#that’s actually most of the reason he’s in one | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pencil-n-pen · 2 days ago

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ALL I DO IS TRY, TRY, TRY

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post prison! spencer x genius fem! reader

masterlist

summary: all your life, you’ve been second-best. Even now that you’ve been chosen to be an agent of the BAU, you’re just a replacement for Spencer Reid. What could change now that’s he’s out?

cw: there is a bit of an age gap, i imagined reader in her early to mid 20’s, nevermind how it isn’t accurate for working at FBI. this is a criminal minds fic, so there are graphic depictions of violence, as well as implied/referenced child neglect/abuse in readers childhood, reader is somewhat a genius

tropes/tags: slowburn on readers end, Spencer is flirting from the beginning, HURT/COMFORT, angst, bit of a sick fic in one scene, bit of soft dom! spencer as a treat

a/n : this came to me in a prophecy. full disclosure i haven’t actually seen the prison arc yet so if there’s any inaccuracies shhhhhh look at the fluff

also !! this is a LOOOOONG one. strap yourselves in. grab snacks and drinks

slipped in some very slight father figure Hotch bc that’s my crack

title taken from Mirrorball by Taylor Swift

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Spencer Reid is absolutely nothing like you’d thought he’d be.

From how the team talked about him, you’d been expecting a short, slight man. Someone quiet and meek and non-threatening.

And Dr. (Agent?) Reid was quiet. But not in the don’t-notice-me way, but in the I-know-what-I’m-doing-and-don’t-need-to-say-it way. He quietly commanded attention and respect. One look at the man told you he was not somebody to fuck with.

He was also really, really, really hot.

It was unfortunate and difficult, truly, because he’s your senior agent, someone who’s got more than a few years on you in both field experience and general age. He’s a genius- insanely good at what he does and there’s no refuting that.

But most of all, he’s kind and respectful and just genuinely a good person. And also good looking. Did you mention that yet?

He clicks seamlessly into place with the team in a way you’ve never managed to do in the time you’ve been with him. And after all, why would you? You’re just the rookie transfer with a bit higher than average IQ. Nothing to brag about. Nothing like Spencer.

You were a data analyst with the FBI before your boss told you: “The BAU is looking for a temporary genius. I put your name in the ring. Hotchner must’ve been impressed with something, cause he picked you. I know you’ve completed the training courses for their team, so pack your desk. You’ve got a new assignment.”

And just like that, every single one of your dreams came true. And then promptly burst into flames and burned to ashes when you realized what exactly your position on the team was: Temporary and replacing.

It makes sense, you guess. The team grew to rely on Reid’s quick wit and intellect. And beyond that, they’re an agent short. And you fit the bill well enough: swift and intelligent. Nothing more, nothing less. It became clear during the first few weeks that no one on the team had any intention of liking or particularly getting to know you beyond a professional capacity. And you get it, you really do. You don’t name the dog you’re gonna get rid of.

With the exception of Penelope. But you don’t think she has the ability to ignore someone without a clear reason.

So you did your job and you were good at it. Held the team at arm’s length even when they warmed up to you. Kept your head down, stuck to yourself. This way, it’s easier to stop yourself from leaning into JJ and Prentiss’s jokes, or to stamp down the glow in your chest from Hotch’s approval.

All of this hard work goes sailing straight out the window and spattering on the concrete below when Reid comes back. Because all it took was one case together- one. And then you’re hopelessly in love with the guy you replaced.

And it’s all kinds of terrible, because it’s Reid. He’s not only your coworker —soon to be ex, because now that he’s back you’ll be out of a job— but he’s also so incredibly out of your league it’s not even funny. But he keeps smiling at you and including you in conversations and saying hi to you and asking your opinion on things during cases as if you would have more to add than he does.

It’s very hard to keep him at arms length. And because Reid is Reid he drags everybody else over with him and then you’re bonding with a team you have a week left with, maybe two.

Spencer Reid has weaseled his way into your life one stupid smile at a time.

—

The case is going terribly.

What started as a run-of-the-mill serial killer case in some nowhere town turned into huge investigation because Spe— Reid figured out its relation to a cold case from a neighboring town decades prior. And then, to top everything off, just so happens to be near enough to your hometown that your mom saw you on the news when JJ was giving a statement.

And now she won’t stop calling.

Prior to this, you haven’t talked to your mom in about seven months. Now? She’s calling upwards of twelve times a day.

“Mom,” You say, tucked in one of the police stations back rooms, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I’m working, I can’t just come out to see you—“

“But you’ve never visited! And your finally in town, and—“

“I’m not in town, I’m a four hour drive away from town.”

A sigh crackles through the line, her voice tinny. “You know, your brother always made time to visit family, and your younger brothers—“

“Are younger than me and more successful, yes mom, I’ve heard it all before. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to catch a serial killer.”

You snap the phone shut before she can protest, effectively ending the call. You sag against the wall, sighing deep and weary. Exhaustion clings to your bones. It’s not just your mom. This case, being physically close to your hometown, everything— it’s weighing you down. You spend more time in the hotel bed tossing and turning than sleeping.

Even Em— Prentiss had shot you look when you’d came in this morning- though jury’s still out about whether or not it was an are-you-okay look or a you-better-be-good-for-the-case look. You’re hoping it’s the former.

The room you’re in is empty- the precinct that called for the team went under renovation and remodeling last year, so some of the rooms have fallen into disuse, apparently. It’s dusty, and filled with boxes and papers and weirdly, one or two condom wrappers. You wish you were surprised.

Your phone has been put strongly on silent, and you’re not expecting anyone to find you for at least twenty minutes. Of course, you don’t need twenty minutes. You just need five.

You just need to collect yourself for a moment. A few minutes to breathe, to get your mom’s words and the unpleasant memories they bring out of your head; to will the shake out of your hands and the cold creeping in your lungs.

So when the door opens, you nearly jump out of your skin.

Spencer walks in, phone clasped in one hand and a worried expression on his face.

“We’re getting ready to give the profile.”

“Oh,” You peel yourself off the wall, discreetly wiping at your face. You hadn’t noticed the frustrated tears carving lines down your face, “Sorry, I’m coming.”

He frowns as you come closer, and panic begins to beat like a drum in your chest.

“Is Hotch upset? I just had to take a call, I thought it would—“

“Slow down,” He says, raising his hands. “Hotch isn’t upset. Is something wrong?”

“No,” You say quickly, too quickly, because his frown deepens.

“You’ve been taking a lot more calls recently and you’re always upset after they’re over. Is someone bothering you?”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “My mom. We’re a four hour drive away from my hometown. She saw me on the news when JJ gave her statement.”

Something flashes in his eyes when you say your mother, but it’s gone before you can decipher it.

“You don’t want to see her.”

He says it flat-toned and blank. Like it’s a fact.

It is a fact.

“No,” You confess, “I’ve never been close with my parents. I haven’t spoken to her beyond a text in years, and I haven’t texted her in months. Then she sees me on the news and I’m back on her radar again.”

You chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “Oh, the folly of the disappointing daughter.”

He tilts his head, questioning. “You’ve made something of yourself. You’re a special agent. That’s not nothing.”

“Yeah, well. It’s not Doctor or Lawyer or C.E.O or anything else my brothers or cousins have made of themselves, so,” You shrug. “Disappointing.”

“Well that’s stupid,” Spencer says, a small curl to his lips, “You keep all of those stupid people safe by catching serial killers.”

“You’re a doctor. Did you just call yourself stupid?”

He shrugs, mimicking your earlier action. “I’m not that kind of doctor.”

You look down to hide the smile on your face but he ducks down, catching it anyway.

“Hey,” He says, eyes catching yours, “If you want to talk, you know where to find me.”

You (hesitantly) look up to meet his gaze. “Thanks, Reid.”

His face does something weird. Contorts at the words, just for a second. Like he just bit into something sour.

And then it’s gone.

“Of course.”

—

For the rest of the case, everytime your phone rings, Spencer looks at you. You’re getting close to just throwing the damn thing off a roof, if it’ll convince him to stop looking at you like that. You don’t know what to do with it. The look he gives you tastes like worry, and you don’t know what to do about Spencer Reid worrying about you.

You never meet his gaze. You know he’s looking, but you never look back.

Finally, the case comes to an end. Actually, it goes out in a literal blaze of glory— the unsub lights his kill shed on fire.

All of it would have burned to ash if you hadn’t run into the structure and and snatched the murder weapon and the most damning pieces of evidence: the printed photographs the unsub took with the victims.

It’s a win because you saved the evidence.

It’s a loss because Hotch looks pissed while the paramedics check you over.

Well. You assume he looks pissed. You’re staring resolutely at your shoes.

Finally, the paramedic gives you the all clear —just some minor burns here and there, you got lucky— and you no longer have a human buffer and excuse to avoid talking.

The silence stretches out between you two. Eventually, you cave.

“Hotch, I’m sorry—“

He holds a hand up and you clamp your jaw shut.

“Did you not hear me give the order to stay back?”

“I just thought—“

“We are a team, agent. I need to be able to trust not only that you’re going to follow my orders but be able to work together with the team. Now, you’re not doing either of those things.”

You frown. “I do follow your orders.”

He sighs. “You didn’t today. And more importantly, you’re not acting like a member of this team. You don’t call for backup. You don’t ask for help. You do good profiling work, agent. But if you can’t work with this team then we might need to reconsider your position here.”

That… doesn’t make any sense.

Hotch catches the confusion on your face. “Something wrong, agent?”

“I just— I was under the impression that I would only be working with the team for a few more weeks…?”

Now it’s his turn to look confused. “You may have been hired at an inopportune time, and until the first year is over it is a probationary basis, but pending review, you are and always have been a permanent member of this unit.”

You blink. “Oh.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “You didn’t think you’d be staying for long.”

You shake your head, your world turned on its head.

He hums. “You should buy earplugs. Rossi snores.”

You drop your head into your hands.

“And agent?”

You look up.

“You did good work today. You have a team. Learn to use them.”

He walks away, leaving you to process this crisis-inducing information.

So. You’re not leaving the team. You’re a profiler. Forever. This is your job now.

So does that mean you weren’t replacing Spencer? So why were you hired? Anything you can do multiple people on the team can do better. Why would Hotch pick you?

You stare at the pavement, which gives you a perfect view to watch Spencer’s shoes walk into view and hear him settle next to you.

“You’re a little young to be having a mid-life crisis.”

It takes you an embarrassingly long time to respond, partly because you’re not sure what to say, but also, the length of his thigh is pressed against yours and it’s hard to think when he’s emanating warmth and you can’t stop yourself from thinking about how it would feel to touch, skin to skin.

“Well,” You croak, “I did just get some pretty big news.”

He leans back on his hands, raising an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Looking up at him was a mistake. Bathed in the glow of the ambulance and the light from the moon, you can see just how long his eyelashes are, and how his lips move when he says your name.

Oh shit.

“Sorry, what?”

His face twitches in a smile. “I asked if you were okay. You were staring.”

You flush from your neck to the tips of your ears. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. I’m fine. I was just thinking.”

“About?”

See, he always does this. Most people would end the conversation there and move on. And that’s fine. It’s normal. But Spencer asks. Like he’s interested.

You shrug. “I thought… I thought I was leaving the team in a few weeks. Turns out i’m staying.”

He starts swinging his legs on the edge of the ambulance, though where his almost brush the ground, yours swing several inches above it. “Why did you think you were leaving?”

You laugh softly. “My boss told me the position was temporary. And in my excitement of getting it I may or may not have… not read the paperwork?”

He clicks his tongue. “Oh, honey.”

The tips of your ears burn. “I was excited!”

“To get a job staring at gruesome crime photos?”

“To help people.”

“What? Data analysis not helping people enough?”

“Do I even have to answer that?”

He snorts, his body shaking against yours. “You’re a consulting analyst. That’s the big leagues.”

Now it’s your turn to huff. “Is there a big leagues for data analysis?”

He leans his head down to look at you. “Well, maybe miss smarty-pants over here made a league of her own.”

The shade of red you turn must be visible, dark and bad lighting aside. “You have an IQ of 187. Can you really call me a smarty-pants?”

He tilts his head, giving you an assessing look. You recognize it. He gives case files the same look.

A faint shudder runs down the length of your spine at that precise, clinical gaze.

It should concern you, unnerve you.

It doesn’t.

“No, I’m positive. You’re a smarty-pants.”

You look away, unable to hold the intensity of his gaze.

“Hey, no. Come on, you gotta own up to being a smarty-pants. Otherwise you ruin the effect.”

“Am I supposed to start wearing sweaters and Converse, then?”

“Well, that wouldn’t be owning the smarty-pants look.”

“Do we have to keep the smarty-pants thing going?”

“Took your mind off the burns, didn’t it?”

You blink, realizing that you haven’t noticed the dull sting of the minor burns littering your body for a few minutes now.

But that has less to do with Spencer speaking and more to do with the fact that he’s here. Touching you. If you focus really hard, you can feel the chords of muscle lining his arm.

“Uh,” You stutter, momentarily flabbergasted by the way he’s looking at you. Like it’s important to him— you not being in pain. “Yeah, yeah, I guess. Well. I feel them now.”

“Oh, shame. I guess we’ll just have to keep talking.”

You furrow your brows. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Shouldn’t you be helping finish wrapping up the case?”

He shrugs. “I’m right where I want to be.”

That’s a decidedly very loaded statement that are not going to unpack.

You’re not going to unpack to jolt of pure electricity you feel from it, either.

—

You may or may not have lied about just how sick you were, exactly.

“You know,” Rossi says after you hack a cough into your elbow for what has to be the fiftieth time in as many minutes, “That’s starting to sound less like the plague and more like desperation.”

You sniff harshly, taking a swig of cough syrup and praying this isn’t the king with codeine in it. You didn’t read the label very well. “What do you mean?”

Prentiss raises an eyebrow. “He’s saying that most people on their veritable death/bed opt to sleep comfortably in their own beds in their own homes rather than on a plane to hunt down a violent killer.”

You think if your apartment— it’s cozy, at least, but still a glaring reminder of the reason you told Hotch you were fine to come in- loneliness.

You have heated blankets and warm lighting and books and tea —boxes and boxes of tea— and all manner of things that make you happy. But no amount of things can replace, tangible human connection.

You knew the ache of spending the day in your apartment would sting worse than the cold. Fever, Whatever you have.

“I’m thinking of a word,” JJ says, mock tapping her chin thoughtfully, “Starts with work, ends with holic.”

“I am not a workaholic,” you wheeze. “I am fine.”

“Yes,” Prentiss says, raising her other eyebrow. Oh no. Not the double eyebrow raise. “Because this is exactly what the picture of health looks like.”

To avoid answering, you take another swig of cough medicine.

“Just do you know,” Spencer says, “You’re about one tiny sip of that away from overdosing. I’d cool it on the cough syrup.”

“But I’m still coughing.”

“Have you given it any time to work?”

“It’s been thirty-ish minutes since I took the first dose.”

He levels you with a look at your usage of dose. “Why don’t you wait a little longer before committing suicide via shallow breathing and seizures.”

You wave a hand. “It’s fine. I know how to take care of myself when I’m sick.”

“Is your version of taking care of yourself just continuously taking medicine until the symptoms become bearable?”

“You’re un-bearable.” You snort at your play on words, but grow quiet because when you look up, the entire team is looking at you. “What?”

“You never joke.” JJ says.

“And I think I’ve heard you laugh exactly two times, and I’m pretty sure one of them was a sneeze.” Rossi says, a look of vague disbelief on his face.

You squirm in place. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Uh, yeah it is. You’re definitely too sick to be on a case if you’re laughing.”

“Come on, it was barely a chuckle—“

Spencer looks around. “Yeah, what’s the big deal? I’ve heard her laugh before.”

JJ and Prentiss snap their heads to him in tandem. “What?”

Now he looks vaguely uncomfortable. “I just don’t get why it’s such a big deal.”

“That’s cause you showed up late to the party,” Em- Prentiss says, “You didn’t meet her when she first came. She was all genius consulting data analyst.”

“I wouldn’t call myself a genius—“

“Yeah,” JJ chimes in, “I only ever saw her smile to be polite.”

“Wait,” Prentiss says, brows pinched, “You heard her laugh and you didn’t tell us? You knew we were trying to see who would make her break first.”

“You guys were trying to make me laugh? Is that what was happening all that time? I almost called Hotch like, thirty times because I was concerned for you guy’s mental wellbeing. I thought you’d had a nervous breakdown.”

JJ snorts. “Nope. Just tried to see if the rumors were true about all data analysts being robots.”

You cough into your elbow. “You guys make it seem like I was some sort of frigid bitch.”

“Frigid, yes. Bitch, no.”

“Hey!” You retort, then wince as the volume of your own voice makes your head pound harder and makes your throat sting worse, “I wasn’t that bad. Also, I was nervous! I’m the youngest person here by like, a long shot. I wanted to be professional.”

“I for one enjoyed it,” Rossi cuts in, “It was all blunt business. Straight to the point. No beating around the bush or gossiping. A few people here could learn a thing or two.”

“See?” You gesture. “Rossi agrees with me.”

Just about everyone on the plane gives you the exact same look. Hotch especially, who’s stayed silent during the entire exchange, looks troubled.

Once you land (an ordeal that normally doesn’t bother you, but today, had you worshipping the porcelain altar) Hotch pulls you aside.

“Agent,” He says before you climb into the car that’ll take you to the police precinct, “I can’t have an agent not at peak performance on this case.”

You frown. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you’re too sick to work this case—“

“No, no, I can work, I can do it—“

“—In the field. You’re working from the station until we wrap up. Understood?”

You sigh, knowing when you’re beat. “Understood.”

He gazes at you for a second. “You might want to call out of work entirely the next time you’re sick, you know. The less time you spend resting the longer it’ll take to get better. I expect to see you taking care of yourself at the precinct.”

You blink. “Are you… dad-ing me?”

He almost smiles. “Well, I am a father. It’s bound to come out sometimes.”

The joke soothes your concerns of him being upset with you (again.) You suppose it would’ve been warranted —Hotch never gets upset without a reason— but still. He’s the only one you occasionally struggle to read.

The good news is by the time you make it to the station, your medicine has kicked in.

The bad news is when you get to the station your medicine has kicked in.

“Spencer,” You say, spinning in a spinny chair and staring at his blurry face. “Did you know that elephants have prehensile—“

“Do not finish that sentence.” He says, glancing back at the team, all in various stages of concern, disgust, amusement, and annoyance. “Did you take non-drowsy cough medicine?”

“Yes! I didn’t want to be tired.”

He scrubs a tired hand down his face, then nudges a sealed water bottle across the table to you. “Drink that.”

You wrinkle your nose. “But my throat hurts.”

“Drink it anyway.”

You snatch the water bottle, grumbling the whole time as you crack the seal and gulp down the water, not realizing how thirsty you were until this very second.

You lean your forehead on the table head still pounding from the pressure in your sinuses. You feel a prickle in the back of your neck, signifying that the team is still staring at you.

With great effort, you lift your head, tilting your chin up and trying to summon all the self confidence you don’t actually have.

“I am making a fool of myself. Please disregard my actions until I am no longer ill. This won’t happen again.”

Words are hard. Speaking is hard. With a groan, you drop your head back on your arm.

“Ah, there she is.”

“Knew that laugh had to be a fluke.”

“Cold medicine must be working.”

There are other mutterings about stubborn geniuses and workaholics and data analysis and Spencer staying at the station and—

You snap your head up. “I’m fine. I don’t need a baby-sitter. Spencer would be most useful in the field. He’s one of the best shot’s on the team.”

“And when it comes to needing a marksman I won’t hesitate to get him,” Hotch says, “But for now, I need my two geniuses to put their heads together to solve this case.”

Feeling cowed, you avoid Spencer’s gaze as the team files out of the room you’ve all set up in, instead grabbing a file from the center of the table. You really are being stupid. You should’ve stayed home, now you’re a liability, not to mention a walking biohazard. Fuck, why couldn’t you just think before you—

“I can hear you spiraling from over here.”

You lift your gaze, eyeing Spencer who hasn’t even put down the case file he’s reading.

You look back down. “I wasn’t spiraling.”

“You’re really going to lie to a profiler?”

“We’re both profilers.”

“Yeah, well, you have an obvious tell when you’re worrying about something.”

“I do not!”

You hear the quiet shuffling of papers.

A sigh leaves your lips, and you press the heels of your hands to your eyes. “I’m really sorry, Spe— Reid. I didn’t mean to drag you here with me.”

If he notices your slip up, he doesn’t give any indication of it.

“Who said anything about dragging?”

“I know you’re a germaphobe, and I’m a walking biohazard, and now you’re stuck here going over case files and, and I’m a liability right now—“

“Slow down,” He says, interrupting your slew of word vomit. His voice has dropped an octave, gaining a richer note. You should stop thinking about his voice. “I’m fine. You’re fine. The team is more worried than upset. You’re not the first person to come to work sick. And you won’t be the last.”

“They keep staring at me.”

“Because your current state and manner of behavior are disrupting their pre-conceived notions and set opinions of your character.”

You scrunch your nose. “Don’t get all clinical on me,”

You hear a small huff of laughter across the table. “I’ve come to work far worse than hopped up on cold medicine, believe me. Don’t worry about it. Just focus on working the case.”

Slowly, the itching under your skin settles, and you manage to swallow the lump in your throat. Eventually, you peel your hands away from your face and do what he says.

Hours pass by in a blur of text and you and Spencer occasionally either bouncing ideas off each other or making small breakthroughs. Spencer handles the relay of information because you can’t really go more than three full sentences without hacking up a lung. Seriously, what is cough syrup good for?

Sometime past midday, you start flagging. The words start blending and smushing together and your head gets harder and harder to hold up. You’re jolting yourself back awake every five minutes, forcing your body to just bear through the illness for the sake of productivity. You got yourself into this mess, you deal with the consequences.

You’re just… so tired. Maybe you’ll close your eyes, just for a few minutes. To get energy. And then you can get back to the case.

Just for a few minutes.

—

“She out?”

“Like a light. Powered through for a lot longer than I expected. But dextromethorphan gets us all in the end.”

A low whistle. “Poor kid. The ‘proving yourself to the team’ phase is rough.”

A hum. “I think it’s more than that.”

A beat passes.

“You got her?”

“Yeah,” Something soft and good smelling, like pine and coffee and something almost rich settles over your shoulders, “Yeah, I got her.”

—

When you wake, your neck is sore but you’re not cold, which is strange considering you remember falling asleep in a table.

Oh god you fell asleep on the table.

You jackrabbit up in place, knees knocking against the underside of the table. Hissing in pain, you tug the warm thing further around your shoulders which is—

Holy fucking shit it’s Spencer’s sweater.

Said man is nowhere to be found, and the conference/briefing room you’re in is dark. Not only did someone turn the lights off (you’re pretty sure you can guess who) but it’s dark outside. Meaning you didn’t just take a short nap.

You slept the entire day away.

Cold dread seeps into your shoulders. “Oh my god I’m so fired. Oh shit. Fuck, Hotch is going to be so pissed—“

The door opens and you stand, whirling around to face the doorway and then instantly regretting it when spots dance across your vision and your head swims.

You stumble, grabbing the edge of the chair for support and squinting at the figure in the doorway.

“Hotch?”

“Nope,” Spencer’s voice rings out in the room, “Guess again.”

You groan, sinking down into the chair. “Am I fired?”

He snorts. “Seeing as Hotch bet that you’d fall asleep before dark, I’d say no.”

“He bet against me?”

“Actually, everyone else thought you’d only last an hour. He bet for four.”

“How long did you bet for?”

He sets a mug in front of you, steaming tea wafting up and warming your face. “Three hours. You metabolize cough syrup better than I thought.”

You take the mug in your hands, warming your fingers but not actually taking a sip. “Mmm. Told you I’ve done this before.”

“I don’t think that’s the brag you think it is.”

You chuckle, which quickly turns into a cough.

“Drink your tea,” He commands softly from across the table, sleeves pushed up around his elbows and papers spread about him.

You dutifully take a sip, something restless growing calm in the back of your skull.

You eye is forearms, hoping the look-over you’re giving them is subtle. (It probably isn’t, but come on. A button down with the sleeves rolled up while you’re wearing his sweater is practically sinful.)

“Do you… want the lights turned back on? I’m awake now, so.”

He flips over a piece of paper, then scribbles something on a sticky note. “You were sleeping. And you have a headache. I can see just fine.”

“My headache isn’t that bad, really, I’m fi—“

He levels you with a look, and you sink a little lower in your chair. “Do you at least want your sweater back?”

“No. Keep it.”

“Careful, maybe I’ll just keep it forever,” You joke.

“I’d be fine with that.”

What. The. Fuck.

You stand, pushing out the chair with a loud screech. “I’m just gonna— bathroom,” You splutter, your face blazing and stomach doing a gymnastics routine, “I’m gonna use the bathroom. Bye.”

You’re screaming internally the entire way to the bathroom, and once you get there, open-mouthed silent screaming in the privacy of a stall.

Because. He said. He didn’t even look up. He just. And he. Maybe he—

No, no, no. You are not about to entertain that notion. Not again. He was just being nice. That’s all. That’s all.

Collecting yourself takes about five more minutes, and then you’re walking back to the conference/briefing room when you realize you never took the damn sweater off. He watched you scramble out of that room to the bathroom he has to know you weren’t using, with his sweater on.

This is the end for you, then. That’s it. It’s over.

You mentally slap yourself. Get it together. It’s fine. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

You re-enter the room marginally calmer than you left it. You slide into your seat, sip your tea (that he made you!) and keep working on the case.

You pretend you can’t see him smirking from across the table.

—

The case doesn’t last too long. The team catches the guy in the act of beating his next victim. Thankfully, you manage to save the poor woman before he finishes his plan, and with being caught red-handed, it’s fairly open and shut. Case closed. Which is great, because you really aren’t sure how many more nights you can suffer through trying to sleep in the hotel bed.

You have this thing, when you’re sick. You can’t sleep anywhere but the couch. Your couch. You figured (apparently foolishly) that it wouldn’t be too bad, since the crux of the issue is that you hate sleeping in your bed when you’re sick, but no. You’d spent every night of the case tossing and turning and coughing yourself out. Your lungs were tired. Your body was tired. You were tired.

Spencer raises an eyebrow at you when you board the jet. “You haven’t been near-overdosing on cough syrup again have you?”

“No,” You grouse, rubbing your face with your hand. “I’m like, not even sick anymore. I just didn’t sleep well.” For several nights in a row.

“Mmm,” He hums, non-committal.

You practically collapse into your usual seat on the jet, hunching in yourself and attempting to make yourself comfortable in the seat.

You blink your eyes open when you feel the seat jostle next to you. “Reid?”

He’s already pulling out a book. “What?”

“This isn’t your seat.”

“We don’t have assigned seats.”

“No, but you always sit over there.”

“And now I’m sitting here.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to decide if you want to argue him on the point or not. You decide against it, because arguing will draw attention to the fact that you’re sitting next to each other having this conversation at all.

You settle back into your seat. “Whatever. Hope you’re not a loud page-turner.”

“Is that even a thing?”

You shrug, eyes falling shut again.

After a few minutes, you shiver, unconsciously scooting closer to the warmth of the person next to you, your sleep-addled brain barely processing the fact that it’s Spencer you’re pressing your shoulder into.

He repositions next to you, shoulder jostling you. You grumble, dropping your head to his arm. Now much closer, your nose fills with the smooth, all encompassing smell that is Spencer.

The dull chatter that fills the plane, the warm body next to yours, and, despite your earlier complaints, the quiet, gentle page-turning lull you into an easy sleep.

—

“Are you drugging her or something? I’ve seen her sleep more this week than I have in her entire time on the team.”

“The only drugging she’s done was voluntary.”

“Her neck is going to be so sore when she wakes up.”

“Sore? Mine would be broken if I did that.”

“Ah, the joys of youth.”

A beat passes. Then another.

“She’s a bit young, don’t you think?”

“Emily don’t start—“

“Just saying, Spence. HR would get a kick out of this.”

“Not like it never happens. We’ve all walked into supply closet B at the wrong time.”

“This isn’t meaningless sex though.”

“…No.”

Silence.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

A deft hand re-adjusts your head to a more comfortable angle. “I will be.”

—

Landing jolts you into wakefulness and off Spencer’s shoulder. It’s not embarrassing. It’s not. It’s only weird if you make it weird.

When you’re all back at HQ, you pull Hotch aside.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

He nods. “In my office.”

You stalk up the stairs, aware of the eyes following your back. You step into the office, shutting the door behind you and pretending it doesn’t feel like sealing your doom.

He sits, gesturing for you to do so too, but you shake your head.

“I won’t be long. I just wanted to apologize.”

He blinks. “For?”

“I shouldn’t have come in. I was a liability, and it was unprofessional. Next time I’ll act with more discretion.”

Selfish, Your mother’s words echo in your head, your father’s words following suit: Try harder.

He laces his fingers together, resting him on his desk.

“Do you know why I chose you?”

“Because Reid was gone, and you needed a ge— someone smart.”

“Every member of my team is intelligent. That’s not why I chose you.”

He reaches down, opening a desk drawer and pulling out a newspaper clipping.

Your breath hitches when you read the words on it.

“Garcia found it,” He says, scanning the piece of paper. “‘Professor’s Assistant saves college class from school shooter’. You were sixteen.”

You look down at your shoes. “It was the scariest moment of my life. I didn’t— he came in, and I was behind the door getting paper, and he didn’t see me. He… I knew people would die if I didn’t do something. I tackled him. He shot me twice before I managed to kick the gun away. I almost bled out.”

He nods, putting the clipping down. “That’s who I chose. Not the genius. Not the consulting data analyst. Someone who wants to help people.”

He puts the clipping back in his drawer. “I’m not going to write you up for not having a healthy work-life balance. No one in this bureau does, and if they say they do, they’re lying.”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “Now I look stupid for asking to talk.”

“It’s not an imposition. You’re a member of my team. That makes your wellbeing when you’re on the job my responsibility.”

Unable to form a response to that, you manage to stutter out a thank you, and then flee from his office, collapsing into your chair at your desk with a sigh.

A mug is set in front of you. Different mug, same tea, same hand.

“I think you need to reevaluate your opinion of Hotch and what kind of person you think he is.”

You take the mug with a glare. “I was reasonably concerned.”

“You thought you were going to get written up for coming to work sick?”

“It was a logical conclusion to draw,” You pause, taking a sip of the tea, which is just as good as it was last time. Actually, it’s slightly sweeter, and it soothes your throat more. “And stop profiling me. What’d you put in this?”

“Stop being so easy to profile,” Spencer says, crossing his arms. “Honey. They didn’t have any at the station.”

It’s quiet for a few moments: him staring at you, you pretending he’s not staring and sipping your tea.

“You should go home.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re still sick. Don’t tell me you just can’t wait to write all this paperwork.”

“Maybe I am.”

“No you’re not,” He picks up your jacket from where it’s hanging off the side of your cubicle and plops it in your lap. “Go home. I’ll sick Hotch on you.”

You stand, shrugging your jacket on and pointing an accusing finger at him. “You’re a cruel man.”

“Mhm. Sure. Go home.”

You grumble all the way to the door, but quiet when you look back to see him watching you fondly. He gives you a little two finger wave, and with the sheer amount of heat that rushes to your cheeks, you have no choice but leave immediately.

Stupid genius co-workers.

—

The next week brings wellness and a lull in cases.

Unfortunately, that also means you don’t have an excuse to put off your paperwork any longer.

Spencer taps the top of it with a slender finger. “Did it get bigger since the last time I saw it?”

He’s hanging around your desk for… some reason. He came to drop off paperwork from your last case, and then stuck around for some unknown purpose.

“No,” You groan, setting your mug of coffee aside and grabbing the first paper off the stack. “Still the same pile I’m procrastinating on.”

“Good luck,” He huffs, finally turning and walking back to his own desk. It’s still in your eyeline, if you crane your neck a little.

You sigh, grabbing your earbuds from your desk, knowing you can’t put the paperwork off any longer. You’re pretty sure Records is going to start sending you death threats soon.

Making your way through the pile is slow going. It’s terrible. The only part of working with the BAU you hate is the paperwork. It’s tedious and never-ending and it always gives you a headache.

The only times you get up are to use the bathroom and get more coffee. JJ kindly tells you that you should probably leave your mug in the break room after your sixth or so trip. Spencer, somehow, appears in the room, and rattles off the symptoms of caffeine overdose.

You leave the mug there.

You continue working well after everyone else leaves. It gets dark, people go home, office lights go off, and while the pile has largely decreased in size, it’s still not finished.

You have to finish. Hotch had made an offhand comment about turning in your paperwork on time and now you have to finish it. To show him you’re not lazy.

You’ve only got a little bit of paperwork left when a hand taps you on your shoulder.

You yank your earbuds out, blinking blearily. “Wha?”

Spencer’s face swims into view. “Come on, time to go home.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you didn’t fall asleep and forget to go home. They do lock the doors at a certain point. Ask me how I know.”

Your brain is moving like sludge, and it takes you several minutes to process what he says. He continues standing in front of you, patiently waiting for you to respond.

“But… the paperwork.”

“Will be here tomorrow. Come on, up we go.”

You whine as he takes your hands, hauling you to your feet. You attempt to scrub the sleep out of your eyes while messily moving papers about so your desk doesn’t look like a copy machine threw up all over it.

He pushes your jacket into your hands and you shrug it on, grumbling all the way through the doors and out to the parking lot, Spencer in tow. He follows dutifully behind you, and everytime you look back at him to voice your complaints all he does is smile.

“It’s cold.”

“That does tend to happen in winter.”

When you get to your car, he reaches out, tugging on your wrist.

“Hey,” He says, looking down at you, eyes deep pools of some emotion you can’t identify, “Drive safe, okay? It’s icy.”

“My commute isn’t that bad. And I’m,” You break off with a huge yawn. “Not even that tired.”

“That doesn’t inspire much confidence, smarty-pants.”

“Oh, so we’re locked into the smarty-pants thing, huh?”

“Yep.” He says, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets and popping the P.

“Well then what am I supposed to call you? Robot-Reid?”

“How about Spencer?”

His words hang in the night air, mingling in the puffs of air from both of your mouths.

“…What rhymes with Spencer?”

“Sensor, denser, dispenser—“

“Dis-Spencer,” You say, smiling to yourself. “I like the sound of that one.”

“You know dis comes from—“

“The latin word dis, and the prefix is used to denote a reversal of absence of an action, expressing negation, or expressing completeness or intensification of an unpleasant or unattractive action.”

He chuckles, smiling down at his shoes. “That’s why you’re the smarty-pants.”

“Oh please. You know all of that and then some.”

He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not.”

You both stand in the cold of the parking lot, neither willing to leave yet.

Before you can think better of it, you dart forward, throwing your arms around Spencer’s neck and mumbling “Goodnight, Dis-Spencer.”

You step away quickly, awkwardly giving him a small wave before hurrying into your car and driving away.

Smooth.

—

The next case is… really rough.

Two spree killers, working as a team. A father and a son; the son was groomed into the lower position.

Not anything you haven’t seen before. Trained for. Studied.

No amount of studying could have prepared you for the cold grip of dread that gripped your throat like a vice when you finally confronted the unsubs, and heard eerily familiar words uttered from the father:

“You’re a good for nothing son! I wouldn’t have had to do this if you weren’t such a disappointment of a child! Why couldn’t you have just been more like your siblings?”

The son was killed before anyone could intervene.

Wrapping up the case left you shaken— you’d watched with hollow eyes as the boy’s body was zipped in a body bag.

A hand landing roughly on your shoulder shoves awareness back into your body and you flinch, hard, whirling around with your shoulders raised to meet the oncoming threat.

Only it’s not a threat. It’s Hotch. And he looks concerned.

You force your body to relax. “I’m sorry, I’ll go help question the rest of the family—“

“Are you okay?”

You blink. “What?”

“Are you alright?” He asks again.

“Yeah, I’m, I’m okay. It just… reminded me of something.”

Hotch purses his lips but doesn’t say anything. He looks he’s going to say something, but then decides against it.

“Help Reid get the last of the evidence. Once you two are finished head back to the station. We’ll meet you there.”

You nod, inwardly relieved about not having to deal with the family members. You might start actually crying.

You sidle up to Spencer who’s tagging blood splatters on the carpet. He wordlessly hands you a pair of gloves. He doesn’t ask. You don’t tell.

You work side by side for the better part of two hours, occasionally conversing with the local police or helping the crime scene investigators tag evidence.

If he knows what’s bothering you, he doesn’t say. You wouldn’t have an answer anyway. You’re far too gone in your own head.

You follow Spencer to the break room back at the station, watching him quietly make two mugs of tea. He presses one into your hands with a gentle command to let it cool for a few minutes. The mug is warm in your hands. Spencer is standing next to you, a mug of his own in his hands. Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

You chant this mantra in your head while you wait for the rest of the team to come back.

Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

Spencer doesn’t ask before sitting next to you on the jet. He just does. He hands you a book, then opens his own.

You don’t read a single page. He must know. Still, he says nothing, just presses a little closer to you when he sees your hands shaking.

The team gives the two of you space when you finally land. You stumble off the jet, trip backpack slung over your shoulder, legs wobbly and breath uneven.

You’re not sure why the case upset you this much. Your parents don’t upset you this much. They just— they make the same kind of comments, and so did that father, except now his son is dead because he killed him—

“Hey,” Hotch approaches you slowly, makes sure you can see him. You hate that he feels the need to do so. “Take tomorrow off. Stay home. Recuperate.”

“I’m fi—“

“We all have tough missions and I would do the same for any agent,” He says, clasping you gently on the shoulder. “Besides. We both know you haven’t been sleeping well.”

Your lips twitch. “Isn’t there a rule against profiling each other?”

“That rule is for all of you. Not me.”

He gives your shoulder one last squeeze before departing.

You manage to haul yourself into HQ and out to the parking lot, cursing as your cold fingers fumble with your keys. Frustrated tears begin to well in your eyes and you press the heels of your hands to your face, sucking in a shuddering breath and begging it all to just stop.

Someone gently pries your hands open, pulling your keys out of your clenched grip. Your shoulders shake as you heave, gasping for cold night air that burns on the way down.

A hand finds its way to the back of your head, pressing it forward into something warm and solid. Another arm wraps around your waist, keeping you close, while the hand on your head drifts down to your neck, squeezing and rubbing intermittently.

“I’m sorry,” You cry, rubbing your face and smearing your tears across your hands, “I don’t know why, it just—“

“You don’t need a reason,” Spencer says, spreading his hand out wide so it covers the entire nape of your neck, “Sometimes it all just gets to you.”

You nod into his chest, lowering your hands from his face to wrap around his torso, clutching it like a lifeline.

“I don’t want to go home tonight,” You whisper, ashamed. “I’ll dream of it. And them. And it’ll be cold and alone—“

“Come home with me,” He says, voice a little breathless while he holds you closer, “Come home with me.”

He says the last part a little desperate.

You sniff. “Okay.”

You hesitantly pull away from the hug, but not before Spencer’s hand moves from your neck to your face, his thumb brushing away the tear tracks on your face. He drops his head down, and you feel the gentlest brush of lips against the skin in between your eyebrows.

“Let’s go home.”

He tugs you along by the hand, helping you into his little old car, tucking your bags into the backseat. He lets the radio play softly while he drives, loud enough to quiet your thoughts a bit but not so loud as to overwhelm you.

He helps you out of the car when you arrive to the apartment building, carrying one of your bags up the stairs- you’d insisted on carrying the rest of your stuff.

He unlocks the apartment door, ushering you into the warmth and comfort that is Spencer’s home.

It’s exactly like you pictured, if not tidier. A bit more modern than you’d imagined. Books are everywhere of course, but so are knick-knacks and trinkets and other little bits of things that are so decidedly Spencer. There’s even a quilt on the couch.

He sets your bag down by the door. “The shower is down that hall to the left. Use whatever products you need to. Do you have any clothes to change into?”

You chew on the inside of your lip. “In my luggage, yeah, but they need to be washed.”

“I can put them in the wash while you shower. In the meantime, you can borrow something of mine.”

You shuffle in place. “I don’t wanna impose—“

“Please let me do this for you.”

The raw, rough edge to his tone makes you pause. You nod in acquiescence.

He takes your hand in his again, tugging you into his bedroom. With one hand, he opens drawers, handing you his smallest pair of sweatpants, and a large, worn, and incredibly soft Caltech sweatshirt.

“I’ll have to cuff these,” You mumble when he hands you the sweatpants, “My legs are half the length of yours.”

“You’ll make it work, I’m sure. Now shoo. I’ll have laundry and food finished when you get out of the shower.”

The bathroom, like the rest of the house, is clean and neat, and to your relief, houses more than just a five-in-one in the shower. Spencer actually owns multiple products for you to choose from and it hits you while you’re lathering the body wash you chose because of how good it smelled that you’re in Spencer’s shower, showering with his body wash, about to put on his clothes.

You’re going to smell like him. His clothes will smell like him. Everywhere in the apartment smells like him.

You decide to blame the near permanent flush on your cheeks on the heat from the shower.

When you exit the shower, fresh and drowning in Spencer’s clothes, he’s standing at his kitchen island, putting the final touches on two bowls of soup.

You almost tear up again. “You made me soup?”

“It’s widely regarded as a comfort food for people who are ill or otherwise sad, and is most commonly made in the wintertime.”

He gives you a little jazz hand, gesturing to the soup as if saying ta-da!

You really do tear up then.

He’s in front of you in an instant, hands poised to help. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Do you not like soup? I can make something else, or we can order in, or—“

You scrub at your face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “You’re just, you’re just really sweet.”

His face softens. “Oh, honey.”

He envelops you in the second hug of the night, except this time you’re crying in earnest now. Your crying about your parents, about the nights you went to bed hungry because your Dad told that you were smart, and to figure something out, but you were too young to work any of the kitchen appliances. You’re crying about your first best friend, who ditched you the second your brother asked her out. You’re crying about all the classes and friendships you missed out on while you were in the hospital with gunshot wounds. You’re crying about how your parents didn’t visit you once. Not even when you were in the ICU.

Spencer holds you through it all, a steady rock against the battering waves crashing in your head.

After a few minutes, you wear yourself out, quieting down to sniffling, your shoulders hitching.

He pulls back, studying your face. “Are you ready to eat some soup now?”

You nod, blinking the final tears out of your eyes. “I got snot on your shirt.”

“That’s why we invented washing machines.”

He keeps up a stream of idle chatter while you eat, explaining all the different major soups in the world and where they came from. It’s a balm against your weary mind, lulls you into peace and safety.

Or maybe that’s just the effect Spencer has on you.

When you finish your food, he takes your bowl, deposits it in the sink, and then takes your hand and leads you to his bedroom.

“I don’t have a guest room, so you can take the bed,” He says, voice soft. “There’s extra blankets in the closet next to the bathroom if you get cold.”

He turns to leave, but a stab of panic slices down your chest, and your hand is reaching out and grabbing his wrist before you can stop yourself.

He pauses, turning back around. “You want me to stay?”

You take your lip between your teeth. “I don’t want to be alone.”

He studies you in the dark of the room— clad in his clothes, face puffy from crying.

The muscles in his jaw work.

“I can’t do this platonically. If we do this—“

You surge up on your toes, grabbing his face and smashing your lips together so quickly your teeth clack.

He goes rigid, then kisses your right back, hands coming up to cup your face, squeeze your neck, smooth over your shoulders.

You pull away first, looking at him through your lashes with hazy eyes. “I can’t do this platonically either.”

He traces the planes of your face with his thumb. “You have no idea how long and how much I’ve wanted to have you right here, just like this.”

“Crying and sad?”

“Dressed in my clothes, in my apartment, in my bed.”

You pause. “You know, tonight, I can’t, I’m not going to have—“

“I’m not interested in sex with you tonight,” He says, reading your mind, “I just want to get that empty look in your eyes gone.”

“Just?”

“Well,” He says, tugging you down onto the bed with him, crawling under the covers and covering you both, “There are other things. A lot of other things, Like this,”

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“And this,”

He pulls you flush against him under the covers, tucking your head under his chin.

“But mostly this.”

He presses one last kiss to the crown of your head.

“Really?”

“Really.”

It’s quiet for a moment before his voice breaks the silence.

“After I got out, all I wanted was something soft and gentle. Having something, someone soft and lovely to hold was all I looked forward to. And then I came back and I met you, with your polite introductions and the way you care so deeply about so much and I knew. I knew who I wanted to hold.”

“Wow,” You breathe, “Yours sounds so poetic. Mine is much less so.”

“Mmm,” He hums, “And what might that be?”

You press your face against his chest and mumble so quietly you’re wondering if he can ever hear you:

“I just wanted you to choose me. I wanted to be someone’s first choice.”

He’s so quiet after that you think he must not have heard you.

You’re on the verge of sleep when you hear his whisper:

“There couldn’t be anyone else for me.”

જ⁀➴

#girlblogging #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #dr spencer reid #dr spencer reid x reader #soft dom spencer reid #soft spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fluff

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ritchiepage2001newaccount · 3 days ago

Text

Actually, before 7 Oct 2023, hundreds of thousands were in the streets (including half the army), demonstrating against the Israeli government, and in the wake of the attack, majority (56%) opposed annexation of Gaza, with only 33% in support.

Also, there have been street fights between soldiers, and right-wing Ultra-Orthodox men, because they were exempted from national service, despite being the main political force behind most conflicts.

And half opposed Invasion.

https://www.reuters.com/world/middle-east/israeli-poll-finds-49-support-holding-off-gaza-invasion-2023-10-27/

You're helping Hamas create an imaginary Israel, because their surrogates in social media told you to…

Also, the Gazan government (Hamas) gaslighting of their own populace is even more severe, than our own.

It's worth noting that American GI's committed war crimes in Europe during WWII, but they were a vanishing minority.

However TransOcean radio would've told you that they were representative.

Just like Nazis are a tiny minority of Ukrainian fighters, as they are a tiny minority of the Ukrainian populace (they don't even have enough support to gain a single seat in the parliament).

Yet RT (Russia Today), Sputnik and The Gray Zone (and others), would have you believe they are representative.

“He who knows only his own side of the case knows little of that. His reasons may be good, and no one may have been able to refute them. But if he is equally unable to refute the reasons on the opposite side, if he does not so much as know what they are, he has no ground for preferring either opinion." -John Stuart Mills

"Facts are stubborn things, so fuck your feelings." -John Adams

There was never a nation-state called Palestine.

Before 1948, the last time that Israel had a nation-state was the kingdom of Solomon.

And Palestine never had one.

The closest they got was a Roman province called Syria-Palestinia, which included the split kingdoms of Israel and Judea.

After WWI, most of the arable land was owned by absentee Ottoman landlords, who sold the land to Jews.

The fate of Palestinian tenant farmers was a bit of a mixed bag, as some were driven off said agricultural projects, while others remained and worked for the Jews, while still others refused to do so.

When the Jewish refugees started arriving in the British colony of Palestine after WWII, most thought they could coexist with the Arabs, but there were dark forces that could never allow that to happen.

During the war, most Arab leaders had sided with the Nazis.

In fact, when Syria invaded Iraq, they did so with an able-assist from the Luftwaffe.

After the war, the main escape for Nazi war criminals on the lam, was through Damascus and Beirut, to Cairo, to Algiers, and onto Latin America.

To make matters still worse, the British promised the same land to the Israelis AND Palestinians.

So, the region has always been chock full o'fascists, and I would no more side with Israeli fascists (Likkud), or Palestinian fascists (Hamas), than I would between Lebanese Falangists and Syrian Ba'athists.

To err is human, but to really screw things up, you need the British Crown.

There is no Palestine in the Quran. There was no Palestine in the area under Ottoman occupation.

There is no call for a state of Palestine or two State solution or peace in the Hamas charter. That is never mentioned. Peace is explicitly rejected.

The decades prior to 1948 were intermittent serious massacres of Jews living in Jewish cities, plus the constant threat of violent attacks by Arabs on Jewish refugees who were pretty much defenseless until they purchased weapons and formed militias.

It's possible to look up exactly how much Jewish families paid for land they PURCHASED from Arab Christians and from Arab Muslims. The mayors of several major cities in family clan leaders were quite positive about living with Jews, sharing improved wealth, sharing improved health, sharing the eradication of malaria and opening up new lands. What's the problem?

The hostile Muslims who dominate the news slaughtered the friendly Muslims for being too nice to Jews. They eliminated the political opposition that wanted a peaceful 2-state solution in the 1930s. That's not much different from how Islamists do politics in other countries, murdering the opposition.

Look at the succession of brilliant and competent Iraqi leaders before Saddam Hussein. Each current leader was killed off by the new leader. Look at what Iran did to leftists who helped the Iranian clergy seize power.

Egyptian leaders need to firmly suppress the risk of a coup, by radical islamists.

If you want to help Palestinians, here are some excellent resources:

Help the people of Gaza

https://crisisrelief.un.org/opt-crisis

Palestine Emergency Relief

UNRWA

https://www.unrwa.org/

The Palestine Red Crescent Society (PRCS)

Oxfam International

Doctors Without Borders

World Central Kitchen

let us take a moment and grieve for all the lives lost. so many thousand people have been murdered by the zionist entity in the last fifteen months. palestinians in gaza have lost too much, from friends and family to their homes and livelihood.

this ceasefire is not an end to our solidarity with gaza. we will all be here waiting and praying for palestine to be wholly liberated from the occupation and watch her people be happy and free.

in the meantime, please keep donating to palestinian fundraisers. it is essential to support families planning on rebuilding.

alaa is a mother of two young children. her fundraiser has been verified. i request you to help her by sharing and donating to her gofundme.

please donate here

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linddzz · 3 days ago

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PLEASE tell us more about Jayvik being unhealthy about each other, this needs to be talked about more for... scientific reasons (borderline toxic codependency my beloved)

They're honestly such a fun mix of being adorable silly little nerds who could have so many cute domestic scenes, but there is ALSO that Weird About Each Other vibe lurking over them like a sword of codependent damocles, and it's why I'm SO GLAD I waited to see how Season2 played out before I started writing fic with the intent to post it. Romantic, platonic, the shit they do for/because of each other is WILD no matter what flavor their love takes. You see BITS of it in Season one from Jayce when he ousts Heimerdinger, which is done entirely because Jayce believes the Hexcore can save Viktor from his terminal illness and Heimerdinger is in the way of that. Remember that before Viktor gets his prognosis, Jayce was the one proposing Hextech be shut down due to Jinx stealing a gemstone.

There's nothing that has happened to make Jayce less likely to be concerned about the possible danger of Hextech, and the moment where he asks for Hextech to be suspended shows that he's more likely to believe Heimerdinger's cautions. BUT...that goes out the window with no hesitation when he believes it could save Viktor.

And that's the main thread of their devotion to each other, the willingness to put each other before anyone and anything else, including each others wishes. Jayce is at first the most obvious one when he jumps right to breaking his promise to destroy the hexcore so he can save Viktor's life with it. Yeah, he didn't know that it killed Sky at this point, so the betrayal does not seem as dire to him as it would to Viktor at this point, BUT...considering everything else they do, I think knowing about Sky would maybe add like...thirty seconds to Jayce's decision making process. Shooting Viktor isn't just an act to save the world, though that does weigh on him. It's part of saving Viktor from himself, and only done because VIKTOR told him to. It, at first, seems like Jayce is the one with this more unhealthy devotion, where he's willing to put Viktor above everything else, including Viktor's wishes. Viktor is the one who leaves with the goal to pursue ways to actually help people, after all. He is, in that moment, able to put their dream over Jayce. BUT...this moment is Viktor's version of Jayce asking for hextech to be suspended. The snapping point for Jayce was the threat of Viktor dying, remember. (Also Viktor is ready to take Jayce back the SECOND Jayce shows back up. I would bet good money that a solid six-ish months of hearing NOTHING from Jayce spooked him right out of that assertion that their paths had fully diverged lmao) Then we get that phenomenal reveal that Viktor is knowingly dooming timelines, knowingly setting them on a path towards calamity and mutually assured destruction again and again, all with the goal of stopping himself from ending Jayce in a way that keeps their fates connected. Even if that means risking Jayce getting destroyed by him again and again when it doesn't work. And yaknow. Great story. EXCELLENT Literary Romance right there. Definitely not aspirational for real life in the slightest lmaooo

#arcane #jayvik #jayvik meta

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theminecraftbee · 3 hours ago

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Grian sits on the edge of a desert cliff, watching the sunrise. His knuckles are bloody. He's had this dream before, and he's lived this moment before. He's awfully tired of it, honestly. He's not even particularly sad anymore. It's hard to be particularly sad, this long after, this much more between them.

But his knuckles are bloody again. There's someone sitting next to him.

"Joel?" he says, baffled.

"Yeah, hi, really weird bloody dreamscape you've got. Literally and figuratively: bloody hell. Like, Scott, he's got this pretty cottage and all these flowers and the single most terrifying version of Jimmy that I've seen in my life. Which serves him right, since he's a bastard, and I told him that. Or, uh, Pearl. She's normal. She's got dogs and... shit, I don't know--"

"Why are you here?" Grian asks.

"Oh, right, I was tasked with asking you if you regret it," Joel says.

There's a long moment of silence. The wind blows.

"I mean. No?" Grian says.

"Right? That's what I said! Blumin' stupid question, that!" Joel says.

"Wait, you mentioned--are you asking everyone that?" Grian asks.

"Yeah! It was all, oh, you've got a car, you can travel, it'll be all poetic like. You've had a 'character arc'--like I'm some, some fake guy--and grown as a person, everyone else has to, would they do things differently now? And I said, man, that's stupid. That's really stupid. But the glowing purple eyes guys--"

"Wait wait wait wait, the who?" Grian interrupts.

"Sorry, do you not know the glowing purple eyes guys? Martyn was acting like you're all buddies or something. Then I punched him. Because it was funny," Joel says.

"No, I know the--they asked you to do this?" Grian says. He takes a moment to try to imagine it. He has some trouble. Joel and the Watchers don't really belong in the same place at the same time for so many reasons that Grian doesn't know where to begin.

"Apparently, I'm not being serious enough," Joel informs Grian. "I kinda get it, actually. Like, everyone but Cleo has been somewhere like..."

Joel looks out over the cliff. It is tall, and Grian knows he cannot see the ground from the top. He had been able to during the actual games, of course, but these aren't the actual games; these are the memories of what brought him to victory, made manifest.

"So I guess I kinda wondered, since you lot always seem so blumin' sad about it," Joel finishes.

"I'm not really," Grian says.

Joel raises an eyebrow.

"I mean, maybe once, but--nah. Not really."

"Cool. That's the last one then," Joel says. "Hear that, weird glowing eyes guys? You act like I'm all weird or whatever but none of them regret it either. Not a single one of them."

Grian looks over the cliff again himself.

"None of us?" he asks, very quietly indeed.

Joel sighs. "All of you asked that too. I'm getting back in the bloody car."

Grian doesn't watch Joel leave. He rubs the blood off his knuckles and watches the sky instead. When he's tired thinking in circles about how he didn't really expect that he would be telling the truth, just then, he starts trying to imagine the trouble Joel might be giving everyone else instead. It's much more fun to think about than the sand that's getting in his socks. He's never able to get sand out of anything, these days, and it leaves him always just a little bit uncomfortable. Oh well; the price of being in a desert. He wouldn't be anywhere else if he had the choice, though, grit in his socks or not.

#trafficblr #a bee fic #trafficfic #joel smallishbeans #grian #i... don't know this one went like three different directions #take it. it's sort of character analysis sort of just me being me.#I'M IN A FICLET MOOD I GUESS.

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alltheprompts · 12 hours ago

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Dp x DC prompt #13 (yay lucky number!)

What if Danny is introduced to the family not as a gremlin, but as his friend from community College and he is so freaking normal that it makes the entire family suspicious. The only reason Jason decided to bring him along is that he knows Danny seems too normal for their cohort and it will utterly freak out Bruce and Tim, confuse Grayson and set off Damian. Jason though, he knows Danny is only normal for the first few times of interaction, then he starts getting weird even by Bat Family standards.

Jason: Hey. I brought my friend from campus tonight.

Danny: Hi! Nice to meet you!

Bat family: *suspicious eyes* Nice to meet you.

Danny: I totally didn't believe Jason when he said he was one of 5 kids but he proved me wrong. Lol.

Bat family: How'd you meet Jason?

Danny: OH! He's been tutoring me in English class and I've been helping him with Calculus. We met at the library when I was trying but failing to type a paper and ended up irritating him with my groaning. He walked right over asked me to shut up and I apologized and said I was having difficulty *insert English homework here* and he had a look utter disgust and surprise and said "how the fuck are you having problems with that?"

Jason: I was disgusted. That was such an easy topic.

Danny: For you maybe! Anyways I said "Well if it's so fucking easy, explain it to me. And he did! With way better clarity then my professor. So I thanked him and asked what I could do in exchange for help. He then told to stay fucking quiet o he can work on his stuff. And we went on about our business. A week later we were both back in the library again and he was banging his head, so I went over and asked if he was okay and he yelled to leave him alone and he just as I was about to leave I noticed he was working on calculus and told Jim I could help if he wanted. He looked at me like I was insane.

Jason: I was cause you are. Most people don't ask to help after being yelled and cursed at.

Danny: But you had helped me on my english paper! I wanted to return the favor! This happened a few more times before it became normal to meet at the library and work together!

The batfamily is reeling at this strangely normal and meet cute type story and the fact that Jason was going to college and nobody knew somehow (Alfred knew).

After meeting Danny, they stalk him to see if he was acting normal or trying to mess with Jason or Jason manipulated someone normal to mess with them. The first while Danny seems perfectly normal and innocent but after a while they start getting a feeling of something off about Danny like he was both him and not. They also notice that Jason tends to stay calmer when he is around Danny. As they realize he is weird and they slowly figure it out, they actually get less anxious about Danny. As someone not quite normal or human in Danny's case was far more comforting for them then anyone of them managing to befriend an actual normal civilian with no apparent baggage or extreme homelife. A

#danny fenton #dpxdc #dp x dc #danny phantom #dc #dc x dp #dp #dp au #dp crossover #dead on main

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zero-up · 2 days ago

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"Shooters are still A thing. Therefore: no one shouldn't complain when someone kills A CEO. Because making rich people unrelated to the suffering of 6-year-olds is totally good because."

What was the point of killing that CEO? How will it improve the health care system? Doesn't it just make it harder to attack the corporation he was in charge of, which role likely just continue honest though nothing happened anyway? Even if the CEO was completely evil, what was the point? Was it just to make someone you don't like suffer? Did you even know the CEO before this incident?

Gosh, I hate the Luigi apology! Especially when they try to pull the "so we should just sit down and politely ask for rides?". My dude, what will violence accomplish? How will killing anyone illegally make anything better in any way shape or form? What is the process here? How does this work? What is the step 2? Because unless your goal is to literally overthrow the government, I'm not really seeing how killing people can help you accomplish your goals.

You want to know how peace can actually solve the issue? By voting! Your elected officials rely on votes in order to keep power. You're elected officials have to care about their voters, because if they don't: they lose power. And if you do not vote: you do not have power over your elected officials. Doing research and voting sound like work? Fine then, don't vote, I don't either for that very reason. But at least I'm not saying "ViOlEnCe Is ThE oNlY aNsWeR" when I can't even be bother to vote!

And everyone sympathizing for the CEO because they don't want to live in a society that normalizes violence. And trust me: you don't either. You don't want the average person to think it's justified to resort to violence for political reasons. Because long beliefs don't magically have A different effect on one's psychology than true beliefs, and the vast majority of people think they are good, and that people they don't like are guilty.

If you normalize good people killing the guilty, then you also normalize bad people killing the innocent. That's not a slippery slope fallacy, that's A logical consequence of most bad people think their good people.

I generally do not like or trust the cops. If there's no other reason to hate them: let it be for how they conduct interrogations. And I have many problems with the US legal system. But I recognize the benefit of the law is that it forces people to abide by a standard that maximizes the punishment of the guilty and minimizes the punishment of the innocent. We can definitely do way better, but the easiest way to do that is to improving the system we currently have, and trying to ignore it or circumvent it is way more likely to make things incredibly worse than they are to make it better.

And trust me, I could go on, I have at least one extra point I could make right now that's alluded to in a previous point. I actually have A Reddit post draft that I barely started a while ago that I should probably finish at some point. But right now I'm really just venting because this gets me angry every time I see it, and I'm kind of annoyed that someone I followed unironically unironically reposted this, I still they thought it was so obviously correct that they didn't need to worry about backlash. And honestly, the Luigi-simping is just an example of a greater problem where people unironically think political violence is justified without ever putting A single iota of thought into how that would actually work. They come to conclusions based entirely off of what feels right, and then they call others naive when they point out how absurd their conclusions are.

I just want people to critically examine the own beliefs more, or at least honestly listen to what others critiques of theirs more.

#because it's long people will say “I ain't reading that”#but if I kept it short then people would have more easily strong man to me.#so whatever #Luigi is A scumbag #Luigi did nothing right #political violence is ineffectual

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dcxdpdabbles · 13 hours ago

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Always the bridesmaid never the bride

I'm not going to lie. I forgot if this was a prompt or a response to something I posted since I got it back before Thanksgiving. But if it's the former then:

Danny says this to Bruce at Clark and Lois' wedding. He is convinced Bruce is in love- or in lust, at the least- with Clark because the wealthy man constantly popped up at their office for important "business" and "private exclusive" interviews.

Now, Danny won't lie and say he's a better journalist than Clark or Lois- those two are the top two of the Daily Planet. There is a reason almost all Superman stories are covered by them- but he's darn good himself. After retiring from protecting his town from Ghosts, he's only ever used his powers scarcely, but they have helped him with a few articles here or there.

His career as a reporting journalist was mainly made by his ability to stumble across trouble alone! Danny had won awards for his articles. He has been included in a city time capsule project.

Danny got the scoop on Jason Todd being alive story way before everyone else. After realizing the boy was in witness protection, he hadn't even exposed it without speaking to Mr.Wayne first. The man was nothing like the tabloids had one believe. Danny found him a severely intelligent man with a deep love for his family and city. He just distracted people with his razzle and dazzle, hiding his beautiful soul in plain sight.

It had been an eye-opening conversation. The duo made a deal to wait until Jason was safe to be announced; Danny waited three whole months before he was greenlighted to release his story. Jason Todd had officially "returned" from the dead with an exclusive interview with Danny Fenton.

Danny honored and protected his dignity by writing a story that made the public love the returned young man. He hated reporters who only dragged people's names through the mud because that wasn't real investigation; that was just accepting the latest gossip on the streets.

Bruce was so grateful that Danny hadn't put his son in danger that he even gave Danny a business card that went to his home office!

And yeah, okay, Clark had Bruce's personal cellphone, but Danny just couldn't understand why the billionaire was so hung up on Clark Kent. It wasn't like the guy was Superman!

And maybe he was overly happy to find out Clark and Lois were an item. Sure that someone as good as Bruce, for all his facade of being a party boy who never grew up, would never chase a taken man. Danny had been right, too, because Bruce Wayne appeared less and less around the Daily Plant office.

It was.....sad not to see him, but Danny was a very busy journalist. He was grateful that the distraction had finally taken the hint and scurried off somewhere. What irked him in the following year and a half of Clark and Lois dating was how often Perry signed the two to cover Gotham News.

Mostly at one of Bruce Wayne's extravagant parties! Yeah, it was sort of cool that most of Bruce's parties were charity events. He had checked the numbers himself, finding that Bruce's efforts were honest and working to better his city. How many billionaires actually kept their word when wanting to be a philanthropist?

Of course, Danny had to write a piece on it. The people needed to see the positive change Bruce was making. Sometimes, it felt like people forgot how much he gave to the city. The article went viral, and people on the other side of the world were praising the good man Bruce.

Perry had given Danny a raise for it.

Clark had ruined that significant mark on his record by placing a wrap present on his desk with a wide grin. Apparently, the two had gone on a yacht trip together without Lois or Bruce's significant other. Whoever that was. "Bruce wanted me to give you this as a thanks."

Ugh, the smug asshole was just rubbing it in Danny's face that he was still friends with his ex. The present had been a shitty ship in a bottle that Danny had placed beside his writing awards in his living room. You know it would be a waste to just throw it out.

Or let it get dusty. Or not stare at and wonder if Bruce knew he liked pirate movies, so the fact he had a model replica of Captain Jack Sparrow's Black Pearl made for Danny was really no big deal.

Then Bruce came by the office after buying out the Daily Planet, giving Clark a month's vacation paid due to some "family emergency."

Danny had been worried about Ma Kent and Pa Kent- the pair had visited the Daily Planet and were the nicest people to ever walk the planet- so like the well-mannered man his mother raised, he had gone to the farm with some of his Dad's famous fudge. Only to find the Kents unaware there was an emergency in the family until Danny reminded them.

He had been a journalist long enough to call bull on their meaningful glances. Danny knew that neither Bruce nor Clark would dare cheat on Lois. They were both too good for something as sleazy as that- and honestly, Lois would kill them- but that didn't stop Bruce from obviously still carrying around a torch for Clark.

Which meant he gave him unfairly favorable treatment in the workplace. Ugh! Perry didn't even seem to care, stating that Bruce had signed their paychecks, and as long as he wasn't forcing Clark into anything harassment-worthy, Danny just had to deal with his coworkers having friends in high places.

That meant they got away with different things. He just had to suck it up and accept it.

But now, Clark and Lois tied the knot. Bruce had to back off. He would never overstep a friend's relationship like this. Danny might have seen him sneak a few glances at the dancing couple- not that he was staring at Bruce Wayne! But the man was one of the hottest topics to write about, and he never knew when a good story would pop up.

It was rather sad, really. How Bruce forced himself to come to a celebration of the man he loved marrying and choosing someone else. Danny had dedicated a drink to his heartbreak- from clear across the room.

He wasn't on a personal cellphone number basis with Bruce Wayne, let's allow a "Drink your broken heart sorrow away with me" basis. And maybe Danny had a few too many. Perhaps he lost count after realizing it was an open bar because, surprise surprise, Bruce was footing the drink bill for all guests.

Danny doesn't remember what made him think he could cross the room to Bruce or why he found the courage to point a finger in his face before slurring, "Always the bridesmaid, never the bride, eh Brucie?"

He does remember those piecing blue eyes locking him in place, brow folding in concern as Bruce replied. "Mr. Fenton, are you alright?"

"Me? Oh yeah! Just enjoying the party." He throws his arm up, spilling some of the alcohol out of the cup. He doesn't mind since the DJ starts to play one of his favorite songs, and he just has to sway to the beat. "This is a fun party. Are you having fun? I'm having fun!"

"I think you've had a little too much," Bruce says, helping Danny to his feet. When did he fall? Oh, right, when he was dancing. He laughs again, curling up on Bruce's chest. He feels it shift with the vibrations of the other man's voice. It's rather nice. "Did you come alone? Is there someone I can call for you?"

"Can I tell you a secret, Brucie?" Danny mutters, leaning forward to whisper into the man's ear before he can respond. "I live alone. I have no one to take care of me. I can't even drive."

"I see. I can have my driver take you home then. Can I see your wallet? I want to read the address-"

Danny has a second to think Oh no before his stomach lurches, and vomit falls out of his mouth all over Bruce Wayne's fancy suit that probably costs more than his house. Danny's eyes water. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I don't usually drink, and I feel terrible, and I-"

"It's alright. " Bruce says, smile still perfectly kind, understanding, and slightly dizzy. Danny knows he's lying, though- his reporter eyes can see right through that facade. He's pissed that Danny threw up on him. Understandably.

He starts sobbing, apologizing even more, and pointing out how he knows Bruce is actually upset.

Bruce looks mildly surprised before throwing one of his arms over his shoulder and helping him out of the hotel ballroom. The reception had started hours ago, and despite it not being anywhere near over, no one would bat an eye at them leaving early.

They were walking down the hallway. Danny found himself leaning on a counter, laughing into his hands about a potted plant, while Bruce chatted up the lady at a computer. He told the pair that Bruce should rebound with a man instead of a woman if he wanted to get over Clark but was ignored by them.

Rude.

Then suddenly, Danny was being pressed into a soft mattress on his back while someone was taking off his shoes and losing his tie. When did he get home? How had he moved that quickly?

This didn't feel like his pillow. Danny has a special one. He can't sleep with it. He packs his pillow when he travels, even if it's just one night he plans to stay. Danny has used the same pillow for years now.

"I'm sorry, I can't get your special pillow, but I can give you lots of water." A man says, making Danny blink and open his eyes. His eyelids feel so heavy that it takes him a moment to stay open.

Above him, Bruce is carefully unbuttoning his suit jacket. The billionaire had removed his own coat, but the vomit-covered white shirt remains. Danny feels ashamed at the sight even as Bruce pulls his arms out of the jacket sleeves.

"Sorry," He whimpers. "About the vomit."

"It's alright. You needed to throw up. Do you feel better?"

Danny nods, closing his eyes and feeling a warm towel run along his face. He sighed as the sticky, gross feeling around his mouth was gone, and he sank further into the Not Right But Comfty pillow.

"Sleep well, Mr. Fenton," Bruce says, tucking the blankets around Danny once he finishes cleaning him up. Danny hums, already half gone, when he whispers.

"You're a good man. No matter what you present to the world. No matter if you believe you're not, I know you're good."

There is a moment of silence before Bruce replies. "I paid for the hotel room. It comes with a free breakfast, so when you're feeling up to it, come down for food tomorrow. Have a good night, Mr. Fenton."

"Stay?"

"I'm sorry. I never intended to stay; I just wanted to get you somewhere safe. Going home in your state would have been a bad idea."

Danny's words are nearly too slurried to be understood as he slowly slips away: "Always the bridesmaid, never the bride, Fenton. Bruce would never want you."

He wakes up with a killer hangover, confused about where the hell he is, and almost has a heart attack when he realizes he crumpled up the suit pants he rented. All that is so hard to process in thirty seconds that he nearly missed the written note on the nightstand.

Call me xxx-xxx-xxxx

XOXO

Bruce Wayne

What in the world happened at Clark's and Lois's wedding!?

#dcxdpdabbles #dcxdp crossover #Never the Bride #Part 1 #spirt halloween ship #Danny is a reporter at the Daily Planet #Develops a crush on a celeberity he interviewed #Bruce never paid attention to Clark's coworker #Until the wedding #Now he can't stop thinking about him #misunderstandings #Bruce and Clark were just doing JL stuff #TW: Blackout Drinking

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josephscoat · 2 days ago

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The Budgerigar Burglars

"A little birdie told me something..."

@professorcalculusstanaccount, thank you for doing the promotional/cover art of the story!! I would also like to thank them for bouncing ideas with me and subsequently proof/beta reading chapter 1 ― they’ve been very supportive and encouraging.

While I was unable to post on the actual dates I set up due to some personal reasons on my end, I will *hopefully* have it out sooner or later.

As a sort of teaser 2, here’s the first 101 words of The Budgerigar Burglars by @professorcalculusstanaccount and me, Jo :> !

Tintin was Bobbie’s most expensive drunken purchase.

He can’t remember much from the night he got the cockatiel, much less how he got his name― he just woke up with a pounding headache one morning, to a bird singing showtunes in his ear, in the dilapidated state of their (once shared) apartment.

Recalling past events, it was the night they’d finally settled for the divorce; his then wife was packing her belongings, planning to head off to who knows where and Bobbie was drinking enough spirits that could turn him into a spirit, if he kept at it for too long.

When the full thing does come out, I plan post it on to AO3 and post a link to the fic here on Tumblr.

For slightly more info on what the story and AU is about, click on to here to visit teaser 1 which is also the current pinned post of my blog!

#the adventures of tintin #tintin #snowy | milou #tintin et milou #the many misadventures of monsieur milou and cocka-tin #tmmommac au #the budgerigar burglars #dividers are by @inklore btw!!#kabado bente si ate gurl niyo guys #charot lang mas matatanda pa ang karamihan sa inyo kaysa sakin hahah...

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aerofbreath · 18 hours ago

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DP x DC Prompt

There are a few changes whenever it comes to being the Ghost King. None of which Danny has noticed.

Being the High King of the Infinite Realms almost makes you a god, so all of his subjects will really see him as such. Whenever they look at Danny, whether in his human form or as a ghost, they see him as something truly beautiful. It's almost like there's an alluring glow around him, leaving everyone almost breathless.

For some reason, he's in Gotham (There actually is a reason, but that's a post for another time) and he's been invited to a Startup Event so he can be able to find funding for the company he's started to make. Due to the rumors around him being a skilled engineer, Bruce had sent Jason in to help make investigations since he's learned that Danny lives right in the heart of Crime Alley.

Jason, now wanting to know everyone in his turf finally finds Danny and being as someone who's been dead and revived, he qualifies to be one of Danny's subjects. Only, Jason obviously doesn't know that.

So here Jason is, really trying to wrap his brain about why he thinks this man who looks like he hasn't slept in three weeks (actually, it's 3 and a half weeks thank you very much) is the most beautiful person he's ever seen. The way there's a subtle glow only visible to him. The way he smiled, albeit awkwardly.

Danny, on the other hand, is just confused as fuck. He sees Jason and goes, "Oh! Someone interested in maybe funding me! Here! Let me info dump on you about how it works!" and Jason is just like, "Uhuh yeah. You're pretty."

"What?"

"What?! I said your company is pretty."

"My company is pretty?"

"Pretty cool! I said your company is pretty cool. I- Uh- I have to go." Jason just leaves a blushing mess.

Bruce, in the batcave is just confused as to why his son is having a bisexual crisis in the middle of a mission. Dick is just laughing his head off watching his stone cold brick of a baby brother literally stumble and bumble like an idiot in front of a tired twink.

#dp x dc prompt #dp x dc #aeri writes #this is part of the fic im writing hehe #dead on main #probably #still debating on it #danny phantom #batman #batfam #dcu

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gangstalkerbarbie · 3 days ago

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yea the women are often written so shallowly that the only people with interesting shit going on available to project on for shipping purposes or blorbify are men, and fandom needs to blorbify things, its one of the ways young people learn to love themselves and each other in this day and age

and isn't that kind of fucked up, that fully half of people get to see a variety of people like themselves behaving in human ways, and fully half gets my little pony? not even the whole cast of my little pony, which represents just about the entire diversity of ways english media can imagine women being, but like one or two of them per franchise and they almost always inherently feel kind of plastic?

agatha all along is stupid and the song is goofy all right its Bad its just not good (i think it exceeds most marvel tho) but lesbians freaked it watching this show because holy shit finally something about a woman's life among women... only for a teenage boy to be the surprise deus ex machina heroguy anyway, who is obviously both necessary and a great idea, ha ha, yeah

if the female characters in things were like actually people more people would ship straight ships, because there would be a reason to do that other than the fact that he in canon has sex with her a few times. and if female characters were actually people there would be a lot more yuri too, this is the world we all wanna be living in

"fandom obsesses over two men even when their relationship is underdeveloped compared to either of them with a woman, and will often completely ignore or demonize her-" 👍 so true

"-because theyre obsessed with homosexuality and think two men cant just be friends anymore" 👎 who gives a shit

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munsonsmixtapes · 2 days ago

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Take a Shot

shy!eddie x fem!reader

You work at the bar Eddie frequents all of your flirting always seems to go right over his head until one night, you're honest with him.

cw: hurt/comfort, mention of alcohol

The bar is hazy when Eddie and Robin enter it, a loud country song playing through the speakers. This isn’t either of their scene, but it’s right across the street from their apartment and tonight they could use a drink. But the real reason why Eddie wanted to be there is behind the bar, taking orders. Your bright smile shines from where he’s standing and he’s immediately hypnotized by you.

He doesn’t even like this place or its vibe, but you’re there so he’s going to suck it up. He’s been coming in every night for almost a month and has yet to make a move on you like he so badly wants to. He doesn’t know why you’re so intimidating, but you are. You’re just so pretty and those low cut tops you wear make his brain short circuit.

He’s actually going to ask you out tonight. That’s the whole reason why he brought Robin. He wanted Steve, but he’s sick so this will just have to do, he supposes. He’s seen you make small talk with Robin on more than one occasion so he’s hoping that this will work in his favor. He had Robin pull some tarot cards before the two of them left just to be sure.

“She’s going to say ‘yes’,” Robin tells him while giving his arm a nudge, pulling him out of his daze. He shakes his head and turns to her, not quite believing her hopeful smile. “I hope this makes you feel better coming from me since I play for an entirely different team, but you’re hot, okay?”

“I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” He wraps his arm around her shoulder and pressed a smacking kiss to her cheek that she’s immediately disgusted by.

“Good, because that actually made me feel a little sick so I will definitely never be saying that again.” She wipes her cheek on her shoulder before leading Eddie to the bar. They take seats on the stools and as soon as you come over to greet them, he freezes.

He’s never felt this way before and he’s honestly unsure why this is happening. Why he completely shuts down when you’re around. He can usually at least somewhat flirt with a woman, but with you, none of his sentences make sense and he ends up just floundering. That’s really the reason why he brought Robin along. He can’t even fucking order a drink when he looks into your pretty eyes.

“Hey handsome,” you wink at him and he still just stares at you, wondering how you always somehow look so beautiful in the weird bar lighting. “Jack and Coke?” You ask and all he can do is nod. You then turn to Robin who gives you a knowing look, the two of you able to communicate with just a look.

“And a Texas margarita for ya Rob?”

“Yes ma’am,” she nods.

You head to the other side of the bar to make their drinks and Eddie watches as if you’ve hypnotized him somehow. Robin looks at you then at him before shaking her head. He’s a lost cause at this point and she had no fucking clue how he’s going to ask you out when it seems like all of the words in the English language seem to float out of his brain when he’s around you.

She’s considering ordering a round of shots to give him some liquid courage because he clearly needs it. She’s honestly very close to just hiding out in the bathroom so he’ll have no choice but talk to you because Robin cannot take one more night of your very obvious flirting going over the man’s head. The whole thing is just painful to watch.

“One Jack and Coke,” you set the drink in front of Eddie. “And a Texas margarita.” The other drink is set in front of Robin and you stand there, hoping, waiting for something but Eddie’s not sure what. He just sips on his drink, the most oblivious man in the world.

“Y’all keeping that tab open?”

The awkward tension is palpable and you’re wondering if you maybe read it wrong and Eddie actually hates you despite what Robin told you. He never talks to you and when he does, it’s one word responses which just seems like he just doesn’t want to talk to you.

It’s a shame, really, because you think he’s cute and when you see him interact with Robin or Steve, he’s all jokes and laughs. Part of you wants to just come out and ask him, but you’re not even sure if he’ll give you a straight answer. It seems like he wants nothing to do with you and if so, that’s perfectly fine with you.

“Yep,” Robin nods, taking a sip of her drink before hopping off the stool. “Well, I’m gonna go to the restroom. Y’all feel free to talk amongst yourselves.” She winks at you before heading down the hallway where the bathrooms are located.

You almost want to call after her, but she’s gone before you can, leaving you alone with Eddie who seems very interested in fiddling with the straw wrapper that was left on the bar. You’re glad that you’re not stupid enough to actually believe her since Robin will stop at nothing to try to set you up with Eddie. This all just a scheme to get the two of you alone, well, as alone as you can be when you’re in a bar where other customers are present.

The awkward tension is palpable without Robin’s presence and you’re scrambling trying to find something, anything to say that would interest him. Not that he’ll respond because he never does no matter what he says. Just as you’re about to throw in the towel, and check on your other customers, he actually speaks up.

“You don’t have to do this anymore,” he says, almost like he’s unimpressed and now you’re worried that you blew it, that all of these weeks of flirting will have all been for nothing.

“Do what?” You ask even though there’s only one thing that he could be talking about. You just want to hear him say it. The verbal confirmation that he’s not interested so you can move on.

“This,” he motions between the two of you, referring to you then him, trying to show that he’s talking about the two of you. “You don’t have to keep flirting with me just to appease Robin.”

Now you’re really confused. You don’t know what he’s talking about. You were never flirting with him to appease Robin. Sure, she’s been trying to set the two of you up, but you’d never flirt with someone else just to make your friend happy. That’s just a waste of everyone’s time.

You let out a laugh, one that’s probably a little too loud and now Eddie’s cheeks have gone pink. You’re laughing and he’s even more embarrassed than he was before. He’s getting up to leave but you stop him before he can get too far, reaching across the bar to grab hold of his wrist.

His eyes widen at your touch and you quickly let go, worried that you’ve crossed a boundary. Before he can leave, though, you’re quick to grab a napkin and a marker, scribbling down your number before handing it to him, watching his eyebrows furrow as he looks down at the thing.

“I like you, okay? You’re sweet and smart and very easy on the eyes. Look, I know you’re a man of few words, but you should call me sometime. I’d love to know your thoughts on Lord of the Rings. I’ll be home by one so I’m expecting a call from you,” you wink then turn on your heel, heading to the other side of the bar to tend to the other customers.

Eddie stares at you for a split second then pays his tab before hurrying home so he can thoroughly plan out what he’s going to say when he calls you. He’s pretty sure that not seeing you will make him significantly less nervous. As soon as he gets to his room, he writes a script for himself so he won’t sound like an idiot.

When you get home that morning, sure enough, there’s a message on your answering machine, Eddie rambling on about how he’s read all the books and seen the movies more times than he can count. He then goes on to tell you the changes that were made in the movie that he liked and what he didn’t. The message has to be at least ten minutes long, but you listen to it three times as you snuggle up in your bed, preparing to give Eddie a call which will definitely only be the first of many.

#stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson fluff #shy!eddie

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saltinyourwound · 2 days ago

Text

let me (nam-gyu)

nam-gyu x gn!reader, 1.9k words, angst, fluff, smut

synopsis: you know your roommate, nam-gyu, has been struggling, and you offer him help him out in a… different way

warnings: smut!, illusions to drug abuse(nothing in detail), sub!nam-gyu, softdom!reader, handjob, really nothing too crazy, might be a little ooc nam-gyu

note: hi! this is weird for me because i haven’t posted my writing in years, but i wanted to share this because of the lack of squid game writing on here <3 i’m unsure whether i’ll post anything else, but i hope you enjoy nonetheless :)

—

sighing under the steaming hot water, you allowed your shoulders to relax for what seemed to be the first time all week. finally, it was friday, and your work week was over. finally, you had your break from your crappy 9-5 where you could feel your body rotting by the minute.

you wanted to quit, of course, but this job was the only thing keeping a roof over your head when you had to pay your share of the rent, and you knew surely your roommate wouldn’t be able to pay it by himself.

your roommate— nam-gyu— was not necessarily the ideal man to live with. you had your fair share of him stumbling into the apartment intoxicated, or him and his friends yelling obscenely at late hours. however, your past roommate had left without warning to move in with her boyfriend, and you were left scrambling.

thankfully, your friend se-mi, introduced you to nam-gyu, a man working at a club who had just been evicted from his last place for reasons he would never care to share. you had assumed it was something to do with the suspicious look in his eyes when he would come home in the middle of the night, sporting a chatty, boyish demeanor that clashed greatly with his typical standoffish and sarcastic personality. however, he never let you see what he actually took, murmuring something about it being “not anything someone like you should worry about”.

nam-gyu left you perplexed most of the time. of course, you were frustrated with him as a roommate, but there was times when you wished he would let you in as a friend. you knew nam-gyu wasn’t a bad guy. he kept his space clean and feed the stray cats outside of your apartment complex. he showed up at a moment’s notice when his friend called him after he was badly injured in a fight. however, he didn’t allow you to see when you knew he was struggling, even when you could hear his pained sobs he tried to muffle through the thin walls. you really had no basis to act on, but you knew that you wanted to support him.

with a groan, you turned off the running water and stepped out of the shower. tonight, there was nothing you could do about the pesky situation with your roommate, as you knew he had probably already left for his evening shift at the club. you wrapped a towel around your body and began your walk to your bedroom to get changed, but you gasped when you nearly bumped into another person.

“you scared the hell out of me!” you exclaimed, hand on your chest as you stared wide-eyed at the man in front of you.

“woah, shit, sorry. didn’t mean to scare you.” nam-gyu laughed, holding both of his hands up in surrender.

“what are you doing here, not at work?” you asked, shaking your head slightly to rid yourself of the shock in your lungs.

“ah, i got that one new guy to take my shift. i wasn’t in the mood to deal with shitty customers today.” he explained, stress evident in his tone. he rubbed his hands on his face before actually taking a second to look at you. when he realized your still damp body was only covered by a towel, his breath hitched in his throat, and he quickly adverted his gaze with pink ears.

“okay,” you paused with suspicion, eyeing nam-gyu in front of you. “just— are you going to have people over tonight? ‘cause i really don’t want to deal with so much noise.”

“nah, i won’t.” nam-gyu still wouldn’t meet your eyes.

“alright, cool. i’ll be in my room if you need me,” you replied, relieved, and made your way past him towards your room to get changed. nam-gyu froze in place as you walked past, squeezing his hands into fists at the smell of your body wash. he rubbed he face once again, before making a beeline towards his room, abandoning the soda he was about to grab in the fridge.

—

once changed into a comfortable loose tee and pair of sleep shorts, you collapsed into your bed, letting out a sigh. it didn’t take long, however, for you to reluctantly roll your body up due to the empty feeling in your stomach. you hadn’t eaten since your lunch break, but the idea of cooking made your shoulders sag down.

you figured your week was hard enough that you deserved take-out. you also figured that nam-gyu likely hadn’t eaten anything since you left your leftover lunch in the fridge yesterday— you had known he wouldn’t cook something himself and managed to cook too much once again anyways.

after allowing your feet to guide you down the unfamiliar track to nam-gyu’s bedroom, your hand froze in place hearing what sounded like.. your name? you held your breath at the sound, leaning closer to the door. it was, most definitely, your name being called— or really, more so whined, accompanied by soft gasps and erratic breathing.

was nam-gyu…crying? you remembered your thoughts earlier, and your heart felt pained at the idea. you considered your options. you could let nam-gyu struggle, possibly risking him doing something he would regret, or you could try and offer him help. or he could scream at you for intruding and never speak to you again.

you can’t keep allowing him to suffer alone, you reasoned with yourself and slowly turned the doorknob, but what you were meeting with was not a sobbing nam-gyu.

instead, the man lay on his bed with his eyes screwed shut and mouth slacked open, with one hand clutching his bedsheets and the other.. fisted around his cock at a nonforgiving pace. the very sight made you gasp, causing nam-gyu’s eyes to shoot open in your direction.

“holy shit!” he exclaimed, quickly pulling his blanket to cover himself.

you clapped your hands over your eyes, “fuck, i’m sorry!”

you heard nam-gyu swearing to himself quietly, and everything in you wanted to run back to your room in embarrassment, but something kept your feet planted to the ground. slowly, you peeled your hand from your eyes, looking at nam-gyu once more.

his entire body was flushed, and the shocked yet dazed in his eyes made your breath quicken. “i— why are you just standing there?!” he implored, eyes flicking over your face.

“you… were saying my name, right?” you ask breathlessly, and nam-gyu went rigid.

“what? no! no, no, no, of course not i was just—”

“you don’t have to lie.” you took a step closer.

“no, i— i wasn’t i swear. you’re my fucking roommate i wouldn’t—”o“really?” you cut him off again, analyzing his stressed expression. the furrowed eyebrows, sweaty skin, glossy eyes. “huh. i wish you were, though.”

“huh!? what do you— are you fucking with me?”

“no. i wish you were whimpering my name while you jack off.” your voice was uncharacteristically level, yet your heart was beating out of your chest. you couldn’t, however, let this opportunity pass. the idea of him wanting you excited you to no end, and it certainly helped that he looked so pretty like this.

“are you serious?” nam-gyu whispered, trying to detect if you were lying.

“of course. you don’t have to say yes but, i could.. help you out, if you wanted me to...”

all it took was a breathy “please..” for you to join nam-gyu on his bed. slowly, you eased his covers off of him, taking in the sight that transfixed you. his cock was pretty, with a flushed tip and a dribble of pre leaking out of it. what arosed you more, though, was his tear filled eyes and quivering lips.

“you’re entirely sure you want this?” you confirmed.

“yes, god, please. ‘want you more than anything.”

your thighs clenched together at his words. not taking your eyes off of his own, you wrapped your hand around the base of his length, and started to slowly move it up and down. nam-gyu let out a whine at the touch, his eyes casting to the ceiling.

your thumb swiped across his tip before continuing your movements. “doin’ so well, ‘gyu. keep looking at me, yeah?” you could sense how heavily your words effected nam-gyu with how much louder he became.

“‘s so good. fuck, you’re so good. ‘been thinking about this f’so long”

your eyes shot open in surprise. “really? how long, baby?”

“since i fucking meet you. fucking hell when i saw you, ah, in that towel i almost came right there”

your eyes rolled back at his words. he had always wanted you? while you were worried out of your mind about his well-being, he was undressing you in his mind? “fuck..” you murmured, feeling your own breath start to become rushed.

nam-gyu’s whines and groans turned into moans as you kept at your pace. you felt transfixed as your other hand traced his collarbone, feeling his erratic heartbeat in the center of his flushed chest. you knew that your heartbeat matched.

you could tell in the way his cock twitched and his body shook that nam-gyu was close. what made your breath hitch, though, was his own hand snaking up his chest to lace with your own, desperately. as if the touch was what he needed.

“shit, i’m—” nam-gyu came with a gasp, his chest heaving under your hands entwined, where he squeezed your hand with intensity.

“fuck, so good f’me..” you murmured, transfixed on the sight, your thumb rubbing circles on his hand with care.

nam-gyu opened his eyes with caution. “holy shit..” he breathed out, a pretty serene trace in his features that fought with the confusion he still had. “why did you—?”

you felt oddly struck with emotion. your hand tightened around his. “…i wanted to. i want to.. be here. with you. i’m— i’m sorry this is sappy at the wrong time but— i’ve been thinking about you for so long. please— let me be here..? you can use me however you want. even if it’s just a shitty handjob, i want to—”

“stop.” fear and embarrassment clogged up your chest. just as you we going to start apologizing, nam-gyu slowly brought your hand to his mouth, leaving a shaky kiss that left your skin sparkling in its wake. “i want you too. i’ve always wanted you. more than fucking sex. i—i’ve been scared as hell lately about everything but you.. you make me want to try.”

you felt speechless.

“i’m an asshole and you— you don’t deserve that. but,” nam-gyu had a pleading look in his eyes as he sat up, other hand cupping your warm cheek, “i want you. let me prove it.”

you couldn’t hold back yourself from letting the space between you close, groaning quietly as you felt his lips soft on yours. you felt his sincerity. you hadn’t before realized the care you held for nam-gyu had manifested into something so strong, but you felt a wash of relief as you let yourself bathe in the honesty that had bubbled out from between the two of you.

nam-gyu was first to pull away, and he looked at you with care and urgency in his eyes, “tomorrow i’ll take you out on a date. we— fuck— can figure everything out then, but right now i need more of you.”

“then take me.”

#nam-gyu #nam gyu x reader #squid game #squid game x reader #nam gyu x you #nam gyu imagine #squid game imagine #nam gyu smut #player 124 #player 124 x reader #squid game smut

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