#like NONE of this is accurate in the sense that

[jraker4]

"I concede that evidence currently shows the Bibas family was killed, and a body belonging to someone not a hostage was returned. It's a travesty. However, I can't condemn Nat Turner, and in the same token, I can't condemn Hamas." Considering the rest of your remarks prior to this, what a marvelously brazen display of chickenshit behavior. After all of your bemoaning a lack of sources-while offering exactly none of your own, mind-when you're given one, it slides off your back better than water off a duck's. Don't get me wrong, it doesn't mean you're obligated to concede your entire argument or anything, but a person of integrity would at least have the stones to admit 'I eat crow on this claim I made over and over again. I think in time more evidence will reveal I'm right, but right now that's not the case'. But you don't need integrity, because you've got The Cause, right? You don't have to be accurate, because you're Right. Like when you compare the plight of Palestinians to that of African chattel slaves in the early 19th century. Which is for starters just a buckwild stupid comparison to make, and in any event lacks any sense of nuance: it's *completely possible* to condemn specific actions of someone without insisting that they then condemn an entire movement or goal. People do it all the time, they're perfectly capable of it. You're doing it right this very moment with Palestinians...and yet, somehow, even conceptually you can't make that little reach further. And also condemn others while doing it. Let's see, what else: you don't know what carpet bombing is. If Israel were carpet bombing Palestinians, there wouldn't be Palestinians *left*. That doesn't mean the conduct of the war in Gaza is good or beyond reproach, far from it, but again we come back to your not needing to be accurate because you're Right (supposedly). Terms like 'carpet bombing' have meaning, and it's not 'prolonged air strikes'. But why be right when the term is so sexy? Ethnostates: I wonder how many ethnostates there are in the region and, indeed, the world, and what's the cause behind your total fucking silence on this relevant question? Actually I don't wonder, and if you're going to insist on using the term I'm going to have fun mocking you for it.

'Colonial'. One cannot colonize one's own indigenous land. Obviously that doesn't mean taking it is OK, there are more ethical questions to be asked and answered than 'are you indigenous or not', but *by definition* Israel isn't doing A Colonialism because you can't colonize your own native land. Now, there *are* plenty of words that already exist to describe the sorts of behavior you're trying to describe, but they're way less sexy than 'colonialism', so why trouble usin' `em, amirite? Say, I wonder how the regional nations around Israel got their start, what's their history, surely there ain't any colonizing going on there, right? What? That don't matter? Happened too long ago? Well, OK, so what's the exact expiration date then? While Israel would prefer other options, I think they'd be happy to know that the standard is 'hold out for a few centuries and then it's yours in the eyes of the world', since they're already determined to hold out for centuries anyway. What? That's a ridiculous standard that it isn't fair to make? Why? If you're going to use a term like 'colonial', we're going to talk about colonizing. That ain't limited to Israel.

What’s more likely? Hamas killed two crucial bargaining chips, then, instead of simply saying the bodies were lost under the rubble, returned the remains proving they’d murdered them.

Or

Israel killed them when they carpet bombed Gaza, like everyone warned them would happen, lied about the kids being alive for over a year, are now lying again to invoke genocidal fervour and break the ceasefire?

This is the “40 beheaded babies” debacle all over again. The truth will be acknowledged eventually but by then it will be too late.

[rositaslabyrinth]

Call it what you want - angel grace vial!reader

How she gets her name ⭑.ᐟ

She wasn’t supposed to be human, and she wasn’t supposed to need a name—but Dean gives her one anyway.

Warnings : none, this just isn’t bunker accurate so pretend that the bunker has a living room !!

Word count ; 1,466

You didn’t know what to do with your hands.

That was a problem you’d discovered quickly about being human—there were too many little, insignificant things to keep track of. Breathing. Blinking. Hands.

You kept fidgeting with the sleeves of the hoodie Sam had given you, pulling at the fabric like it might make you feel more settled in your skin. It didn’t.

Dean was pacing. He had been ever since they sat you down at the Bunker’s map table to figure out what the hell to do with you.

“Alright, let’s go over this again,” Dean said, rubbing a hand over his face before gesturing vaguely at you. “You’re… what, exactly? A test tube bottle?”

You flinched slightly. Not at the words themselves, but at the sharp frustration laced into his voice. You weren’t sure what to do with emotions—not yours, not his. It was all too much, too close.

Sam shot Dean a look. “Dean—”

“What? We still don’t know what we’re dealing with,” Dean shot back. “We can’t just keep calling her—” He gestured at you, then frowned. “See? That’s the problem. We don’t even know what the hell to call you.”

Sam sighed, glancing at you. “Do you… have a name?” You hesitated. “I wasn’t given one.” Sam frowned. “Well, do you want one?”

Another pause. You curled your fingers into the sleeves of the hoodie, thinking. A name. It felt too solid, too permanent for something like you. Names were for people. You weren’t even sure you were real yet.

“I don’t know,” you admitted softly. Dean exhaled sharply. “Great. That makes this easier.”

You shrank a little, suddenly feeling too small under his gaze. You didn’t understand what you were supposed to do with all of this—conversations, questions, the expectation of being something.

Dean, still pacing, waved a hand in your direction. “Alright, look, we’re not gonna keep calling you ‘Grace Vial’ like you’re some kind of freaking science experiment. So, until we figure something else out…”

He paused for half a second, then shrugged. “V. We’ll call you V.” Silence.

You blinked at him. Sam blinked at him. Dean stared back at both of you like he didn’t see what the big deal was. “…V?” Sam repeated, unimpressed.

“Yeah, V,” Dean said, crossing his arms. “Short. Simple. Better than ‘Angel Test Tube.’”

You tilted your head slightly. V. It was nothing—just a letter. But it was yours, now.

It settled over you strangely. Not heavy, not suffocating—just… there.

V.

You looked up at Dean, unsure why, but he was already looking away, like he didn’t want to acknowledge that he’d done something weirdly significant.

Sam sighed, shaking his head. “Real creative, Dean.”

Dean shrugged. “Hey, she didn’t have any suggestions. You want me to go with something like Celestianna or whatever the hell?”

You blinked again. “…I think I like V.”

Dean paused, glancing at you for a moment before quickly looking away again. “Yeah, well. Don’t get too attached. We’re still figuring out what to do with you.”

But the thing was—you already were attached. Because now, you weren’t just something broken. You were V.

Dean leaned back in his chair with a groan, rubbing a hand over his face. “Alright, now that we’ve got the whole name situation figured out, time to get back to the actual problem.”

Sam was already flipping open one of the lore books they’d pulled from the library. “Yeah, we need to figure out what V is and how she became human. There’s gotta be something in the records about a Grace turning into a person.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, because everything in this world makes sense.”

V shrank slightly, still curled up in the hoodie Sam had given her. She wasn’t sure how to feel about being the subject of a research session, but she understood why it was necessary. She didn’t understand herself, either.

Sam pushed up from his chair, already in full research mode. “I’ll start in the library. There’s gotta be something in the Men of Letters archives.”

Dean groaned. “Fantastic. So, what, you’re gonna be locked in there all night?”

Sam ignored him. “It’s gonna take a while, so you two just—” He waved a vague hand between Dean and V, like they were kids he was leaving alone for the first time. “Try to stay out of trouble.”

Dean scoffed. “Yeah, yeah. Knock yourself out, nerd.” Sam gave him an unimpressed look before heading toward the library.

Which left just you and Dean. Alone. In the suddenly too-quiet War Room.

Dean shifted, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Well. That leaves us with not a damn thing to do.”

You hesitated before asking, “What do you normally do?” Dean raised a brow. “What, when Sam’s off burying himself in books?”

You nodded.

He shrugged, leaning back in his chair again. “TV. Beer. Occasional existential crisis.”

You frowned. “TV?” Dean blinked at you. “Oh, you’re serious.” You just stared back, waiting.

Dean sighed, shaking his head. “Right. You don’t know what TV is.” He pushed himself up, stretching. “Okay, well, buckle up, because this is important.”

You followed as he led the way out of the War Room and into the Bunker’s main living area. He grabbed the remote and turned on the massive TV, flipping through channels like it was second nature.

“So, here’s the deal,” he said, eyes still on the screen. “TV is basically human culture 101. If you wanna blend in, you gotta know the classics.”

You settled onto the couch next to him, watching the screen flicker. “What are the classics?”

Dean smirked, then selected something from the menu.

An episode of some old show flickered onto the screen.

He pointed at it. “This? This is Star Wars. Mandatory viewing. Pay attention.”

You did. You sat perfectly still, hands in your lap, studying the screen with an intensity Dean found slightly unnerving.

He wasn’t sure why, but it was kind of… funny?

“You, uh… you don’t have to watch it like it’s some ancient prophecy,” he muttered, grabbing a beer from the side table.

You glanced at him, confused. “I thought you said it was important.” Dean paused, then snorted. “Okay, yeah, but not that important. You’re allowed to relax.”

You frowned. Relaxing. Another thing you weren’t sure how to do.

Dean sighed and took a swig of his beer. “Alright, look. Let’s try this.” He reached over and grabbed the remote, flipping through more channels. “Instead of making you memorize pop culture like a test, let’s just—”

He stopped on a random movie. It looked… strange. The people on the screen were moving quickly, their voices louder, exaggerated.

“What’s this?” you asked. Dean glanced at the title. “Tommy Boy. Classic. It’s stupid, but in a good way.” You tilted your head. “Stupid in a good way?”

Dean grinned. “Yeah. Trust me.” So, you watched.

At first, you were still too tense, like you were waiting for something important to happen. But then the man on screen tripped over himself, knocking over an entire display of auto parts, sending everything crashing to the floor.

And Dean laughed. A real, genuine, easy laugh.

You glanced at him, startled. It was the most uncomplicated sound you’d heard since waking up in this body.

Then, slowly, hesitantly, you turned back to the screen. The man did something else—bumped his head, yelled dramatically. Dean laughed again.

And something strange happened. Your lips twitched. It wasn’t quite a smile, not yet, but it was something.

Dean caught it. He didn’t say anything—he just smirked a little and took another sip of his beer.

Yeah. Maybe this wasn’t the worst way to spend an evening.

꩜

Sam frowned at the book in front of him, flipping through the pages. His eyes skimmed over every mention of Grace, vessels, celestial energy—anything that could explain what V was.

So far? Nothing.

With a sigh, he pushed back from the table, rubbing his temples. Then, faintly, from the living room—Laughter.

Sam frowned. He stood, making his way toward the noise. Peering into the living room, he stopped in his tracks.

Dean was slouched on the couch, looking completely at ease. Beer in hand, legs stretched out, smirking at the TV.

And next to him, curled up in an oversized hoodie, eyes locked on the screen—V.

Sam blinked. They weren’t talking. They weren’t doing anything important. Just watching a dumb movie together.

And V—who had spent not even the last 24 hours looking completely lost—actually looked… comfortable.

Dean must’ve caught Sam staring, because he turned, raising a brow. “What?”

Sam just shook his head, huffing out a small breath. “Nothing.”

He turned and went back to the library. He still had no idea what V was. But whatever it was? At least she wasn’t alone.

Note : and V has her nickname !! (Obviously Dean gave it to her because duh) I think it’s super cute hopefully you guys do too!! You can also send in any headcanons and whatnot you have for her if you’d like :)) I literally can’t stop writing for her I have so much cute things lined up like clothes shopping that may or may not include Charlie (not spn timeline accurate idrc) ANYWAYS I’m rambling so let me know what you think of her so far !!!

Tags : @daylighted , @wchswift , @sunsbaby , @starzify , @bluemerakis , @aambearr , @blossomingorchids , @couturewinx

To be tagged in any future works you can check out here !!

[tavysboy]

i am going to create an au that is so niche no one can stop me

[queencaramilflinda]

Everyone during neverafter 15: oh my god these social interactions are going horribly they’re all doing so bad!

Me, neurodivergent and cannot read social cues: idk mostly these seem fine

[sang8262]

the game is certainly NOT canon at all, i mean it's a gacha but JP's bio entries for Street Fighter Duel! take these with so much salt. so much sodium. (typed out in text below as well)

Captain of Industry

JP is a businessman who gained international prominence due to his entrepreneurial acumen and innovative vision. His achievements extend beyond financial success, however. He is dedicated to social progress, leveraging his business as a force for meaningful change.

----

Light of Nayshall

JP’s efforts are centered on Nayshall, a small and economically disadvantaged nation. Recognizing its untapped potential, he invested heavily in its development. As a result, Nayshall’s economy grew by leaps and bounds, and living standards among its people improved considerably. JP’s initiative not only won him fame but brought a ray of hope to Nayshall.

----

Psycho Power

Behind JP’s business success lies a dark secret— his mastery of Psycho Power. Utilizing this power, JP fights with a cane and telekinesis. However, JP sees Psycho Power as a duty and only employs it when necessary to protect what he holds dear.

----

Fighting Style

JP’s unique fighting style makes him a master of mid-range combat. Wielding his cane and telekinesis, he deploys projectiles to restrict his opponent’s movements and maintain the initiative. This fluid and unpredictable fighting style allows him to inflict constant damage while staying out of reach.

----

Little Details

Despite his tough façade in business dealing and combat, JP possesses a gentle heart. He harbors deep affection for his cat, Cybele, considering her an emotional anchor rather than just a pet. However, JP has little tolerance for stained clothes and sleepless nights, little details that reveal his relentless pursuit of perfection and order.

street fighter duel is adding JP as a playable unit soon so i shall be gathering as much footage and dat of it as possible here, since it's eventually going to End of Service one day

im not against spending a little cash to guarantee that i get him, but also there's some lore that's exclusively locked behind pulling and combining mulitple copies of the same character... so it might be difficult to get all that;;;

anyway here's what we got of him in game so far

[gloriousmonsters]

reading Bu/ry Your Gays because my brother said it was an improvement on Cam.p Damas.cus and like, yeah! Somewhat! I do wanna see where some of the horror threads are going! But man for a guy (gender neutral) who was known for writing short erotic/romance stories, you'd think that the relationships wouldn't be the most cardboard part of the story. yet here we are

[welcometogrouchland]

I think the disconnect between canon Belos and (a certain genre of) fanon Belos is that in canon he is pathetic (in the dramatic sense) not sympathetic.

[acircusfullofdemons]

I know shared/extended universes have been done to death at this point but I have this Curse you see (aka I was a MCU fan for 7 years. no im not ashamed of this I think [most] of those movies are genuinely good fight me). I say this because my 3 main paracosms (Phantasmagoria, Mad as a Crow, StoryBook City) are connected. Like, not only are there alternate versions of some paras that exist in each universe (Calypso, Jervis, and Phineas are all Alternates/technically the same person in this regard) but each paracosm exists within the other.

"Mad as a Crow" is a comic book series held in a comic book store that False Moon canonically visits at the end of Phantasmagoria. Like Calypso has read about Jervis & is probably like "he just like me fr".

"StoryBook City" is actually a show called "Toybox Tutors" -- a children's show where each spokesman is a teacher & all the other Fables are students. Jervis & Alice grew up watching it and it canonically sparked their interest in Alice in Wonderland thanks to how Phineas & Alice were portrayed in that show. I think it's also a show Blair watches frequently because that would be perfect.

"Phantasmagoria" is a game....I haven't worked out the specific details but I think Eddie worked on part of "Fade into Insomnia" (since i sometimes imagine it in the style of those rpg horror games) before getting fired and becoming a criminal.

I haven't really worked out how Phantasmagoria & MaaC appear in SBC yet. It's not like they don't exist I just don't know how they do.

[why-animals-do-the-thing]

average United States contains 1000s of pet tigers in backyards" factoid actualy [sic] just statistical error. average person has 0 tigers on property. Activist Georg, who lives the U.S. Capitol & makes up over 10,000 each day, has purposefully been spreading disinformation adn [sic] should not have been counted

I have a big mad today, folks. It's a really frustrating one, because years worth of work has been validated... but the reason for that fucking sucks.

For almost a decade, I've been trying to fact-check the claim that there "are 10,000 to 20,000 pet tigers/big cats in backyards in the United States." I talked to zoo, sanctuary, and private cat people; I looked at legislation, regulation, attack/death/escape incident rates; I read everything I could get my hands on. None of it made sense. None of it lined up. I couldn't find data supporting anything like the population of pet cats being alleged to exist. Some of you might remember the series I published on those findings from 2018 or so under the hashtag #CrouchingTigerHiddenData. I've continued to work on it in the six years since, including publishing a peer reviewed study that counted all the non-pet big cats in the US (because even though they're regulated, apparently nobody bothered to keep track of those either).

I spent years of my life obsessing over that statistic because it was being used to push for new federal legislation that, while well intentioned, contained language that would, and has, created real problems for ethical facilities that have big cats. I wrote a comprehensive - 35 page! - analysis of the issues with the then-current version of the Big Cat Public Safety Act in 2020. When the bill was first introduced to Congress in 2013, a lot of groups promoted it by fear mongering: there's so many pet tigers! they could be hidden around every corner! they could escape and attack you! they could come out of nowhere and eat your children!! Tiger King exposed the masses to the idea of "thousands of abused backyard big cats": as a result the messaging around the bill shifted to being welfare-focused, and the law passed in 2022.

The Big Cat Public Safety Act created a registry, and anyone who owned a private cat and wanted to keep it had to join. If they did, they could keep the animal until it passed, as long as they followed certain strictures (no getting more, no public contact, etc). Don’t register and get caught? Cat is seized and major punishment for you. Registering is therefore highly incentivized. That registry closed in June of 2023, and you can now get that registration data via a Freedom of Information Act request.

Guess how many pet big cats were registered in the whole country?

97.

Not tens of thousands. Not thousands. Not even triple digits. 97.

And that isn't even the right number! Ten USDA licensed facilities registered erroneously. That accounts for 55 of 97 animals. Which leaves us with 42 pet big cats, of all species, in the entire country.

Now, I know that not everyone may have registered. There's probably someone living deep in the woods somewhere with their illegal pet cougar, and there's been at least one random person in Texas arrested for trying to sell a cub since the law passed. But - and here's the big thing - even if there are ten times as many hidden cats than people who registered them - that's nowhere near ten thousand animals. Obviously, I had some questions.

Guess what? Turns out, this is because it was never real. That huge number never had data behind it, wasn't likely to be accurate, and the advocacy groups using that statistic to fearmonger and drive their agenda knew it... and didn't see a problem with that.

Allow me to introduce you to an article published last week.

This article is good. (Full disclose, I'm quoted in it). It's comprehensive and fairly written, and they did their due diligence reporting and fact-checking the piece. They talked to a lot of people on all sides of the story.

But thing that really gets me?

Multiple representatives from major advocacy organizations who worked on the Big Cat Publix Safety Act told the reporter that they knew the statistics they were quoting weren't real. And that they don't care. The end justifies the means, the good guys won over the bad guys, that's just how lobbying works after all. They're so blase about it, it makes my stomach hurt. Let me pull some excerpts from the quotes.

"Whatever the true number, nearly everyone in the debate acknowledges a disparity between the actual census and the figures cited by lawmakers. “The 20,000 number is not real,” said Bill Nimmo, founder of Tigers in America. (...) For his part, Nimmo at Tigers in America sees the exaggerated figure as part of the political process. Prior to the passage of the bill, he said, businesses that exhibited and bred big cats juiced the numbers, too. (...) “I’m not justifying the hyperbolic 20,000,” Nimmo said. “In the world of comparing hyperbole, the good guys won this one.”

"Michelle Sinnott, director and counsel for captive animal law enforcement at the PETA Foundation, emphasized that the law accomplished what it was set out to do. (...) Specific numbers are not what really matter, she said: “Whether there’s one big cat in a private home or whether there’s 10,000 big cats in a private home, the underlying problem of industry is still there.”"

I have no problem with a law ending the private ownership of big cats, and with ending cub petting practices. What I do have a problem with is that these organizations purposefully spread disinformation for years in order to push for it. By their own admission, they repeatedly and intentionally promoted false statistics within Congress. For a decade.

No wonder it never made sense. No wonder no matter where I looked, I couldn't figure out how any of these groups got those numbers, why there was never any data to back any of the claims up, why everything I learned seemed to actively contradict it. It was never real. These people decided the truth didn't matter. They knew they had no proof, couldn't verify their shocking numbers... and they decided that was fine, if it achieved the end they wanted.

So members of the public - probably like you, reading this - and legislators who care about big cats and want to see legislation exist to protect them? They got played, got fed false information through a TV show designed to tug at heartstrings, and it got a law through Congress that's causing real problems for ethical captive big cat management. The 20,000 pet cat number was too sexy - too much of a crisis - for anyone to want to look past it and check that the language of the law wouldn't mess things up up for good zoos and sanctuaries. Whoops! At least the "bad guys" lost, right? (The problems are covered somewhat in the article linked, and I'll go into more details in a future post. You can also read my analysis from 2020, linked up top.)

Now, I know. Something something something facts don't matter this much in our post-truth era, stop caring so much, that's just how politics work, etc. I’m sorry, but no. Absolutely not.

Laws that will impact the welfare of living animals must be crafted carefully, thoughtfully, and precisely in order to ensure they achieve their goals without accidental negative impacts. We have a duty of care to ensure that. And in this case, the law also impacts reservoir populations for critically endangered species! We can't get those back if we mess them up. So maybe, just maybe, if legislators hadn't been so focused on all those alleged pet cats, the bill could have been written narrowly and precisely.

But the minutiae of regulatory impacts aren't sexy, and tiger abuse and TV shows about terrible people are. We all got misled, and now we're here, and the animals in good facilities are already paying for it.

I don't have a conclusion. I'm just mad. The public deserves to know the truth about animal legislation they're voting for, and I hope we all call on our legislators in the future to be far more critical of the data they get fed.

[fr33sh00tr]

ruining the already mediocre experience that is disney's haunted mansion (2023) for my family by sighing very loudly and rolling my eyes when the astrophysicist character is on screen

[copperbadge]

I'm getting depressingly good at identifying the formula for Pop Academic Books About ADHD.

Regardless of their philosophy it pretty much goes like this:

1. Emotionally sensitive essay about the struggle of ADHD and the author's personal experience with it as both a person with ADHD and a healthcare professional.

2. Either during or directly following this, a lightly explicated catalogue of symptoms, illustrated by anecdotes from patient case studies. Optional: frequent, heavy use of metaphor to explain ADHD-driven behavior.

3. Several chapters follow, each dedicated to a symptom; these have a mini-formula of their own. They open with a patient case study, discuss the highly relatable aspects of the specific symptom or behavior, then offer some lightweight examples of a treatment for the symptom, usually accompanied by follow up results from the earlier case studies.

4. Somewhere around halfway-to-two-thirds through the book, the author introduces the more in-depth explication of the treatment system (often their own homebrew) they are advocating. These are generally both personally-driven (as opposed to suggested cultural changes, which makes sense given these books' target audience, more on this later) and composed of an elaborate system of either behavior alteration or mental reframing. Whether this system is actually implementable by the average reader varies wildly.

5. A brief optional section on how to make use of ADHD as a tool (usually referring to ADHD or some of its symptoms as a superpower at least once). Sometimes this section restates the importance of using the systems from part 4 to harness that superpower. Frequently, if present, it feels like an afterthought.

6. Summation and list of further resources, often including other books which follow this formula.

I know I'm being a little sarcastic, but realistically there's nothing inherently wrong about the formula, like in itself it's not a red flag. It's just hilariously recognizable once you've noticed it.

It makes sense that these books advocate for the Reader With ADHD undertaking personal responsibility for their treatment, since these are in the tradition of self-help publishing. They're aimed at people who are already interested in doing their own research on their disability and possible ways to handle it. It's not really fair to ask them to be policy manuals, but I do find it interesting that even books which advocate stuff like volunteering (for whatever reason, usually to do with socialization issues and isolation, often DBT-adjacent) never suggest disability activism either generally or with an ADHD-specific bent.

None of these books suggest that perhaps life with ADHD could be made easier with increased accommodations or ease of medication access, and that it might be in a person's best interest to engage in political advocacy surrounding these and other disability-related issues. Or that activism related to ADHD might help to give someone with ADHD a stronger sense of ownership of their unique neurology. Or that if you have ADHD the idea of activism or even medical self-advocacy is crushingly stressful, and ways that stress might be dealt with.

It does make me want to write one of my own. "The Deviant Chaos Guide To Being A Miscreant With ADHD". Includes chapters on how to get an actual accurate assessment, tips for managing a prescription for a controlled substance, medical and psychiatric self-advocacy for people who are conditioned against confrontation, When To Lie About Being Neurodivergent, policy suggestions for ADHD-related legislation, tips for activism while executively dysfunked, and to close the book a biting satire of the pop media idea of self-care. ("Feeling sad? Make yourself a nice pot of chicken soup from scratch and you'll feel better in no time. Stay tuned after this rambling personal essay for the most mediocre chicken soup recipe you've ever seen!" "Have you considered planning and executing an overly elaborate criminal heist as a way to meet people and stay busy?")

Every case study or personal anecdote in the book will have a different name and demographics attached but will also make it obvious that they are all really just me, in the prose equivalent of a cheap wig, writing about my life. "Kelly, age seven, says she struggles to stay organized using the systems neurotypical children might find easy. I had to design my own accounting spreadsheet in order to make sure I always have enough in checking to cover the mortgage, she told me, fidgeting with the pop socket on her smartphone."

I feel a little bad making fun, because these books are often the best resource people can get (in itself concerning). It's like how despite my dislike of AA, I don't dunk on it in public because I don't want to offer people an excuse not to seek help. It feels like punching down to criticize these books, even though it's a swing at an industry that is mainly, it seems, here to profit from me. But one does get tired of skimming the hype for the real content only to find the real content isn't that useful either.

Les (not his real name) was diagnosed at the age of 236. Charming, well-read, and wealthy, he still spent much of his afterlife feeling deeply inadequate about his perceived shortcomings. "Vampire culture doesn't really acknowledge ADHD as a condition," he says. "My sire wouldn't understand, even though he probably has it as well. You should see the number of coffins containing the soil of his homeland that he's left lying forgotten all over Europe." A late diagnosis validated his feelings of difference, but on its own can't help when he hyperfocuses on seducing mortals who cross his path and forgets to get home before sunrise. "I have stock in sunburn gel companies," he jokes.

[rockingbytheseaside]

✦ You test out a new lipstick

(Pierro, Capitano, Dottore, Scaramouche, Pantalone, Tartaglia)

Tw: smooches! Shield your eyes!

Oh, would you look at that, you bought a new lipstick. You just need to test whether it wears down quickly or leaves any mark. 

✧ Pierro is in a haste. You blurt out that you need a new lipstick once, and the next thing you know, he purchases several high-quality ones for you. Offering you swatches of colors, makeup removers, different shades, and lipstick textures, he observes with analytical admiration as you sit in front of a mirror and apply the lipstick carefully. 

One last step is missing – to try its imprint. The Jester is ready to reach for a napkin to let you try. But you only smiled. Before he can comprehend, your hand reaches to turn his head and gently guides him closer to your lips until you sweetly capture his. It’s not often that The Jester experiences a complete blank out, but when you deliberately trace your lips across his skin and start preparing his face with kisses, how else is he supposed to react? Hold in his hitched breaths? Not deepen the kisses to relish the ambrosia of your lips?

Suffice it to say, you are proud of the imprints on his pale skin. He seems even prouder, wearing them like a badge of honor, despite his stoic appearance.

✧ You asked Il Capitano to evaluate the new shade of lipstick you bought. Like any loving partner, the honorable Captain stated honestly that any hue suits you elegantly. Even if his knowledge of cosmetics is minimal, he felt delighted and proud of your looks.  

But that wasn’t the issue. Now you were standing in front of him, smiling menacingly.  

“What is it, my treasure?”  

You stepped closer.  

“Dear…?”  

You stepped even closer. Oh no, thought the Captain, he’s in danger. His pleas for reason and mercy went unheard. Instead, he faced a bigger battle—a battle that left his helmet not with scratches but with various imprints of your kisses. You stood triumphantly, happy with your lipstick and the numerous marks on his helmet and neck. 

Il Capitano lost the battle that day. 

✧ At last, Il Dottore mused to himself, the perfect hue of lipstick designed scientifically for you. You voiced your issue in finding a suitable shade of makeup for yourself, hence you asked none other than your beloved to find a logical solution. So he took matters into his own hands to find the best chemical solution and accurately create the best shade to match your skin. 

Naturally, it was a success. With his gloves stained in various colorful substances, he proudly handed you a slender tube with a delicate black cap from the table as if it were a casual concoction he could make on a whimsy. Hence, you thanked him and blithely applied it on the spot.

“Dottore, it turned out magnificently!” – you said as you looked into the reflection of your face. But when you turned to look at him, Dottore’s complexion went vaguely blank. “Hm, what is it? Isn't it good? You made it matte, too.” 

He silently stepped forward; even behind his black mask, you could sense his full attention zooming on the beauty of your lips. 

"Well, true... I formulated it to be stain-proof, so it won't smudge as you go about your day. However," - he hummed, his hand cupping your jawline warmly. "Every product requires assiduous testing. We could conduct a few tests of our own to ensure its performance. If I may," 

Of course, he would test it personally. Of course, he then captures your lips in a kiss, his hand on the back of your head, his touch an ardent mix of passion and desire. He explores your mouth, his tongue caressing yours with a fervor, wanting to test how long the lipstick will last under the pressure of his kisses. You should've expected this, as his other hand encloses around you to press you flush against him. 

"Ah... interesting. It's held up quite well. There's no transfer on your skin or mine, but I do think further testing is necessary."

“Enough, enough! That’s plenty of testing from you!” 

✧ Scaramouche dislikes shopping. It’s a hassle, truly. You requested him to accompany you on a leisurely stroll, oblivious of your trap to drag him to some quick shopping. Except this quick shopping turned into a full-blown shopping spree. The question is: was he here to accompany you or to pull you away from wasting all your Mora on fleeting indulgences?

“No, you don't need any more clothes. You have plenty of unworn ones.”

“No, we don't need any more plushies, your bed is already littered with them.”

“And no, you already had some snacks on the way here. Stop buying more!”

You couldn't escape his stern reminders, even if they were practical. However, there was still one shop you left as an ace up your sleeves. Before finishing today's trip, you encouraged The Balladeer to join you in cosmetics shopping. Your innocent smile spoke promises of letting him choose your new lipstick color if he so desired, and the allure of it caused him to halt. 

“... Me? Why must I choose? Can't you pick a simple color and call it a day, huh?” - Scaramouche feigned annoyance when, in reality, he quickly grabbed your arm and led you hastily to the boutique. “We'll quickly buy one, but don't get any ideas that we're staying here for any longer.”

Poor Harbinger; he didn't have to lie to himself so cruelly. The two of you stayed in the boutique for a long while, not because you were indecisive, but because Scaramouche suddenly took the matters with utter seriousness. Should he suggest a carnelian shade? It would match with his own red eyeshade. Or perhaps a darker one would suit your complexion? Especially if you decided to leave contrasting lipstick imprints all over his porcelain skin- 

Scaramouche shook his head. Your voice interrupted his train of thought.

“Um… Scara, sweetie? Could we decide already? We spent the whole day in this shop.”

“We'll buy all of them, then,” - he held up your face, his full focus on you as you timidly averted your gaze. “Here. Now let me help you apply it.” 

✧ Pantalone sat behind his desk, fingers intertwined thoughtfully. Silver glasses cast a shadow upon his already darkened gaze. His expression, unfortunately, was far from pleased. 

“L-lord Harbinger Regrator,” – the Fatui subordinate uttered. “It is with utmost sorrow that I must inform you that- that the cosmetologists you hired have not finished their work. They are still in the process of creating the products you requested.” 

The silence of the office was deafening. The Harbinger granted no mercy with his prolonged pause.

“... I commission the best cosmetologist in all of Teyvat, and they still dare to waste my Mora and time? Is this some frivolous matter for them?” - The Harbinger's hands sternly pressed against the table, his voice raised “My beloved requested a new lipstick! They deserve the best of the best, as soon as possible!” 

“Uh, honey… I am still here in the room.” - your voice interjected awkwardly. Indeed, it's true; you are sitting nearby, blinking in confusion. You waved at the Fatui subordinate to take it easy, signaling sympathetically that your partner was having another one of his ambitious episodes. 

“Honey, my love, this is no fleeting matter! I wanted you to get the highest, custom-made quality for cosmetics. You rarely ask for anything, but when you do, I can't just let you down!” 

“It's just lipstick…! I didn't even say what color or kind I wanted.”

“And that's precisely why you shall get all of them. You there,” - he signaled back to the subordinate swiftly. “Quick, send the letters to those cosmetic chemists to hurry up if they want to make themselves worth the Mora. Delays are not negotiable.”

With the Fatui worker scurrying away in a hurry, Pantalone sighed deeply before plopping down beside you on the sofa of his office. You patted his back, amused by his sudden precedence over something so mundane. 

“There, there, Pantalone. You know it's nothing urgent. It's just lipstick.”

“Not any lipstick. Your lipstick, darling! I need to see you don the most dazzling color on your lips.” He turned to gently trace his thumb across your jawline, his voice softening. “...The lips that should be showering me with kisses and leaving lipstick prints on my skin.”

You laughed heartily – “Oh, so that's what it's all about? You know, makeup or no makeup, I can still kiss y-”

You didn't register how The Harbinger's head bowed lowly in reverence. “I would pay you any amount of Mora for you to do so.” 

Pantalone truly knows how to blow up over the most bizarre things. Either way, as the weeks passed, the newly ordered cosmetics did arrive as instructed. How did people know? Because Pantalone didn’t shy away from flaunting the traces of your delicate lips on his neck and blouse. A testament to stolen kisses and intimate moments behind closed doors. His triumphant grin says it all. 

✧ Your ever-observant boyfriend, Tartaglia, noticed you mulling something over by the mirror. You seemed in deep focus, a new item in your hands as you inspected your visage. You tried on a new lipstick! 

Childe, being the endearing goofball that he is, complimented your new purchase with delight. You appreciated his knack for noticing even the smallest changes, even if you didn't directly tell him you tried on something new. All was well! 

Or was it? For beneath his easygoing smile, in the deepest recesses of his soul, Tartaglia was begging, crying, screaming. He wanted to hold your face in his palms and kiss you senseless. He wished to taste the sweetness of your lips until this adorable color of your lipstick was smeared on both of your faces. He wished to soak in the warmth of your pecks and kisses, dreaming for your touch to litter his face with imprints.  

Did he say all of that? Of course not. He kept beaming at you in adoration, his smile tender while his thoughts devouring. Yet, after days of wrestling with his unspoken desires, Childe devised a plan – a very, very subtle plan.

“Oh nooo,” - he lamented dramatically, leaning against the doorway with a hand draped theatrically over his forehead. “If only my beloved was here to bestow me some loving kisses, especially when they look so alluring in their new lipstick! If only!” 

You raised an eyebrow at Tartaglia’s shenanigans as if asking him: Really? What is this damsel in distress act? Nonetheless, luckily for the 11th, his oh-so-subtle hints hit the mark, because you happily cupped his cheeks and smooched them with fervor, feeling his warm skin under your lips as he chuckled.  

Needless to say, your lipstick didn’t stand a chance.

[lixies-favorite-cookie]

𝐬𝐨 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧' 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐛𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐧・l.m

—there were two things in the world that challenged your intellectual ability one: AP US History and two: lee minho. what are you going to do when he catches you cheating, and grabs your thigh, forcing you to give him the answers too.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠・minho x reader // 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞𝐬・academic rivals to lovers, sexual tension // 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬・1.5k // 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬・thigh touching, squeezing, and kissing, very slight bruising, cheating on tests, slight language, he gets on his knees, this is lowkey freaky, no actually Minho gets on his knees and kisses your thigh.

𝐚/𝐧・guys i'm kinda shy about this bc it was not supposed to be this freaky, but I had this thought like four months ago and it just kind of...unraveled 🙈 idk how I feel about this I like the idea of it but I feel like it flows weird idk might just be a me problem plus I needed to get it out of my drafts so 😗

If you really think about it—it isn't your fault that the curriculum was impossible to learn, the school board was practically begging you to cheat.

Besides, the whole testing system was pointless anyway. You couldn’t accurately quantify knowledge with a few bubbled answers. And if your teacher hadn’t made this test 40% of your grade, you might’ve actually been able to understand. But no— the stress alone had made sure of that.

For a second, you naively convince yourself you actually have a chance. Then you read the first question—and realize you're royally fucked.

It isn’t just one thing; no, the universe spreads a thick layer of icing all over your 'I’m fucked' cake, because not only is the test 100 questions of pure agony, but you’re sitting next to none other than Lee Minho—Yale's wet dream and your life long rival.

He shifts beside you, bubbling in the answers with infuriating ease. It was enraging—how calm he was, how even though his eyes were trained on the paper in front of him, it still felt like he was making calculated moves against you.

You grind your teeth, reading and rereading the questions until you go cross-eyed. It just didn't make sense. Why were there so many dates? Who were all these people? Why couldn't you seem to remember anything? The ink on your thigh screams at you, itching to pull up your skirt and color all the correct answers.

It was stupid, completely idiotic to even consider giving in to the temptation, but you had no other choice. You couldn't fail this test. You steal a glance at Minho, making sure he’s still peacefully, obnoxiously distracted with being perfect, before sliding your skirt up to reveal the answer key you wrote last night. With a deep breath, you fill in the correct answers, stealing paranoid glances at the teacher every other question.

You're almost done. Just a few more. But then—a tingle runs down your spine.

You could practically taste the smirk on his face the minute his gaze lands on your thighs. You stiffen, holding your breath as if that might magically make you disappear. Unfortunately, your efforts are to no avail.

Minho must have been waiting for a moment like this for years—a classic got'ya moment. It was perfect, practically presented to him on a silver platter. You clench your eyelids and except the worst, for him to stand up and announce to the class your humiliating defeat, to strut up to the teacher and flush your entire life away.

And yet, the moment passes by. His gaze never wavers, instead it gets heavier—needier, fire licking up your spine. You can feel the heat of his breath fanning across your cheek as he leans in—so close, too close.

"Is that what I think it is?" That cocky little bend in his lips grows as he watches you fumble to yank the skirt back down, shooting him a nasty side-eye.

"No," you say steadily—almost convincing yourself.

"No?" His voice is low, laced with amusement, but there's something else there, something strained. "Then let me see."

"No." You scoff, pulling your leg away from him. He presses his tongue against his cheek, both frustrated and annoyed.

"So fuckin’ stubborn." His voice drops, and suddenly, the space between you vanishes. His fingers capture your thigh, prying them apart with a hot, deliberate pressure. Your breath hitches—the heat of his palm seeping into your flesh, spreading up, up, up.

You want to gasp, to smack his hand away, and scream bloody murder; but the other part of you, the other small microscopic part of you relishes in his touch—leaving you dizzy and breathless.

His hand never moves, even as he copies the answers down—his fingers a steady pressure against your soft flesh. You hate the way your pulse betrays you, hammering against your ribs like thunder.

You twitch—just enough for him to notice, just enough for him to squeeze hard. You fight not to gasp, your stomach twisting with something you don’t dare name. He doesn’t say another word. He doesn’t have to. You feel it.

Don’t you dare move.

You don't breathe—not until he's already finished the work, releasing your thigh and walking up to the teacher; sliding his test into the professor's hands with an infuriatingly perfect smile. The teacher returns his smile ten times brighter, both pleased and impressed, bowing politely to dismiss him back.

It takes five seconds before your brain catches up with your body, jaw dropping in utter disbelief—Minho was the first one to turn in his test, making him the first to get a perfect score, therefore putting him slightly above your soon-to-be perfect score—which means he beat you.

"What the hell was that?" you spit. Minho doesn’t spare you a glance as he slips back into his seat, swiveling around with a smirk on his face and his tongue in his cheek.

"What, 'that,' are we talking about? My undeniable victory, or how slow this class is?" Minho muses, throwing his feet onto the desk, and tipping his chair back as if the whole scheme was a piece of cake. You were ready to punch him square in his freakishly perfect jaw.

"You are unbelievable—" You don’t get to finish your scornful sentence before the bell rings. The class erupts from their seats, filing to the front. There was so much you wanted to do, but you couldn’t—your hands were tied, tight, painfully behind your back. So instead, you do the only thing you can: turn in that stupid test.

When you get back to your desk, you find Minho leaning against his, a cocky smirk still playing on his pretty pink lips.

"Oh, you're just loving this, aren't you?" you spit venomously, stuffing supplies back into your bag with a little extra vigor. Minho cocks his head, standing up a little straighter. "Loving beating you? Yeah, you could say that."

You scoff, rolling your eyes. "You couldn’t have done it without the answers I wrote on my thigh." At the mention of your thigh, Minho’s gaze tilts downward. His entire demeanor transforms—once cocky and proud, now washed away in an instant—something softer taking its place, something you couldn’t quite place.

Gently, disarmingly, Minho brings his palm to your waist, guiding you to sit on one of the desks behind you. "What—" you begin, but he beats you to it, asking, "Did I do this?" Confused, you look down at the mark in question—darkened fingerprints ghosting over your skin where his fingers had pressed a little too hard.

You swallow. "I didn't notice it."

"Does it hurt?" he frowns, gingerly brushing the bruise forming on your thigh. His voice is uncharacteristically soft, almost as if he's actually concerned about your well-being.

"Yeah, kind of," you wince, but you don't move from his soft touch. His lips press into a thin line, the slight furrow of his brows deepening with guilt.

"What, you wanna kiss it, make it feel better?" you joke, a weak attempt to ease the tension. He pauses for a moment, then, in one swift motion, drops to his knees before you.

You gasp, a quick, trembling breath that melts the words in your throat. His eyes stay locked on yours, the weight of his gaze heavy as he inches closer, mouth nearing your thigh. You hold your breath, heart hammering against your ribs. He takes his time—two agonizing seconds stretching into hours. His breath is hot against your skin, before his lips finally brush the bruise, leaving a gentle kiss in its wake.

"There, all better," he says, standing back up and slinging his backpack over his shoulder, nonchalantly. He doesn't say another word, simply waltzing out the door like he didn't just leave you a spaghetti noodle, all slippery thoughts and wobbly limbs.

You stand there, jaw in the center of the earth, gripping the edge of the desk so hard it threatened to crack. The class had filed out ages ago, leaving you to regather your thoughts in sweet silence.

You still feel his lips, hot and gentle, against the flesh of your thigh—reliving the moment over and over and over again. You couldn't bear to look at him, weeks into the future, still dizzy and disoriented, struggling to focus with him so close beside you. Minho knew, no matter how much you hated that thought. Minho knew, he saw how your grades started slipping, how slowly your comebacks started getting shorter, sweeter, a little bit more flirtatious.

That was his plan the entire time; because, even on his knees—Minho held all the pieces.

cookie owns this. thank you.

RAAAA its been a hot minute since I've posted something but I hope you liked this (if you did seriously consider reblogging with tags it helps my motivation and self-esteem so so soooo much.

[mimikyusrealform]

globalization

Spencer Reid x Reader. Word Count: 3703. Summary: Three times you leave Spencer speechless, and one time he leaves you speechless. Notes and Warnings: Set during S1 at the beginning, and then at S2. Mention of Somebody's Watching and North Mammon. There's a misogynistic comment, but it's quickly dealt with.

1.

The rivalry started innocuous enough. Three months after Dr. Spencer Reid joined the BAU, you were recruited as well. Fresh out of the academy and without a prebuilt rapport with the rest of the team, you felt out of place. They listened to your suggestions, but after a week and a half, it was like they were still teaching you the ropes, coddling you. Hotch didn’t even let you go out in the field. This piling dissatisfaction reached its culmination without warning.

“C’mon now,” Morgan said one day. You didn’t even remember what led to the following statement, but you remembered the phrase that started the domino effect. “Robberies have been declining since last year.”

“The robbery rate declined last year,” you corrected him as you skimmed through your oddly small workload for the day. They weren’t working on any cases. “It’s been declining since 1986, but it’s possible that the rate will increase this year in comparison to last year’s, which was at an all-time low, at 137.”

“136.7,” Dr. Reid corrected you from his own desk. He had already finished half of his work. “That is given a population of 293,656,842.” He looked at you and Morgan. “Did you know that the U.S Census Bureau estimates the population as of July 1 for each year? Except when it's a decennial census count, like 2000.”

It took Dr. Reid a whole minute to notice your glare. What a genius. He looked as if he was panicking a bit, and his gaze drifted between you and Morgan. He seemed to be begging with his eyes for Morgan to, somehow, reveal to him the secrets of the universe and what he should do to stop your glaring. But Morgan was not a pious entity, and he turned around, suddenly blind. It took Dr. Reid another minute to figure out why you were killing him in your head.

“I—I mean, you round up from 5, so 137 is accurate,” he rectified, staring back at you, like you were the abyss and he, the hero who needed to face it.

You stayed silent for a while. And then, you said, “That's dumb. The rate was 136.7. Sigh. I thought you were a genius, Dr. Reid, how could you even suggest that the rate was 137? Maybe you should check if you need to reinstall the eidetic memory package.”

Morgan made a sound that was between a dog barking out a laugh and a dog choking on its bone. But it was Dr. Reid's perplexed expression what you burned in your memory.

It wasn't your fault, really, that your antagonistic nature decided to pursue a war with the resident genius of the team. If you were to bluff in case of being questioned why you were so adamant in aggravating Dr. Spencer Reid in any way you could, you would say, “complacency is the enemy of natural selection and I'm truly benevolent—so I'm making the Doctor a favor by keeping him on his toes.” The truth was, Dr. Spencer Reid's geeky enthusiasm and nerdy rambles had charmed you. While you weren't on the same level as him when it came to intelligence—your latest IQ test had put you around 137, and that was knowing the common patterns the test tended to use—you had a knack for deconstructing things. When you were 8, you couldn't finish a Rubik cube for the life of you, but when you broke it down to its simpler parts, you found a way to solve it after learning how the core mechanism worked.

Antagonizing was how you dealt with your crushes. All the crushes you ever had, you actively treated them as if they were your mortal enemies. In a sense, they were. Understandably, none of them ever liked you, and you couldn't blame them. But, for some reason, the idea of Dr. Spencer Reid not returning your affections was—troubling, to say the least. And that only made you pricklier.

2.

Lila Archer was not an enemy but a victim with very poor timing. You draped a towel around her febrile shoulders, and patted her back in an ode to comfort. Then, you went out of the house to deal with your real foe. Dr. Spencer Reid was still trying to dry himself with a pathetically small cloth. In another occasion, it would have made you laugh. But you were, at loss of a better word, jealous. How shameful was that? You hadn’t been jealous since Nathaniel Sterling, your crush in tenth grade, started dating Rose Harding, the cloistered girl who ruined your straight-A-record in Math because you were paired with her during one assignment.

You had the bad habit of swallowing the acid that dripped from your own soul and regurgitating it when you were alone. For now, you compartmentalized. Weirdly enough, you found yourself feeling tired, instead of murderous. You understood, then, how having a crush on someone didn’t compare to being in love.

A crush was a candle in the wind; being in love was a fire in a forest.

The color of the night sky, that reflected on the blue water, covered the world of depth and beyond all bounds. Even the air was blue; it bit your skin. Or maybe it was your own feelings that prickled down your spine. If porcupines did mate for life, they would be the most tender lovers in the world, you thought. The prickliest beings loved carefully and purposefully.

Only after Elle left his side, did you approach. Though the look she gave you was too perceptive for your liking. “I didn’t know kissing with the girl you’re supposed to be protecting from her stalker was part of the protocol. Please, forward me the exact article that describes the effectiveness of French kisses as a method of protection against erotomaniacs.”

He tried to ignore your wording, but his ears were red, and so were his cheeks, despite the fact the air had cooled the water clinging to his clothes. “I, uh, I fell in,” was all he could muster given the fact you had a gun, a motive and a cold heart.

“I see,” you nodded. “That’s what tends to happen when you pool your women.”

“I don’t pool my women! I-I don’t even—I don’t even have women.”

“Relax, Doctor, you won’t drown. If you know how to two-stroke, two-timing should come naturally to you.”

Dr. Reid made a pitiful sound when he realized there was no winning against you.

“She kissed me first,” he said.

“Maybe you deserved it.”

“Don’t make it sound like a punishment.”

“I’m not.” You were sincere.

3.

You were pretty good at remaining unmovable, and you were proud of that. But—this guy. This guy.

“All I did was show them who they really are,” he was saying with that stupid self-satisfied smile. “What they were truly capable of. People pretending to be decent. When it came down to it, they… They reacted just the way I knew they would.”

“Is that so,” you couldn’t help but interrupt his little monologue. Gideon looked at you from the corner of his eye, but he didn’t try to stop you. “Congratulations. Be proud of discovering the sky is blue for the rest of your life, I commiserate you; it must have been so hard for you. Do you really think you’re a mastermind for this?” His smile slowly disappeared, replaced by a glare directed towards you. “If you starve a dog, are you a genius for knowing the dog will end up becoming aggressive? But then, that’s a Nobel-worthy dissertation for someone so simpleminded like you.”

He started to say something, voice shaking from barely contained rage, but you were already leaving the basement. He yelled after you. You couldn’t hear him over the buzzing in your ears.

In the plane, you were shutting down the world around you by pretending to read a Russian Copy of The Brothers Karamazov. You didn’t speak Russian. That was—until Reid sat in front of you. He didn’t speak for a moment, just observed you. You flipped five pages before he finally said,

“Are you okay?”

“What an unpleasant question,” you replied. He kept looking at you, which annoyed you because it made your stomach twist. “I suppose. That guy got on my nerves.”

“I thought you didn’t have nerves,” he said. “I mean… you always act as if you’re untouched by the world.”

“I try my utmost not to be perceived. The world is a scary place, after all.”

“It is scary,” he agreed. “But, scary—how? How does someone like you find the world to be scary?”

You put your book down on your lap. “Full of people.” You twirled a strand of hair around your index finger. “And what I hate most are the people who lie to themselves. That guy—lied to himself that he was right. He decided to believe other people were his enemies instead of realizing… realizing he was his own worst enemy.”

It wasn’t without tact—though it startled you all the same—when he said, “Sounds a bit like you.”

“Oh, right.” You supposed it was a fair assessment; you never gave him any indication that you actually didn’t see him as enemy. You acted like you did, after all. Maybe he really believed you hated him. So, “I don’t hate you. If I was smart, I would go as far as to say that I like you.”

You watched him freeze for a split of a second before his face turned red, like a M-class star. It gave you terrible ideas and horrible impulses. You couldn’t help but reach for his glasses, and—gently push them up the bridge of his nose. Your index finger brushed against his skin. His face went a class up in the Morgan-Keenan classification.

“But you are smart,” he managed to choke out. “Very smart.”

“What are you implying?”

He couldn’t answer, and you returned to your book, a bit disappointed, maybe. You had thought he was ready to give in. You still couldn’t read a single word. Reid must have noticed because he ended up prying the book from your hands, and began reading out loud, just for you, just for your enjoyment. It was enough.

+1.

“Kid,” Morgan called as he slid in the seat next to him. “Seriously, when are you gonna ask her out? Save the rest of us from her pining.”

Spencer frowned. “Ask who out?”

He was only half listening, but when Morgan said your name, he spluttered. “What?!” He lowered his tone after that voice break. “Morgan, are you crazy? She hates my guts.”

Morgan looked incredibly amused. “No, she doesn't. She's just pulling your hair. And, if she actually hated you, well, I don't think I need to remind you what happened to Officer Harrison. I really wish I had been there to see it.”

Spencer almost smiled at the memory. A few months back, a case had brought them to Texas when the local police discovered two independent pairs of hands scattered across their state line. The second in command, Officer Harrison, had been a flagrant misogynistic and a stereotypical macho-man.

“But what does cutting the hands-off mean?” Officer Harrison had asked.

JJ, you and him were the only ones from the team still in the bullpen.

Hotch did trust you with fieldwork, but he found that you and Spencer were an especially good match, so he mostly paired the two of you together. You bounced off each other’s ideas with an uncanny synergy.

Before he could ramble off, you beat him to it, “The ancient Greek sometimes mutilated the body of their victim. There's a theory that says that the mutilation of the body corresponded to the mutilation of the soul, so that the shade, without limbs, couldn't enact vengeance over the killer. Maybe the Unsub’s superstitious and believes that by cutting off their hands he’s saving himself from their ghosts.”

Officer Harrison had looked at you, before dragging his gaze up and down your body. He had mainly interacted with Morgan and Hotch, sometimes himself; and almost none with you, JJ and Emily. Then, he whistled sarcastically. “That's very impressive, darlin'. I didn't take you for the smart type. No offense, but you don't look like it.”

Rage was born in the pit of the stomach, Spencer found out that day. It rendered him immobile for a moment, and before he could tell the officer off, you beat him to it, again. Intelligence wasn’t quantifiable, he knew this. But you always managed to prove it to him. Some tests might say he was several points smarter than you, but you were two steps ahead of him, every single time.

From the corner of his eye, he could see JJ’s appalled expression. He wondered how his own face looked.

“Oh,” you had said. “Looks can be deceiving. It's alright. No offense taken. I myself was deceived by your looks—I thought you were a conventionally ugly man, maybe even a rare ugliness, but you're actually a piece of shit in human form. Tell me, did the doctor perform a colonoscopy on your mother to find out if she was pregnant, as opposed to an ultrasound?”

JJ's lips were pulled inwards in a tight, flat grimace, as if she was trying and failing to stifle her laughter, and Spencer found himself playing side-eye ping-pong between you and Officer Harrison.

“Why, you bit—” Officer Harrison stammered, face growing a tint of red and fists comically clenched.

“Jonathan,” Sheriff Mendoza had interjected then, sternly. “Why don't you take a walk? Go on, get some air.”

Officer Harrison looked as if he was going to self-combust from how ruddy his face was and how sweat accrued on his temple. His shoulders were trembling when he attempted to storm out. He seemed ready to shoulder-check you, but you put a hand on his chest and held him in place.

“Officer Harrison. Harrison. Jonathan? Johnny? Johnny, by all means, please underestimate me again,” you told him lowly. “It'll make the look on your face when I ruin your life funnier.”

With that, you finally let him go, and he bulldozed his way out of the bullpen. You could practically hear his teeth grinding.

“... I'm sorry for him,” Sheriff Mendoza had offered awkwardly, a deep sigh pulled out of his chest.

You had shrugged. “Natural selection will do its work.”

Spencer thought you had never looked lovelier than in that moment.

He shook his head to clear the memory away. “Maybe she doesn't hate my guts,” he admitted reluctantly. “But I'm still his least favorite person here.”

“Wow,” Morgan said exaggeratedly. “For a genius, you can be stupid sometimes. She clearly likes you, man. Look, tell you what, the next time she picks up a fight with you, tell her this: ‘you are hot when you're talking about statistics’.” He was laughing by the end of it while Spencer choked with his own saliva. “She'll love it, I promise.”

“How can you be so sure?” he replied. “She's so emotionally repressed and so unapologetically herself, I don't think anything I do will ever get a real reaction out of her.”

“Trust me on this one, kid,” was all Morgan said with a pat to his back.

Spencer spent the rest of the day thinking about his words. When he first met you, you had offered him a handshake like most other people. He rambled his well-practiced explanation, “A study shows that the number of organisms, both pathogenic and non-pathogenic, that are passed during handshakes is staggering. Kissing is actually more sanitary than handshakes.” But instead of looking at him like he was a weirdo, you had stared at him, unshakeable, and replied,

“I can say ‘a study shows that shooting yourself in the head is an efficient way to de-stress’, but if I don't say what study it is, then does the study really exist?”

That was the first time his heart lurched in your presence. When he spoke again, his voice was a bit breathless, “Uh, it's a study published in The Public Health Journal, by H. W. Hill and Helen M. Matthews. Volume 17, number 7, July, 1927, I-I mean, 1926. It's titled Transfer of Infection by Handshakes. Pages 347 to 352. I-I can get you a copy of it.”

You blinked at him, but he didn't feel as if you thought he was a freak. He felt like you were amazed by him. It brought his heart to his throat.

“Is that so,” you had said. “Then, I expect it to be delivered at my doorstep at 5 o'clock sharp, tomorrow. Military time.”

He had been stunned into silence for a few seconds. “That's... unreasonable. I don't even know where you live.”

You said, “It's quite standard.”

“Then you have unreasonable standards.”

“I've been told.”

Spencer had thought you and him would become something like best friends. For the first week and a half, you had been quite friendly with him, and often listened to his rambles. But then, then he had made the terrible mistake of correcting an innocuous error you made regarding a statistic, and the look you had shot at him could have curled water. From that point on, you seemed to have made it your life mission to fight him at any chance.

And yet—he never got the feeling you did it out of malice. He thought you did hate him on some level, but when you argued against his points during a case, there was a glint in your eye. Like you were still amazed by him. Sometimes, you even finished his rambles when he couldn't land them. Sometimes, you were the only one who listened to him when he sidetracked. To him, you defined the wonder of globalization. When you were there, it was like talking to the stars, and having the stars answering him back in perplexing, secret ways. He kind of figured this out when you smiled at his existentialist joke. You told him it wasn't funny, but your eyes were bright.

Maybe trying Morgan's advice wouldn't go so bad.

If only you weren’t so prickly. And clever and quick, he added in his head, just in case you were hearing his thoughts. He wouldn’t put it past your abilities. For three weeks, Spencer hadn’t managed yet to seize a situation in which Morgan’s advice worked at his favor. It wasn’t until the team, you and him included, obviously, went out for drinks that he finally got his chance.

“You aren’t drinking?” he asked you. You were cradling a Virgin Margarita in your hands, and for a moment he wished your fingers were curled around his own instead of the glass.

“No,” you said. “You’re clearly the best in the profiling game. Take pride on this display of your observational skills for the rest of your life.”

He sighed. You were impossible. Still, he couldn’t keep the fondness out of his voice when he said, “You don’t have to be so defensive with me.”

“You’re right,” you nodded, and he arched an eyebrow. “I have to be especially defensive with you.”

“That’s not… that’s not what I meant,” he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. Why do you have to, uh, be ‘especially’ defensive with me?”

You didn’t answer him. But he knew you couldn’t go without having the last word, so he patiently waited for you to gather a satisfactorily poignant response. In the meantime, he took the time to examine your face; there was a quality to it he would never find a perfect word to describe it. Maybe it was your supraorbital ridge, or your posterior zygomatic arch, or even the vertical length of your forehead. He just knew you were lovely. He had never been comfortable with not knowing something, but with you, he didn’t need to know. He would rather discover you, if you would let him. If you were full of secrets, he would work them out; if he only found hatred for him, he would press his mouth to it and relish in it.

“Because you have a BA in Psychology,” you ended up saying, stoic as ever, “and I’m a soft girl with mental health issues.”

He laughed. It took him a lot of time to figure out that—the more matter-of-factly you said something, the less serious you were. Your lips quirked up in a little smile, and you sipped your drink. The rest of the team—besides Hotch—hadn’t yet realized your tell-tale sign.

The words escaped him before he could think them over, “You’re cute when you pretend to be emotionless.”

Your facial expression didn’t change, and that was alright, because when you turned your head to the side—he could clearly see the faint blush on your cheekbones. “Fool.”

Ah, he realized. I won. You were at a loss of words. Because of him.

“You know, the word ‘fool’ comes from Old French fol, which means ‘madman, insane person’ and ‘idiot, jester’, and fol is from Medieval Latin follus, adjective for ‘foolish’. The evolution of its meaning can probably be attributed to the use of follis in a sense of ‘empty-headed person’. The word was also used in Middle English for ‘sinner, rascal, impious person’. It actually must have been passed to the English language via its borrowing in the Scandinavian language of the Vikings. And did you know that the association between April 1 and foolishness in Geoffrey Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales could have been a copying error and...”

You didn’t look at him as he continued going on his tangent, but he knew that you were listening intently. Because your body was angled towards him, even if you kept your face away from his gaze, and when he took a pause to breathe, you hummed in acknowledgment only for his ears.

Globalization was saying hello and someone answering hola from miles away.

But you didn’t need to answer him for Spencer to understand you were in love with him and he was in love with you.

[adieutristana]

Hey :3

could you please write arcane women with a chronically ill user? Especially a FAINTING CONDITION, I have one and I would love to see how would they react and take care!!

of course! thank you for the request <3

disclaimer that i do not have any experience with this kind of condition. i did some research and did my best to portray them accurately, but as always, i’m open to feedback.

summary; headcanons of arcane women and fem!reader with a fainting condition.

characters included; jinx, vi, mel, sevika, caitlyn

tags/warnings; hurt/comfort, fluff, chronically ill!reader, mentions of fainting (duh), medical talk

men dni.

jinx;

✧.* the first time it happened, jinx was in absolute shock. one second you were upright, talking to her about your latest endeavors. the next second, you looked a bit out if it, like your vision was starting to blur and you were becoming disconnected from reality. the next second, your body was going limp, and jinx was scrambling to catch you.

✧.* it'd be an understatement to say that she was panicking. she's shaking you, yelling at you, trying to manipulate you into a sitting position so she can try and figure out what's wrong. she got so desperate that she ended up pouring some cold water over your face, and that was what brought you back to consciousness.

✧.* she's bombarding you with questions as soon as she sees your eyes begin to blink open.

✧.* "what happened, toots?!" she'd ask, or, "you went all... blank, then nothing. what's that about?"

✧.* she can come off as a bit blunt with her questions, but she doesn't mean anything by it. jinx is just a girl with little to no filter- she genuinely is concerned.

✧.* you take a few moments to come back to your senses, all the while jinx is sat next to you with a hand gripping your knee, tight. it's both for you and herself, for jinx to reassure herself that you're here, you're alive, and you're (hopefully) okay.

✧.* once you're in a sound state, you explain to jinx that you have a fainting condition. you'd meant to tell her earlier, but it kept slipping your mind, until you'd actually fainted. you reassure her that it's nothing life-threatening, nothing that'll put you in danger (in most situations).

✧.* jinx still worries, of course she does. she worries about you when you're just going to the convenience store to grab water bottles, so her anxiety when you tell her about your condition is off the charts. regardless, she tries to hone it in and trust your word. you've lived with it for years, and you know your own health better than she does.

✧.* after the first conversation, jinx doesn't bring it up often. of course she'll talk about your condition if you're the one to mention it, but she doesn't want you to feel like she's treating you any differently.

✧.* tries to distract you with colorful smoke bombs, affection, and jokes after you regain consciousness most of the time. peppering your face in purposely wet and rushed kisses in an attempt to see you smile. she knows it'll take you some time to come to, but she wants you to be in good spirits when you do! jinx hates a lot of things, but none quite as much as seeing you unhappy or in distress.

✧.* but she keeps both her hideout and her bags stashed with things that'll help in case of another fainting spell. if there's one thing that jinx is, it's observant. she knows every one of your habits, your little quirks. she could write a damn novel full of things about you that you haven't even noticed about yourself.

✧.* and if she notices those telltale signs- your eyes beginning to cloud, starting to space out, losing your balance, she's on it. water is a given, she'll also usher you to sit or lie down so that you can focus on your breathing. if it's bad enough, jinx will try to guide you through some breathing exercises, even though she doesn't have a clue what she's doing. she's trying her best :(

✧.* "you're lookin' all... far away again. sit down, toots, breathe." she'd say, her face getting impossibly close to yours, thick brows furrowed.

✧.* does as much research as possible! there's not much that frustrates jinx than not being able to understand something. these things are like a puzzle to her in a way. she wants to be able to analyze, understand, and help. she knows there's really nothing she can do to prevent fainting spells, as much as she wishes she could. regardless, helping you through them becomes one of her most important self-appointed duties.

✧.* if she sees you standing for a bit too long, your girlfriend would make sure to ask you to take a little break. she doesn't want you to start getting lightheaded and have another spell when it might be preventable

✧.* jinx would also make sure that you're not close to any hard surfaces or corners if she notices you right on the brink of fainting. the last thing that she needs is you to hit your head on the corner of a table.

✧.* "hey- hey! get away from there," a jumbled mess of words, before wrapping her arms around your waist, slowly pulling you away from near a hard counter and supporting your fall.

✧.* she becomes pretty good pretty quick! it just gave her a scare at first is all :(

vi;

✧.* it was one of the first things you'd told vi when you first began dating- that you have a fainting condition. you faint from time to time, there's signs, and you can't control it. it happens, and it's bound to worry her, but you're okay.

✧.* she'd hear you and listen to you, vi always does. but i don't think the magnitude of your words would really sink in until the first time she witnessed a fainting spell of yours, and she was in shock.

✧.* she was utterly panicked. holding you across her lap, checking your pulse at both your wrist and neck, shaking you, trying to talk to you, anything.

✧.* it seems fruitless, and vi can feel tears beginning to prick at the corners of her eyes. she didn't realize the sheer depth of what you'd said until now, and the girl is internally beating herself up for it. you told her you had a fainting condition, of course you'd faint! how could she have not been prepared?

✧.* but eventually, you do start to regain consciousness. she immediately holds you close to her chest, whispering quiet and rushed 'ohthankjanna's and 'you're okay, aren't you? please tell me you're okay.'

✧.* it takes a moment for you to return back to consciousness, weary eyes looking up at vi. you can only slowly nod. it's not much of an answer, but it's satisfactory for vi- letting her know that you hear her and you're alright.

✧.* "i'm so sorry i wasn't prepared, you told me and i still-" "vi, love, stop. it's fine, i'm fine."

✧.* she makes sure that she's prepared for next time. she doesn't want to make you feel as if you're delicate, like you can't take care of yourself. vi knows you're more than capable, but still, she's your girlfriend and she wants to look out for you.

✧.* she asks you to describe everything to her- how you know it’s getting bad, what works to help you both before and after the fact. it’s vi trying to understand exactly what you need, rather than simply assuming.

✧.* after those conversations, your girlfriend does grow to recognize the signs and symptoms you have rather quickly. the moment she sees you start to look a little out of it, she’s pulling you away from anything you could fall onto, coaxing you to lay down or sit down with your head between your knees.

✧.* “hey, hey. sit down, okay? i’ve got ya, cupcake,” she’d whisper, her hand rubbing gentle circles into the small of your back. she’d press light kisses to your temple, plump lips a reminder of her presence and affections.

✧.* there’s always a few water bottles in her bag just in case though, and some snacks (your favorites, too) whenever she feels you may need them.

✧.* while vi did freak out after the first fainting spell you had, she learns to manage them soon after. now that you’ve talked to her and she knows what to expect, she can rest assured that you’re alright and you’ll come to with a bit of time and support.

✧.* once you do regain consciousness, she doesn’t make a big deal of it. VERY affectionate, though. she’s just so happy that you’re doing alright, she can’t help it… chaste kisses to your lips and tight embraces when she notices your light grumbles and your eyes fluttering open.

✧.* if you were having a conversation before fainting, she’d wait out the episode, then continue the discussion like nothing had happened. while vi absolutely worries, she doesn’t want to make you uncomfortable or feel like she’s only focusing on what happened. unless you want to talk about it of course!

✧.* “you’re okay, right?” “mhm… just a little hiccup,” you’d murmur. “right. where were we?”

mel;

✧.* mel has seen people faint several times in her life and career, but i’d imagine you’re the first person she’s met with a fainting condition.

✧.* mel is a stellar listener, though. once you inform her of your condition, your symptoms, how it affects your daily life and how you navigate it, she’s taken everything to heart. mel may not fully understand, but she wants to try the best that she can.

✧.* asks a lot of questions. your girlfriend isn’t trying to interrogate you or pry any information from you, instead just trying to grasp your condition better. trying to prepare for the inevitable fainting spells you have and know exactly how to handle them. questions like ‘how do you know one is upon you?,’ or ‘what do you think helps best, when it’s said and done?’

✧.* so the first time that she’d witnessed an episode, mel knew exactly what to do. she saw the undeniable signs; the far-off look, the light sheen of sweat, the way you were ever so slightly off-balance. she sprung into action and guided you by your shoulders to lay down, legs above your chest and encouraged you to simply breathe through it.

✧.* “you’re sweating, love. and you look like you’re having trouble focusing,” she’d say- a statement, rather than a question. mel would take you by your shoulders and guide you to one of the lush couches in her home, ushering you to lay down. “come on, breathe. in, out… like that, yes.”

✧.* though she gets some close calls and is able to help sometimes, mel knows that she can’t always prevent a fainting spell. but she’s always there to break your fall, hold you across your lap, brush stray strands of hair from your face and run soft thumbs across your cheeks until you come back to.

✧.* so incredibly sweet and attentive once you come back to your senses. mel is peppering gentle kisses across your cheeks, forehead, the bridge of your nose, the corner of your lips. a light sheen from her lip gloss remains on your skin. she’ll take your hands in hers, whispering sweet nothings into your ear while your fingers intertwine with her own.

✧.* “you scared me there, darling,” she’d tease, soft lips brushing against your temple. “but that’s alright. you’re okay now, aren’t you?”

✧.* doesn’t dwell on it, though. mel doesn’t want this to be the focus of your day if you don’t want it to be, so she’ll give you your kisses and cuddles before letting go and continuing on with whatever you were doing, unless you ask her to keep giving you that affection. in which case she is more than happy to oblige!

✧.* she does have connections with doctors just in case she feels you may need one. it rarely gets to that point, but having those emergency contacts puts mel’s mind at ease. if you were to take a little too long to wake up, she didn’t react quickly enough and couldn’t break your fall, she’d know exactly who to go to.

✧.* mel has all of the essentials packed at all times. water, snacks, even a device to track your blood pressure when necessary. she’s stocked constantly, you’ll never want or need for anything with mel.

✧.* “that looked rough,” she’d say, crouching next to your form and holding out a bottle of spring water. “drink some of this, okay? even if you feel alright, it’ll make me feel better.”

sevika;

✧.* you swore that you’d meant to tell her, you were just waiting for an opportunity. a minute of peace in her chaotic days, maybe a tranquil moment after all the rough jobs and rushed fights.

✧.* but the ‘right time’ never came, sevika is a busy woman after all. by the time you have a moment to yourselves, sevika is washing up in preparation for bed, her eyelids already drooping. you know you need to tell her about your condition at some point, but you don't want to spring it on your girlfriend while she's this tired.

✧.* so when you're out at the casino, the woman playing a heated game of blackjack with you and a few of her old friends and you suddenly slump in your seat, sevika has no idea what's hit her. immediately she drops her cards, rushing to your side of the table to shake you, talk to you, desperately try to get you back to her.

✧.* "shit- dove, what happened?" she's saying. her voice is rushed and panicked, much unlike her usual gruff demeanor. "come on, please wake up..."

✧.* she stays by your side the entire time, simply waiting for you to wake up. her friends can wait, the game can wait, and she doesn't pay any mind to the lingering stares of other patrons. all that sevika can think about in this moment is you, and your well-being. she's never seen this from you before. she's panicked internally, but she's good at putting on a brave face for you.

✧.* the second your eyelids begin to flutter open, sevika is all over you. she was panicked, and most of all she was scared. as irrational as it may be, part of her was afraid that she was losing you- even though she was able to take note of the subtle rise and fall of your chest, and the fact your pulse was still steady.

✧.* once you're back to feeling yourself, fully, sevika would pull you out of the casino and onto the street for more 'privacy' (not much of that in zaun). she’s immediately going down a list of questions- if you’re okay, what happened, what caused it, if this is a recurring issue, and if you knew this would happen.

✧.* you explained to her, your gaze downcast and voice tinged with a hint of guilt. “i’m sorry, sev. i meant to tell you, just… the time wasn’t ever right.” she let out a heavy sigh, crossing her arms over her chest and shaking her head. though she’s a bit shaken up by what just happened, sevika can’t bring herself to be mad at you. she understands where you’re coming from.

✧.* "there is no 'right time,'" she said, hand on your shoulder. her thumb rubbing slow circles against the fabric of your shirt. "you can tell me these things, especially when they involve you fainting." her tone is firm, yet there's no anger or malice behind it.

✧.* from that point on, you've been more open and willing to express things without the fear of timing or anything similar. you discuss your symptoms with her, the way your condition affects your daily life, how you work around it, the like. she listens and makes mental notes of everything you say, even trying to read between the lines at some points. sevika is that devoted and that concerned for your well-being. she wants to make sure she's prepared for whatever comes and she's able to be a good girlfriend through it :(

✧.* her home is STACKED with cases of water bottles, any medications that might help, and your favorite snacks. she's already made a substantial effort to make her once uninviting place more comfortable for you, but now she goes the extra mile- and you didn't even ask her to.

✧.* after a while, sevika comes to expect fainting spells and knows when they're coming on. she'll stay close to you, trying to talk to you and ground you in the moment- having you sit down, try to look at her, try to focus. but she knows that eventually you'll likely faint, and that's alright. as long as you're in a safe environment and she's able to look out for you, your girlfriend's mind is at ease.

✧.* “dove, you’re about to-” she’ll move to hold your shoulders, gently guiding you to a place away from any hard surfaces. “sit here, alright? i’ll get you some water.”

caitlyn;

✧.* it was one of the first conversations you’d had with caitlyn when you begun dating. now that you’re spending more time with the woman, you know it’s best to inform her before she finds out by you actually fainting.

✧.* caitlyn doesn’t immediately understand your condition, she’s never met somebody with a condition like yours before. however, she absolutely does want to understand and as soon as you’re finished talking, she takes a trip to one of piltover’s libraries to do some reading.

✧.* she reads about your condition, its symptoms, and how fainting spells can be treated. the signs that one is approaching. caitlyn would also read a few medical papers for good measure, just to see what professionals recommend. this is of the upmost importance to her.

✧.* the first time caitlyn was witness, you were thankfully in the comfort of her own home. helping her cook dinner, reaching up to the cupboards for some spices before you felt lightheadedness set in. caitlyn is perceptive- she noticed almost immediately.

✧.* she wrapped an arm loosely around your waist, trying to support the inevitable fall as she pressed soft kisses to your cheeks. "hey, i'm with you," she whispered. she didn't want to necessarily coddle you, but she wanted to remind you that she's there, first and foremost.

✧.* caitlyn feels you slump against her. she's keeping that same stoic face she's so known and feared for, but underneath the surface, she's terrified. terrified that you're not really okay, even though you've assured her this happens regularly and you're alright every time. terrified that she's doing something wrong, or even making things worse.

✧.* it takes a few moments, some gentle brushes of her hand against your arm in a motion meant more to reassure caitlyn, but you come back to.

✧.* "there you are, love," she murmurs, her hold on you tightening the slightest bit. "that was... scary."

✧.* "i'm alright, cait," you whisper, a weak smile on your face in an effort to reassure her. "i'm sure it's scary for you, but i'm okay. i promise."

✧.* caitlyn takes your word for it, you know yourself best. but even so, she can't help the nagging fears in the back of her mind, no matter how hard she tries to get rid of them. she's got water- expensive water stocked up, snacks, over-the-counter medical equipment, the like, all in her home for you.

✧.* her worries subside with time, but they never completely go away. they likely never will. she's your girlfriend, after all :( but she grows accustomed to fainting spells and almost-fainting spells as part of life. she's observant and intuitive, and cait is able to spring into action the moment she notices something is wrong.

✧.* "alright, that's enough," she'd say, her voice gentle yet firm. guiding you from the table you're cleaning. she sees the way you're starting to become a bit wobbly on your feet, and how your gaze isn't as focused. "i'll take it from here. lie down, love, i'll get you something to eat. alright?"

✧.* caitlyn is observant, but she doesn't ask for you to give her more than you're willing. verbally, she won't pry, she won't check in too often (unless she sees you looking unwell), she won't ask too many questions.

[skitskatdacat63]

I sketched my thoughts about(historically accurate) boy king Seb! Thoughts? :D

I apologize for how incredibly specific and niche this is, but aahhhh whenever people call rbr Seb a "boy king", I can literally only think about this statuette:

1. Because I think it gives the same angelic but mischievous vibe as Seb

2. Because it is a statue of a literal boy king

3. The ringlets and big eyes.....