#supervisory board

[antibayern]

the idea that arguably our greatest legend will no longer play for us after this season was bad enough but the fact that it’s not his choice makes it so much worse. forcing one of the most loyal and beloved players we’ve ever had out of the club he’s loved his entire life is simply sinister

[dcrtmund09]

Zorc (possibly) back at BVB.

As I see it, we will never hire an outside person, with no ties to the club, ever again.

[kiwriteswords]

hear me out, hear me out... is it possible to get shy!reader x bearded!hotch?????????????

Shades of Stubble

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Shy Female Reader||Word Count: 3k

Tags/Warnings: No use of Y/N, canon-typical themes, shy reader, teasing team, teenage Jack, bearded Hotch, post-season 10/11 with no Mr. Scratch, reader has a crush

Sypnosis: When Aaron Hotchner returns to the BAU sporting a beard after a rare week off, it draws more attention than he expects—especially from you, the shy but perceptive team member whose lingering glances reveal more than you realize.

Aaron Hotchner didn’t often take full advantage of the rare breaks the team received, but this time, a solid week away from the BAU had given him time to unwind—if that’s what growing a beard counted as. Normally, his morning routine was methodical, almost meditative—a quick splash of cold water to wake himself up, followed by lathering shaving cream across his jaw and carefully dragging the razor along the angles of his face. It was a task he’d repeated every day without fail, a ritual that helped him maintain the sharp, controlled image he knew his role required.

But when the break started, the razor stayed on the sink. The first morning, he told himself he’d get to it later. By the second, he rationalized that there was no harm in skipping a day or two. By the third, a faint shadow of stubble had appeared, and he caught himself in the mirror, running a hand along his jawline, curious. It wasn’t like the full beard he’d grown out during his time in Pakistan—this was something new, something... untethered. For once, he wasn’t adhering to his usual strict standards, and there was a quiet freedom in that.

He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d chosen to let it stay. Maybe it was exhaustion—seven days free of the ever-present weight of the BAU felt like both a luxury and an anomaly. Or maybe it was a small rebellion against the routine that so often defined his life. This was about as rebellious as he got these days, maybe a silent nod to his pre-boarding school days, but nonetheless. He didn’t have to answer to anyone for a week, and he didn’t have to fit into the box of Aaron Hotchner, Supervisory Special Agent. He could just exist.

By the time the week ended, the beard had grown in enough to draw attention, though he hadn’t considered how it might be received by the team—or anyone else, for that matter. It wasn’t a decision he put much thought into, at least not until he walked into the bullpen on Monday morning.

The reaction was immediate, though not unwelcome. JJ’s playful quip cut through the usual hum of activity, and heads turned in his direction. He caught Rossi’s amused smirk, Morgan’s raised brow, and—most notably—your wide-eyed, stunned expression. For the first time in years, Aaron Hotchner felt a little... self-conscious. But it wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

JJ’s voice rang out across the room with playful familiarity. "It's baaaack!"

Heads turned, but Hotch’s gaze landed on you. You were seated at your desk, a pen in your hand paused mid-air, as if frozen in the act of jotting something down. Your eyes widened when they met his, and though you tried to look back at your work, Hotch caught the way your cheeks flushed, betraying your reaction.

It wasn’t the first time he’d noticed you looking at him like that—soft glances quickly averted, the occasional stammer when he addressed you directly. He’d always assumed you were shy by nature, but there was something about the way you reacted to him in particular that stirred a feeling he hadn’t wanted to examine too closely. Not until now.

He crossed the bullpen, nodding a silent acknowledgment to JJ, who grinned knowingly and sipped her coffee. As he passed your desk, he noticed your gaze dart up to him again, only to quickly drop back to your notes. Your pen moved, but the faint smile tugging at your lips told him you weren’t really focused.

“Good morning,” he said, his deep voice cutting through the quiet bubble you seemed to have surrounded yourself with.

Your head shot up, your eyes meeting his again before flickering to the beard and back. “G-Good morning, Hotch.”

There it was—that hesitation, that barely there crack in your voice. You managed a small smile, but your hands fidgeted with the pen, betraying your nerves.

He nodded, letting the moment linger just a second longer than usual. “I hope you had a good week.”

“I did,” you replied quickly, almost too quickly, before glancing away. “Did you?”

“I did.” His lips twitched in a barely-there smile. “It’s rare to have so much time off. I’ll see you in the meeting room.”

With that, he moved on, climbing the stairs to his office, though he couldn’t resist glancing back once. You were still sitting there, staring blankly at your notebook, one hand pressed against your cheek as though trying to will away the blush.

The day moved forward with its usual rhythm—briefings, paperwork, follow-ups on ongoing cases. But throughout it all, Hotch found himself hyper-aware of your presence. The way your gaze flickered toward him whenever you thought he wasn’t looking. The way your voice softened when you addressed him. And, of course, the way your blush deepened whenever someone—namely Morgan—commented on the beard.

“Looking rugged, Hotch,” Morgan said during lunch, his grin teasing as always. “What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion,” Hotch replied simply, though he couldn’t help noticing you sneaking a glance at him from across the table. He decided not to meet your eyes this time, sensing you’d only shrink further into yourself if he did.

By the end of the day, Hotch found himself in the bullpen again, finishing a conversation with Rossi. As the older man walked away, he turned to see you standing by your desk, gathering your things for the evening. You glanced up and froze when you realized he was watching you.

“Heading out?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” you replied, clutching your bag tightly. “I, uh... just finishing up.”

“Good.” He paused, then added, “I’ve noticed you’ve been very focused today. I appreciate that.”

Your eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, he thought you might not respond. Then you nodded quickly, your voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”

He didn’t miss the way your gaze lingered on his face—on the beard—before you ducked your head again, clearly embarrassed by your own boldness. He couldn’t help but feel a flicker of amusement—and something else, something warmer, deeper—at your reaction.

“Have a good night,” he said, his voice softer than usual.

“You too,” you replied, finally looking at him again. And this time, there was a tiny smile on your lips—shy, but genuine.

As you walked away, Hotch stood there for a moment, watching you go. He didn’t usually dwell on personal matters, but for the first time in a long time, he found himself thinking about something—or rather, someone—other than the job.

Hotch lingered in the bullpen after you left, his gaze fixed on the space you had occupied only moments before. The quiet hum of the office around him faded into the background as his thoughts drifted. You had always been reserved—soft-spoken, diligent, and almost painfully shy in his presence—but tonight had felt different. The way your cheeks had flushed when you glanced at him, the way your voice trembled ever so slightly when you said, “Good night,” lingered in his mind like a melody he couldn’t shake.

He wasn’t oblivious to the way you avoided his gaze during meetings or the nervous energy that seemed to bubble to the surface whenever he was near. At first, he chalked it up to his position, assuming you were simply wary of interacting with your boss. But over time, he began to notice the subtler details—the way your focus seemed to falter when he entered the room, the way your lips pressed together in a shy smile whenever he acknowledged you. He couldn’t deny that your reactions had begun to stir something within him.

With a sigh, Hotch headed up to his office, closing the door behind him. The mirror by his coat rack caught his eye, and he approached it, scrutinizing his reflection. The beard, now fully grown, had transformed his appearance in ways he hadn’t anticipated. It softened the sharpness of his jawline, gave him an edge that felt rugged and unpolished. It reminded him of a different time—a different man—but also felt like a small reclamation of his identity beyond the suit and title.

He ran a hand over the coarse hair, considering whether it was time to shave it off. His routine had always been a source of stability in his chaotic life, and the beard felt like an indulgence he wasn’t sure he could afford to keep. Yet, as he stood there, the image of your wide-eyed gaze flashed through his mind. The way your blush deepened when JJ’s comment drew attention to him. The tiny, shy smile you offered as you said goodnight.

A warmth spread through him, surprising in its intensity. He’d seen countless reactions to his decisions over the years—respect, defiance, admiration—but the unfiltered awe in your eyes when you looked at him tonight was something else entirely. It wasn’t about the beard, he realized, not really. It was about you, and the thought that he might have been the reason for that smile, fleeting as it was.

Hotch turned away from the mirror and sat at his desk, leaning back in his chair. The thought of shaving the beard felt distant now, almost trivial. He knew he would eventually, but for now, he decided to keep it—if only to see if he could coax another smile from you.

And maybe, just maybe, to hear your voice tremble in that sweet, shy way one more time.

Aaron Hotchner stood in his bathroom, razor in hand, staring at his reflection. The beard was staying—for now—but it was time to bring it under control. He wasn’t the type to let his appearance slip too far, and even if the beard was uncharacteristic for him, it didn’t have to be unruly. With steady hands, he trimmed the edges, shaping it neatly to suit his features. The coarse sound of the trimmer filled the quiet bathroom as he worked methodically, the precision calming in a way that reminded him of his usual shaving routine.

When he was satisfied, he stepped back to examine the results. The beard was tidier now, the lines clean and deliberate. It still felt like a small rebellion against the rigidity of his usual image, but it was a rebellion on his terms.

Jack’s voice cut through his thoughts from the hallway. “You’re keeping it?”

Hotch turned to see his son leaning against the doorframe, a teasing grin on his teenage face. Jack had grown so much, taller now, his voice deeper, but the playful light in his eyes hadn’t changed.

“For now,” Hotch replied, setting the trimmer down. “Why? You don’t like it?”

Jack shrugged, feigning disinterest. “I mean, it’s fine. Just... you look like you’re trying to be cool or something.”

Hotch raised an eyebrow, amused. “Trying to be cool?”

“Yeah,” Jack teased, crossing his arms. “Like, what’s next? Leather jackets?”

Hotch chuckled, shaking his head. “I think I’ll stick to suits, thanks.”

“Good call,” Jack said, grinning as he walked away. “But don’t blame me if people start calling you ‘Hotch the hipster.’”

Hotch rolled his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips as he grabbed a towel and cleaned up.

The next morning at the BAU, the beard caught its usual share of attention. You were the first to notice when Hotch walked into the bullpen, your eyes flickering up from your desk. As usual, you tried to hide your reaction, but Hotch caught the way your gaze lingered on him before you quickly looked back at your screen. He felt a small, unfamiliar pang of satisfaction.

Throughout the day, it became a pattern. Your eyes would drift toward him when you thought he wasn’t looking, and Hotch found himself hyper-aware of your presence. You seemed more flustered than usual, fumbling over your words when he asked you a question during a meeting and avoiding his gaze entirely when Morgan teased him about the beard.

It wasn’t until late afternoon that Rossi made his move. The two of them were standing by the coffee machine when the older man gave Hotch a knowing look.

“So,” Rossi began, casually stirring his coffee. “You’re keeping the beard.”

“For now,” Hotch replied, taking a sip from his own mug.

Rossi smirked, his tone light but unmistakably teasing. “I think someone likes it.”

Hotch frowned slightly. “Jack? He’s made his opinion very clear.”

“I wasn’t talking about Jack.” Rossi’s smirk widened as he nodded toward the bullpen, where you were seated at your desk, your gaze darting toward Hotch once again before you quickly turned your attention back to your papers.

Hotch raised an eyebrow, his expression carefully neutral, but the slight twitch of his lips betrayed him. “I think you’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” Rossi chuckled, leaning back against the counter. “You might want to pay attention, Aaron. She’s not as subtle as she thinks.”

Hotch glanced toward you once more. You were chewing on the end of your pen, deep in concentration, oblivious to the conversation happening just feet away.

He turned back to Rossi, shaking his head. “Let it go, Dave.”

“Sure, sure,” Rossi said, his tone dripping with false innocence as he pushed off the counter. “But for what it’s worth, I think the beard suits you. Clearly, I’m not the only one.”

Hotch didn’t reply, but as Rossi walked away, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but part of him was glad he’d decided to keep the beard. If nothing else, it gave him one more reason to notice the way your cheeks flushed and your gaze lingered just a little too long.

Hotch was used to reading people—it was part of his job. He could pick apart the smallest details in someone's behavior, uncovering motives and intentions hidden beneath the surface. But when it came to you, he had learned to tread carefully. You were quiet, meticulous, and hardworking, but there was a guardedness about you that he respected, even if he didn’t entirely understand it.

The subtle glances, the flushed cheeks, the way your voice softened when speaking to him—it had all been easy to dismiss as shyness. But lately, he’d begun to wonder if there was more to it. Rossi’s teasing hadn’t helped, planting a seed of curiosity that grew every time your gaze lingered on him just a second too long.

The revelation, however, came unexpectedly, in the middle of a case briefing.

The team was gathered in the conference room, the case details spread across the table. Hotch was at the head of the room, presenting the profile, when he asked a question about the unsub’s potential targets. You were the one who answered, your voice steady but quiet, offering an insight that made the rest of the team nod in agreement.

“Good observation,” Hotch said, his tone even but sincere. “That could narrow down the list.”

Your eyes darted to him, and for a moment, there it was again—that slight hesitation, the way your gaze lingered on his face before you quickly looked down. It was subtle, but it wasn’t lost on him.

What followed, however, wasn’t subtle at all.

“Careful, Hotch,” Morgan said with a grin, leaning back in his chair. “Keep praising her like that, and she’s gonna think she’s your favorite.”

The comment drew a few chuckles, but your reaction was what caught Hotch’s attention. You froze, your cheeks turning a deep shade of red as you fumbled with the pen in your hand.

“I—uh—I didn’t...” you stammered, your words trailing off as you avoided everyone’s gaze, especially his.

JJ, ever the empathetic one, tried to steer the conversation back to the case, but Morgan wasn’t done. “I’m just saying,” he added, his grin widening, “you don’t see him handing out compliments like that to the rest of us.”

“Enough,” Hotch said, his tone firm but not harsh, cutting off the teasing. He could see how uncomfortable you were, your shoulders tense as you kept your eyes glued to the table.

The meeting wrapped up shortly after, and as the team dispersed, Hotch stayed behind, watching as you gathered your things with hurried precision. He could see the embarrassment still etched on your face, the way you avoided looking at him as you moved toward the door.

“Wait,” he said, his voice stopping you in your tracks. You froze, gripping the edge of the file folder in your hands as he stepped closer.

“Sir?” you asked, your voice quiet but steady.

“I wanted to make sure you’re okay,” he said, his tone softer now. “Morgan’s comments—”

“They were just jokes,” you interrupted, though your cheeks were still flushed. “It’s fine.”

Hotch studied you for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. He could see the tension in your posture, the way your grip on the folder tightened. And then, as if unable to hold it in any longer, you blurted out, “It’s not his fault. It’s mine.”

That caught him off guard. “What do you mean?”

You hesitated, your gaze flickering to the door as if debating whether to make a run for it. But then you took a deep breath, your voice trembling slightly as you said, “I—it’s nothing. I just... I know I’m not subtle. I’ve been trying, but...”

You trailed off, your words hanging in the air between you. Hotch felt his chest tighten, the weight of what you weren’t saying suddenly very clear.

“I see,” he said finally, his voice quiet but steady. “You don’t need to apologize.”

You looked up at him then, your eyes wide and uncertain. “I’m not making this weird, am I? I don’t want to... I mean, I know you’re my boss, and I shouldn’t—”

“Stop,” Hotch interrupted gently, his tone firm but kind. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the tension in the room thick but not unpleasant. Hotch could see the vulnerability in your expression, the way you seemed torn between fleeing and staying rooted in place.

“Thank you,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

Hotch nodded, stepping back to give you space. “Take the rest of the day if you need it.”

You shook your head quickly, a small, shy smile appearing despite your obvious embarrassment. “I’m okay. I just... I’ll try to be more professional.”

“There’s nothing unprofessional about being yourself,” Hotch replied, his voice calm and measured. “Let me know if you need anything.”

With that, you nodded, clutching your folder tightly as you slipped out of the room. Hotch watched you go, his thoughts swirling as the door clicked shut behind you.

For a man who prided himself on being able to read people, the realization of your feelings hit him like a revelation he hadn’t seen coming. And yet, as he stood there in the empty conference room, he couldn’t deny the warmth spreading through him at the thought.

Aaron Hotchner lingered in the empty conference room after you left, the soft click of the door echoing in the silence. He was rarely caught off guard, but your words—and the vulnerability behind them—had shaken something loose within him. You hadn’t outright said the words, but the implication was clear. And now that it was out in the open, he couldn’t pretend he hadn’t noticed the signs before.

He sat down, his fingers drumming lightly against the edge of the table as he let himself think about it—about you. The way you’d look up at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention, the way your cheeks flushed whenever he praised your work, the way you stumbled over your words in meetings but always managed to recover with a thoughtful, intelligent point.

And then there was his reaction to it all. How his gaze would linger on you longer than it should. How your shy smile had a way of softening the edges of his day. How, against his better judgment, he found himself looking forward to the moments you shared, no matter how brief or inconsequential they might have seemed.

He sighed, leaning back in the chair. He’d spent so long guarding himself, compartmentalizing his emotions to stay focused on the job. But with you, those walls had started to crack, whether he wanted to admit it or not. Your presence had a way of grounding him, reminding him that there was still room for warmth and connection in his life.

Later that evening, Hotch was in his office, going over the case files, when a knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

“Come in,” he called, expecting one of the team.

Instead, it was you. You stepped inside hesitantly, your file folder clutched to your chest like a shield. “I just wanted to apologize,” you said softly, not meeting his eyes. “Again. For earlier.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” Hotch said, his tone gentle as he set the file aside. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You hesitated, your gaze flickering to his before darting away again. “I just—I don’t want to make things uncomfortable for you.”

Hotch stood and rounded the desk, leaning against the edge of it as he regarded you carefully. “You haven’t made me uncomfortable. If anything, I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

That made you look up, confusion flickering across your face. “What? Why?”

“Because I’ve noticed,” he said, his voice low but steady. “I’ve noticed the way you look at me. The way you try to hide it. And I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to make you feel self-conscious. But I also didn’t want to admit to myself that I’ve been doing the same thing.”

Your breath hitched, your eyes widening as his words sank in. “You... what?”

Hotch offered a small, almost hesitant smile. “I’ve been trying to ignore it. To convince myself that it’s unprofessional or impractical. But the truth is, I feel it too.”

For a moment, the room was silent, the weight of his confession hanging in the air between you. He could see the disbelief in your expression, the way you seemed to be processing his words in real time.

“I don’t know where this goes,” Hotch continued, his tone careful but sincere. “But I do know that I don’t want to keep pretending I don’t feel something when I do.”

You stared at him, your grip on the file loosening slightly. “I didn’t think... I mean, I never thought you’d...”

“I know,” he said gently. “I haven’t exactly made it easy to tell.”

A small, tentative smile broke across your face, and Hotch felt a warmth spread through him at the sight. It was as if some unspoken weight had lifted, leaving room for something lighter, something brighter.

“I guess we’re both bad at this,” you said softly, your voice carrying a hint of shy humor.

Hotch chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Maybe. But we can figure it out.”

You nodded, the tension in your shoulders easing as your smile grew. “Okay.”

For the first time in a long time, Aaron Hotchner allowed himself to feel the full weight of hope, the possibility of something beyond the job, beyond the walls he’d built around himself. And as he watched you leave his office, your steps lighter than before, he couldn’t help but think that this—whatever it was—might just be worth the risk.

Tag List:

@zaddyhotch

@estragos

@todorokishoe24

@looking1016

@khxna

@rousethemouse

@averyhotchner

@reidfile

@bernelflo

@lover-of-books-and-tea

@frickin-bats

@sleepysongbirdsings

@justyourusualash

[octuscle]

Full investment

Martin had been very lucky in his life. He founded his first start-up at the right time, sold it at the right time and invested the proceeds wisely. Of course, it wasn't just luck; Martin was clever, hard-working and charismatic. And with this combination, he was bound to succeed. The fact that he was extremely good-looking didn't necessarily hinder him. Martin was at every party, Martin knew everyone and Martin was at least one of the first followers of a new trend. If he didn't set the trend himself. That's why he was very annoyed when he got talking to a cool, masculine and sporty-looking guy at a party at the Turkish Embassy. The young stallion turned out to be a rising star in the mixed martial arts world and ran a gym in one of Stockholm's hipster neighborhoods. And in the course of the conversation, Mete asked Martin why he wasn't investing in the fitness sector. Martin was fascinated by Mete's engaging manner. And they shook hands on Martin's entry into Mete's gym.

The press conference was a date to Martin's liking. He was in his element. Not that Mete was not photogenic, but Martin loved the camera. And the camera loved him. One of the reporters present asked if Martin would now train here too. Martin was taken aback for a moment. He hadn't expected that. Normally, he trained with his personal trainer at his gym at home. But this was the moment Mete had been waiting for. He threw a bag with a pair of sports trousers and a pair of gloves to Martin and said it was time for them to train together. Martin hesitated only briefly. He looked good in a suit. But he also knew that he looked at least as good with his shirt off. The pictures of the sparring session were amazing. The success for the gym was overwhelming. And Martin had to admit: this kind of training was something completely different from training at home.

Martin's daily routine changed soon after he joined Mete. Mete regularly picked him up in the morning to go jogging. Martin and Mete often had breakfast in a Turkish café near the gym, and Mete created Martin's new nutrition plan. Mete provided Martin with food supplements, the contents of which Martin did not question, especially since the green packaging only had Arabic writing on it. Mete created a training plan for Martin that required a lot of time in the gym… But Martin was happy to have a real physical balance to his otherwise very stressful job. And at the moment he was only active as an investor, he didn't have to run his own company. So why not give it everything you've got in sport? And he gave it everything. Running with a lead vest, weight training, sparring, technique training… At some point, Martin was practically living in the gym. And Mete and Martin also spent more and more time together. So much so that Martin moved into the apartment above the gym, which he had originally only intended to use as a second home. So much so that at some point he went with Mete to his Turkish barber. And so much so that, out of curiosity, he went to the mosque with Mete on a Friday for the midday prayer. Mete and the Imam spoke a lot and quickly with each other. The two of them smiled a lot. They said goodbye warmly. Martin hadn't understood a word. But for some reason it felt right to be here.

At the beginning, Martin's short hair was the most obvious sign of his change. His increasingly athletic body was also impossible to miss. Martin grew a beard. Martin started wearing a prayer cap. And more and more Turkish and Arabic words crept into his speech. And while he was only sporadically in the mosque at first, a Friday without the midday prayer and without an exchange with the imam soon became unimaginable for him.

Of course, his change did not go unnoticed. There was unrest in his network of companies. Mete advised him to withdraw from the public eye. His social media accounts were dormant. Martin withdrew from most of the supervisory boards of his holdings. This task was taken over by a few guys he had met at the gym, in cafes or in the mosque and whom he had come to trust. Martin enjoyed the freedom he gained as a result. He had more time to prepare for his next fight, more time to learn Turkish and Arabic, and more time to devote to his prayers. Even though Mete had to spend more and more time managing the prospering gym and the other businesses Martin had entrusted to him, he made sure that Martin, who he increasingly called Mehmet, continued to receive optimal training and nutrition plans. And, above all, with the right nutritional supplements. The side effects of the pills and injections were becoming increasingly obvious: a dark fur was growing on Martin's chest and his beard was getting darker and darker.

MMA shorts and thobes… At some point, there was nothing else left in his wardrobe. At most, when Mehmet helped out at the gym reception or when he was supervising at the gym or training customers, he wore a tracksuit. But basically, he no longer felt comfortable in it. Fortunately, Mete gave him quite a generous allowance after Martin had given him and Iman extensive powers of attorney. This allowed him to get through the month without having to work. However, Mehmet still had to work from time to time as a temp at the gym to pay for the expensive nutritional supplements. He didn't have to overcome any great obstacles to do this: he was at home at the gym and he was proud to be part of this gym. And as a trainer, he had close contact with the hottest guys in the gym. Even though Mete was the only one who was allowed to fuck Mehmet, there were enough holes that Mehmet's cock could fill after the wounds of the circumcision had healed.

Hardly anyone recognized Martin at Mehmet's new appearances on social media. If you looked closely, you could have seen Martin's blue eyes in the otherwise more masculine features of Mehmet's face. But hardly anyone looked at Mehmet's eyes. There were other body parts that attracted the public's attention.

Ole had been following Martin's latest investment closely. Martin's new CEO, Mete, was very active in the Swedish startup scene and Mete and Ole met regularly at various events. Mete needed more capital to finance the planned aggressive growth of the gym chain. And Ole was ready to get on board. The business figures were simply too tempting.

The press event to mark Ole's entry into the gym empire was a great success. It was accompanied by the opening of a new gym in Martin's former house. And by the victory of the Swedish MMA heavyweight title by the star of the gym, Mehmet. At the photo shoot, Ole was surprised at Mehmet's good Swedish. Actually, he would have expected less from such a monkey. But never mind, Mehmet wasn't there to speak. The photo shoot with Ole and Mehmet was followed by a training session in which the two men demonstrated their skills. Mehmet did everything he could to make Ole look good. But at the end of the session, he said that Ole could do a little more to improve his fitness. After all, he was now a figurehead for the gym. Mehmet had already prepared something: a training and nutrition plan. And Mete had also already procured a few dietary supplements.

[oneshotnewbie]

Emily PrentissxJennifer JareauxReader:

The reader is working for the BAU and has a really bad migraine (She has chronic migraines but didn't tell anyone). She is really mad and distant toward her friends (you can include the boys too but make me girls main please) and they notice it and have a little intervention with her. After that a lot of fluff where Emily and JJ care for her

Authors note: Unfortunately I don´t have an Emily Prentiss x Daughter reader story, but I have added a new one to write. Until then, there is only one Emily Prentiss x Jennifer Jareau x Reader story from me today

ᕚ---ᕘ

You could say that you were a person with enormous stamina and a high tolerance level. Something that was a must for anyone who worked as a Supervisory Special Agent for the Behavioral Analysis Unit and under Aaron Hotch. Many people admired you for not jumping off the next cliff under the unbearable circumstances of this job.

And you yourself sometimes admired your own achievements. But everyone had their limits and it was a recurring thing that happened during your work hours. You ignored the first triggers. You exceeded your physical limits and your migraine appeared.

You could have guessed it when you got back on the plane from Oxford. The terrible serial killer and the panic it caused in the city, the fact that he had abused and murdered seven women. This case had taken more of a toll on you than you would have liked and you tried to deal with your problems in your own way. Which meant you threw yourself into the work, no matter how mundane every clue was and no matter what wall you hit.

“Y/n, maybe you should take a break?” begged Emily, noticing that you were doing everything you could to get Oxford out of your bones as quickly as possible. You, however, waved her off without saying a word and continued to stare at the white board on which every clue was hanging. "Do not need a break, I am fine." The black-haired went along with it, stayed by your side and tolerated your moods even when they drove her crazy.

Non-stop, without a break and with lack of sleep and malnutrition, you battled the nagging headaches and mild nausea. You became more and more tired, yawned and became increasingly sensitive to the loud noises of the office. Something you could tolerate skillfully. But Emily and your colleagues not.

You clearly knew you were on the verge of a migraine when you started seeing visual symptoms of a migraine aura. Your vision became distorted, sometimes weaker, sometimes sharper. For a few minutes you only saw white in your left eye, but you kept going, not giving yourself a break. You knew that no other woman could die because of you.

Hour after hour you were exhausted and just trudged from the office to the coffee machine. With a nasty headache and feeling like you might throw up, you swallowed it all and sat down on a chair while Penelope talked loudly to Derek. You felt like your head was going to explode at any moment from their voices. "Could you PLEASE shut up or at least go to another room to flirt with each other?" you huffed and massaged your temples, their sighs ringing like a hurricane in your ears. "Some people want to work here."

"Babygirl, are you okay?" he asked, surprised at your momentary outburst. He had never been allowed to see you like this, you had never snapped at him. A sharp pain shot through your temples and you hastily stood up. "Hey, cutie pie? What is going on?" the technical analyst also chimed in and waited for any kind of answer.

"I am fine, just leave me alone." your words came out of your mouth hastily and probably slurred, but you did not care. You had to go to the toilet immediately. Without turning around again, you quickly walked out of the office and stumbled in the direction you were heading. Every time you made contact with the ground, the headache got worse and you begged not to throw up on the way. You saw distorted vision in your right eye while small white flashes danced in front of it.

Rushing into the bathroom, you stood in front of the sink, panting and swallowing convulsively. Having migraines was terrible and right now you could not use one. You sighed in relief when you did not throw up, as long as you did not, it was not all that bad.

Loud footsteps sounded outside the door and a knock made your head explode. “Oh, y/n.” A rough voice spoke and you looked in the mirror. Emily and JJ had pushed through the door one after the other and were now standing with their backs to you, their arms crossed over their chests. Furthermore, you paid attention to your reflection in the mirror, which said that any idiot could see that a corpse in pathology looked healthier than you. So did the trained agents on your team. "What is wrong?"

You did not even hear half of the sentence, the second word was the end of it. You ran into one of the stables, fell to your knees and managed to bend over the toilet just in time. You squeezed your eyes shut as tears streamed down your cheeks and you threw up violently. “y/n?” the blondes voice had an worried undertone and you did not notice her standing strictly behind you. The next thing you felt were cool hands on your neck and shoulders.

Jerking away from the touch, leaning your head back against the wall as you pulled your knees into your body. You tried to block so many sounds and other sensations from your body, while only this crushing and throbbing pain existed in your head.

Once again you felt cold hands on your skin and everything in you protested as they helped him to his feet, an arm was placed around your shoulder and led you out of the bathroom and through the hallway. Soon your face made contact with a pillow and a relieved sigh rolled past your lips. You did not know where you were, just that it was quiet. Still, your currently oversensitive ears heard Hotch appearing to be talking to Emily, JJ, and the rest of the group. "No, we have no idea what is going on."

“Did you ask her?”

"We tried, but we got no response." at some point there was an angry snort at the blonde's answer and there were more footsteps in front of the door. The squeaking sound echoed through your head, pounding inside before the space on the couch shrank and a shadow appeared in front of you. "Sweetie, cards on the table. Tell us what is going on?"

The voice of the of the blonde was painful, yet it was strangely comforting to hear a familiar and loving voice. Still, you flinched violently as something cool was brushed onto your forehead. The nausea slowly subsided. "Chronic migraines since adolescence. But not so severe for a while."

Long fingers tugged at the disheveled and stray strands of hair on your face before she stood up again and walked to the windows. The room darkened, blinds closed and you moaned pleasantly. After making a trip to the door, she told the expected teammates what you had told her. You only heard a quiet "I will stay with her, but someone has to get me the medication out of my bag," before the door closed quietly and she sat down on the office chair, looking over you thoughtfully.

JJ waited for Emily to come back with some things and watched you laying there in pain, exhausted and completely distracted by the thunder in your head, trying to be as silent as she could. A few minutes later, the door opened again. You saw Emily through squinted eyes and spotted a bucket in her hand, a bowl of water, wipes under her arms and a large disposable syringe.

"What do you want to inject into me?" you asked surprised and a little frightened by the size of the abnormally large syringe. The blonde knelt down in front of you, pulling up your sweater and waiting for the black-haired one to hand it over. "Metoclopramide,"

"How do you know what to inject into me and where did you get it from?"

"You are not the only one who gets migraines. I used to get them often enough and since then I have always had an injection with me to protect myself from them in case they happen again." she frowned and laughed quietly. You nodded in acceptance and there was a moment of silence before a hot, stabbing pain shot through your lower torso and you cried out. "That hurts!"

Emily sat on the armrest and slipped her fingers between your own. You squeezed it tightly and she hoped to take the temporary pain away from you. "Why did not you tell us?" the black-haired asked sadly you huffed through gritted teeth. "I did not want to be a burden to you. I did not want to seem weak," you replied, shrugging.

"It was stupid of you not to say anything. At least to JJ or me." She paused briefly and you raised your head in confusion before nodding in understanding and looking over at the blonde. With a half-smile, she placed a band-aid on the wound and placed a thin blanket over your legs. "Okay. Next time I will let you know, I promise."

They both nodded and stood up. While JJ was putting away the trash, Emily leaned over and gave you a gentle kiss on the top of your head before she disappeared out of the door. "I will make you some tea,"

"You never make tea."

"I will do it today for a very special and stubborn person." She spoke in a whisper, winking at you. You laughed quietly and already felt a million times better than you did a few minutes ago. With a yawn, you sank deeper into the pillow and watched as the blonde turned on a small lamp at the desk in the dark room so she could continue working. "Thanks,"

[thommi-tomate]

Hello Bayern fans,

After a lot of speculation about me recently, I would like to take the opportunity to clarify things with this letter to you. Even after all these years, regardless of my playing minutes, I still have a lot of fun being on the pitch with the boys and fighting for titles together for our colors. I could have easily imagined myself in this role next year as well.

However, the club made a conscious decision not to negotiate a new contract with me for next season. Even if this was not in line with my personal wishes, it is important that the club follows its convictions. I respect this step, which the Executive Board and Supervisory Board certainly did not take lightly.

Understandably, I did not like the back and forth in public over the past weeks and months. However, I feel the same way about this as I do about my soccer game: it wasn't always characterized by perfection, but rather by thinking positively ahead to the next action. After a bad pass, you have to win the ball back with team unity. We've managed to do that in the past few days in trusting discussions.

I can feel the appreciation from everyone involved for my long time at fcbayern and feel deep joy at having played for my favorite club for 25 incredibly intense years. I will be forever connected to FC Bayern and to you through so many great moments together.

Now my full focus is on our sporting goals for the season. It would be a dream come true for me to bring the championship trophy home again and to reach the long-awaited Dahoam final at the end of May. I will give everything for that!

Thank you for everything that has been and for everything that is yet to come

Always forward FC Bayern!

[sgiandubh]

No ordinary fan...

I shouldn't start with that pinched, fake friendly ' remember...?' that is so near & dear across the street, but...

Just to make sure we're on the same page: remember her?

And sure enough, among S's last follows...

Who are these people?

Gerrit Meier, the Lucky Fan's husband, is a very successful business top executive:

He currently splits his professional activities between the NFL (as Managing Director and Head of International), Stage Entertainment (as member of the Supervisory Board - these people are the producers of any successful musical you could think of, from Hamilton to Mamma Mia!) and the SV Werder Bremen (German, Bundesliga level) football club (as member of the Supervisory Board).

Also, Lena Hoschek, verra much en vogue Austrian fashion designer. Married with two kids, so please - stop the cheap gossip right now. Exclusively feminine collections. Funny how... unless... but hey, how stupid of me, right?

A bit more about her, here: https://www.austria.info/en/culture/artists-and-masterpieces/lena-hoschek-fashion-designer

In Kitzbuhel, S was networking exactly like C was networking in Paris: outside of the comfort zone or the obvious.

But sure, be my guest and screech. I know what I know, and more (thank you, darling and I shall not post now, as I told you: I am not *urv y gracias a ti, como siempre - 😘😘😘😘😘).

[darkmaga-returns]

Kash Patel, President-elect Donald Trump’s pick for FBI director, has released a list of 60 “deep state” adversaries he plans to target immediately when he begins his role next year.

The list, which includes President Joe Biden and network analysts, is detailed in his 2022 book Government Gangsters.

In the book’s appendix, titled “Members of the Executive Branch Deep State,” Patel lists those names alphabetically but acknowledges that the list is not exhaustive.

Patel said other “corrupt actors” could include Rep. Eric Swalwell (D-CA), Senator-elect Adam Schiff (D-CA), ex-congressman Paul Ryan, author of the Trump-Russia Steele Dossier Christopher Steele.

Patel also reassures the public he will be going after “the entire fake news mafia press corp.”

Here’s the list:

Michael Atkinson – Former inspector general of the intelligence community Lloyd Austin – Secretary of Defense under President Joe Biden Brian Auten – Supervisory intelligence analyst, FBI James Baker – Former general counsel for the FBI and Twitter executive Bill Barr – Former attorney general under Trump John Bolton – Former national security adviser under Trump Stephen Boyd – Former chief of legislative affairs, FBI Joe Biden – President of the United States John Brennan – Former CIA director under President Obama John Carlin – Former DOJ national security division head under Trump Eric Ciaramella – Former National Security Council staffer Pat Cipollone – Former White House counsel under Trump James Clapper – Former director of national intelligence under Obama Hillary Clinton – Former Secretary of State and presidential candidate James Comey – Former FBI director Elizabeth Dibble – Former deputy chief of mission, U.S. Embassy, London Mark Esper – Former Secretary of Defense under Trump Alyssa Farah – Former strategic communications director under Trump Evelyn Farkas – Former Pentagon official under Obama Sarah Isgur Flores – Former DOJ communications head under Trump Merrick Garland – Attorney General under Biden Stephanie Grisham – Former White House press secretary under Trump Kamala Harris – Vice President and former presidential candidate Gina Haspel – Former CIA director under Trump Fiona Hill – Former National Security Council staffer Curtis Heide – FBI agent Eric Holder – Former attorney general under Obama Robert Hur – Special counsel for Biden document investigation Cassidy Hutchinson – Former assistant to Trump Chief of Staff Mark Meadows Nina Jankowicz – Former head of Biden’s Disinformation Governance Board Lois Lerner – Former IRS official under Obama Loretta Lynch – Former attorney general under Obama Charles Kupperman – Former deputy national security adviser under Trump Gen. Kenneth McKenzie (Ret.) – Former CENTCOM commander Andrew McCabe – Former FBI deputy director Ryan McCarthy – Former Secretary of the Army under Trump Mary McCord – Former DOJ national security division head Denis McDonough – Former Obama chief of staff, current VA secretary Gen. Mark Milley (Ret.) – Former chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Lisa Monaco – Deputy attorney general under Biden Robert Mueller – Former FBI director and Russiagate special counsel Bruce Ohr – Former DOJ official under Obama and Trump Nellie Ohr – Former CIA employee Lisa Page – Former FBI counsel Pat Philbin – Former deputy White House counsel under Trump John Podesta – Former Obama adviser, current Biden climate adviser Samantha Power – Former U.N. ambassador under Obama, current USAID administrator Bill Priestap – Former FBI counterintelligence chief Susan Rice – Former Obama national security adviser Rod Rosenstein – Former deputy attorney general under Trump Peter Strzok – Former FBI counterintelligence agent Jake Sullivan – National Security Adviser under Biden Michael Sussman – Former DNC lawyer Miles Taylor – Former DHS official under Trump Timothy Thibault – Former FBI agent Andrew Weissman – Mueller’s Russiagate deputy Alexander Vindman – Former National Security Council official Christopher Wray – Current FBI director under Trump and Biden Sally Yates – Former deputy attorney general under Obama Adam Schiff – Senator-elect and former House Intelligence Committee chairman

Earlier this month, Patel announced the “massive declassification��� of troves of information ranging from the Jeffrey Epstein files to the “P Diddy” list.

Patel told Conservative podcast host Benny Johnson that releasing documents that implicate the Department of Justice and FBI for their illegal surveillance of over 250,000 Americans.

[meggie-stardust]

for the 3 sentence fic ask: Steo in a serial killer!Theo/FBI Agent Stiles AU... or Steter for that if you'd prefer!

Damn, I had to cut myself off as this is threatening to become an actual fic... THANK YOU <3

The red string on the cork board is twisting and and cross-crossing back over itself in an intricate pattern that everyone else stopped being able to decipher ages ago, but Supervisory Special Agent Stiles Stilinski doesn’t hesitate as his eyes track the string and he pins a new clipping that he’s certain the unsub is responsible for.

He refuses to think of him as “The Chimera”––the name the media has insisted on using due to the fact that every crime scene has been two victims taken apart and put back together as one new, horrifying creation––not only because he doesn’t want to give more credit and notoriety to this killer, but because he recognizes the allure of making him larger than life, knowing that he’s already too intrigued, too caught up in the game that he’s almost certainly playing.

Stiles is completely alone in the briefing room, so no one sees as he flips through the case file until he gets to the one blurry picture they have of someone who might be the unsub, and no one sees as he presses his fingers against the page and whispers, “I’m waiting for you,” and since no one is there, no would would be able to say if the tone was threatening or desperate.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Debbie Urbanski’s ‘After World’

Debbie Urbanski's debut novel After World is an unflinching and relentlessly bleak tale of humanity's mass extinction, shot through with pathos and veined with seams of tragic tenderness and care:

https://www.simonandschuster.com/books/After-World/Debbie-Urbanski/9781668023457

I first encountered Urbanski in "An Incomplete Timeline of What We Tried," an experimental short story on Motherboard's brilliant Terraform science fiction portal:

https://www.vice.com/en/article/xwvgeq/an-incomplete-timeline-of-what-we-tried

"Incomplete Timeline" is a list of climate remediation steps "working back from human extinction," like "increased military fortification of national, provincial, and state borders," "the founding of several utopias," and "redefine the word wilderness."

These items begin with a climax, or perhaps an anticlimax: "The coordinated release of various strains of a human sterilization virus."

This is the jumping off point for After World, which expands this final item to the action of a wrenching tale whose backstory is the list's remainder. Sen Anon – the story's semi-protagonist – is 18 years old when the world learns that every person alive has been sterilized and so the human race is living out its last years.

The news triggers a manic insistence that this is a good thing – long overdue, in fact – and the perfect opportunity to scan every person alive for eventual reincarnation as virtual humans in an Edenic cloud metaverse called Gaia. That way, people can continue to live their lives without the haunting knowledge that everything they do makes the planet worse for every other living thing, and each other. Here, finally, is the resolution to the paradox of humanity: our desire to do good, and our inevitable failure on that scor8e.

And so the Earth is converted to a place of mass suicides, as people gurn and mug while boarding airplanes filled with explosives so they can go out in a literal blaze of glory. The food will run out soon, and the government makes sure everyone has a suicide pill for the day when the hunger grows too intense. Not everyone is lucky enough to get on one of the suicide flights, and, being eager to see themselves off before they harm the planet further, just hang themselves in the garage or jump off a roof. They are counted as heroes, but also nuisances, because disposing of the bodies is a lot of work.

But some people – young people – are given a mission to live on for as long as possible. These are the observer/recorders who are charged to spend the last days of the species closely watching the return of the natural world, the seeing off of humanity, and to write it all down in longhand in a succession of notebooks that are taken away by drones. This is part of the story humanity cooks up for itself about extinction being a noble choice, rather than a chaotic act born of desperation.

Sen Anon is one of these observers, and her mothers take her to a remote cabin to live out (and observe) the last of humanity's days, ensuring she is settled in and then killing themselves. After all, without them, Sen Anon's limited food supply – meagerly supplemented by drones in proportion to the quality of the observations in her notebooks – will stretch further.

Much of the novel takes the form of Sen Anon's notebook observations, countersunk with an omniscient third-person narrator who is revealed to be [storyworker] ad39-393a-7fbc, a software agent involved in the project to recreate all those dead humans in the Gaia metaverse.

[storyworker] ad39-393a-7fbc is a very unreliable narrator, who reprograms itself through the course of the story, all the while muttering asides to itself about the theoretical basis for telling Sen's story this way. [storyworker] ad39-393a-7fbc struggles with a supervisory AI that has been charged with overseeing all the [storyworkers], but which can't – or won't – rein in [storyworker] ad39-393a-7fbc as [storyworker] ad39-393a-7fbc grows more involved in Sen's life.

This experimental storytelling style (supplemented by found texts from humanity's dying, like a glossary of terms to be retired and new terms being created by a linguist who is starving to death as they complete their task) creates a contradictory narrative distance and closeness.

It's a curiously flawed omniscience that's allows Urbanski to capture the yawning, bottomless horror of the climate emergency of today and on the horizon. I don't think I've ever experienced the kind of sustained, deepening existential dread that After World created, chapter by chapter.

To sharpen this, Sen's mothers – scientists who were given exceptions to the no-child policy because their work was deemed essential to the now-abandoned project of saving humanity – are grimly supportive of the mass suicide project. When Sen's own horror creeps up on her, her mothers are sharp and often unkind, with only the smallest flashes of love and sorrow for their daughter escaping their facades, all the more vivid for their rarity.

In contrast, [storyworker] ad39-393a-7fbc grows ever more sympathetic to Sen and the rest of vanished humanity. [storyworker] ad39-393a-7fbc is a very convincing alien with motives and perspectives that are profoundly nonhuman, and yet, the compassion and love are unmistakable.

Of After World's two protagonists, [storyworker] ad39-393a-7fbc might be the more relatable. It takes an alien point of view to truly see humanity's flawed glory, irredeemable and irreplaceable. If you reveled in the nonhuman umwelts on display in Laura Jean McKay's 2020 debut The Animals In That Country, [storyworker] ad39-393a-7fbc will stretch your brain and imagination in similar ways:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/04/27/im-a-backdoor-man/#doolittle

After World is a book that goes hard. Pitiless, merciless and relentless, it takes you to the darkest depths of climate despair and reveals the indestructible beauty at our species' core.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/18/storyworker-ad39-393a-7fbc/#digital-human-archive-project

[tempting-seduction]

Born on 28 September 1956 in Linz, Austria, Paul Achleitner is a businessman who served as chairman of the supervisory board of Deutsche Bank[2] from 2012 to 2022.

[groupfazza]

حمدان بن محمد يلتقي جمعاً من رجال الأعمال والتجّار والمستثمرين في مجلس زعبيل بدبي

سجل سمو الشيخ حمدان بن محمد بن راشد آل مكتوم، ولي عهد دبي نائب رئيس مجلس الوزراء وزير الدفاع رئيس المجلس التنفيذي لإمارة دبي، في آخر تدوين لسموه عبر حسابه في «إكس» 🔻

‏ضمن اللقاءات الدورية في مجلس زعبيل، التقيت عدداً من أعيان البلاد والمسؤولين والتجار ورجال الأعمال، وبحثنا مسيرتنا التنموية ومشاريعنا المستقبلية، إضافةً إلى سبل تعزيز شراكاتنا المحلية والعالمية ...

كما شهدت وضيوف مجلسنا محاضرة حول أحدث التقنيات في مجال الطاقة المتجددة قدمها بن نواك، الرئيس التنفيذي لشركة “رفليكت أوربيتال” التي تطور تقنيات لضمان توصيل أشعة الشمس إلى محطات تخزين الطاقة الشمسية في أوقات الليل، كما التقيت خلال المجلس أندرياس كوفمان رئيس المجلس الإشرافي على شركة لايكا التي اختارت الاحتفال في دبي بمناسبة مرور 100 عام على تأسيسها.

_____________

His Highness Sheikh Hamdan bin Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum, Crown Prince of Dubai, Deputy Prime Minister and Minister of Defence of the UAE, and Chairman of The Executive Council of Dubai, in his latest tweet on his «X» account 🔻

As part of the regular gatherings at Za’abeel Majlis, I engaged with local dignitaries, traders, and business leaders to discuss Dubai’s developmental journey, future projects, and strategies to enhance local and global partnerships. During the gathering …

I attended a lecture by Ben Nowack, Co-Founder and CEO of Reflect Orbital, who highlighted groundbreaking advancements in space-based solar energy, including innovations that ensure sunlight reaches solar storage facilities at night. I also met with Dr. Andreas Kaufmann, Chairman of Leica Camera’s Supervisory Board, as the company celebrated its 100th anniversary here in Dubai.

Wednesday, 22 January 2025 الأربعاء

[nrilliree]

Trust the TG to make a mountain out of a molehill to make their headcanons make sense. They want Rhaena to hate Daemon, and by extension Rhaenyra, so bad which is why they go overboard with the fanon that she was all alone and miserable at Dragonstone. She was visibily happy with her family and with her engagement to Luke. Also, Dragonstone and Driftmark are close to each other and they could visit any time like it used to happen in the books.

Not only do they enjoy borrowing traits from TB characters to paste them on TG but they also want TB to have TG's hostile family dynamics.

Of course. They will come up with all kinds of fan fiction just to show that they are the good guys in this story. But I can bet that if they were a woman who had been working in the family company since her teenage years (first as a company messenger, and then she sat on the supervisory board, and finally was sent to another branch, which she was supposed to manage before becoming the CEO of the company). ) only to have it taken away from her and her brother put in that position without any qualifications or even studies, they would be furious. Especially if their high school friend visited her father's bedroom in the evenings, became her stepmother and poisoned her life so much just to get her out of the family home. And the boy they once slept with became the teacher of their children, who are now tormented in revenge... Yes, Rhaenyra is definitely the villain here, and her family are the bad guys...

[mariacallous]

The International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) has refused to expel the Russian Red Cross (RRC) from its membership, prompting Ukraine to inform the organization’s sponsors of this decision, reported Ukraine’s Commissioner for Human Rights, Dmytro Lubinets.

Lubinets noted that he had repeatedly informed the ICRC leadership about the alleged crimes of the Russian Red Cross and demanded a transparent investigation and the organization’s exclusion from the Federation.

In the spring, the ICRC established a supervisory board to investigate the activities of the Russian Red Cross. Lubinets passed evidence of Russian violations to IFRC President Kate Forbes. However, the Federation’s report on the Russian Red Cross found “no violations”.

The report did acknowledge Russia’s occupation of Ukrainian territories and confirmed that the Russian Red Cross had visited these regions.

“The Russian Red Cross should only operate within its own territory. Their actions violate the ICRC Charter and Ukraine’s territorial integrity. Yet, the Federation justified these actions as “innovative approaches” and “humanitarian reasons,” Lubinets added.

The report also failed to mention theft of Ukrainian Red Cross property in occupied Crimea and the Russian Red Cross’s involvement in the deportation of Ukrainian children to Russia.

As a result, Lubinets announced plans to inform all donors who fund the ICRC, urging them to reconsider their contributions to an organization that, according to him, is covering up Russian crimes. He also proposed redirecting these funding to the Ukrainian Red Cross.

“In my view, the ICRC has become an advocate for the bloody Russian Red Cross. Those who shield criminals become criminals themselves,” Lubinets added.

Earlier, Ukrainian ombudsman described Red Cross’s lack of reaction to Russia’s crimes as “ostrich mentality”.

[octuscle]

I'm your average joe who works an average desk job and at 45 I have nothing great going for me. Sometimes I just wish I could do it over again. Maybe take up a diffrent major in college, something that would set me up for a more adventurous life. Can you help me achieve this?

Okay, who wants to be average? And who wouldn't want to know what their life would have been like if they had made a different decision at some point? I mean, your decisions weren't actually bad. Bank apprenticeship, business studies, going to the gym twice a week… You have a house in the suburbs, a cool car. It could have been worse! But also better. We can manage that! Monday, 12:00 noon, let's get started!

When you finish work in the evening, you're still full of energy. Even though you worked until 19:00 today. It's paying off that you started making the gym your home seven months ago. When you arrive at the gym at 8 p.m., Steve greets you at reception with a fist bump. Everyone here greets you. Some of them are good friends of yours. The rest at least know you by sight. No wonder, you're here every day. In the morning before work. In the evening after work. And the effort pays off. From a very well-built man with the typical rolls of flab, you have developed into an athlete. A machine. Not one of the big boys. But close. You call it a day at 22:00. You need seven hours' sleep, you want to be back here at 07:00. One last critical look in the mirror. Not bad for a man in his mid-40s…

Get up, gym, office… You work like clockwork. You're good at your job. The development of your body has boosted your career. Today you have another lunch date with a division manager. He asks you if it's time to take the next step in your career. It's been two years since you moved to the "Digital Research and Development" division. That was also the initial spark for your physical transformation. As an accounting employee, you had previously become a lazy and saturated couch potato… You smile and, as if by chance, flex your huge biceps. You know that makes him hot. And the prospect of a blowjob after lunch is tempting. Of course, he immediately notices that your cock is getting hard… You have his hand in your crotch for the rest of lunch.

When you arrive at the gym at 7pm on Wednesday, you first have to go through your post. As the largest shareholder, you are only the chairman of the supervisory board. But many people confuse that with managing director. Idiots who are just stealing your precious time on the weights. Since you introduced the "Meathead Gym" brand and turned your old gym into the flagship of the new brand, you feel even more at home here. No classes, no machines, no women. Just honest, hard bodybuilding. Dress code is at least off-the-shoulder. In fact, shirtless is preferred. It goes without saying that you don't wear a tank top either.

You're the first one in the gym on Friday morning. Good thing you have the keys. You look around. Your empire. It was a big step to leave your good job almost eight years ago and start working at the fitness start-up. For hardcore bodybuilders, you are now the market leader as a fitness studio, but also in nutritional supplements and gym clothing. Steve arrives at 05:30. He has the early shift at reception. You greet him with a fist bump. Good man. A little weak in the chest. At least compared to you… But he'll get there!

You visit a school friend at the weekend. His son is a handsome stud. He could turn into a real gym hunk. He asks if he can take a selfie with you. Sure, I'd love to, you say. He asks you if you can give him any tips on what he should do now. He's finishing high school now. You ask him what position he plays football. He grins and says that he prefers to spend his time in the gym. You can see that. You tell your school friend to listen away for a moment. And then you tell your son that he shouldn't bother with college and university. You're glad you didn't do that either. You started pumping iron straight away. And then brought your dream to life. Live your dream, you tell him. And that you'd be happy if it could start at your company.

[criminal-mids]

#29 - Cabin Pressure

Prompt: Sick on a Road Trip

Sickie: Reid

Caretaker(s): Hotch ft. Gracia

Word Count: 2,206

Diana Reid was, during her worst days, incredibly suspicious of aeroplanes. She’d always insisted that her precious only son take the train, and he never minded. After all, trains are interesting and the scenery is nice. He’d read about airports, in books, and seen them in movies his friends made him watch, but every piece of media had left one thing out: the sounds.

He’d even been in an airport once before when he flew from Nevada to Virginia after his acceptance to the F.B.I. Academy, but he’d been with a friend then or rather one of his mother’s friends. An old colleague. He’d had business in Washington, so he’d offered to leave a week early to fly with Spencer. He’d done most of the talking, all of the navigating and let Spencer zone out with his noise-cancelling headphones (a graduation gift from when he’d received his first PhD) and a book.

But now, he’s on his own, even with a group of four other people.

The lights keep flickering. It makes Spencer wonder how no one has noticed. But of course, he knows why. He’s just sensitive.

‘And Agent Jareau said this is a small airport. If something like this bothers me, can I even do this job? Should I just go home now, before I make a fool of myself?’

Voices overlap like a grating cacophony. Couples arguing over tickets, parents fussing over and at whining teens, crying babies, toddlers and single young adults with game audio playing at inconsiderate volumes, static heavy P.A.s, and phone calls, all dip in and out. As soon as one sound quiets, another replaces it at what seems like twice the volume. Not to mention the jets just outside beyond the window. And yet, somehow he can still hear the buzzing of the lights.

And no one else seems to mind. 

He’d forgone his headphones, not wanting to risk missing an instruction from his new boss, Supervisory Special Agent Gideon. But now his head pounds and colours dance in his vision.

An announcement for boarding as they pass a gate makes him clap his hands over his ears, a reflex, but he puts them away before his colleagues notice.

‘I will not act like a baby.’

He wants to walk faster, to run, and get away from it all, but it would be rude to pass his boss, and he has no idea where they're going anyway. 

He’d heard Ms. Jareau complaining as they got into the car, that normally they’d be allowed to drive up to the apron, but couldn’t this time due to some reconstruction.

At last, after a walk that can’t have taken more than 10 minutes, but felt like a marathon, they reach the door to the private area of the apron.

It’s at the same time a reprieve and so much worse.

On one hand, there is less quantity of sounds, but on the other hand, the volume blinds Spencer for a moment and he rushes to catch up to his new colleagues.

-

The small jet is an oasis of quiet. Spencer can still hear the noise if he gets too close to a window, and the lights do buzz a bit, but it’s negligible compared to the monstrous collage inside the airport and out on the apron.

He sits down quickly, still feeling less than stable.

Hotch is talking to the rest of the team, but he hasn’t calmed down enough to clearly understand the words. So, as quietly as he can he starts reciting chemical formulas. They come into the forefront of his mind as easy as breathing, like the ABCs or Twinkle Little Star to most children, familiar and comforting. He focuses on the words one at a time until he stops shaking and the buzzing of the lights is less prominent. Eventually, he just lets the formulas run through his mind. It actually helps him focus on SSA Gideon’s voice.

He doesn't realise he closed his eyes until he looks up to the curious, slightly sceptical gaze of his new colleague, Agent Morgan.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I was listing, I just-”

“Anxious about flying?” Agent Morgan says, confident.

Wrong.

“No, not at all. The odds of dying in a plane crash are only one in 11 million. Fractional compared to the odds of being in a car crash, which is approximately one in 5,000. This is probably because between the two industries, safety standards-”

“Right, didn’t mean to assume.” Morgan looks back to SSA Gideon. He looks awed and a bit freaked out like Spencer is some . . . creature.

Reid looks down, “Sorry for interrupting, please continue.”

—

The briefing is done, and they’ve each been given tasks. Agency Morgan with SSA Hotchner, and Spencer with SSA Gideon.

Spencer reads dutifully over his case file, studying the area map.

A voice, the slightest break in the quiet makes him look up. Agent Morgan is whispering to Agent Jareau, and they’re glancing at Spencer.

“Seems like new boy’s got a mean streak.”

Spencer almost looks up at that. ‘Mean streak? What are they- oh- But I wasn’t being . . . Oh. This is going to be like high school all over again, isn’t it?’ He droops at the thoughts, trying to put it out of his mind and focus on the lines of the map.

Agent Jareau is silent, Spencer pretends he can’t feel her judgmental gaze. Then she says, “Yeah, real life of the party, that one.”

Party-pooper. Buzzkill. Baby. Dork. Nerd. Loser. The insults bounce around his mind like the kickballs that always seemed to fly his way on field days.

‘Not insults, just facts.’

“He might be a kid genius, but none of this will work if he can’t be a team player.”

“If he wants to be a loner, I guess it doesn’t matter as long as he can do the job. Hotch never comes drinking with us, after all.”

‘Don’t they understand that’s all I’ve ever wanted, to be on a team with someone! That’s why I came here. I knew it, though, I knew I wouldn’t belong here.’

“Yeah, but he has Jack and the missus.”

Agent Jareau sighs, “Gideon has faith in him, so we should too, right? He’ll get used to flying soon enough.”

These words make the previous ones sting a bit less, but the respite is over quickly.

“Maybe then he won’t feel the need to be such a little prick. This team doesn’t need a moody teenager. He can’t even shoot.”

He catches Agent Morgan’s gaze for an instant, but can’t stand to look, so he ducks back down, hoping the older man didn’t notice.

—

“Attention, everyone.” The intercom startles Spencer out of his map-reading daze.

“We’ve run into some inclement weather, so I’ll be taking us up a bit higher, just to get over these storm clouds.” 

As soon as he ends his sentence the ascension begins. 

The pain stops Spencer’s thoughts in their tracks, it’s sudden and sharp, quickly surrounding his head and ears. A whine slips out of him before he presses his lips together.

He’d expected this. ear barotrauma, it’s called, the so-called “popping” feeling in the eardrum due to sudden dramatic changes in barometric pressure. It can also occur on the ground when climbing mountains or even for some people before big storms. He even brought chewing gum for this very purpose, but he can’t even think of moving now, lest the pain get worse.

‘It’ll go away, it’ll go away. I’ll be fine. I will be fine.’ 

10 minutes later he is not fine. His head feels full like he’d just been shoved in a too-small locker again and hit his head on the door, or shoved down the stairs, or more accurately, like he’s about to spontaneously combust.

He feels stupid and useless.

‘My chewing gum is right there, I just need to’

His thoughts are interrupted by his case file sliding off his lap, spilling papers everywhere. Agent Morgan looks up at the noise, frowning. 

‘All this would be fixed if I could just- Should I ask someone? No, I’d look like a kid. (I am a kid.) SSA Gideon and SSA Hotchner will never take me seriously after this. And I’ve already pissed off Agent Morgan and Agent Jareau.’

Spencer gives what he hopes is a friendly smile, through the pain. It’s kind of hard, remembering the man’s words from earlier. “Little prick.” “Moody teenager.”

‘Why bother when he clearly doesn’t want me here?’

Before he realises it, he’s rocking slightly back and forth. It’s barely noticeable, but SSA Hotchner notices. He’s been watching Spencer for a few minutes now. As an ex-prosecutor, he can tell when people are squirming. 

This isn’t that, not quite anyway, but ‘The poor boy certainly looks uncomfortable. He didn’t seem defensive when Morgan questioned him about flight anxiety earlier, and I’ve talked to him before during his interviews. That truly is just his nature, but something is going on. He’s an adult, but just barely. I’ll be tactful. He’s shy, I wonder if he’ll even tell me. I only hope it’s not anything serious. If it is, somehow I think I’ll have quite a time trying to get the truth out of him.’

“Reid, are you alright?” He shifts into the seat across from Spencer, tone calm, but concerned. It’s the first time he’s seen the man look anything besides stern. He didn’t think he could.

“I . . .”

It’s the first time he’s really talked to SSA Hotchner about anything not relating to work, but at least he’s not frowning.

“You look a bit stressed. We need your head in the game, so if something is bothering you, get it out now, or find a way to deal with it before we land. The things you’re going to see here are, well there's no kind way to say it, gruesome, terrible, and cruel. And if you aren’t in the right headspace in your personal life, then this job won’t end well.”

“No.” The word is a whine.

SSA Hotcner’s expression shifts into a scary calm, ready to deal with the worst. “Are you hurt? Ill?”

Spencer gestures to his ear. 

Agent Hotchner nods and steps away, dialling someone on his mobile.

Spencer tries his best to listen through his aching ears.

“ . . . Good, you can send that to Morgan and Gideon. We’ll get on it right away. However, I have another concern. How does one treat aeroplane ear-aches? . . . No, not me, Reid. I think this may be his first time flying, and Gideon,” Hotch pauses, glancing at Spencer, who pretends not to be paying attention. “Briefed me that he has certain sensitivities . . . alright, yes that would make sense. I don’t have any, but I’ll ask. Thank you, Garcia.”

SSA Hotchner hangs up the phone, calling out to the rest of the cabin, “Does anyone have chewing gum?”

Three confused “No”s fill the cabin.

“I-I do,” Spencer manages.

SSA Hotchner turns back toward Spencer, “You do?”

Spencer nods and points to his bag. “Front pocket.”

“Okay, well Garcia says chewing it should release the pressure.” 

Spencer nods again, mouthing “I know.” 

It takes Agent Hotchner a few long seconds to understand, “Well, then why didn’t you- Ah, I see. Do you need me to get it?”

Spencer nods again, moving his bag into the aisle with his foot. SSA Hotchner unzips it, rifling through the front pocket. He finds the pack of mint gum quickly and hands it to Spencer.

Spencer takes it gratefully, fumbling with the wrapper in his haste.

—

“Thank you, Agent Hotchner.” Spencer tells the man sincerely when the pain has finally passed.”

“You are a part of this team, Reid. Just “Hotch” is fine. But next time do try to be better prepared.”

“Yes, of course, Ag- Hotch.”

“If it's any consolation, we’ll be flying a lot-”

“After this, that’s not much of a consolation.” 

SSA Hotchner looks at Spencer in surprise. Spencer freezes. 

‘I shouldn’t have said that. My jokes always land wrong. What was I thinking? I’m going to be fired now.’ He can practically hear Morgan’s wince.

“Nice going, kid,” he mutters.

Spencer looks down in shame, “I’m sorry, that- that was a joke, Agent Hotchner. I have problems with tone sometimes and I didn’t mean to”

After a second, the man cracks a small smile. He halts Spencer’s apology with a shake of the head, “Fair enough. But I was going to say that due to the frequency of air travel that accompanies this job, I’m sure your body will adapt quickly.”

“Yes, sir.”

Agent Hotchner looks at him with an expression that uncannily resembles his mother’s when he’d do something right after she told him not to.

“Yes, Hotch.”

With that, A- Hotch suits back in his seat as if nothing ever happened. But everyone notices that he looks relieved.

‘If Hotch approves, maybe there’s something I’m missing.’ Morgan thinks, ‘Maybe I should give this kid a chance. And he did make it all the way here.’‘That wasn’t . . . terrible. Maybe everything will work out after all.’ Spencer takes a deep breath, focusing on the flavour of the gum as he gets back to work.