#Why learn chess online

[chesstrainer24]

Discover 5 reasons why learning chess online is ideal for busy minds. Flexible, engaging, and skill-boosting, it fits your schedule perfectly.

Do Visit: https://chesstrainer.com/5-reasons-why-learning-chess-online-is-perfect-for-busy-minds/

[push-the-heartbrake]

𝙃𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙁𝙤𝙧 𝙔𝙤𝙪 (𝙃𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙄𝙣 𝙈𝙮 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩) // 𝙎.𝙍

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳. 𝘙𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘪𝘳𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘥𝘦𝘳. 𝘕𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺’𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘯 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦. 𝘏𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘵, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵.

First instalment | Series masterlist

Summary: “I’m not supposed to do this, but you’re the only person still here, so I made us tea.”  — or the one where Spencer really likes the library for its books, the chess, and the girl working the night shift.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader (she/her)

Word count: 14.9k

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI ♡ Cm typical violence, Spencer gets injured but nothing major. Mention of bullying, sick parents, and addiction. Takes place sometime after he got clean, so S4 perhaps? No smut, but talk of sex. Spencer being an insecure virgin and reader having used sex as a coping mechanism in the past.

A/N: Hello!! New blog, new fic. I'm too dumb to write for Spencer, but I tried my best. Reader probably has too much personality and backstory but I stopped caring midway through. No physical descriptors used though, except for some wacky clothing. Tell me what you think? Please? Love ya, bye.

You wouldn’t think it was possible, given how most Americans viewed paying taxes, but for some reason, in some way, a very persistent person at some board meeting somewhere had managed to get through the idea that at least one library in D.C. should be open all hours of the day. 

Spencer, for one, couldn’t be more pleased with that decision. 

He had fond memories of spending long nights in quiet libraries when he was working toward one of his many degrees. Now, his longing for the silence and solitude stemmed from insomnia. He guessed most people his age spent sleepless nights out at nightclubs or in the never-ending search for love or just a one-night stand to suffice some sort of primal need. Spencer wasn’t like that. Never had, nor ever would be.

The library was a better place in every sense. He grew bored out of his mind by being alone in his apartment for too long, but he also got tired of having people around him. His job was social enough. The library was a perfect mixture of the two, requiring silence but still had people in motion so that he didn’t feel entirely isolated. 

He’d browse the shelves, searching for things he hadn’t read. Quickly getting through many books in an evening with his way of processing words. It got to the point where there weren’t enough books about his usual interests, so he would pick up books about old cars that Rossi mentioned and learn about their engineering or read some wacky poetry that Emily had recommended that she loved as a teenager. 

Sometimes he’d bring whatever knitting project he was working on and join some old ladies who met up at the library to knit and discuss romance novels. Spencer didn’t bring much to the conversation, but he liked hearing them talk. He wasn’t much for gossip, but made-up drama between fictional characters was surprisingly entertaining. 

He would also borrow one of the computers and play online chess for hours until his eyes had grown tired from the bright light and he finally thought he might be able to go home and force himself to sleep. Eric, one of the chess players that he frequently met in a local park, showed up sometimes, when he wasn’t swamped with homework or had a curfew to keep. Maybe he should make some friends his own age that weren’t his colleagues, but Eric, at age fifteen, was also the best chess player that Spencer had ever met. 

So, the quietness, the books, the knitting, and the chess were all perks of spending time at the library. The cute girl sitting at the front desk, working almost every night shift alone, was also somewhat of a perk.

Spencer wasn’t entirely sure how it came about or why he was so enamored by even just the idea of you, but he couldn’t help but let his eyes linger for a little bit too long whenever he walked past the front desk or saw you organizing books at some shelf in the library. 

That was a lie. Spencer knew exactly how it happened and why. 

It started with simple people-watching. He liked to imagine wild backstories for people he only saw in passing. Probably a result of being a profiler. 

With students he would wonder about what project they were researching late at night in the library and what their majors were and if he could notice patterns in their appearances and behaviors. 

He’d connect the dots with the old women knitting and their opinions about the romance novels to actual experiences in their own lives. One had been cheated on in her youth and found any sort of love triangle to be awful, while another couldn’t understand certain writers fascination with sneaking in unplanned pregnancies because she had never wanted kids herself. 

And while Eric and he played chess in silence most of the time, he still picked up on how Eric didn’t like how strict his mother was on him and how his sisters got treated differently, more easygoing, than him. 

And then there was you, the only other person who would frequent—well, you worked there—the library so often that Spencer could start to piece together your backstory. 

His first impression was that you were cute, in like an objective way. The same way people would look at Garcia with some sort of childlike awe of how uniquely herself she was. You had that same thing about you, with colorful cardigans and ribbons tied in your hair. 

The second thing he noticed was that you probably didn’t work that much. You were sat at that front desk all night, organizing what needed to be organized and helping those who needed help, but then you were left to yourself for the rest of your shift. You read a lot, but Spencer never got close enough to see what exactly. You also had the news playing really quietly on a little radio, perhaps to not go completely insane from the silent nature of the library. 

At first he thought you weren’t too talkative, but then he observed an interaction you had with a student. A young mother who came to the library to study while her child peacefully slept in their stroller. Spencer wasn’t one to judge. If the child got to sleep and the mother got to study, it was a win-win situation, although unconventional. 

When he saw the mother and baby leave, going up to you to check out some books, he saw just how talkative you were, practically spewing out words about the subjects she was researching and cooing at the baby who was then awake, calling it adorable and quickly playing peekaboo. 

Now, as Spencer sat in a chair, not too far from the entrance and the front desk, acting like he was reading a book he had already read through, he observed you inconspicuously. 

You were fronting books on a display shelf that was the first thing you saw when you entered the library. Usually seasonal books, or that followed a current event or a theme. It was Halloween this time around, and you fought with the mess that was fake cobwebs. A garland of little black bats hung over the shelf and plastic jack-o-lanterns acted as bookstands. He could spot certain covers of books he recognized. Goosebumps, for the children. Stephen King, for the horror fanatics. Edgar Allan Poe, for the poetry lovers. 

You quietly cursed under your breath as your fingers got stuck in the cobwebs, and Spencer had to cover his laugh with an unnatural cough. That was when he saw that your nails were painted a pumpkin-like orange and your black cardigan had a little skeleton pattern. You were going all out with the theme, even if you barely saw any people during the night shift, telling Spencer that you were doing it all for your own enjoyment. 

As you stretched to place books on the highest shelf, he noticed your trousers, and Spencer was only a man—granted a little peculiar and different—but still a man, with working eyes and needs. You wore slacks so well-fitting he wondered what tailor you went to or if you could sew yourself. And Converse, always dark red Converse. You dressed like him, but in a more colorful, feminine way. 

He saw you pick up a book and judge it by its cover, then instead of placing it on display, you put it in a tote bag placed on the cart you had to pick books from. He’d seen you use the same tote bag before, when you were organizing the shelves, placing books back or collecting ones loaned online. The album cover for Kate Bush’s The Kick Inside was on it, not because Spencer knew of the album but because the text was printed on it. 

You used it to pick out books for yourself, Spencer noticed in the moment. While rolling the cart around with books for others, if you saw one that you wanted to read during your shift, you’d place it in the tote bag to not lose it in the masses. 

You were filled and covered in idiosyncrasies, making you nothing but enchanting to watch. And cute, in both the aforementioned objective Garcia-esque way and also a subjective Spencer-esque way. Not in the sense that Spencer found himself subjectively cute, but that you were subjectively cute in a way that felt catered to him and his attractions. 

Spencer thought all of this about you, while he had never even spoken a singular word to you. He would fantasize about what your initial interaction would be like, but he never had the courage to actually do something about it. He wouldn’t say that he was shy, and he normally didn’t find it that difficult to speak to someone, but something about your subjective cuteness made you terrifying. 

And it didn’t come naturally. He had a library card; he didn’t need to talk to you to check out a book. And asking for directions to a certain book seemed pointless when he had the shelves memorized. 

Spencer stood up from his chair to place the book he’d pretend to read back on the right shelf, passing by his favorite section of classics translated into their original languages. He was grateful that D.C. was multicultural enough and filled with diplomats and embassies so that the library found it necessary to take in books that weren’t in English. 

He stopped to browse the Russian selection, his finger grazing the spine of Война и мир. 

Wait… Certain rare books had to be checked out at the front desk. 

And while he already had this book at home, annotated and analyzed, you didn’t know that. He could totally loan this to compare to the version he had at home. This was an earlier copy than his own, and maybe certain parts of the Russian language were different. 

Yes. That could work. He was going to talk to you.

With the book in hand, he willed himself to approach the front desk you were now sitting at after finally winning the wrestle match against the cobwebs. 

You looked up from the computer as you noticed him, the soft glow of overhead lights casting shadows over the high points of your face. A welcoming smile, although well-rehearsed in a customer service-like manner, stunned him as he placed the book and his library card on the counter. 

“War and Peace… in Russian?” you asked, raising a brow as you grabbed the book to scan it. The way you viewed it showed that you recognized the book from the cover, but not the Russian language. And then you looked right up at him, not afraid of keeping eye contact. 

Spencer cleared his throat, suddenly hyperaware of how intently you were looking at him. “I’m rereading it to compare to the English version.” 

“Are you by any chance from Russia?” 

“No,” he said with an honest smile. “I’m from Nevada. But I know enough Russian to get by.”

You let out a low hum of appreciation, your fingers quickly typing something down on the keyboard after having scanned his card. Your nails weren’t only pumpkin-colored, but on them were also minuscule little pumpkin faces. 

“To each their own. Don’t get me wrong, it’s impressive.” 

“Have you read it?” Spencer asked, his curiosity slipping through. 

“No,” you admitted with a laugh. “I picked Infinite Jest as my designated brick of a book that I’ll never finish but still spew opinions about.” 

The honesty of your response caught him off guard, and a small chuckle escaped before he could stop it. 

“Which is embarrassing to admit to someone who actually can read said bricks,” you added. 

“Even worse as a librarian,” he teased, the words leaving his mouth before he had a chance to second-guess them.

“Hey,” you said, your tone mock defensive. “I mostly recommend things to kids anyway. I know all about Daisy Meadows and Captain Underpants.” 

That Spencer was twelve years old when he discovered Tolstoy was something he kept to himself. He understood that most kids wanted something funny or imaginative to read, like underpants or fairies—not Russian realism. 

“How long until you gave up on Infinite Jest?” he asked instead, leaning slightly on the counter in a way that felt more natural than he anticipated.

“I am seated in an office, surrounded by heads and bodies.” The quote escaped you easily, like you actually had it memorized, but the way your smile cracked through revealed that you were painfully aware of the ironic implication of it. 

“That’s the opening sentence,” Spencer pointed out, fighting the urge to laugh outright.

“Captivating, right?” you quipped. 

Spencer kept his smile tight as he enjoyed your sarcastic humor. He would’ve never assumed that Infinite Jest was the beast that broke you. Stereotypically, he thought it was stoners and annoying philosophy majors thinking the world was doomed who enjoyed that book. 

You didn’t look like either.

But there was also the huge amount of guys who kept it in their bookshelves and had it on display when they had girls over, as a conversation piece, although they hadn’t read a word from it. Maybe you had fallen victim to one of those guys and decided to give it a try on your own, at least getting further than they ever had. 

“So you’re more into modern literature?” he was quick to ask, keeping the conversation going. 

He wasn’t even sure if David Foster Wallace was considered modern. Contemporary was probably a better word. In comparison to the Russian mellow kind of realism, Wallace was hysterical. Spencer had read it for the sake of saying that he’d read it. After all, it didn’t take him that long. While he was comfortable being the guy who read Tolstoy in Russian, he wasn’t sure he’d be comfortable being the guy who had Infinite Jest as his holy scripture. It made some interesting points about substance abuse and addiction, but that was about it for Spencer, if he was going to give a literary review. 

“Not really, I adore some classics,” you admitted, before pointing to a small stack of books behind the counter. The ones you’d snuck into your tote bag. “Now I mostly read poetry, though. All kinds, as long as it’s short and impactful.”

“Oh, you’d hate this then,” he said, like a realization, meaning War and Peace. 

You scrunched your nose, nodding softly. “Mhm, and Infinite Jest too.”

There was a beat of silence, not uncomfortable but charged with the kind of potential Spencer wasn’t quite sure what to do with.

“Alright, Tolstoy,” you said, sliding the book over the counter in his direction. “Enjoy your comparative studies.” 

“Thanks,” he replied shortly. 

As he walked away, book in hand, he couldn’t help but glance back once, catching you fiddling with the edges of your cardigan as you returned your focus to the computer screen. If you wanted to hide your smile from him, you weren’t doing that good of a job. 

–––––––––––––––––––––––

Spencer wasn’t sure if he had overthought it, read too much into it, to the point where nothing was making sense. A conversation with a person loaning a book at a library that you worked at probably wasn’t that noteworthy to you, even if it left you dumbly smiling after he’d left. 

So, he didn’t dare walk up to you again. He couldn’t justify it in his head. Maybe when his War and Peace loan expired, he’d find an excuse to check it out again, but until then, Spencer didn’t know how to talk to you. 

On one afternoon, when the unit had just finished up a case in rural Virginia, Spencer had taken the train back home to D.C. and gone to the library earlier than usual. It was more crowded, with students cramming in some last-minute studying for their finals and parents taking their kids for a little after-school adventure. 

He sought refuge in a quiet corner—a cluster of armchairs nestled between the history books and autobiographies—where he could read in peace even though it was busy. But on his way, he was stopped in his tracks. Walking past the kids section, a voice he had begun to recognize caught his attention. 

You sat cross-legged on a colorful mat, a worn picture book spread wide in your hands. Your voice carried the story with a mix of humor and animation as you brought the story to life, reading aloud to an audience of tiny faces. Children leaned forward eagerly, their eyes wide with fascination, while a few younger ones had already succumbed to the comforting cadence of your voice, their tiny bodies sprawled across cushions in peaceful slumber. You held the book up for the kids to see the illustrations, pausing occasionally to add exaggerated voices that sent giggles rippling through the group.

Spencer lingered, a faint smile tugging at his lips, before he walked away to not get noticed. 

As time passed, the library emptied out. He saw people leave, tired from a long day. For him it was the opposite. Now was when his favorite time of day began, if he wasn’t stuck in the limbo of trying to get himself to sleep. But he had the day off tomorrow and could spend all of it sleeping if he wanted to, so tonight he wouldn’t be anxious about the lack of sleep he was getting, and instead fully indulge in the quiet sanctuary that was the library. 

Spencer sat in one of the armchairs, a book open on his lap, though he hadn’t turned a page in over fifteen minutes. Something heavy about the history of Nobel Prize winners in chemistry. He was lost in thought, the events of the day fading into memory. 

Footsteps broke the silence, rubber soles squeaking against the linoleum floor, growing louder until they stopped just beside him. He looked up to see you standing there, two steaming paper mugs in your hands.

“I’m not supposed to do this,” you began, a playful smile tugging at the corners of your lips, “but you’re the only person still here, so I made us tea.” 

You placed both mugs on the table in front of Spencer before flopping down into an armchair of your own. You had dungarees on and a soft maroon sweater underneath, matching your Converse. Spencer blinked, unable to form a sentence as he watched you get comfortable, picking up a book from the tote bag you always seemed to carry. He didn’t necessarily recognize the cover, but he knew of the author’s name.

“John Cooper Clarke? You’re into punk?” he heard himself ask before he could think twice about it. You didn’t even get the chance to start reading. 

You tilted your head. “You know who he is?” 

“I have a colleague who used to be goth in high school. Full on Siouxsie Sioux. And she has told me about JCC,” Spencer explained. 

Emily. She was the reason he knew about the “punk poet”. He still couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw her yearbook photos from high school. Even less so when she would quote the same poem every single time they had to wait for something—the jet to get ready, blood samples and lab reports, Rossi to catch up when they had to run somewhere. Whatever it was, she would quote Evidently Chickentown. 

“Makes sense,” you replied. “He performed on the same bill as a lot of those early post-punk and goth bands.” 

Spencer smiled, quietly reciting, “The fucking train is fucking late. You fucking wait, you fucking wait.” 

“You’re fucking lost and fucking found. Stuck in fucking Chickentown.” You chuckled, picking up the line seamlessly. Spencer sounded like cursing was something alien to him, as if the crude words didn’t belong to his vocabulary. You found it sweet, yet unusual. “That poem is in this book! Along with the weird one about being someone’s vacuum cleaner, do you know that too?” 

“Uhm, no. I don’t think I know that one,” Spencer admitted, silently begging for you to read it to him. He would be just as excited as the children hearing you read aloud earlier. 

“If I’m annoying or distracting,” you said after a moment, “you can tell me to leave. I just sort of go insane spending all night here alone in silence.” 

He’d been sitting by himself, looking like he was reading a book about chemistry breakthroughs, and maybe that didn’t come across as someone who wanted to be talked to. Spencer at least assumed that was your thought process when shyly admitting that you were seeking company. 

“No, uhm, it’s okay. Thank you for the tea,” Spencer was quick to say before grabbing one of the mugs and taking a small sip. He didn’t want you to leave. If you were voluntarily talking to him, that was better than any made-up War and Peace-related plan he could come up with. 

“I’m Spencer, by the way,” he added. 

You told him your name in return, pointing to your name tag—a little yellow one with Winnie-the-Pooh on it—before reaching out your hand to him. He hadn’t noticed the tag before, and maybe that was because he didn’t want to get caught staring at your chest. 

He looked at your hand, the germaphobe in him coming to life as he observed your dainty fingers. At least in comparison to his own. The orange nail polish was gone and replaced by a simple black coat. Even your hands were cute to him, yet covered in bacteria. 

“Oh, I don’t do handshakes,” he said and took in your reaction, your smile fading as you retracted your hand and hid it in your pocket. 

“The number of pathogens passed during a handshake is staggering. It's actually safer to kiss,” he felt the need to explain. It was a simple fact, yet he didn’t think of the implications. Spencer’s eyes widened at the sound of his own voice, and he stammered, feeling heat rise to his cheeks, “Uh… not that you and I—I mean, you know what I mean.”

You acted like you didn’t mind, keeping the conversation going without noticing the huge bump in the road that Spencer thought he had created. 

“But doesn’t the other person’s bacteria stay in you forever after you’ve kissed them?” you wondered, a crease forming between your brows as you thought about it. “Don’t quote me on it, but I’ve read that somewhere. It’s like eighty million bacteria exchanged on average in a french kiss, and that some of them stay and colonize, becoming part of your own… what’s it called?” Your voice trailed off, searching for the right word. 

“Microbiome?” he supplied. “The community of microorganisms found living together in one habitat?” 

“That’s the one!” You lit up with realization. “It’s horrifying and poetic that, after you’ve kissed someone, they become part of you forever.” 

He thought of the bacteria, while you thought of the internal battle of someone you’ve kissed staying with you forever. He blamed his background in STEM and his lack of experience with kissing for not seeing the big deal. 

“I’m sure it’s not in any way that’s noticeable to us. It’s modest at worst,” he tried to reassure. 

He wasn’t sure exactly what research you were referencing when mentioning the eighty million bacteria, or if it even was scientific research. Knowing a little bit about you, it could possibly be poetry about clinging to something or someone for too long. But he knew enough about microbiomes and their complexity that one exchange of saliva wouldn’t alter them majorly. Maybe in a constant way, but never majorly. 

“In the sense of bacteria colonizing?” you wondered, seeing Spencer nod. “Well, it’s still psychologically fucked up.” 

Spencer raised his eyebrows at your frankness, urging you to keep talking. 

“I would like to forget the fact that I made out with Cody Parker in ninth grade, but no, he’s stuck in my microbiome. That’s fucked up,” you laughed, gesturing with your hands in frustration. 

“Now, what was so bad about Cody?” 

You huffed before answering. “Captain of the football team. Is that enough of a reason to hate him?” 

Spencer could’ve guessed it from his name. Cody. He could imagine what he looked like and why you would’ve kissed him. Hell, Spencer would’ve probably kissed a guy like him too if given the chance at that delicate age of self-discovery. Just to have it done early, and as a bragging right for the future. His first kiss had been at a college party that he was too young to attend really, with some girl who probably saw him more as a little brother to care for rather than someone she was actually attracted to. 

“Do you also have a deep hatred for anyone that ever played high school football?” Spencer asked with a small, curious smile. 

“You could say that,” you admitted, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. “I lost my virginity to Cody the same night, and then he stole my underwear and stuck them to my locker with a note that said I was up for grabs.” 

You laughed after you said it, but Spencer couldn’t help but wince. He understood why you laughed, a response to make something uncomfortable feel less serious, but he couldn’t believe that someone had done that to you. 

He was an annoying, know-it-all, little boy when he was in high school and had internally justified the bullying he had gone through by telling himself that football players and cheerleaders were just jealous and stupid, probably still stuck in their cliques, in Vegas working dead-end jobs. But you, you shone like light itself, and someone had still found a reason to humiliate you. It didn’t make sense. 

“The football team at my school tied me to a goalpost and stripped me naked in front of a girl I had a crush on,” Spencer shared softly. He wasn’t sure why, but it felt like the right thing. Not to make it seem like he’d had it worse, but to show that you had similarities. 

Your head turned sharply to look at him, eyes wide with disbelief. “Not that we’re competing, but I think you win the bully-off we just had.” You straightened up in your seat, lifting your legs to sit criss-cross. “But you’re cute, though. Was the girl at least nice to you?”

Spencer looked down at his hands, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. You’d called him cute.He thought you were cute. It shouldn’t be the other way around. 

You stared at him like you were questioning his sanity while he reacted to the compliment.  It wasn’t him you were questioning, but the eyesight of all the people Spencer had around him, because why wasn’t he used to being complimented? It didn’t even necessarily need to be about their eyesight. They had to be deaf too, because just from hearing him talk, you were fascinated by the way his brain worked. 

“I graduated high school at the age of twelve, and she was like sixteen, so no, she didn’t care much,” he answered slowly, keeping his cool. He knew now that he never had a chance with the girl anyway, but twelve-year-old Spencer had been heartbroken, and, of course, humiliated. 

Your eyes turned even wider as he spoke. “Huh? Is that legal? Are you some kind of genius?”

“I don’t believe that intelligence can be accurately quantified, but I have an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory,” Spencer admitted matter-of-factly. He didn’t know why it felt like a secret to tell people just how smart he was. In an academic sense, that is. 

“Certified genius,” you declared with a grin. 

“And I do introduce myself as Dr. Spencer Reid when I’m at work,” he added, emphasizing his name.

“You’ve got a PhD?” you asked. The crease between your brows seemed permanent at this point. 

“A few.” 

“More than one?” 

“Mathematics, chemistry, and engineering. BAs in psychology and sociology,” Spencer rattled off, glancing at you cautiously to gauge your reaction.

“Oh my god,” you groaned, throwing your head back dramatically. “I would’ve hated you just as much as those football players.” 

“Not in the sense that I would’ve tied you to a goalpost,” you added quickly, “but more so that I would’ve been insanely jealous. I might still be jealous; the jury is out on that until you explain further.” 

Spencer gave a soft laugh, believing that you wouldn’t have been a mean girl. “Do you want to get into the reasons why certain people are smarter than others?” 

“No, I just…” Your voice trailed off, and you paused to take a sip of your tea. “Do you ever get freaked out over how people’s lives are vastly different even though they’ve spent the same amount of time on earth?” 

He tilted his head slightly, intrigued. “How do you mean?”

“Like, we look similar in age but probably have very few shared experiences because you were born a genius and I was born…” you gestured vaguely, searching for the right words, coming up with nothing in the end. 

You were born… how exactly? Spencer tried to fill in the blank, but his guesses seemed almost offensive. “You don’t appear to be dumb,” Spencer countered gently. “You seem to be socially smarter than I am.” 

“Because I’m sat here oversharing high school stories with virtually a stranger?” you teased, almost self-deprecatingly, like your easy way of talking was a fault. 

And maybe that was true. Spencer knew what it was like to say too much at the wrong time, or have people turn uninterested mid-sentence when he was speaking. But he thought that stemmed from how bad he actually was at talking with people. And you were good at it, with a fluidity and humor to your speech that not many people had. 

“I’m not good with words, and you obviously are,” he settled on saying, earnestly. 

“No, not really. I was never good at anything. Always a straight B-student. It’s a damn mystery how I managed to get this job without a master’s degree,” you said with a shrug. “When I realized my own mediocrity in high school, I stopped trying. I thought it was much more fun to do drugs and get railed in the back of some college boy’s car. Spoiler alert, it’s not.” 

“R-railed?” Spencer stammered, nearly choking on his tea.

“Too crude of a word for you?” 

“No, I just would’ve never assumed—” 

“That I was a slut in my youth?” you retorted, staring him down. “I’m only messing with you, Spencer. Now I’m sober, and boring, and in on a three-year-long dry spell.”  

“We’re more similar than you think, so you don’t have to be freaked out about our lack of shared experiences,” Spencer said softly as realization struck him. 

“You also got railed by college boys?” you quipped, and Spencer let out an unexpected laugh, his cheeks reddening.

“No, uhm, I meant being sober from drugs, and the dry spell too,” he clarified quickly.

As the conversation stilled, Spencer noticed he still had the book on Nobel Prize winners opened in his lap. He shut it quietly and placed it on the table, carefully looking at you as you sipped your tea. Your own book was long forgotten too, sliding down the side of your seat. You ran your fingers over your knees, still sitting cross-legged, nails rasping against your denim dungarees. You weren’t scared to look right back at him, not scared to be with him in silence for a moment. He watched as your eyes drifted to his book, struggling to read the title upside down.  

“What does an actual genius do for a living? And why can he spend so much time at a library in the middle of the night?” you asked, leaning forward with genuine curiosity, turning the book to see. 

“Do you want to guess?” he asked, not because he didn’t want to tell you, but because he sensed you were about to guess anyway. 

“You’re probably some sort of professor, teaching and researching something I couldn’t even begin to fathom,” you speculated, resting your chin on your hand, flipping through the pages. “You’re also away for like a week at a time and then back here for a week, so you must travel. Maybe you go to conventions and guest lectures. Have you ever done a TED talk?” 

You noticed his patterns. That he had noticed yours was no surprise. He noticed everyone’s. But you had noticed his, meaning that you cared enough to mind when he was at the library multiple nights a week and when he wasn’t. What did that tell Spencer? Absolutely nothing he could make sense of. 

“No, I haven’t. And I’m not a professor, though I have done a couple guest lectures,” he explained, waiting for you to continue guessing. 

“Do you work for some tech company then? Are you secretly a billionaire?” 

“Nope, I make a humble living compared to the work I put in.” 

“So, the public sector then,” you deduced at the same time as a bell could be heard. 

You quickly whipped your head around, straining to see the front desk, where an awfully stressed-out student could be found, holding some heavy book on human anatomy that Spencer knew had to be checked out manually. 

“Oh, fuck—” you muttered, quickly standing up, momentarily lost. “I should probably get back to work.” 

“Don’t forget your bag,” Spencer hurried to say before you could leave without it. The Kick Inside. Was that a reference to pregnancy? Maybe Spencer should look into Kate Bush to have another thing to talk to you about. 

You picked up your book and paper mug, slinging the bag over your shoulder, and gave him one last smile. “Do you know you have the face of a genius?” 

“W-what?” he questioned, unsure of why you’d said that. 

“It’s a lyric from a song on this album. It made me think of you,” you said, pointing to the bag, before walking away to the front desk to do what you were paid to do. 

–––––––––––––––––––––––

The next time Spencer talked to you was exactly two weeks and one day later. They’d been on a case in California, which naturally led to him not seeing you. But then when he was back, you weren’t working. He spent three days filling out reports at the office, waiting for time to go so that he could take the train home and go to the library, and when he showed up, you weren’t even there. 

Two weeks he planned what to say to you. The last three days of those felt like torture, not knowing where you were. On the fourth day, you were finally back. And Spencer wasn’t shy. And he could justify his reason for talking to you. Two weeks and one day ago, you had talked to him first. 

It was early December, and the first snow fell softly outside as he walked into the warmth of the library. He knew immediately that you were back working because you were the first thing he saw. Perched on a small stool near the front desk and the display shelf of seasonal books, you were stacking books into a makeshift Christmas tree. Carefully selected covers in colors of red and green were stacked into circles, narrowing as you built upward, creating somewhat of a tree shape.

You hummed softly as you worked, occasionally glancing down at the growing stack with concentration. As you reached for another book, you were stopped in your tracks by the telltale sound of footsteps against the library’s linoleum floor. Footsteps that could only be made by a pair of Converse. 

“I listened to The Kick Inside.” 

Looking over your shoulder, you found him standing there, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, a small smile on his face. Your hands paused mid-placement as you looked down at him, brows lifting in surprise. “You did?” 

“Creative use of resources, by the way,” Spencer mentioned, picking up a book from the pile and handing it to you, his long fingers brushing yours briefly in the exchange. “Did a song about incest really make you think of me?” 

“Oh, no. Just that singular lyric.” You laughed, shaking your head. “It’s inspired by some old English folklore, I think.” Balancing on the stool, you placed the book carefully onto the stack, leaning back to eye the structure.

“A murder ballad called Lizie Wan. Her brother got her pregnant, and then he killed her.” Spencer supplied, his tone instinctively slipping into lecture mode. He stepped closer and shed his coat to drape it over a nearby chair as he continued to hand you books. 

You made a face. “Well, did you like it? The album, I mean. Not the incest.” 

“I understand why youlike it. It’s very… you,” Spencer explained, hoping it made sense. It was theatrical and wacky. Feminine too, in a brutal way, only archivable in lyrics written by an adolescent girl. Spencer wasn’t a music lover by any means, but even he could hear that it was undeniably good, just not his taste. “Is Wuthering Heights perhaps your favorite classic novel?” 

“No, not at all. I think it’s a stupid book and a stupid song,” you said. 

Spencer handed you another book, his eyes darting between the growing tree and your face. The grin you put on betrayed your monotone voice. 

“Okay, no. I adore it,” you admitted. “It’s a nightmare to read, and I fully believe Emily was clinically insane, but I can’t help but love dark and twisted women. One review at the time when it was first published questioned how she could’ve finished writing it without committing suicide. That’s badass.” 

“Do you know that Kate hadn’t even read the book when she wrote the song? She just watched some TV adaptation, which is why the names are all messed up,” you continued as you perfectly balanced the book he gave you onto the others. You’d soon be done at this pace. 

“I did notice that she sang Cathy instead of Catherine, and Cathy is the daughter, right?” 

“Yeah,” you confirmed. “So if you know the book, the song totally reads like a love song between Heathcliff and his dead lover’s daughter.” 

“That’s disturbing,” Spencer concluded. “I can’t help but think that Brontë would’ve loved it.” 

Your lips twitched into a smile, but you didn’t comment further, too focused on your Christmas tree. He handed you another book in silence and saw how your nails were now painted red with little white snowflakes on some of them. He wondered if you painted them yourself. You were back to wearing your usual slacks and cardigan. This time a white one that looked terribly comfortable and wintery. In your hair you had a red ribbon tied into a bow, matching, as always, your red Converse. 

After a moment, you spoke. “You were gone for a while, again. Who in the public sector travels that much? I hope you’re not a politician.” 

“No, I’m not,” he said, his voice soft but steady. “I’m with the FBI. Behavioral Analysis Unit.” 

You blinked, looking down at him in mild shock. “You’re a profiler?”

He nodded.

“That actually makes a lot of sense. And it’s scary as hell. No wonder you’ve got insomnia, probably messed up from all the murders you’ve solved.” 

“I’m not making fun of you,” you added quickly. “I’ve obviously got it too; I wouldn’t be working the night shift voluntarily otherwise.”

Spencer handed you the final book for the top tier, his gaze steady on you. “You weren’t here for a couple of days either. I had to talk to Omar, and he’s not as good of a conversationalist.” 

You snorted. “Period cramps from hell,” you said casually, knowing it was the fastest way to end questions. 

Spencer also knew that it was a common lie told by women to men. And he wasn’t the kind of person to be grossed out by basic biology. He might have issues with pathogens and handshakes, but he had no issues talking about the human body. 

“Bold move to lie to a profiler,” he remarked, tilting his head slightly.

“I didn’t necessarily lie—” 

“But you didn’t tell me the whole truth.” 

He waited, silent and expectant.

You sighed, and for once your gaze was scared to meet his. “I’m kind of…depressed. Probably just seasonal, I fucking hate the winter. Spent three days on my living room floor, in some sort of verbal shutdown, just staring at the ceiling, wondering if I’m even human.”  

Spencer’s brows knit together, concern flickering across his face. “Do you feel better now?” 

“I’m here, aren’t I?” you said, forcing a small smile.

Before Spencer could respond, the precarious stack of books wobbled. You tried to steady it, but the entire top layer you’d just finished collapsed in a cascade of covers and pages, books tumbling to the floor in a loud crash. You stepped down from the stool quickly, and Spencer instinctively grabbed you by the hand so that you wouldn’t fall. He didn’t even have time to think about germs. 

“You’re legally allowed to shoot me in the head,” you said with a disbelieving sigh. 

“You can’t consent to murder,” Spencer replied, his tone matter-of-fact.

“But you can consent to bodily harm, right? So maybe you can shoot me in the foot at least?”

“That’s more reserved for sports and medical procedures. Shooting you would still be a crime even if you coerced me,” he explained. 

“Sadomasochism too, right? You can consent to sexually inflicted pain?” 

“Ehm—” Spencer mouth got dry, and his cheeks flushed red. “Well yes, technically.” 

“So you really can’t figure out a way for me to not have to work another day this year?” you asked, leaning down to pick up one of the fallen books.

Now, if Spencer was as socially smart as you were, he’d notice you were flirting. Maybe even insinuating that you’d be okay with a sexual injury that resulted in you staying home from work the rest of December. But Spencer was surprisingly dumb for having such a high IQ. And his ears sort of started ringing as soon as you mentioned sex, so he wasn’t sure he’d even heard you correctly. 

“Not if you need the money, no,” he replied, a small, apologetic smile playing on his lips.

“Some kind of genius you are, Spence,” you teased, shoving the book in his hands before crouching to start rebuilding the tree. 

–––––––––––––––––––––––

After that conversation, Spencer helped you rebuild the Christmas tree. He’d handed you book after book with a quiet determination, his brow furrowing slightly as if the arrangement were a problem he needed to solve. Occasionally, he would pause to ask you a question about your favorite winter-themed books or share an anecdote about an obscure author. All throughout December, Spencer became a constant presence during your night shifts.

You found him fascinating to listen to, even if he seemed to doubt himself midway through every tangent. His voice would falter, and he’d look up at you with a quick, “Is this boring?” or “Am I rambling?” as if he needed reassurance that you were still interested.

You always were. At this point, he could probably recite the yellow pages, and you’d still find it captivating. Knowing him and his eidetic memory, he most likely could do it on the spot if you asked him.

December always moved slowly for you. Students crammed into every corner, poring over their textbooks and laptops as they prepared for finals. The library was busy, but there was a strange liminal quality to your evenings, the dark winter nights stretching endlessly as you walked the halls, organizing books and straightening shelves.

You wouldn’t admit it to yourself just yet, but because of this heavy feeling, you found yourself sat at the front desk, waiting for Spencer to walk through those doors. You now knew that he was a busy man—a brilliant, busy man with a job more important than yours, so you stopped expecting him to show up, getting positively surprised every time he did instead. 

On the 23rd of December, Spencer walked through the entrance at exactly 9:32 p.m. You knew the time because you’d been watching the seconds tick by on the digital clock of the computer’s screensaver.

You straightened your back, softly smiling as he made his way up to you. Sometimes, you had to go on little treasure hunts to find him in the library, but today, he didn’t appear to be shy to approach you first.

With a soft thud he placed a heavy book on the counter, one you immediately recognized as War and Peace, in Russian. Your heart lifted slightly. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been waiting for the day the loan would expire, so that he either had to return it or extend it. 

“Have you finished comparing them now?” you asked, eyeing the book.

“No, uhm,” Spencer hesitated, adjusting the strap of his satchel. “Is it possible to extend it?” 

“I’ll have to check,” you replied, tapping at the keyboard. “It’s quite a popular book. A lot of Russian diplomats in D.C.”

You pretended to eye the screen, searching for whatever you were searching for, when you already knew that it wouldn’t be an issue to extend the loan. He didn’t have to know that, though. 

“Are you doing anything special for the holidays, Spencer?” you asked, to make it appear like small talk while you were tapping away at the keyboard, mindlessly clicking between pages of the software you used.  

“I might make it to Las Vegas to see my mom. I don’t know if I’ll have the time, though.” Spencer’s lips quirked in a small smile. “What about you? How will you celebrate Christmas?”

You knew by now that it was a dumb question to ask if he had a lot of work to do. He didn’t have a normal schedule, sometimes getting called in the middle of the night to fly across the country. 

“I’ll probably be here,” you admitted. “We’re closed for two days, and then over New Year’s, but otherwise I’ll be working. Might go see my dad if I have the time and he’s feeling up for it. Nothing major. Do you have plans for New Year’s, Spence?”

He opened his mouth to respond but paused, tilting his head slightly. “I, uh— Sorry, what’s that on the radio?”

You cocked your head, listening to the faint news broadcast filtering in from the staff break room that had caught his attention. You always had it on to not go insane from the silence. All afternoon it had been occupied with the same emergency broadcast. “Oh, you haven’t heard about it? I honestly thought you’d be working the case.”

“What case?” Spencer asked, his curiosity piqued.

“Some senator was kidnapped, and another one was shot. Apparently no one heard or saw a thing, but they can’t figure out how since the neighborhood has, like, crazy good security.” 

“Kidnapped in his own home?” 

“Mhm. I think they used the helipad, but Janice and Charlotte didn’t believe me.” You gestured toward the corner where the two older women usually sat knitting and reading romance novels. “Y’know, the regulars?”

“You think the kidnappers used a helicopter, without being heard or seen?” Spencer asked, a note of skepticism in his voice. “How would they even get access to a helicopter?” 

“If you know how to find and operate one, certain helicopters are easier to steal than cars. No locks in the way or keys needed,” you explained as if it were common knowledge. 

Usually, this was the point in a conversation where you would shut up, thinking that you’d crossed into boring territory. But by the look on Spencer’s face, he just wanted to hear more about it. 

“And if the security guards are all at the entrance to the gated community, I think you could go unnoticed. It’s close to the air force base, there are probably aircraft flying there on the daily.” You shrugged, a little self-conscious. “This job gives me a lot of free time to overthink things.” 

Spencer smiled in slight disbelief. “How do you know how to steal a helicopter?” 

“My dad was in the air force,” you explained. “From Fork Union to Master Sergeant. With today’s standards he’d probably be diagnosed with autism, but back when he was working, he was mostly just known as the guy who knew everything about every type of aircraft.” 

You scrunched your face at the thought of your dad. You adored him, you really did, but he hadn’t given you the easiest of childhoods. That meaning being stuck with your mother because he was away a lot for work. 

“What was that look for?” Spencer asked, because of course he realized stuff like that. 

“I have tried so hard all my life to not be like my mother that I unconsciously picked up my father’s personality instead,” you said with a self-deprecating laugh.

Spencer’s expression softened. “I despise my father, so I’m doing the opposite. Turning into my schizophrenic mother.” 

“My dad got sick too,” you said quietly. “That’s why he stopped working. And why my mother divorced him. He lives at a care facility by the coast now.” 

Before Spencer could respond, a buzzing noise came from his pocket. He pulled out his phone and glanced at the screen.

“Duty calling?” you asked. 

Spencer hesitated before nodding.

“I don’t think I can extend this, by the way,” you said, picking up the copy of War and Peace, placing it behind you on a shelf with other returned books. 

“That’s fine—” he began, but you cut him off.

“I do, however, have another solution,” you said, standing up from your chair to go into the staff room. With quick steps, you grabbed your tote bag, the one with the Kate Bush album on it, and walked back out. Spencer stared at you in confusion as you pulled out a book, not wrapped in paper or anything special, but there was a dark red ribbon tied into a bow around it. 

Spencer recognized it immediately as the same type of fabric you often wore in your hair.

“I have no one else to buy gifts for, so I thought I might as well. You won’t have to keep loaning it over and over again,” you said with a shy smile, handing it to him. 

Spencer stared at it, his hands hesitating before taking it. A Russian copy of War and Peace. A nice one too. Hardcover with gold leaf embossment. “Thank you…” he said softly. “I feel bad now. I don’t have anything to give to you.”

“You’ve made my night shifts a lot less depressing these last months,” you replied. “That’s enough of a gift to me, Spencer.”

He opened his mouth as if to argue but closed it again, nodding instead. “You know I’m not good with words,” he said after a pause, “or sometimes I think I might be too good with them. I say too much too quickly—”

“Do you wanna go on a date with me?” you interrupted, your voice steady but your heart pounding.

Spencer’s eyes widened. “A d-date?” 

“Y’know, we go somewhere, maybe get some food, and then we talk. And if it leads somewhere, it leads somewhere.” You hesitated, your confidence wavering. “If I misread this entirely, that’s fine. You don’t have to say yes. But I’d like to keep your company during my night shifts, if I haven’t ruined that completely now by admitting that I find you attractive.”

“No, no, uhm—” Spencer stammered, his cheeks now fully pink. “I’m not sure I’ve ever been asked out this directly before.” 

You held your breath as he gathered himself. 

“I’d love to go on a date with you.”

A grin broke across your face. “Good, so how about those New Year’s Eve plans?” 

–––––––––––––––––––––––

The D.C. police office buzzed with activity despite the late hour. Phones rang, officers rushed past with files in hand, and the muted hum of fluorescent lights filled the air. Spencer stepped into the building, his scarf still loosely draped around his neck and his cheeks slightly pink from the cold December air. From the side of his messenger bag, a red ribbon could be seen peeking out. 

“Spencer, where the hell have you been?” Morgan’s voice rang out from across the room. He strode toward Spencer, his brow furrowed with equal parts concern and frustration.

“At the library,” Spencer replied, unwinding his scarf as he spoke. His tone was calm, almost as if the answer were obvious. “I came as soon as I heard.” 

Morgan crossed his arms. “At ten at night?” 

Spencer hesitated for a fraction of a second, his gaze darting briefly to the floor before meeting Morgan’s eyes again. “There’s one open all hours of the day.” 

Morgan’s eyes narrowed slightly, but a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Why are you smiling like that?”

Spencer’s lips twitched as if suppressing the grin threatening to break through. “It’s nothing,” he said quickly, clearing his throat in an effort to sound composed.

Morgan tilted his head, his smirk growing wider. “Uh-huh. Sure it is. Library must’ve gotten a whole lot more interesting since the last time I was there.”

Spencer ignored the comment, shifting the conversation back to the matter at hand. “We should look into stolen helicopters in the area. I think that’s how they got in.” 

Morgan’s smirk faded as his professional demeanor returned. “Helicopters? That’s a hell of a theory. What makes you think that?”

Spencer adjusted the strap of his bag, his fingers fidgeting slightly. “The location of the kidnapping is close to an air force base. Certain small helicopters are relatively easy to steal—no locks or keys required. If the neighborhood security was focused on the main entrance, a helicopter could bypass them entirely. Given the proximity to the base, it’s plausible they used the airspace to their advantage.”

Morgan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Alright, genius, I’ll get Garcia to pull up any reports of stolen aircraft in the area. Nice ribbon, by the way, really pulls your outfit together.”

–––––––––––––––––––––––

If December in general was slow for you, the holidays were fucking dreadful. Your dad had a cold and could not receive visitors, so you ended up spending Christmas Eve at a party—two hours sober between drunk friends, and then you had enough. Christmas Day was spent on your couch, watching all five hours of Bergman’s Fanny and Alexander, eating your body weight in Chinese takeout. 

You did get a postcard from your dad, a pretty coastal view on it that was of the beach he lived by. He also sent a pair of hand-knitted socks, a hobby you knew had been forced upon him by the older ladies he lived with at the care facility. His squiggly writing was harder and harder to decipher with every year that passed, but it still filled you with immense joy that his mind seemed to be bright even if his body wasn’t. 

From your mother you also got a postcard. A pretty coastal view was on it too, from Bali, where she was spending Christmas with her new partner. Hers wasn’t handwritten, instead only printed with a generic Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. No thought put behind it. 

You placed your father’s on the fridge, hung with a magnet you knew he’d gotten you when he was abroad for work in England. Your mother’s ended up being a perfect makeshift and temporary coaster on your living room table. Within days you had to throw it out because the paper had been ruined by tea stains. 

When you were back at work, the library was even quieter than normal, which honestly was to be expected. Janice came by to borrow some new romance novels to have over New Years. Some poor students had deadlines due first thing in January. But still, so calm you might even call it boring. And you loved this job. 

You sat at the front desk, flipping through a worn-out copy of a poetry collection by Patti Smith. You’d fallen down a hole of punk literature ever since you talked about JCC with Spencer. He didn’t seem like the kind to like said literature, but he had talked with you about it anyway. It was a tradeoff maybe, quid pro quo; he got to geek out about Tolstoy and Nobel Prize winners, and you got to talk about British bands and Vivienne Westwood. He’d actually really seemed to enjoy the irony of her bringing French 18th-century aristocracy into clothing worn by the most alternative and radical people in punk-era London.  

Deep down in thought, you barely heard when the entrance door opened. It was a gust of freezing cold wind that made you look up from your slouched position. In walked a man, obviously bothered by the weather, his sharp gaze sweeping across the room as he walked forward. He was followed by… 

“Spencer?” you wondered, standing. “You should be in Vegas.”

Spencer didn’t even have time to answer before his companion did. “Serial killers don’t care about the holidays, miss,” he said, his voice firm but not unkind. “SSA Derek Morgan.”

“You’re working the senator case, aren’t you?” you asked, narrowing your eyes slightly. “It’s turned into a serial case?” you rambled before shaking your head. “You probably can’t tell me the details anyway.”

Morgan gave a tight smile. “Not exactly.” He gestured toward Spencer. “We need your help with a quote. Spencer said you were the only person he could think of who might know it.”

“I didn’t say that—” Spencer tried to explain. 

“Don’t you have search engines and databases for things like that?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“We do, but nothing came up,” Spencer replied. “And I don’t recognize it for the life of me.” 

“Must suck to be a genius, Spence,” you chuckled. “What’s the quote?” 

Morgan pulled a photograph from his pocket and placed it on the counter. Written in bold, smeared letters that looked disturbingly like blood were the words: Whoever is strong must also be good. 

“Jeez, give a girl a warning,” you muttered, grimacing slightly as you studied the photo.

It answered your question about whether or not it had turned into a serial case, because this was a place where someone had been murdered, and it wasn’t some fancy senator mansion this time, but more what looked like an abandoned warehouse.

“Ehm… I honestly don’t know. I mean, it’s a very simple quote. I could come up with that.” You tilted your head thoughtfully. You weren’t sure why Spencer had thought of coming to you when faced with this problem. You knew of a bunch of books and quotes, sure, but you were honestly mostly known around your workplace as the one who knew all about children’s bo— 

“Oh, oh! It’s sort of similar to a quote from a children’s book, but very badly paraphrased in that case.” 

Morgan straightened. “Can you show us?” 

You were already walking out from behind your desk when he asked, making your way to the children’s section with quick steps. The two taller men following. “Ever heard of Pippi Longstocking?” you questioned over your shoulder as you walked. 

Morgan looked skeptical and Spencer for once, too, like he didn’t recognize the name at all. 

“I would assume that you had a more refined taste in literature as a child and did not waste your time with translated Swedish fairytales about the strongest girl in the world,” you added, finally reaching the right shelf, filled with thin books with bright yellow covers.

As you ducked down, you practically disappeared out of view for the two of them, squatting on the floor while picking out the right book. 

Spencer perked up, smiling gently. “My mother is a professor in 15th-century literature. She used to read to me a lot.” 

“That’ll do it,” you concluded, flipping through the pages. “We use it sometimes for kids’ reading hours, that’s why I recognize it. Popular with bilingual and immigrant children too since it’s been translated to over 70 languages.” 

Spencer knelt down beside you, reading over your shoulder. You knew he was a quick reader, but when you knew what you were looking for, you were quicker. 

“Here!” you pointed out on a page, disturbed by the look of your chipped red nail polish. “The quote in English is ’If you are very strong, you must also be very kind’.” 

“That’s oddly similar,” Spencer agreed. 

“It might be translated. I can look into our non-English books.” 

You didn’t even wait for an answer before you started walking again, forcing Spencer and Morgan to follow suit. Down a corridor of shelves with children’s books, around a corner, to a new shelf, and then you ducked down on the floor, quickly scanning the spines. It was all children’s books divided into different languages. You picked whatever yellow spine you could see, collecting them in your arms before you sat down right on the floor. You knew the cleaning lady, she was great at her job. 

“The story is from the 1940s but still relevant. Pippi is an orphan living in a big yellow house with her horse and monkey, and has to fight with adults and authorities, saying that she can’t survive on her own. Honestly quite progressive,” you explained as you gave Spencer a copy in Russian, trying to hand a different one to Morgan before realizing that not all agents had the skills of Dr. Spencer Reid. 

“How’d she get the house?” Morgan asked, crossing his arms.

“Her dad is a sea captain and a king over some fictive island. She’s rich,” you replied matter-of-factly.

As you sat there on the floor, books spread around you, searching and comparing to the English version, talking about the pure feminism and boldness of a female author creating such a character during that time period, Spencer found you fascinating. Like a dancer, you had moved through the rows of shelves, with a grace and a crazy smile, firing you up. 

He had sensed it as soon as the unit stumbled upon the issue with finding the quote, that if someone was going to know this simple, moral-of-the-story quote to feed down the throats of children, it’d be you. 

“I don’t think it’s Russian,” Spencer said after finding the right page. ‘Kind’ didn’t turn into ‘good’ like it had in whatever way the unsub had paraphrased it. 

Morgan gave Spencer a sidelong glance. “Do you even need me here for this conversation?”

You ignored the comment, pulling out a book and flipping through its pages. “The missing senator has a German surname, right?”

Both Spencer and Morgan turned to you with confused faces. 

You shrugged. “I watch the news, okay? I’m alone here all night!”

With the German version in your hand, you scanned the pages for the quote. “Oh, look! My high school German might finally be paying off.” You read aloud, “‘Wer stark ist, muss auch gut sein.’”

You stood up and showed the book to Spencer, pointing to the quote. “‘Kind’ turns into ‘gut’, which can translate back to ‘good’,” you explained, even if you felt like he probably didn’t need it. Morgan might’ve found it useful at least. “Whoever is strong must also be good, right? That make sense?”

Morgan leaned against the shelf, rubbing his chin. “So, the quote is from a Swedish children’s book, translated into German, and then badly paraphrased into English? What do we do with that?”

You shrugged, closing the book. “I just know what it says. I don’t know what it means.” 

Spencer paced as he thought out loud. “The unsub has to be a woman.” 

 “Who speaks German?” Morgan added, mostly out of confusion. 

“And she most likely identifies with the abandonment issues of the girl in the book, and having to be independent at a young age,” Spencer added, a light in his eyes shone like the stereotypical picture of a lightbulb turning on when an idea was formed.  

Morgan glanced at Spencer. “Reid, didn’t the senator have a daughter?” 

You watched them as they spoke, unsure if this was even new information to them or something they were reciting to jog their own memories of the case. 

“So, wait, was I helpful?” you asked a little self-consciously, looking around, seeing the mess of bright yellow children's books on the floor. 

Spencer nodded, his excitement bubbling over. “Yes, yes, your brain is unbelievable! Thank you so much.” Without thinking, he stepped closer and wrapped his arms around you in a brief but firm hug. You felt him stiffen slightly, his germaphobe instincts clearly battling his enthusiasm, but he didn’t pull away immediately. You knew he didn’t do handshakes, so the thought of him hugging you felt even more abnormal. His voice was soft as he added, “I mean it.”

Before you could respond, Morgan cleared his throat, a teasing grin on his face. “Alright, Romeo, we’ve got to get moving.”

Spencer stepped back quickly, fumbling with his feet. “Right, of course.”

You hesitated, looking up at Spencer’s flushed face, before softly hurrying to ask, “Are our plans for New Year’s Eve still on?” 

He grinned, walking away. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world!” 

–––––––––––––––––––––––

Spencer did miss it. Or in thirty-two minutes he would. He watched the clock on the wall in his hospital room with an anxious feeling. The fragments from a bullet had just been removed from his arm, and yet his biggest worry wasn’t the lingering ache in his arm—it was you.

“Your first date with her was supposed to be in a park at midnight? Do you realize how creepy that sounds?” Prentiss’s voice broke through his thoughts as Morgan had just explained why the first word they heard from Spencer as they had been allowed to enter his hospital room was your name. 

“Could you stop yelling at me while I’m literally in a hospital bed?” Spencer shot back. He wasn’t one to complain, and he could hear the humor in her voice, but if he were to complain, now wouldn’t be an awful time. 

Morgan leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, an amused smile playing on his lips. “They’re both insomniacs and were going to watch the fireworks. It’s sort of sweet.”

They hadn’t been able to just get the unsub when they figured out who it was. It had taken them days to plan their attack, knowing that the daughter would kill her father if they ambushed the place. A senator being killed because they had rushed their strategy wasn’t a defense that would hold up in any internal investigation. 

So they waited and waited, mapping out the place where he had been taken, trying to get the daughter to leave. But she persisted, and an ambush was in the end the best choice anyway. Spencer hadn’t been shot directly. The daughter’s boyfriend had fired a shot, landing in the wall behind him, which left fragments flying all over. Some grazing his right arm, leaving it now fully bandaged. He’d also managed to hit his head on a beam while being lead out of the building afterwards, so he had three stitches on his forehead and blood in his hair. 

It wasn’t as dramatic as it sounded. He’d been through worse. Which was why he now felt restless in the hospital bed, just waiting to be discharged. He wouldn’t make it in time to see you anyway, but maybe he could at least call you and tell you what had happened so that you didn’t wait outside in the cold for him. 

He didn’t even have his phone on him, now that he thought of it. Or your number. 

Restless and impossible, the situation was. 

He had Prentiss, Morgan, Rossi, and Garcia all in his room. Just restlessly waiting too. Hotch was somewhere talking to a nurse about getting him out of here. Garcia was anxiously knitting. Rossi was half asleep while standing. Prentiss and Morgan were bickering about whether or not his date plans were cute or creepy. There was a radio in his room playing some sort of New Year’s program, almost taunting him by mentioning how time was closing up on the clock striking midnight. Some sort of reverse Cinderella, that was what he felt like. 

With a slow knock on the doorframe, Hotch announced that he was back. “They don’t know when they can release you, and, uhm…” he began, poised as usual, though he was fighting a smile. “Look who I stumbled upon in the reception,” he continued, stepping aside as you appeared in the doorway.

It was probably all over the news that the senator case had been solved and that officers and agents had been harmed in the process. And you listened to the news, like religiously. 

“You got shot…” you whispered, your voice trailing off as you took in the sight of him, pale but upright in the hospital bed.

“Oh, oh, is this her?” Prentiss asked as the entire unit watched as you entered the room.

They already knew your name. Now they knew what you looked like too. 

You were all done up. Date ready. For Spencer. You had on a black coat, covered in little snowflakes from being outside, but underneath he could spot a dress that sparkled like diamonds. You had red ribbons in your hair like usual and your Converse, squeaking from being wet against the hospital floors. No tights, and while Spencer worried you might be cold, he also knew from Garcia that you just couldn’t wear tights with certain dresses. 

“You’re gorgeous,” Garcia said, practically swooning. She nudged Spencer playfully. “Spencer, she’s gorgeous.”

Rossi stepped forward, clapping a hand on Garcia’s shoulder. “Maybe we should give them some time alone.”

Hotch, ever the professional and hopeless romantic, nodded. “We’ll be down the hall if you need anything, Reid.”

“Or pressed up against the door to eavesdrop,” Garcia added, earning a pointed look from Hotch as they all filed out, leaving you and Spencer alone.

The door shut with a click behind you as you stood flat on your feet in the middle of the room. You looked almost scared to move. 

“We were supposed to go on a date, and you got shot, Spencer.” 

The words left your mouth in nothing but shock. You didn’t even have time to be embarrassed over his colleagues being there and almost making fun of the situation because all you had in your head was the ringing sound of a gun firing and Spencer being the target. 

“I’m okay, I promise,” he reassured gently, reaching out his unharmed arm to you. 

You tentatively moved forward, almost in an inspective manner, seeing where he was hurt and not. With his hand reached out in your direction, you assumed he was fine with you touching it. You grabbed it gently, and Spencer spotted that your nails were just as sparkly as your dress. 

“You. Got. Shot.” You emphasized every word, scooting to sit on the side of his bed. “Like a bullet penetrating your skin kind of shot. That’s insane.” 

“It didn’t actually penetrate the skin, more like grazed me with fragments after it hit the wall behind me,” Spencer tried to explain. The bandage looked dramatic but all that was under it were scratches, basically. 

“But still—” you began, but he cut you off.

“You look very pretty.” 

You blinked, momentarily thrown off. “Don’t change the subject.” 

“But you do. I like you in red,” he insisted, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“I always wear red,” you pointed out.

“And I guess I always like you then,” he replied simply. 

You tilted your head, a teasing grin forming. “Did they give you something strong for the pain? What kind of smooth talking is this?” 

“I, uh— I got nothing for the pain, y’know—” He gestured vaguely.

“Drugs and that?” you filled in. 

“Yeah.” 

You didn’t press further. He figured you understood. Not that you had talked about it more than briefly. But you were sober, and he was sober, and breaking a sober streak even in a hospital setting was nothing easy. The pain from the fragments being removed was only temporary. The aftermath of any sort of prescription painkiller was a long-term thing for people like him. And maybe you. 

In silence, Spencer moved to the side of the bed, a way of notifying you that you could come sit higher up beside him. He hadn’t let go of your hand since you grabbed his, and when you scooted to sit so that your right arm touched his left one, he felt himself tense up at the closeness. While you still had your coat on, it was like a fire spread through it to his hospital gown and in turn his skin. 

You toed off your shoes, kicking them on the floor, as you lifted your legs to place them alongside his. “So, was it the daughter? Did she shoot you?” you asked, turning to look at him with wonder in your eyes. 

“Her boyfriend did. Helicopter pilot, by the way,” Spencer answered, gaze stuck on how your hand held his, perched in his lap over a thin blanket. 

Your eyebrows shot up. “No fucking way. I was right?” 

“You’re smarter than you realize,” he replied, his tone earnest.

You looked like a child on Christmas with the way happiness spread across your face. A happiness of being right, not over the situation. That was a given.

“It was the same old tale about a rich man abandoning his child and them later seeking financial compensation for it, thinking they’re entitled to their parents wealth after they’ve practically been left to live on the streets,” Spencer explained. Journalists would’ve figured out the motive as soon as it was public that is was the daughter, so he didn’t think he was breaking any protocol by telling you. 

“And those are the good kind of senators,” you quipped, earning a small laugh from Spencer. You could see that his tired body didn’t react particularly well to the sudden vibration in his chest. 

Your hand dropped his, only momentarily to soothingly caress his chest. He moved to hold yours again, keeping his held against his ticking heartbeat. You were so close. 

The second he could think that, you whipped your head around at the sound of a thud. It was outside, a flashing light coming through the window. 

“Oh my god, you can see the fireworks from here too,” you whispered, jaw dropped. 

Spencer turned his head, following your gaze. Bright colors lit up the night sky, faint booms audible even through the thick hospital walls. Both hands on the clock were on twelve. 

“It’s also a lot warmer in here than the park would’ve been,” Spencer mused, squeezing your hand in his. 

He could almost feel you relax as you watched the colorful explosions go off in the night sky. You leaned into his side, the side of your face carefully placed on his shoulder. In this cold, sterile hospital room, you filled him with tepidity. He glanced down at your face; cute was the only word that came to mind. The subjective Spencer-esque way of defining it. You had silver glitter on your eyelids that twinkled whenever you blinked. Your lips had been glossy but were now mostly bitten raw from being anxious. 

Spencer could only think of one thing as he took you in. 

“Would you mind me becoming part of your microbiome?” he whispered. 

You blinked, startled by the question, looking right up at him. He hadn’t even wanted to shake your hand when he introduced himself that first time. But kissing was, according to him, more sanitary anyway. You hadn’t been nervous for a kiss since you were in high school, yet this paralyzed you. It was terrifying, looking at him, feeling an invisible force pulling you towards him, towards his face, towards his lips. 

“W-what if some bacteria from Cody Parker becomes a part of you now?” you joked, buying time to collect yourself.  

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” he replied easily, his face now dangerously close to yours. 

Your breath caught as he closed the distance, his lips meeting yours. You were both tentative at first, his hand still holding yours clasped over his chest. With your other hand, you pushed his hair from the side of his face, cradling his cheek as you deepened the kiss, touch by touch. 

Spencer had never had a New Year’s kiss before. He wasn’t sure this was considered one either. The clock was probably 12:07 if he were to estimate. 

From the hallway, Garcia’s voice could be heard through the door. “Oh my god, he kissed her.”

“Shut up, Garcia, I’m trying to see,” Prentiss whispered harshly.

You pulled back, laughter bubbling up as Spencer’s cheeks flushed deep red. Despite his embarrassment, a shy smile lingered on his face. The fireworks outside continued, unnoticed by the two of you, as you leaned in to kiss him again. 

–––––––––––––––––––––––

The apartment was quiet as you stepped inside, the muffled hum of the city beyond the windows the only sound accompanying your footsteps. Spencer moved carefully, his movements stiff and hesitant from the pain radiating from his arm. Two pairs of Converse stood on his doormat. One pair of simple black ones. Another pair of smaller, red ones. 

“You need to shower, Spencer. There’s coagulated blood in your hair,” you said, setting his bag down on the floor before reaching up to tuck a strand of his hair behind his ear, it all sticking together in a knot. 

He groaned softly, glancing toward the bathroom, then at the inviting sight of his bed just a little bit further down the hallway. “When I, for once, feel like I could fall asleep just looking at a bed?” 

You crossed your arms, giving him a pointed look. 

“No, you’re right. I just—” He hesitated. “How am I going to do it with this on my arm?” 

“I’ll help you,” you offered immediately, then Spencer could see the realization hit you. “O-or maybe we can call Morgan, or someone else that you trust—”

His face twisted in mock horror. “I’d rather die than have Morgan wash my hair.” 

“I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” 

“I’ll be fine,” he said, firmer than intended. 

“You don’t have to pretend around me.” Your expression softened. “When was the last time you were naked in front of someone?” 

His eyes widened, and he stammered. “Ehm, I—” 

“Never?” you asked, far from in the teasing manner he was used to. 

“Do doctors count?” he muttered, his face flushed.

“Okay,” you said, putting your hands together, stepping back slightly. “We’ll work around this to make you comfortable. Do you have swim shorts?” 

“Yeah, that could work.” 

Spencer retreated into his bedroom while he saw you go into the bathroom. It wasn’t easy for him to get out of his clothes and into the shorts, but he managed in the end. He spotted himself in his full-length mirror just as he was about to exit the bedroom. Tall and scrawny. Bandaged all over his right arm. Dressed in light blue shorts with flamingoes on them that Garcia had gotten him, as a joke he thought or she could have been completely serious. You never knew. 

This was about to be the closest he’d been to another person while wearing so little clothing. And that was terrifying. No other word for it. It didn’t matter that you had kissed. Twice at the hospital. Once in the taxi home. Another small one as you helped him unlock his front door. Still terrifying. 

It wouldn’t get easier the longer he waited, so he stepped out of his bedroom, too self-conscious to look at you, already rambling before you even noticed him.  

“Don’t laugh, Garcia bought them for me when we had a case in Florida—”  

“They’re cute,” you simply said, sat on the edge of his bathtub. 

When he lifted his gaze to see you, you’d also changed. Or maybe undressed was a better word. Your dress was gone, and left were a pair of spandex shorts he imagined you had on under for comfort and warmth, maybe? And your bra. A simple black bra. 

“You—” Spencer couldn’t form a sentence. 

“I thought I’d make it even,” you shrugged, standing up. “Can you get in the tub without hurting yourself further?” 

Spencer pressed his lips together to keep his posture. He nodded, as he at least though he’d be able to sit down on his own. But no. His balance betrayed him as he had both feet down on the porcelain, trying to lower himself down into a cross-legged position. 

You were there within seconds, your hands trying to help him from falling. With an ungracious thud, he was sat down. 

You sat halfway on the edge of the tub, turning the water on, waiting for it to get warm. As you did, you reached to comb through his hair with your fingers, but he stopped you before you got the chance. 

“Just wait,” he said quickly, putting his hands up so that you couldn’t touch him. “For a second, will you?” 

“Cause you’ll pop a boner if I touch you now?” you teased, shockingly how easy dirty words fell from your mouth. 

A baffled laugh escaped him. “You’re so…” 

“Rude?” 

“Honest,” he replied. “I’ve been having a hard time keeping it together since you kissed me.” 

“Nuh-uh, you kissed me,” you shot back with a grin. “You’re a good kisser, by the way.” 

Spencer didn’t say another word as you started to wash his hair. Feeling slightly pathetic, he sat there in the bathtub, water falling from his head like a wet dog. He didn’t know how to make the situation less awkward, so he just accepted the way it was. 

At least it was comfortable, having your fingers untangle his hair and massage his scalp with shampoo. When you were done, you helped him stand up, handing him a towel, but not before quite obviously eyeing his body up and down. 

“You’ve turned pink all the way to your stomach,” you pointed out, and before Spencer could react, you added, “Don’t worry, it’s hot,” like that would make it any easier for him to process. 

Later, Spencer was sitting on the edge of his bed, his damp curls sticking to his forehead as you helped him dry his hair. You moved gently, careful not to jostle his injured arm. 

He’d been able to change into a t-shirt and pajama pants on his own, with you trying to hold in your laughter from the other side of his bedroom door when he would stumble and hit his shin on his bed frame due to the lack of balance he had with only one working arm. 

“I can sleep here, right?” you said, tossing the towel into his hamper of dirty laundry. “It’s like 3 a.m. and I totally get if you wanna throw me out—” 

“I want you to sleep here,” he said softly, looking up at you. “With me.” 

No words left your mouth, but the smile that cracked through was unmistakable. He gave you a t-shirt to sleep in, something with an old college logo on it, and then he watched as you swiftly removed your bra from underneath it, like magic. 

He settled under the covers, making room for you on the side where he didn’t have his injured arm. Spencer hadn’t shared a bed like this with anyone before, so to say he was surprised when you laid beside him, snuggling into his side like you’d done it a million times before, would be an understatement. 

“Am I hurting you?” you mumbled, your head resting in the crook of his neck. 

“No, not at all,” Spencer squeaked out, trying to find a natural spot for his hand under your body. 

As you took in his room, your gaze landed on his nightstand, and your breath caught. Sitting neatly on the surface were three copies of War and Peace. One was pristine, the Russian copy you’d gifted him. Beside it was a well-worn English version, its pages annotated and creased. And then there was… another Russian copy, similarly worn and filled with notes.

Your hand rested lightly on his chest as you began to laugh. “You—” you started, glancing up at him with a soft smile. “You only loaned it from the library to talk to me.”

Spencer’s gaze flickered between you and the nightstand as he realized that you had realized. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered with a smile. 

You chuckled a little, reaching up to kiss his cheek before relaxing back down again. He’d been so tired before, as were you. But now it was like he could feel every nerve in his body, running through him like electricity. Just because you were here with him. 

“Is it—” Spencer whispered, unsure where his words would lead him. “Is it weird to sleep in the same bed as someone without having experienced the sexual aspect that is usually the reason couples share a bed for the first time?”  

Shit, he’d called you a couple. Maybe not directly, but definitely indirectly— 

“No, not at all,” you hummed against him. “Do you think it’s weird?” 

“I haven’t exactly done this before, so everything feels new and weird.” 

You looked up at him through heavy lashes, makeup-free and squeaky clean. “Most men that I’ve been with never made me feel like a woman—like a ladylike presence they cherished. I’d sleep with them too quickly and they’d get bored, or I wouldn’t put up with it, and they’d call me a prude.” 

Your voice sounded fragile in a way he’d never heard before. He’d picked up on little things where he assumed you weren’t exactly inexperienced, but the fact that experience could be something bad wasn’t necessarily something he’d thought about before. 

“Whatever this is, whatever weird order we are doing stuff in, feels better than anything I’ve ever felt before when it comes to love,” you continued, stuffing your face back in his neck to hide. 

Shit, you’d said the word love. Not even indirectly, like fully pronounced it, no mumbles. 

“It’s not a dry spell if you’ve never done it, by the way,” you joked, and he melted at the sound even though you were trying to embarrass him. “You’ve never gotten it wet for it to become dry.” 

Spencer stared up at the ceiling, biting his lip. “Can you not make fun of me?” 

“I’ve used sex as a coping mechanism all my life, allow me to be a little amused about someone going over 25 years without it.” You gently laughed again. “It’s sort of sweet.” 

On the side of your body, you found his unarmed arm placed all limp. With a bold move, you intertwined your fingers with his, taking both of them up to place against your chest. He was now embracing you, and he couldn’t even begin to think about the soft, ample flesh that could be found under your t-shirt. 

He let out a faint groan, mumbling, “You’re not making it any better.” 

Your expression softened further as you tilted your head, meeting his eyes. “We’ll get to it,” you said, your voice low and steady, “when or if we both feel like it. Don’t stress about it, okay? I don’t care.”

Spencer swallowed, his eyes darting to yours before quickly flickering away. His voice came out quiet, uncertain. “That’s something—” He hesitated, his brows furrowing as he searched for the words. “Is that something you’d want to do with me?”

You smiled, kissing his cheek again. “You just indirectly called us a couple, and I mentioned the word love, so don’t act clueless. I know you’re not.”  

His face turned a deeper shade of pink, and he ducked his head, letting it rest on his pillow as the ceiling yet again became very interesting. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt warm. He felt at home in your presence, no matter how foreign it was. His hand was still grasping yours, tucked against your chest. He could feel you fiddling with his fingers. 

“Can’t sleep?” Spencer asked after a long moment of silence. 

“I like ’em,” you murmured, lifting his hand to kiss his knuckles. 

“My hands?” he wondered tiredly. 

“I like everything about you,” you answered simply before closing your eyes. 

Can we all pretend I posted this on New Years? Yes? Thank you. And thank you for reading. Title and beginning quote is from Purple by Wunderhorse btw <3

[heartbreakfeelsogood-moved]

coffee run | buddie | ~1k | for @bark-barkley ♡

It starts with an Instagram post.

Buck’s a sap, okay? His explore page is constantly filled with ‘send this to your best friend’ posts, and you know what? Nine out of ten times he does send them to his best friend, even if said best friend doesn’t see his dms for about a week. Point being: it’s not surprising to see a post stating, “morning, because if it was a good morning, my best friend would be in the same city as me and we'd be getting coffee together.” Beneath the text is a sketch of two people holding iced coffees. Buck does not pout as he reposts it to his story; that’s just his face.

What is surprising is when Eddie likes Buck’s story upload within minutes, because Eddie barely uses Instagram. He goes on once, maybe twice a week when he’s bored. Eddie just moved to Texas, though, and is quite literally in the process of unpacking, so how could he be bored? Yet here he is in Buck’s notifications. Not only that, but he reposts it to his story, too.

The pout that was definitely not on Buck’s face turns into a small smile as he sees that. Buck knows what it feels like to be left and ignored, but this is the first and only time Buck is experiencing someone leaving and openly missing him. Buck misses Eddie like a lung, but that feels okay, because Eddie misses Buck, too. It’s a lot for Buck to wrap his head around.

Buck closes Instagram and opens his recent call log. Underneath the names of Maddie and a guy from C shift who was asking for coverage is Eddie. Buck presses call.

“You bringing me a coffee?” Eddie greets.

Buck huffs out a laugh and responds, “Might be cold by the time I get there.”

Eddie laughs a little louder than necessary, but Buck would be lying if he said he didn’t like that. He loves how easily he can make Eddie laugh. Even when everything feels bad, Buck can say something that makes Eddie laugh, and when Eddie laughs it makes Buck feel like everything will be alright.

“I could use a coffee right now, man. I’m losing stamina. That’s why I’m on my phone instead of unpacking,” Eddie pauses, and Buck hears a box move. “Living room: throw blankets,” he reads off.

Maybe it’s because Buck’s a well-established sap; maybe it’s because Buck would do anything to hang out with Eddie right now, even if it’s eight-hundred miles apart over the phone; maybe it’s because Buck really wants an iced cookie dough latte with oat milk and mocha sauce; maybe it’s all of the above that makes Buck say, “Let’s go get coffee together.”

Eddie laughs, and Buck can practically hear his eye roll when he quips, “Yeah, sure, I’m on my way now.”

“No, I’m serious. Well— I don’t mean it like that. I— I mean you should go get a coffee, you deserve a break, and I’ll go get one too. We could stay on the phone.”

Now that Buck’s said it he’s worried he sounds juvenile. He imagines this is what kids Christopher’s age do with their online friends. (Christopher has rules, and he’s come to Eddie or Buck any time something weird happens, so they trust that he’s safe.) All the fear melts off of him when Eddie responds though.

“Yeah,” Eddie’s voice sounds soft, “we could do that.”

They both drive about twenty minutes to get to their respective coffee shops. Mindless chatter fills their cars through the speakers as they make their way. Eddie tells Buck about a chess tournament Christopher is going to be playing in, which gets Buck going about some videos he watched to better understand chess. He tells Eddie about the history, the different strategies, and various records set by players. Eddie listens intently, always happy to learn about both what Buck is learning about and his son’s interests.

They’re still on the phone as they make their way into the cafes, when they’re standing in line, and when they each approach the counter. Buck’s line is shorter, so he orders first. He steps to the side to wait for his latte and checks in with Eddie.

“You about to order?”

“Uh, yeah, I’m next. Hey—“ Eddie pauses. For a quick second, Buck wonders if he got called up. “This might seem stupid, but this place has similar flavors to the one we go to back h— in LA. And I really want that iced latte you get me. If I make this call a FaceTime, will you order it for me?”

Something flips inside Buck’s stomach. His lips part pointing upwards and he has to stop himself from tearing up over the fact Eddie wants him to order him a coffee from eight-hundred miles away. Good tears, to be clear; emotional, but filled with love.

“Yeah, of course, Eddie.”

Their timing is perfect, because not even thirty seconds after the FaceTime connects Eddie is being called up to the counter. Buck is turned towards the barista, who looks rather confused by the whole interaction, so Buck makes a joke about how he got Eddie hooked on a very specific latte and orders a cinnamon latte with soy milk and a quad shot.

They both sit in the back corners of their respected cafes with their phones propped up on napkin holders, FaceTime still connected. Eddie takes a sip of his latte and hums.

“Thank you for ordering this for me. Think it’s exactly what I needed.”

Buck’s smile as he responds is all teeth. “Any time. I’m glad to be of service.”

Eddie laughs at the way Buck salutes as he says that. He leans his head on his hand as he looks back at Buck fondly through his screen.

“God, I love y— Hanging out with you.”

If Buck notices his fumble, he doesn’t say anything except: “Yeah. You too.”

[maskedbyghost]

Simon Riley:

is surprisingly good at sewing. whether it’s patching up his gear or clothes, he learned to be self-sufficient over the years.

doesn’t sleep much and prefers staying up late. he’s always more focused during the night and feels more at ease in the dark. but ever since you moved in with him, he gets a few good hours of sleep with you on top of him as his favorite weighted blanket.

owns very few personal belongings. most of his space is neatly organized with just the essentials. he doesn't like clutter. still, he doesn't mind your obsession with coffee mugs, he's the one that gets them for you now anyway.

is great at chess and strategy games. when off duty, he occasionally plays with other soldiers but rarely loses. (he let you win once, but only bc you kept using your puppy eyes on him.)

avoids all forms of social media. he doesn’t understand why people want to post their lives online, and he values his privacy too much. he has an ig account, a fake one, just so he can look at your profile when he's away on a long mission.

sometimes sketches in his free time, mostly landscapes or tactical designs, using it as a quiet hobby. no one really knows about it, until you find a sketchbook filled with drawings of yourself. you never mention it to him, especially that one page with an engagement ring he sketched out with your exact measurements right next to it.

is surprisingly good in the kitchen, particularly when it comes to simple, hearty meals. he doesn’t cook often, but when he does, you are always impressed.

his guns and knives are always clean. it's part of his routine, and he finds the process of maintaining them therapeutic.

is awkward when it comes to casual conversations. he’s more comfortable giving orders or discussing tactical plans than engaging in chit-chat. that is why it took you so long to realize that he likes you. thankfully, you love talking and he likes to listen, so it all worked out.

is extremely protective of you, often worrying about your safety. if you’re in danger, his usually calm demeanor fades, and he becomes hyper-focused on ensuring you’re safe.

pays close attention to your habits and needs. he’ll notice when you're feeling down or when something is wrong, even if you don’t say it, and he’ll do whatever he can to fix it or offer comfort.

(if you have any requests pls do submit them, that's it byeee)

[thatbitchery]

You can tell how much a lady will not level up by how much she doesn’t love herself—and you can tell how much someone doesn’t love themselves by how much they don’t understand themselves. I’ve been telling you ladies since the dawn of this blog: a level-up is personal. Custom-made. Made for you and only you. You cannot achieve another person’s goal.

Listen, the highest form of love is knowledge. To be loved is to be known. To love is to look—with the purpose of seeing—and then understanding what you see. To love yourself, you have to know yourself. And that takes nothing but self-observation. No judgment. Open acceptance.

What prompted this? I was talking to one of my girls in my personal coaching program yesterday. We started this month, so we’re still learning each other. My first topic is always fashion, because the outside world is a mirror of the inner—and you can easily understand someone from their presentation.

So this girl and I go through her closet, and I’m honestly both impressed and jealous. We are talking runway-worthy gowns. Designer bags. Louboutin heels. The kind of closet you get in your starter-pack Kardashian era. She looks at me like, “What do we think?” And apart from being impressed by the sheer amount that closet adds to her net worth… I am also deeply disappointed.

Why?

Because she is a textbook introvert. An AO3 nerd who spends all day in pajamas and works online (if you can even call it that) and is introverted even outside—i.e. would rather do indoor activities than outdoor. She’s also hyperactive and sporty. That is not the closet of an 18-year-old valedictorian homebody chess-playing video game addict online business owner. That is a Paris Hilton closet. You will NOT be wearing that micro skirt, ever. Let’s not lie to ourselves.

So she poured all that money (yes, she’s wealthy, but that’s not the point??) into another person’s closet—but inside her own house. What she does actually wear is three sets of loungewear that have seen the washing machine so many times they are fighting for their lives to hold on to color. And she won’t buy a new set because it’s “not elegant.”

So I know I will need Jesus and all of heaven when we get to the “self-love” section. Pray for me, people.

It is very important that you stop looking for trends and God knows what, and start observing yourself. Set your goals according to that, so you don’t waste time and money and actually—for once—achieve your yearly goals. Because they belong to who you are, not who you wish you were.

One of the goals I see a lot is “lose weight.” And you know what? Hell yeah. There’s no empowerment in obesity, let’s get healthy. I get it—I want to be a healthy BMI so I can clear brain fog, look better, feel better, function better, yes. But as a person who spends most of their day indoors, is barely attracted to men, and works in corporate… why are you killing yourself trying for a Bella Hadid body when you’ve got Salma Hayek genetics and you don’t need it? I get starvation if you’re a K-pop idol or a model. I get it. But you’re a regular civilian—just stop at “healthy BMI.” Because not only is it not fun, it’s also extremely unhealthy to have zero body fat. What are you even doing this for? It’s torture. If you don’t need to… what’s the point?

Or the classic “wake up at 5 a.m.”—makes sense, I see it. But if you’re a night owl, what are you doing? Your productive hours are 10 p.m. to 3 a.m.—why would you be awake at 5? That’s when you’re supposed to be going to bed after wrapping up your work.

Or “gym 3 days a week.” I love it, I do. But look at yourself in the mirror and say that again. Be honest—is it going to happen? Have you considered that maybe you’re not a gym person? That there are other ways to move your body that don’t require you to battle depression and poor time management in spandex?

You can easily tell who will not be achieving their yearly goals by comparing the goals to the person. No—those are not your goals. They are someone else’s. So another year goes by, and you achieve nothing. Again.

And if you just—if you just—observed your behavior, with no judgment, without slapping on classifications like “lazy” or “wrong” or whatever else… if you just said, “Okay, how do I make me work, in a way that works for me?” You wouldn’t need affirmations to tell you you’re good enough.

You’d just be.

BMAC

[whosscruffylooking]

The Purest Things: If I Could Be Where You Are

Aaron Hotchner x Fem! Reader Word Count: 2.6k Warnings: Murder. Blood. Death. Weapons. Canon typical violence. Everything that makes Criminal Minds, Criminal Minds. The Purest Things Masterlist

au! april 2009

Bookend: "Healing yourself is connected with healing others." -Yoko Ono

It’s been a month since The Reaper attacked you, a month since his escape, and a month since you were forced on leave, unable to help your team in person. The days drag on, each one slower than the last. You’ve resorted to reorganizing every drawer in your house, making every recipe in the book, and even trying to learn how to knit, but nothing seems to quiet the restlessness gnawing at you.

One thing, however, has kept you grounded—the small, thoughtful gifts left on your doorstep by a mysterious someone. Whether it’s a meal from your favorite restaurant or a candle with the comforting scent of teakwood, they appear like clockwork, each more perfect than the last. You know it’s Rossi. He has a habit of quietly looking out for people like he once did for a family whose case stayed with him for years. 

You glance at the clock: 6 p.m. He’ll be here any moment. Another constant keeping you sane has been Aaron. Every evening, he arrives with the latest case files, ensuring you still feel connected to the team—even if they have no idea you’re working behind the scenes.

Knock, knock, knock…pause, knock, knock.

The secret code brings a grin to your face as you move to unlock the door. You and Hotch came up with it weeks ago—your foolproof way of ensuring it wasn’t George Foyet or anyone else unwelcome standing on the other side. He even insisted on always using the back door, just to be extra cautious.

When you swing it open, Hotch is standing there with a small, knowing smile, but tonight he isn’t alone.

“I brought reinforcements,” he announces, stepping aside to reveal Penelope and Spencer.

Your jaw drops, and you can’t stop the tears that instantly spring to your eyes. “Oh my god,” you whisper, overwhelmed.

Penelope wraps you in a tight, crushing hug while Spencer hovers behind, clearly eager but more cautious. The sharp pang of pain radiates from your still-healing injuries, but you don’t care.

“Oh my god,” you manage, your voice thick with emotion. “I missed you guys so much.”

Penelope pulls back to kiss your cheek, her bright smile fading as she studies you. “We’ve missed you more, babycakes. Look at you—so gorgeous even in recovery. What is your secret?”

“Endless hours of absolutely nothing,” you quip, turning to Spencer. “Finally, no more online chess games. We can actually play in person again.”

Spencer lights up. “You’ve gotten better,” he says, his tone as matter-of-fact as always. “It was starting to feel like you were anticipating my moves. I have a theory that—”

“Okay, Einstein, let her breathe,” Penelope interrupts, shooting him a mock glare. “Besides, she’s mine tonight.”

You glance toward Hotch, standing quietly at the kitchen counter like he belongs there, his arms crossed and his expression softer than usual.

“I have to ask,” Penelope says, turning her attention to him. “Why weren’t we allowed to see her until now? You said something about security, but really?”

Hotch’s face remains composed. “We needed to ensure there were no patterns Foyet could track. Foot traffic had to be limited to supervisors and law enforcement.”

Penelope narrows her eyes at him, a sly smile creeping onto her face. “And let me guess—‘supervisor’ mostly meant you?”

Hotch doesn’t dignify her with a response, but the corner of his mouth twitches, and instead, he turns back to the kitchen counter to busy himself. His easy familiarity with your home is not lost on Spencer and Penelope, and you catch the shared glance they exchange.

"Alright,” you announce, waving your hands dramatically. “Since I have all of you here, let’s make it a real party. Hotch, you’re in charge of drinks. Garcia, you’re my sous chef. Reid—don’t argue—you’re in charge of setting the table.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Penelope says, throwing her arm around your shoulders gently. “Do you even have party supplies? What’s in your fridge?”

“Nothing worth celebrating,” you admit with a grin. “But we can improvise.”

“Oh, I am SO good at improvising a party,” Penelope declares, already dragging Spencer toward the refrigerator. “Reid, we are going to make magic happen in this fridge of doom.”

You chuckle, watching them bicker over ingredients before heading to Hotch. He’s at the counter, organizing the files he’d brought with him, the faintest hint of a smile lingering on his face.

“You’ve been found out,” you tease quietly, leaning against the counter beside him.

He glances at you, one eyebrow raising a silent question, “I don't know what you could mean."

“She’s not wrong, though,” you say softly. “You’ve been here more than anyone.”

His movements pause momentarily, his hand resting on one of the files. “You needed someone to keep you in the loop,” he says, his voice even. “I didn’t want you to feel alone in this.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “Well, you’ve done more than that.”

He finally looks at you, his expression unreadable but his eyes soft. “It’s part of my job.”

You shake your head slightly. “Not like this, it isn’t.”

You let the silence overtake the moment until Penelope’s voice breaks it. “Oh my gosh, there is nothing but condiments in here! Reid, we’re ordering pizza.”

Hotch’s lips twitch, and you smile, stepping back toward the chaos in the kitchen. “Come on, Agent Hotchner,” you call over your shoulder. “Even you can’t say no to pizza.”

The evening unfolds in an almost normal way, as if you’ve stepped out of the chaos for a little while. Penelope takes over your small kitchen like it’s a gourmet setup, insisting you sit while she and Hotch bicker over the proper way to open a bottle of wine. Spencer sets the table with mismatched plates, lecturing you on the psychological benefits of symmetry, and you can’t stop laughing.

Hotch eventually joins you in the living room, handing you a glass of wine. He doesn’t say much, but the way his hand stays on yours for a second too long says everything. By the time the night winds down, the laughter has eased the weight you’ve been carrying for weeks, and for a few precious hours, you almost forget about the scar carved into your skin and the monster who put it there.

When Penelope hugs you goodbye, she whispers in your ear, “He’s been your rock, hasn’t he?”

You glance toward Hotch, Spencer already outside. “Yeah,” you say softly. “He has.”

By the time they leave, it’s late, and the house feels quiet again. You’re clearing the empty mugs from the coffee table when Hotch stops you, taking them from your hands.

“I’ll get these,” he says softly.

You hesitate, watching him move toward the kitchen with the easy familiarity of someone who belongs here. It’s comforting in a way you can’t quite put into words.

“Thank you,” you say, and it feels like you mean it for more than just the dishes.

He glances back at you, his expression unreadable but warm. “Always.”

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.

It’s your first day back to work, and you stand in front of your mirror, straightening your jacket with a steady hand. The weight of your badge in your pocket feels reassuring now, grounding you in the moment. You take a deep breath, looking at your watch, knowing Aaron will be here any minute to pick you up.

The sound of a car pulling into your driveway makes your heart skip a beat. You head out the door, and as you reach the car, you see Aaron sitting behind the wheel, a warm smile spreading across his face. “I got you a Diet Coke,” he says, handing you a can. “I know coffee isn’t your favorite.”

You laugh, taking the can from him. “This day is already off to a great start,” you say, grateful for the small gesture, the simple comfort of his presence.

The drive to the office is quiet but comforting. The familiar roads, the faint whirr of the car, and the knowledge that you’re heading back to your team—it all feels right. As you arrive at the BAU, you and Hotch ride the elevator up in silence, but you notice something. His usual composed demeanor is slightly off. His fingers are rubbing together in that subtle way you’ve come to recognize. It’s a tell—one of the small things you’ve picked up over the past month of recovery.

“You okay, Hotch?” you ask, tilting your head slightly, concerned.

He meets your gaze momentarily, offering a small, reassuring smile. “Just a little anxious,” he admits, his voice almost softer than usual. “It’s been a while.”

The elevator dings as it reaches the BAU floor. You step out, expecting the usual buzz of activity, but what you get instead takes you completely by surprise.

“Welcome back!” A chorus of voices rings out, and you spin around, eyes wide with shock. There, in the middle of the floor, is the entire team—JJ, Reid, Penelope, Morgan, and even Rossi—all standing together with flowers, balloons, and the biggest smiles on their faces.

Your heart swells, and your breath catches in your throat as you glance back at Hotch. He’s standing there, a playful glint in his eyes, looking pleased with himself. “You knew?” you ask, half-amused, half-incredulous.

He simply shrugs, giving you a little smirk. “I plead the fifth,” he says, his voice full of warmth.

You don’t waste another second. You rush over to your team, greeting each with a hug, a laugh, and a few tears. The joy of seeing them, of being back where you belong, makes everything feel right again.

Penelope pulls you into an exaggerated hug, “We missed you so much, baby!” she says, her voice thick with affection.

Reid offers a shy smile as he hands you a carefully wrapped book. “I figured you’d need something to keep you busy since you’re back in action now,” he says, his voice a little more tentative than usual.

"Thank you! I read all of my personal library twice in the past month," you giggle.

Morgan gives you a one-armed hug, ruffling your hair. “Good to have you back,” he says with his usual easy grin.

As you pull back from them, your gaze drifts to Aaron, standing a little to the side, watching you with a look of quiet pride. 

You finally turn to him, offering a soft smile. “I guess you weren’t the only one keeping secrets,” you tease, and he chuckles, looking a little embarrassed.

“This is nothing,” Hotch says, a slight twinkle in his eyes. “You should see the surprise party they’ve got planned for you at lunch.”

You can’t help but laugh, feeling lighter than you have in weeks. This is precisely where you need to be. With them. With him.

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.

Rossi knocks on Aaron’s door deliberately but gently. The sound breaks the stillness of the office, and Aaron looks up from his paperwork, nodding for him to come in. Rossi steps inside, settling into the chair across from him. His eyes drift toward the bullpen, where you’re working.

Aaron follows his gaze and immediately understands what this is about. It doesn’t take a profiler to know what’s coming next.

“I’m glad she’s back,” Dave says quietly, sincerity laced in his voice.

“Me too,” Aaron responds briskly, trying to deflect. “So, that report from last week’s case—”

“Does Haley… uh… have you told her about your visits to Y/N’s?” Rossi cuts in, getting straight to the point.

Aaron’s mouth opens, but no words come out. His eyes flicker to Rossi, a tightness settling in his chest.

“Ah,” Rossi murmurs, leaning back in his chair, a knowing glint in his eye. “I assume that’s because of the safety protocols after she was attacked?”

Aaron sinks into his seat, fingers absently tapping against the desk. The guilt is heavy, pressing down on him. “No,” he admits quietly. “I just haven’t brought it up to her.”

Rossi sighs, his gaze softening. “Aaron, you’re not fooling anyone. Especially not me.” He pauses, letting the silence stretch just long enough to let his words settle. “You can’t keep this under wraps forever. You know that, right?”

Aaron meets his gaze, the weight of his words hitting harder than he expected. “I know,” he mutters. “It’s just… complicated.”

Rossi studies him, then nods. “I get it. But you’re walking a tightrope here. You need to figure out where you stand—before someone else does it for you.”

“Dave, there’s no tightrope,” Aaron says, his voice firm, though there’s a trace of frustration underneath. “There’s nothing to keep under wraps. I’m her supervisor. I went over to her house to gain her perspective on the case. That’s all.”

He leans back, crossing his arms, trying to convince himself as much as Rossi.

Rossi raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Right,” he says slowly, his tone teasing. “And you’ve never felt any… personal connection to her? After all the time you two have spent together?”

Aaron’s jaw tightens. “I’m not blind, Dave,” he snaps, but his gaze drops to the desk, avoiding the question. “But I’m also not foolish enough to cross that line.”

Rossi watches him for a beat, then smirks. “Just remember the fraternization rules, Aaron. I think I’m the reason they exist in the first place.”

Aaron exhales, rubbing his temples. “I’m aware of the rules,” he mutters. “I’m just trying to figure out what to do about… everything.”

Rossi hesitates before speaking again, choosing his words carefully. “There’s a reason Foyet targeted her, Aaron, whether or not you want to believe it.” His tone is measured, but the implication lands like a gut punch. Aaron’s posture stiffens.

“Dave,” he warns, his voice low, edged with tension, daring him to continue.

“She’s scarred, Aaron. Forever. And it’s your initials she carries for a reason. He branded her with your name because he saw it—the connection between you two. He didn’t target one of us; he went after her because something about her led him straight to you.”

Aaron’s pulse quickens, his jaw tight. “What exactly are you implying, Dave?” His voice is steady, but his guarded expression gives him away.

“If Foyet could see your attachment to her, I can, too. And I’d wager she’s noticed it as well,” Rossi says, leaning forward slightly. “Maybe it’s time you stop running from it and admit it to yourself before she gets hurt again.”

Rossi pushes himself up from the chair, gives Aaron one last knowing look, and then leaves the office, leaving Aaron alone with his thoughts.

Aaron exhales slowly, the weight of their conversation pressing heavily against his ribs. He stands, moving to the window, his eyes finding you in the bullpen. You’re fully immersed in the files in front of you, strong and resilient, throwing yourself back into the work as if nothing ever happened.

But something did happen.

Dave’s words echo in his mind as he watches you. You’re scarred—forever marked by his initials, a cruel reminder of the consequences of his choices. Of chasing a ghost and letting it get too close to the people he cares about.

Aaron’s chest tightens, guilt coiling around his thoughts. He silently vows that nothing else will ever happen to you. Not to you. Not to anyone else he loves. Loves.

The realization lands like a blow, and he presses a hand against the window frame for support.

His gaze lingers, the truth hitting him harder than he’s willing to admit, even to himself.

“If only I could be where you are,” he murmurs under his breath.

But in another lifetime, maybe. One where he isn’t an older man, divorced, a father weighed down by years of mistakes and ghosts. One where the miles between the lives you’ve lived and the lives he’s endured didn’t feel so insurmountable.

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.

[lilly-onthevalley]

Not to be that person, but I feel like a lot of the discourse on relationships and traditionalism on tiktok are heavily inaccurate and fueling a fire that only exists if you feed it yourself.

I hate how political falling in love and having a family is. There are many good men who exist who are interested in marriage, monogamy, and providing. It's not rocked science. There is no theory to it. The men who are making you think that everyone cheats, everyone hates marriage, and everyone is 50/50 are the men who are on their phones all the time. There is a sea of men who are silent on all these topics and don't even know whatever online gender wars are going on and just want a normal traditional marriage like their dad had. If you work online, you will match up with men like you - who are living off of digital wars and opinion.

Perhaps it's because I grew up extremely out of touch with media consumption. The problem, in my opinion, is a lack of culture, independent thinking, and community. You don't need to pay $300 for a woman to tell you to dress well, learn some makeup skills, go to school, and go outside. You can do it yourself and achieve a lot more without someone whispering about "orange peeling theory," "red nail theory," and the like. It begins with common sense and perhaps an old-fashioned book or 2.

Most men of a decent or (I hate to use this word) 'high' calibre will not care about all the work you've put into your paid courses or the little games your fav influencer told you to play. It's a simple calculation that starts with personality, looks, education, and sociability.

Sometimes, you have to sit and piece together that the man meant for you isn't doom scrolling his socials for ways to attract a woman or low ball her. He's probably busy, very well employed, and really simple. He probably doesn't have a tiktok or IG. His mental gymnastics are landing onto something productive, not your fyp or your fav influencers' fyp.

A chronically un-online man from a decent upbringing will naturally provide and be normal. You're competing on the chess board of pornsick, easily influenced men who simultaneously also feed on the courses of other delusional men. You're choosing to build yourself up from influencer tok instead of real life, real women, and touching grass, and I feel like that's the largest fault within modern dating.

You will lose your best opportunities by heading face first with games, politics, and preconceived notions on courting instead of letting nature take its course and vetting from action thereafter. It's partially why I like tumblr. It's a lot smaller and rational. Less opportunity for the construction of a large-scale delusion around one everyday topic.

⭐️

[oftlunarialmoon]

Online Games for Age Regression - Free to Play Internet Games for Agere on a Budget

Ciao lovelies! Today’s blog post topic was requested by Bee via our request form! I am working my way through the others, thank you all for your suggestions so far! Today I’ll be sharing a collection of links I’ve found to online games you can play for free! A lot of age regressors are out here on a budget after all, and not all of us can afford to buy new games all the time. But playing our same old games can be boring after a while. Luckily with the ideas below, you can have plenty of free online games to try the next time you are small and bored! Alright, let’s dive into this list!

I want to begin the list with Educational Game sites. These will have a learning component in the games, as they’re intended to help teach kiddos cool new facts about the world! On this section we have:

Educational Games:

Cool Math Games https://www.coolmathgames.com/

USA Mint (currency) Learning Games https://www.usmint.gov/learn/kids/games

Math Playground https://www.mathplayground.com/

NASA Kids Club https://www.nasa.gov/learning-resources/nasa-kids-club/

National Geographic Kids https://kids.nationalgeographic.com/games

Animal Jam https://www.animaljam.com/en

ABCya! Learning Games https://www.abcya.com/

The next section I’ll go into are game sites based on tv, like shows or networks specifically.

Television Games:

Nick Jr https://www.nickjr.com/games

Nickelodeon https://www.nick.com/games

Disney https://disneynow.com/all-games

PBS https://pbskids.org/games

Cartoon Network https://www.cartoonnetworkhq.com/games

Boomerang TV https://www.boomerangtv.co.uk/games

Sesame Street https://www.sesamestreet.org/games

This next section is my favorite, and I’m sure tons of you will realize exactly why, and maybe you’ll have similar nostalgic memories. But let me lay out the scene here. Picture this, you’re in your room/computer room and it's friday night, you’ve just had pizza for dinner, Rihanna is playing on the radio and you’re about to do your favorite activity- dress up games! So nostalgic…

Dress Up Game Sites:

Doll Divine https://www.dolldivine.com/

Azaelea’s Dolls https://www.azaleasdolls.com/

Girls Go Games https://www.girlsgogames.com/

Picrew https://picrew.me/

Pastel Katto https://pastelkattogames.com/

Girl Games https://www.girlgames.com/

Dress Up Games https://www.dressupgames.com/

Meiker https://meiker.io/

eGirl Games https://www.egirlgames.net/

Dress Up https://www.dressup.com/

Lastly, here’s some more online games that I couldn’t figure out a special category for:

Unsorted:

Webkinz https://www.webkinz.com/

Chess Kid https://www.chesskid.com/

Poptropica https://www.poptropica.com/haxe/play/

Kidpix https://kidpix.app/

Webkinz Guide https://webkinzguide.com/wiki/Main_Page

Sanrio Daily https://www.sanrio.co.jp/dailyapps/

CBC Kids https://www.cbc.ca/kids/games

Landing https://app.landing.space/@kasaimoonfox

Wordle https://www.nytimes.com/games/wordle/index.html

I hope you found some new games today! Thank you again to Bee for suggesting this idea!

Thank you all for reading! If you’d like to find more OFT content, check out our official sites:

OFT Website: https://www.onlyfunthings.org/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/onlyfunthingsblog

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/onlyfunthingsblog/

TikTok: https://www.tiktok.com/@onlyfunthingsblog

YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC2McunegwpRjgAEz3Snc8wA

Redbubble: https://www.redbubble.com/people/lunariamoon/shop?asc=u

Twitch: https://www.twitch.tv/oftlunaria

Gumroad: https://lunarialmoon.gumroad.com/

Email: onlyfunthingsblog@yahoo.com

Tumblr: https://oftlunarialmoon.tumblr.com/

Amazon Affiliate: https://www.amazon.com/shop/onlyfunthings

Etsy: https://www.etsy.com/shop/OFTMerch

Thanks again for reading, please remember to stay awesome and love yourself!

[upswnel]

FRENCH AS IN...?

— gojo satoru x afab!reader, mutual pining, academic rivalish friends?, suggestive, collage au!

the evening found satoru and her lounging side by side in his apartment, having just wrapped up a grueling assignment.

the soft strains of françoise hardy's music filled the room, emanating from her phone, while he was engrossed in an intense online chess match.

as the song played on, she suddenly broke the silence. “hey, satoru, do you know french?”

he paused, momentarily confused. his attention had been so absorbed in the game that he hadn’t registered the music’s language, he was completely out of context. assuming she meant something different, he interpreted her question in a more... personal way.

what now, after insulting him non-stop and annoying him by saying no one will ever put up with his narcissistic, egoistic, insufferable, stupid character and how he'll probably die alone with his cat snow; she was suddenly interested in his personal life?

after a brief hesitation, he turned to face her, a confused look on his face. “uh, why do you ask?”

she shrugged, her gaze a little annoyed. she has always been jelaous of how well-rounded he was. he was not only the star player of the soccer team but the way he pulled off every single electric guitar solo she swooned over, the way he competed against her in one of the only fields she was assertive in, playing the piano. as if all these weren't enough, he still managed to keep her on her toes, threatening the academic throne she worked so hard to keep to herself.

“well, since there’s nothing you can’t do well and nothing you don’t know about, i just wondered if you know it too.” she admitted begrudgingly, the playful roll of her eyes made him question the whole ordeal even further.

but still assuming she was referring to something more intimate, he gave her a nonchalant shrug. “yeah, i know it.” he wasn’t quite sure why she was asking, but he figured he might as well answer.

her eyes lit up with excitement, and she leaned in closer. “really? could you tutor me? i’ve been dying to learn french! there were a couple of times i tried to finally give it a go but it always scared me off a little, you know?”

wow, okay.

satoru’s mind went blank. her request for a “french tutor” threw him off completely. he was momentarily distracted as his chess match ended with his opponent’s victory. shaking off his confusion, he turned back to her, processing the situation. “you want me to... teach you?”

she nodded, oblivious to the misunderstanding. “yeah! i’ve always wanted to learn. why do you look so surprised?” she let out a nervous chuckle.

satoru slowly leaned in closer, his heart racing. “are you sure about this?” she was taken aback by the sudden proximity, her cheeks flushing. “yes...?” she managed to reply. though, through her voice it was obvious she was slightly confused.

he reached for the water bottle beside him. "why do you wanna learn it anyway?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. he kept eye contact as the water flowed down his throat, cooling his senses a bit. why would someone want to learn it and ask for it? you get the hang of it when you... just do it with someone you want to... kiss, right? that's not something to ask of your... well certainly not someone you can't even name your relation with.

she pondered for a second. "well... it is very useful in some areas and i kinda like the way it sounds."

he almost choked. coughing as she patted on his back worriedly. "h- hey! are you okay? god, you can't even drink water properly."

he composed himself, clearing his throat before taking a glance at her out the corner of his eye.

well, she was certainly not the type to bring up this kind of topic, especially with him. his gaze lingered on her for a few seconds, the way she looked at him with those both despising and amused eyes; her lips forming a slight smirk as her hand still rested on his back.

he's gotta be honest. he really wondered how it would be like to kiss her. always so aloof and teasing, enjoying to have the upper-hand, nagging at him and making fun of him every chance she gets. the desire to have her putty in his hands made the adrenalin surge through his veins. she doesn't seem like the type to melt in his arms as his lips moved against hers though. but since she wants to learn it, does this mean she's completely inexperienced?

the imagary of her with burning cheeks and laboured breath made something snap in him. having her arms wrapped around his neck as he felt her heart pounding against his chest, the way she would feel so desperate to have his flushed lips on hers again, minds hazy with the dance of their tongues seconds ago but she just can't seem to get enough of his addicting taste you know? oh and the way his hands would slide up her sh-

hey! get a grip, man!

he shut his eyes and rubbed his temples before turning to face her. they just sat in silence for a few moments before he sighed and leaned in. "you want to... you sure?"

her hands found their place on his chest to make him keep his distance. was he acting weird or was it her? she couldn't quite understand his strange behaviour but she let out a hesitant 'yes'.

with that confirmation, he closed the gap between them, capturing her lips in a sweet, gentle kiss. his large hands on both sides of her face, his thumb caressing her cheek bones.

he wasn't even sure what he was doing. his mind was spinning with both perplexity and desire. why was he doing this? he just momentarily craved her touch but kissing her was like they had crossed a boundary they hadn’t intended to.

the initial contact was tender, but as he deepened the kiss, it grew more passionate, his tongue lightly brushing against hers. her eyes widened in shock, and she pulled away, her face burning bright red. “what- what are you doing?” she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.

satoru looked just as flustered, his own cheeks tinged pink. “well, didn’t you ask me to teach you french kissing?”

she was mortified, her mind racing as she realized the mix-up. “no, I meant french as in the language! i didn’t mean... that!” she hated how her stomach twisted and how something in her chest fluttered.

the room fell into a stunned silence. her gulps were audible though. neither of them could muster the words to comment on what had just happened. the unexpected kiss, combined with the misunderstanding, left them both too embarrassed to even tease each other.

satoru cleared his throat, his usual confident demeanor completely absent. “so, uh, we... we should probably just forget about this.”

she nodded quickly, still blushing furiously. “yes, definitely. i... i didn’t mean for any of that to happen.”

the air was thick with awkwardness, and despite the lingering embarrassment, there was a shared understanding that the situation was more than just a simple mix-up. and now, both were grappling with the newfound complexity of their feelings.

with a final awkward glance, they turned back to their respective tasks, the playful and teasing dynamic they once shared replaced with an uncertain, lingering tension. they had literally kissed, and the implications of that were far beyond their usual banter.

—

let me know if you want a steamier part two! ʕ•̀ω•́ʔ✧

[mangora]

I’m so tired here are some assorted Disventure Camp headcanons:

•Jake is really into poetry. Some of his poems are bangers, some of them are absolute dogshit. He posts some of them online, mostly the bad ones because he’s not self-aware of how bad they are. He will spend hours on end writing in his notes app. Guy is a big fan of sonnets and free verse but his strong suits are odes and villanelles

•Rosa María, James, Yul, Lake, Riya, Fiore, and Alec are all multilingual. Rosa speaks English and Spanish, James speaks Portuguese and English, Yul speaks Korean and English, Lake speaks German and English as well as some French, Riya speaks Hindi and English, Fiore speaks English and some Italian, and Alec speaks English as well as a variety of other languages (he did a minor in linguistics for his university degree so he knows the basics of multiple major languages).

•Hunter’s a competitive chess player. Ally’s the only person who’s ever beat him fair and square, but even then, that rarely happens

•Lake is great at baking. She’s incredibly exact when it comes to measurements, timing, and technique. Rosa, meanwhile, is a great cook and she doesn’t measure anything

•Aiden can play bass guitar. He started learning as a teenager because he wanted to join an emo band one day. Chase your dreams boy

•Yul used to have braces and he’s really embarrassed about it

•Gabby’s a forager, she loves to forage for wild fruit and mushrooms and greens

•Ellie’s kinda a ghoul in the kitchen. Like she can make good food and drinks but most of the time she’s so tired that she makes evil energy drink-instant coffee potions or like that pistachio & condensed milk concoction from Arthur

•In a better universe I think Ellie and Jake are frenemies instead of fully hating each other and they play Minecraft together and Ellie is constantly stealing Jake’s shit and trying to defeat the Ender Dragon meanwhile he screams every time he sees a Creeper and begs her to turn Keep Inventory on because he keeps dying

•Miriam gets a cat after the show. She’s an older white cat named Snowball and she has the same personality as her. They are best friends and Miriam is so annoyed by her. She made them matching sweaters. Snowball is only fully nice to Jake

•Fiore listens to Thrash Metal. It’s partially just to throw people off when they find out, she thinks it’s funny

•Fiore also enjoys those YouTube prank videos, she knows they’re fake they’re just so stupid that she finds them hilarious. Kristal gives her an iPad for a day one time for entertainment and it pisses the rest of the Magenta team off so bad because she keeps playing these prank videos and watching epic fail compilations at full volume

•Grett loves crocheting. She slowly turns into one of those people who crochets during lectures and while watching movies and shit

•James is really good at Tetris

•Ally is obsessed with Sci-Fi. She, Tess, and Hunter watch Star Trek, Doctor Who, and Star Wars together because they all love the worldbuilding so much. Tess writes fanfiction about almost everything they watch. Hunter has terrible media literacy and misses the themes every time but he has fun watching

•After All Stars, Riya gets really into tattoos. She gets matching ones with Connor

•People antagonize Tom with the cop slide video and every time he clenches his fist and goes, “Stop laughing at him.”

•Kai has a bunch of pet bugs. Maggy’s secretly afraid of them still but she’s getting there. She likes rollie pollies

•Karol used to do roller derby and Lill used to ice skate. Ggirlf,riends,,, I miss them chat. Where is my old woman yuri

•Aiden eats plain yogurt nothing on it and it’s the one thing James doesn’t like about him. Like it’s so upsetting to him. Why does he eat plain yogurt

•Ashley likes hyperpop, don’t tell anyone

•Tom likes crockpot food. He is not invited to potlucks for this reason. He will always bring the crockpot

•Alec doesn’t like splatter films but he really enjoys psychological horror, especially mockumentaries and mondo films

•Lake read creepypasta a lot as a kid and she wouldn’t go into the kitchen after dark because she was afraid of Jeff the Killer appearing at her fridge

[chesstrainer24]

5 Reasons Why Learning Chess Online is Perfect for Busy Minds

In today’s fast-paced world, it can be challenging to find time for hobbies or activities that require focus and concentration. Chess, a game that requires strategic thinking and mental agility, is often seen as a pastime for those with plenty of free time. However, with the rise of online chess learning, busy individuals now have the opportunity to sharpen their minds and improve their chess skills without sacrificing their hectic schedules. Whether you’re an experienced player or a beginner, learning chess online offers flexibility, convenience, and a personalized experience that fits into even the busiest of routines. In this blog, we’ll explore the top 5 reasons why learning chess online is perfect for busy minds.

Flexible Chess Learning: Fit Chess into Your Busy Schedule

Why Learn Chess Online: Flexibility is Key

One of the primary benefits of online chess classes is the flexibility they offer. Traditional chess lessons often require students to follow a strict schedule, which can be difficult to maintain if you have a demanding job, family commitments, or other responsibilities. On the other hand, online chess platforms allow you to learn at your own pace, whenever and wherever it suits you.

With online chess for busy people, you have the freedom to choose when to play and study. You can fit in a quick 15-minute lesson during your lunch break, or spend an hour learning new strategies after work. This flexibility allows you to progress in your chess skills without feeling overwhelmed by the demands of a busy life.

Time-Saving Chess Classes

Another advantage of learning chess online is the ability to save time. Time-saving chess classes are designed to be efficient, providing you with concise lessons that maximize learning in minimal time. This way, you don’t have to spend hours commuting to a chess club or classroom – all you need is a device with internet access, and you’re good to go. Whether you’re at home, in a café, or during your commute, online chess lessons can easily fit into your day.

Chess Learning for Busy Minds: Mental Stimulation on Your Terms

Benefits of Online Chess Classes: Engage Your Mind Anytime

Chess learning for busy minds is an ideal way to keep your brain sharp and engaged. Many people struggle to find time for intellectual stimulation outside of their work, and learning chess online provides a way to challenge your mind in a focused and structured manner. The beauty of online chess for busy people is that you can fit it into your schedule without pressure.

Studies show that chess helps improve cognitive abilities such as problem-solving, pattern recognition, and strategic thinking. These skills transfer well to other areas of life, making chess an excellent tool for personal development. By learning chess online, you’re not only improving your game but also exercising your brain and enhancing your mental agility.

Play Chess Online for Beginners: A Perfect Starting Point

If you’re new to chess and have a packed schedule, playing chess online for beginners is an ideal way to get started. Many online chess platforms offer step-by-step tutorials and beginner-friendly lessons, allowing you to gradually build your skills without feeling overwhelmed. You can start with simple puzzles and strategies, then move on to more complex tactics as your understanding of the game deepens. The flexible chess learning process ensures that you can progress at your own pace, no matter how busy your life may be.

Access to the Best Online Chess Programs

Online Chess Coaching Advantages: Learn from the Best

When you choose to learn chess online, you gain access to top-tier chess coaches and resources that might not be available in your local area. Best online chess programs offer coaching from grandmasters, chess masters, and other highly skilled players. This access allows you to learn from the best, no matter where you live.

Moreover, online chess coaching advantages extend beyond just having access to expert teachers. Online programs often include interactive features, such as personalized feedback, video tutorials, and real-time analysis of your games. These resources are designed to give you a comprehensive understanding of chess while accommodating your busy lifestyle.

Why Choose Online Chess: Expert Guidance at Your Fingertips

One of the key reasons why online chess is such a great option for busy people is the availability of expert guidance right at your fingertips. With online chess coaching, you can get personalized lessons that cater to your skill level and learning goals. Whether you’re looking to improve your opening game, master endgames, or develop advanced tactics, online chess programs provide tailored content to help you succeed.

Continue Reading: https://chesstrainer.com/5-reasons-why-learning-chess-online-is-perfect-for-busy-minds/

[gayassbish]

Genshin Guys as Your New Bestie. Highschool AU

Genre: Platonic of course and very much so crack

Reader: Gender Neutral | References to “girly pop” in Childe and Kaeya’s Part

Characters: Diluc, Zhongli, Childe and Kaeya, Alhaitham, Bennet, Xinqiu and Chongyun, Xiao

Diluc-

The kid who raises his hand and asks a bunch of questions, but still manages to not come of nerdy, but intelligent. He doesn’t talk to anyone in class and some other kids in class thinks he’s arrogant cause of it. Like “he’s too smart for us vibes.” You, on the other hand, know better than to trust the rumors and actually get to know his ass. That is lie, I can’t imagine anyone walking up to his emo self unless you’re the most extroverted person on the planet. He also definitely plays chess online in his chromebook 24/7.

Butttt you do end up sitting next to him as your seating arrangements change every semester or so. You say hi like a normal person and he sorta just grunts?? Terrible first impression, but you realize he’s very kind. Always picking up your fallen pencils, sharing homework answers with out you asking, and you end up getting a long pretty well once you find your stuff in common.

P.S. He’d 100% drive you around everywhere

Zhongli-

A popular dude cause he’s handsome ig and the fucking valedictorian. Plus he manages to know everything without coming off like a know it all, so he is generally well received by everyone and helps basically everyone out. Has a 10000 IQ and a calculator for a brain too. Probably wears granny glasses.

So… you’re at your part time job and notice him coming in. You immediately hide cause you don’t know him like that (yet) and don’t want to be remembered as “oh they’re the person who works there.” One of your coworkers helps him out instead while you secretly spy and realize he’s not as smart as he looks?? He is very much so only book smart and has no street cred what so ever. He looks so lost as to why he can’t take whatever y’all sell now and pay latter. He honestly gives your coworker a hard time. (rip coworker </3) You eventually help out and he recognizes you!! You learn he has an excellent memory and actually knows your name. And viola now your the person who he can go to for financial means. Have fun!

P.S You drive him everywhere…

Childe & Kaeya-

They’re those loud kids in the back who don’t shut up. I want to say they’re pant saggers but I know I would get canceled. (They so are though.) Anywho, you end up being forced to sit next to them and they like start flirting of sum shit idk?

But you’re girly pop and you don’t take that crap. After you put them in their place and educate them on how they shouldn’t talk to anyone that way like some cat calling NPC, they start to really respect you?? Well to be fair you don’t know if they’re scared of you or are just putting on an act.

Y’all get closer as you stop a lot of fights that happen between them and do your best to quiet them down in class.

And they kinda just drag you to places. Once you lost a bet and were forced to go shopping with them. (If you didn’t show up, they threatened to upload a photo of you sleeping in class onto their social media.) At the mall… Childe started to pick fights with the security guard (he claims it’s the other way around but we both know it was him) and Kaeya DOES NOTHING?? He just records the whole thing while giggling like an idiot. Y’all get banned from the mall. They do nothing but apologize on the way to your house (they picked and dropped you off.) It didn’t work cause you didn’t talk to them for a month after that.

P.S. Kaeya actually has really good fashion taste and was the one the blackmail you because he wanted to Project MakeOver you??

Alhaitham-

He’s an obnoxious, self-centered asshole to everyone and you do your best to avoid him until you’re stuck together for a group project.

Even though you know to the rumors about him, you still introduce yourself like a person with manners would… BUT he cuts you off. Immediately orders that he will do the project by himself entirely. And while you would usually take that deal (cause who wouldn’t, let’s be honest) you CANNOT stand the disrespect from this MAN. You guys start arguing until the teacher has to break it up between y’all and fucking Alhaitham is just like “I’ve never been so embarrassed infront of a teacher,” as if he didn’t start the fight. smh

Anyways, it’s really rough between you guys and it’s now presentation day. After you guys present, Alhaitham turns out rather pleased with your part, and though he would NEVER admit it to you (or even himself) you actually did better on your part than he would’ve if he went solo. At the end of class, he apologizes for being so cold at first. He explains how he hasn’t had the best group partners and almost always does all the work. He asks if you’d be okay working together again.

P.S. If you said yes, y’all would turn into an unstoppable duo. And if you said no THEN GOOD. He needs a lesson.

Bennett-

You definitely decided to just look after him once you saw him drop his phone, bag, papers, and himself down the stairs multiple times. You’re basically his bodyguard atp. You literately carry around extra bandaids cause of him omg. You guys have a bunch of classes together so it’s easy for y’all to get a long. You help protect him from bullies (Bennett just attracts the worst kinds of people) and he starts to think you’re his lucky charm.

Basically starts to worship you?? Invites you to hang out in his friend group of misfits featuring Razor, Barbra, and Fischl. They play DnD during lunch too and drag you into it. Honestly it turns into a cult with you as their leader. At the end of the school year, the five of you pull a bunch of pranks on the kids who were messing with Bennet.

P.S. The cult had a name: Lord Y/N’s Pimps. Barbra came up with it because she thought calling someone a pimp was a form on endearment… the name ended up just sticking.

Xingqiu & Chongyun-

They’re those fucking kids who won’t shut up about Harry Potter or Star Wars or sum shit. Luckily for them, you can be just as geeky. You fit in pretty well with them.

Y’all met after you went off on them for spoiling the new Star Wars movie and eventually bonded over your love for those space ninjas. You get invited to watch movies and join the arcade with them 24/7. You join in on Xinqiu’s bullying of Chongyun and in turn actually out smart Xinqiu. So it balances out. They love you cause they probably get tired of each other after a lot of their own fights, but you’re always there to ground them <3

P.S BY FARRR the best people to go trick or treating with on halloween.

Xiao-

The kid who never got out of ‘emo skater boy phase’. A lot of people think he’s cool, but he doesn’t have many (tbh any) friends for two reasons. One, he’s hard to approach, and two, he’s socially awkward as fawkk.

You guys have been going to the same school for years, but never actually talked to each other until you saw him playing The Legend of Zelda on the switch. You ask to watch and he kinda just scoots over without saying anything. Weird, but you bring up how nostalgic it is to see people from back in the day to when everyone still wet their pants to how they’ve changed now. Xiao just kinda mumbles in response. He actually doesn’t want the conversation to end and sorta just awkwardly asks how you’re weekend was on a tuesday…

Once you learn he’s not as scary as he looks and is secretly a big giant marshmallow on the inside, you guys get a long pretty well. Then when he gets more comfortable with your presence, he’s so much more less awkward (a sign that he trusts you) and his real personality will start to blossom. You guys go to the park a lot and feed the ducks (WITH real duck food, may I add, and not the nasty expired bread). You guys play on the swings and exchange playlists/sound recommendations.

P.S. You wonder if he actually knows how to ride a skateboard because he’s one of those skater boys who actually just brings a skateboard with them everywhere while they never use it?? Like we get it. You have legs for a reason but then why bring the skateboard if you’re just gonna walk.

And you get closer to them all once they trauma dump on you </3

A/N: My first post wowowow | 11/01/2023

[loverartists]

All about me!!

My future OC: "Hi! Welcome to my "All About Me" blog!"

"💗Have a wonderfully special day!💗"

Hello everyone! I hope you all are having a great day!! This is my official "All About Me" blog.

In this blog, there will be designs from Canva that I will be making about the following:

My basic personal info

Other social media that I use

My hobbies/talents

My likes (What I like), and dislikes (What I do not like)

Do's (What you can do) and don'ts (What you cannot do)

And the extras! (Excluded from this "All About Me" page. Why? Because it is an "Ask Me Anything" thing! Note that my "Ask Me Anything" is instead "Got Any Questions? 💝".)

Before we start, please note that you can "Ask Me Anything" if you are curious to know more about me! And I am sorry if the Canva designs are a bit low quality. And note to keep your OWN BAD OPINIONS TO YOURSELF! Only if they are bad. No one will care! I am not trying to start a fight with people that have no life but insult people!

Here we go:

My basic personal info:

Here we have my basic personal info. Well... Half of it.

My real name for now will be unspecified. You will see why in one of the next slides.

I know, I have a lot of nicknames. The few nicknames that I mainly have are Angela, Angie, Melissa, Angel, Mary, Kataxe (Kataxe is my game name), etc.. You name it! All you got to do, is just ask!

I am a teenager, 15 years old.

I am a girl/female. Which means I use she/her pronouns.

My birthday is on October 5th which means that I'm a Libra.

My few of all the favorite colors that I have are lavender, lilac, baby blue, sky blue and all those shades of the cutesy colors.

For example, these colors (This is just an example!):

2. My Basic Personal Info (Part 2):

(A reminder to please keep your "Against LGBTQ+" opinions to YOURSELF and YOURSELF ONLY.)

Here is the other half of my basic personal info.

I am demisexual, demiromantic and panromantic but I am NOT FULLY sure yet.

My spirit animal is a wolf, those fluffy adorable "cousin to dogs" man's best friend.

My height is basically average, 5 feet, 6 inches and a half.

Since I am a libra, libras are wind signs which means my elemental spirit is wind.

I was born in Canada and I am still living in Canada my whole life.

I am a Christian. (Christianity)

(Please note that I have no "against religion" thing. Everyone is different. Even you and me, if you are reading this.)

3. Other social medias that I use:

Here are all the other social medias that I use. Here are all the links to all of my social medias (More will be added soon in the future!):

My YouTube Channel from YouTube: (AngelaPlayzChess or @AngelaHereXD): https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=AngelaPlayzChess

Chess.com: https://www.chess.com/member/angelaplayzchess

My Chess.com club: https://www.chess.com/club/angelaplayzchess-friends-and-peace  

Chesskid.com: EvenJitteryCurl

Lichess.org: https://lichess.org/@/Paury31 

My Lichess Club: https://lichess.org/team/angelaplayzchess-friends-and-fans 

Discord:

Display name: "AngelaPlayzChess"

Username: angela_darling

Originally known as: AngelaPlayzChess#0316

Discord server: COMING SOON!

Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/angelaherexd 

Pinterest (Posting Canva Stuff that I gave to my friends): https://www.pinterest.ca/AngelaHereXD/ 

Duolingo (Currently learning French, Spanish and improving my Chinese): https://www.duolingo.com/profile/AngelaHereXD 

Twitch: https://www.twitch.tv/angelaherexd 

The reason why my real name is unknown for now is because I am doing a subscriber goal. At 500 subscribers, I will reveal my name in chess.com. But I will also reveal my name here!

4. My Hobbies:

Everyone has a lot of hobbies, some same, some different, even me!

My following few hobbies out of all of them are:

Helping other people

Making logos from Canva for my friends online mostly in Chess.com

Art/drawing

Fulfilling my goals/wishes

Being a YouTuber/editing my own videos to hope to be famous one day

Chess

Helping other animals

Organizing

Spreading positivity

5. My Talents:

Everyone has many talents, some more, some less, but you should never compare yourself to other people. We are all different people with different talents.

Some of mine are:

Photographic memory

Critical/creative thinking

Creativity

Fast learning

Quick reaction

Hard worker (Sometimes)

High IQ (144)

Calm even in the worst situations

Turning things into a motivated game to concentrate better

Singing

Hiding feelings/acting

All of my other hobbies

8. Likes:

It is okay to dislike what other people like. Not everyone has to like everything.

I have a lot, such as:

Cute/aesthetic things

The good/positivity

Anything good and positive

Having friends

Good people

Geography

My hobbies/talents

Spreading kindness

The Amazing Digital Circus

Murder Drones

Helluva Boss

Hazbin Hotel

Welcome Home

9. Disilkes:

There are a lot of things that I dislike. And it is okay to not some things. It is a normal part of life.

Such as:

Creeps/freaks

Entitled people/any time of bad person

Being abandoned

Cringey kid shows/songs

Inappropriate things

Sexual/romantic things (Most of the time)

Injections/vaccines/blood draws

Being left out

Being put on the spot

Depression/negativity

Annoyance

Being watched

Heights (Sometimes)

10. Do's:

Of course, there are always some do's and don'ts.

You can DO the following:

Ask me anything! (Question and Answer, anytime, anywhere!)

Be friends with me! (I would love to talk to new people! Especially from around the world!)

Follow, reblog, and like my posts (Who does not love being popular? Unless if it is in a bad way.)

SFW! (Safe for work! Do not want anything too spicy around. Plus, I am a minor!)

Give me ideas/suggestions! (I would love to hear your creative ideas and suggestions to improve myself!)

11. Don'ts:

And last but not least, you CANNOT do the following:

Ask me questions that are WAY TOO PERSONAL

Be a creep/freak/etc...

Insult my blogs (Keep your useless opinions to yourself!)

NSFW (Not safe for work, if you are addicted to some 18+ unhealthy stuff you P3DO!)

Force me to do something that I do not want to do (What are you doing to do about it? Come to my house? Ohh noooo I am so scared [sarcastic]. Get a life.)

12. End (Goodbye):

My future OC: "Bye! Have a lovely day and thank you for reading my "All About Me" blog!"

Thank you so much for reading my "About Me" blog! I hope you can give me a like, follow, reblog and share! Have an amazing rest of your day!

Got any questions or/and suggestions? "Ask Me Anything" or comment!

(This "About Me" blog will have an update at 200 followers! Happy 100 followers ya'll!!!

[gustavgiles]

It's time to put Way Too Much Thought into cats playing chess

Or: an overanalysis of this short, in which I try to find a story where one doesn't exist, and also I leave vapid dribblings about my favorite ship (Vikdecai!!!) everywhere because Fuck You That's Why.

TL;DR: Viktor wants Mordecai bishop. Viktor takes Mordecai bishop.

First off, some caveats: 1.) I'm actually pretty fucking bad at chess. I'm going to offer some commentary on their game later, and although I'm going to put on a very confident face in the interest of making this entertaining to read, you should know that I'm *probably* wrong about lots of stuff, and I'm *definitely* going to massage the analysis to make a story out of it.

2.) I don't think anybody ever intended for the chess board to stand up to scrutiny, since Mordecai's queen and king are the wrong way around and the a2 square (Mordecai's pawn in front of his leftmost rook) is black when it should be white, showing that the chess board is set up sideways:

...But as a Vikdecai shipper I am eminently practiced in the art of expending ridiculous amounts of brainpower reading patterns and subtext where they don't exist. So! Let us sally bravely forth, heedless of the futility of our efforts.

First, a reconstruction of the board, or at least a realistic position that's close to what's presented (the obvious change to make is to put Mordecai's king and queen the right way round). The screenshot above gives us a pretty good idea of what Mordecai's half of the board is; we can combine this with the opposing shot of Viktor to learn some things:

Both of Mordecai's bishops have been captured, so the first shot of Mordecai actually shows the positions of all of White's pieces. Then White's board looks something like this:

Viktor's side of the board is a lot harder to construct because the angle's quite poor, so let's start again with Mordecai's shot and see what we can do. One of his bishops has been captured; from Viktor's shot we can see it's his dark-squared bishop (light-squared in the short because remember, the square colors are backwards in the animation). He's just taken a White bishop on b3 with his knight (presumably the queenside Knight, since the position looks quite early), and he's got a pawn butting up against the White e4 pawn, but it looks like no other pawns contesting the center. So let's lock rows 1-5 of the board down as something like this:

Now the guesswork begins. Black's kingside pawn structure looks unchanged, and his kingside Knight is developed somewhat, I'm going to assume to f6. I have absolutely no idea what the hell's going on with his queenside pawn structure. His d-column pawn is no longer in the d column, but it hasn't been captured? We can see from this shot that he's got two pawns on row 5 (side note look how CLOSE TOGETHER they are in this shot they're MERE INCHES from KISSING):

...*ahem*. So let's assume that his d-rank pawn was pushed to d6, then captured something on c5. That lines up with his shot where we can see an advanced pawn on a light square (so dark in our correctly-colored reconstruction). Then the final board position looks something like this:

After all that work I was super excited to plug this into some online chess databases and find out if it actually matched any historical games...

...Only to be quite disappointed. But wait! If we roll back one move, before Viktor initiates the bishop<>knight exchange that's put such a bee in Mordecai's bonnet, we *do* get something: Olga Dolzhikova vs. Nikolay Bodnar in a 1998 correspondence game.

That game ended in a draw, though Viktor and Mordecai's might not have, after Viktor's divergence. Getting to that would be jumping the gun, though. First, let us stray even further from the folds of probable reality and assume that Viktor and Mordecai played *exactly* this game, which lets us crack on with the narrativizing:

First we have e4...e5, a very standard opener:

Then Mordecai bares his teeth with the Vienna Game:

The Vienna Game is quietly threatening, but at this point noncommittal. The idea here is to threaten pushing a pawn to f4, making an immediate and aggressive play for the center. Of course, we know from the position we reconstructed earlier that this *doesn't* happen. So was Mordecai just posturing, or did Viktor manage to defuse the threat?

Viktor plays Nc6, the Max Lange Defence:

Which takes the fangs out of the Vienna Gambit. Pawn to f4 is most dangerous when Black plays Nf6 rather than Nc6 because there's a nasty trap line to the intuitive response from Black, namely e5xf4 followed by e4 e5, which forces the f6 knight back into its hidey-hole and allows White uncontested control of the center, where he can set a whole slew of hazards for Black to step into trying to get out of the cramped back rank.

None of that matters since Viktor played the Max Lange.

Perhaps Mordecai chose the Vienna Game hoping to catch Viktor, whom he suspects has no formal chess education, with his pants down (yes that wording is very much intentional); it seems Viktor's wise to the tricks, though.

The game continues with Bc4:

So Mordecai settles in for the long haul and plays for the center in a more reserved way, now preventing Viktor from moving his d pawn by threatening d5 with three separate pieces. Viktor responds with...

The Copycat Variation?????

Once when I was a young child who was tired of getting their ass beat by their dad in chess, I decided "fuck it" and just mirrored the moves he made. We ended up in this exact position.

My dad played Qg4. I suspect his intention was that if Black continues copying and plays Qg5, then White takes g5xg4 and now White's up a queen. So Black can no longer mirror White's move; if Black was *actually* just brainlessly copying White, then this forces them to stop it and think about what they're doing, and Black will wind up adrift with no real gameplan. Easy pickings.

Of course, that's assuming your opponent is an actual literal child, which might not be the case. It's not like this position isn't one that a serious player would never wind up in; much like the board is symmetrical, the advantage is symmetrical, and I believe the Vienna Game, Copycat Variation is considered generally even.

So there's a distinct possibility that Viktor *does* know what he's doing, and he's just decided to play the Copycat Variation for whatever reason.

Maybe that reason is because he knows Mordecai will be pleased by the symmetry and he likes seeing Mordecai happy.

Mordecai chooses to play d2 d3 instead of developing his queen:

Is this... begrudging respect?? Another compact push for the center instead of a trap with the queen. Granted it's not much respect, the only assumption you have to make is that your opponent isn't a total idiot with the chess ability of a toddler, but still! My Partner's Not an Idiot With an Underdeveloped Brain! That's the first small kernel that leads to the blossoming of a beautiful marriage friendship!

Viktor continues with a conventional sort of play, developing his knight:

And Mordecai pushes his bishop to e3, offering an exchange of bishops:

I'm not sure what Mordecai's going for here; the obvious line for Black is now c5xe3...f2xe3, which is still pretty much a dead even position. Maybe he thinks a more open center will let him outmaneuver Viktor?

It doesn't matter, anyways; Viktor doesn't take the exchange, instead pushing a pawn up to defend against the threat while keeping the exchange open:

"No." Viktor says obstinately. "You come to me."

At first glance I thought this was just *worse* than Viktor taking the exchange, and I was watching Viktor hurt himself by being obdurate about not dancing to Mordecai's beat. My thought was that now we'll see e3xc5...d6xc5 and Viktor will lack a pawn on the d column, denying him potential center influence...

But on second examination, the d column pawn was already pretty locked down, and now his queen and bishop are opened up. The positions are still even, but that was a surprisingly deft way of not initiating the exchange.

Mordecai rolls his eyes and does what he was going to do anyway:

And Viktor, satisfied that Mordecai had to take the first step, gladly reciprocates:

With that little do-si-do out of the way, Mordecai continues developing his pieces:

And Viktor makes a mistake:

It's not the end of the world, but it's still not amazing -- Stockfish (a chess computer) evaluates Viktor's previous position at -0.1, meaning pretty much even but with an imperceptible advantage for black (more negative means black has more advantage, more positive means white has more advantage), while it evaluates this position at +0.3, a 0.4 point swing.

Insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but the largest difference in this game so far has only been 0.2 points, so this is a change in advantage twice as large as anything that's happened before.

Back to the game: the obvious intent here was to threaten the c4 bishop with his knight, but not only did he have to lower the threat level on d4 to do it, but he's also pushed his knight to the edge of the board where it's quite boxed in.

The threat against the bishop is idle, as well; the bishop can simply retreat to b3, still threatening d5 but making the exchange unappetizing for Black, since then a5xb3...a2xb3 results in an even exchange of material for a slightly better White position.

It's an odd misstep for how solid Viktor's been playing so far.

Mordecai, testing the waters, retreats his bishop:

And Viktor takes the bait, pushing the evaluation to +0.5 and realizing the losing exchange:

Mordecai's perception is unravelling now. He's slowly coming to the conclusion that Viktor doesn't know the Vienna Game. He doesn't know the term 'Max Lange Defense'. Maybe he played the Copycat Variation for shits and fucking giggles, or because he wanted to make a joke about Mordecai's predilection for geometric perfection.

Viktor has not been driven by tactical acumen and a surprisingly agile intellect, carefully considering all variables before picking lines of play. He has not been carrying on a delicately intricate wordless conversation with Mordecai.

Viktor's been putting pieces Wherever the Fuck He Wants because Fuck You, That's Why.

And Mordecai is *incensed* by this because he can't stop imagining Viktor pursuing him with that same brutish efficacy Viktor's almost kept pace with him while putting in 5% of the work and brainpower.

"Wait," Mordecai says.

"*What* is that?"

[kebriones]

Olympians but they're a modern family AU

Zeus has got a personal war going on with electrical outlets.

He's like "Hera, I can make the toaster work, why are you plugging in in, why are you disrespecting me like that do you hate me, do you think this thing in the wall is more capable than your husband??"

Athena is a seasoned Wikipedia editor and she plays on online chess championships while editing .

Artemis has a collection of bows and they no longer fit in her room so she's getting all her girlfriends to help her build an archery storage house in the garden

Ares also likes chess but lately he's been focused on learning every martial art. He likes the weapon properties of spray bottles.

Hermes is building an email adress provider company that will be superior to everything else. It will be quite literally divine. No more spam emails. Full customization.

Apollo rescues rats. He puts super bright LEDs everywhere. He complains whenever the sound system at a place isn't up to his standards.

[covid-safer-hotties]

THE OTHER SIDE: Knee-deep in COVID - Published Aug 25, 2024

As recent statistics demonstrate, the COVID virus is ever adaptable. And, as a result, we are engaged in an incredibly complex chess match with a worthy viral opponent where the losers get sick.

It is sometimes hard for me to know where I am. I spent last week trying to keep my mind from being buried beneath a Trumpian avalanche of lies, mad rantings, and rapid fire recriminations. And trying to keep up and hold onto truth often taxed my mental capacity while eluding the abilities of even the most professional fact-checkers.

This week, I am coping with the seemingly collective decision to pretend the COVID epidemic is gone. And unless you are one of those healthcare workers treating those still getting sick, or a medical researcher, or a quirky journalist, you are surrounded by those who don’t want to go back to working at home, online learning, Zoom calls, and hand sanitizers, to the fear and loathing. Especially not to masking. There are now so many Americans unwilling to accept, and deal with, the inconvenient knowledge that COVID remains airborne, and can be so easily spread in indoor spaces by both those who know they’re sick and those who don’t.

There isn’t a politician who really wants to remind the voters that COVID is still around, that the COVID summer surge was worse than predicted, or that everyone who really knows is doing their best to perfect the best possible COVID vaccine to lessen the effects of the fall/winter surge and focus in on the variant that will cause the most damage to public health.

The Mayo Clinic offers a wealth of information about “FLiRT and why you may need a new COVID-19 vaccination.”

Read the full, expansive article at either link!