#DNA clustering

[dnagenealogy]

Can a 6 cM connection be meaningful?

When it comes to small DNA segments, we’ve heard the “glass half empty” version of the story many times. Here’s the other side of that story.

Submitted for your consideration: A pair of third cousins twice removed and their 6 cM connection…

According to AncestryDNA, Bryan Smith and his cousin, K, share 6 cM of DNA across 1 segment. And according to Ancestry’s ThruLines, Bryan and Cousin K share a pair of third great grandparents, Reuben Willis Smith and his wife Mary Connell.

The cM value is certainly consistent with the identified relationship but did Bryan and Cousin K inherit their shared DNA from the Smith ancestry as shown? Is the 6 cM segment even valid or could it be an artifact of an imperfect DNA matching algorithm?

Let’s start with an easy evaluation: the shared match list.

Among Bryan and K’s list of shared matches at AncestryDNA:

HG, a descendant of Reuben and Mary’s son, Charles Thomas Smith (HG shares 57 cM with Bryan)

RR, a descendant of Reuben and Mary’s daughter, Fannie Janes Smith (RR shares 47 cM with Bryan and 38 cM with K)

IG, another descendant of Reuben and Mary’s son, Charles Thomas Smith (IG shares 47 cM with Bryan and 71 cM with K)

And at least three other descendants of Reuben and Mary are on the shared match list.

So we’re off to a promising start. In addition to the fact that Bryan and K share DNA and a paper trail leading to Ruben and Mary, this group of matches gives us more evidence suggesting that Bryan and K might be related as suspected.

But what about that 6 cM segment shared by Bryan and K? Is it valid? Did it come from the shared Smith ancestors or did it originate elsewhere?

To get the most comprehensive help in answering these questions, we turn to GEDmatch. As indicated in the ThruLine image above, both Bryan and his father are related to DNA Cousin K through their Smith line. And because K is on GEDmatch, we can see that Bryan and his father both share DNA with K on a specific portion of Chromosome 12:

Further investigation reveals that two other descendants of Reuben and Mary, Cousins I and G, share DNA with Bryan and his father on Chromosome 12 in roughly the same location. In fact, all of the matches in question match each other on Chromosome 12:

This is what we call a Triangulation Group. It brings the possible genetic connections into sharper focus.

The common segment shared by all of the members of this Triangulation Group indicates that they all share a common ancestor. And we’ve already identified shared ancestry through the Smith line. Cousins I and G are first cousins once removed and they are descendants of Reuben and Mary’s son Charles Thomas Smith...

A review of the pedigrees of the matches in question reveals no lines of shared ancestry other than the known shared Smith line. This investigation is summarized briefly in the table below, listing 2nd great grandparent surnames and shared ancestors (blue for paternal names and surnames, light red for maternal names and surnames):

Although we cannot say with perfect certainty that there is no additional common ancestry that conceivably could account for the shared segment of DNA on Chromosome 12, the known evidence doesn’t leave room for much doubt.

For completeness, here’s a chart summarizing the amount of DNA shared by the relatives in question:

And cluster analysis for Cousin G yields a cluster with eight descendants of Reuben Willis Smith, including Bryan Smith and Cousin K:

Not everyone will feel the need to go this far to investigate a 6 cM connection. But this post provides examples of ways to investigate the validity of an ordinary small segment and to determine whether the shared DNA legitimately belongs with the presumed paper trail source of the DNA.

Discussion

Skepticism regarding small segments of shared DNA is appropriate. In comparison to larger shared segments, such segments are more likely to be IBS (false).  Additionally, even when small segments can be shown to be reliable, we have to grapple with the fact that small segments can be too old to fall within the reach of reliable historical documentation. 

With the exponential growth of the DNA matching databases, the impetus to explore distant matches waned. Reluctance to do the strenuous work involved in using small segments grew. With access to strong genetic connections leading back to target ancestors, why bother with low cM connections?

The sentiment is understandable!

On the other hand, I believe that excessive skepticism has impeded progress in genetic genealogy.  As databases have grown, our opportunities for research have multiplied and our research techniques have improved. But at the same time, goalposts for small segment success have been moved to poorly-defined and very unreasonable points. 

[From the skeptics: Your success with a small segment doesn’t count if you find a larger segment in a relative! I don’t want to hear about triangulation! Visual phasing is not allowed!]

If we applied such arbitrary restrictions to all areas of genealogy, we’d struggle to get our work done!

Even with our luxuriously large DNA databases, distant genetic connections are the only connections available in some areas of investigation (or to people who hail from less heavily-tested populations). Defeatist refusal to accept low cM matches as evidence in genetic genealogy needlessly limits our potential. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m fully in favor of scholarly rigor. But let’s not allow skepticism to pave the way for denialism! 

When distant genetic connections are found to be of dubious quality, they should be set aside. But shared segments should not be judged on the basis of size alone. Even the most fervent opponents of small-segment research will admit that small segments are often valid (IBD). And while these opponents frequently cite IBD/IBS percentages, they ironically fail to see that our ability to find these percentages points directly to a practical method for sorting distant matches on an individual basis. 

We are privileged to have access to enormous databases of incredibly valuable genetic information. More than a statistical hiccup that can lead us serendipitously to more reliable information, small DNA segments are  messages we carry with us every day, testifying to our connections with our ancestors. Genetic information, even in small amounts, can be just as valuable as any other form of information. We should be good stewards of that information and we should invest good faith effort in understanding how our distant matches can inform us about our rich ancestral history. 

I’ll close with this analogy for small segments: 

You want some refreshing water but the glass is only half-full. Drink it or toss it out?

Posted with Bryan Smith’s permission. 17 May 2023

[tamarabeck]

More walking

[reiding-writing]

hi!! can you write more of the banter between enemy!reader and spencer but like now he goes beyond limits and like tells her the team would be better without her in their lives or something drastic and then she either goes missing or badly injured by the unsub??

404. /spencer reid/

if spencer is going to continue shutting down all of your ideas for leads in front of the team, then you’re going to track the unsub down yourself. you don’t need his approval anyway.

s1!spencer x enemy!reader 5.8k angst. series masterlist. main masterlist.

CW | typical criminal minds violence, spencer is a real twat, details of kidnapping and grievous bodily harm, catatonic trauma response. imagine this like halfway through season one.

The moment you step into the precinct, you feel it in your chest—a tightness, a heaviness. It’s not just the fatigue of being called in at 3 a.m. or the smell of stale coffee and desperation thick in the air. It’s the kind of tension that says we’ve been chasing ghosts and getting nowhere.

You glance across the briefing room. The local PD is gathered awkwardly along one wall, arms crossed, faces pinched with defensiveness. They’re not happy to have the FBI here. You don’t blame them—getting sidelined in your own case is a bitter pill to swallow. But this unsub isn’t playing fair.

“This is the third victim in two weeks,” the lead detective mutters, flipping through crime scene photos projected onto the wall. “Each time, the unsub leaves a note. Always handwritten. Always addressed to us. Sometimes directly to me.”

Morgan leans forward, eyes narrowing. “He’s taunting you,”

The detective scoffs. “He’s gloating. This one said, ‘You didn’t catch me last time. What makes you think you’ll get it right now?’”

“Classic narcissistic behavior,” Elle murmurs. “But there’s more to it,”

Hotch’s voice is calm but pointed. “He’s not just showing off. He’s testing you. He wants to see if he can outsmart us next.”

You shift in your seat, arms crossed, gaze flicking from photo to photo. The unsub’s pattern is clean, almost surgical. No evidence left behind, no usable prints, no DNA. Victims all abducted within ten miles of each other, murdered within 48 hours, left posed—like the unsub wanted the scene to say something.

Spencer sits to your right, scribbling notes in that tiny chicken scratch of his. You pretend not to notice the way he looks over at you when you suggest a geographic clustering theory.

“I think we should be focusing on the clusters—if the unsub’s circling familiar territory, it could give us a window into their comfort zone. Maybe even a home base,”

Spencer doesn’t even look up. “Or they’re using the local geography as a red herring. Throwing us off on purpose. Which is more likely with his intelligence level,”

You grit your teeth. “Or maybe you just don’t like when someone else has a theory first.”

There’s a flicker of tension across the table. JJ coughs awkwardly. Spencer finally glances over, his eyes sharp behind his curls.

“Just trying to eliminate bias,” he says flatly. “You might want to try that sometime.”

It starts small. A glance. A jab. You throw it back, and the fire spreads.

—

You and Spencer used to be good at this—banter, playful jabs, mutual intellectual sparring. It was light. It was fun. 9 months of almost playful hatred. And somewhere along the way, it stopped being any of those things.

You know why, you both do. But you’re still too stubborn to actually address it. So now, every briefing is a minefield.

“He’s organised,” you say, tapping a finger on the evidence board. “He’s probably keeping souvenirs. There’s no way he’s not revisiting these crime scenes in some capacity,”

Spencer rolls his eyes. “That’s a reach. He’s already getting his fix from the letters. Revisiting is more common in disorganised killers with obsessive traits. But, by all means, let’s base our strategy on assumptions,”

You round on him, the heat rising in your chest. “You always do this—cut people down because they didn’t quote a research paper in their suggestion. Not everything is from a journal article, Reid. Some of us work off instinct

He doesn’t blink. “That’s a shame.”

The room stills. You can feel everyone watching you now—JJ's uncomfortable glance, Morgan’s frown, Hotch’s silent disapproval. Elle shifts like she wants to step in, but thinks better of it.

You clench your jaw. “Just because your IQ is the highest in the room doesn’t mean your word is law,”

“And just because you talk louder doesn’t make you right,”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Gideon’s voice cuts through the tension like a blade. “We are not here to flex egos. We’re here to stop a killer.”

You force yourself to look away, biting down on every retort itching to escape. Spencer doesn’t say another word either, but you can see it in the way he tightens his grip on the pen—he’s not finished. Not even close.

—

By midday, the briefing is over and you’re elbow-deep in case files, staring at photos of victims and crime scene reports that blur together. You’re trying to hold onto the idea that this is about the work, not about him, but Spencer’s voice grates in your head like static.

“Victim number two was killed in a different manner,” you point out, “which might indicate a loss of control or a change in the unsub’s emotional state,”

Spencer scoffs from across the room. “Or it might indicate that your profiling is, yet again, based on faulty interpretation,”

You look up slowly. “You’ve got a real talent for being insufferable,”

He shrugs. “Just pointing out the facts,”

“You’re not pointing out anything. You’re just undermining me. Again.”

He walks closer now, arms crossed, eyes full of cold disdain. “Maybe if you weren’t so obsessed with being right, you’d actually be useful,”

Your jaw clenches so tight it hurts. “And maybe if you got over the sound of your own voice, we wouldn’t waste half our cases cleaning up your messes,”

Spencer steps in even closer, and now it’s personal. “You’re reckless. Impulsive. You go off instinct like it’s a badge of honour when really, it just makes you sloppy,”

You fire back without thinking. “You’re emotionally stunted and completely incapable of functioning outside a textbook,”

The words hang in the air like a punch.

Silence spreads. The local cops glance over from their desks. One of them murmurs, “Damn,”

Then Gideon slams his hand on the table.

“Enough,”

His voice is sharp, final. “Both of you. I don’t care how long this has been brewing—this is not the place. You’re acting like children, and you’re making this entire team look like amateurs,”

You glance down, throat burning. Spencer doesn’t say anything. He’s stone-faced, but you can tell from the twitch in his jaw that he’s stewing.

Gideon’s not finished. “I don’t want to hear another word out of either of you unless it pertains directly to the case. Are we clear?”

You nod. Spencer doesn’t move.

“Are we clear?” Gideon repeats.

“Yes, sir,” Spencer mutters.

You don’t trust yourself to speak.

As you start gathering your files, Spencer’s voice cuts through the tension one more time—this time quieter, but not quiet enough.

“You know, we probably would’ve caught him already if you weren’t dragging us down.”

The words hit like a slap. You freeze.

The room goes dead silent.

Spencer looks away like he didn’t just say it. Like it didn’t just split something open.

You don’t respond. Not with words.

You finish collecting your files, slam the folder shut, and walk out of the room without a glance back.

—

You don’t say a word as you walk out of the precinct. You don’t slam the door or stomp your feet—there’s no drama, no outward explosion. Just a quiet, ice-cold silence that coats you like armour.

Let them think whatever they want. Let him think he won.

You move with purpose, jaw tight, eyes fixed ahead. You’re done trying to reason with people who have no interest in listening—especially a certain genius with a superiority complex. You tried to play by the rules, work within the team, but apparently the team doesn't think you have anything worthwhile to offer.

Fine. You’ll do it on your own.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket—JJ, probably, or Hotch, maybe even Gideon trying to pull you back into line. You ignore it. Instead, you pull out your notes, flipping through the photographs you took earlier, the ones the team waved off as nothing—redundant, too similar to previous kills, “unremarkable,” Spencer had called them.

But they weren’t. Not to you.

The unsub had made a mistake. A small one, but a mistake nonetheless.

In victim three’s crime scene photo, the position of the body had been ever so slightly rotated compared to the first two—enough that most wouldn’t care, wouldn’t notice. But the shadows were wrong. There was too much light coming in through a window that didn’t face the same direction as the other houses in the neighborhood. And the blood pattern—it had streaked upward at an angle.

Someone had moved the body. After the kill.

You’d mentioned it in passing. Spencer had dismissed it as “grasping at straws.”

Well, straws were all you needed.

—

You hole up in a dingy motel room a few blocks from the latest crime scene, spreading every case file and crime scene photo across the bed like a map to something only you could see. Your eyes flicker between documents, stringing together tiny inconsistencies—the make and model of the air conditioner in victim four’s apartment, the mismatched doorknob in victim one’s home, the off-center towel rack in number five’s bathroom.

The unsub didn’t just kill these people. He replaced things. Adjusted details.

Controlled them, even after death.

You flip back through the files, heart hammering now, and scan the addresses again. You map them out on the motel’s bedside notepad, drawing circles, checking distances between the apartments and the kill sights. Mixing and matching scenes chronologically or otherwise. And then you stumble on it.

A perfect crescent, not random but intentional. All ten locations arced around a center point—a forgotten stretch of suburbia with an abandoned cul-de-sac, a place zoned for housing development ten years ago that never got off the ground.

It’s the only place the unsub hasn’t struck yet.

It’s also the only place that could tie them all together.

You glance at your phone again. The screen is blank. No new calls. No new messages. Not from the team. Not from Spencer.

And maybe that’s a good thing. You don’t need him to validate you. You don’t need anyone.

You grab your gear, shove your files into your bag, and drive.

—

The cul-de-sac is quiet.

Not in the way quiet neighborhoods usually are, but dead quiet. No birdsong. No dogs barking. Just a biting, eerie stillness that settles in your bones the moment you step out of the car.

The houses are in varying states of decay—some half-built and gutted, others with boarded windows and cracked sidewalks. You grip your flashlight tighter as you move through the overgrown path between two units.

You keep your gun low, your ears straining for sound.

The data you gathered had pointed you to the house on the far end—the only one with signs of recent activity. The windows had been cleaned. The door, repainted.

You creep up the porch, careful not to make a sound. Your breath clouds in front of you, and the air feels colder here somehow. Heavier.

You reach for the doorknob. It turns easily.

Unlocked.

That should’ve been your first red flag.

The interior is dark, but not untouched. A table in the front room is neatly set for two. Plates. Silverware. A bottle of wine. It looks more like a dinner party than a murder scene.

You sweep the room, clearing corners, keeping your steps light. Nothing jumps out at you, but your gut won’t stop twisting.

Then you notice it.

On the wall.

A photo.

Your heart stops.

It’s you.

Snapped from the side, no more than a few hours old. Shot through the window of your hotel room, small map of the city in hand. The image is taped to the wall with surgical precision. Below it, a tiny note, one you have to walk right up to to read.

Congratulations.

You barely have time to react.

There’s a sharp sting in your neck.

You reach up instinctively, but your fingers are already clumsy. You turn, try to raise your gun—but the world tilts violently.

A face emerges from the shadows. Smiling. Calm.

“You should be more aware of your surroundings,” he says, almost apologetically.

And then everything goes black.

—

You drift in and out of consciousness. Time becomes slippery—your mind fogged, your limbs numb. Every now and then you feel something cold against your skin, a tug at your wrists, the uncomfortable pinch of something sharp near your ankle.

When you finally come to fully, you’re tied to a chair.

Hands bound behind your back. Ankles strapped to the legs of the chair with zip ties. Your head throbs, and there’s a metallic taste in your mouth—blood, probably.

The room around you is dimly lit. It’s not the main house anymore. You’ve been moved.

It looks like a basement. Concrete floors, unfinished walls, a single exposed bulb hanging overhead.

There’s a table nearby, neatly arranged with tools—not weapons. Instruments. Brushes. Tweezers. Surgical gloves.

You inhale shakily. You’ve seen what hems done with them before.

“You’re awake,” a voice says behind you.

You flinch as he steps into view.

The man is unremarkable in every way. Tall-ish, average build. Brown hair, clean-shaven. The kind of face you’d pass on the street and forget within minutes.

“You came here thinking you’d be the hero,” he muses, walking around you like he’s inspecting art. “They all do. You think your badge makes you invincible.”

You don’t say anything. You’re still trying to conserve what little energy you have, mentally calculating your options.

He crouches in front of you, smiling. “You found me. That makes you smart. Smarter than the rest of them, maybe.”

You meet his gaze, steel in your voice despite the pain. “They’ll come looking for me.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” he replies. “I’ll lead them right to you if I have to. Whether you’ll be salvageable though, is up for debate,”

He walks to the table, picking up a small silver scalpel, running a gloved finger down its edge.

“A portrait is a powerful thing. It’s like capturing a snapshot of a person’s soul. Of course no true portrait is taken without the proper preparations being put in place first.”

You don’t flinch. You don’t show fear.

You just stall.

“They’re going to kill you,” you say evenly. “The second they find out what you’ve done, you’re done.”

He tilts his head, amused. “Then I guess we better speed things along,”

—

The sun had long since set when the rest of the team finally packed up for the night. The precinct lights buzzed with the kind of fatigue only unsolved murders could generate. Tension still clung to every surface, like dust no one could wipe away.

You’d been gone for hours.

And no one noticed.

Gideon assumed you’d taken some space after the confrontation—he’d scolded you both sharply enough in front of the local cops to warrant that kind of retreat. Morgan figured you’d gone to cool off, maybe back to the motel, maybe to follow up on a lead solo out of spite. JJ worried but didn’t say anything, not wanting to stir the already tense dynamic. Elle even offered to call, but Hotch had waved it off.

“She’s probably just blowing off steam,” he said. “We’ll regroup in the morning.”

And Spencer?

Spencer hadn’t said a word. Not one. He’d returned to his paperwork, methodically scribbling notes, analysing patterns, and doing everything in his power to ignore the hollowness you’d left behind.

He told himself you were being petty. Immature. Childish, even. Storming off like a petulant child after a simple observation.

But by morning, the quiet had stretched too long.

The motel clerk confirmed you never came back last night. Your room key remained untouched. Your bed, still made. Your rental car, gone.

JJ’s face turned white. “She always checks in. Always.”

Morgan’s voice was sharper than usual. “She would’ve called if she was going somewhere. Even if she was pissed.”

Elle was already reaching for her phone, scanning through emergency numbers and local hospitals. “We need to start looking now.”

Hotch gave a tight nod, reaching for his radio. “She wouldn’t go dark this long, not in the middle of a case. Not without telling someone.”

Then Gideon walked in with a manila envelope in his hand, face grim. “We just received another message.”

Everyone stilled.

He handed it to Hotch, who opened it slowly, bracing himself. Inside was a note—typed, this time—and a single, polaroid photograph.

JJ read it aloud, voice catching:

“At least one of the FBI Agents you corralled to help was intelligent enough to track me down. Too bad they weren’t prepared for the aftermath.”

Hotch turned the photo toward the group.

You.

Bound, unconscious, head lolled to one side in what looked like a concrete room. Your face was bruised. Blood smeared your temple. Your hands were zip-tied behind you, your body slumped forward like a discarded puppet. The lighting was dim, shadows slashing across your figure like jagged teeth.

A basement. A storage room. Somewhere hidden, somewhere wrong.

JJ gasped.

Morgan swore under his breath.

Elle closed her eyes and muttered, “No…”

And Spencer—Spencer leaned forward slowly, brows knitting as he examined the image.

“We need Garcia to enhance it,” he murmured, already reaching for his phone. “Maybe we can track down the camera. Or a reflection. Or—”

“Well,” he added suddenly, voice clipped, “She obviously wasn’t that intelligent if she got caught,”

The words dropped like a stone in still water.

The entire room turned toward him.

“What did you just say?” Morgan snapped.

JJ’s mouth dropped open. “Spence—”

But it was Gideon who moved first, stepping forward, voice low and dangerous.

“Say that again,” he said, “and I will bench you for the rest of this case.”

Spencer blinked. “I didn’t—”

“No.” Gideon cut him off. “I don’t want excuses. I want action. You think you’re the smartest person in the room? Good. Prove it. Use your genius to get over yourself and find her.”

The silence that followed was heavier than anything anyone had felt since the case began.

Spencer stared down at the photo, jaw clenched.

And then, finally, he swallowed his pride and got to work.

—

He isolated the enhanced image on the screen of his tablet, pushing aside his guilt and anger like clutter on a desk.

Don’t think about what you said.

Don’t think about the way you looked when you walked out.

Don’t think about the fact that you might not be okay.

Focus. Analyse. That’s what he’s good at.

“Lighting first,” he said aloud, mostly to himself.

He zoomed in on the image, filtering the background. The bulb overhead was exposed, casting distinct shadows.

“That angle suggests a single overhead source,” he muttered. “No side lighting. Probably a basement. At least eight to ten feet deep underground.”

He paused, adjusting the contrast on the image. “There’s no natural light at all, which rules out windows. Walls are unfinished. Cinderblock. Mortar lines are tight… That’s not a pre-’80s build. It’s too clean,”

Morgan leaned in. “So what—newer construction?”

Spencer nodded. “Late 90s or early 2000s. This wasn’t improvised. It was planned. It’s structurally sound, like a finished or semi-finished basement that’s just… been stripped down,”

Elle pointed to the corner of the image. “What’s that? Right behind the chair,”

Spencer zoomed in again. “It looks like… rust. A drainage pipe, maybe. Industrial-grade. Not common in most basements unless there’s risk of flooding. That, combined with the cinderblock, suggests this could’ve been built in an area prone to high groundwater. Maybe even flood plains,”

JJ frowned. “We’re not near the coast,”

“No, but if you look at the housing map…” He switched to a digital layout of the neighbourhood. “This cul-de-sac was supposed to be part of a larger development. Half of it was never completed because the land didn’t pass inspection,”

Hotch narrowed his eyes. “He’s in one of those unfinished units,”

Gideon nodded once. “Then we start there. We canvass the entire development. We don’t stop until we find her.”

Spencer looked at the photo one last time. His throat was dry. His chest ached. He thought of what he’d said—we would’ve caught him if you weren’t dragging us down—and suddenly it sounded less like a petty jab and more like a curse.

He looked up at the team.

“I’m coming with you.”

Hotch nodded. “Good. You’re going to lead the search.”

—

The SUV was quiet on the way to the development site. No one played music. No one made jokes.

Spencer sat in the front seat, his fingers tapping a rapid rhythm against his knee. He was trying not to picture you in that chair. Trying not to imagine what the unsub had done in the hours since that photo was taken. But he couldn’t stop the images.

You, bloody and bound.

You, unconscious and alone.

You, thinking no one was coming.

He had no right to worry.

No right to be scared.

But he was.

The words echoed in his head.

“She obviously wasn’t that intelligent.”

He wanted to take it back. Shove it into his mouth and swallow it down until it never existed. But that’s not how words work. They cut, and they cling, and they stay.

When they arrived at the development, the team split up fast. Morgan and Elle took the north end. JJ stayed with local officers to coordinate grid sweeps. Hotch and Gideon led the way into the southern row—newer units, all empty.

Spencer broke off on his own.

He had a gut feeling. It didn’t feel smart. It didn’t feel strategic. But it felt right.

And for once, he let himself trust that instinct.

The fifth house in the row was quiet.

Too quiet.

The front door was slightly ajar. No visible signs of forced entry. No sound from inside.

The front door creaked open under Spencer’s hand. The house was stale with disuse—thick air and thin silence. He moved cautiously through the entryway, gun raised, heart a thunderous rhythm in his ears.

Every shadow stretched too long. Every corner felt wrong.

Footsteps pounded behind him seconds later—Morgan, Hotch, and Gideon falling in silently. Elle and JJ soon followed through the back, their weapons drawn, movements swift and precise.

Then—

A noise.

A soft creak.

Second floor.

Hotch motioned with two fingers, and the team surged upward.

They found him in one of the back bedrooms. The unsub.

He was standing in front of a half-boarded window, arms crossed, calm like he was waiting for them. No fear. Just smug, eerie satisfaction, the kind that made your skin crawl.

“You’re too late,” he said simply.

Morgan didn’t hesitate. “On the ground! Now!”

But the unsub didn’t comply. He moved fast—reaching for something under his coat.

Hotch fired first. A warning shot into the drywall, forcing the man to freeze mid-movement. Morgan lunged in, tackling him with a grunt. They struggled, fists swinging, feet skidding across the half-carpeted floor.

Spencer stood back, watching the scuffle like it was underwater. His fingers twitched against his sidearm, but he didn’t fire. Couldn’t. His eyes were already scanning—behind the man, past the empty bedframe, to the blood on the floor.

He wasn’t thinking about justice. He was thinking about you.

By the time Gideon and Morgan got the cuffs on the man, Spencer was already moving—down the stairs, through the hallway, toward the door at the far end of the house.

There was a lock on it. Heavy. Old.

Spencer kicked it once. Nothing.

Twice.

On the third kick, the door gave way.

The basement smelled like mold, metal, and something sharper—sweat, maybe. Or blood.

The light flickered overhead as he stepped inside.

And there you were.

Slumped in the same position as the photo, tied to a chair, your wrists bound so tightly they’d gone purple. There was blood at your temple. Bruises down your neck. A split lip. Dirt smeared your cheeks. Rips in your shirt.

But you were breathing.

Barely.

Alive.

He nearly collapsed with the force of the relief.

“Hey,” he said softly, kneeling in front of you. His voice cracked. “Hey. You need to be conscious right now,”

Your eyes fluttered, but didn’t open.

You didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Spencer's voice dropped lower, to fend with a failed attempt at lightheartedness. “You’re at a higher risk of permanent brain injury if you’re unconscious, and I doubt you need that on top of all of your other issues—”

His hands trembled as he reached for the zip ties, too afraid to touch you at first.

Morgan burst in behind him. “We need medics! Now!” he shouted up the stairs.

JJ’s voice echoed from above. “They’re already pulling up!”

Spencer carefully cut the ties, his fingers brushing your wrist. Your skin was cold. Too cold.

He looked at you again, eyes searching for any sign of recognition. A flicker of life. Of you.

Nothing.

When the medics finally came, they moved with military precision, lifting you from the chair, strapping you onto a stretcher. You didn’t resist. Didn’t flinch. You didn’t even blink.

“Low blood pressure. Likely concussion, threads pulse,” one of them said quickly, checking vitals.

They spoke in clipped medical shorthand as they wheeled you out. The words blurred in Spencer’s ears.

He didn’t follow.

Couldn’t.

He stood there, in that grimy basement, staring at the chair you’d been tied to. The blood smeared into the floor. The shredded zip ties left behind like bones.

He should’ve stopped you.

He should’ve known something was wrong last night.

He should’ve said something—anything—besides the venom he’d spat.

His hands curled into fists.

Upstairs, he could hear Morgan shouting at the unsub as he was dragged away.

“You think you’re clever? Huh? You think this makes you some kind of genius?”

The unsub just smiled. “She came to me.”

Spencer’s stomach turned.

—

Outside, the late morning sun was rising, casting long shadows over the front lawn as paramedics loaded you into the ambulance. JJ stood nearby, arms folded tightly, barely breathing.

Elle was silent, her eyes rimmed red.

Hotch was speaking with local police, organising statements and chain of custody. And Spencer stood off to the side, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, face unreadable.

He didn’t go to the ambulance.

Didn’t try to see you again.

He didn’t think he deserved to.

You were silent. Still unresponsive. Not out of stubbornness, not anger, but trauma. Something had shut off in you, and Spencer didn’t know how—or if—you’d be able to come back from that.

He hadn’t just pushed you away.

He’d left you alone long enough to almost die.

—

The hospital was a cold place. The sterile white walls seemed to hold no comfort, and the bright fluorescent lights buzzed incessantly, as if trying to shatter the fragile quiet of the room.

But the team couldn’t shake the relief.

You were alive. Not unscathed—far from it—but alive. The doctors assured them you would recover physically, though they hadn’t made any promises about the mental scars.

But there was a sense of something else in the air, something they couldn’t quite name yet.

Gideon paced outside your room, eyes shadowed by a tiredness that went deeper than just the case. Morgan leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his face taut with unsaid words.

Elle was in the hallway, sitting on a chair with her head in her hands, her phone still in her lap. She hadn’t spoken much since they left the house. JJ hovered near the nurses’ station, keeping herself busy with menial tasks, but her face was pale—gripped by some invisible weight.

And Hotch, though outwardly composed, carried the same heavy air of guilt.

But no one felt it as sharply as Spencer.

He was pacing in the hallway, arms stiff at his sides, a muscle in his jaw twitching with every breath. He hadn’t said a word to anyone since they���d arrived at the hospital, and though he’d checked in with the doctor, he hadn’t really listened.

Spencer’s mind was still replaying the look in your eyes when you were pulled from that basement—the emptiness, the unspoken words, the brokenness. And for the first time, he was painfully aware of the distance that had been wedged between you.

The anger, the insults, the barbed exchanges—it hadn’t been just his defence mechanism, and he hadn’t realised how much damage it had done until now.

But now you were silent, and Spencer could feel the full weight of what he’d done pressing down on him like a vice. You were the one who’d been hurt the most—physically—and still, it was his words that had broken you.

—

When he finally pushed open the door to your room, he wasn’t sure what he was expecting.

You were propped up in bed, the sterile white sheets bunched around your body. Your face was bruised—still swollen—but your eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. There was nothing there. No emotion. No spark. Just an emptiness that he didn’t know how to fill.

Spencer hesitated, his footsteps slow and deliberate as he crossed the room.

You didn’t move when he sat in the chair next to the bed. You didn’t acknowledge him at all. Your gaze remained fixed ahead, unfocused, distant.

For a moment, Spencer just watched you. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but the words didn’t come.

It was only when he spoke, his voice sharp and broken, that the silence shattered.

“What you did was reckless and idiotic,” he said, his tone colder than he intended. “You could’ve died. You left without backup, without even thinking about the risks.” He swallowed, forcing his words to keep coming. “You could’ve—you should’ve—asked for help.”

He paused, waiting for some kind of response. Something—anything—but there was nothing. You didn’t even blink. You just stared ahead, lost in the haze of your own mind.

Spencer’s fingers clenched into fists. “You think this is some kind of game? You think you’re invincible?”

Still nothing.

He leaned in slightly, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “Goddamn it, I’m trying to help. But you need to stop acting like you’re the only one who matters here. This isn’t just about you.”

Nothing.

The silence stretched on, a taut wire between the two of you, the gap between him and you feeling like an abyss. Spencer couldn’t stand it. His gaze dropped to the floor, a wave of shame crashing over him.

He didn’t understand it. He didn’t know how to fix it.

For the first time in his life, Spencer Reid felt like he was completely and utterly lost.

—

The team began to gather in the waiting room outside your room, and no one spoke. Even the air felt thick, like the stillness before a storm.

It was Elle who finally broke the silence. “I can’t…” she trailed off, her voice catching in her throat. “She… she won’t even look at us.”

Hotch, though normally composed, looked exhausted. His hands were folded in his lap, his eyes shadowed by the weight of the situation. “She’s been through hell, Elle. We can’t just… expect everything to go back to normal.”

Gideon looked up from his place near the door. “No, it’s not that simple,” he said quietly, voice low but unwavering. “But I’ve seen this before. Trauma like this… it changes you.” He paused, eyes flicking toward the door to your room. “She’s going to need time, and we’re going to need patience. But we also need to acknowledge what we did wrong,”

The room grew quieter, each member processing the truth in their own way.

Morgan, who had been pacing with his hands in his pockets, spoke up. “Spencer’s not handling this well. But none of us are.” His voice was strained, but it held a sense of certainty. “We didn’t see it. We didn’t see how bad it was getting for her.”

JJ closed her eyes briefly, guilt flooding her expression. “We should’ve known. We should’ve stepped in. The way she and Spencer were fighting—it was too much. We should’ve told them both to stop before it got to this point,”

“I’m just…” Elle’s voice wavered. “I’m just so angry at him. How could he say those things to her? He was the one who pushed her.” Her eyes were wide, a mix of disbelief and hurt. “He acted like he didn’t even care, like she didn’t matter

Hotch sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. “We all failed her in some way.” His eyes flicked to Gideon. “And now Spencer’s struggling to process the fact that it’s his words that have hurt her the most,”

Gideon nodded slowly. “There’s no way to fix it right away. But what matters now is how we move forward. For her. Not for us.”

[xesnox]

All currently active NeoBuilders.

Minecraft default skins in Ancient Ruins, reference picture at the end for comparison.

Don’t look too close at the faces, had to speedrun this so I could actually motivate myself to finish the entire lineup. Definitely not my best work. Clothing was a pain to figure out and I’ll definitely change some things in the future as I’m still not entirely happy with the general aesthetics of some sets. Zuri and Efe were the worst to figure out, their clothing styles were very modern in comparison to what I’m going for with Ancient Ruins so it took me a while.

But first of all, what is a NeoBuilder?

Lore entry Ahead, body horror warning, nothing too extreme I wouldn’t say, but the concept definitely isn’t the prettiest.

“NeoBuilder” describes a category of individuals that appear to be within the homo-genus (Artisan Family.).

The dissection of a deactivated individual showed (us) they are made of about 85% mechanical components, most of which consist of copper and iron. Organs however remain fully functional and can be traced back to Ancient Artisans in origin through DNA sampling. Blood vessels aswell as a large portion of their flesh has been replaced by machinery, activated regulated and moved through restricted soul energy coursing through their veins as blood would on a fully biological human.

The change of energy source makes them effectively immune to the green plague, which is transmitted through blood. In place of a heart they have a still unnamed chamber (Ch1), acting akin to a cockpit housing a freshly created soul, which is replaced by converting experience farmed in the previous lifecycle to the next, taking the raw energy and morphing it into a new soul. As souls are neither human nor animal but simply an energy cluster made of (if found post mortum) memories and life experience this can easily (and understandably) be transferred, even if the origin of the experience in question happens to be non-sentient. The experience is collected and stored within yet another unnamed organ replacing their left kidney (Ch2).

But do not be fooled, this process by no means makes them immortal. If the body is in critical shape it will resort to exporting the active soul and using the remaining soul energy still running through the machinery to activate the emergency program. In this state the body will do nothing but return to whatever point the machine has clocked as “safe” (this kind of reset happens when the person is resting for an extended period of time, as it marks said area as safe enough to stay vulnerable within.) and fix its injuries back to base point, excluding the bio-matter, as there no longer is any such material around. Through the expelling of the last soul, and slow process of developing a new one, the machine will power down there until the next energy burst. This means that even though the body itself remains alive, every life cycle houses a different person. If you see the same NeoBuilder twice it is therefore not guaranteed it will come with the same intention, as it might be a completely different soul speaking through the same form.

If the damage is too bad however, the NeoBuilder will shut down and cannot be reactivated unless one with actual knowledge of how to do so were to interfere. The how has been lost to history however, we blame the creature of despair and decay that shall not be named. It is different from deactivation, as it renders the body permanently dead. Many NeoBuilders have deactivated, we assume only 9 of the previous 30 remain.

We have no idea as to why these manmade humanoids were created, as the why has also been buried and lost to years of untouched unaddressed missing history.

Infact, their names are quite new, till about half a century ago, due to my own research if I may pat myself on the back, we had assumed them to be a strange strain of plague infested ancients, as they’d always remained distant to us and a dead specimen was a more than rare find. It is not a fully worked out name whatsoever, the “Builder” merely connecting them to the Artisan family, and the word “Neo”- as in “New” replacing the word “Ancient” we’ve been using to describe the other half of the family thus far, it is a placeholder by all means, but so is the latter.

Their nature would definitively make them more akin to bio-mechanical golems, however we chose to group them into the artisan family for the previously mentioned bio material, which matched identical to that of the mummified remains cave divers had found a few years back lodged between long forgotten pathways shut to time. Wasn’t a pretty sight when they showed me. One would think after a good few millennia they’d be nothing but a pile of ash and bones, but low oxygen levels within the closed off cave system made for some awfully good preservation, not pretty I dare say, I’m just glad nothing snapped at me during inspection as, perhaps in this case thankfully, the undead plague only infects the living; anything that doesn’t breathe and lacks running blood cannot fall victim to such a thing. But personal tangent aside, some interesting notes here:

- Despite the soul of the Neobuilder swapping with each lifecycle they generally keep the same base morals of the previous host.

- it seems Mother Earth isn’t very fond of them for whatever reason. The undead are very manageable if one isn’t around, but as soon as one chooses to stay in close vicinity it very quickly gets nearly impossible to maneuver, they’re like a magnet. It seems this is the reason they rarely last longer than 20 years within a single lifecycle.

- they’re actually quite cooperative, and many have learned our language. Though sorrowfully it appears they only store a single slot for their language, and forget all other information of a previously spoken one upon interaction (perhaps they were meant as a situational translation device?). I’ve attempted my best to reteach them, but I’m no linguist; I limit my research to history, with a limited understanding of biology. To figure out the mechanics alone I had to get a whole other villager to help my case.

- despite a large portion of their flesh being replaced by mechanical components an extra layer of the fat cells within the subcutis create an artificial layer of flesh like material dampening any slashes at the golem like form below.

More research to be added once I acquire more material to work with. This is a work in progress.

Understudied field, more research either classified information or unable to be attained due to both lack of examples and individuals willing enough to risk their lives acquiring such needless information. Ivan D. P. Retired shortly after writing his book discussing categorized biological information regarding the entities within our realm, which has since been removed from the market. The authors doctor title has been revoked due to a less than fortunate suspected alliance with the Illager cult on his end, so choose the information you’re willing to believe wisely, the villages dislike him for a reason.

We sincerely apologize but certain behaviors are to be taken seriously regarding the issues the cult on the outskirts has caused us in the past. Rumors have to be believed regarding individuals actively choosing to house away from the masses for whatever reason, to keep the general public safe.

Moving just out of sight to dedicate your life to dissecting humanoids on your dinner table is not normal behavior and was it not for his living position would hastily be investigated,

mumbling about how you hate our community doesn’t lessen our concerns, if you read this Ivan, it was not funny and it will never be, you know of the missing people concerns: if it happens again we’re sorry to inform you but you’ll no longer be welcome within this village.

[diejager]

Hello hellooooooo

I hope you are doing great !!

(I was waiting patiently for your requests to be open again lmao)

So, my brain was just thinking of something for monster!141 and I just need to share it somewhere 😵‍💫

As you may know, penguins' love language is giving pebbles to their loved ones

Penguin hybrid!Hunter just giving monster!141 pebbles and little rocks to show them that they love them 🥹

Alright, I'll go back to my knitting now BYE

*gets out by the window with a parachute*

Pebbles Cw: weird courting, tell me if I missed any.

You didn’t have any noticeable differences to a human, having the appearance of any human with a some quirky and funny behavioural traits that all of them enjoyed. You had your moments of oddity, but you didn’t seem that far from a human, having no tail, ear or horns, your skin as smooth and soft as any. They dropped their suspicions of you being a hybrid, a monster or even an inter dimensional creature of some unknown source.

And somehow, they find small trinkets - small, round pebbles picked out of a bunch to be perfectly rounded, smooth edges and glistening under the light, and sticks, long and robust, but small enough to sneak into the base without being caught - placed in the areas they often found themselves frequenting.

Price would find a cluster of pebbles on his desk, arranged neatly in a ring, a curious little thing that he shrugged off, putting them away for the time he’d be able to catch the culprit red handed in the act. Price chucked it up to being Soap and Gaz pulling a prank on him, an unsuspecting and benign trick for a little laugh between them, he didn’t bother with it too much.

Ghost found his small collection of sticks and rock on the books he liked to read, placed near the corner of his desk in his office, the arrangement was neither crude nor clean, it was a chaotic abstraction that he didn’t understand.He didn’t know what to make of it, no one would be brave enough - stupid enough - to pull something like this on him and on his stuff without knowing the risks they put themselves in.

Soap and Gaz had a few placed that belonged to them alone, like their rooms or their locker in the armoury, small areas that everyone knew was theirs. Gaz was the first of the two to find flowers and pebbles in the top compartment of his locker, picked with utmost care to keep the petal from bending. Soap found his collection of sticks and flowers stitched in a pretty crown placed around the collar of his vest, a little present full of romance and adoration. Both of them couldn’t help but find this weird act endearing.

Until Price saw you rush out of his office, a sweet, love-filled smile plastered on your face as if you’d been given the miracle of your life. If he pushed the thought farther, he could almost see a little tail wagging behind you, oh so overzealous and overjoyed with something you did. Peaked by it, he looked into his room and caught the bright petals of a daisy gently placed in the middle of a wreath of stick. He looked at it with a renewed aww and curiosity, feeling your affection roll of your intricate design, made and catered to him as if you’d made each and every single one of his boys a little courting gift-

It was an instinctual courting behaviour seen in monsters and hybrids alike. It stopped him in his tracks, causing him to question himself and your file, he’d been sure that you were human through and through, holding not a single ounce of monster blood in your veins, you’d done tests. Tests, he had to remind himself that these tests were - despite being physical and DNA tests - noted down if the recipient had any traits deemed worthwhile, something useful in the minds of a battle or in a dogfight.

That would give reason to some missing holes in your file, the little things that made you so charmingly you in every aspect was missing from your papers, reserved for people who came to know you. It warmed his heart, to see you so comfortable with them that you ended up forging such strong, emotional connections that you started giving them gifts. He’d have to take it up with the other boys, tell them what he just found out: your little, courting gifts, your hybrid roots that they could explore and your lovable smile when you’d successfully given your gift, and see where they would go from there.

Taglist: @craxy-person @crowbird @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @yeetusspagheetus @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @angelcakes-22 @cassiecasluciluce @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @ki-cant-spel @im-making-an-effort @love-dove-noora @jinxxangel13 @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @mul-pi @danielle143 @virginalsacrifice @beau-min @makayla-666 @urfavsunkissedleo @mixplara @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @luvecarson @petwifed @aldis-nuts @randominstake @stay-088 @heartelysia @jggykhug09090 @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi

[livwritesstuff]

I keep seeing the candy trauma salad videos again and I need to know if the girls ever decide on doing one lmao?

I think they would try to rope their dads into it but they would just simply stare and say.... no. But i can see them standing in the backround watching the girls telling increasingly more traumatising things at which both Steve and Eddie would have to stop and say are y'all good??

I think one if them definetly would say that one of their traumas is being adopted lmao

I love asking about yiur little universe and i cant wait for you to tell us more. Your story is quite literally my official headcanon for the characters❤️❤️

<33333

This is especially funny because Steve is a trauma-based therapist lol

Hazel definitely makes Robbie and Moe do this with her, and when she posts it, she adds the caption *trauma candy salad except we were raised by a trauma counselor*

They start with Robbie:

Robbie: Hey, I’m Robbie and one time a girl broke up with me because I was questioning my gender and then, like, almost a year later when I changed my pronouns back to she/her on Instagram, she DM’d me to say that she would be okay with us getting back together.

Robbie: And I brought the bowl *holds up large glass mixing bowl*

*cut to Moe*

Moe: I’m Moe, and me and my sisters were put into into foster care at birth and we’ve literally never known a single thing about our mom because she died before any of us were allowed to contact her

Moe: And I waited two decades to get DNA tests done, and then when we finally did it, not only did we not learn a single thing about our mom – literally nothing – we also learned that I have a different bio-dad.

Moe: It was probably the worst day of my entire life.

Moe: And I brought lemonade Sour Patch Kids.

*cut to Hazel*

Hazel: Heeey, I’m Hazel, and I did ballet for fifteen years and during the last rehearsal for my senior spring recital, my dance teacher said over the microphone with the entire company in the theater that I was the reason the show looked bad.

Hazel: And I didn’t know what to do so I just said thank you.

Hazel: Oh, and I brought gummy worms.

*cut to back Robbie*

Robbie: I’m Robbie and when I was fourteen I was in the senior orchestra class and we went to Disney for their music festival, and the second night we were there, one of my friends with a fake I.D. stole a car and convinced us all to go out and get drunk and go joy-riding and the car ended up on the wrong side of the highway and we flipped twice and I almost died.

Robbie: And I was trying really hard to be cool but I was honestly just excited to be at Disney.

Robbie: So that sucked.

Robbie: And I brought Nerds Gummy Clusters

*cut to Moe*

Moe: Hi, I’m Moe, and when I was applying to college, I had a male interviewer tell me that he didn’t think I could handle the engineering program and that I should choose something easier.

Moe: I had a 5.0 GPA and got a 5 on the AP Physics exam the year before.

Moe: But whatever.

Moe: I brought Starbursts

*cut to Hazel propping up the camera so Eddie can be seen standing at the counter*

Hazel: Okay, go.

Eddie: I’m Ed.

Eddie: *warily thinking about what he’s legally allowed to say*

Eddie: I failed senior year twice, and the third time, after I spent basically the entire year working my ass off – kind of – so I'd actually graduate, we went into a state of emergency in March and all the seniors got their diplomas by default.

Eddie: And apparently I brought *looks at bag* – oh shit, these are actually good. AirHeads Xtremes.

Moe, behind the camera: Didn’t you almost die during all that?

Eddie: Yep.

[schizospec-culture-is]

schizospec (?) culture is one professional diagnosing you with schizophrenia, another disagrees and dx's you with psychotic depression, still another diagnosis you with schizoaffective, still another says you are not on the schizophrenia spectrum and instead have cluster b traits and psychotic features because you're "too lucid and engaged" to be schizospec. you still cannot bathe regularly and the voices still tell you horrible things. you still have canine dna and transform in the grocery store.

-

[xoheisse]

stories of children whose lives were taken by russians

1. Marharyta from Kharkiv region, 8 years old.

On June 21, cluster munitions fell in the yard of her family's house. Marharyta died instantly, her heart was pierced through. The girl's father, at the age of 36, has become completely gray. The mother cannot describe in words how she feels after losing her child.

2. Kyrylo from Kherson, 8 years old.

In April, the family evacuated from Kherson to Vinnytsia. On July 14, russia shelled the city, Kyrylo was in the car with his uncle. The boy died immediately from a fragment hitting his head, then an explosion occurred. The body was searched for several days. It was identified only through DNA analysis.

3. Daryna from Kharkiv region, 15 years old.

On March 13, a russian missile hit the family's house. When the father got to the hand of his dead daughter, he said: "Our Daryna is no more". She was buried in her native Dergachi. Mom recalls that the missiles flew over the people here and there. "Daryna, this is a farewell salute to you." said her father.

4. Polina, 8 years old.

On March 13, Polina and her mother wanted to evacuate Mariupol. As soon as they took a few steps outside, the russian military started shelling with mortars. Nadiya's mother died instantly. Both of Polina's legs and arms were broken. The girl was operated on in the city hospital. But on March 16, Polina's kidneys failed and she died. Polina was shooting videos on YouTube, dancing. She liked to change into different costumes and perform on stage.

5. Anna, 9 years old.

On March 19, an enemy shell hit near the house where Anna and her mother Yana were hiding. They went down to the basement. In the morning, slag began to fall from above. Several basement floor slabs fell on people. The mother rushed to help her daughter, but she could not pull her out from under the rubble on her own. Anya and other people remained buried in the basement. The girl liked to work with computers. Her mother promised that when Anya turned 10, she would enroll her in programming lessons. However...

6. Denys, 9 years old.

On September 3, the twins were walking in a park in Dnipropetrovs'k region. Suddenly, MLRS shells started flying. "I felt the space around me with my hand. He was at my feet. I went to him: "Danya, Danya ... ", but he was silent. Although they told me to lie down, I started crawling to my son. Ruslan was screaming next to me," the boy's mother recalls the shelling. On December 22, Denys was supposed to celebrate his birthday.

7. Oleksandr from Chernihiv, 13 years old.

On March 9, Sasha and his mother Tetyana decided to evacuate from Chernihiv. However, a shell exploded near the pedestrian column, and the boy was hit by many fragments. "He couldn't say anything, his eyes were closed, he was breathing heavily, he wheezed three times and died. He remained lying there," Sasha's mother recalls. In 2022, Sasha was an eighth grader. He was interested in the crypto market and dreamed of developing a YouTube channel for an english-speaking audience.

original post : ukraina_topnews

[theconstitutionisgayculture]

Why did you lock the thread to my question to you before I could respond? "European" is easily a recognizable pan-ethnicity, same as "Black". In fact, why are you glossing over the fact that the Founding Fathers explicitly declared this with the Nationality Act of 1790 which limited citizenship to "free white persons"? You insult my intelligence, yet genetic tests clearly show that Europeans all cluster together and share characteristic European physical features. This definitely qualifies as a pan-ethnicity.

None of my posts have replies turned on. If you want to reply to one of my posts, you need to reblog it.

As for "pan-ethnicity", that's such a bullshit term. It means nothing when talking about actual ethnicity because it's grouping large swaths of peoples together under the idea that "well, they're more like each other than these other groups we've also lumped together because they're more like each other than these other groups we've also lumped together". Of course ethnicities that exist within close proximity of each other will share some characteristics, but that doesn't mean lumping them all together is appropriate, or desired. In the same period of time when the Nationality Act was passed (which was replaced and amended every few years until 1804 by the way, and the question of citizenship wasn't resolved constitutionally until the 14th Amendment in 1868) pretty much every European ethnicity had at least one other European ethnicity that they hated on racial grounds. The idea of a "pan-European" ethnicity that supersedes actual ethnicity is ridiculous, regardless of how many people used "white" to distance themselves from dark skinned ethnicities. The English would certainly have rejected the idea that they share an ethnicity with the French for most of their history, despite their nobility literally sharing DNA with the Normans after 1066. The only times the English and the French would admit kinship is when they wanted to unite against a different foreign power. Same with the broader European identity. It's a political signifier, not a racial or ethnic one. And even then it makes little sense at times, such as with Russia being considered a European country for most of its existence despite the vast majority of its land being in Asia.

[mandowifey]

Ok but like the eggs--

I need to know if they grow!!!

Since there's so many are we under the assumption that reader will have hundreds of little babies? Maybe they fight in the womb (like some shark pups do)

I really hope reader has more than 1 baby since they're multiple little eggs and not just 1

OMG I'm so flattered you ask. I have a lot of headcannons and stuff for it, too! I will preface by saying this is OG headcannons and science, so I'm not abiding by any comics or real-life spider logic, haha.

Warning: sex talk/oviposition/pregnancy talk under the cut. My Miguel has eggs he dumps in you, be aware before clicking read more.

× ×

Okay, so, for Miguel, the eggs are stored in an additional pouch in his abdomen that connects via its own tube to his urethra. The eggs themselves are small, no bigger than a tapioca pearl, and cause no discomfort passing for him. That being said, he generates over one thousand in the span of 4 months. When that pouch gets overfull, it bloats and causes pain and discomfort for him.

When he passes them into reader, his precum/cum itself has a light numbing affect, which causes the cervix opening to relax. The eggs pour out right towards the end of his release, and they naturally gravitate into the cervix.

Once inside, they stick themselves around the womb in tiny clusters. Now comes the fertilization process, as they begin to draw nutrients from the cervical lining. Unfortunately, due to how many it is a battle of the best, and (good guess by the way!), they end up cannibalizing one another until only a few remain. The number of surviving eggs is dependent on the carrier's body health and the father's egg health.

So most likely, 500 eggs are released, 450 make it inside the womb, and they dwindle off one by one (or they fail to latch) and are dissolved by the mothers body. Most likely, due to the amount of space and nutrients needed, only 3 to 5 can survive and fit inside the womb.

After that process, they are generally the size of a golfball and will continue to grow. The casing of the egg breaks once the child is about three months (the babies absorb the egg casing!), and from there, they develop like normal human children.

That being said, the mother would most likely experience terrible side affects as the foreign DNA feeds on her body - the babies, before breaching their eggs, are basically extreme parasites - and it is difficult for mom to go through. But that'd be a whole other post for me to do haha.

Birthing is the same as a human, though with super babies, there will most likely be complications and dangers. Otherwise, yeah! That's how I think it goes. I also agree that the likelihood of having "just one" is small, and you'd definitely have a couple... which Miguel would love. He's always wanted a big family.

[grapejuicedragoon]

the godzilla hybrids of Deicide (deicide biollantes backstory is close to the original because i really like it ) the difference is mainly that she retains some memories of the human side of her. however the others are a bit different

Space godzilla was created when ghidorah returned to space after a fight with godzilla. Carrying godzilla's blood on him as he left for deep space due to ghidorahs injures some of his blood mixed with godzillas causing it to crystalize. An alien race managed retrieved some of now crystalized blood and used it to create there own monster however that ended up destroying them as the kaiju drained them dry of resources. The young kaiju not fully developed left to continue it's gestation within a nebula cluster leeching of forming stars and eventually gaining massive amounts of energy and quickly maturing.

Zilla 001 was created as a military project an attempt to make a tame kaiju, using an Iguana Genome as a base they spliced it with that of godzillas dna. The sequence was also edited with the Dna of a dog in hopes of a more docile nature, the creature was given the name Zilla 001. (hes based Zilla Jr)

[tamarabeck]

Contrasts

[sonic-fankid-showdown]

Poll 30, Round 1.

About Maria: (by @6larosie9) Maria was a lab baby made by Eggman as a way to collect and protect the chaos emeralds. He used Sonic and Shadow's DNA so she would be extremely strong and fast, and a very difficult challenge to anyone who tries to get in her way. Maria, Sonic, and Shadow are unaware they're related for the time being. She's a very determined hedgehog, competitive and cocky, and quite loyal to anyone she deems friends or family. Also, she secretly adores the outdoors and nature, but she'd never tell Eggman that.

About Mimi: (by @zeawesomeness) Mimi was born from a cluster of Black Arm eggs, sadly most of these eggs died, and due to Mimi having mostly alien DNA led to her being born in very poor health. She wasn't supposed to live past being a baby, which led to Shadow naming her Maria, but against all odds, she lived. She's very frail and can't handle physical exertion without dire consequences, making her very isolated, but the final blow to any possibility of a social life or even having friends for her is being a "freak with a third eye and tail." She has horrible anxiety due to being ostracized and things only seem to get worse when the ghost of her supposedly evil grandpa, "Black Doom", comes to haunt her into being evil. Only issue is he can't get her to stop crying long enough to listen to his evil monologue...

[cosmozoa-sys]

⋯ space themed id pack !!

names ⁘

andromeda ✴ orion ✴ aquila ✴ nebula ✴ lumen ✴ nova ✴ sirius ✴ gamma ✴ orbit ✴ stella ✴ celestia ✴ cosmo ✴ comet ✴ sol ✴ pleiades ✴ altair ✴ quark ✴ carina ✴ aurora ✴ aldebaran ✴ vega ✴ leo ✴ algol ✴ atlas ✴ mira ✴ pollux ✴ rigel ✴ auriga ✴ galaxy ✴ nyx ✴ singularity ✴ astro ✴ hubble ✴ jupiter ✴ zenith ✴ horizon ✴ ion

pronouns ⁘

star/stars ✴ gal/galaxy ✴ quark/quarks ✴ cos/cosmic ✴ shine/shines ✴ plan/planet ✴ ray/rays ✴ pul/pulse ✴ moon/moons ✴ lune/lunar ✴ neu/neutron ✴ par/parsec ✴ qua/quasar

titles ⁘

The Infinite ✴ (prn) Who Shines in the Night ✴ The Descendant of Stars ✴ The Celestial Knight ✴ The Remnant of Novae ✴ (prn) Who Bends the Light

system names ⁘

the expanse ✴ the nebula ✴ the oort cloud ✴ stellar catalogue ✴ starstuff system¹ ✴ the collapsing stars ✴ the globular cluster ✴ andromeda's children ✴ solar satellites

¹ from the Carl Sagan quote: "The nitrogen in our DNA, the calcium in our teeth, the iron in our blood, the carbon in our apple pies were made in the interiors of collapsing stars. We are made of starstuff."

Going through my old astronomy olympiad notes to make this... this was super fun and a big throwback to one of our special interests that's a bit more background these days. Enjoy! -Iris/Zoa

credits: 1

[viridianv0id]

Alright.... guys

It's time

SEBASTIAN DESIGN AND LORE DUMP !!!!

Both a glowing and normal version

Now, lore dump will be under the cut!

Here is the base of Sebastian, nakey ;p

Now, those notes don't help much so heres the dump !!!!!!

1 Angler lure

his lure is a bit basic, no obvious species of angler is shown but more towards the end the colouration gets darker - something used to help camoflage the light when in the dark, made of a very soft cartilage which makes it very flexible

2 tongue

due to a bit of malformation on his face from the testing, he was given a forked tongue to help give him a better sense of smell esp while under water

3 Gills

there are two sets of gills on sebi on his neck and on his sides

3.1 neck gills

the gills on his neck aren't actually taking in any water, theyre used to filter the water and from the oxygen that he takes in from his mouth so water dosent get into his lungs

3.2 sidegills

his side gills do a LOT of the heavy lifting while hes under water, his top set of gills (black) Filters in water, keeping any particulates and other nasty junk out of his gills. While his bottom sets (blue) filter out water after the oxygen has been taken out

3.3

his lungs are still mostly human in nature, though now frills and other elements have been added to give aid to filtering water and oxygen, but also to protect what of his human lungs are left from getting filled with water and other fluids

4 lateral line

The lateral line on Sebastian spans his entire body, starting at his nose, going under his eyes, and down both sides of his body right down to the tip of his tail. Due to how deep the hadal blacksite is, being able to easily detect pressure (ha) changes and movements of others around him in places where it's dark or unsafe to use his lure.

4.1 electroreceptors

Like many fish, and especially for sharks, Sebastian has clusters of electroreceptors along his lateral line, localised to his face specifically. This gives him the ability to sense electrical stimuli, which makes it so Sebastian can sense electrical changes in others around him, giving him a high advantage over most people and creatures.

5 Scars

Sebastian has quite a few scars over his body, mostly localised to his top half as that's where his important internal organs are

Most scars hes got came from each operation that turned him into the leviathan we know him as today but he does also have quite a few after breaking containment and freeing the other Z-class entities from their own containment, fights with MTF from UrbanShade and a few self inflicted scars. (The main one being the scar on his face, as the one he had while human had seemed to vanish, and too feel like himself even a little bit he put it back)

6 Arms/Strength

With the addition of a manits shrip into his DNA his overall strength was increased greatly, his arms becoming much stronger than before - yes, his punches would hurt like hell, with his size and strength you'd be lucky to be more than a puddle of blood after one of his blows.

6.1 third arm

His third arm, smaller than his main set is actually quite weak, while not useless it's more of a supportive limb than anything, not that he likes having it anyway.

7 colouration

Sebastian's new skin tone and colouration takes on the Sam traits that a lot of fish have, darker on hid back and lighter on his stomach. His skin, especially on his lower half, has become slightly rougher in texture, being more akin to shark skin than any scaled fish, only having scales in certain places on his body (see point 9).

8 Fins

Sebastian has quite a few different kinds of fins along his body

8.1 'pectoral' fins

Just under where his human pelvis would be has two shark fins, very similar to pectoral fins, and greatly aid him in his movement underwater and a little bit with keeping himself steady and upright while on land. These are pretty rigid and Don't flex much

8.2 ventral fins

Very similar use to the pectoral fins, though they're quite useless on land.

8.3 dorsal fin (not shown in image)

Sebastian does have a dorsal fin, though it's more fish like as it spans from his shoulders, down his spine and tail, this fin helping with gliding through the water, mostly I'm smaller movements and even keeping himself still while not actively swimming.

8.4 ear fins

The fins on his head that replaced his ears have pretty much the same purpose as normal ears, though they're more sensitive and help his hearing underwater, giving him the ability to hear frequencies that humans cannot hear underwater.

9 Scales

While Sebastian mostly has a rougher sharks skin, he does have some scales. The most noticeable being his underbelly scales, something from the sea snake DNA that helps him travel more easily on land! These scales are smoother than the rest of his body so Sebastian is able to pretty much slither around

10 bioluminescenes

As many deep sea animals have bioluminesence, so does Sebastian, while only localised in certain areas. He has several lines of biolumenesence, especially down his lateral line across his face and body, as well as having some spots along his arms and collar bones.

11 Size / Whale fin

Okay, final point !!

An obvious thing about Sebastian is his sheer size, being that he's quite large and VERY long

These two factors come from the whale and sea snake in his DNA, whis also leads to his tail fin, being flat and whale-like instead of something more akin to the amount of fish in him, which this fact means Sebastian has remained warm blooded and a mammal. Do with that information as you will.

[maaarine]

Iron age men left home to join wives' families, DNA study suggests (Nicola Davis, The Guardian, Jan 15 2025)

"Writing in the journal Nature, archaeologists report how they studied the genomes of more than 50 individuals buried in a cluster of cemeteries in Dorset.

Most of these individuals were associated with the Durotriges tribe, a Celtic group that occupied the central southern coast of Britain from about 100BC to AD100.

These sites have previously been of interest to experts, not only because iron age burials are rare but because the women tended to be buried with valuable items more often than the men.

“That is suggesting not much of a status difference between men and women, or even perhaps higher-status burials for women,” said Cassidy.

“How that actually then translates into the role of women in the society, that’s hard to say. And that’s why genetic data adds another important dimension there.”

Cassidy and colleagues analysed DNA and mitochondrial DNA – genetic material from within the cells’ powerhouses – revealing that the majority of individuals were related to each other.

Crucially, many shared the same mitochondrial DNA – genetic material that is passed down only from mothers to their offspring.

“They all were female-line descendants, [from the] same woman,” said Cassidy.

The team say this genetic evidence and modelling work suggest the community was matrilocal: in other words, the women stayed put, with men moving into the group to join their wives.

The conclusion was supported by considerable diversity in the Y chromosome of the men, with males showing significantly lower levels of genetic relatedness to other individuals, and by males being more likely to have different mitochondrial DNA than that which was widely shared.

The team then looked at DNA from other iron age burial sites across Britain, again finding signs of matrilocal communities.

“It’s looking that this is quite widespread across the island by that period,” said Cassidy.

While the study does not reveal whether the iron age societies had tribal groupings organised specifically around the maternal line, or suggest there was a matriarchy, the results offer new insights into the communities.

“Matrilocality is a strong predictor of female social and political empowerment,” Cassidy said, noting that if the women stayed put, they were more likely to inherit, control land, be players in the local economy, and have influence.

Writing in an accompanying article, Dr Guido Alberto Gnecchi Ruscone from the Max Planck Institute for Evolutionary Anthropology, said the findings echoed Roman writings that depicted Celtic women, such as Boudicca, as empowered figures.

“Although Roman writers often exoticised these societies,” he wrote, “the genetic evidence shown by Cassidy and colleagues validates some of their claims about the special role that women had in Celtic Britain.”"