rust. A drainage pipe, maybe. Industrial-grade. Not common in most basements unless there’s risk of flooding. That, combined with the cinderblock, suggests this could’ve been built in an area prone to high groundwater. Maybe even flood plains,”

JJ frowned. “We’re not near the coast,”

“No, but if you look at the housing map…” He switched to a digital layout of the neighbourhood. “This cul-de-sac was supposed to be part of a larger development. Half of it was never completed because the land didn’t pass inspection,”

Hotch narrowed his eyes. “He’s in one of those unfinished units,”

Gideon nodded once. “Then we start there. We canvass the entire development. We don’t stop until we find her.”

Spencer looked at the photo one last time. His throat was dry. His chest ached. He thought of what he’d said—we would’ve caught him if you weren’t dragging us down—and suddenly it sounded less like a petty jab and more like a curse.

He looked up at the team.

“I’m coming with you.”

Hotch nodded. “Good. You’re going to lead the search.”

—

The SUV was quiet on the way to the development site. No one played music. No one made jokes.

Spencer sat in the front seat, his fingers tapping a rapid rhythm against his knee. He was trying not to picture you in that chair. Trying not to imagine what the unsub had done in the hours since that photo was taken. But he couldn’t stop the images.

You, bloody and bound.

You, unconscious and alone.

You, thinking no one was coming.

He had no right to worry.

No right to be scared.

But he was.

The words echoed in his head.

“She obviously wasn’t that intelligent.”

He wanted to take it back. Shove it into his mouth and swallow it down until it never existed. But that’s not how words work. They cut, and they cling, and they stay.

When they arrived at the development, the team split up fast. Morgan and Elle took the north end. JJ stayed with local officers to coordinate grid sweeps. Hotch and Gideon led the way into the southern row—newer units, all empty.

Spencer broke off on his own.

He had a gut feeling. It didn’t feel smart. It didn’t feel strategic. But it felt right.

And for once, he let himself trust that instinct.

The fifth house in the row was quiet.

Too quiet.

The front door was slightly ajar. No visible signs of forced entry. No sound from inside.

The front door creaked open under Spencer’s hand. The house was stale with disuse—thick air and thin silence. He moved cautiously through the entryway, gun raised, heart a thunderous rhythm in his ears.

Every shadow stretched too long. Every corner felt wrong.

Footsteps pounded behind him seconds later—Morgan, Hotch, and Gideon falling in silently. Elle and JJ soon followed through the back, their weapons drawn, movements swift and precise.

Then—

A noise.

A soft creak.

Second floor.

Hotch motioned with two fingers, and the team surged upward.

They found him in one of the back bedrooms. The unsub.

He was standing in front of a half-boarded window, arms crossed, calm like he was waiting for them. No fear. Just smug, eerie satisfaction, the kind that made your skin crawl.

“You’re too late,” he said simply.

Morgan didn’t hesitate. “On the ground! Now!”

But the unsub didn’t comply. He moved fast—reaching for something under his coat.

Hotch fired first. A warning shot into the drywall, forcing the man to freeze mid-movement. Morgan lunged in, tackling him with a grunt. They struggled, fists swinging, feet skidding across the half-carpeted floor.

Spencer stood back, watching the scuffle like it was underwater. His fingers twitched against his sidearm, but he didn’t fire. Couldn’t. His eyes were already scanning—behind the man, past the empty bedframe, to the blood on the floor.

He wasn’t thinking about justice. He was thinking about you.

By the time Gideon and Morgan got the cuffs on the man, Spencer was already moving—down the stairs, through the hallway, toward the door at the far end of the house.

There was a lock on it. Heavy. Old.

Spencer kicked it once. Nothing.

Twice.

On the third kick, the door gave way.

The basement smelled like mold, metal, and something sharper—sweat, maybe. Or blood.

The light flickered overhead as he stepped inside.

And there you were.

Slumped in the same position as the photo, tied to a chair, your wrists bound so tightly they’d gone purple. There was blood at your temple. Bruises down your neck. A split lip. Dirt smeared your cheeks. Rips in your shirt.

But you were breathing.

Barely.

Alive.

He nearly collapsed with the force of the relief.

“Hey,” he said softly, kneeling in front of you. His voice cracked. “Hey. You need to be conscious right now,”

Your eyes fluttered, but didn’t open.

You didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Spencer's voice dropped lower, to fend with a failed attempt at lightheartedness. “You’re at a higher risk of permanent brain injury if you’re unconscious, and I doubt you need that on top of all of your other issues—”

His hands trembled as he reached for the zip ties, too afraid to touch you at first.

Morgan burst in behind him. “We need medics! Now!” he shouted up the stairs.

JJ’s voice echoed from above. “They’re already pulling up!”

Spencer carefully cut the ties, his fingers brushing your wrist. Your skin was cold. Too cold.

He looked at you again, eyes searching for any sign of recognition. A flicker of life. Of you.

Nothing.

When the medics finally came, they moved with military precision, lifting you from the chair, strapping you onto a stretcher. You didn’t resist. Didn’t flinch. You didn’t even blink.

“Low blood pressure. Likely concussion, threads pulse,” one of them said quickly, checking vitals.

They spoke in clipped medical shorthand as they wheeled you out. The words blurred in Spencer’s ears.

He didn’t follow.

Couldn’t.

He stood there, in that grimy basement, staring at the chair you’d been tied to. The blood smeared into the floor. The shredded zip ties left behind like bones.

He should’ve stopped you.

He should’ve known something was wrong last night.

He should’ve said something—anything—besides the venom he’d spat.

His hands curled into fists.

Upstairs, he could hear Morgan shouting at the unsub as he was dragged away.

“You think you’re clever? Huh? You think this makes you some kind of genius?”

The unsub just smiled. “She came to me.”

Spencer’s stomach turned.

—

Outside, the late morning sun was rising, casting long shadows over the front lawn as paramedics loaded you into the ambulance. JJ stood nearby, arms folded tightly, barely breathing.

Elle was silent, her eyes rimmed red.

Hotch was speaking with local police, organising statements and chain of custody. And Spencer stood off to the side, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, face unreadable.

He didn’t go to the ambulance.

Didn’t try to see you again.

He didn’t think he deserved to.

You were silent. Still unresponsive. Not out of stubbornness, not anger, but trauma. Something had shut off in you, and Spencer didn’t know how—or if—you’d be able to come back from that.

He hadn’t just pushed you away.

He’d left you alone long enough to almost die.

—

The hospital was a cold place. The sterile white walls seemed to hold no comfort, and the bright fluorescent lights buzzed incessantly, as if trying to shatter the fragile quiet of the room.

But the team couldn’t shake the relief.

You were alive. Not unscathed—far from it—but alive. The doctors assured them you would recover physically, though they hadn’t made any promises about the mental scars.

But there was a sense of something else in the air, something they couldn’t quite name yet.

Gideon paced outside your room, eyes shadowed by a tiredness that went deeper than just the case. Morgan leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his face taut with unsaid words.

Elle was in the hallway, sitting on a chair with her head in her hands, her phone still in her lap. She hadn’t spoken much since they left the house. JJ hovered near the nurses’ station, keeping herself busy with menial tasks, but her face was pale—gripped by some invisible weight.

And Hotch, though outwardly composed, carried the same heavy air of guilt.

But no one felt it as sharply as Spencer.

He was pacing in the hallway, arms stiff at his sides, a muscle in his jaw twitching with every breath. He hadn’t said a word to anyone since they’d arrived at the hospital, and though he’d checked in with the doctor, he hadn’t really listened.

Spencer’s mind was still replaying the look in your eyes when you were pulled from that basement—the emptiness, the unspoken words, the brokenness. And for the first time, he was painfully aware of the distance that had been wedged between you.

The anger, the insults, the barbed exchanges—it hadn’t been just his defence mechanism, and he hadn’t realised how much damage it had done until now.

But now you were silent, and Spencer could feel the full weight of what he’d done pressing down on him like a vice. You were the one who’d been hurt the most—physically—and still, it was his words that had broken you.

—

When he finally pushed open the door to your room, he wasn’t sure what he was expecting.

You were propped up in bed, the sterile white sheets bunched around your body. Your face was bruised—still swollen—but your eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. There was nothing there. No emotion. No spark. Just an emptiness that he didn’t know how to fill.

Spencer hesitated, his footsteps slow and deliberate as he crossed the room.

You didn’t move when he sat in the chair next to the bed. You didn’t acknowledge him at all. Your gaze remained fixed ahead, unfocused, distant.

For a moment, Spencer just watched you. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but the words didn’t come.

It was only when he spoke, his voice sharp and broken, that the silence shattered.

“What you did was reckless and idiotic,” he said, his tone colder than he intended. “You could’ve died. You left without backup, without even thinking about the risks.” He swallowed, forcing his words to keep coming. “You could’ve—you should’ve—asked for help.”

He paused, waiting for some kind of response. Something—anything—but there was nothing. You didn’t even blink. You just stared ahead, lost in the haze of your own mind.

Spencer’s fingers clenched into fists. “You think this is some kind of game? You think you’re invincible?”

Still nothing.

He leaned in slightly, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “Goddamn it, I’m trying to help. But you need to stop acting like you’re the only one who matters here. This isn’t just about you.”

Nothing.

The silence stretched on, a taut wire between the two of you, the gap between him and you feeling like an abyss. Spencer couldn’t stand it. His gaze dropped to the floor, a wave of shame crashing over him.

He didn’t understand it. He didn’t know how to fix it.

For the first time in his life, Spencer Reid felt like he was completely and utterly lost.

—

The team began to gather in the waiting room outside your room, and no one spoke. Even the air felt thick, like the stillness before a storm.

It was Elle who finally broke the silence. “I can’t…” she trailed off, her voice catching in her throat. “She… she won’t even look at us.”

Hotch, though normally composed, looked exhausted. His hands were folded in his lap, his eyes shadowed by the weight of the situation. “She’s been through hell, Elle. We can’t just… expect everything to go back to normal.”

Gideon looked up from his place near the door. “No, it’s not that simple,” he said quietly, voice low but unwavering. “But I’ve seen this before. Trauma like this… it changes you.” He paused, eyes flicking toward the door to your room. “She’s going to need time, and we’re going to need patience. But we also need to acknowledge what we did wrong,”

The room grew quieter, each member processing the truth in their own way.

Morgan, who had been pacing with his hands in his pockets, spoke up. “Spencer’s not handling this well. But none of us are.” His voice was strained, but it held a sense of certainty. “We didn’t see it. We didn’t see how bad it was getting for her.”

JJ closed her eyes briefly, guilt flooding her expression. “We should’ve known. We should’ve stepped in. The way she and Spencer were fighting—it was too much. We should’ve told them both to stop before it got to this point,”

“I’m just…” Elle’s voice wavered. “I’m just so angry at him. How could he say those things to her? He was the one who pushed her.” Her eyes were wide, a mix of disbelief and hurt. “He acted like he didn’t even care, like she didn’t matter

Hotch sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. “We all failed her in some way.” His eyes flicked to Gideon. “And now Spencer’s struggling to process the fact that it’s his words that have hurt her the most,”

Gideon nodded slowly. “There’s no way to fix it right away. But what matters now is how we move forward. For her. Not for us.”

[ateliersss]

Her Protector

Pairing: Yautja x Fem!Reader Summary: Still new to life on Yautja Prime, you’re struggling to find your place among a clan that sees you as fragile, unworthy and unfit to stand at the side of their great leader. Cross-posted on AO3: here Warnings: English isn't my first language Word Count: 2.399 Before the Blooming Family series

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The twin suns hung high in the muted green sky, casting long, slatted shadows over the structures of the Yautja village. The heat was ever-present, thick, and clinging, but you had begun to grow used to it, at least enough to walk without fainting from the oppressive humidity. It wasn’t Earth and it never would be, but you were going to learn how to survive here. Slowly but surely.

You adjusted the thin, breathable shawl wrapped around your shoulders, gifted to you by Mi’ytiar, one of the only things keeping the sun from baking your skin. The radiation of the sun on Earth wasn’t too bad, but two suns from a whole different galaxy? You needed to be careful until the healer — Cahrein, was it? — could tell that the injections of whatever fluid mixed with Mi’ytiar’s blood was working and changing your DNA enough to resemble theirs.

The path you walked was carved from dark, volcanic stone, well-worn from centuries of passage. Around you rose towering buildings of unfamiliar architecture: jagged and elegant at once, built from obsidian-like minerals and striated metals that caught the light in rainbow sheens. Some of the dwellings loomed high like watchful sentinels, others sat low and wide, mouths agape with open-air entrances that revealed cool darkness within.

You passed a fountain shaped like a clawed hand holding an orb, the water bubbling up from between the fingers in rhythmic pulses. It was the centerpiece of a communal square. A few Yautja sat or stood in clusters nearby, their heavy bodies draped in netted armor and dark leather. Their gazes followed you, some openly staring, others more subtle, turning their heads just enough to watch you pass. You felt their eyes follow you. Not openly hostile but not kind, either. But some didn’t bother hiding their disdain, mandibles flexing in sharp, irritated twitches, shoulders squared in subtle posturing.

They didn’t like you here. Not yet.

It had been weeks since you had arrived. Mi’ytiar’s clan had offered no formal welcome. All you had gotten were wary glances, cautious bows, and far too many muttered words in their thick, guttural tongue when they knew you couldn’t understand. The earpieces you wore had been ready for use since yesterday and they worked perfectly. Now, you could hear the snide comments about your presence.

“Soft.”

“Useless.”

“Pathetic.”

You didn’t let it falter you in your stride and you kept your head high, despite everything about you was screaming outsider: your body being half their size, your plain and colorless skin, your plain and colorless eyes, your fragile bone structure and your barely-there muscle mass.

Younglings scuttled past you, chittering with excitement and curiosity. One youngling, barely up to her shoulder, clicked inquisitively and sniffed at you as it ran past. You smiled nervously, lifting your hand in a small wave. Its mandibles flared open in what you hoped was a grin before its older sibling barked a reprimand and yanked it away.

Well, at least the younger ones were tolerant enough…

Their parents would hopefully follow soon after.

After all, you weren’t officially Mi’ytiar’s mate yet. Not by their standards, at least. That bond had to be consummated, sealed through combat or ceremony, or whatever passed as marriage in this world. But Mi’ytiar called you his mate anyway, boldly and proudly. As if that alone should be enough. It warmed your heart and made you all soft inside when you thought about the way he had purred those words. When that ritual or whatever it was would be over, you could only hope that the tension would lift and stop from crushing you.

Around you, the village lived and breathed in a rhythm you hadn’t yet learned to join. Yautja sparred in the distance, heavy thuds of bodies striking against training pillars. Merchants from other clans displayed their wares — exotic meats, intricately carved bone jewelry, and tools you couldn’t name — all arranged with almost ceremonial precision. You passed what you assumed was a forge, the reek of molten metal and burning oils flooding your senses. Even that had its own brutal beauty: firelight reflecting off the polished fangs of a mask in progress, its metal teeth bared in a permanent snarl.

You stopped to watch for a moment, fascinated. The forge master, a hulking female with scarred tusks and a single, blazing red-orange eye, glanced at you with a curious frown. Then, she turned away without a word. There was neither hatred nor warmth. Just dismissal.

With a sigh, you moved on.

Each step deeper into the village pulled you farther away from the relative safety of Mi’ytiar’s home, your only sanctuary on this planet. Out here, without him at your side, you felt the full weight of isolation. You didn’t have the predictable order of Earth cities to cling to for orientation. This place pulsed with danger, history and contempt.

You reached a narrow side path between two larger buildings. Your intent had only been to circle the village and then slip away through passages like this so you wouldn’t be stared at on your way back home. But now, after catching a glimpse of your new life? You were tired of being afraid to explore, tired of having to hide away when you wanted to embrace the culture, the everyday life of your new home. Mi’ytiar had told you that the market was once every three months and you refused to let their dislike towards you hinder you from giving into your curiosity.

Your fingers trailed along the edge of a smooth, metal outcropping on one of the buildings. Its surface was warm from hours under the sun. The path ahead was unfamiliar, but it didn’t matter. You would turn around and walk home the way you came: through the market under the watchful eyes of every present Yautja. You would think after three months, you would be old news.

Three months.

Three months since Mi’ytiar flung you over his shoulder. Three months since he carried you out of your hometown and to his ship. Three months since it touched his home soil. You remembered stepping out of the vessel, the heels of your black leather Oxfords pumps echoing through the landing platform as you hesitantly left the ship by its metal ramp. You felt dizzy and weak with your first inhale, but Mi’ytiar, standing tall and strong beside you, placed a hand on your back between your shoulder blades.

The first night in the clan leader’s abode had been suffocating. Everything was too large, too loud, too alien. You couldn’t sleep. Not until Mi’ytiar curled around you like a shield in the vast bed made for someone twice his size. Unfortunately, even then, sleep only came in fragments. So, instead, you looked at him in the darkness, his massive form half-illuminated by the low red glow of the ambers of the fireplace circling the bed. He had brushed your cheek with the back of his clawed finger — so gentle, so reverent — and purred into the silence. It had reminded you of how he had touched hours ago in that alleyway.

A part of you had longed to return to that moment. Not for the terror or the pain, but for the clarity. Back then you weren’t an alien in his world but a woman amongst slaughter, but at least you were alone with him.

He was your rock, indeed. Mi’ytiar hadn’t wavered once in the following days. He called you his like it was the law, like nothing else mattered, and you fiercely held onto that. Even now, when you took a deep breath and stepped out of the side path. Heat slammed into you like a wall, oppressive and dry, swallowing your breath.

You crossed the square with purpose, ignoring the stares until you couldn’t.

Four Yautja — all much taller than you but no match to Mi’ytiar’s — stepped into your way as if you were in theirs. They were built like ancient statues, chiseled from fire-hardened stone. The one in front wore half of a broken Xenomorph crest strapped to his shoulder, his mandibles twitching in something that might be a smirk. One spun a bladed disc lazily between his claws, the sharp whistle of metal singing through the air, while another clicked his mandibles, low and guttural. He said something you didn’t fully catch, but the tone is unmistakable — mocking, crude. His eyes crawled over your body and he tilted his head as if examining a thing, not a person. The others chuckled at whatever he had said.

The Yautja, who hadn’t drawn any attention to himself yet, stepped to the side and started circling you. He stopped behind you, close enough that the heat of his body burned against your arm.

Around you, a few market-goers paused to watch, but no one intervened.

Of course, they didn’t. This wasn’t their business. You weren’t their kind, not one of them. You were just their leader’s little pet.

Even though your mouth went dry and your heart hammered in your ears, you didn’t back down. You wouldn’t run, wouldn’t show fear because that would only prove what everyone thought about you already. You wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of making yourself seem like prey by running away and practically inviting them to chase after you.

Prey.

You refused to give them that.

“Move.” You said, quiet but steady.

The biggest of them clicked his tusks together and tilted his head mockingly. “Weak thing.” His eyes slid over your body slowly, insultingly. “He brought back pet.”

The others laughed — a coarse, barking sound that drew more stares from across the square. But still, no one interfered.

The one with the darkest scales leaned in, close enough to catch a whiff of your scent. “Little thing. Tight. Bet she squeal.”

“Soft skin. Pretty noise-maker.” The thickest growled, accessing the little skin that was showing between your clothes.

Your stomach dropped and bile rose in your throat — fury, humiliation, fear — but you wouldn’t shrink away from them. Not even as your knees threatened to give out under the weight of their disgusting remarks. You had faced worse than taunts. You had endured months of cold stares and whispered insults. You didn’t let yourself cower, despite this being out in the open, direct and sharp-edged, instead of muttered disapproval behind your back.

“He become bored and you be passed-”

The words got stuck in his throat and you frowned as their posture changed. They either looked frightened or got into a defensive stance as if they expected to be attacked. Their whole behavior switched in a second and only when you turned around you knew why.

Mi’ytiar stood there, his body tense with lethal aggression. His fingers flexed, his lower mandibles twitched, and a guttural growl broke the sudden silence that had stretched across the market. His eyes wandered from one Male to the other like a predator deciding who to kill first.

A roar followed.

It wasn’t a war cry, wasn’t a challenge, but a warning. It tore through the square like a shockwave. It was primal, raw and laced with something deeper than rage: domination. The kind that froze blood and made his warriors bow down to him in submission.

Before you were able to blink, he moved.

The first Male barely saw it coming. He was lifted up by the throat and thrown into a stone pillar with enough force to shatter it. The bone-crushing sound was sickening and it seemed enough to not make him get up.

The next was grabbed by his mandibles, one of the most sensitive parts of a Yautja’s body, and with another roar that tore deep from within his chest, he ripped them apart to leave a gaping hole where his mouth was. Cartilages snapped and blood sprayed in thick arcs across the stone. The Male screamed or tried to, but it came out a gurgle through the ruined mess of his face. He collapsed, twitching, not dead but a broken beast.

The third and fourth moved together, flanking, trying to close in from either side, foolishly thinking that Mi’ytiar, even outnumbered, could be bested.

Mi’ytiar spun and his foot, high and fast for a kick, collided with the left Male’s chest. He flew back, breath coming out ragged and irregular. He fought to get up, but one look of Mi’ytiar halted him in the attempt.

The fourth slashed with a wrist-blade at Mi’ytiar, who ducked, grabbed the warrior by the waist and lifted him into the air, twisting mid-motion with an inhuman snarl. He slammed him down, headfirst, into the ground. He sidestepped the clumsy grab for his leg and drove his claws into the Male’s gut when he leaned over him. It was slow as it was not intended to kill — not yet, at least — but to humiliate. Like they had humiliated you.

The Male howled and his claws uselessly scrabbled at Mi’ytiar’s forearm, but he simply got up on his feet, letting the feet of his opponent dangle pathetically, before he ripped the body apart. Blood splattered and rained down on him, dousing him in neon green.

The silence that lay down on the square like a blanket was deafening. The Yautja who had looked at you in disdain an hour ago avoided you now completely. No one dared to move, no one dared to speak.

Mi’ytiar ignored his people when his eyes finally, finally, found yours. They softened in an instant as he closed the distance between you with steady steps, his long legs eating up the space that separated you both. The hands that had torn someone apart only seconds ago now lifted up to cup your face with such gentleness, such care. His thumb stroked your cheek and he bent down to nuzzle his forehead against yours.

At least now, no one would dare to look at you if it wasn’t with respect or kindness. He had made sure of that.

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[xesnox]

All currently active NeoBuilders.

Minecraft default skins in Ancient Ruins, reference picture at the end for comparison.

Don’t look too close at the faces, had to speedrun this so I could actually motivate myself to finish the entire lineup. Definitely not my best work. Clothing was a pain to figure out and I’ll definitely change some things in the future as I’m still not entirely happy with the general aesthetics of some sets. Zuri and Efe were the worst to figure out, their clothing styles were very modern in comparison to what I’m going for with Ancient Ruins so it took me a while.

But first of all, what is a NeoBuilder?

Lore entry Ahead, body horror warning, nothing too extreme I wouldn’t say, but the concept definitely isn’t the prettiest.

“NeoBuilder” describes a category of individuals that appear to be within the homo-genus (Artisan Family.).

The dissection of a deactivated individual showed (us) they are made of about 85% mechanical components, most of which consist of copper and iron. Organs however remain fully functional and can be traced back to Ancient Artisans in origin through DNA sampling. Blood vessels aswell as a large portion of their flesh has been replaced by machinery, activated regulated and moved through restricted soul energy coursing through their veins as blood would on a fully biological human.

The change of energy source makes them effectively immune to the green plague, which is transmitted through blood. In place of a heart they have a still unnamed chamber (Ch1), acting akin to a cockpit housing a freshly created soul, which is replaced by converting experience farmed in the previous lifecycle to the next, taking the raw energy and morphing it into a new soul. As souls are neither human nor animal but simply an energy cluster made of (if found post mortum) memories and life experience this can easily (and understandably) be transferred, even if the origin of the experience in question happens to be non-sentient. The experience is collected and stored within yet another unnamed organ replacing their left kidney (Ch2).

But do not be fooled, this process by no means makes them immortal. If the body is in critical shape it will resort to exporting the active soul and using the remaining soul energy still running through the machinery to activate the emergency program. In this state the body will do nothing but return to whatever point the machine has clocked as “safe” (this kind of reset happens when the person is resting for an extended period of time, as it marks said area as safe enough to stay vulnerable within.) and fix its injuries back to base point, excluding the bio-matter, as there no longer is any such material around. Through the expelling of the last soul, and slow process of developing a new one, the machine will power down there until the next energy burst. This means that even though the body itself remains alive, every life cycle houses a different person. If you see the same NeoBuilder twice it is therefore not guaranteed it will come with the same intention, as it might be a completely different soul speaking through the same form.

If the damage is too bad however, the NeoBuilder will shut down and cannot be reactivated unless one with actual knowledge of how to do so were to interfere. The how has been lost to history however, we blame the creature of despair and decay that shall not be named. It is different from deactivation, as it renders the body permanently dead. Many NeoBuilders have deactivated, we assume only 9 of the previous 30 remain.

We have no idea as to why these manmade humanoids were created, as the why has also been buried and lost to years of untouched unaddressed missing history.

Infact, their names are quite new, till about half a century ago, due to my own research if I may pat myself on the back, we had assumed them to be a strange strain of plague infested ancients, as they’d always remained distant to us and a dead specimen was a more than rare find. It is not a fully worked out name whatsoever, the “Builder” merely connecting them to the Artisan family, and the word “Neo”- as in “New” replacing the word “Ancient” we’ve been using to describe the other half of the family thus far, it is a placeholder by all means, but so is the latter.

Their nature would definitively make them more akin to bio-mechanical golems, however we chose to group them into the artisan family for the previously mentioned bio material, which matched identical to that of the mummified remains cave divers had found a few years back lodged between long forgotten pathways shut to time. Wasn’t a pretty sight when they showed me. One would think after a good few millennia they’d be nothing but a pile of ash and bones, but low oxygen levels within the closed off cave system made for some awfully good preservation, not pretty I dare say, I’m just glad nothing snapped at me during inspection as, perhaps in this case thankfully, the undead plague only infects the living; anything that doesn’t breathe and lacks running blood cannot fall victim to such a thing. But personal tangent aside, some interesting notes here:

- Despite the soul of the Neobuilder swapping with each lifecycle they generally keep the same base morals of the previous host.

- it seems Mother Earth isn’t very fond of them for whatever reason. The undead are very manageable if one isn’t around, but as soon as one chooses to stay in close vicinity it very quickly gets nearly impossible to maneuver, they’re like a magnet. It seems this is the reason they rarely last longer than 20 years within a single lifecycle.

- they’re actually quite cooperative, and many have learned our language. Though sorrowfully it appears they only store a single slot for their language, and forget all other information of a previously spoken one upon interaction (perhaps they were meant as a situational translation device?). I’ve attempted my best to reteach them, but I’m no linguist; I limit my research to history, with a limited understanding of biology. To figure out the mechanics alone I had to get a whole other villager to help my case.

- despite a large portion of their flesh being replaced by mechanical components an extra layer of the fat cells within the subcutis create an artificial layer of flesh like material dampening any slashes at the golem like form below.

More research to be added once I acquire more material to work with. This is a work in progress.

Understudied field, more research either classified information or unable to be attained due to both lack of examples and individuals willing enough to risk their lives acquiring such needless information. Ivan D. P. Retired shortly after writing his book discussing categorized biological information regarding the entities within our realm, which has since been removed from the market. The authors doctor title has been revoked due to a less than fortunate suspected alliance with the Illager cult on his end, so choose the information you’re willing to believe wisely, the villages dislike him for a reason.

We sincerely apologize but certain behaviors are to be taken seriously regarding the issues the cult on the outskirts has caused us in the past. Rumors have to be believed regarding individuals actively choosing to house away from the masses for whatever reason, to keep the general public safe.

Moving just out of sight to dedicate your life to dissecting humanoids on your dinner table is not normal behavior and was it not for his living position would hastily be investigated,

mumbling about how you hate our community doesn’t lessen our concerns, if you read this Ivan, it was not funny and it will never be, you know of the missing people concerns: if it happens again we’re sorry to inform you but you’ll no longer be welcome within this village.

[schizospec-culture-is]

schizospec (?) culture is one professional diagnosing you with schizophrenia, another disagrees and dx's you with psychotic depression, still another diagnosis you with schizoaffective, still another says you are not on the schizophrenia spectrum and instead have cluster b traits and psychotic features because you're "too lucid and engaged" to be schizospec. you still cannot bathe regularly and the voices still tell you horrible things. you still have canine dna and transform in the grocery store.

-

[dcdreamblog]

What do you think about the superman theory?

I didn't believe it but then Pozhar and Killer Frost came out to talk about it and i'm having my doubts.

This is gonna be a long one. This fucking "theory" has been sitting on my back for close to 6 years now so buckle your seatbelts and just to make sure you read to the end I stuck some REALLY juicy drama down there.

I think the so called "Superman Theory" is one part repackaging unsurprising information everybody knew, one part conspiracy theories ACTING upon said publically available information in the worst possible way and one part both previous answers being amplified by bad faith political actors for the sake of their own ends. In short, I think its bunk.

The "Superman Theory" in its broadest form is a conspiracy theory positing that the overbalance of active metahumans in the United States was created by the United States government and military in and attempt to cover super soldier research, creating a new weapon in geopolitical strategy that the United States could keep a larger control of by pretending it was a natural phenomenon.

Let me debunk this part by part:

(A partial map of "claimed" superhero teams in the immediate aftermath of the theory's political ripples. Most of these teams never actually operated and many of their members are thought to be entirely fictional. In fact many of the LEADERS of said teams do not work directly for their governments and have disavowed these "teams" outright)

1. No one was ever under any impression the government WASNT trying to manufacture superhumans.

We've all seen it, outfits like the DEO or Argus or Task Force X working on myriad ways to trying to create superhuman operatives that would be loyal to a government chain of command. Some of the "revelations" exposed by the "Superman Theory" are farcical in their idea that this is somehow not old news. Saying that Captain Atom was the creature of a military experiment isn't a shocking twist because it WAS a shocking twist more than a decade ago when it was actually uncovered.

The idea that many other superhumans such as Metamorpho or Gotham's Man-Bat were pushed into existence by clandestine military funding isn't pulling the blanket off of anything because that is how the military industrial complex in the United States has ALWAYS worked. The government pays for scientists to test stuff, and then they test stuff! The fact that these tests were not morally or ethically sound is a big shakeup if you happen to have never heard of the US Military or Government before.

2. The idea that any government can manufacture controlled metagene responses isn't just insane, its dangerous

There's a lot of bad science out there about "the metagene" as if its a specific thing only certain people have. That's not how it works at all.

EVERY SINGLE HUMAN BEING ALIVE HAS A "METAGENE".

Because what we call a "metagene" is really a poorly understood system of genes and DNA clusters that activate when a human being is placed under impossible stress. If there is some kind of terrible happenstance. And your body can adapt to that particular happenstance in order to keep you alive, then congratulations you're a metahuman. It's not a single light switch that goes on and off its a shorthand term for the human body's amazing and poorly understood ability to adapt to life threatening injury via the manifestation of superhuman traits.

No one knows what stimuli will activate a specific person's metagene, no one CAN know how that metagene will manifest once activated and putting in place systems to "test" or "activate" a metagene is going to end up with 9 parts corpses to 1 part terrified people running on fight or flight adrenaline except now they can shoot lava from their hands.

3. The international superhero community is not "unbalanced" in America's favor

All I really have to do here is gesture broadly at the existence of the Global Guardians, the Great Ten or the Rocket Reds. The rest of the world is not lacking for superheroes. Every large nation has a team and every small nation has a member on a large multinational team. The idea that American superheroes are especially numerous, powerful or prominent has more to do with the way that American superheroes monopolize media attention than it does anything to do with raw data.

As for the numbers of actual METAHUMANS that each nation has, rather than active superheroes. That is an impossible comparison to make. No one has even the broadest guess as to the number of active metahumans in the world in general, let alone in each nation. And that's just metahumans.

4. Metahuman and superhero are not synonyms.

Superman is not a metahuman. Wonder Woman is not a metahuman. Green Lantern is not a metahuman. BATMAN IS NOT A METAHUMAN.

The idea that a larger metahuman population would equate to a larger population of active superheroes just doesn't amount to anything when you look at who superheroes are and how they work. Superheroes draw their ranks from every kind of extranormal being imaginable from aliens to wizards and regular people in spandex animal costumes. Most metahumans are people living with a mutation, more akin to a rare disability than a superhero. Superheroes exist for a laundry list of very individual moral and societal factors that have little to nothing to do with the mere existence of their abilities.

5. Superheroes can't be an arms race because superheroes aren't soldiers.

America is not going to send the Justice League into downtown Beijing to level the place because the Justice League doesn't work for the American government. Any successful superhero organization has found that the only way for it to successfully conduct its work is to be independent of political oversight. The first age of heroes in the United States ended in a single court case when the Justice Society declared outright that it had no interest in following the political whims of Washington.

That's why so many of these new "national teams" announced in the aftermath of the Superman Theory (and the brawl it lead to on the White House lawn because we're at the point where some people are listening to Black fucking Atom for diplomatic cues) ended up being so much smoke and vapor.

So many of these teams were announced on live TV with heavy fanfare only to amount to nothing.

The Seraph is not leading a team of black ops superhumans for the Mossad because The Seraph already works for the Global Guardians and has been kinda busy for the last 600 days acting as one of the core mediators for a political clusterfuck of epic proportions in the Gaza Strip. Russia's "People's Heroes" consisted of large swaths of Russian heroes being impersonated by stunt doubles because most of Russia's superhero population is in open revolt against the Putin administration and has been since the 2nd Chechen war. China's "Great Twenty" proposal has run into the brick wall that is the DEEP factional animosity between China's traditional hero team the Great Ten and its more recent Justice League China. China's Super-Man and the Great Ten's August General in Iron can't even be in the same room and the two groups' communications have been in a deep freeze for nearly a year.

The UK's "Knights Inc" proposal caused a flare up in post-Brexit tensions when they attempted to include Irish national hero Jack O'Lantern in the team's roster without his permission leading to a truly history defining rant by the Irish hero on the emerald isle's iconic Late Late Show backed up by his Global Guardians teammate Godiva.

Conclusion

The Superman Theory isn't just an idiotic conspiracy theory playing off ignorance at the superhuman community's global scope it is also a dangerous political crowbar being used by bad faith actors in an attempt to stoke nationalist divisions in said superhero communities. It is fanning flames of distrust that could actually get people killed if teams from a certain region are the closest at hand to respond to violence or disaster in a neighboring nation. There was a tense period where Vietnam nearly denied the Great Ten entry into the country's airspace where hundreds of thousands were at risk of catastrophic typhoon flooding.

Superheroes are not national assets and there are dozens, hundreds, THOUSANDS or reasons as to why. But the insidious part is that until now the superhero community has sidestepped national division in favor of a close knit circle of trust that has allowed them to respond to as many disasters as possible with the maximum effective force.

And we should be VERY suspiscious of ANYONE attempting to disrupt that balance.

[npd-confessions]

no idea wtf is going on but um

having both npd and an inferiority complex is weird. i have very little self worth and feel like im not worthy of friendship, yet desire it and feel offended when people don't want to be my friend.

im amazing!! im clever and sweet and caring, why WOULDN'T you be my friend???

i'm coming to terms with the npd and it makes so much sense

— 👽🧬

.

[diejager]

Hello hellooooooo

I hope you are doing great !!

(I was waiting patiently for your requests to be open again lmao)

So, my brain was just thinking of something for monster!141 and I just need to share it somewhere 😵‍💫

As you may know, penguins' love language is giving pebbles to their loved ones

Penguin hybrid!Hunter just giving monster!141 pebbles and little rocks to show them that they love them 🥹

Alright, I'll go back to my knitting now BYE

*gets out by the window with a parachute*

Pebbles Cw: weird courting, tell me if I missed any.

You didn’t have any noticeable differences to a human, having the appearance of any human with a some quirky and funny behavioural traits that all of them enjoyed. You had your moments of oddity, but you didn’t seem that far from a human, having no tail, ear or horns, your skin as smooth and soft as any. They dropped their suspicions of you being a hybrid, a monster or even an inter dimensional creature of some unknown source.

And somehow, they find small trinkets - small, round pebbles picked out of a bunch to be perfectly rounded, smooth edges and glistening under the light, and sticks, long and robust, but small enough to sneak into the base without being caught - placed in the areas they often found themselves frequenting.

Price would find a cluster of pebbles on his desk, arranged neatly in a ring, a curious little thing that he shrugged off, putting them away for the time he’d be able to catch the culprit red handed in the act. Price chucked it up to being Soap and Gaz pulling a prank on him, an unsuspecting and benign trick for a little laugh between them, he didn’t bother with it too much.

Ghost found his small collection of sticks and rock on the books he liked to read, placed near the corner of his desk in his office, the arrangement was neither crude nor clean, it was a chaotic abstraction that he didn’t understand.He didn’t know what to make of it, no one would be brave enough - stupid enough - to pull something like this on him and on his stuff without knowing the risks they put themselves in.

Soap and Gaz had a few placed that belonged to them alone, like their rooms or their locker in the armoury, small areas that everyone knew was theirs. Gaz was the first of the two to find flowers and pebbles in the top compartment of his locker, picked with utmost care to keep the petal from bending. Soap found his collection of sticks and flowers stitched in a pretty crown placed around the collar of his vest, a little present full of romance and adoration. Both of them couldn’t help but find this weird act endearing.

Until Price saw you rush out of his office, a sweet, love-filled smile plastered on your face as if you’d been given the miracle of your life. If he pushed the thought farther, he could almost see a little tail wagging behind you, oh so overzealous and overjoyed with something you did. Peaked by it, he looked into his room and caught the bright petals of a daisy gently placed in the middle of a wreath of stick. He looked at it with a renewed aww and curiosity, feeling your affection roll of your intricate design, made and catered to him as if you’d made each and every single one of his boys a little courting gift-

It was an instinctual courting behaviour seen in monsters and hybrids alike. It stopped him in his tracks, causing him to question himself and your file, he’d been sure that you were human through and through, holding not a single ounce of monster blood in your veins, you’d done tests. Tests, he had to remind himself that these tests were - despite being physical and DNA tests - noted down if the recipient had any traits deemed worthwhile, something useful in the minds of a battle or in a dogfight.

That would give reason to some missing holes in your file, the little things that made you so charmingly you in every aspect was missing from your papers, reserved for people who came to know you. It warmed his heart, to see you so comfortable with them that you ended up forging such strong, emotional connections that you started giving them gifts. He’d have to take it up with the other boys, tell them what he just found out: your little, courting gifts, your hybrid roots that they could explore and your lovable smile when you’d successfully given your gift, and see where they would go from there.

Taglist: @craxy-person @crowbird @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @yeetusspagheetus @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @angelcakes-22 @cassiecasluciluce @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @ki-cant-spel @im-making-an-effort @love-dove-noora @jinxxangel13 @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @mul-pi @danielle143 @virginalsacrifice @beau-min @makayla-666 @urfavsunkissedleo @mixplara @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @luvecarson @petwifed @aldis-nuts @randominstake @stay-088 @heartelysia @jggykhug09090 @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi

[livwritesstuff]

I keep seeing the candy trauma salad videos again and I need to know if the girls ever decide on doing one lmao?

I think they would try to rope their dads into it but they would just simply stare and say.... no. But i can see them standing in the backround watching the girls telling increasingly more traumatising things at which both Steve and Eddie would have to stop and say are y'all good??

I think one if them definetly would say that one of their traumas is being adopted lmao

I love asking about yiur little universe and i cant wait for you to tell us more. Your story is quite literally my official headcanon for the characters❤️❤️

<33333

This is especially funny because Steve is a trauma-based therapist lol

Hazel definitely makes Robbie and Moe do this with her, and when she posts it, she adds the caption *trauma candy salad except we were raised by a trauma counselor*

They start with Robbie:

Robbie: Hey, I’m Robbie and one time a girl broke up with me because I was questioning my gender and then, like, almost a year later when I changed my pronouns back to she/her on Instagram, she DM’d me to say that she would be okay with us getting back together.

Robbie: And I brought the bowl *holds up large glass mixing bowl*

*cut to Moe*

Moe: I’m Moe, and me and my sisters were put into into foster care at birth and we’ve literally never known a single thing about our mom because she died before any of us were allowed to contact her

Moe: And I waited two decades to get DNA tests done, and then when we finally did it, not only did we not learn a single thing about our mom – literally nothing – we also learned that I have a different bio-dad.

Moe: It was probably the worst day of my entire life.

Moe: And I brought lemonade Sour Patch Kids.

*cut to Hazel*

Hazel: Heeey, I’m Hazel, and I did ballet for fifteen years and during the last rehearsal for my senior spring recital, my dance teacher said over the microphone with the entire company in the theater that I was the reason the show looked bad.

Hazel: And I didn’t know what to do so I just said thank you.

Hazel: Oh, and I brought gummy worms.

*cut to back Robbie*

Robbie: I’m Robbie and when I was fourteen I was in the senior orchestra class and we went to Disney for their music festival, and the second night we were there, one of my friends with a fake I.D. stole a car and convinced us all to go out and get drunk and go joy-riding and the car ended up on the wrong side of the highway and we flipped twice and I almost died.

Robbie: And I was trying really hard to be cool but I was honestly just excited to be at Disney.

Robbie: So that sucked.

Robbie: And I brought Nerds Gummy Clusters

*cut to Moe*

Moe: Hi, I’m Moe, and when I was applying to college, I had a male interviewer tell me that he didn’t think I could handle the engineering program and that I should choose something easier.

Moe: I had a 5.0 GPA and got a 5 on the AP Physics exam the year before.

Moe: But whatever.

Moe: I brought Starbursts

*cut to Hazel propping up the camera so Eddie can be seen standing at the counter*

Hazel: Okay, go.

Eddie: I’m Ed.

Eddie: *warily thinking about what he’s legally allowed to say*

Eddie: I failed senior year twice, and the third time, after I spent basically the entire year working my ass off – kind of – so I'd actually graduate, we went into a state of emergency in March and all the seniors got their diplomas by default.

Eddie: And apparently I brought *looks at bag* – oh shit, these are actually good. AirHeads Xtremes.

Moe, behind the camera: Didn’t you almost die during all that?

Eddie: Yep.

[xoheisse]

stories of children whose lives were taken by russians

1. Marharyta from Kharkiv region, 8 years old.

On June 21, cluster munitions fell in the yard of her family's house. Marharyta died instantly, her heart was pierced through. The girl's father, at the age of 36, has become completely gray. The mother cannot describe in words how she feels after losing her child.

2. Kyrylo from Kherson, 8 years old.

In April, the family evacuated from Kherson to Vinnytsia. On July 14, russia shelled the city, Kyrylo was in the car with his uncle. The boy died immediately from a fragment hitting his head, then an explosion occurred. The body was searched for several days. It was identified only through DNA analysis.

3. Daryna from Kharkiv region, 15 years old.

On March 13, a russian missile hit the family's house. When the father got to the hand of his dead daughter, he said: "Our Daryna is no more". She was buried in her native Dergachi. Mom recalls that the missiles flew over the people here and there. "Daryna, this is a farewell salute to you." said her father.

4. Polina, 8 years old.

On March 13, Polina and her mother wanted to evacuate Mariupol. As soon as they took a few steps outside, the russian military started shelling with mortars. Nadiya's mother died instantly. Both of Polina's legs and arms were broken. The girl was operated on in the city hospital. But on March 16, Polina's kidneys failed and she died. Polina was shooting videos on YouTube, dancing. She liked to change into different costumes and perform on stage.

5. Anna, 9 years old.

On March 19, an enemy shell hit near the house where Anna and her mother Yana were hiding. They went down to the basement. In the morning, slag began to fall from above. Several basement floor slabs fell on people. The mother rushed to help her daughter, but she could not pull her out from under the rubble on her own. Anya and other people remained buried in the basement. The girl liked to work with computers. Her mother promised that when Anya turned 10, she would enroll her in programming lessons. However...

6. Denys, 9 years old.

On September 3, the twins were walking in a park in Dnipropetrovs'k region. Suddenly, MLRS shells started flying. "I felt the space around me with my hand. He was at my feet. I went to him: "Danya, Danya ... ", but he was silent. Although they told me to lie down, I started crawling to my son. Ruslan was screaming next to me," the boy's mother recalls the shelling. On December 22, Denys was supposed to celebrate his birthday.

7. Oleksandr from Chernihiv, 13 years old.

On March 9, Sasha and his mother Tetyana decided to evacuate from Chernihiv. However, a shell exploded near the pedestrian column, and the boy was hit by many fragments. "He couldn't say anything, his eyes were closed, he was breathing heavily, he wheezed three times and died. He remained lying there," Sasha's mother recalls. In 2022, Sasha was an eighth grader. He was interested in the crypto market and dreamed of developing a YouTube channel for an english-speaking audience.

original post : ukraina_topnews

[tamarabeck]

Contrasts

[theconstitutionisgayculture]

Why did you lock the thread to my question to you before I could respond? "European" is easily a recognizable pan-ethnicity, same as "Black". In fact, why are you glossing over the fact that the Founding Fathers explicitly declared this with the Nationality Act of 1790 which limited citizenship to "free white persons"? You insult my intelligence, yet genetic tests clearly show that Europeans all cluster together and share characteristic European physical features. This definitely qualifies as a pan-ethnicity.

None of my posts have replies turned on. If you want to reply to one of my posts, you need to reblog it.

As for "pan-ethnicity", that's such a bullshit term. It means nothing when talking about actual ethnicity because it's grouping large swaths of peoples together under the idea that "well, they're more like each other than these other groups we've also lumped together because they're more like each other than these other groups we've also lumped together". Of course ethnicities that exist within close proximity of each other will share some characteristics, but that doesn't mean lumping them all together is appropriate, or desired. In the same period of time when the Nationality Act was passed (which was replaced and amended every few years until 1804 by the way, and the question of citizenship wasn't resolved constitutionally until the 14th Amendment in 1868) pretty much every European ethnicity had at least one other European ethnicity that they hated on racial grounds. The idea of a "pan-European" ethnicity that supersedes actual ethnicity is ridiculous, regardless of how many people used "white" to distance themselves from dark skinned ethnicities. The English would certainly have rejected the idea that they share an ethnicity with the French for most of their history, despite their nobility literally sharing DNA with the Normans after 1066. The only times the English and the French would admit kinship is when they wanted to unite against a different foreign power. Same with the broader European identity. It's a political signifier, not a racial or ethnic one. And even then it makes little sense at times, such as with Russia being considered a European country for most of its existence despite the vast majority of its land being in Asia.

[archaeologysucks]

I recently submitted an Ancestry DNA test, and am in the process of sorting through my matches. One of the most interesting parts of this is seeing how many matches different branches have. Some have dozens while others have only a handful. I wonder how much of that is a function of “this ancestor has fewer living descendants”, how much is “a smaller random selection of this ancestor’s descendants decided to get DNA tests”, and how much is “I inherited less DNA from this ancestor”. And then there are my Mystery Clusters that I haven’t quite managed to connect to a particular branch yet, but they all are matches of each other. It’s a lot of fun new mysteries for me to solve, added to the satisfaction of seeing my years of research validated by science.

[sambhavami]

Women in Mahabharata - Sudeshna (Bengal)

She is the wife of a King Bali [sometimes identified with the Asura king Bali himself] who used to rule in the areas that are the modern-day West Bengal and Bangladesh, areas that were in the Vedic times (and also to a lesser degree in Mahabharata) considered 'impure'.

When Maamateya Deerghatama's wife and children, on account of his hyper-sexuality, tie him up and set him afloat on a raft in the waters of Ganga, King Bali rescues him.

Knowing his reputation as a mantra-drashta Vedic rishi, Bali desires to have children with his DNA, and he instructs his wife Sudeshna to do the needful.

Sudeshna however is repulsed by the rishi's appearance and sends her attendant Aushinari to him instead.

Later, forced by the king, she has five children with Deerghatama named- Anga, Vanga, Kalinga, Pundra and Suhma, who go on to establish the well-known cluster of the five Eastern kingdoms spread over the modern-day states of West Bengal, Bihar and Odisha. This story is noted by many researchers as a metaphor for the ongoingaaryayana (aryafication) of this region.

These group of kingdoms lie primarily on the same side throughout history (whichever side that may be) and are closely linked in their history and culture. When the British take over after defeating Nawab Siraj-ud-daulah, this rough stretch of land is still referred to in the same breath as the Sub-e-Bangla.

[grapejuicedragoon]

the godzilla hybrids of Deicide (deicide biollantes backstory is close to the original because i really like it ) the difference is mainly that she retains some memories of the human side of her. however the others are a bit different

Space godzilla was created when ghidorah returned to space after a fight with godzilla. Carrying godzilla's blood on him as he left for deep space due to ghidorahs injures some of his blood mixed with godzillas causing it to crystalize. An alien race managed retrieved some of now crystalized blood and used it to create there own monster however that ended up destroying them as the kaiju drained them dry of resources. The young kaiju not fully developed left to continue it's gestation within a nebula cluster leeching of forming stars and eventually gaining massive amounts of energy and quickly maturing.

Zilla 001 was created as a military project an attempt to make a tame kaiju, using an Iguana Genome as a base they spliced it with that of godzillas dna. The sequence was also edited with the Dna of a dog in hopes of a more docile nature, the creature was given the name Zilla 001. (hes based Zilla Jr)