#and even then. it times time to organize a team and get an OR up and running

[internetdaddy98]

Checkmate

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Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!SeniorResident!Reader Summary: The aftermath of the kiss simmers beneath the surface of the ER like a live wire, crackling just out of sight. Dr. Robby and Dr. Sheridan haven’t spoken since the night in the alley, but the silence between them is deafening. Word Count: 1.4 K Content Warning: 18+ MDNI, Explicit Content, Explicit Language, Medical procedures, will most likely be medically inaccurate at times, unresolved tension.

There was an unspoken charge in the air that made everyone sharper, edgier, like a thunderstorm was coiled somewhere in the hallways. And at the center of it were Dr. Sheridan and Dr. Robby, both too quiet, too stiff, and too carefully avoiding each other’s eyes.

They hadn’t spoken since the alleyway.

Since the kiss.

Since the pull of years of restraint finally snapped and Robby had pushed you away, not because he didn’t want you, but because he did.

Now, under the clinical glare of the ER, everything they hadn’t said the night before was screaming in the space between them.

You stood at the workstation, hoodie off, stethoscope looped around your neck, typing through a patient chart. Calm. Focused. Barely a flicker of emotion on your face.

Robby walked past you to grab a tablet, not meeting your eyes.

Dana noticed it before lunch.

She was many things, charge nurse, ER gatekeeper, queen of organized chaos, but above all, Dana was observant. She noticed the way Robby’s voice dropped a degree colder when he addressed you that morning. She noticed the micro-expressions that flickered across your face whenever he gave an order, a clench of your jaw, a tightness in your posture.

And she noticed Robby, usually steady, controlled, slow to anger, snapping at interns and pacing like a caged animal.

At noon, she cornered Langdon.

“Something’s up with those two,” she muttered. Langdon raised a brow. “You think they finally—”

“I don’t know what they did,” Dana said, folding her arms. “But if they keep this up, someone’s going to bleed.”

She wasn’t wrong.

The trauma bay doors flung open, a GSW to the abdomen, male, 20s, hypotensive, intubated in the field. The trauma team mobilized fast. Robby took the lead, you beside him, Santos and Whittaker flanking.

“Prep for laparotomy,” Robby snapped. “He’s actively bleeding out.”

“He’s stable enough for CT,” you pushed, already reviewing vitals. “We need imaging, if we open him without knowing the path, we might waste time.”

“We don’t have time.”

“You’re not listening”

“I said we’re doing the laparotomy,” Robby barked, eyes sharp. His voice cracked across the trauma bay like thunder, silencing everyone in earshot.

You stepped back, stunned silent for a breath.

The patient’s blood dripped onto the floor. Nurses moved faster. Santos shot you a side glance that said do not escalate this here. And you, with your heart hammering, clenched your jaw and stepped back, swallowing the fury that rose like bile in your throat.

It wasn’t about the patient. Not entirely.

It was about you.

About what had happened. About what they’d let happen.

About everything he was trying not to feel. By the end of the shift, you were suffocating. You hadn’t eaten. You hadn’t breathed. You were sick of pretending you were fine.

He waited for you near the ambulance bay, leaning against his car like a shadow waiting to snatch you. You barely had time to process it before Robby caught you by the sleeve just outside his car.

He didn’t blink. “We need to talk. Get in the car.”

You stared at him, arms crossed, defiant. “I don’t take orders off shift.”

“That wasn’t a request.”

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

The car ride was unbearable.

The tension was a noose. His hands gripped the steering wheel too tightly. Your arms were crossed, gaze fixed out the window. Not even the radio dared to play. For ten full minutes, nothing was said. Only the hum of the tires on wet asphalt and the storm churning between them. You sat beside him, arms folded, heart hammering. The air between you was too quiet, too dense. You could feel him there, the nearness of him, the warmth radiating off his body. It burned.

You finally exhaled. “Are you going to pretend forever that nothing happened?”

Robby pulled the car down and parked in the alleyway of a closed flower shop. The street was empty. The only sound was the ticking of the engine.

“I’ve spent three years telling myself I’m your mentor. Your advocate. Someone who’s supposed to keep you safe. And then I—” he stopped, exhaled, ran a hand through his hair. “And then I kissed you like I’ve wanted to do for the past goddamn year.”

You stared at him, throat tight. “So what now? You push me away again? Pretend it didn’t happen?”

“I’m trying to protect you from me.”

“Well, don’t,” you said softly. “Because it’s too late.”

You leaned toward him, voice low. “You think I don’t know? That you look at me like I’m some innocent thing you want to break?”

He swallowed hard.

“You already did,” you whispered. “And I’d let you do it again.”

He leaned into you like a magnet being called home. Your mouths met with bruising force, years of restraint shattering. His hands tangled in your hair, yours clawed at his hoodie. The windows fogged. His breath was ragged against your skin. You gasped when he kissed the space just beneath your ear, and he moaned your name like it was a confession.

Your hand curled around the back of his neck, tugging him to your mouth again. The kiss was messy this time, desperate. His hands found your hips, dragged you across the console like he needed you there, like he couldn’t breathe unless you were closer.

Your mouths moved in sync, raw and full of hunger. You moaned into his mouth when his hands slipped beneath your shirt, palms dragging up the warm skin of your back. His breath stuttered when your fingers dipped beneath the waistband of his pants.

His mouth trailed down your neck, and you gasped. “Michael…”

The sound of your voice, his name — not Dr. Robinavitch, not Robby, but Michael, it made something break open in him.

He groaned, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath ragged. “We have to stop.”

You froze against him.

He was panting. Torn.

“If we don’t stop now, I won’t,” he said, voice gravel-thick. “And you deserve better than the front seat of my Subaru.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against your skin. “God, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you breathed. “Please. Please. Don’t stop.”

And he didn’t.

Their clothes were tugged, shifted, pulled aside in desperation. Your breath hitched when his hands slid up to cup your breasts, over your ribs, your chest. His mouth followed, teeth grazing, lips soothing. You clawed at his collar, fingers shaking. Your head fell back when he whispered your name against your throat.

When you reached down and freed him from his waistband, he groaned into your shoulder, hands trembling.

“This is insane,” he panted. “This is, fuck, Y/N—”

“I want you,” you said. “I want you,”

You guided him with a slow grind of your hips and he caught your mouth in his just as he slid inside. The sound you both made was guttural, shock and relief and need colliding all at once.

Robby held you in a tight embrace, had you constricted against him as he rocked into you, as you continued riding him. Your eyes shut and mouth open in a moan, you throw your head back to expose the long column of your throat. The windows fogged. The car rocked. Your gasps filled the small space like a secret song. He kissed you like he wanted to ruin you and worship you all at once, rough and desperate and sacred.

It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t pretty.

It was honest.

And when you came, buried in his shoulder, biting his neck, he followed seconds later, breaking with a sound he’d never made before. Like something inside him had finally cracked wide open.

When you finally pulled back, lips swollen, hair mussed, breath uneven, you met his gaze and asked quietly, “Now what?”

He rested his forehead against yours, breath shaky.

“Now?” he said softly.

“I try not to fall in love with you.”

Too late.

-------------------------------------------------------------------- Want to join the taglist? shoot me a comment! @rosiepoise88 @nosebeers

[goorgeousz]

misconduct | aaron hotchner

after hours au

misconduct | aaron hotchner

after hours au

pairing: aaron hotchner x profiler!female!reader

summary: after a case, hotch interrogates you about your misconduct.

content/tw: mention of blood and wounds (not too descriptive, but a little), death (of the unsub); angsty

word count: 1.9k

a/n: hope you enjoy this one, I never wrote something so fast! the idea came to me in a shower. I tried not to focus too much on the case itself but more on the relationship boss x employee. Oh yeah, it’s not all fun and giggles (just mostly). hope you enjoy it <3

after hours masterlist

main masterlist

The red and blue police lights were a nice contrast with the dark sky. There were so many cars, so many lights, so many sounds, so many people. If you squint your eyes just enough it would almost seem like you were at a party. Without the music and with the blood, of course. And without the medical team on either side of you making sure you weren’t concussed.

Someone, someday, warned you about disassociation. How it could be a way for your mind to cope with intense pain, both physical and emotional, by temporarily detaching itself from the experience. Was it Spencer? Probably. Or maybe Morgan. Perhaps both? Yes, that was it. You didn’t believe it when Derek told you about it, but then Spencer intervened with some scientific facts that eventually ended up selling it to you (which ended up with a whiny Derek complaining about how some skinny ass brainy kid had more credibility than him).

The subject didn’t come to your mind again until now. When you desperately needed that skill. Maybe you were right at not believing them at the first place, because you swear you were feeling every little fucking molecule of alcohol that the nurse used to clean the wound just above your eyebrow.

“All done!” he said in a sing-song voice, and you almost cut yourself again, but this time on your lips by biting it so hard to keep it from mouthing a ‘fuck you’ at the poor guy.

As if it knew you were being watched, your eyes roamed to the other side of the road, where you spotted a very much collected Aaron Hotchner walking your way.

You knew you were screwed, but maybe you could ‘FBI’ your way out of it. So you straighten your posture, holding on for dear life the edge of the back of the ambulance (You refused to lie down on the stretcher, it would be too dramatic – even for you) and waited.

Hotch looked at you briefly, scanning you up and down as if to check if you were okay. He then turned to the paramedic by your side “Is she steady?”

“Yes. No signs of concussion,” the doctor started, and both of them stared at you like you were their object of study, worsening by the way he pointed at your wounds while he explained about them. “No apparent fractures, but it’s better to get her checked out. The cut just above the waist earned her five stitches, it wasn’t too deep to actually harm her organs but the healing will be a bit of a pain. We cleaned the cut on her eyebrow, it wasn’t enough for stitches but it hasn’t stopped bleeding yet. We gave her pills for the pain so it’s better now, but it might start hurting in a few hours.”

Hotch analysed you once again, leaving the doctor unanswered for a second too long before glancing back up at him “Thank you.” he nodded, in that way authoritative figures did when they wanted to dismiss someone. Without a beat the paramedic turned around and left, leaving you alone with Hotch.

You would be impressed if you weren’t so worried about keeping your facade.

“How are you doing?” he asked, folding his arms against his chest.

“I’m better. Thank you.” you nodded, trying to mimic his gesture and dismiss him. Hotch didn’t move a single muscle. 

Worth a shot.

“Can you answer a few questions?” “Uh. Yes?” “Are you asking me?” you stutter at that“Oh, no. Yes, I can.” 

That’s when it happens. It’s barely there. It’s not even noticeable for untrained eyes. But you could definitely see it. As soon as he made sure you were safe and well, his worried and professional eyes turned into a thunderstorm. Without even moving his posture or saying anything, you felt the energy shifting by the anger on his gaze. You gulped, making sure to hold your chin a little higher to prove you were less intimidated than you actually were (too much).

“What happened there?”

You blinked. It was a trap. “You saw it. You were there.”

“Walk me through it.” not a request, a command. You chewed on your bottom lip.

“We got in the house, it was empty. We split up, I went downstairs, the unsub was there. You found us, we tried to negotiate. She got the upper hand and I lost my gun. Morgan shot her. We’re here.”

He sighed loudly.

“You called me, she had a needle in her hands. She threatened to kill herself, just like we profiled her to do. We tried to negotiate with her, we dropped our guns. You stepped closer, she dropped the needle and you two fought. She took you down, grabbed your gun and used you as a hostage. Morgan found an opportunity and shot her.”

“I don’t get the need to debrief that now.” you asked, tightening the ambulance’s blanket around your shoulders.

“I’m just trying to understand. How did she take you down?” he saw right through you, probably knew it all along.

“She was in good shape. I tripped, I guess. Everything happened too fast.”

His eyes seemed to fire up even harder at your explanation “In the months you’ve been on this team I’ve seen you fight and win men twice your weight on an almost weekly basis. Last case you put one of the unsubs on a headlock. With your legs. And you’re looking me in the eye and telling me you couldn’t fight a woman your age and size?”

You took a deep breath feeling your heart rate increased at a probably dangerous level.

“Hotch, I don’t know what you want me to say. She overpowered me, it happens.”

“Agent, don’t fool yourself, I’m not letting you go until you tell me the truth. I’m giving you another chance. How did she manage to take you down?”

“I tripped, I guess.”

“Wrong. I saw it, you hesitated. Why?”

“I was trying to find the best way to move the fight away from the needle on the floor.”

He didn’t miss a beat “Then how did she get your gun?”

“She hit me on my rib. That’s where the cut came from. That’s how she knocked me over.” you explained, not daring to break the intense gaze you had on each other.

“Why did she use you as a hostage?”

“Because… Almost every unsub does this, you know it. I just happen to be the one she got her hands into.”

“Let me be clearer. Why did you let her?”

Finally, the million dollar question. It was easier to stroll him if he wasn’t being so direct. But now, there was no escape. You couldn’t come up with a lie. Every answer you gave him was true, but you let out the fact that all of that happened because you let her. You let the unsub take the advantage and use you as a hostage. You wanted to shield her from the team, but you knew from the profile that if you stepped closer, she would kill herself. You couldn’t let her.

“Are you seriously insinuating I willingly put my life in danger? Unlike you I can’t control everything…”

“Careful.” he reprimanded through gritted teeth.

“...Neither do I want to.” you didn’t stop. “Things like this happen at our job, you know this more than anyone. I really don’t get why this is a big deal, I made it out alive.”

“Barely.” he muttered.

“Hotch, please, stop.” you whined, rubbing your hand through your face wincing at the blood accumulating on your eyebrow.

“No. I won’t stop.” he spoke up, stepping closer and not letting you speak “You let your feelings get in the way, you jeopardized the mission. You put your life and the others at risk. So you either give me a plausible explanation for what the hell happened in there, or I’ll let you leave all the explaining to the directors.”

“It’s not fair.” you muttered, giving up. He quieted down, his eyes seeming more calm and attentive, encouraging you to keep going. So you did. “When Garcia sent us her information to see if she matched the profile, do you know what I noticed?” you smiled bitterly “She was born on the same day as me. And guess what? At the very same hospital. Our paths crossed twice, one at the beginning of her life and the other at the end. I grew up in a loving home, and had every opportunity anyone could dream of. She was the opposite in every possible way. I just got caught up with all the ‘if’s and the ‘could’s. I know it doesn’t justify anything, but she went through a lot. She was taking matters to her own hands. No one saved her as a baby, neither as a kid, and especially as a teenager. She was going to kill herself, Hotch. I couldn’t let her die. I know this probably makes me immature, and maybe even unprepared for the job, but if I could go back in time, I would’ve done it all again. It’s not fair.”

Hotch sighed, the heat in his eyes completely gone now. His expression softened, and it was like he was looking at you under a whole new light. The two of you stayed in silence for a while.

“It really isn’t.” he spoke again, quietly “It’s also not fair that you now have five stitches on your ribs. And a cut on your forehead that’s almost bleeding you into blindness.” he pointed, stepping closer to you and giving you a few gauze pads from the ambulance to clean you up. You took them in silence. Your breath hitched when his fingers softly grazed on the side of your neck, just below your jaw. As soon as the touch came, it was gone. So fast it was almost like it never happened, just a product of your fertile imagination. “Do you know you have a bruise right here? From how tight she held the gun against your throat? None of this is fair.”

You gulped, the weight of what happened finally getting to you “It will heal.”

“You could’ve died.” he spoke in a painful tone. His posture remained as professional as ever, but again, his eyes gave him away. It took you only one look to see the fear in them, so intense and powerful you wanted to grab his hand and press it against your chest so he could feel your heartbeat. You wanted to take all the fear away from him with your bare hands.

But truth to be told, there was nothing you could do. You were as scared as he was, if not more. He was right, after all. The profile was clear: the unsub wouldn’t hand herself in. It would probably end in suicide or suicide by cop. The moment she held that gun against you, you knew it was over. If Morgan didn’t manage to get the shot, you would be long gone by now.

It terrified you more than you thought it would.

Again, you stayed together in silence, breathing each other’s presence.

You heard the captain of the precinct calling for Hotch, and before he answered, he turned to you.

“Take the rest of the week off. I don’t expect to see you until Monday.” he stated, his expression much softer.

“Thank you.”

And you listened to him.

When you got back on monday, your report was filled and signed by SSA Aaron Hotchner.

For all they know, you tripped.

[biancadoes1]

Gonna write this in points to organize my thoughts sorry if this is long. I hope I explained myself well because English isn’t my first language

CAA don’t give a flying fork about N or anyone else speaking against JKR or the new hp series they really don’t

At most they could get involved if an actual tension and exchange of words happened between her & the new series cast members which hasn’t happened (yet)

As someone who does work in PR agency I do agree that N should have worded herself better and she probably is advised on that by now. She will have to be extremely careful in her future interviews while talking about certain topics and her team might ask for removal of certain questions to avoid any further twisting of words happening

The media outlets that twisted N words have been facing backlash for twisting a lot of other celebrities words in recent months and Variety specifically has been under fire for having a mostly zionist writers who made multiple articles about many actresses and overall many racist articles as well ( you can easily search that online to see it yourself )

I fear many don’t understand that as a PR agent you can advice your employer to certain things but it’s not necessary that it would listened to & another thing we can’t control articles nor what’s written inside nor the timing of release; we do get notified about articles dropping even gossip ones a n hour or two before they drop but that’s about it. Some big stars like Beyoncé, Taylor Swift etc have the power to stop some articles from dropping but in general most celebrities can’t do the same. N while being famous to a certain level now she still up & coming actress in a way she doesn’t have luxury to stop any articles she is a B+ at most for now & with extra push she can achieve A- status ( The only A lister in Bton cast is JB due to him being part of Wicked ) but as I said she can’t control the media even gossip pages she can’t control

what’s happening with her from observation is that she blew up so much last year gained rapid fame for different reasons from how big s3 was to her activism & body positivity and she clearly not grasping the level of fame she is in; she has been trying different approaches in past few months but it make her words look conflicting with one another; so far J has been there as a diversion whenever she wants other talk about her go away & he gains attention & exposure in return. While She has been losing some of her core fandom unfortunately due to her attachment with J & her new group of friends; Many are still there due to her activism online

Adding that the people from her core fandom she is losing aren’t leaving because she isn’t with L nor the shippers I’m talking about the fans who are fan of her only unrelated to DG or BTON. The reason they are leaving is she has gained a group if fans who been toxic in online spaces from policing other fans to attacking them or even doxxing them & it made some feel that it isn’t worth the time to be part of a fanbase like that choosing their peace of mind over negativity

This is a very interesting perspective and I agree that some of these fans are extremely toxic.

[elizabeth-holland24]

Snowed In at the Country Inn - Chapter 4

In the aftermath of last night’s argument, the square was a blur of tinsel and chatter once more, filled with antsy children and gloved hands clutching cups of hot chocolate. A carousel spun out holiday tunes as though nothing had changed, but something felt different—like a missing jingle on a familiar song. Usually, the bustle of the Christmas market buoyed your spirits, yet today it was all you could do to ignore its merriment. The fight with Jake loomed large and ugly, casting a long shadow over the day’s festivities. From the moment you arrived, you sidestepped every chance encounter and turned away from laughter that threatened to circle back to him. You kept your head down, determined to act unbothered but struggling to feel it.

You were bent over the task of sorting through garlands and ornaments by the edge of the display, losing yourself in the soothing distraction of decorating.Mile-long strings of red and green beads lay in tangled heaps, their disarray demanding your single-minded attention. You intend your hands to stay busy, hoping Jake was off charming someone else far, far away from your vicinity. You needed the space and quiet to think, and the best way to get that was for him to be somewhere—anywhere—but near you.

Assuming Jake was off wooing someone else far, far away from you, you plan to keep your hands occupied. The greatest way to gain the peace and quiet you needed to think was for him to be somewhere—anywhere—but close to you.

No such luck.

You spotted him across the square, helping a kid fix their bike chain. Of course, he was being annoyingly sweet. You turned back to your garlands with an irritated huff, only to find Natasha watching you from a few feet away, arms crossed and a smirk tugging at her lips.

“You’ve been rearranging that same gold ribbon for ten minutes,” she said, stepping closer.

“I’m organizing,” you replied flatly.

She raised an eyebrow. “Organizing. Uh-huh. You know what else helps people sort through things? A friendly team-building activity.”

Your eyes narrowed. “You’re not subtle.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

Across the way, Bradley had cornered Jake by the cocoa stand. “So, hey, there’s this couples’ scavenger hunt later today,” he said casually, too casually. “Town council wants everyone to partner up to encourage… community bonding. And stuff.”

Jake frowned. “And stuff?”

“Yeah. Plus, Natasha and I may have already signed you up.”

“You what?”

“Relax. You’re partnered with someone who’s great at lists and loves control. It’ll be fun.”

Jake’s jaw clenched. “You mean her.”

Bradley patted him on the back. “Just try not to insult her family this time, huh?”

Back with you, Natasha leaned in and handed you a tiny envelope. “Meet your scavenger hunt partner in front of the bakery at noon.”

You hesitated. “Who is it?”

She smiled wickedly. “You’ll see.”

Somehow, it seemed you were cursed by the universe. Maybe it was karma for all the times things had gone your way when they shouldn’t have, or fate’s way of punishing you for arguing with Jake at dinner. At exactly noon, you stood alone in front of the bakery, the crisp air biting at your cheeks, the envelope clutched tight in the hope that its contents wouldn't betray you. You imagined for a fleeting second that he was just a name on a list and that someone else would be standing with you. Maybe a stranger who wasn’t an incessant reminder of last night’s spat and of how much you wished things had gone differently.

The busy streets hummed with activity, shoppers bustling past in festive oblivion as you kept an eye out for your partner. You told yourself the odds were on your side, that you might even be lucky enough to pair up with someone you could actually stand. But, in the pit of your stomach, you knew better. Your eyes scanned every approaching figure, a small bubble of hope blooming and then bursting as each face came into view. You cursed yourself for letting hope even have a chance.

And just when you were foolishly starting to think that maybe—just maybe—you’d dodged the bullet, you saw an unmistakable silhouette heading your way, his hair ruffled by the wind.

Naturally, the universe had other plans.

Jake strolled up with his signature swagger, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, eyes flicking to yours with a mixture of hesitation and defiance. “Guess we’re the lucky couple.”

You opened the envelope without a word. Inside: a long scroll of holiday-themed challenges, written in Natasha’s perfectly looped cursive. At the bottom, in glitter pen, it read:

“Rule #1: You must complete every challenge together. No splitting up. Happy bonding! <3 – Nat & Brad”

You exhaled sharply. “I'm so killing them.”

Jake glanced at the list. “What’s first?”

You skimmed it. “Take a selfie recreating a romantic Christmas movie poster… Seriously?”

Jake grinned. “I call dibs on being Ryan Reynolds.”

You rolled your eyes but followed him to the oversized sleigh photo booth set up by the florist. You posed stiffly beside him, arms crossed, while he threw his arm around your shoulders like it was second nature.

Click.

Your face in the photo said grumpy elf. His said unbothered golden retriever.

“Next,” you muttered, dragging him toward the town square.

The library challenge was supposed to be easy—find the hidden candy cane stash nestled somewhere in the children’s section. But thirty minutes in, you were both elbow-deep in a chaotic mess of toppled books and badly deciphered clues, your patience unravelling with each passing second.

“I’m telling you,” Jake muttered, brushing dust off an oversized encyclopedia as he crouched beside a tilted bookshelf, “it’s got to be an anagram. ‘Sweet story’ could mean something—like Hansel and Gretel!”

You groaned, clutching a mangled copy of The Polar Express. “Or it just means literally any children’s book. This is not The Da Vinci Code.”

Jake shot you a look, half amusement, half challenge. “Well, at least I’m trying to think—”

Before he could finish, you tugged at a shelf that seemed suspiciously deeper than the rest—and the entire display buckled forward, sending a waterfall of hardcover picture books cascading onto the floor.

A heavy silence fell over the aisle.

Then, from behind the circulation desk, the librarian's voice rang out like a war horn. “OUT. Now!”

You and Jake bolted, half-tripping over scattered candy cane wrappers and each other’s feet, laughing breathlessly all the way to the pavement.

Later, in the town square gazebo, the mood shifted.

You paused beneath the next clue’s location—a delicate sprig of mistletoe hung from the arch above. It swayed slightly in the evening breeze, as if daring you both to acknowledge it.

Jake noticed it first, naturally. His grin was immediate, infuriatingly confident.

“Well, well,” he drawled, stepping into your space like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Looks like it’s your lucky day. You can just pretend I’m not irresistible.”

You didn’t even flinch. “I pretend that daily,” you replied flatly, though your voice lacked its usual bite.

But when he reached up—not to kiss you, but to gently brush a piece of tinsel from your cheek, his knuckles grazing your skin—you forgot how to breathe.

It was a simple touch. Light. Almost innocent. But the air between you suddenly felt too tight, too electric.

Jake’s eyes lingered for a second longer than necessary. He looked like he might say something, something real, something that would complicate things.

But the moment passed.

You stepped back, clearing your throat, pretending your pulse wasn’t hammering in your throat.

The next challenge brought you to the bakery, which—unsurprisingly—had run out of both time and actual snow. So, like any deranged duo determined to win, you and Jake improvised.

Flour. Cotton batting. Some crushed candy canes for flair.

Your “snowman” quickly devolved into a competition of petty sabotage.

Jake’s snowman sported an unsettlingly accurate version of your planner taped to its face.

“Oh, I see,” you said, arms crossed, surveying the abomination. “Trying to manifest organization in your life through art?”

He grinned proudly. “Figured if I couldn’t win your affection, I could at least earn a page in your colour-coded schedule.”

In retaliation, your snowman began to suspiciously resemble Jake. Messy tuft of faux snow for hair. Smug little candy cane grin. And, of course, the name tag on its chest: “Hi, I’m Trouble.”

Jake laughed out loud when he saw it. “Admit it,” he said, nudging you with his elbow. “You like me just a little.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you.

Just a little.

By the time the final, neatly folded clue led to the community centre, the sun was already dipping low in the sky. The horizon blazed with an orange glow, mirroring the flicker of moody lights from the newly opened holiday stalls. Despite your best efforts to resist, the day’s misadventures—and Jake’s relentless charm—had started to chip away at your resolve. Laughter you hadn’t intended to share had slipped out more than once, and though you’d never admit it, even to yourself, your walls were undeniably beginning to soften. You opened the door with cautious determination, stepping into the wide room filled with glittering decorations, knowing that somewhere in here the last ornament awaited.

The promise of victory spurred you into action, and you strode toward a display of presents, determined to finish first. Jake followed, just a step behind, and with a flourish of his arm, reached out to grab the elusive final ornament for your hunt prize. A silver bell chimed as he lifted it triumphantly. “I think this calls for a speech,” he announced, but the moment was short-lived. To your horror, the door slammed shut with a resounding thud.

Both of you turned in stunned silence, the echo of the heavy door like a mocking laugh. Jake was the first to recover, casually walking back and jiggling the handle. “Uh-oh,” he said, cocking an eyebrow with maddening casualness.

“What?” you asked, crossing the room quickly, a note of panic edging your voice.

“It’s locked,” Jake replied with a shrug, a mischievous glint in his eye, as though the universe’s latest trick was a mere inconvenience.

You stared at the solid door, then at him, the absurdity of the situation sinking in. “We are not spending the night trapped in here,” you insisted, but the flare of worry in your voice betrayed you.

“Yup,” Jake said, settling in with a familiar ease. “Stuck. Probably a timed lock, or maybe we’re just cursed.” He grinned and pulled a plaid blanket from one of the decoration boxes, shaking it free of dust like he was settling in for a cosy evening.

You sighed deeply, arms crossed. “We’ve already survived a scavenger hunt, a fake kiss, and each other. How hard can one night be?” Jake seemed to be enjoying this far too much, and the thought both irked and amused you.

He tossed the blanket onto a pile of bean bags with a carefree air, lounging back as if the building were his own personal retreat. “Famous last words.”

The fluorescent lights buzzed above as you paced near the community centre doors, phone held high in a futile attempt to find service. No bars. Of course.

Jake was already lounging on a pile of bean bags like this was a five-star ski lodge. “You’d think a place with twelve types of hot cocoa would have decent Wi-Fi.”

You shot him a look. “You could help me figure out how to get us out of here.”

He held up a tangled string of Christmas lights. “Hey, I’m being useful. Festive, even.”

You sighed and slid down against the wall, finally letting yourself feel how exhausted you were. From the hunt. From the week. From pretending like none of this affected you.

Jake eventually sat beside you, leaving just enough space between you for plausible deniability. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t awkward. Not exactly.

Then, softly: “You’re really good at this, you know.”

You glanced over. “At scavenger hunts?”

“At… making everything feel like Christmas. Like it matters.”

You looked away, throat tightening. “It does matter. Especially when things feel like they’re falling apart.”

Jake hesitated, then nodded. “So, your mum—was she the reason you love Christmas so much?”

Your fingers fiddled with the corner of your sleeve. “She made it feel like magic. Like, we could pause real life for a few days and just… breathe. Laugh. Eat too much. Watch movies on the couch.”

He was quiet, then asked, “What about your dad?”

You stiffened. “He wasn’t really around. Not much before. Even less after.”

Jake’s expression shifted, like he understood too late how close to the bone his earlier comment had been.

You added, with a bitter laugh, “It’s fine. I just learned to take care of everything myself. Made a plan. Stuck to it. At least if something went wrong, I’d only have myself to blame.”

He nodded slowly, voice low. “That explains a lot, actually.”

You turned to him. “Yeah? Like what?”

He met your gaze. “Like why you try to make everything perfect for everyone else. Why you can’t stand letting go of control. You think if you hold it all together, nobody else has to feel what you felt.”

Silence. It was too true.

And then—because he was still him—he added gently, “It’s kind of exhausting to watch, but… also kinda incredible.”

You laughed once, surprised, unsure. “Thanks?”

He nudged your shoulder with his. “You’re welcome.”

Somewhere in the storage closet, an old stereo clicked on. A scratchy rendition of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” floated into the room.

Jake stood and held out a hand. “C’mon. One dance. For our scavenger hunt win.”

You hesitated, but your hand found his. He pulled you in gently, his touch warm and steady, the soft hum of music wrapping around you both.

“I still think you’re a control freak,” he whispered.

“I still think you’re a cocky jerk,” you replied, but there was a smile in your voice now.

“Then we’re even.”

As you danced in the empty community centre, surrounded by fairy lights and half-hung wreaths, it felt—for a brief, breathless moment—like maybe things didn’t have to go according to plan to be perfect.

Jake shifted on the beanbag, the one he’d dragged over beside, where you’d eventually fallen asleep. The twinkling Christmas lights cast a soft glow over the room. It should’ve felt ridiculous—being trapped overnight in a glorified holiday craft storage unit—but it didn’t.

It felt… kind of perfect.

He watched the rise and fall of your breathing, the way your hand rested protectively over that worn planner even in sleep. Always planning. Always bracing.

He hadn’t meant to hit a nerve earlier. He really hadn’t. That quip about being raised by the military? God, what a dumbass thing to say. But it was how you were sometimes—so tight-laced he couldn’t tell if you were about to bark orders or have a breakdown. He used to find it funny. But now?

Now he got it.

You had to grow up too fast. You were holding the damn world together with glitter glue and to-do lists and pretending like you weren’t terrified of everything falling apart again.

And maybe what gutted him most was how good you were at hiding it. Until you weren’t. Until tonight.

Jake rubbed a hand over his face, his heart doing something weird in his chest he didn’t want to analyse too hard. He was supposed to be the flirty one. The funny one. The guy you didn’t take seriously.

But now, all he could think about was how fragile your voice sounded when you talked about your mum. How fiercely you tried to protect everyone else from chaos because no one had done the same for you.

And how maybe—just maybe—he didn’t want to be the guy you laughed at any more.

He wanted to be the guy who got to see the real you. The girl who danced in the dark when no one was watching. The girl who remembered every little thing that made the holidays special. The one who’d built her own kind of magic out of loss.

Jake leaned his head back, staring up at the ceiling tiles.

“You’re screwed, Seresin,” he whispered to himself, letting out a small laugh. “So screwed.”

But he didn’t move. He just sat there, in the glow of paper snowflakes and tangled tinsel, listening to the soft rhythm of your breathing.

And for once, he didn’t feel like running.

A/N: Hey.... so I know christmas mood is way over, heck even valentines, but I do want to finish this story for you guys. and I apologize I havent updated, my life has been a bit crazy not going to lie and ive gone through some big changes and stuff. But yeah, hope you guys still like this story and are interested in it. Again thank you all for your support and love.

[fidenciocryptidcreechur]

If i recall, that's also partially why the wonderland Illuminati secret science organization snatched em up, specifically cause all the overblots were happening at one place despite the hyper specific needs for it (capable mage with enough magic to generate a phantom plus overworking themselves enough to accumulate their blot to the point of losing it and producing the physical phantom) but not only that, they survived and didn't get drained by their blot phantom which is super rare. Basically several improbable cases in one place at one time (literally within months or even days of each other at times). They got a team of traumatized burnout magic prodigies that all had a mental breakdown

Literally just

NRC: ✨My Magical Breakdown✨

The lads experience the Horrors

"aren't overblots supposed to be rare?" they are, these boys just have issues and like to do magic while spiraling

[shannonsketches]

he's so important to me

[doctorweebmd]

by the way there is data behind this. there are worse outcomes at night. Across the board. At all hospital levels. Which is. Well. If you’re dying try to do it during business hours.

[miketownsends]

it’s early still and we already know i don’t know ball from the last time i declared i was feeling good about the team and it seemed like they’d turned a corner only to have them turn around and nearly get swept by the Tigers (and then actually get swept by them a week later)

but the Dan Wilson team feels a little different?

it’s an insignificantly small sample size so far obviously (you cannot discern patterns from 4 games in a 162 game season). they’re still not scoring a TON of runs overall. but it feels kind of like they’re gritting out runs in a way they weren’t doing before? feels like they’re stealing a lot more, at the very least. which, if you’re struggling to score runs, makes sense - obviously it doesn’t help with the strikeouts, but if you can get yourself in position to score on a single or a sac fly, you can take better advantage of the hits when they happen. (had a moment of wondering if maybe they were trying to mess with expectations by stealing more often but we ARE 10th overall as a team this year for stolen bases. there’s a bigger gap between the #1 team and us vs. us and the #30 team, but the average overall for the league is 98 SB and we’re at 107.) (honestly what i’m REALLY curious about is Cal going for a bunt last night. it wasn’t even a sac bunt situation! there was no one on base! what was up with that. you’re fast but idk if you’re THAT fast. anyway.)

maybe they’re just getting luckier and chaos ball is breaking their way a little more (that 3-run HR does not happen without a fielding error and a weird little dribbler that hits the bag instead of going foul). maybe they’ve just decided they’ve got nothing to lose and they’re not going to get the division lead back by playing it safe. maybe Dan is actually making different game decisions than Scott would’ve made and they’re making the difference. or maybe this is all just a fluke and they are simply winning games lately thanks to the whims of god and as soon as they have lost divine favor they will go back to losing! who knows.

at the very least, they feel a little more fun to watch, and that’s gotta count for something right? (especially for me, who has been and will continue to be at every game this homestand and cannot just turn off the tv if the games get miserable lmao)

[coolauntlilith]

Every now and then I replay the first episode of VLD and I wonder why I thought it be a good show lol

[reasonsforhope]

When self-described “ocean custodian” Boyan Slat took the stage at TED 2025 in Vancouver this week, he showed viewers a reality many of us are already heartbreakingly familiar with: There is a lot of trash in the ocean.

“If we allow current trends to continue, the amount of plastic that’s entering the ocean is actually set to double by 2060,” Slat said in his TED Talk, which will be published online at a later date. 

Plus, once plastic is in the ocean, it accumulates in “giant circular currents” called gyres, which Slat said operate a lot like the drain of the bathtub, meaning that plastic can enter these currents but cannot leave.

That’s how we get enormous build-ups like the Great Pacific Garbage Patch, a giant collection of plastic pollution in the ocean that is roughly twice the size of Texas.

As the founder and CEO of The Ocean Cleanup, Slat’s goal is to return our oceans to their original, clean state before 2040. To accomplish this, two things must be done.

First: Stop more plastic from entering the ocean. Second: Clean up the “legacy” pollution that is already out there and doesn’t go away by itself.

And Slat is well on his way.

Pictured: Kingston Harbour in Jamaica. Photo courtesy of The Ocean Cleanup Project

When Slat’s first TEDx Talk went viral in 2012, he was able to organize research teams to create the first-ever map of the Great Pacific Garbage Patch. From there, they created a technology to collect plastic from the most garbage-heavy areas in the ocean.

“We imagined a very long, u-shaped barrier … that would be pushed by wind and waves,” Slat explained in his Talk. 

This barrier would act as a funnel to collect garbage and be emptied out for recycling. 

But there was a problem.

“We took it out in the ocean, and deployed it, and it didn’t collect plastic,” Slat said, “which is a pretty important requirement for an ocean cleanup system.”

Soon after, this first system broke into two. But a few days later, his team was already back to the drawing board. 

From here, they added vessels that would tow the system forward, allowing it to sweep a larger area and move more methodically through the water. Mesh attached to the barrier would gather plastic and guide it to a retention area, where it would be extracted and loaded onto a ship for sorting, processing, and recycling. 

It worked. 

“For 60 years, humanity had been putting plastic into the ocean, but from that day onwards, we were also taking it back out again,” Slat said, with a video of the technology in action playing on screen behind him.

To applause, he said: “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, honestly.”

Over the years, Ocean Cleanup has scaled up this cleanup barrier, now measuring almost 2.5 kilometers — or about 1.5 miles — in length. And it cleans up an area of the ocean the size of a football field every five seconds.

Pictured: The Ocean Cleanup's System 002 deployed in the Great Pacific Garbage Patch. Photo courtesy of The Ocean Cleanup

The system is designed to be safe for marine life, and once plastic is brought to land, it is recycled into new products, like sunglasses, accessories for electric vehicles, and even Coldplay’s latest vinyl record, according to Slat. 

These products fund the continuation of the cleanup. The next step of the project is to use drones to target areas of the ocean that have the highest plastic concentration. 

In September 2024, Ocean Cleanup predicted the Patch would be cleaned up within 10 years. 

However, on April 8, Slat estimated “that this fleet of systems can clean up the Great Pacific Garbage Patch in as little as five years’ time.”

With ongoing support from MCS, a Netherlands-based Nokia company, Ocean Cleanup can quickly scale its reliable, real-time data and video communication to best target the problem. 

It’s the largest ocean cleanup in history.

But what about the plastic pollution coming into the ocean through rivers across the world? Ocean Cleanup is working on that, too. 

To study plastic pollution in other waterways, Ocean Cleanup attached AI cameras to bridges, measuring the flow of trash in dozens of rivers around the world, creating the first global model to predict where plastic is entering oceans.

“We discovered: Just 1% of the world’s rivers are responsible for about 80% of the plastic entering our oceans,” Slat said.

His team found that coastal cities in middle-income countries were primarily responsible, as people living in these areas have enough wealth to buy things packaged in plastic, but governments can’t afford robust waste management infrastructure. 

Ocean Cleanup now tackles those 1% of rivers to capture the plastic before it reaches oceans.

Pictured: Interceptor 007 in Los Angeles. Photo courtesy of The Ocean Cleanup

“It’s not a replacement for the slow but important work that’s being done to fix a broken system upstream,” Slat said. “But we believe that tackling this 1% of rivers provides us with the only way to rapidly close the gap.”

To clean up plastic waste in rivers, Ocean Cleanup has implemented technology called “interceptors,” which include solar-powered trash collectors and mobile systems in eight countries worldwide.

In Guatemala, an interceptor captured 1.4 million kilograms (or over 3 million pounds) of trash in under two hours. Now, this kind of collection happens up to three times a week.

“All of that would have ended up in the sea,” Slat said.

Now, interceptors are being brought to 30 cities around the world, targeting waterways that bring the most trash into our oceans. GPS trackers also mimic the flow of the plastic to help strategically deploy the systems for the most impact.

“We can already stop up to one-third of all the plastic entering our oceans once these are deployed,” Slat said.

And as soon as he finished his Talk on the TED stage, Slat was told that TED’s Audacious Project would be funding the deployment of Ocean Cleanup’s efforts in those 30 cities as part of the organization’s next cohort of grantees. 

While it is unclear how much support Ocean Cleanup will receive from the Audacious Project, Head of TED Chris Anderson told Slat: “We’re inspired. We’re determined in this community to raise the money you need to make that 30-city project happen.”

And Slat himself is determined to clean the oceans for good.

“For humanity to thrive, we need to be optimistic about the future,” Slat said, closing out his Talk.

“Once the oceans are clean again, it can be this example of how, through hard work and ingenuity, we can solve the big problems of our time.”

-via GoodGoodGood, April 9, 2025

[solrabi]

Boxer!Sukuna who makes you kiss his gloves before his match for good luck.

masterlist

His team had left the locker room and it was just the two of you now. You were sitting on a bench while he organized his bag. “I didn’t know you got so many freebies from your sponsorships.” In your hand, was a brand new boxing shoe that he received from UnderArmor for a sports shoot campaign.

“Eh, they’re not really what I need in the actual matches but I use them during training cause I don’t wanna waste ‘em,” he mumbled. He seemed to be more on edge than usual. During his last match, he lost by a landslide, having a sour taste in his mouth from the experience. He blamed you because you weren’t there to kiss his glove prior to the match.

You turn to look at him staring down at his gloves.

“Sukuna.”

“Yeah?” He turned to look at you. No smiles, just a deadpan expression. You walked towards him and held his face in your hands. You could tell he was nervous about the fight even though he had won so many before.

“Honey, what’s on your mind?” Your voice was sincere and comforting for him. “What if I’m in a slump? My last match was so bad. I’ve never lost like that. What if I’m on a losing streak now?”

You get on your tippy toes and kiss his cheek. “Sukuna, you’ve worked hard have you not?” He nods. “And you feel like you’ve trained well this time.” He nods again. “Then why are you so worried? Is it because you were distracted last time?”

He sighs and wraps his arms around you, burying his head in the crook of your neck in the process. “Look, I don’t know if you think it’s weird but when I see you outside the ring, I feel like I have a reason to win. It drives me to fight better. I had a really shitty day last time and when I didn’t see you I just didn’t feel like giving my all.”

Your heart felt like it was being torn to pieces after seeing your husband sulk. “I just felt burnt out. I was hoping that once I saw you then I’d feel better.”

You hugged him tighter and kissed his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Sukuna, I promise I’ll never do that again.” You start rubbing your hand up and down his back in hopes to calm him down right before his match.

“Kiss my gloves for me?” he asks as he pulls away. You nod. He takes his boxing gloves out and places them in your hands. You leave a delicate kiss on each of them, your gloss leaving a small sparkly stain. He takes them from your hand and kisses them on the same spots as you did, maintaining eye contact with you throughout. “You’re my good luck charm, you know that?” he says as he strokes your head.

You show him a teethy grin and nod.

“And you’re mine.” Your reply made him smash his lips to yours. “I’ll be sure to win now that you’re here.” He mumbled against your lips.

—

No thoughts. Just boxer!sukuna

[kneelbeforeclefairy]

What I think is most different and most striking about Sunrise on the Reaping is how CYNICAL it is. To some extent we knew it was going to be. This is a midquel. That the reapings go on and the Hunger Games only ends 25 years later is a forgeon conclusion. We know nothing that happens here is going to work.

The book is about implicit submission, and why, with numbers on their side, the many submit to the few, even when the few are unjust. And it's because, the book seems to say, numbers aren't ENOUGH. the Newcomers alliance is much bigger than the Careers. They should be able to team up and defeat them easily. But they don't. Eighteen of them are killed outright, because the Careers have the strength, the skill and the training. And that's just that.

Plutarch asks why the tributes don't overwhelm the Peacekeepers during training, and Haymitch is rightfully outraged at the privilege of this question. Why don't they? Because they probably couldn't kill them all, and even if they could, what good would it do? It wouldn't stop the Hunger Games. It wouldn't change a thing. No one would even know about it outside that room, because the Capitol would change the narrative. Just like Katniss and the Star Squad can't REALLY take on the Capitol single handed and assassinate the president, the scrappy alliance of kids can't really do any real damage to the system the Capitol has in place. All they can do is choose if they want to die now or later. So why don't they, if there's no difference to them, as Plutarch asks. Because, as Snow puts it. Hope. The slight chance that one of them will come out of it. And, more cynically, the hope that if they are good tributes and obey, their families will be left alone. If they choose to rebel and choose to die now they guarantee retaliation against their families and perhaps their entire district. We see that even in the tributes that attack the Gamemakers in the arena. They rise up, they break that bond of implicit submission--and they die bloody for it.

Why don't they rebel? Because they don't have the privilege to lose.

Even Lenore Dove, the Joan of Arc of Twelve, fails to do any real damage or have any real effect. All she does is get herself a reputation for being a trouble maker, and eventually get herself killed. Was she killed as part of the retaliation against Haymitch, or was her punishment because she's a rebel, and that's what happens to rebels? (and Snow hates covey girls.) but she fails because she IS alone. She focuses on small, symbolic acts that do nothing, but that she hopes will rally the people to action.Unfortunately, the people of Twelve don't want their lives to get any worse, and they don't have the privilege of spending time and energy on revolution the way a teenager girl whose family doesn't need her income to survive does--sadly, Twelve will remain this way, in an uncanny valley where they're beaten down enough to need change, but not enough to have NOTHING to lose. They are not one of the districts that rise up. So acting alone does nothing, teaming up does nothing. How does one fight an enemy with better technology, better weapons, and better organization? Beetee's plan doesn't work out. Of course it doesn't. Could it ever? Was it just borne out of grief for his son? And even if it had, then what? What was the plan? Haymitch's poster gets edited away. The Newcomers fail. Lenore Dove dies. The most you can say is Haymitch himself becomes too important to kill, like Beetee, and Snow let him live to fight another day, but so destroyed that he no longer WANTS to.

So, then, what WORKS?

The answer is, quite cynically, Plutarch's version of the world. Numbers mean something, there are more of US than there are of THEM , but that isn't enough. You need weapons, you can't bring a knife to a gun fight, you need EVERYONE on your side. You need organization, not just a series of disconnected rebellions, and you need an Army, provided by Thirteen, as problematic as they are. The timing just needs to be right. And most crucially, what I think Plutarch and everyone involved here learned is that victory belongs to those who control the narrative. Those who control the flow of information and tell their story. And it's not Plutarch, for all his cameras and his propos and his idea behind The Mockingjay, who eventually does that well.

It's Haymitch.

Who learned to tell a story and sell a narrative with himself and the Newcomers. Who tried to paint his poster in the arena only to see it rewritten in front of him. Who won't make that mistake again. When it's time for the deciding factor in the revolution, it's Haymitch who creates the Mockingjay-- and is he also using Katniss and her image? Yes. but he at least sees Katniss and the human she is inside it, unlike Plutarch who hasn't changed much from the man who makes a grieving family do reshoots over and over so he can get his footage, while congratulating himself for letting Haymitch have his goodbye.

When Katniss sets off the spark twenty five years later, the world is ready. The work is in place. Plutarch, Haymitch, Beetee, everyone can say GO , and this time it'll work. So buckle in, and wait for the Long Game, even though only Plutarch really has the privilege to wait, the rest of them don't have a choice. It's cynical. It's awful. People die. The lone rebels and the plucky girls and the alliance depending on its numbers all fail. Plutarch motherfucking Heavensbee, the richest of the rich the privilegedest of the privileged, pulls off the revolution, takes the credit, and lives to see the end of it, without ever once examining his own privilege, and unpacking the fact that despite his head being on the right side of history, he's never managed to see the Districts as PEOPLE . (and you could argue, ANYONE as people. ) But it's just the only way.

But this book isn't the middle of the series. It's the end. How awful would it be to read if we didn't know that Katniss and the Mockingjay rebellion would eventually succeed. We know that despite the cynism of a failed revolution and all its players, that one day it WILL work out. This book is called sunrise on the Reaping....the sun rises on a world where this is inevitable. But one day it won't be.

[mariasont]

Early seasons Spencer’s gf joining the team and quickly realizing just how used to Spencer she is bc the rest of the team’s reactions to him are so different from hers

Cinnamon Sticks - S.R

a/n: obsessed with the idea of baby spencie having a gf who just gets him while he's still an awkward, nerdy little genius! thanks for requesting bestie so sorry it took so long i am the worst LOL

masterlist

pairings: early!seasons!spencer reid x fem!reader

warnings: established relationship, secret relationship, relationship being exposed bc these two are just so in love

wc: 1.7k

Garcia burst into the bullpen like some sort of whirlwind that was practically painted in neon, her scarf fluttering behind her almost like a cape. She juggled a precariously full cup of coffee, while her phone teetered between ear and shoulder as if testing the limits of human dexterity.

"I swear to all that is holy, if my life doesn't slow down in the next five minutes —"

The sentence derailed as she misjudged her pace, the coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the cup. She stopped abruptly, but not quick enough to stop the scalding liquid from spilling over and searing her fingers.

"Oh, fantastic! Just what I needed!" she huffed, waving her hand like it might stop the sting.

She threw herself into the closest chair with a dejected sigh, slumping back and fixing the coffee cup with a murderous glare, like this was just another tally in a long line of grievances.

Your eyes darted up from your work, only for a moment, enough to confirm what you already knew. You hadn't been working here long, but it was long enough to recognize the phenomenon that was Garcia: a blur of movement and words, mid-rant before anyone had the chance to catch up. It was like clockwork really.

You risked a glance across the desk at Spencer, who was so absorbed in his notebook it was a wonder he even remembered to breathe. If Garcia's antics registered as white noise to anyone, it was him. But then, almost like he had a radar for being watched, he looked up, catching your gaze.

His eyebrows lifted into a subtle what can you do? expression, and you couldn't help but smile back.

That was the thing about Spencer. He had this uncanny knack for knowing exactly what you were thinking, almost as if he had a cheat sheet for your brain. And maybe he did, like his brain worked three times faster than everyone else's in the room (which, let's face it, it definitely did). But instead of that being intimidating, it was oddly reassuring.

"At this rate, I'm one bad email away from alphabetizing my entire pantry for stress relief."

Spencer's notebook hit the desk, and there it was, the shift you loved to look for. His shoulders drew back, face lighting up, the kind of thing that signaled his mini-lecture was incoming.

"Organizing your pantry is actually a practical stress management technique. By categorizing items, you create a structured environment that reduces decision fatigue. Its why people feel calmer in tidy spaces, it's psychological."

Morgan held up a hand. "Psychological, huh? Sounds like you’re just trying to justify your weird love affair with labels, pretty boy.”

“Don’t forget,” you added absently, flipping a page in your report, “it also saves time when you’re cooking. I think you called it practical efficiency."

The words slipped out without much thought, but as soon as they did, the bullpen stilled. You glanced up, heart sinking as you saw every face turned in your direction.

Morgan’s grin was the first thing you notice, wide and knowing, stretching across his face. He tilted his head, eyes bouncing between you and Spencer like he was putting pieces together in real time.

“Wait a minute,” he said, sitting forward with a gleam in his eye. “Did you just quote him? Like, word for word?”

Your cheeks heated instantly. “What? No. I mean — maybe. I don’t know.”

“Pretty sure you did,” Morgan shot back, smirking. “Man, what else has he been teaching you? You got the periodic table memorized too?”

You rolled your eyes, leaning back in your chair. “Oh, please. If you’ve been around Spencer long enough, you’re bound to pick up a few things. He’s like a walking encyclopedia.”

“Well,” Spencer said, his head tilting slightly as he spoke, “your cinnamon sticks always end up at the back of your pantry. That’s why I figured you might appreciate the idea of organizing by use frequency. Like I said, practical efficiency.”

The moment the words left his mouth, you knew he’d made a tactical error.

Garcia gasped, her eyes lighting up like she’d just been handed the juiciest piece of gossip of her life. 

“Oh. My. God. Spencer Reid, how exactly do you know what the back of her pantry looks like?”

You froze, rooted to the spot as the realization hit you like a cartoon anvil. 

This was bad.

Spencer’s expression mirrored yours for half a second, bug-eyed panic, but he quickly scrambled for an answer. 

“It’s, um… a logical assumption,” he stammered, his fingers toying with the pen in his hand, a nervous tell he couldn’t quite suppress. “Spices like cinnamon sticks always seem to migrate to the back of the pantry unless there’s an intentional system in place.”

Morgan let out a long, low whistle, rocking back in his chair with enough force to make it creak.

“Nice save. But I don’t think Garcia’s buying it.”

Garcia tapped her chin, clearly enjoying herself far too much. “Oh, no, no, no. This is too good. I mean, logical assumption  my fabulous behind! Cinnamon sticks in the back of her pantry? Really? What’s next? A detailed analysis of how she stacks her cereal boxes?”

You laughed, though it sounded more like a bark than anything natural. “You’re all reading way too much into this. Spencer just knows weirdly specific things about, well, everything. That’s kind of his thing, remember?”

“Mmhmm,” Garcia hummed, clearly unconvinced. “Alright, genius, I’ll let it slide this time. But I’m watching you.”

“Please don’t,” Spencer muttered under his breath, earning a round of laughter from the team.

Garcia spent a solid ten minutes in full interrogation mode after that, her eyes narrowing with each and every pointed question she lobbed your way. Morgan, of course, was no help. He leaned back, grinning like a kid with a front-row seat to the circus, his smirk practically screaming that he knew they were this close to striking a nerve.

Spencer and you had been so careful. You'd been dating long before you joined the BAU, but the moment Hotch had called to offer you the position, you both knew you'd have to keep things under wraps. Dating a coworker was one thing; dating Spencer Reid, a genius with an accidentally too-honest mouth, was an entirely different challenge.

You hadn't expected it to be this hard, though. Keeping the secret wasn't the worst part, it was pretending he wasn't the center of your universe every time you walked into the room. It was keeping your hands to yourself when all you wanted to do was smooth out the messy strands of hair that always fell into his eyes. It was biting your tongue when someone interrupted his long-winded tangents because the truth was, you loved hearing him talk.

The hours stretched on, and the bullpen slowly thinned out. Garcia was the first to leave, blowing a kiss to the room. Morgan left soon after, pausing to flash you one last grin before disappearing. Even Prentiss packed up for the night, muttering something about needed an extra shot of espresso tomorrow morning.

"You handled that well."

You looked up from your report to find Spencer by your desk, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other skimming lightly along the edge of the divider. His expression was surprisingly soft, almost bashful, as though he had been waiting to get you alone.

"Handled that well?" you repeated, raising an eyebrow. "You were the one who almost blew it, Spencer. Cinnamon sticks? Really?"

He smiled, lips twitching upward as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Okay, I'll admit that wasn't my most subtle moment. But in my defense, they do end up at the back of most pantries."

You couldn't help but laugh, shaking your head as you leaned back in your chair. 

"We're lucky Garcia got distracted. If she'd pushed any harder..." Your voice drifted into a soft sigh. "That could've been bad."

"That was a close one."

The quiet that followed wasn't uncomfortable, but it felt a little more substantial, if that was the word, filled with that miniscule ache that always bloomed in your chest when he was near. 

Spencer stepped closer, his hand brushing against the edge of your desk. His body angled toward you, like even when you weren’t touching, he couldn’t help but gravitate toward you.

“You know,” he said, his voice softer now, “I don’t think she actually suspects anything. But we should probably be more careful.”

"Probably," you replied, drawing out the word in a teasing, sing-song tone. “Unless you’d rather keep showing off how ridiculously well you know me.”

His cheeks flushed a soft pink, but he didn’t look away. Instead, that shy, boyish smile, the one that always made you a little breathless, spread across his lips.

"That's going to be hard," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "I noticed a lot about you."

You could feel the flush creeping up to your neck, and you mentally cursed him for how easily he was able to do this to you.

"You're lucky I like you."

His smile widened, and his eyes crinkled at the corners in that way they only came out at specific moments. Like when he successfully performed a card trick for the team or when he stumbled across an original copy of a book at a library sale. 

The same one you'd seen when he talked about his mom on her good days, or when you asked him on a date. 

You leaned forward. "And since I like you, any chance you'd want to kiss me right now?"

"How could I not, with you looking at me like that?"

The angle was clumsy, your chair too low, his frame leaning awkwardly over, but all of that melted away the second his hands found your face. His thumbs brushed soft circles against the place where your cheek met your jaw.

His lips were soft against yours at first, testing, before growing firmer, more sure. The kind of confidence that came with a hundred familiar kisses before. 

Time seemed to slow, or at least for you it did, the rest of the world nonexistent.

The sound of a throat clearing broke the spell, and you jerked back from Spencer, your chair wobbling slightly as you turned toward the sound. You immediately regretted it — your lips felt swollen, your face hot, and there was Prentiss, leaning against the doorframe.

"We were... uh, testing something," you blurted, avidly avoiding eye contact. "You know, like... oxygen exchange! For scientific purposes."

Spencer blinked, then mumbled, "Oxygen exchange? That's the best you got?"

"Shut it," you hissed through gritted teeth, not daring to look at him.

Prentiss arched a brow. "Relax, lovebirds. If this is your idea of scientific research, I'll make sure Garcia doesn't find out. You're welcome."

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[sadagios]

GIGGS Immortal Company AU

"Nothing in the world is more precious than one’s life, and sometimes, we have to deal with forces that threaten to cut it short. Ghosts, monsters, and sometimes, even people. This fear prevents us from enjoying our short time in this world.

"But what if I tell you that you don’t have to worry about your life falling into danger? What if I tell you that there are people willing to let go of their lives so you don’t have to?

"Ghost busting? Monster journalism? Creature Handling? Cryptid hunting? Property retrieval in ominous places and planets? There is no job we can’t handle!

"Throw your worries away and let GIGGS handle your dangerous affairs. Give a grand to GIGGS and your life will be nothing but grand."

aka A GIGGS AU where the five of them are broke immortals trying to capitalize on their inability to die by taking on life-threatening jobs.

more under the cut!

Impulse and Skizz founded the company. Skizz had the idea and persuaded Impulse to pursue it. Impulse has extensive experience in ghost hunting and prioritizes on-site jobs, while Skizz’s expertise is in handling clients and paperwork. They started as a duo and received mostly ghost-busting jobs. Years into their business, the jobs became more demanding and dangerous, and despite their immortality, it was still a bit much for two people to handle.

Their first recruit was Scar. They never talked to the man, but they often saw him in the city; each time they saw him, he always sat near the lake with a journal and pen in his hands, and a cane rested on his chair. They have been working as IMP n’ SKIZZ for a few decades at this point, and Skizz pointed out to Impulse that the man doesn’t seem to age despite seeing him every week or month. When they talked to him, they found out that Scar was an immortal as well. He agreed to join the company, and although he was clumsy most times and he died so often, it helped out the duo’s workload a ton. Especially with clients. It felt like they accidentally hired themselves a top salesman and a PR guy.

Their next recruit was Grian… well, more like their first applicant. He suddenly showed up one day in their company building asking they need one more employee. Impulse thought it was a good idea as they started to receive jobs that required them to go off-country, or even off-planet. Grian served as a great addition to their team with the way he strategizes and how quick he get things done. Though he’s a very unsettling person. They’re not even sure if he’s human. Each time he died, his corpse stayed on the ground, and he suddenly pops up somewhere.

Their last official member is Gem, who was neither a recruit nor an applicant. She was a hitman paid to kill Scar. She sabotaged a lot of their jobs just to get a swing at Scar, who never seemed to die even when she ripped his heart out. When Grian tried to kill her to get rid of her, her wounds instantly healed. After a while, she realized that her attempts at killing the old conman were futile. Skizz and Impulse tried to recruit her, seeing that her abilities can help the company, but she refused. They didn’t see her for a few years, and she showed up one day saying she’s sick of killing people for money and wants to go on (creepy) adventures.

The five of them made a perfect team, and thus IMP n’ SKIZZ was renamed to GIGGS after a few years.

ADDITIONAL NOTES

IMPULSE

When he dies, his body tries to repair itself back together, and if his important organs are still intact, he goes back into consciousness.

The cause of his immortality is unknown.

Before falling into an existential crisis and state of depression and hopelessness thanks to his immortality, he was a ghost hunter.

SKIZZLEMAN “SKIZZ”

His immortality is the same as Impulse’s, but his consciousness never leaves his body.

The cause of his immortality is unknown.

A few hundred years ago, he was a radio host who was known for his ghost stories segment. The station eventually fell into obscurity before it completely stopped its operation.

He joined a ghost hunter services company a year later, and that’s where he met impulse.

MR. GOODTIMES "SCAR"

He gets scars and can bleed, but doesn’t feel pain. He can also get his heart ripped off and still be able to live. No part of his body can die, and even though he can’t regenerate a whole new organ, his organs can live apart from him.

However, once his body parts or organs reattach to him, it connects with gooey gold which harden after a while, making it harder to remove the next time. Though, this also causes problems sometimes and makes it harder for Scar to move. This is why he uses a cane for his leg.

He gained immortality from a golden cat statue after he repaired it. Some of its shards are missing, so he’s unsure whether this immortality was a blessing or a curse.

He used to be a con artist. He once tricked a billionaire into investing in his fake business. After he got some hundred million, he booked it and lived comfortably in hiding.

GRIAN

His corpses stay dead, but he pops back into existence randomly.

Beneath his glasses, his eyes are hollow and hold a deep abyss inside them.

Sometimes, his new body doesn't express emotions well, so the team rely on his voice and actions to tell how he’s feeling.

The cause of his immortality is unknown. It’s also unknown what kind of creature he is.

AGENT GEMINI "GEM"

She can die, but only if every single one of the cells explodes. She can grow old, but her regeneration is so fast that her aging is incredibly slowed down. She calls herself a “Pseudo Immortal”. Her skin is difficult to slice apart with how fast it connects back together.

Her immortality’s cause is a secret.

Her life before being a hitman is also a secret.

[resourcesmasterposts]

Verified Ways to Donate to Gaza Directly

(updated Sep 2024)

Donate to a Palestinian family directly:

GazaFunds.com - Spotlights 1 stagnant/struggling GFM each time you visit the page. Donate directly to a Palestinian family in urgent need of evacuation, medical treatment or basic necessities. Site run by Palestinians, all campaigns verified.

(*If you can't decide who/where to donate, simply go to GazaFunds.com. They take the decision out of your hands.)

Masterlist of 200+ verified Palestinian families' GFMs: Operation Olive Branch

eSIMs: (*urgent!)

Guide to buy + send eSIMs to Gaza

Crips for eSims for Gaza: Donate any amount to this team of volunteers who pool funds to buy + maintain eSIMs for Gaza regularly (see their financial accountability document).

Food:

Cruelty-Free Meals for North Gaza: 4 Palestinian friends on the ground in Gaza distributing vegan-friendly meals & water to displaced families in North Gaza. Proof of their work found on their GFM page. (gfm)

We Feed Gaza: Palestinian volunteers in the heart of Gaza distributing food & water to 344+ families. Details & proof in their gfm. Vetted & promoted by LetsTalkPalestine on IG. (gfm)

Other reliable campaigns by Palestinian volunteers on the ground in Gaza distributing food & necessities to displaced families: Care for Gaza, Direct Aid for Gaza

Water: (*urgent and crucial)

Gaza Municipality: The Municipality of Gaza needs funds to rebuild the water pipes in Gaza City to restore access to clean drinking water & waste management. Crucial in combating the spread of infectious diseases e.g. polio.

Help provide tents:

The Sameer Project: Provides tents & transport for families in Rafah who urgently need to evacuate. Has a team on the ground in Gaza who successfully supplied tents to 1% of the displaced refugees in Rafah. Run by Palestinians. (paypal, venmo) (chuffed)

@helpgazachildren: Funds go directly to Hussam, a Palestinian in Rafah who hosts a refugee camp. Funds will cover the cost of tents & transport fuel. Managed by a Palestinian @fairuzfan. (gfm)

Medical Aid:

Gaza Wound Care: Palestinian doctors in central Gaza treating injured/sick children & mothers in neglected displacement camps far from hospitals. Severe shortage of medicines, equipment, & medical supplies. Raising funds to treat diseases in refugee camps. (gfm) (paypal) (gogetfunding)

international charities: Palestine Red Crescent Society, Palestine Children's Relief Fund, Medical Aid for Palestinians

How to help if you can't donate:

Share + amplify Palestinian fundraisers in your irl + online circles

Organize or help to run an online/irl event to raise funds for Palestine

Boycott

Get involved with a protest/strike/direct action in your area

Contact your reps

Educate yourself + others, irl + online

Daily clicks on Arab.org

(Longer masterpost of all ways you can help)

These links focus on Palestinian-run grassroots initiatives that will reach Gazans on the ground, so all of these except eSIMs, PCRF, MAP, OOB are by Palestinians. Donating to international organizations is currently not ideal, as aid is still being stopped at the border. Please focus on Palestinian-run initiatives on the ground in Gaza instead.

Remember, small donations always add up. Any amount counts, even $1!

If you are unable to donate yourself, you can even adopt a fundraiser campaign to regularly boost and make materials promoting it online, or print posters and flyers about Palestinian fundraisers to encourage others to donate.

Poster/graphic about gazafunds.com

Flyers about eSIMs

Flyers about GazaFamilyFunds

[thegr33nc0met]

*drops this and runs*

Mark Grayson x healer!reader ♥︎

Warnings: NSFW, GN!reader/unspecified anatomy, reader’s a little mean, cumming in pants, canon typical violence

he was honestly the most insufferable person you had ever put up with.

yes, even more so than rex.

rex at least gave his all when he fought. he didn’t pull his punches or refuse to use his explosives because he felt it was ‘unfair.’ at least he had a valid reason for being in the space used as your office.

mark on the other hand…

you grumbled to yourself as you watched him on tv, clad in his new suit. you sighed in agitation as you watched the villain he was fighting fling him across the ground, leaving a meteor-like hole as he crashed.

great, another injury for you to fix. one he could have easily avoided if he had just taken this guy out.

but no. he has to pretend like he’s the good guy. it really drove you up the wall. everyone knew he was strong enough to finish half his fights in a fraction of the time it normally takes him, and he’d be finished without a scratch.

you flicked off the tv, too annoyed to watch anymore. you knew he’d just be here in a bit to have you heal up his cuts and bruises.

you’re a healer, having discovered your powers at a young age. well, healer was the nicest term you could have used. once cecil got whiff of you, he knew you were something he’d need to control if you were to ever give into those angry urges of yours. all organic matter was under your domain. he once saw you split a man in two, forcing his cells from one side to the other.

it’s not like you enjoyed it, though. you had always had what others referred to as a strong sense of justice, only using your powers to harm those who you thought really deserved it. that’s why cecil convinced you to be a healer at such a young age. you were 14 when you joined the teen team, but you never went out on the field. you simply patched the others up after a fight. you had seen the rise and fall of the team, along with the new guardians. now you were back at the old teen team compound, doing the same work you’d been doing the last few years.

yet despite being through multiple different groups of teams, mark had always been your number one client.

your nostrils flare as you recall the image of him getting injured on the tv. at first, you thought maybe you should feel bad for the guy. you never enjoyed seeing him get hurt. but after finding out what he was capable of and still seeing him hold back in the most dire of situations, it really boiled your blood.

the sound of the door to your office opening snapped you out of your thoughts. you audibly sighed as he limped inside, clutching his ribs as he struggled over to the medical gurney, wheezing as he took a seat without you having to instruct him to. a flash of worry trickled through you at the sight, but it was quickly replaced with anger.

mark knew you didn’t like him, or at least didn’t agree with his methods. he could hear your heart beat faster with anger whenever he showed up beaten and bloody.

you wordlessly step over to him, silently seething as he removed his mask with a grunt. his face was bloody and bruised, his left eye nearly swollen shut. you grimaced.

“happy to see me?” he managed to wheeze out, a shit eating grin on his face despite his pain.

“shut up if you want me to fix you,” you hissed, a hateful gleam in your eye. he was too out of it to tease much more, the pain in his face keeping him tamer than usual. you brought your hands up and loosely placed them on his neck, the only exposed bit of his skin you could reach. there was a low hum tugging somewhere in your body as you willed his cuts and bruises away. it took longer than it would any human, not used to his viltrumite dna quite yet to heal him as quickly as you could others despite doing this countless times. the silence stretched on, your eyes closed in focus. you could feel each and every one of his cells flexing and pulsating beneath your touch.

“just say it,” mark sighed, sensing the mean thoughts he knew you’d unleash on him one way or another.

“you’re a fucking idiot.” he grinned at that, a soft puff of air coming out through his nose in a lazy sort of laugh. “do you understand how many more people are gonna get hurt because of you?” you hiss.

“okay, ouch…” he mutters halfheartedly, wincing as a cut fuses back together.

“and look at you. it’s honestly pathetic,” you spit out, clenching your teeth. “it’s almost like you enjoy being in here.”

something swirls in his lower gut, his breath hitching at your words. it’s such a small noise that you don’t even notice. you keep trying to focus on getting the swelling around his eye to go down.

he knows once you’re start, you can’t stop though. you hurl insults at him as you fix his wounds, your fingers digging slightly into the flesh of his neck. he’s breathing heavier, but you blame it on the healing. you hardly even notice the flush on his face as you continue degrading him.

“…and if you had any self respect, you wouldn’t show your face in here,” you finished, the last of his wounds disappearing as if they were never even there to begin with. you finally take your hands off his neck and the loss of contact makes him whimper. the sound catches you off guard, your eyes flying open. it’s then you notice the flush on his cheeks, the way his pupils are so dilated they nearly swallow his iris’ whole, the heavier breathing.

“mark-“ you start, your eyes flicking over his body rapidly before they land on the very prominent bulge in his suit.

“fuck…” he sighs, a fresh wave of hot humiliation clogging his atoms.

“you need help fixing that as well?” before you can even think to regret the words, he’s nodding his head, a bit too eagerly.

you really shouldn’t be taking pity on him. you should keep berating him, tell him he’s sick for enjoying this so much. but instead, you spread his thighs and step between them, closer than before. his hands are on your hips in an instant, a needy noise leaving his mouth.

“stay still,” you tell him. he nods, watching as you hesitantly bring your hand to the lump in his suit.

“fuck…” he breathes out once more, his hips twitching to meet your touch.

“i said stay still,” you say more firmly than before, gripping the outline of his cock tighter. he whines softly, nodding his head as he brings a hand up to quiet himself.

you swallow nervously. the sight of him like this is really doing something to you. you hadn’t really ever considered yourself as super powerful before, but seeing one of the strongest men on the planet crumbling in on himself all because your hand is cupping his crotch through his suit…

it makes you feel high.

maybe this is why he always let himself get beat down. maybe he enjoyed it just a little too much. maybe he liked being weak.

the thought made you pity him. you moved your hand faster against his cock, making him mewl and squirm on the cot. you bring your other hand to the back of his head, encouraging him to rest his forehead on your shoulder. he obediently does so, fighting his urge to buck up into your hand.

you can’t bring yourself to speak up, only the sounds of his whimpers and the creaking of the medical cot filling your office. you can feel the wet patch on the crotch of his suit against your hand now. he’s so painfully hard beneath the damp fabric.

“oh god, oh fuck…” mark grunts, his eyes rolling back. “gonna cum, fuck!” he whines.

“yeah?” you whisper, your voice wavering. “you’re doing so good for me,” you tell him, almost gently.

oh, that really does it. the slightest bit of praise. his noises get louder, his body bucks and writhes uncontrollably as it builds up.

“oh! f-fuck!” he grunts before letting out a series of high pitched moans and whimpers. you feel him tense and tremble against you, feeling the fabric getting wetter beneath your hand as he explodes in his suit. he pants softly as you slow your hand, letting him come down from his high. you stand there for a moment, petting the back of his head like one might a cat before slowly disentangling yourself from him.

he watches you dazedly as you take a step back, his eyes still glossed over with lust. undeniably, the way he looks at you makes you flustered. it’s too intense. you give a light smack to his thigh, making him flinch (knowing damn well it didn’t hurt).

“welp, you’re all healed up, champ,” you tell him, doing your damn best to avoid looking at those eyes that’ll just suck you right in if you let them. “get outta here…” you say, thumbing to the door as you step to the side. something flickers across his face - a pout, almost - before he neutralizes his features and sighs. he turns his head to look at you, narrowing his eyes before a smirk spreads across his lips and he stands.

“see you tomorrow?” he asks, though you know it’s not a question. you just hum in response, watching the way his hips move as he walks towards the door, waddling slightly from the mess in his suit.

what the fuck just happened?

this was heavily inspired by @swtheartz healer stories! go check out his blog♥︎