#Running Form Analysis

[runningformanalysis]

Running Form Analysis

This running form analysis visualization shows key metrics that are considered during a running form analysis, such as cadence, lean, posture, foot angle. Visual examples of these running form analysis elements are presented with a short description. Visit: https://www.movaia.com

[rockwgooglyeyes]

One of the things that's so compelling to me about Eternal Sugar and Hollyberry's storyline, besides the fact that it is wlw, the juxtaposition of happiness and passion is super fascinating. It's easy to compare Eternal Sugar and Hollyberry's dynamic to Shadow Milk and Pure Vanilla because like Shadow Milk, Eternal Sugar is not trying to kill her other half, as she "only wants Hollyberry to be happy." Yet, with Shadow Milk and Pure Vanilla, Shadow Milk wished to corrupt Pure Vanilla in the same way he had been corrupted, and gain someone who fully understood him, as well as to get indirect revenge on Pure Vanilla for being chosen by the Witches instead of him. Shadow Milk did have harmful intentions when he met Pure Vanilla, whereas with Eternal Sugar and Hollyberry, Eternal Sugar has no ill intent.

It could be argued that Eternal Sugar does have ill intent, with her temper and her desire for control, the way she manipulates the people around her so that they remain within her grasp as well as subservient to her, but at the same time, she truly does view her actions as benevolent. She believes that, even if she is hurting people currently, that the ends justify the means, because as long as they stay in her Garden, they can remain happy and healthy forever. If by staying in her Garden, she continues her control over them, well that's just a happy accident!

One of her Arena Loading screen quotes is literally "Your passions will only lead to suffering..." which was such a game changer for me personally, because of the way it frames her motivation. By trapping people in her saccharine web, she is depriving them of their ability to make their own choices and ultimately get hurt, in the name of keeping them safe. Hollyberry's soul jam being passion as a variation on happiness makes a lot of sense, through that lens, because pursuing our passions makes us happy but at the very same time, passion can fizzle out suddenly, or our passions can lead us to ruin. Eternal Sugar tries to subdue the passions of her followers in order to keep them content and complacent, whereas Hollyberry is in direct opposition to that, saying that people should be allowed to go wherever the wind takes them, and her own actions embody that.

Nevertheless, the ways in which both of their soul jams are twisted by their own personal flaws is what makes it so intriguing to me. Hollyberry's "flights of passion" from her kingdom were her responding to her own restlessness, stress, and fear of stagnation, and it led her to abandoning her son and letting him grow up alone. Eternal Sugar, on the other hand, has many cookies that she cares about and yet she condescends to them and exerts control over them against their will in an effort to maintain their happiness. Eternal Sugar is very much an "ends justify the means" sort of person whereas Hollyberry lives in the moment and impulsively flits from place to place in order to keep running from her past. They both have complicated, kind of fucked up relationships with their sons, they both have devotees who follow them while remaining blind to the true flaws of the person they follow, and they both have their vices.

Hollyberry is constantly running and Eternal Sugar never moves. Hollyberry changes easily to fit whichever role is necessary for the situation while Eternal Sugar is unwilling and unable to change. It's almost like unstoppable force meet immovable object, and their polarity is what's so striking to me. Even as Hollyberry runs away from her problems, she does not allow herself to want things or get close to people, for fear of getting hurt. She may be passionate but she has, as Pavlova Cookie says, a cold and empty heart. That's why what Eternal Sugar says to her is groundbreaking because no one has given Hollyberry permission before, but here, she's can take time and it's not about everyone else, it's about her. Yet, the fact that Eternal Sugar is worried about everyone but herself is a great example of the similarities between them, as they both prioritize others above themselves and ignore their own emotions for the sake of other people. They are inherently so different and so similar, literally different shades of the same color, Hollyberry with her warm undertones and Eternal Sugar with her cool ones.

With Dark Cacao and Mystic Flour, they clash because of the fact that they are both unwilling to compromise on their ideals and willing to do whatever it takes to maintain their position. With Shadow Milk and Pure Vanilla, they clash because of Pure Vanilla's unwillingness to entertain Shadow Milk's tricks at a certain point, instead seeing through them and cutting through the bullshit to confront the person behind the mask, something that Shadow Milk is extremely uncomfortable with. Burning Spice and Golden Cheese clash because of Burning Spice's lack of care for his own people and Golden Cheese's possessiveness over her hoard, her kingdom, and her unwillingness to sacrifice that. Burning Spice is too free of burdens, to the point that he has no attachments, and Golden Cheese has so many attachments that they both empower her and bog her down.

The diversity through which the juxtaposition between the Beasts and their Heroes is shown truly is impressive because of both the overlap between different duos and the fact that each duo has something unique to just them. Every duo has shared traits between the two members, and every one has similarities between the Beast and the Hero but the ways in which the level of similarity compared to the level of difference changes throughout the depictions is very cool to me because of the way that it shows how people who are similar can clash over the littlest things, and how people who are so different can come together and unite under one banner.

[her-canine-teeth]

bad astrology by flower face

< -

[ying-doodles]

I really want to draw a chibi turnaround of Lloyd simply so I can put him in a microwave- (◉ ◉)

EDIT: It has been done~ :)

[divinekangaroo]

over time i've realised i do genuinely struggle with visuals and visualisation: a word/phrase in my head are only words, not symbols that generate an image. I don't think it's aphantasia, though, because at any point I *can* make an image and a very complex, detailed image from those words -- but it's a conscious action rather than unconscious. i used to read SO MUCH and had no mental image at all of the characters, of the settings so lovingly described, they all just vaguely looked like me, and the landscape was irrelevant except as it directly related to the individual's sensory experience.

which is interesting then having studied as, and working as, an architect and as a designer, because in theory i should have always been visualising a space type that i wanted to create before putting lines on a page. instead, I would usually come up with words for what I wanted to do, then just kind of...kept putting lines on a page in a vaguely process-driven, almost computer-programme-generated way until it kind of delivered me something that i didn't know was there? and every step of the way, i had capacity to reject a thing as not in alignment with the word/intent before wasting too much time, but I never a capacity to picture it BEFORE putting those lines on a page.

i do have this in writing as well, where i don't exactly even have a scene, plot, story; i may have fragments of thoughts (wouldn't it be funny if... that's a gap and i think i want to fill it... What If i took all of that but put it in a new world... this would be a fascinating aftermath thing...) - concepts and test scripts and intent, I suppose, rather than a concrete "this is what it will be, i can see it all, all i need to do is put it on a page". even my tiny 300 word things, they have barely a seed to them motivating them. the process of actually putting the thing to the page will always spawn surprises for me, which is what makes writing entertaining.

i'm fairly sure this is what has generated what people call my recognisable writing style, this...wandering?, this lack of actual structure, the weird pacing, the disjointed visuals

but i think this is also why I'm very attached to fanfiction with nil motivation for original fiction. if the image/self/person/setting already exists, i don't have to worry about it. I can just do what I want to do: the desire to evoke a mood or extend a mood, or test out ways to answer a question, the ability to use writing to have a dialogue with others or with myself. (it all comes back to the word)

over time, if anything i think my tendency (and the peculiarities of my style) have become significantly worse / more disjointed, but at the same time i feel a terrible affection for it, this thing which comes out of my brain without a significant amount of consciousness. and then i look at it and go: wow, what have you done there? if my writing was to translate to a visual medium, I imagine a black theatre stage with tight beam lights only, and the only props are the ones that intimately require interaction upon. how do you generate the sense of an entire house when all you mention is the chair? well, how do they do it in minimalist theatre? how do you generate the sense of an entire lifetime when all you mention in the whole story is their Tuesday?

[illustratedjai]

A lot of places use NPS (Net Promoter Score) ranking systems. NPS is asked as a 0-10 scaled "How much would you recommend X?" These scores are then grouped in Detractor, Neutral, and Promoter. Promoter counts 9s and 10s, Neutral is 7-8, and Detractor is everything else. The final NPS score is then figured by the Promoters minus the detractors to get a whole number. (This can be a positive or negative number.) (The argument for this is that only people who rate 9 or 10 are likely to actually actively *promote* the company / product / etc. My personal opinion is that the Detractor group is far too wide, and most folks who leave a 6 aren't saying they would never promote it, but that the would only promote in certain circumstances, etc. This is borne out by qualitive data from follow-ups questions to the NPS question. I haven't done a huge sample test on it yet, but across the dozens of times I've done analysis on NPS follow ups compared to regular Likert (5 point or Strongly Agree-Strongly Disagree) questions, people who leave 6s in NPS are far more likely to leave roughly posiitve feedback in their qualitative answers. I'd personally widen Neutral to be 5-8 and Detractor 0-4, but alas, that won't ever happen.) Either way, this means that when you're asked an NPS question, if you give a considerate, well thought out 8, you're actually being counted as a neutral, and you won't do anything to the employee/department's NPS. If you do the same with a 6, you're actively hurting them, and as numerous people above and in notes have pointed out, NPS is often used to determine bonuses, end of year promotions, raises, etc.

I really wish there was an option on those Customer Service Surveys that says specifically, “The representative I spoke to was lovely and helpful and deserves all of the raises but I think that you, as a corporation, should die in a fire.”

[mortalityplays]

This is a dangerous sentiment for me to express, as an editor who spends most of my working life telling writers to knock it off with the 45-word sentences and the adverbs and tortured metaphors, but I do think we're living through a period of weird pragmatic puritanism in mainstream literary taste.

e.g. I keep seeing people talk about 'purple prose' when they actually mean 'the writer uses vivid and/or metaphorical descriptive language'. I've seen people who present themselves as educators offer some of the best genre writing in western canon as examples of 'purple prose' because it engages strategically in prose-poetry to evoke mood and I guess that's sheer decadence when you could instead say "it was dark and scary outside". But that's not what purple prose means. Purple means the construction of the prose itself gets in the way of conveying meaning. mid-00s horse RPers know what I'm talking about. Cerulean orbs flash'd fire as they turn'd 'pon rollforth land, yonder horizonways. <= if I had to read this when I was 12, you don't get to call Ray Bradbury's prose 'purple'.

I griped on here recently about the prepossession with fictional characters in fictional narratives behaving 'rationally' and 'realistically' as if the sole purpose of a made-up story is to convince you it could have happened. No wonder the epistolary form is having a tumblr renaissance. One million billion arguments and thought experiments about The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas that almost all evade the point of the story: that you can't wriggle out of it. The narrator is telling you how it was, is and will be, and you must confront the dissonances it evokes and digest your discomfort. 'Realistic' begins on the author's terms, that's what gives them the power to reach into your brain and fiddle about until sparks happen. You kind of have to trust the process a little bit.

This ultra-orthodox attitude to writing shares a lot of common ground with the tight, tight commodification of art in online spaces. And I mean commodification in the truest sense - the reconstruction of the thing to maximise its capacity to interface with markets. Form and function are overwhelmingly privileged over cloudy ideas like meaning, intent and possibility, because you can apply a sliding value scale to the material aspects of a work. But you can't charge extra for 'more challenging conceptual response to the milieu' in a commission drive. So that shit becomes vestigial. It isn't valued, it isn't taught, so eventually it isn't sought out. At best it's mystified as part of a given writer/artist's 'talent', but either way it grows incumbent on the individual to care enough about that kind of skill to cultivate it.

And it's risky, because unmeasurables come with the possibility of rejection or failure. Drop in too many allegorical descriptions of the rose garden and someone will decide your prose is 'purple' and unserious. A lot of online audiences seem to be terrified of being considered pretentious in their tastes. That creates a real unwillingness to step out into discursive spaces where you 🫵 are expected to develop and explore a personal relationship with each element of a work. No guard rails, no right answers. Word of god is shit to us out here. But fear of getting that kind of analysis wrong makes people hove to work that slavishly explains itself on every page. And I'm left wondering, what's the point of art that leads every single participant to the same conclusion? See Spot run. Run, Spot, run. Down the rollforth land, yonder horizonways. I just want to read more weird stuff.

[padthaifan]

I hate to affirm the haters (experienced artists) but wow sitting down and watching art technique videos is really… Wow it really does work. But we CANNOT let the haters know that

[squaringthacircle]

[runningformanalysis]

Running Form

This running form illustration shows an athletes running technique during various stages of the gait cycle. Overlays highlight the relative position of various body parts which is an essential step of analyzing running form. Visit: https://www.movaia.com

[autolenaphilia]

I talked about the problem of Windows system requirements being too damn high before, and how the windows 10 to 11 jump is especially bad. Like the end of Windows 10 is coming october 2025, and it will be a massive problem. And this article gives us some concrete numbers for how many computers that can't update from win10 to 11.

And it's 240 million. damn. “If these were all folded laptops, stacked one on top of another, they would make a pile 600 km taller than the moon.” the tech analysis company quoted in the article explains.

So many functioning computers that will be wasted. And it's all because people don't wanna switch to a Linux distro with sane system requirements and instead buy a new computer.

Like if you own one of these 240 million windows 10 computers, Just be an environmentally responsible non-wasteful person and switch that computer to Linux instead of just scrapping it because Microsoft says it's not good enough.

Edit: as have been pointed out multiple times in the replies. It's really not "all because people don't wanna switch to a linux distro." It's really Microsoft's fault for this form of planned obsolescence.

My original post was lacking in perspective at best. And of course, people who use computers for work are often made reliant on Windows by their job and employers and can't switch. Or lack time, resources, and information to make the switch. Which is also due to systemic issues, such as lack of education, and the culture of obfuscation about tech that tech companies create.

Edit 2: Making this unrebloggable: now I really know what reddit mods mean when they say "the discussion has run its course" Like there is absolutely no conversation anymore, just repeating of points already made and responded to, just endless repetition

To quote @mlembug

Source

If you can spend 5-10 minutes writing a reblog clowning on somebody, but you can't:

spend 10s to do a basic courtesy of checking the appropriate pronoun of the person involved

spend 30s checking the reblogs of a post to see if someone also decided to clown on the same person

spend 10s to click on OP's post to see if it was edited in the meantime (and guess what: the edits in OP's post does indeed blame Microsoft for planned obsolescence, which you decided to blame her for not doing in one of your reblogs)

THEN YOU SHOULD NOT BE MAKING A REBLOG. EVER.

[soon-palestine]

In a statement that was shared with The Nation, a group of 25 HLR editors expressed their concerns about the decision. “At a time when the Law Review was facing a public intimidation and harassment campaign, the journal’s leadership intervened to stop publication,” they wrote. “The body of editors—none of whom are Palestinian—voted to sustain that decision. We are unaware of any other solicited piece that has been revoked by the Law Review in this way. “ When asked for comment, the leadership of the Harvard Law Review referred The Nation to a message posted on the journal’s website. “Like every academic journal, the Harvard Law Review has rigorous editorial processes governing how it solicits, evaluates, and determines when and whether to publish a piece…” the note began. ”Last week, the full body met and deliberated over whether to publish a particular Blog piece that had been solicited by two editors. A substantial majority voted not to proceed with publication.” Today, The Nation is sharing the piece that the Harvard Law Review refused to run. Some may claim that the invocation of genocide, especially in Gaza, is fraught. But does one have to wait for a genocide to be successfully completed to name it? This logic contributes to the politics of denial. When it comes to Gaza, there is a sense of moral hypocrisy that undergirds Western epistemological approaches, one which mutes the ability to name the violence inflicted upon Palestinians. But naming injustice is crucial to claiming justice. If the international community takes its crimes seriously, then the discussion about the unfolding genocide in Gaza is not a matter of mere semantics. The UN Genocide Convention defines the crime of genocide as certain acts “committed with the intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnical, racial or religious group, as such.” These acts include “killing members of a protected group” or “causing serious bodily or mental harm” or “deliberately inflicting on the group conditions of life calculated to bring about its physical destruction in whole or in part.” Numerous statements made by top Israeli politicians affirm their intentions. There is a forming consensus among leading scholars in the field of genocide studies that “these statements could easily be construed as indicating a genocidal intent,” as Omer Bartov, an authority in the field, writes. More importantly, genocide is the material reality of Palestinians in Gaza: an entrapped, displaced, starved, water-deprived population of 2.3 million facing massive bombardments and a carnage in one of the most densely populated areas in the world. Over 11,000 people have already been killed. That is one person out of every 200 people in Gaza. Tens of thousands are injured, and over 45% of homes in Gaza have been destroyed. The United Nations Secretary General said that Gaza is becoming a “graveyard for children,” but a cessation of the carnage—a ceasefire—remains elusive. Israel continues to blatantly violate international law: dropping white phosphorus from the sky, dispersing death in all directions, shedding blood, shelling neighborhoods, striking schools, hospitals, and universities, bombing churches and mosques, wiping out families, and ethnically cleansing an entire region in both callous and systemic manner. What do you call this? The Center for Constitutional Rights issued a thorough, 44-page, factual and legal analysis, asserting that “there is a plausible and credible case that Israel is committing genocide against the Palestinian population in Gaza.” Raz Segal, a historian of the Holocaust and genocide studies, calls the situation in Gaza “a textbook case of Genocide unfolding in front of our eyes.”

[5sospenguinqueen]

Take A Break | Toto Wolff x Wife! Reader

Summary: Toto has been pushing himself too hard trying to get the upgrades sorted. As his concerned wife, you plan a surprise visit.

Warnings: Tooth rotting fluff. Bad writing

Requested: Yes by Anon (Hope I did this justice)

2024 season. There's a little blurb halfway through as well.

F1 Masterlist

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

mercedesamgf1 just posted

liked by ynwolff_official, lewishamilton and others

mercedesamgf1 boss man hard at work 

1,198 comments

ynwolff_official you better be looking after him

→ mercedesamgf1 yes, ma’am. we’re doing our best 

→ ynwolff_official tell him if he doesn’t stop working late, he’ll be in trouble when he comes home 

→ mercedesamgf1 stop making the admin team threaten me, schatz. they keep coming into my office shaking and you’ll get me into trouble with hr - toto 

user1 tell him to make an insta 

georgerussell63 he looks like a sith lord

→ ynwolff_official i think you mean, very handsome

→ georgerussell63 i’m not going to say that about my boss

→ alex_albon why not? you were telling me the other day that you think he looks much better in the white shirt than the black zip up 

user2 anyone else think he looks tired lately?

→ user2 he’s been working extra hard to get the upgrades ready, i’m guessing 

→ user3 plus wifey and jack haven’t been able to make a race in a while so he’s probably missing them after that triple header

user4 george won’t be getting those upgrades once yn tells toto that he wouldn’t admit he was handsome

→ mickschumacher i’ve already told 

→ georgerussell63 betrayal

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

Strolling through the Hungaroring paddock, you kept a tight hold of your son’s hand. Bustling bodies brushed past, paying the the pair of you no heed, which worked well with your surprise.

Over the past few weeks, Toto had been working tirelessly to ensure the upgrades were ready and working in time for the Hungarian Grand Prix, albeit to the detriment of his own health. He’d been sleeping less, running himself ragged to ensure Mercedes didn’t remain fourth in the constructors. After winning at Red Bull Ring and Silverstone, he knew the potential was there. All he had to do was unlock it. But that had meant shorter calls with his wife and son, fewer responses to messages and a growing distance that he hated feeling during the season. And so, arranging a surprise visit during race weekend had been the most obvious solution.

Mercedes hat sat atop his dark hair, Jack babbled about everything he could see as the tall form of George Russell guided you towards the garage. 

“Hello, stranger.” Lewis’ voice met your ears when he caught sight of you. “Toto didn’t tell me you were coming. What’s up, little man?” 

George vanished into the back of the garage, searching for the Team Principal. Leaning over to the Brit, you pressed a kiss to the cheek of the 7x WDC. Lewis gave your shoulders a squeeze before pulling Jack up into his arms, whisking him over to where the W15 was being polished. 

“George, this better be important. I was in the middle of an analysis report-.” A disgruntled Austrian accent filled the garage, bringing a smile to your face. You could picture the deep frown twisting his handsome’s features without even turning to see it.

“Liebe?” 

The silver arrows watched the tension seep out of their Team Principal’s face as he took in the appearance of his wife. Striding across the garage floor, he pulled you in for a tight hug, and pressed a chaste kiss to the side of your head. Aware of the eyes on you both, he had to refrain from pressing his lips to yours. Denying you both the deep kiss you truly desired.

“Surprise,” you whispered, slipping your arm around his waist. Your hand automatically rubbing soothing circles against his hip. 

“I’m so happy you’re here,” he murmured into your hair, inhaling the familiar scent of home. 

“You sounded like you needed us.”

“I always need you.”

“Well, then, let’s go rescue your son from Lewis.”

Holed up in Toto’s office, the Wolff family basked in their first moment of family time since over a month. Toto had ordered everyone to leave them alone until qualifying was due to start or somebody was dying. Thankfully, the team listened and so he spent the past hour listening to his son tell him about school and watching Lewis win a race on telly.

Fussing over the amount of coffee cups in the waste bin, you turned to lecture your husband on his inability to get enough rest but paused, mouth open. Curled up on the deep couch pushed against the wall, Jack was snuggled into his father’s lap. His iPad had fallen to the side, and soft snores escaped from his mouth. Glasses askew, Toto’s chin rested on his son’s head, eyes closed tight. Father and son, exhausted from the excitement of their day.

Taking a quick picture on your phone, you smiled at the sight of your family. Reaching into Jack’s backpack, you pulled out his blanket, draping it over your favourite boys.

“Ich liebe dich,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to each of their foreheads.

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

mercedesamgf1 just posted

liked by georgerussell63, mickschumacher and others

mercedesamgf1 our favourite family 🐺

1,554 comments 

georgerussell63 admin, you used the same quote for a photo of toto with me, lew and mick the other week?

→ mercedesamgf1 we were paid to do that 

→ alex_albon great now he’s crying 

→ landonorris ha! at least our admin love us more than zak

→ mclaren don’t tell on us! 

mercedesamgf1 inside scoop; toto asked us to print out the photo of yn and jack to put in his office 

mickschumacher does this mean i can take the little wolff karting?

→ ynwolff_official only if you promise to come for dinner

→ georgerussell63 and me? 

→ user5 poor toto can’t escape his drivers even during his time off because his wife adopted them all 

lewishamilton nice to see you and jack in the paddock again, yn

→ ynwolff_official and you, lew. hopefully we can attend a few more now that the summer holidays are here 

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

ynwolff_official just posted

liked by valterribottas, mercedesamgf1 and others

ynwolff_official my favourite part of summer break is the view 

1,003 comments 

mercedesamgf1 tell boss man to bring that smile back with him 

→ ynwolff_official don’t worry. i’ll be sending him back to work extra happy 

→ lewishamilton yn, love, this sounds less than family friendly 

→ ynwolff_official oops 

user6 oh she’s FEEDING us 

user7 has george joined you for a sleepover yet

→ ynwolff_official of course. he’s like the son i didn’t ask for 

→ georgerussell63 but you love anyway?

→ user8 silence speaks volumes 

user9 yn wolff thirst trapping her husband was not on my 2024 bingo 

→ user10 silly season is extra silly this year so yn obvi thought she would participate 

→ user11 and we love her for it

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

Requests for F1 smau's are open. You can see who I write for on my masterlist :)

[acid-ixx]

to you, my greatest passion (soft yandere! batfam x traumatized! reader oneshot)

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

tw: allusions to stockholm syndrome, flawed relationship (they have no concept of boundaries) and mild descriptions of injuries and torture (not by the batfam). read until the end for an author's note. happy 4k followers to me :)) uh leave comments if u like this type of analysis and want to see more. i had no direction for writing this. please don't let this flop huhu i might delete this since i don't like it

as much as i love my angst, we all need something soft at times, and moments with yan!batfam with a reader who is absolutely fucking broken from their past that the mere implication that someone could love them is enough to let them melt into whoever's chest they lay upon that night.

just, hurt/comfort. one that heals the soul in its overly possessive embrace. the same way chapped lips peck softly on your cheeks, muscled arms caress your fragile, shivering body, and legs tangle upon yours in a cacophony of warm, cozy blankets.

where as the longer time passes in the manor, the more you learn to love. to let go of the painful memories your tormenters left you. to allow past scars to heal into a mere visage of what once was streaks coated in blood. your family acts as your new abductors, yes, but how could you hold your freedom against them when it is them that comfort you from drowning through the deepest depths of your nightmares?

nightmares of the past, of the knives that break through your already gashed skin, or the ropes that burn through bruises and laceration— every time you wake up crying, with tears running down your cheeks and a pained cry; a recollection of the torture you were subject to, it is them that come running to your room not a moment after.

it's bruce's tall, domineering form that crumbles into soft, snug pillows for you. your father arms that punches criminals into prison become the shoulder you lean on. calloused fingers rub your cheeks, wiping away your tears, holding your face in his palms like you're the most fragile thing on earth— and you are. every time he looks at your dampened eyes and sniffling nose, he gets reminded of how lonely he was as a child, who lost his parent too young to the cruelty of the world, of gotham and her unyielding coldness. and when he reminisces, he begins to cage you in his arms a tad bit tighter, begins to comfort you longer and softer than he has ever done with anyone else, as if he is reassuring himself. it is with you that his vulnerability, that fear of loss becomes all too stronger. and every time you cry a bit longer, your hold on his sleeves becoming unyielding, does bruce become crueler in his pursuit of fighting crime, a lesson to himself that the people he punishes are those with hands capable enough to harm you, his precious, his pearl that glints throughout the moonlight.

whenever your father is unavailable, it's dick who runs to you, with all the intention to provide you comfort. it's him who calls you his baby bird, as he reassures you that you're no burden in his eyes every time you scream in terror as your sleep. it's him who loves to drown you in his affection, always near, always close, never far and never too much. physically, he's the most doting to a fault. tender, yet tight were his hugs. his kisses to your cheeks and your forehead always linger, as if hesitant to release itself from its rightful place. it's a testiment to how much he loves you, how he's incapable of separating himself from you. god, he loves you so much he wishes he'd just melt right into your skin, so that you actually finally realize how you're the most important thing in the world to him. you, his baby bird. if he had met you sooner, quite earlier, right after his parent's have died, then maybe he could've managed his anger better, could've learned to cope with you through the battles you both fought. it's with you that dick feel unbearably euphoric, ready to spill his love to the point where tears consume his eyes and his head laid on your chest refuses to detach itself.

jason isn't familiar with what warmth feels like, not anymore. but when he sees your hapless state, he sees a reflection of himself in that abandoned warehouse. broken, defiled, hurt. with nothing to comfort you from the cold other than the ropes that burn through your skin and the adrenaline that runs through your veins. he forgots what solace feels like, what it means, but through your shared trauma does jason learn. he learns to talk to you, with you, learns to pinpoint each and every emotion he felt at the time, what you felt inside that putrid basement. he learns to manage his grief because he doesn't want to anger himself looking at you, at just how much justice can only serve so many. the longer you talk to jason, the more he becomes softer, yet hungrier. he learns how to hold you in a way a brother learns to hold his baby sibling for the first time when conceived. he relearns the warmth he felt, like when he was finally able to be good enough to be the successor to the title of robin, when he felt you drool on his chest when you trusted him enough to sleep in his room. yet this time that feeling was accompanied with that ominous, distracting essence. one that makes jason's knuckles crack and have him prepare his guns, as he discovers that you can never truly erase the past. and even though it might take years for him to be your ideal brother, he could at least be your sole protector.

then there's tim, who never truly had the opportunity to develop that deeper sense of love he wanted to feel until he was officially adopted into the wayne family right after his parents' death. don't get him wrong, he loves his mom and dad, and so does he loves his current family— but it's obsession that drives him nonetheless. the need to prove himself, to gather information about everyone to know who they truly are; beyond that there's nothing more than shallowness, a neverending hole he can't satisfy. but with you? oh god, you. to tim, you're his everything. you devour his being whole. with you, there's always something new. the need to track every single thing about you leads him into this cycle of want and need that coagulates into desire, into drive. every time you smile, or laugh, or frown, he gains newer intel about you, one he loops into the deepest crevices of his brain at a constant, you are his constant. but staying right behind you can only do so much. and as he sits right beside you in bed, awkwardly comforting you through the ways he mirrored off from his brothers: a sloppy kiss to your knuckles, a joke cracked here and there, and wiping your eyes and nose with his sleeves; tim learns that stalking can only do so much. he learns what it feels like to be needed for emotional connection and nothing else and that only further motivates him to be perfect for you, and to be with you, his sibling, more often than to simply live right under your nose.

and damian, your baby brother, who's unsurprisingly the one who sleeps in your room, or has you sleep in his room, the most. damian tells himself he's incapable of love, of showing it or reciprocating it. but for you, he tries, and like jason, he learns. he discovers just how depraved both of you are when it comes to love. it enlightens you both and it makes damian feel a deeper sense of connection with you than anyone else. with you, he feels like a child: vulnerable, yet uncaring and free, like the true meaning of being a robin, one the soars through the skies with no grandfather or mother or league to watch your every step as their successor. all the times you cry, he silently sobs with you, holding your cheeks down to his level with scarred palms. silent, yet comforting, he'd allow his smaller form to simply become your teddy bear whilst he whispers consolations. about how strong his older sibling is, how precious you are for being comfortable with him to speak of your problems, how you're everything to damian just as he wishes to be the world for you. it makes you think you're more immature that him, it makes him grateful that he has you. even though he doesn't say it, he shows through actions just how truly important you are whenever he draws a sword towards his enemies, thinking about you and his unsaid promises.

nights where you're reminded of that solitary confinement, of the darkness that creeps into your vision and the voices that pierce through your ears. nights where you feel you've exhausted yourself of hope, where what was once warmth that hugs your heart is now that frigid, yet burning spikes that penetrates into the confidence that you'll somehow, someday, run away from that hellhole— those were nights you thought you'd never live with proper sleep. but as one or two of them holds you in their embrace whenever your nightmares consume your being, you're slowly allowing your established walls to fall apart, all for the mere implication of their love.

who would save you, if not for them? their hushed whispers of consolation, hands that wrap around your figure, and fingers that knead your cheeks provide you that deep sated comfort you always wanted. the sleeves they use to wipe away both saltine liquid and snot, to slowly silence your blubbering rambles, your inconsolable crying; it's warmer than the basement you used to be locked in as a child, with dripping faucets the only source of your water— they saved you once before, who's to say they won't save you a thousand times more?

every time you feel like crying, every time that familiar faulty tap in your eyes begins to dampen against ashen skin, it's them that asks you if you're alright. even if you grit your teeth, even if you seeth or bite or beat or punch or kick, to punish yourself, to cope through the trauma, to not feel nothing.

every time pain begins to sear through your skin, it's your grandfather, father, brothers and sisters that huddle around you and tell you 'you're safe here, in the manor, with us'.

every time they spend hours, ditching patrol nights, cooking your comfort food, reading your favorite books, watching movies for hours, ignoring your assigned sleep schedule, kissing your scarred hands gently, reverently, cuddling your form against their strong ones as a silent promise that with them, there's nothing to harm you no more— you'd feel lighter every time, a tad happier, even. slowly, but surely, melting against the confines of your adorned cage and the embrace of your loving captors.

every time they help you heal, it makes you forgive, and it makes you forget their prior kidnapping in return of building new memories with them, in a safer haven, with nobody to hurt you any longer, with nobody to bash your head against concrete walls, to punish you. you who is underserving of the circumstances bought upon you back then.

safe, a word you thought you'll never feel, a word you didn't even know existed in the crevices of your heart. but it is with them that you slowly start to associate safe with family.

the family that you've come to love and cherish in your own imperfect ways, the same way a stray dog becomes too loyal to a passerby when given bones for leftovers every day.

but you're not an animal, and you're not a pavlovian dog meant to be conditioned. no, you're their baby, their love, their treasure and their only one. the love they feed you exceeds beyond leftovers. only you can devour them wholly, the same way they cloak your world in the love that fills that neverending pit in your heart.

you're not biologically related to any of them in any way, too. yet it was all a matter of coincidence that they stumbled upon you.

but really, past is past.

then is then.

now it's just you and them.

it's you, with them.

just your family. overbearing, overprotective, overpowering.

but nothing is always over to you. their love isn't too much. how could you tell yourself it's too much? not when you were never given a basis of what is too much. how is one too much when you were never even given enough?

trust is built upon a foundation of connecting with others who can relate with you one way or another, who can see past through your flaws and mistakes— it's a bond that precedes mere acquaintanceship.

you might've met them later than everyone else, but it's you that completes them.

you're the puzzle that completes the family photographs, the goal for bruce to continue his legacy as batman and to ward off all evil, the inspiration for dick to be that aspiring hero everyone sees him to be, the reason jason begins to reform himself for your sake, the purpose for tim's endless pursuit of knowledge, the muse for damian's painting, the subject for his love he thought was no more, the ambition for steph's prolongation despite her countless of failures, the motivation for barbara to seek out all the criminals who have harmed you, the influence for cass to be stronger to protect you, the catalyst for duke to use his metahuman abilities for good, to take out those who walk in broad daylight, as if they weren't involved in your past tortures.

you're everything that they are.

their sunshine and moonlight, their companionship and loneliness, their pain and pleasure, their yin and yan.

their greatest passion.

a/n: hii guys erm. this is so sudden and also counts as a rant but yk... i feel like quitting this blog but at the same time not. it's just, i feel like writing has been more of an obligation than anything else. it doesn't help the fact that i've only been getting interaction if i were to actually produce something good. beyond that, it feels like people are expecting more of me. i get it, updates are sporadic, they appear in the blink of an eye when you least expect it, but at the same time it's just hard juggling what i want to write and what i feel like i need to write. this blog was primarily to post about my thoughts and to talk to people but lately, every time i open this app to write, i feel these plethora of thoughts and expectations telling me that if i don't do well enough then people would merely ignore whatever i post or it's just bad by standards. and yes i'm grateful for all the people supporting my writing, but at the same time i'm lead to a cycle of me losing my motivation to continue writing. ugh idk what im doing anymore help :((

tl;dr: will i stop writing? no, but at the same time i don't know. someday, i may deactivate this account out of impulse if i feel too much, or not. it depends hehe.

[petrichoravis]

You, everywhere I look. | s.r

summery: Spencer finds himself unable to move through his life without finding pieces of you in everything he does or sees. He can’t say that he minds. (Or, you have been away and Spencer welcomes you home with love and flowers.)

word count: 1,7k

what to expect: spencer reid x fem!reader, no plot just spence being down bad, fluff (like tooth rotting, the couple that you see on the street and feel like barfing kind of fluffy), domesticity, established relationship, mention of spence lifting r up but he doesn’t actually, mention of future children as well as bad experiences with relationships but it’s not a plot point and there are no actual children, food and eating, English is not my first language

a/n: this is kind of my form of shit posting, bc this isn’t particularly good, but I liked it somehow. I think my fics being swallowed up by the algorithm has given me the freedom to just post what I want

──── ✿

Spencer stretched his arms above his head with a sigh. The sun filtered through the curtain, beaming the shadow of the windows on the inside of the fabric like a projection screen.

He dreamed of you—a good dream for once. A child of your own, a life filled with joy, laughter until your stomach hurts, and rolling in the grass together down the hill where your house sits.

Dream analysis has never been something he believed in, given that it is purely based on interpretation, with no underlying logic or factual basis. But you made him forget logic, made him want to believe in all the things ethos and the universe told him.

But dream analysis and believing that a dream could inspire a future were two different things. And he so badly wanted to lead that kind of life with you.

In the bathroom, he found your toothbrush next to his in the run-down cup. You had insisted on painting clay with him for your second date and made a cup with beautiful flowers embellishing it. But you had forgotten to add a handle before painting, so it had its place on Spencer’s sink now.

You were a little sad that he wouldn’t be able to drink his coffee out of it every morning, but he had assured you that they would keep him motivated to brush his teeth every day and save him from cavities.

The toothbrush for you was something that had accidentally happened.

You and Spencer had started off as a hesitant couple, as you’d called it. You did all of the things couples did, kissing, going on dates, sleeping at each other’s apartments, but both of you were hesitant to put a serious label on it.

Spencer was careful because of his job and the dangers that it brought with it—too many of his relationships having fallen victim to his profession—and you because of the hesitancy that was brought on by ex-boyfriends and baggage.

But as the two of you spent more time together and started falling deeper in love, you started sleeping at Spencer’s house more than at your own.

With that came that you always had to bring your own necessities. Often, this led to you leaving things with him that you needed at your house when you left his.

So, Spencer bought you a toothbrush (and a towel (he had towels, but he saw one that he knew you’d like) and a hair brush and shampoo). He tried to disguise it like it was just a spare one he coincidentally found at the bottom of his drawer.

(“What a coincidence that all of those things appeared at the same time, huh?” You had teased, and he was too focused on your smile and the fact that you had your things at his place now, he just replied, “Mhm.”)

Spencer pressed play on the CD player he installed in his bathroom, which you laughed at him for, but found endearing at the same time.

You always played music while brushing your teeth to make the activity more enjoyable and to really brush for three minutes, which Spencer never failed to remind you was important. It was something your family passed down to you, and Spencer was incredibly proud that you trusted him with it, too.

As he pressed play, the intro song to your favorite album started playing. You must’ve forgotten to take the disc out. He hummed along around the toothbrush while brushing.

After he finished cleaning up, showering (your shampoo stood on the little shelf in his shower cabin) and putting on clothes (the cardigan he chose was your favorite, a brown one made from soft wool, with a green button band), he made his way into the kitchen.

He wasn’t much of a breakfast eater before meeting you. Usually, he chose to grab a coffee and a doughnut on his way to work, but you made him want to wake up early to wake you softly, to eat still-warm buns and solve crosswords and sudokus.

It had become a habit for him now, even without you here, waking up earlier to enjoy the morning sun at his table next to the window, watching birds.

Crossword puzzles were something he saved for you and him, though.

On his way to the office, he passed by a flower shop like he did every day, called The Water Lily Pond. Named after the famous painting by Monet.

They always had a beautiful array of flowers, and today they had a big bouquet of your favorite flowers and bicolored leaves, and goat willow twigs as decoration stood right outside. He swore to himself to buy you one on his way back.

Walking just a few steps further, he saw a cat with a little hat looking out of the window and smiled. You would love that, begging for him to lift you up so you could pet her, and he would roll his eyes and pretend that he cared about being on time while already lifting you up.

The work day is one of the rare slow-moving ones, Spencer’s task mainly involving research on offenders that are already in prison, to refine profiling techniques and methods for future consultations with other law enforcement officers.

It’s a tedious process, and he is well aware that he had been chosen for the task because of his practical ability to read as many words a minute as he can. He doesn’t mind, Garcia and JJ visit him from time to time, he plays cards with Emily, and Hotch invites everyone to a lunch break.

He ordered your favorite food at the restaurant, and when the conversation about Emily’s cat Sirgio, subsided, Morgan asked about you.

“How’s the lady, boy genius?” A smirk ready on his lips. Spencer was sure that anything he’d say would end in relentless teasing.

“She’s great,” he smiled sheepishly, ignoring the cough of ‘I’m sure she is’ from Morgan. “She’s been away to visit friends and family last weekend, and work kept her busy until now, but we’re cooking today. Staying in, maybe read something together.”

Penelope squeaked in delight, “That sounds so lovely! Tell her I said hi, please. Oh! And that I totally didn’t forget to send her the cookie recipe, I’m just perfecting it. It has to be perfect.” She went on, asking him to ask you if you wanted to come to her girls night and if you liked strawberry or preferred cherries, and only stopped when Morgan laid a hand on her shoulder, gently.

“I will,” Spencer replied, laughing fondly. He had introduced you to the team just a month after you had made things official, and they adored you from moment one, just like he knew they would.

Penelope had even baked you cookies for your last birthday, and as you stood next to the table, snacking on them, she said that she trusted you to pass the recipe down your family line and promised to send you the recipe.

(Spencer had choked as she said it, scared that it would be too soon to implicate such a thing. But you had handled it with grace, telling her that you would feel honored to bake delights like Penny’s sugar cookies for your future children. Spencer knew he was done for in that moment, if he didn’t already know it, anyway.)

After lunch, they all went back to the office to finish their respective tasks for the day and went home early thanks to Hotch’s insistence that they deserved one day a year to be home before dark.

On his way home, he went by The Water Lily Pond like he promised himself to buy you the flowers and pretty paper for a card, you always said how much you loved handmade gifts.

Speeding back home to keep the flowers fresh, he saw a couple on—undoubtedly—their first date and smiled; he still remembered his nerves as he took you out for your first date. He kissed you under the low light of the lantern over your apartment entrance.

Back home, he found a vase in the crannies of his cupboards and presented the bouquet on his kitchen table, the card he made with press-dried flowers leaned against it.

It wasn’t long before his doorbell rang, and Spencer hurried from his kitchen to the door, cotton socks on his hardwood floor slithering.

“Hi,” he breathed out as he opened the door to see a smiling you.

“Hi,” you echoed. It was funny to think that you’ve known each other for years and still felt nervous around each other, as if you had gotten to know each other for the first time again every time you saw each other.

Spencer let you in and hugged you tightly, his arms wrapped around you securely and his head on your shoulder. “I missed you.”

“Me too.” You were rocking slightly, not letting go for quite some time, and when you did, it was just to kiss each other softly.

When you did separate, you were smiling fools. “I got you a little souvenir,” you said, searching your bag for the present. It was a little key charm, a vintage-looking lock. “I know it’s not much, but I found it in a vintage store and thought you’d like it.”

He took it from your hands, smiling even bigger. “I love it, thank you.” He kissed your cheek. “Are you hungry?”

You nodded, linking your hand with Spencer’s as if you were going somewhere far rather than five steps towards his kitchen.

As you saw the bouquet, you gasped. “It’s so beautiful,” You peeled away from your boyfriend to look at it more closely. “My favorite,” you pouted at him, “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome.” He said fondly, stepping closer to you to hug you from behind.

Not much cooking happened that evening, you mostly stayed on the couch, talking and kissing. Well, you did try to cook, but you were so caught up in each other that you accidentally burned the food and ended up on the couch, eating take-out from boxes.

──────── ✿

thank you for reading! please remember that reblogs and comments encourage writers to share more 𝜗𝜚

[cobbled-peach]

˗ˏˋ જ⁀➴ acts of non-affection

when a late-night case load threatens to derail your plans, Spencer steps in with a "strictly practical" offer

cw: sunshine!fem!reader x post-prison spencer. reader talks about wearing makeup. not much else to say, just though this was a fun dynamic. a/n: when I was writing this, I had sort of an age-gap in mind, but that doesn’t really translate. So maybe I’ll give these babies another lil story at some point and develop on that. this was just a fun, small story while I work on something bigger and get through some requests !!! w/c: 2k

Friday nights at the BAU were always a gamble.

Sometimes the team made it out before nightfall. Sometimes not at all. Tonight fell somewhere in the middle: a limbo of sorts, where the bullpen was half-empty and the overhead fluorescent lights hummed like they were ready to call it quits too. The hallway murmured with agents’ quiet goodbyes, blinds rattling softly as they were drawn shut one by one.

It had been a long week. Grueling. Not just in hours, but in weight. It was heavy; the sort of case that lodged itself deep inside and refused to be shaken loose. The aftershocks still lingered in the air – metaphorically, emotionally, and painfully literal in the form of a mountain of paperwork.

You were still at your desk. Sleeves rolled to the elbow, jacket thrown over the back of your chair. You’d wanted to look like the picture of dedication; an agent hammering through work with unwavering professionalism.

The truth? The thought of spending another few hours alone with this pile of files was enough to make you consider crying into your keyboard. Seriously. Your soul was actually aching.

It was a losing battle, and you were painfully aware of it. But hope had always been your favorite bad habit.

You stared at the stack with a sigh that originated from deep in your chest. There was no way you’d finish this and still make it to your dinner plans. And you’d really been looking forward to this one. A date – something finally outside the BAU. Easy. Normal. Just dinner. You’d picked out your outfit four days ago, perfume already set out and waiting. You’d even memorized the menu like it was part of your prep for a case.

But you weren’t one to leave work unfinished.

Especially not now. Not with the team running on fumes. There had been a quiet tension all week. Too-tight smiles. Long, exhausted looks. Even your usual optimism – "relentless," as Garcia once called it (which was saying something, coming from her) – could only stretch so far before starting to feel tone-deaf. You didn’t want to be the agent who slacked behind when everyone was struggling.

So, with a barely concealed disappointed sigh, you pulled out your phone and started typing. Another cancellation. Another “rain check?” Not the first, and definitely not the last. You hated how practiced you’d gotten at writing them. Someday, someone would look over your romantic history as a trail of sweet apologies and slowly vanishing matches. You’d lost count of the number of times you’d let potential soulmates slip away because federal work took precedence.

‘Big night?’

The familiar voice came from behind, breaking the silence.

You turned, finding Luke Alvez leaning against his desk, arms crossed. The tilt of his head suggested he already knew the answer.

‘Was supposed to be,’ you said with a wry grin. ‘Dinner plans. With an actual human. Real food, no blood spatter analysis. I was even going to wear lipstick.’

‘Must be a special guy if you’re willing to step out of the realm of FBI professionalism,’ he teased, light, but slightly strained with exhaustion.

‘I was feeling bold,’ you said with a playful shrug. ‘But alas, my hot date with bureaucratic despair wins again.’

‘Wait—this wasn’t the date with moustache guy, right?’ (You’d only offered a vague description. Garcia had given him the nickname). ‘The one who was going to take you to the Italian where they handmake the pasta in front of you?’

‘Don’t remind me,’ you said with a small groan. ‘He was literally taking me to carbohydrate heaven. I was emotionally invested.’

‘You might still make it,’ he offered, half-hopeful. He already knew the chances were unlikely. ‘Leave a few papers for tomorrow. No one will chase you down over it.’

A hesitation on your end. A tiny flicker of temptation in your chest.

But then you shook your head. ‘If I leave this many, I’ll end up rushing to get it done tomorrow. And if I rush, I’ll miss something. And then Emily will hit me with that look.’

Luke winced in sympathy. ‘The lip-press. Brutal.’

‘Exactly. So, tragically, ravioli and wine will have to wait. Paperwork is calling.’

Luke gave you a mock salute. ‘You’re stronger than me,’ he said, and you smiled more genuinely this time. ‘If I was you, I’d already be halfway to the wine and pasta.’

‘I’ll live vicariously through your freedom, then,’ you responded brightly, despite the fact your heart was sinking just a little.

As he turned to leave, you settled back into your chair, noticing the subtle hint of movement from a few desks down.

Spencer Reid.

He’d always been… bristly, for lack of a better word. Distant. Curt. Formal to a fault. It wasn’t like you’d expected warm hugs, but you hadn’t anticipated an emotional barbed wire to surround him.

He looked up from behind the shield of a computer screen, eyes flicking towards you. Just for a moment, not enough to count. Barely even a tilt of his head. He didn’t speak, but that was to be expected. He never spoke with you.

There was a strange stillness. Quiet and calculating. The pause was too long to be accidental. Like he was deciding something.

He looked away as you pushed from your desk to grab a cup of coffee – a humble ally to your late-night paperwork, something to hopefully bribe your willpower into working and getting things done.

Three minutes in the kitchenette. Water boiled. Mug filled. And then you were returning to your desk.

Except it wasn’t empty.

He was at your desk.

Spencer was at your desk.

And thumbing through your files, no less.

Your first thought was that in the two minutes it had taken for the water to boil, reality had somehow shifted and you were now in an alternate dimension. Or maybe he’d been body-snatched.

Either way, you froze mid-step. A moment of total suspension, where you blinked hard and tried to reset the scene.

But no, he remained. Dividing your files into two neat piles with a furrowed brow. Categorizing with some unknown, internal metric. Scruitinizing.

You’d never moved across the bullpen so fast, all but sprinting, skidding to a halt beside your desk and setting the thoroughly-sloshed coffee down.

‘Whoa, whoa—Reid. What are you doing?’ Breathless. Inconclusive if it was from the sprint across the room, or the panic of seeing him look through your work.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look up.

‘Dividing them,’ he responded curtly.

‘Yeah, I can see that. Why?’

‘You told Luke you wouldn’t be able to finish them all.’

‘Okay, but that doesn’t explain why you’re here.’

‘I’m taking some.’

‘Huh?’ You stared at him. Blinked once. Twice. Definitely body-snatched. ‘You’re doing what now?’

‘Half,’ he said plainly, pulling the heavier stack of paperwork towards himself.

‘Okay, what?’ You laughed. Incredulous. Bewildered. Your eyes widened a little in confusion. ‘Are you sick or something? Should I be checking for a fever?’

He gave you a deadpan look, and you raised your hands in defense.

‘Kidding,’ you said. A beat of silence. ‘You’re seriously taking half?’

‘I can finish it tonight,’ he responded with a nod.

You let out another disbelieving laugh. ‘You do remember you have your own paperwork, right? You can’t take it all on. Surely you know some statistics about burnout, or something.’

‘I've accounted for them.’

Another pause, eyes still wide and confused. You attempted a different tactic. ‘You don’t have to rescue me.’

‘I’m not.’

More silence. You stared at him, trying to understand what was happening, what had shifted. This was the same man who barely spoke to you unless it was case-related. Who responded to your warmth with indifference.

And now he was… helping?

You gawked at him. ‘Are you sure I shouldn’t be checking you for a fever?’

The look he gave you this time was withering.

‘Because this is very un-Dr. Reid of you,’ you continued. ‘Like… I would not be surprised if you had been replaced by an android while I was making coffee.’

Nothing. Not a smirk. Not a twitch.

Tone-deaf joke, or just an emotionally closed off Reid? Maybe a mix of both.

You sighed. ‘I didn’t ask you to do this.’

‘I never said that you did.’

‘And you’re sure this isn’t going to make you burn out or implode or whatever?’

‘I won’t implode.’

You stared at him. Hard. ‘And you’re sure you’re not an android?’

He ignored that. As was to be expected.

Spencer turned to walk back to his desk, but something about the exchange was nagging at you. The abruptness of it, perhaps? Your mouth opened, then closed again, reminiscent of a fish. He was halfway to is desk when you called, following behind, ‘Reid, wait—’

He paused. Barely. Turned halfway with a clenched jaw.

‘—why are you really doing this?’

He ran his tongue across his top teeth, jaw ticking slightly as he glanced down at your files, then back to you and your now crossed arms.

‘You were visibly upset,’ he said finally, tone clipped. ‘That affects accuracy. A 2.8 second emotional distraction can double the likelihood of error. This is a practical solution to your… date crisis.’

The way he said those words was indecipherable. Annoying, because you were meant to be a profiler who could read micro-expressions, but he was giving nothing away. As usual.

You studied him. ‘So… damage control? Over paperwork I haven’t even started yet?’

‘Exactly.’

You raised a brow next. ‘Not because you wanted me to have a nice night?’

‘I don’t care if you have a nice evening or not,’ he responded, mechanical and flat. ‘I care about correctly filled in paperwork.’

You placed a hand over your heart, clutching it in mock betrayal. ‘Ouch. That’s seriously cold. Ruthless, even. I’m sort of devastated.’

He simply turned and walked away.

You watched him sit, pull your files closer, an start working in the meticulous way that was so Spencer Reid. Like this wasn’t strange at all. He was doing something nice. Not kind, or warm, but helpful. In a repressed and reluctant sort of way.

There was something mildly captivating about watching him work, too. He’d get into the zone with unwavering, clinical concentration that you were a little envious of. Only a little, though.

You slipped your jacket over your arms, firing a quick text to ‘Mustache’ that let him know you were actually okay for the date. He responded quickly, plans back on and in place. A much needed reprieve from the monotony of paperwork and the chaos of murderers.

You were set to go, until a thought struck. You glanced at the undrunk coffee on your desk. Still hot. Still steaming. You picked it up and walked over to him, setting it down on his desk which earned an almost horrified look.

‘I’m not going to drink it,’ you explained. ‘You can have it, if you want.’

‘I’m not touching your mug,’ he said, visibly uncomfortable. You saw his fingers twitching in distaste at the thought.

‘Germs?’ you guessed, familiar with his somewhat eclectic ways. ‘Fair enough. I can pour it into your own mug?’

‘Please—don’t.’

You smiled sheepishly. ‘I just feel like I owe you.’

‘You don’t. I’m not doing it as a favor, and I’m not doing it for you. It’s a practical solution, like I said before.’

‘Still, thanks,’ you said, softening your voice. That had him pausing mid-sentence for half a second, before he returned to writing. ‘Even if you’re not doing it for me.’

He said nothing, and you took that as the end of the conversation. Turned and walked to the elevator. In your hand, your phone was buzzing with “Mustache’s” messages; what time he’d be coming to pick you up and how he was really excited you were doing this.

You hummed thoughtfully. Spared a final glance through the glass doors into the bullpen where Spencer was seated at your desk. Knee-deep in your files, illuminated by a slightly yellow-hued lamp on his desk.

He didn’t look up. But you smiled at him anyway.

taglist: @curatedbylucy @cynbx @internallysalad @jeuj @redorquid @thoughtwriter @whitenoisewhatanawfulsound @written-in-the-stars06 please feel free to comment to be added to the taglist, or go to this post here :)