#icy rambles in tags

[icy-heart-girl]

Headcanon that Jason makes every social media and game character username he can get away with possible "RobinHood" and it grates on some small part of Dick that hears everyone assume "Robin" came from the bird.

[midnight-coffee94]

No single line has ever wrecked me as hard as this one from the Good Place and I think about it constantly

[theitalianscribe]

I heard this song for the first time two days ago and it has not left my head since. It's so good.

Also, because hyper-fixation, it gave me ideas.

None that will become a full fic, but enjoy these Welcome to Dreamworld rambles from Discord, presented in bullet points.

It's so fun [[this is past me talking about the song]]

Also imagine an au where Carlos finds out he has a grandson shortly after Owen disappears and he's like, "Wait I have a grandbaby and he's all alone??? That won't do!" And he comes back to take care of Wiatt

And Wiatt is like ??????

I was going to joke that he is possessing Winnie but that doesn't make sense timeline wise

Unless Winnie was something Carlos built between his death and the founding of Dreamworld and each founder assumed one of the other founders built him

Just this shifty pegasus in pajamas and a nightcap making eggs for Wiatt, possibly with blood stains on the cuffs of his pants telling (Grand)dad jokes and being spooky/ominous at the same time.

TheItalianScribe (TheIcyMage) — Today at 11:23 AM He notices Wiatt had a crush on Lewis and is like, "Oooh! Someone has a crush! Want me to help you take his heart? Wait that's not the phrase. Capture his heart?"

"N…no, thank you."

Winnie going to PTA meetings in a bad human disguise Why does this idea make me chuckle?

[manglechan1204]

Avant d’avoir les résultats et qu’on ait tous envie de crever, j’ai voulu faire un tour des fanfics sur la politique française ( a des fins scientifiques bien entendu ) et oh boi y’a des trucs à dire

Sur Wattpad :

-Il y’a plus de 270 fanfics Bardella x Attal ( Les gars ?? Je comprends amour haine tout ça, mais wsh )

-J'en ai trouvé aucune sur le Front Populaire ou la gauche en général ( ce qui est une bonne chose ? je suppose ? )

-Par contre j’en ai lu une ( pour la science toujours ) où ils sont des persos secondaires 🤷‍♂️

-Antoine Daniel a fait des dégâts irréparables au milieu des fanfics shitpost /pos

AO3 :

-Y’a un tag populaire " RPF Political " ( Je dois vivre avec cette info maintenant )

-La tendance est beaucoup plus au ship Macron sur ce site bien que tjr pas mal de Bardellattal ? *Ugh*

-Toujours aucune du Front Populaire mais j’en ai trouvé avec Mélenchon qui datent toutes de 2017/2018

Voila

Si vous vous voulez plus de détail hésitez pas 👍

[crying-tears-for-dc]

Currently thinking of Jason dying and getting honored by Cime Alley as both Jason Todd and Robin.

You don't grow up with nothing in a place with nothing and not learn to help each other survive. If no one helped each other everyone would starve to death, or freeze, or overheat, or any of the dozens of things that could go wrong when you never have enough of anything. So you can't tell me Jason Todd got adopted by a billionaire and didn't go back to help his neighborhood get better parks, food banks, clinics, apartments, just better everything.

Robin saved the night but Jason Todd saved the days.

I just want Jason being remembered but it not being enough because the clown is still breathing. And yes, yes, he knows Batman dies when he kills but he wants to know that he matters more than the crusade. That he matters more than this years-long bloody game that the clown insists on playing that the Batman keeps being a part of. But of course it doesn't work out that way and no amount of Crime Alley love will soothe the hurt away.

[moinsbienquekaworu]

I'm going to Give The Fuck Up

[fenharel-apologist94]

Hell yeah love writing my two fics:

Tea Leaves and Sweet Dreams, a cute lil teashop/college AU!

And certainly not about the overwhelming exhaustion of never being known by those who claim to love you and learning how to accept the passion you've always wanted to love even though others have used it to misunderstand you

and Not Another Dragon Age Fanfic, a fun time-and-space-bendy retelling of some DA fanfic tropes you've come to know well!

It definitely doesn't seek to ask the question what if duty was no more than a shackle around your neck and around your ankles, and as much as you wish to spare the one you love from that fate, you swallowed the key yourself because what else can you do what else what else what else -

[jellyfishegg]

As a chronic "unnecessary second tweet" kinda girl I love tags

[icyhotheartwritings]

Uh oh I started daydreaming about my Tav this was NOT meant to happen

[cherry-bomb-ships]

Sigh.... The deed is done.

Scrooge is now an official f/o 😔💖💖💖

[icy-heart-girl]

I should have been asleep hours ago but I can't because I'm plagued by the thought of Jason and Bruce.

They find and save each other and then lose each other. It is inevitable. It is written like a law. And then Jason comes back and they still cannot be like they used to be, of course not. Because while Jason couldn’t grow, Bruce was busy changing as a father who lost a son, becoming a man who turned grief into anger and turned the whole world into his own punishment.

They meet once more - Jason looking his dad in the eye and saying that he's "not talking about killing Penguin or Scarecrow or Dent. I'm talking about him, just him," asking his dad to show his love by letting him feel safe in the world - and neither of them being able to show love the way the other person wants to see. It draws a line. It builds a wall made of glass, and it has to be made of glass because they're always going to be drawn towards each other cutting themselves apart trying over and over to reach past it.

Jason’s grown to be able to look Bruce in the eye now but it feels like they're never able to see the world from their point of view.

Jason and Bruce is a tragedy and I love it and hate it and it breaks my heart for them both.

[wavernot4love]

hello long time no see (sort of) u guys.... what could this mean besides wavernot4love getting 2 the gig ,,,,,,,,

CLANCY CLEVELAND THAT IS!!!!! will post in the morning since i have 2 sleep as it is two am but i sure do have bracelets and keychains to trade!!!!! let's go!!!!!

[icypolargirl78]

i loooove going into a fandom tag to try and get some fresh opinions and some random fucking person is just spamming the tags. like every single thought they have about the fandom is a new fucking post. and then when i block them to try and see anyone else, the goddamn search engine is broken because of them. fucking great.

[icarusama]

might change my fursona from a lynx to a thylacine but i’m not sure cuz he’s been a lynx for like 10 years almost but i see a thylacine and i’m like “yup. that’s HIM”

[paint-it-dead]

Each member gets a sequence where they articulate their own thoughts about the eclipse drama in hell's most in demand show "Keeping Up With The Godhand"

sometimes i just sit still and think about the part where femto raises his hand to absolutely totally 100% obliterate guts, casca, and the skull knight out of existence and then he just. doesn't. and they get away and he just stands there looking awkward and stupid and do you think the rest of the god hand was staring at his dumb embarrassing self like wtf was that

[parfaitblogs]

roadkill ❀ s. reid x reader

in which a vacant home sits awaiting for spencer reid's return, and then he sits waiting for yours. 

pairing: spencer reid x reader genre: hurt/comfort tags: established relationship. cm s12 spoilers. post prison reid. most certainly not canonically accurate. in fact diana reid is nowhere to be seen. canon’s not real anyways i know him better than the cm writers. past non prison reid trauma mentioned. reader has hair long enough for a ponytail (?) word count: 2.6k a/n: happy parfaitblogs post prison spencer reid fanfic to a searows song to all that celebrate.

The air was uncomfortably still in apartment 23. Thick, coating every piece of furniture, as if it was some incredibly translucent fog. Everything had been moved, and yet nothing was different. Empty mugs sitting in his sink with a coffee stain that reached a centimetre from the top, shoes dispersed on the floor by the front door. He just might've gone crazy in prison, considering he was pretty sure he could spot the layer of dust on each and every surface. 

Your things mixed with his own. A blanket he doesn't remember ever purchasing in a crumpled ball on the couch, your laptop sitting awkwardly atop his own on his desk. But you weren't there. He could literally tell from the lack of movement happening in the space, and the fact that your bag wasn't situated anywhere his eyes could see. He also just knew you wouldn't be here. He hadn't spoken to you in three months, not even through words on a page. He was sure he'd not want to talk to you either, if the roles were reversed. 

He wants you here, regardless.

He doesn't like his apartment without you in it. It's dull, and he's too on edge to do anything about it. Letting the oppressive air suffocate him in his new position on the couch, veins still peeking through his cold skin even as his hands sweat from your blanket he had wrapped them in. It smelled of you, and it was the closest comfort he could find in an otherwise discomforting time. 

He wants you here. 

Dinner was a steaming plate of nothing. No food he could eat without being sick sitting in any of his cupboards, for his appetite had grown bland during his time in prison, and you were not a plain crackers eater. He misses your cooking dearly. He misses your rambling about the different spices you were trying out that evening. 

He wants you here. 

His shower was cold. Icy water to rinse the running sweat from his constantly uneasy state. No shampoo, despite how badly his curls needed to be treated nicely again. It was shampoo you had bought for him; shampoo you had lathered through his hair time and time again as you taught him how to take care of his curls to keep them pretty, as you had said. The smell now made him sick.

He wants you here.

His bed remained untouched. The indent of where your head lay in his pillows still there, sheets and duvet wrinkled from your no doubt hurried job at making it that morning. He refused to get into it. Instead, he curled up on the floor at the foot of the bed, like a dog guarding the piece of furniture. His knees at his chest, arms around his legs. Positioned in a ball to keep him as small as possible, probably. Exhaustion never came, and his brain never silenced. He spent who knows how long staring at the doorway, out into his living room, thinking. Longing. Ruminating. 

He needs you here. 

Sunlight was peeking into his apartment through the blinds. Which he hadn't really noticed until he tore his eyes away from the medullary rays he was intensely studying, at the sound of his front door creaking open. He didn't say anything as he heard the familiar noise of your charm adorned bag rattling in the space. In fact, he almost smiled at it. He might've, if not for the aching hole in his chest. 

He had no idea if you knew he was coming home until he heard your breath hitch. You were still far away, standing by the back of his couch, your hand halfway through tugging your hair out of its ponytail. Frozen in time once you had spotted him, confirming that no. You had no idea Spencer Reid was coming home today. 

It was an awkward back and forth of breaths, and eye contact that he couldn't break even if he wanted to. You were real, and you were here, and even though you were staring at him with a heart shatteringly broken expression, he felt relief heat his glacial veins. You had not turned on your heel and sprinted away from him, and you were not screaming at him either. 

He watched your muscles relax and your brain seemingly sink back into your body as the initial shock wore off, your feet now carrying your body over to his position on the floor. 

He untangled his limbs before you reached him, grimacing at the ache in all his joints, ignoring the stickying feeling of the wound in his thigh reopening, blood coating his pants once more. 

You didn't ignore it. 

Nor did you say anything. Clocking the deep red stain on his otherwise white sweatpants, and disappearing into his ensuite to collect his first aid kit and a cloth. He couldn't count on his hands how many times you had stitched him up after he had come home from a case throughout all these years, the act awfully habitual by now. Yet, he was carefully watching your every move like it was the first time, responding to every signal you gave him to move or still. 

Delicate fingers that brushed against his thigh encouraged goosebumps onto his skin, his sweatpants now in a heap on the floor next to your two bodies. His legs stretched across your crossed ones, a quiet, "Sorry," being the first word you said to him, as he winced at the gauze pressing against the open wound. 

He murmured back an, "It's okay," while your hands wrapped a bandage around the limb, your heart rate increasing with fluster as you felt his gaze locked onto your face. 

You aren't sure what to say to him after you finish dressing the injury, and so you stand up, heading towards his closet to pull out a fresh pair of pants for him to wear instead. You weren't quite sure if he actually wanted to speak to you. For three months, you were convinced he didn't. 

He did want to be near you though, you learned. Trailing after you like a lost puppy as you moved through the motions of your post work routine silently. You didn't argue about it, even as he sat in the bathroom while you showered, or watched you intently as you boiled water in the kettle, and made a cup of tea for yourself and him. You didn't ask if he wanted one, and he was eternally grateful you had done it anyways. 

Two cups of tea sat domestically on the coffee table, a sight you had sorely missed throughout these past weeks. He was curled up on the couch, his head in your lap, your fingers entangled in messy curls and balancing your focus between his unsteady breathing, and the old cartoon you had put on for visual stimulation in the space. 

A conversation was needed to be had. One you most certainly did not want to have. You broke the silence to begin it, anyways.

"I wasn't allowed to go see you."

If not for the words themselves, then the cracking of your voice and the obvious heaviness of a sob lodged in your throat broke his heart even more. He had a lot of practice  recently in being quiet voluntarily, and yet he was truly at a loss for words right now. 

"I know," he decides on saying. "I kept you off the list."

"Why?"

The explanation felt incredibly meaningless now. It had at least made sense three months ago. And, worse than that, it was an unfair reason. He should not have decided for the both of you your limitations on seeing him based on insecurities.

"I didn't want you to see me like that," he admits, each word heavy on his tongue, for he could feel the way your fingers stilled in his hair, and he was sure your shoulders had just deflated. 

You swallow down your snarky defence, knowing it wasn't helpful or even worth it right now. Instead, you nod your head, silently, and take a few beats to decide how to respond to him. 

"I just wanted to see you," you whisper, eyes transfixed on the television screen, though your attention was anywhere but. "Just once, Spencer. JJ wouldn't even give me updates on how you were doing."

His throat bobs, and you look down at him, unsurprised to see his eyes studying your face already. 

"I know. I asked her not to. I didn't want you to worry any more than you already were."

You knew he wouldn't do well in prison. If not for how mind numbingly boring it would've been for a brain as active as his, then for how unsafe he would've been as a federal employee. Everyday, you feared the phone calls you received from any of his colleagues, waiting for the one to inform you of his death within those concrete walls. 

To know he was doing so bad he didn't even want you to know about it was quite possibly worse than any fear you had had the entire time he was in prison.

"I pretended to write to you," he informs you, quietly. "It kept me sane. Writing letters, even though you'd never receive them."

"Do you still have them?"

"No."

"Oh. Okay."

He hates how small you sound in your response. He hates himself for throwing away those letters. They may not have been the most pleasant, but they were an insight into his life during prison. One he was sure you were keenly interested in. Never mind the confessions of love he had jotted down. Daily. Reminding himself over and over what he was surviving for. Who he was surviving for. 

"I made a friend this week," he says. "I think he's a friend. He used to be in the Bureau too. We bonded over that and books. He got me my own cell, next to his. We've been playing chess. He's kept me being a federal employee quiet, and kept me safe."

The confusion that had originally swept across your face settled upon realising what he was doing, and your lips twitched upwards. Grateful once more for his eidetic memory.

"I read As You Like It today. I'm not sure if you've read it, or any of Shakespeare's works. I don't know how I've never asked that. I wish I had. I will if I get out of here. I think you'd like Rosalind. She's hilarious. She reminds me a bit of you. She has an entire monologue scolding someone because she doesn't love a man who loves her dearly, while simultaneously berating that man for being a shepherd."

"I read Romeo and Juliet in high school," you say, staring down at him, and his chest puffs in a small laugh. Your heart swells in your own. 

"I miss you everyday," your smile falls again at his words, as does his own, and you instead feel your stomach sink into the same inextinguishable black hole that permanently resided there. "I'll get out of here one day. Even if it's in twenty years. I selfishly hope you never move on if it takes that long. I'll be okay if you do. I love you."

"How many more do you have?" you ask him, fingers trailing down his face, tracing gentle patterns on the skin absentmindedly, for your mind was busy whirring about your first introduction to his time in prison.

"If I think hard enough, all of them," he answers. "It's hard to focus on much right now."

"That's okay," you say, chewing on your lower lip, staring at the two half drunk teas in front of you. "You don't have to tell me another one now."

He only nods his head, and you can only be silent from then on, unsure of what else to say to him that isn't a plead for what you had missed over three months of no contact. 

He encourages you to move to his bedroom after his body falls asleep on you once, before jolting awake after only a few seconds. You comply, and intertwined fingers drag him to the bed you had become exceedingly familiar with. 

He had never felt like a child in the present his whole life. Only ever when he looked back on the years before did he truly recognise he was young. Too young to have lost his dad. Too young to be solely responsible for his mother's health care. Too young to be battling a drug addiction. Every key moment in his life was a violent reminder of how fast he was forced to grow up. Simultaneously, he was unable to stop the time from passing. 

And yet, as you cradled his head in your hands against your chest in his bed, your heartbeat providing him a welcome comfort that you were alive and he was with you, he felt like a child. He felt too young, and, for the first time in his life, he did not feel intelligent enough to deal with any of this. 

He had caught a glimpse of his twelve year old self attending high school when he first arrived in prison. A small fish lost in an ocean of sharks. Here, he ponders whether or not that version of himself ever actually left his body, or if he was simply twelve years old and navigating this adult life fraudulently. 

"I don't know how to deal with this," he whispers into the air.

He despises the way your caressing hand stops. Though, he doesn't mention it. 

"Time, I guess," you murmur, chest rumbling against his head.

"I hate time."

"Yeah," you agree, quietly. "Time is the best healer, though."

"I hate that idiom."

"You suddenly hate a lot of things?" you ask, eyebrows shooting up. 

"Mm," he nods his head, and exhales a sharp breath of air. "Not you."

A quip manifests on your tongue, but you bite it down, unsure if he will actually comprehend your humour right now. "That's good. I don't hate you either." 

Silence settles over your bodies, though, unlike the air when he had entered the night before, it's much more pleasant. 

He breaks the quiet with a whisper. "Thank you for not being mad at me. I'm sorry I didn't let you come see me."

You want to say you're mad at him for the sake of the principle. It wasn't fair, and the way you had felt during those three months was neglected and uncared for. But then the man you had been upset with had come home, and you're very quickly learning his reasons for it all. Anger dissipates quickly when it comes to Spencer Reid, you've found. 

You also believe if you had seen him the way he is now, but without the ability to hold him the way you are, and a piece of glass separating your bodies, you'd probably be a lot less composed. 

"It's okay," you mumble. "Thank you for not making me see you like that."

He only nods his head as a response. 

He fell asleep sometime after your last comment, and you allowed yourself the time to finally look at him intensely.

His skin was bruised. Purple and yellow painting the skin all over, and you fought the urge to search for all the other marks all over his body. You were already blinking back tears; you weren't sure how much more you could handle. 

Quietly, as your hands drop from the contusions on his face to your sides, you whisper earnestly, "I love you too."

And as his breathing hitches for only a moment, you're sure he hears you, even while asleep. 

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡