#false might commit murder not sure

[bat-themarcykinnie]

false really makes me giggle here

[chronically-ghosted]

stay sexy and don’t get murdered

rating: E for Explicit! 18+

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 6K

summary: Trapped behind a secret wall to hide from a murderer, the close proximity forces you and Dieter to confront feelings you rather bury underneath your case to prove your favorite neighbor didn’t commit suicide. 

(This is the Only Murders in the Building smut fic in the chaotic stylings of Dieter Bravo.)

warnings: brief moments of tv-appropiate terror, arguing, mentions of suicide, mentions of death/murder, but more importantly: smut (like half of this is smut), oral (f!receiving), dieter’s bare ass nearly catching on fire, too many feelings for something that started as a crack fic idea

a/n: this is my submission for the Dieter Brainrot Club server challenge! Thank you so much to @sp00kymulderrr for putting this together!

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On the other side of the false door, the floor creaks. Fear arches up the back of your spine, your fingers digging into your thighs, your heart pounding somewhere near your ears. The threads of light that struggle through the nearly invisible cracks fade and emerge as heavy boots cross back and forth over the wooden floor. A thousand panicked thoughts pierce one after the other –

Did you shut the door all the way?

Could the intruder see the seams in the wall? 

What were they waiting for?

And then, like a red, bright flare barreling through your brain: what the fuck were they after in Dieter’s apartment?

Another step closer to the false door and dread smothers every thought in your head, until you can hear the thundering of your own heart, the quick draw of your breath that is obviously so loud, the intruder has to hear it. 

Another bootfall, another creak, less light – he’s coming right for you you’re drawing him in – you inhale sharply, fear beating your heart against your breast bone the closer and closer the shadow comes – all the light is gone – and –

His hand slips over your mouth and draws you against his chest. The chill of the hidden crawl space dissipates against his warm skin, his solid forearm like a protective barrier over your chest, his fingers suddenly around your wrist as if to catch you. Your body must think it's falling because your hands grip him around the forearm, pulling him even tighter, his warmth a balm to the sinking cold of fear. 

Shhh . . .

Maybe he says it or maybe you just hear it in your head, his lips against your ear, not a gust of air between your bodies, his own breathing so faint you vaguely think he might be holding his breath. The heady scent of his muted cologne – days old at this point – mixed with the zing of something citrus-y has your head fogging up faster, fear dripping away like melting ice. You want to keep your eyes trained on the cracks of light, keep your muscles tense and ready for a fight when that door inevitably opens – but you swallow against his fingers when you realize that underlying smell of spice coming from him is the smell of Takis sticks and how much it turns you the fuck on. 

In the silence, the footfalls stop. The pressure and overpowering heat at your back makes sweat peak at your hairline, heartbeat at a low thrum. You’re entirely sure both of you have stopped breathing, just waiting, hoping –

You squeeze your eyes shut – 

And then the boots turn away. Heavy, lurking, but in the opposite direction. The invader paces up and down the length of the apartment, never coming near the secret door again. And then, as quickly as he came, the front door opens and shuts. 

There is quiet, a ringing silence. 

“Oh thank fuck,” Dieter gasps out. He lets you go, giving you space again, and you are instantly cold. He drops his hands to his navy sweatpants over his knees, head dropping down against his chest. “Holy shit I thought we were gonna die.” 

Your lips are still warm from his hand so as if to give it back because you don’t want anything from him, you pout them out.

“If you didn’t fight with me about hiding, we would have had more time. Why are you physically incapable of listening to me?”

You watch sweat roll down his temples and you realize your back is also damp. Your knees quake as the adrenaline subsides. The droplet from his hair continues down his throat, catching on his collarbone between the two folded edges of pink-and-black see-through kimono he wore like it was a totally normal thing. Of course this is his painting outfit. 

If Dieter catches you oogling, he doesn’t say anything. Instead he straightens up and rubs his eye with the back of his wrist, still a bit out of breath. 

“You know, when someone with tits like yours pushes me into a dark closet, I’m not really one to argue, but I think I should get some credit for not calling the cops on the first person who broke into my apartment today. What the fuck were you doing in there?”

You’re not quite sure what makes you flush harder: that he caught you doing something highly illegal or that he thinks your tits are dark-closet worthy. 

“Your apartment is one of the few original rooms built as part of the Rhododendron,” you answer defensively, arms crossed. “And since these passageways never showed up on any later building plans, I figured no one knew they were here.” 

Dieter frowns as he wipes the back of his neck with his palm and your eyes definitely don’t track it. 

“You’re saying there have been people living in my walls, watching me jerk off and I never knew?” His dumbstruck look melts into one of lewd satisfaction. “Nice.”

No, see, this was why nothing was ever going to ever happen between you two. 

“God, Dieter, you’re disgusting.” You shove past him and lean into the door. “People aren’t living down here. Didn’t you hear what I said? Hardly anyone knows about this at all – and they aren’t waiting around – to watch – you come –,”

Three hard pushes and the door remains firmly shut. What the fuck? Your fingers skim the seams, looking for a latch or a handle, something.

“You can yell at me once we get back inside.” He shudders and wraps his arms around his chest. “I’m freezing my nips off in here.” 

“I’m trying, Dieter, but it won’t open –,” you push harder, using even more force than you did to open it on the other side. “It’s stuck.” 

“Move, I’ll do it –,”

“Fuck you, Dieter, I got it.”

“We’d be outta here by now if you did.”

“Just help me–,”

“Ugh – fine –  on the count of three – one –,”

“Two –,”

“Three!” 

Nothing. He slumps to the floor, his bare feet sprawled out in front of him. 

“For this much grunting and sweat,” he pants, “we should definitely be fucking.”

You flick his ear, glaring at him, the heat of exertion sparking up to your cheeks at his words. He scowls up at you and claps a big hand over his ear as if to protect it from further assault. 

With a huff, you take out your phone and slide on the flashlight. As suspected, the crawlspace continues on, long into the dark. 

“C’mon, there has to be a way out somehow.” 

“You’re not serious,” he snaps from behind you. “Even I know in an emergency situation you have to stay put and wait for the authorities.”

“Oh, you mean the authorities that don’t know we’re here and probably will never know, with my –,” you check your phone for emphasis, “zero bars!” 

His hands fly to his pant pockets and groans. “Fuck, I don’t have mine.” 

You step back, hinging at the waist in a low bow. “Then lead the way.”

“Fuck, this is not how I wanted to spend my night.” He groans again and shoves the heel of his palms into his eyes before crawling to his feet. He wraps the air-thin kimono around his torso and fixes you with a solid glare. “Fine, but I’m charging you for every toe I lose to hypothermia.” 

The hallways grow colder and darker the further you go, the air thickening with dust. You walk longer and longer as the passageway narrows until his shoulder bumps yours and eventually he has to follow an inch behind you to get through. But he’s not close enough to be warm.

“Can’t believe my last fucking meal was Froot Loops,” Dieter announces to the darkness after what feels like you’ve been walking for hours. You don’t need to see his face to know he’s scowling. “Fucking nasty.”

Your jaw aches from how tightly you grind your teeth together. 

“If it was so nasty, then why did you eat it?” 

“I couldn’t UberEats Captain Crunch,” he sniffs and you realize how cold your own nose is. “There’s a blizzard going on outside, didn’t you hear? Or were you too busy playing Nancy Drew, Baby’s First Break in?”

“I didn’t think you’d be home so early. You usually stop painting around eight, not 6:30.” 

“And just what were you hoping to find?” The casual sarcasm has been leached from his voice and genuine anger crackles over your shoulder. “I told you Mags gave me that key to her apartment of her own free will –,”

“– which you just conveniently forgot to mention–,”  

“– she gave it to me months ago and, so, yeah, sue me for forgetting!” You want to bite back with something, something to make the painful ache in your chest when you found out he had been lying to you go away. Something to scrape the taste of shame and disappointment off your tongue. But you know everything you’d throw at him would be unfair and childish. You stew so long in a bottle of your own rage and hurt that you don’t realize the silence has stretched on far too long.

When Dieter speaks again, he’s several steps behind you. You shine the flashlight on him and he barely flinches. You can see his broad shoulders shivering and you do think his feet look worryingly pink.

“The last time I saw Mags was just before a six month shoot. She gave me that key and told her to surprise her when I came back.” His teeth are chattering but he won’t look up at you. “I meant to call her, check in, while I was gone, but I just . . .” He shakes his head, eyes tightly shut. “I got back into town an hour after they found her body . . . which means I didn’t kill her, for the record. You can check my ticket.”

Your mouth drops open, shame spreading out like an electric shock across your skin. “Dieter, I never thought that you . . .”

His glare levels you and you wonder what his face looked like after you slammed the door behind you that night you found the key. You had spent two weeks afterwards wandering the halls looking for secret tunnels to peel the image of his face just before you left in a rush from the walls of your brain. What had he done in all that time apart?

“Whatever. Let’s just go. I think you already owe me a thousand bucks.”

He tries to move forward but you block him, standing in the middle of the hallway. The light of your phone hits him from underneath and his jawline plays shadows on his chest. 

“I didn’t leave because I thought you killed her, Dieter. You lied to me. I’ve been running in fucking circles over this thing for weeks and all this time you kept something from me! It felt like you were . . .”

“What?”

The heat of your anger rolls up to the back of your neck. “It . . . i-it felt like you were manipulating me. Play detective with the little idiot in 2B because you’re bored and I was . . . available. Like what we were doing, it didn’t matter to you.” 

Dieter’s teeth clench on the right side of his jaw. “Of course it matters to me. Mags was the only one in this entire building who treated me like a person and not a fucking spectacle. She was important to me and I know she didn’t kill herself. I wanna get the fucker who did it as much as you do.” 

“But you kissed me!” You feel the cold in the air drop down into your lungs so fast your chest aches. “You kissed me, Dieter, and then I found the key on accident – like you were hiding it from me – a-and I heard the message Anika left on your voicemail. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, but . . .” You squeeze your eyes shut, the cold from your lungs seeping into your bones. It’s nearly hard to breathe. “You and I are very different people, Dieter, and there’s not a world I can imagine you want anything to do with me, or Mags. I thought you were just . . . playing with me.”

The light of the phone hovers between you and him. Your toes are starting to ache from the ice-cold concrete and you briefly consider taking off your shoes and giving him your socks because that’s the instinct he draws from you. Despite how you fought it, how you clawed and scratched, you want Dieter Bravo to be okay, to be happy. But you can’t prostrate yourself on the altar of someone who wouldn’t do the same for you.

Not again.

“Dieter, please say something.” You can see his pant leg tremble in the blue light. “I’m sorry I–,”

“Did you ever think I like the fact that you’re different from me? From everything that my world means? That everything that makes you, you is amazing and gorgeous and I’m so fucking drawn to it, I lose sleep at night.” His voice is deep, hulking in a way that fills up the dark corridor until you feel like you are being smothered. But it’s not angry, not aggressive. If anything, his voice is thick with regret. “Anika was . . . a mistake. She knows that now. She’s seen it. So I can’t blame you for r-running the way you did, but . . . I’m not lying to you. Not about Mags, or how I feel, or anything else. I never have and I never will. You got that?”

Swallowing the grisly, meaty knot in your throat that could be mistaken for your emaciated heart, you nod. You are suddenly overwhelmed by the desire to fall to your knees and confess your own sordid past that made you the way that you are because he needs to know you’re NOT amazing or gorgeous or anything resembling someone worth losing sleep over. 

He needs to know he should run from you

“I’m starting to lose feeling in my toes, seriously. We need to get out of here.” 

He stands there staring, the dark shadows abandoned by the light of your phone hiding whatever is in his eyes. And then you realize he’s waiting for you to move. Your knees and elbows locked from the cold and the weight of his confession, you stiffly turn around, heading into the darkness without looking back.

About an hour later, Dieter bursts through his apartment again with a cry of relief and immediately bolts for the fireplace. He twiddles with the switch a second before a massive fire belches from behind the sleek black grate. With another deep groan, he drops in front of the fire and sticks his hands centimeters from the metal fence. He wiggles his toes and props them up on the marble lip. The stiffness recedes, the pink fading, and he glances over his shoulder.

“Well, don’t just stand there. Either come in and shut the door . . . or leave.” 

Your fingers wrap around the edge of the black door. You are cold. Your fingers are cold. The hole in your heart that’s been growing there long before you met Dieter . . . makes you step through the threshold and shut the door behind you.

Dieter wiggles his toes against the marble lip, his elbows over his knees, his eyes the color of earth in autumn. He neither tenses or relaxes when you sit down next to him, extending your own extremities closer to the fire. 

The color has returned to his lips and you can’t find anything else in the room to look at. 

“I’d offer you a drink,” he murmurs to the flames, “but I still can’t feel my feet.”

I lose sleep at night.

“Dieter, look, I’m . . .”

His thick fingers wrap around the bone of his wrist and he shakes his head. “Don’t. You don’t have to say anything. Don’t . . . don’t say it if you don’t mean it.” 

“Thank you, Dieter.” You glance at him. The fire crackles in his eyes, wide in disbelief, fingers tangled together. “I mean that. I wouldn’t have gotten as far as I have without you.” 

He chuckles after a pause. “That’s not what you said when I broke into the super’s storage closet for you.”

“You’re going to get us arrested,” you roll your eyes and bump your shoulder into his. With a grin that is innocent and hopeful and full of bright fire from behind the grate, his gaze drops to the plush of your mouth, the wet crease where your tongue soothes dry skin, and his bottom lip curls between his teeth. 

“Oh,” he murmurs, “I’ve always liked the idea of you in handcuffs.”

As though his gaze has a solid presence, it licks fire down your throat, over the back of your neck, rocketing into your spine and swooping low into the peak of your thighs. It darts over your lips, your nose, your cheeks, your ears, dragging lightning in its wake.

It isn’t the first time you’re consumed by the thought of kissing Dieter Bravo and it certainly won’t be the last, but it’s the first time you are made so overwhelmingly helpless by it, the wind is knocked out of you for a second. 

You wait too long to breathe, too long to tear your gaze away from his lips, too long to realize you’re leaning into him, until his broad hand redirects your forward motion up into his open mouth. 

This is the first time you’ve ever kissed Dieter Bravo and dear fucking god, please don’t let it be the last. 

His tongue lines your bottom lip, tasting, memorizing, marking that place that has you tilting in closer. Beneath your fingertips, the recluse beard scratches and burns and you take his jaw in both palms because you can’t wait to push it between your legs. His fingers wind into your hair and he’s leaning over you, consuming you like only your dreams of this kiss had before. 

All it takes is one soft sigh, one final moan of relief, your fingers curling around the flimsy kimono, and Dieter pins you to the floor in a single fluid motion. His knee digs into your thigh, trapping your legs apart, to make room for himself in the cradle of your hips, pressing himself into you and pushing air from your lungs. You can feel him hard, the tip of his cock warm against you, and that simple fact – the fact he wants you so badly – has you slotting an arm around the back of his neck, tugging him in tighter, closer, because not even sex would bring him deeper inside you. With a grunt, Dieter’s hand leaves your cheek, running hotly down your neck, the curve of your shoulder, and into the dip of your hip. He squeezes and you whine against his teeth. He rucks his leg up under your thigh, squeezes you again, rougher, more intentional, and you tug your head back, gasping for breath, lungs on fire and mind whirling like a book flipping open in the wind. 

You groan, air precious and limited, as he sinks just a hint of teeth into your jaw, your earlobe – harder, then – your throat, his tongue going flat and fat against your skin, then the valley of your collarbone. He mouths lower on your chest over your shirt, need overwhelming logic, and your fingers fly to slide up your own shirt, wriggling between his cock and the floor, and when he sees you peel your shirt up over your ribs, his mouth parts, eyes dark, framed by darker lashes.

“Fuck.”

Your back arches towards his mouth, towards his tongue and lips and teeth and the hot pant of air coming from the back of his throat. The lip of your shirt exposes your heaving tits and Dieter plants his mouth in the curve, groaning with a mouthful of your skin. He sucks, teeth prickling the skin, as if he could eat his way through you. His hips sway forward, heavy against the seam of your jeans and his nose draws up to your jaw before he’s kissing you again. 

“I’m not manipulating you,” he hums out of nowhere. He blinks his bleary eyes at you, his wide hands stilling in their touch, and you want to laugh and grin and tell him he’s being silly but you can’t, you can’t over the wild beat of your heart, the sincerity in his voice a grounding force beneath the bloom of pleasure riding up from where his hips press into yours. He dips his head and drops a hot, open-mouth kiss to your throat. “‘M not, I swear, I swear–,”

“I know, Dieter.” You tug his chin up with the press of your thumb, into your seeking mouth, and he groans, tasting the transference of want, of truth, of pure desperation on your tongue. The slip of lip between his teeth turns his touch frantic. 

“I want this.”

“Me too.”

Shifting over you, he kisses back down your neck, short whiskers stroking tiny burns against your skin, down your chest until he dips his head over your right breast, and bites – then soothes with his tongue. His hand nearly maps your other tit in one palm.

He squeezes as he bites again and your hips drive up into his, bliss sparkling like lightning between storm clouds beneath your skin. You aren’t sure if you moan his name or if it’s just pasted over every thought in your head. He makes you lose all sense. 

With a groan he lifts his head just an inch, the cold tip of his nose drawing senseless shapes over the curves of your breast.

“Wanna see your tits – can I see your tits, please?” His hand slides up your back, between your bra band and your hot skin and digs his nails in. “Please, pretty girl, please.”

You whine your consent, nodding into the messy heap of hair that tickles your chin, and he pinches your bra off before the last dip of your head. He flings it into the darkness behind him and with a strained groan, Dieter opens his mouth around your nipple and sucks.

The corners of his mouth are still a bit cold, the heat of the fire not quite enough, and when he slurps up from the underside, the fat curve of your tit, up to your nipple again it’s like someone outlined your goosebumps in ice. You scratch at his head, begging him deeper into your chest, and he obliges with a wet, swollen hickey on the top of your tit. His teeth hurt but with each suck, it’s like he’s plucking at the string connected directly to your cunt. You throb for him. 

His fingernail grazes the irate pink of your nipple, circling it again and again before he pinches and you arch, right into the flat hardness of his cock. You shake and intentionally, unintentionally, you don’t know your own body right now, rub up against his cock and Dieter, with your tit halfway in his mouth, chokes. 

“Fuck, I’d ask you to do that again, but I’m gonna come like a fucking jet engine in my pants. Lemme in,” he’s babbling as his hands drop to the button of your jeans and wrench the zipper down, “I’m gonna eat you out till you’re fucking dry.” 

Shoulders pressed back against the white shag carpet, you help him yank your pants down over your hips, up your calves, and off your feet. Dieter’s eyes can’t find a place to land – from the purple claim he’s laid over your tits, to the sucker pink swell of your lips, to the wettest cunt he’s maybe ever seen in his whole life –

He sits up on his heels and nearly gets caught up yanking the kimono off his shoulders. With shaking fingers, he unties his sweatpants and tugs himself out. 

You’d never noticed before when your mouth flushes with spit at the sight of a good meal.

You do now. 

He’s not overwhelmingly long, but he is thick, thick and a ruddy red, cream dribbling out. The sweat on his chest and stomach a few inches above sparks gold and warm in the light of the fire. In a single swipe over his palm, Dieter spreads that wet precum over his long cock, easing a few smooth strokes. 

“Mhn, this is what I look like when I fuck myself at night t-thinking – thinking of you,” he groans. His hand curls around your thigh, keeping you pinned, keeping you spread. But the sight of him jerking off and moaning your name drops your knees apart and your hand on your clit. With every swipe, you circle faster until you think it’s his hand on his cock that’s doing this to you. Dieter watches, mouth open, shoulders curved as you spin yourself wetter and wetter. “Came so hard I blacked out with the thought of you like this in my head. Wait, baby, move, I wanna –,” 

His hands on your knees, he shuffles closer and like you can see his words without asking, you tilt your hips up towards him, receiving him as he rubs his cock between your soaked folds. His blunt head catches your clit again and again, and you twitch, as though shocked in an electrical storm. 

“Oh, fuck, baby –,”

You dig your nails into the back of his hands over your knees, using the leverage to speed up his thrusts, the ruddy tip smacking where you need him most but never inside. His eyes flutter as he feels you soak his cock, slick dripping between your thighs and the shine against your skin nearly knocks the wind out of him. He grips you harder. 

“Fuck it, I gotta know what you fuckin’ taste like.” 

In a move that catches your legs over his shoulders, rolls your ass up off the floor, and his body back and further down, Dieter tucks his head and latches onto your cunt, presented high near his face. He inhales as he drinks, as he eats, as he dines on the spillage down to your ass. Dieter moans and suddenly the boiling heat of pleasure rages to an inferno when he wraps his lips around your clit and licks with the flat brim of his tongue. 

“Oh, oh-h-hmy fucking god, Dieter!”

It’s whiny and debauched, but it’s also a plea, a desperate bid to the last traces of your sanity. Your eyes roll back in your head and your back, flat, on the floor, but Dieter lays flat on his stomach, fingers pressing into your thighs, shoulders shoved up against the curve of your legs – his tongue still dragging breathless gasp after breathless gasp out of you. He’s tapping out nuclear launch codes with little licks of his tongue, eyes as effective at pinning you down as his thighs were. 

You can feel yourself drip for him, on him, into him because his mouth is pressed right up against the seam of your pussy. Words rise and fall and die in your throat, your mind following the rising path of your orgasm into nirvana. 

“Say it, baby,” he husks into your damp curls. “Tell me how good I fuck you with my tongue.” 

You groan, riding his nose. “So fucking good. Oh, fuck, wait, right there – oh, shit – Dieter, baby, ahh–,”

It comes on without warning, without slowing down, without giving you a second to breathe before bliss flattens you like a train. It courses through you, singeing your blood and showering sparks behind your eyes. You spill more for him, so much for him, and he eats, like drinking honey from the source – spill, and spill until there’s nothing but a thready pulse inside your body. 

He’s sucking directly from your tingling pussy when you finally push him back with a groan. Dieter retaliates with a huff, mhm mm, eyes black like the coals inside the grate, the entire bottom half of his face hidden from view as he hungrily tugs your hips to him with both arms. You’d never seen him quite so sure about something, so possessive.

Like he already owns your cunt. Stop me, I dare you, he taunts with his eyes.

“Dieter,” you plead, mouth dry, heart fluttering with each lick of his tongue. Your poor clit is drenched and stiff. “B-baby, I need you . . . up here.” 

With one last prod that slides just barely between your cheeks, up through your leaky hole, and swiping your clit one last time, Dieter unplugs himself from you, murmuring and wiping his mouth as he goes. Your skin glistens where his mouth leads and he can’t resist shining up that purple swell as if showing off where he lanced you through the heart. 

You half-expect him to shove his pants all the way down and shove himself into you, but he doesn’t. Instead the man known for his hedonism around the world and certainly within the building crawls up your body, drops a grateful kiss into the bend of your neck, and one by one, folds onto his elbows over you. His face smells like you, his aquiline nose inches from your own, his lips still damp and warm, and the soft brush of those lips high on your cheek has you shuddering in his arms, digging your nails into his expansive shoulders and tipping him into your waiting mouth.

He kisses you for a moment, breathing roughly out of his nose, before he wipes his broad palm across your forehead and pushes your hair back over your head, cupping the curvature of your  skull. The motion drags your eyes open.

“Hi there, baby,” he murmurs quietly across your lips, eyes soft and a thousand miles deep. Your legs tuck up around his hips. “Can I fuck you now?”

You nod through the sudden blockage in your throat, the swelling in your chest making your heartbeat twice as hard. You think you might die if he doesn’t. Dieter presses a kiss with just a hint of teeth against your cheek before sliding back down, littering your skin with kisses full of praise and heat, and hovering above your belly button, he knees off his sweatpants, fully down from his hips, the motion bending him forward and pressing his face into the swell of your stomach.

“I wanna make this last,” he slurs into your skin, “but I don’t think I can. Fucking dreamed about you for weeks. Scared out of my mind when you didn’t pick up your phone.”

Dieter covers you with his body, his palm planted by your ear, the other hand wrapped around himself, and his words register in your brain, the desperation peeling back the fog of lust-drunk. 

“W-when didn’t I answer my phone?”

His eyes, dark and wet, glance up from where you’re nearly combined and you nod, hands sliding from his biceps up to his shoulders. With a groan deep in his chest, Dieter rolls his hips forward, the blunt head of his cock sliding you apart and your mind nearly in half. You arch your back to take him more fully.

Half-way in and he drops his other hand to mirror the one by your head. He keeps pushing, keeps making room for himself, the thickness nearing choking you into blackness. You whine, incoherent syllables, and he grinds his jaw together.

“W-when you – fuck, baby, you’re so tight – when you went to that m-meat – ngh –,” he’s almost flushed against you, “that factory, ah-all by yourself.” 

Are you sweating? How are you sweating already? 

He ends against you, and you both groan at the sensation of his thick weight settling inside of you. You bury your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck and tug – how dare you make me feel so good why haven’t you done this before please god don’t fucking stop now

“You were f-filming – Dieter! – you were in another countr-ry.” 

With half a laugh, delirium twisting his mouth up into a smile, he lowers down and kisses you, your own mouth slow to follow him. He pulls back, a fraction of an inch. 

“I would have dropped everything for you. Now, hush, I gotta fuck you until you can’t walk straight.” 

His palm cupping the back of your head, his arm curled with his hand flat on the floor, Dieter starts slow, his pace deep, curious just how much of him you can take without actually tearing apart, and his cock brushes something that sends sparks up behind your eyes, splits your mouth apart, and wrenches his name out of your mouth.

“There we go,” he hisses in your ear and speeds up his thrusts. Like music cranked up on a radio, you can feel yourself pulse, your heartbeat in your neck, as every tap of his cock overwhelms your body with pleasure. The least you can do is hold on; you wrap your arms around his heaving back, and tuck your legs up to your ribs and he squelches in deeper. 

“Hm – yeah – needed that–,”

Heat builds between you: between your neck and his panting breath, between the flushed skin of his chest inches from your sweaty one, between the brush of his course curls against your clit. He’s trying to make you remember every fight you had, every touch you shared, every shallow drop of his heart when you pushed him away again and again – he fucks you like he wants you to synonymize him with the very sensation of heat itself. But you’re unspooling rapidly with every thrust of his hips – more of you leaves as more of him comes in. 

For the first time in weeks, you don’t think about Mags. Or her murder. Or her blue-cold apartment. You don’t think about failure or fear, or your anger that you wield like a weapon. You don’t think of your parents or what the fuck you’re going to do with your life when this mystery is over – when Dieter inevitably tires of you – you can’t think at all. He won’t let you.

He knows you want to recuse yourself, retract and hide, but he won’t let you. 

The unimaginable stretch keeps your mind unfocused, blurred, and just when you think you might stabilize under the sensation, he kisses you. Harshly, softly, any kiss he knows you need to keep you in your body, forced to receive every devastating wave of pleasure he gives you. He palms back your sweaty hair off your forehead, salt clinging to his own curls, and sucks on your earlobe, asking how’re you feeling, my good girl? from between his teeth. 

Your stifled sigh is answer enough. 

“Almost there, love, what do you need, huh? What can I give you?” His words, offered in a voice so lust-strained, you feel the vibrations over your skin. You palm the center of his back, muscles hot and tight, and you answer with the only thing that’s on your mind:

“You.”

Breath suddenly short in his chest, he quickens his pace – shorter, faster thrusts that send you higher, sprinting towards an inevitable, bright end. His grip shifts as he squeezes your hip, that low ache tightening and locking down, the overwhelming sense of Dieter spiraling you apart. 

“Show me you mean it,” he whines, the scruff of his beard rubbing your jaw raw. “Come on this cock for me, baby, show me who you need.” 

You yank on his hair again and with a snarl, he snatches your wrists from around the back of his neck and pins them above your head. 

“Gonna fill you up with e-exactly what you need, gonna fuck you so full of me, your undies are gonna drip white for weeks–,” 

“Mhmn, yesDieterplease, yes, m’yours, y-your –,”

Another release, this one wild and spiraling, tears through you, up your spine, out of your mouth in a wide, silent scream. Your body curls around him, clinging to him as you pulse and seize, your legs twitching. Your hands tingle with a sudden loss of sensation as Dieter squeezes down on your wrists, head tucked into your neck, and with a shuddering, “f-f-fuck,” he follows your release with his own. A rough shove and he breaches your squirming cunt with his warm cum, the feel of it tugging your own smoldering orgasm along a bit further. Basking in the last twitches of your cunt, Dieter lowers his head to your shoulder, his thumbs distractedly rubbing soothing circles around your wrist. You can’t move, can barely breathe with his weight on you, but the pounding of his heart through his chest into yours settles the haze in your brain.

You know now you can’t hide the thunderous machinations of your own heart from him either. 

“Don’t wanna move,” comes the dispassionate grunt at your neck, “but my ass is on fire.” 

A smile then a full body laugh, that makes Dieter lift his head. His own smile strikes you in your heart: adoration, a little sleepy, and relief. He glances over his shoulder at the exposed flames mere feet from his bare ass. 

“S’ what I deserve, fuckin’ in front of an open fireplace.”

“We all must suffer for our art.”

At that he turns back to you, grinning wildly and a tad bit proud. His own ego blown up to excuse his softening cock, Dieter slides out of you and onto his back. Without his chest, the heat from the fireplace collides with your bare, sweat-slick chest and you shiver.

“Cold?” He sits up and tries to catch a loop of the sheer blanket on the back of the couch but you still him with a touch of your hand on his back. The look in his eyes, that dopey ease by which Dieter lives his life, makes your other hand on your stomach tremble.

You don’t want your overthinking to ruin a truly blissful mood, but anxiety chatters at the back of your teeth. Instead of suggesting you both go to his room to shower off, or if he thinks the police might know about the secret passageways, you ask:

“Did you mean it?” 

His face softens, eyes go warm. You should specify which part, but he doesn’t need you to.

“Yeah. I did.” He leans down and kisses you briefly on the mouth, knowing you have more to say and worry over. 

“But–,”

“As cute as your but is, we’re not gonna do that right now. You’re going to get under this blanket with me and we’re going to talk about what you’ve found about the case and then we’re going to solve this mystery together.” Dieter reaches back and finally snags the blanket. With a shuffle, he, sweat-streaked and cum-covered, lays down with the blanket over his shoulder and opens his arms to you as though he’d done it a thousand times. Your face hot and your eyes painfully dry, you curl up into him. 

“Together,” he repeats. “Did you hear that part? That’s important. We’re going to Scooby-Doo this together.”

Silence, where all the wrong things sit heavy on your tongue, your own twisted morality desperate to push him away and run out the door – silence stretches, uncomfortable and tight and –

“I’m proud of you for that pun, and not using it like I’m gonna ‘Scooby-Doo-Screw-You’.”

“Fuck,” Dieter groans and you giggle. “It was right there!” 

His chest is warm as you bury your face into his skin. 

You watched true crime television specials to be prepared for the worst. You listened to podcasts about missing women to avoid making deadly mistakes. You fought and hid-away your whole life to keep yourself safe and protected, but nothing – nothing in the entire world – could have prepared you for falling in love with Dieter Bravo.

His smile is soft and he knows you well enough to know that you’re thinking about something. With a brush of his thumb over your cheek, he asks:

“What?” 

And all you can do is shake your head, the deluge of words and feelings trapped behind your lips and the only noise you can make to keep them inside is a squeak.

You press your forehead into his shoulder and his arms smooth across your back, tugging you closer.

“Nothing. It’s just . . . I feel safe with you.” 

Safe, and happy, and loved.

+

[unseededtoast]

One Bright Morning | Spencer Reid x F! Reader

Summary: After experiencing the most traumatic moment of your life, Spencer helps guide you through the darkness into one bright morning that changes the both of you. (Based off of "First Light" by Hozier)

Cross-posted on Wattpad and AO3

Word count: 8.8k

Warnings: Violence, angst, light smut. Poorly edited

a/n: Howdy y'all, this is my second Spencer oneshot based off a Hozier song and honestly at this point i think i might just create a Spencer fic for every song on Unreal Unearth. Anyways, here's my masterlist if you wanna check out my other stuff:)

"Hello?" You hear his voice as the door swings open, and the soft lighting from inside his apartment illuminates his figure as if he's an angel. 

"Please." Is all you can say through your cries and he wastes no time before he's helping you inside of his apartment. 

Your forehead is slick with sweat, your stomach tied into knots as you pace back and forth. Shaking hands push away the hair falling into your face and you know you have to do something soon, or the little girl is going to die. Your mind swims in all the information the team has collected about the unsub so far, trying to identify any leverage you can use in a last ditch effort to save the hostage's life.

"Does anybody have anything?" Your voice is thick with stress and tension, a bead of sweat rolls down your back. The quick pitter patter of your heart echoes in your ears and it's almost like a ticking time bomb.

"We've tried every angle we can think of." Morgan answers, equally as stressed out. But you can't accept that answer, there has to be something.

"What if I go in? Offer myself for her? He might think he can use me to get out of this situation." You're already taking off your bulletproof vest to carry out the mission, but Hotch puts a hand on your shoulder to stop you from taking it all the way off.

"No, it's too risky. We know he's suffering from hallucinations and if you walk in there he might just kill you." He explains, but you fight his hand off your shoulder. Maybe it's just the adrenaline pumping through your veins, but you can't understand why the team isn't doing more to save the girl.

"And if we don't do anything she's for sure going to die." Before he can protest, you shove your vest into his hands and make your way to the house across the street.

The team had tried to negotiate with the unsub, feeding him false promises of a safe getaway and immunity, but he hadn't taken them. He explained that in order for the victims soul's to be saved, they had to die before they could "commit an unforgivable sin". He's convinced he's saving their souls, but what he's actually doing is mutilating young girls in their own homes and leaving their bodies for their families to find. Unfortunately for him, you and the rest of the team had interrupted his salvation of this girl and unfortunately for the team, he had taken the girl hostage and is unwilling to let her go.

The house he's blockaded himself in is a typical, unassuming suburban home. The landscaping is manicured to perfection, the lawn is trimmed neatly, but behind the white door is a deranged murderer with a knife to an eight year old's throat. Your feet quickly carry you to the door and with heavy, shaky breaths, you knock on the door and speak to the unsub.

"I want to be saved." You tell him, hoping to appeal to his delusion. There's a loud crash in the house and you hear the girl cry out.

"Please, I want to be saved." You say with more urgency. Twisting the handle of the door, you slowly make your way in, not seeing the unsub or the little girl anywhere in immediate view. After a few seconds of silence, you hear the girl's muffled cries.

"I know you can save me. Please, help me." You beg, making your way towards the sound. As you round the corner into the kitchen, you see the unsub holding the knife directly over the girl's carotid artery. Your eyes dance from the blade to the psychopath holding it and see nothing but pure evil within him.

"Don't move another step. I know you're one of them." He yanks the girl back, further into his hold and you put your hands out in front of you to show him you're unarmed. Your head shakes, denying his claim.

"They're wrong. They don't understand the mission." Another small step is taken towards the man, and for a second you see his resolve starting to falter.

"No, they don't. I'm just trying to save them!" He cries out, seeming to be in agony. Another step is taken towards him. You're only ten feet away from him, if things keep going well you might just be able to get the girl from his grasp.

"Save me. Please, I want to be saved." You boldly take two more steps forward but freeze on the spot when he jerks back with the girl, pressing the blade more tightly to her neck.

"You can't be saved. No, not you. You've already committed an unforgivable sin. But she can still be saved. Yes, she can still be saved." His gaze moves from you to the crying girl, his voice becoming more stable.

You see a sick smirk crawl its way onto the man's face, and he glances at you from the corner of his eye before he readjusts his grip on the blade. As if time suddenly begins moving in slow motion, you see him tilt his head back like he's experiencing euphoria and his arm makes one clean swiping motion. Reaching out in a last ditch effort, you try to still his motion, but it's too late. You were too late.

Your body knocks into the man's and sends him tumbling to the ground. The fountain of blood released from the girl's neck splatters your face, she chokes and gurgles as she falls to the floor. Ignoring the man, you collapse beside the girl, holding your hands to her neck in a frenzied attempt of saving her life. You get tunnel vision, the only thing you can see is the girl and how the light slowly dims in her eyes.

At some point, you must have screamed out and alerted the others, because several pairs of hands are dragging you away from the girl. You fight them with all the strength you have left, reaching out for her small body, desperately trying to help her as her crimson blood drips through your fingers.

A team of EMTs rushes into the house past you and you see them leaning over the girl before you're taken away from the scene. You feel your chest tighten, your heartbeat race, and you're not able to form a coherent thought. All that consumes your mind is the little girl and how you were right there. You were right there and you still weren't able to save her.

-----

Days later you walk back into the office, running on maybe five hours of sleep since the incident. You had been given instructions to take three days off before coming back in and you know the team had to deal with the fallout of your shortcoming. In fact, you walked in with your badge and gun in hand, fully prepared to be suspended.

The atmosphere in the office is noticeably tense. Everyone is quiet with their heads down doing their jobs. Without greeting your team like normal, you duck your head and make a straight route towards your desk, trying to make as little sound as possible when you take your seat. Placing your gun and badge beside your computer, you see a single file laying on your desk. There are usually about ten.

Trying your best to keep your composure, you open the file and are met with a blank incident report. Unable to think about filling it out, all you can do is blink back at the white paper. What do they expect you to say? Thankfully, you're ripped from going down that rabbit hole by a hand touching your shoulder. Looking over, you see Hotch with a somber look on his face.

"Why don't you follow me?" His voice is quiet, and you agree wordlessly, following him into his office. As you walk through the office, you try to commit it to memory just in case this is your last day here.

Once you reach Hotch's office, you take a seat in front of his desk and wait for him to say something. You're keenly aware that you deserve to be suspended and reprimanded for you actions, or lack thereof, seeing as how you blatantly ignored orders.

"None of us blame you." His words shock your system, eyebrows drawing tightly together and lips falling apart in confusion.

"But-" You try to condemn yourself, but he holds up a finger to stop your words.

"All of us here have lost someone. Some more than others. It comes with the territory of the job, this is only your second year and you have a lot to learn. But with that said, you did ignore orders to not engage. For that, we cannot let you back in the field until you're deemed fit again. You're to stay here and help from the office while we go to case sites." Your mouth feels dry as he speaks, and you can't understand why your punishment isn't more harsh. An eight year old girl died because of you and all you're getting is a slap on the wrist?

"But-" You try to convince him again that you deserve worse, but he cuts you off again.

"Don't say anything. Go back to your desk and do your job." He orders you away, and this time you listen to him. Your walk back to your desk is a blur, mind fuzzy with questions you don't have the answer to. You feel several pairs of eyes on you, but you ignore them and go back to staring at the blank white paper that waits for you.

-----

Hours pass by, and you've made no progress on the report. You thought that maybe a change of scenery would help, and so you relocated to the break room with only the paper and a single pen. The team is already preparing to leave on their next assignment, and all except you and Spencer are going. Spencer had volunteered to stay behind and help Garcia, which he did on occasion.

You hear the team approaching the break room, preparing to leave, and so you quickly grab the pen and act like you're writing something useful. They come in and grab last minute snacks, telling you that they'll be back in a few days and you give them the best smile you can muster and watch with a tired soul as they walk out to catch the next monster.

"You know that's not true, right?" A voice behind you startles you, causing you to jump and drag a line of black ink across the paper. Spencer is standing behind you, coffee cup in hand.

"What?" You ask, not having the slightest idea of what he means. He takes a seat beside you at the table, his eyes locked onto the paper you had been scribbling your thoughts on.

"What you're writing. It's not true." You look from his face down to the paper to see what exactly you wrote. You're not entirely sure yourself.

She died right in front of me because I was slow. I was too slow and she's gone. She was right there. Right there.

The words accurately reflect the rhetoric that's been repeating itself inside your mind around the clock. You can't seem to find the lie he so obviously sees. You've  been working with Spencer for two years now, and his mind still amazes you. But even geniuses are wrong sometimes. With a shake of your head, you bite the inside of your cheek and stare at the words.

"It's exactly what happened though." You confess, clearly remembering how the man had time to enjoy slitting the girl's throat. And you were still too slow.

"You tried to feed into his delusions, it was the only play we had left. And you were probably the best one to approach him, seeing as how you most closely resembled his victims." He explains with a wave of his free hand. Your eyes meet his and you see that he's being sincere. You've never been good at expressing your emotions, and so you try to deflect the ones bubbling up inside you.

"Spencer, are you saying I look like a ten year old girl?" You know he's only trying to help you deal with your fresh trauma, but you can't help yourself from making the comment. Used to your antics, his mouth flattens into a straight line.

"You do not look like a ten year old girl but seeing as how you're the youngest one on the team it was the best we shot we had." He follows up his explanation. You appreciate the effort he's making to make you feel better, you just wish it worked. With a sigh, you crumple the paper up and toss it across the room, barely missing the trash can.

"Don't say anything, I'm getting it." You preemptively dismiss the comment you know he's about to make. No matter how many times you try to sink a paper ball into the trash, you always end up missing somehow, and Spencer is always there to keep track of just how many you've missed.

"One hundred forty three." He quickly says before quickly moving out of the break room. A ghost of a smile finds its way onto your face and you pick up the pen you left on the table, going to search for a new report page.

-----

Unfortunately, by the end of the day, the report still had not been completed. You're unable to look at this case objectively, and you entertain the idea of asking Spencer to do it for you. But that would still mean you have to tell him what happened, and you know there's no chance those words can find their way out of your mouth.

The clock on the wall indicates that the work day is over, and so you close the blank paper inside the brown folder, vowing that tomorrow you will finish it. You don't want to stay here, but you also don't want to go home. But you guess it doesn't matter, no matter where you are you know the nightmares will find you in the dark.

Everyone leaves the office, save for you and Spencer, who's working over to finish his case backlog. Though in your two years here you've never known him to have a backlog. His insane memory is always allowing him to fly through reports three times faster than the rest of the team. But you're too tired, physically and emotionally, to delve into why he has a backlog now.

Realizing you've been staring at your desk for the past thirty minutes, you decide you can't stay here overnight. Standing from your desk you rub the drowsiness from your eyes and weakly smile to Spencer, who looked over to see what you were doing.

"See you bright and early." Your voice is soft as you push your chair back in.

"Wait, let me at least walk you out to your car. It's dark out there now." He says, standing from his own desk. You shake your head, not wanting to inconvenience him.

"That's okay Spencer, I'll be fine. But thank you." You try to dismiss him, but he's already got his jacket slung over his shoulders.

"I was just finishing up anyways." He says, and you're skeptical of how much of his statement is the truth. But you don't fight it, and let him accompany you to your car. After hours the office is eerily quiet, and you find yourself being thankful he wanted to walk you out.

"At least let me take you home, as a thank you." You say as you two walk out of the office doors into the parking lot. The chilly fall air infiltrates the thin shirt you're wearing, your breath evaporating in the air in a translucent white cloud.

"Sure, thank you." He says with a smile and the two of you climb into your car.

Spencer gives you directions to his apartment and you find out he only lives two blocks away from you. How you had never known this is a mystery. But had you have known you would've made the effort to offer him a ride more often. You park your car just outside of the building and look over at him, his hazel eyes illuminated beautifully by the amber glow of the streetlamp.

"I live just down the street." You break the silence as he unbuckles the seatbelt.

"And after all this time we've never seen each other outside of work." He points out and you smile,

"Well, this counts, right?" He lets out a small laugh and goes to open the door, but stops short of swinging it open. His lips open and close a few times, like he can't decide what he wants to say before he looks deep into your eyes once more, like he can see your mind through your pupils.

"You know, if it ever gets to be too much to deal with, you can tell me. I know how torturous thoughts can become." You're at a loss for words, but manage to nod your head. Spencer isn't known for openly extending empathy to very many people, in fact, you've only seen him do it twice so far. It's a break from the normal dynamic you two share and it throws you off for a second.

"Yeah, thank you." You say as he opens the door, leaving your passenger seat. He waves goodbye before he enters the building and you make sure he gets in before leaving for your own apartment, his words lingering in your head. What had happened to him to be able to understand such torment?

-----

A girl cries in front of you, her crimson tears flowing down her face and puddling on the floor. She's begging you to help her, to save her. Each time she's within reach, she slips right through your fingers and her agonizing screams ring inside your head.

Just like last night, and the night before that, and the night before that, you're awoken with a start. Panicked eyes stare down at your hands, expecting to see them coated in a thick layer of bright red blood, only to find that they've been scrubbed clean. In fact, they've been scrubbed so viciously that there are scratches from your nails evident on your knuckles.

Your head falls into your hands and you take in a shaky breath. The clock on your bedside table shows you that you've only managed to get two hours of sleep. But hey, it's more than last night so you guess you can't complain. Dragging yourself out of bed, you decide to get a shower, knowing that you're not going back to sleep.

As the scalding water trickles over your body, your mind is once again a chaotic mess. The girl's screams echo in your mind accompanied with questions about your effectiveness as an agent. If you were unable to save a girl within your reach, how good of an agent can you really be? How many more people will die as a result of your incompetence? Dwelling on that answer is almost enough to send you into an episode, but the hot water runs out and the cold shocks your system.

You step out and wrap yourself in a towel, but are unable to shake the thoughts away that easily. If you couldn't save that girl, how many do you expect to save? If you couldn't save her, then you won't be able to save others. And if that's the case, why are you still on the team? Your purpose is to protect and save people who are targeted by deranged killers, and if you can't fulfill that purpose, then what exactly are you doing? Wouldn't it just be better to give up your spot for someone who's more competent? Someone who can actually save people?

Your body moves as if it's been put on autopilot as you get ready for the day, hours earlier than what is necessary. Instead of holing up like a prisoner in your own home, you pull your shoes on and grab your keys, deciding to go for a walk and then head into work early.

It's still too early out for most people to be heading into work, so the streets are practically yours for now. A dense fog has settled across the roads and the crickets chirp all around. It's almost serene. Your feet begin wandering down streets with no real path or destination in mind, the coolness of the air helps keep you awake.

For about an hour you meander the streets until the clock on your phone shows that it's almost time to leave for work. When you reach your car, your gaze freezes on your passenger seat. Though you commute to work alone every day, the car feels empty now.

You don't drive yourself to work right away. Instead, you find yourself parked outside of Spencer's building, waiting for him to walk out so you can offer him a ride. It doesn't take long before he's walking towards your car, confusion clear on his face.

"What are you doing here?" He asks, opening the passenger door and getting in.

"I just figured you might enjoy a break from public transit." You smile softly at him before merging into traffic and taking the two of you to work.

The two of you sit in a comfortable silence for the remainder of the trip and once you park in front of the office building, you stop him from getting out by reaching a hand over the middle console and resting it on his bicep.

"How did you know that I was having bad thoughts?" Your voice is raw and you're sure you look exhausted. You're sure if your superiors found out about these thoughts that your punishment would be extended, but you're far too curious. He sighs,

"Persistent intrusive thoughts about a traumatic event are common. In fact, these thoughts can lead to insomnia and a change in normal daily functions." He explains like he's reading the words straight from a textbook. But you know it's more than that, it has to be. The way he offered his help yesterday was more reminiscent of someone who's lived through something similar. Empathy cannot be learned from a book.

"Right. Do they ever go away?" You don't push him to give you any answers about his own trauma, but you desperately want to know that these thoughts will eventually go away. Spencer glances down at your hand gripping his jacket,

"Sometimes they leave for a while. But, they don't ever leave forever." His answer is not what you had hoped for, but you know he wouldn't lie to you. You release him from your grip and clear your throat, turning your car off and getting out.

You know if the roles were reversed that you would suggest he seek out professional help. It's only the most logical way to deal with this sort of thing, but you know that you can't face a doctor and tell them about how you relive that girl's death every night. They'd surely diagnose you with something and you'd be kicked off the team.

But maybe being dismissed from this job would be the best thing for you. If you're unable to move on from this incident, how can you expect to function like everything is fine? And if something like this happens again, what will happen? Will you crumble completely?

As you step into the elevator, you can't help but wonder if the loss is worth it. Not only the loss of victims, but the loss of yourself as well. You feel the change within you, like a piece of you is fractured beyond repair.

Spencer and you part ways and begin your workload for the day. The blank white paper still waits for you. ----- The rest of the team had made it to the next site and had called Spencer and Garcia for their help. Of course, you used this as an excuse to abandon the report on your desk, insisting that you can be of some help to them. They're both geniuses and you know there's nothing you can do that they can't, but they let you join them anyways.

"Look for white males, aged twenty to forty, who recently experienced a severe head trauma." Derek speaks through the speaker and you watch in amazement at how fast Garcia is able to filter through hospital records.

"I've got one. Sending it over now." She drags and drops the file into a message and sends it off to the team.

"What would I do without you, baby girl?" You can practically hear Morgan's smile through the phone. His playful ways with Garcia had landed everyone in a presentation about inappropriate work relationships last year and you can clearly see they disregarded every piece of information shared there.

The phone clicks and goes silent, leaving the three of us crammed into Garcia's office and you can't help but feel like you're inconveniencing her and Spencer. You stand from your seat and dismiss yourself, telling them you're going to work on a report and to holler if they need you. You know they won't, but at least you offered.

Sitting back down at your desk, you grab your pen and convince yourself that you're going to write at least one good sentence. You need to have this done by the time Hotch gets back and at this rate you won't even have it done by Christmas.

Taking a deep breath, you tap the pen against the desk before putting it to the paper. You hold it there for so long that an ink blob begins bleeding through the document, and so you start moving it across the paper.

At approximately 4:47 pm EST on October 16, 2023 the Behavioral Analysis Unit from Quantico, Virginia, responded to a hostage situation that resulted in two deaths.

You stare at the sentence you had managed to write and wonder if you can just leave the report as is. Technically it is what happened. But you know that you have to fill in the details. Perhaps that part of it can wait just a little longer.

Deciding you've put in all the effort you can manage for now without slipping into another downward spiral or gruesome memories, you decide to go waste some time in the break room.

There's not much to do, but you make it seem like organizing the coffee mugs in the cupboard is the most vital mission you've encountered to date. And thankfully it keeps your mind distracted from everything falling apart inside your mind.

-----

Garcia and Spencer don't call on you to help them for the rest of the day, much to your dismay. You were hoping they'd at least take pity on you and let you do something insignificant. But perhaps they don't even trust you with the most menial tasks.

You sit at your desk at the end of the day and see others leave the offices, bidding each other goodbye for the weekend. The rest of the team will be back on Monday and you still only have one sentence written in your report that's sure to exceed ten pages if you do it correctly.

"Hey, staying late again?" You hear Spencer ask as he returns from Garcia's office. Spinning around in your seat to face him, you nod your head.

"Yeah." You reply without much enthusiasm, glancing back at the paper. He must think you're completely inadequate at your job because you've been unable to complete a single report in two days. If he's been secretly tasked with keeping tabs on your progress for Hotch, surely there is no good news to report.

"Why don't you take it with you? Work on it over the weekend?" He suggests, and it's not a bad idea. It would surely beat sticking around an empty office all weekend. But truthfully, you're not sure an empty house will be much better.

"You're probably right." You pick up the file and get ready to leave the office with Spencer, who has his belongings in his arms. The two of you walk down to the parking lot and he starts heading towards the bus station.

"Hey, I can take you." You offer, stopping him in his tracks. He looks between you and your car, almost like he's not sure if he should take you up on your offer. But eventually, he walks over and takes a seat in the passenger seat.

"Thank you." He says, fastening his seatbelt. You back out of the parking spot and make your way towards his apartment. Thankfully he says nothing about the fact you took the longest route possible.

"Any fun weekend plans?" You ask him as you pull up to the curb, stalling to keep here as long as possible, so that you're not left alone with your mind. He rests back in the seat slightly and puffs out some air as he shakes his head.

"What's fun for me doesn't always fit other people's definition." There's a small smirk on his face and you know he's either about to devour an entire book series in two days or learn an entirely new skill. He's always looking for ways to expand his knowledge, and you admire that about him.

"Well, as long as you enjoy it then who cares?" You shoot back, watching as he gathers his bag up in his hands and opens the door. 

"Apparently our coworkers. But thank you for the ride, see you Monday." He bids you goodbye and you watch as he walks into the building. You don't leave for your home right away, instead you lean your forehead against the steering wheel and become frustrated with yourself. Since when are you scared of being alone with your own thoughts?

-----

"Save me. Save me. Save me. SAVE ME!" The girl screams in your face, blood dripping out from her mouth and onto your body. Your hands desperately try to stop the bleeding, but it's no use and soon her chanting ceases and she crumples to the floor. Her dull eyes stare widely at the ceiling and you're left covered in her blood. You're acutely aware of how it's sinking into the crevices of your skin, drying in your hair, becoming part of you. 

Just like every night for the past week you awake from the nightmare. A sheer layer of sweat covers your body and you can't take it anymore. These nightmares are driving you out of your mind. You haven't slept for more than three hours straight over the past week and you start feeling like you'd do anything to be released from your own thoughts. 

You push yourself out of bed and into your bathroom where you splash cool water on your face. You're well aware that you're getting into a very bad headspace, and being alone is doing nothing to help the situation. If you keep heading down this path with no help, there's no saying how much of yourself you will lose. Or what your thoughts will drive you to do.

Bloodshot eyes stare back at you in the mirror and you hardly recognize yourself. The dark circles under your eyes make you look like a cheap halloween decoration, your cheeks are sullen. You look miserable. You are miserable. Tearing your gaze away from yourself, you put some decent clothes on and grab your keys off the dining room table. 

The air outside is crisp, dew gently rests on the blades of grass and the moonlight illuminates the sidewalks. The nocturnal animals sing their songs, their tunes carrying throughout the night. You almost feel a part of them, the nighttime animals, as you just meander the streets for another night with no destination set.

You turn down an empty street and hear the thumping of music approaching from the main road. Probably teenagers enjoying their weekend night without parental supervision. The music gets closer and closer and you see their headlights start casting a shadow of yourself on the sidewalk. 

"Catch!" You hear a boy yell from the car out of the window, and you turn to see what's going on. 

Before you can process what's happening, you feel something collide with your chest and your skin becomes wet. Looking down you see that they had thrown a drink at you, some sort of syrupy mess but you're not concerned with what it is; just what it looks like. Dark red syrup covers your hands and your shirt and you can't stop yourself from starting to hyperventilate. 

Your chest begins rapidly heaving, your hands start shaking and it feels like your knees are going to give out. It looks too real, and it's on your skin. It's seeping into your skin and it's on your clothes. And it's on your face and in your hair. It's everywhere. 

"No, no, no no no no.." Your repeat to yourself, trying to rid your skin of the syrup, but all it does it smear and glide across your skin, spreading itself all over you. Your nails claw at your hands trying to get rid of it but it just won't leave. Panicked tears fall from your eyes and you look around, seeing that you're all alone in the middle of the street. 

Without thinking, you start moving towards a familiar building. Your body is on autopilot and it feels as if you're practically flying down the street. It could've taken you twenty minutes to get there, but it felt like five seconds. Once you're on the doorstep your sticky, red-laden fist knocks on the door. You can hear your rattling breaths as if it's from a distance and your vision begins to contort, making you dizzy. You knock again, having enough knowledge that you need him to open the door before something worse happens. 

"Hello?" You hear his voice as the door swings open, and the soft lighting from inside his apartment illuminates his figure as if he's an angel. 

"Please." Is all you can say through your cries and he wastes no time before he's helping you inside of his apartment. 

He takes the jacket off your shoulders and helps you step out of your shoes, a vivid look of worry plastered all over his face. 

"What happened?" His voice is concerned as he places his hand on your back, leading you into the kitchen. He wets a cloth and gently starts to wipe the red from your trembling hands. With each pass of the cloth, your skin regains its natural color and you feel your breathing begin to level back out. It's leaving your skin, it's washing off. 

"I was outside and someone threw something. And then I don't know what happened, it's like my brain just snapped and I couldn't control myself, all I knew is that I had to get here." You try to explain it to him the best way you can, still feeling an adrenaline buzz. You half expect him to give you some clinical diagnosis, but he remains quiet.

His warm hand envelopes one of yours as he wipes the remaining syrup from your arms. Your face starts to feel stiff from the drying tears, and your eyes move from your skin to Spencer's face, who is standing less than a foot away, tenderly cleansing your skin. Guilt washes over you as you realize that you've just interrupted his weekend, intruded on his free time. 

As your senses start to clarify, the guilt intensifies and you pull your hand away from his grasp. You can't believe you actually ran all the way here because some teenage kid threw something at you. How juvenile. He takes a step back from you and scans over your body, sending a self-conscious pang down your spine. 

"I um, I'm sorry Spencer. I shouldn't have come here and I'm sorry if I interrupted your weekend." You tumble over your own words and go to leave his apartment, already mentally kicking yourself for knocking on his door. His hand on your shoulder stops you from walking to the front door, and he gives you a certain look you've never seen on him before. His eyes are tender and soft. 

"Don't be sorry, I'm glad you came. I told you I was here to help." His voice is kind and gentle, and you're grateful for him.

"I can go back home, I think I'll be okay." You can't help but feel as if you're still inconveniencing him and make one more move towards the door which gets stopped by him again. He shakes his head, 

"No, it's okay. Go sit on the couch and I'll get you some clean clothes to change into. What kind of tea would you like?" Your heart swells at his tenderhearted words. Your feet shuffle against the hardwood floor and you position yourself at the edge of his leather couch, careful to not get any of the stickiness on it. 

"Um, anything is fine, thank you." Your throat begins feeling scratchy, probably from how violently you sobbed the entire way over here. He nods before disappearing into his apartment and your eyes travel around his place. You've never been here before and you're curious as to what he's like, what his tastes are. 

It's not far off from what you expected. The color scheme is simple, the walls an earthy green and the lamp in the corner emits a soft amber glow. In true Spencer fashion, there's also a multitude of books, both laying on a coffee table and adorning bookshelves. It's calming. 

He walks back into the room and hands you a change of clothes, which feel warm, as if they just came from the dryer. Spencer shows you to the bathroom and tells you that he'll be in the kitchen while you get changed. You strip from your clothes and try to fold them as neatly as you can, not wanting to make more of a mess in his home. He had given you a simple sweatshirt and sweatpants, which you already know are going to be too long, but you're thankful nonetheless.

The sweatshirt easily falls over your head and it smells like fresh laundry and Spencer. You breathe in the smell and it makes you feel secure. And just like you thought, the pants are far too long, but you roll up the legs and make it work. Before you join him in the kitchen, you try to rinse out the red syrup from your hair, knowing that if you don't get it out now that it'll be ten times harder to wash when it dries. 

Once you're satisfied, you open the door and quietly walk back down the hall to the kitchen, where Spencer is standing with two mugs in his hands. He looks over you once and offers you one of the drinks. Steam rises from the top and you smell the chamomile. The warmth of the drink soothes your throat, and you follow Spencer back into his living room, resuming your position on his couch. He sits at the other side and you look over at him, feeling an intense sense of gratitude. 

"Thank you, Spencer." You whisper, not wanting to disturb the stillness. He places his mug on the coffee table beside an open book and his lips curl into a soft smile. 

"Anytime. I know you'd do the same for me." He says and you nod, knowing he's right. You open and close your mouth a few times, trying to find just the right words. 

"I don't think I'm okay. I don't feel safe being alone with my thoughts. I can't sleep without seeing her." You admit to him, no longer caring if he reports this to Hotch on Monday. You chew on your bottom lip with anxiety, feeling exhausted from suffering. Expecting to find him looking at you, analyzing you, you delay meeting his gaze only to see that he looks empathetic. 

"I know what you mean. I barely slept for two weeks when mine started." His voice is raspy, yet gentle. Your head shakes as you take another sip of warm tea. 

"How do you deal with it?" You're desperate for answers, knowing you can't keep functioning this way. He sighs, 

"One day at a time. I put off confiding in someone for a long time, probably too long. But this isn't something to deal with alone." The two of you lock eyes, and for the first time since the incident, you almost feel at ease. 

"Am I going to be kicked off the team?" There's worry evident in your voice, and you're scared of his answer. 

"No. If they got rid of everyone who has dealt with trauma from the job there would be no behavioral analysis unit." He says with a small smile, trying to lighten the heavy mood. You take another sip of tea and allow yourself to relax into the leather of his couch. His presence alone is enough to make you feel safe. 

"Are you going to tell the others?" You ask, looking down into the tea, watching it swirl gently around the ceramic. He readjusts on the couch. 

"No." He says, much to your surprise, but you're thankful he's not reporting back to Hotch about how you've been doing. 

The two of you let the conversation fall back into a silence, and you finish off the tea. Your body feels relaxed and warm, your eyelids begin to feel heavy. Leaning back into the comfortable cushions, your eyes close and you take a deep breath, thankful for the little moment of peace. You're not sure how much time passes, but you feel Spencer tapping you on the shoulder. Fluttering your eyes open you see him standing beside you.

"Follow me." He quietly instructs, gesturing for you to go with him down the hall. Without thinking of why, you blindly follow his orders. He leads you into a dark room, his hand on the small of your back to guide you through the shadows. Spencer sits you down on a bed and an uneasy feeling settles in your stomach, you can't let him do this for you. 

"Stay here tonight, I'll be in the living room." His hand leaves your back but you reach out and grab his wrist before he can leave. 

"No, Spencer, this is your home. I can't." You tell him and stand from his bed, which is admittedly very comfortable. He turns to face you fully and sits you back on the bed, his hands on your shoulders. 

"Please?" He asks, and you're not sure why he's being so generous. He's already done more than enough for you tonight, and now he's giving you his bed. The man doesn't like to shake peoples' hands because of germ transfer, and here he is letting you stay in such an intimate place of his? You can't wrap your head around it. 

Though you feel sleepy, there's an uneasy feeling in the back of your head and you know what will happen if you go to sleep; you'll see her again. You reach your hands to rest atop of his on your shoulders and look up at him through the darkness, just barely able to make out his features. 

"Stay with me." You whisper and let his hands go so that he doesn't feel trapped. In the darkness you see his shoulders tense, and you wish you could take your words back. But to your surprise, he nods his head and makes his way around to the other side of the bed. He pulls the covers back and slowly gets in, and you lay down, keeping a respectable distance between the two of you. 

Your heart pounds in your chest and you reach across the soft blankets for his hand, needing it to ground you, to remind you that you're not here alone. His larger hand engulfs yours and his thumb traces soft circles on the back of your hand. Your eyes close and before you understand what's happening, you fall asleep. 

-----

Bright, almost blinding, sunlight breaking through curtains stirs you awake and you open your eyes to find that you're not in your own room. Your mind takes a moment to remember where you are and your muscles relax when you realize where you are. But the relaxation is short-lived as you realize that it's not a pillow in front of your face, that you're in fact resting your forehead against Spencer's chest, your hand still entwined with his. 

A moment of pure fear strikes you and you try to untangle yourself from him without disturbing him. Surely if he woke up and saw this he'd be uncomfortable. Gently, you try to extract your hand from his, but instead of being able to separate, he squeezes your hand tighter. Your eyes trail up from your hands to his face, seeing that he's already opened his eyes. 

"I'm sorry I don't, I didn't mean-" You try to manage the fallout of your actions, but he shushes you. 

"It's okay. How did you sleep?" His voice is deliciously raspy, and it distracts you from answering the question for just a second longer than it should've. 

"Um, good. I didn't see her." You admit and lean back so that you can more clearly see his face. His curly hair is disheveled and his eyes are still clouded with drowsiness. His soft, pink lips turn upwards into a smile. 

"That's great." He says and closes his eyes once more, keeping your hand in his. Your tense body eases once more as you realize that he's not uncomfortable. You know him well enough by now to understand that if he were uncomfortable, he wouldn't still be here. 

You rest your forehead against his chest again, savoring the warm and comforting smell of him. The two of you are entangled with one another under the cozy blankets, and you're perfectly content with staying just like this for as long as possible. 

As you drift back off into a sleep, you feel Spencer move around and feel his soft lips press a delicate kiss to your forehead. Instinctually, you lean into him, nuzzling your nose into the space where his neck meets his shoulder. 

-----

Sometime during the afternoon, the two of you decide to get out of bed. You're very aware that a rosy color adorns your face, feeling flustered from whatever transpired between you and Spencer. You had always been attracted to him, not just for his looks, but also his intelligence, but you never thought he'd reciprocate those feelings. But after last night and this morning, you can't help but wonder what's actually happening. 

The two of you sit across from each other at the dining table, drinking coffee and eating mixed berries. You catch him stealing glances at you, and he catches you doing the same. You're too afraid to bring it up, scared that whatever is happening will be dismantled. So instead you're perfectly content just enjoying the moment.

After breakfast, you move into the living room where he picks up his book from last night and you pick one of them off his shelf. The synopsis sounds interesting, and so you curl up on his couch with it. Unlike last night, you no longer feel like you're intruding on his space, it almost feels natural to just coexist with one another on this Saturday morning. 

He finishes the book in record time, and you had only reached page twenty of yours. You watch as he files the book away on his shelf, and instead of reaching for another, he trains his gaze on you. Your fingers close the front cover of the book, waiting for him to say something. 

"You said you didn't see her last night, right?" He asks, breaking the silence. You nod your head, 

"I didn't see her last night." You confirm and he smiles, joining you on the couch. He's sitting so close that your knees brush against each other and it sends a warm feeling up your spine. 

"It's one of the harder parts of the job, I think. Nobody tells you about this side of it when you join. And nobody really talks about it either, everyone would just prefer to suffer in silence so as not to be perceived as weak. But without finding an outlet, it'll eat you alive." He speaks, resting his hand atop your knee. Your eyes stay glued to his hand as you add onto his statement. 

"I considered leaving the team because I felt like I was going insane. I thought that if I couldn't save that girl, then what good am I to anyone else?" You reach out for his hand and he looks over to you, hazel eyes shining with an unfamiliar light in them. 

"It's hard, but you can't focus on those you lose. You have to remind yourself of how many you save. To get yourself out of that darkness of guilt, you just have to remember the ones that are alive and well because of you. You've been on the team for two years now and you've already saved countless people, both directly and indirectly. Don't let the job strip you of your humanity." He tells you, looking deep into your eyes. You swallow, digesting his words and your eyes are unable to look away from him. 

"It's so hard though. She was just a child." You say with exasperation. He squeezes his hand on your knee in reassurance. 

"She was, but so many children get to live because you stopped him." His voice is sincere and your eyes water at his words. Your mind conjures images of children with families, alive and healthy. 

Spencer raises a hand to the side of your face, and you lean into his touch. His thumb comes up and brushes a lone tear from the corner of your eye before gently stroking your cheek. You reach out and pull him into you, wrapping your arms around his neck as he circles his arms around your waist. He hold you tight, and you never want to let go. Spencer is warm, comforting, and you know that from this moment forward, you won't be able to survive without him. 

Pulling away from the embrace, you rest your forehead against his, the two of you meeting each other's eyes with parted lips. Your hands find their way to the sides of his face, and you bring your lips to his. His hands hold your waist, keeping you in place as you move against each other in perfect harmony. 

One of your hands finds its way to his curly hair and you rake your fingers through it, eliciting a soft moan from him. Heat ignites within you and you push your body closer to him, unable to get enough. His skin is soft under your touch and you try to memorize the way it feels, just in case this never happens again. 

His hands move to map out the curve of your waist and your breathing gets heavier with desire. You move one of your legs across his lap, straddling him. He breaks the kiss first and holds you upright on his lap, looking over your body that's still concealed by his clothes. Deep in your soul, you know that this is more than just a random act of lust. 

You lean in to kiss him again and you help his hands remove the sweatshirt from your body. The air is chilly against your skin and you shiver. Spencer kisses your lips and trails down to your neck, and you're unable to contain your breathy moan. Your body aches with desire to have him all over you. 

His hands map out every inch of your body, taking the time to memorize the way you feel underneath him and how you respond to his tender touch. The two of you take your time to make each other feel good, to make each other feel loved and understood. There's no rush to your movements, and you're perfectly content taking as long as you want to touch him, to feel his warm skin on yours as you move in tandem, the two of you becoming one. 

You treat each other as if you're both made of precious glass, appreciating the fragility of the moment. The two of you soak in every moan, every breath, every kiss from the other, and you've never felt more alive. With each movement you find a new way to appreciate his beauty. His beauty is in the tenderness of his touch, the colors of his eyes, the pinkness of his lips. Every inch of him is beautiful, and you know that nothing else on this Earth can ever begin to compare.

Spencer rests his forehead against yours, the two of you out of breath and sensitive. He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead as he moves beside you, cradling you in his arms and placing delicate kisses to your warm skin. The two of you hold on to each other as if the other would cease to exist if you let go. 

Without having to utter a single word, you know that the two of you will never have to face this life alone again. 

[hero-israel]

During Nuremberg Trial testimony, the prosecutor pressed Einsatzgruppen commander Otto Ohlendorf: “You were going out to shoot down defenseless people. Now, didn’t the question of the morality of that enter your mind?” Ohlendorf referred to the Allied bombings of Germany as a context:

I am not in a position to isolate this occurrence from the occurrences of 1943, 1944, and 1945 where with my own hands I took children and women out of the burning asphalt myself, and with my own hands I took big blocks of stone from the stomachs of pregnant women; and with my own eyes I saw 60,000 people die within 24 hours.

A judge immediately pointed out that his own killing spree preceded those bombings. But this would become known as the “Dresden defense,” to which Ohlendorf resorted still another time, in this exchange:

Ohlendorf: I have seen very many children killed in this war through air attacks, for the security of other nations, and orders were carried out to bomb, no matter whether many children were killed or not. Q: Now, I think we are getting somewhere, Mr. Ohlendorf. You saw German children killed by Allied bombers and that is what you are referring to? Ohlendorf: Yes, I have seen it. Q: Do you attempt to draw a moral comparison between the bomber who drops bombs hoping that it will not kill children and yourself who shot children deliberately? Is that a fair moral comparison ? Ohlendorf: I cannot imagine that those planes which systematically covered a city that was a fortified city, square meter for square meter, with incendiaries and explosive bombs and again with phosphorus bombs, and this done from block to block, and then as I have seen it in Dresden likewise the squares where the civilian population had fled to—that these men could possibly hope not to kill any civilian population, and no children.

Ohlendorf thought this defense so powerful that he invoked it yet another time:

The fact that individual men killed civilians face to face is looked upon as terrible and is pictured as specially gruesome because the order was clearly given to kill these people; but I cannot morally evaluate a deed any better, a deed which makes it possible, by pushing a button, to kill a much larger number of civilians, men, women, and children.

(The chief prosecutor, an American, called this particular iteration “exactly what a fanatical pseudo-intellectual SS-man might well believe.”)

At Nuremberg, this sort of tu quoque defense (“I shouldn’t be punished because they did it too”) wasn’t admissible. Still, in the verdict of the Einsatzgruppen Trial, the judges chose to refute it. “It was submitted,” the judges wrote, “that the defendants must be exonerated from the charge of killing civilian populations since every Allied nation brought about the death of noncombatants through the instrumentality of bombing.” The judges would have none of it:

A city is bombed for tactical purposes… it inevitably happens that nonmilitary persons are killed. This is an incident, a grave incident to be sure, but an unavoidable corollary of battle action. The civilians are not individualized. The bomb falls, it is aimed at the railroad yards, houses along the tracks are hit and many of their occupants killed. But that is entirely different, both in fact and in law, from an armed force marching up to these same railroad tracks, entering those houses abutting thereon, dragging out the men, women and children and shooting them.

The tribunal sentenced Ohlendorf to death. He was hanged in June 1951.

“In the last analysis”

Nuremberg enforced a fundamental distinction. All civilian lives are equal, but not so all ways of taking them. The deliberate and purposeful killing of civilians is a crime; not so the taking of civilian lives that is undesired, unintended, but unavoidable. The errors made by a bomber squadron cannot be deducted from the murders committed by a death squad. It’s a difference compounded many times over when those civilian men, women, and children are subjected to torture, rape, and mutilation before their murder. To borrow Khalidi’s phrase, “in the last analysis,” this distinction is what separates modern civilization from its predecessors.

More disturbing is the thought that it separates the contemporary West from its peers. Otto Ohlendorf and the regime he served did all they could to conceal their deeds from Western eyes. Nazi Germany still operated in a West founded on Enlightenment values. So massive a violation of a shared patrimony needed to be hidden from view.

In contrast, Hamas initially sought to publicize its deeds, assuming they would win applause, admiration, or at least tacit acceptance in the Arab and Muslim worlds. Here they succeeded beyond their expectations. The many millions who don’t share the West’s patrimony, and who know next to nothing about the Holocaust or Nuremberg, do see things as Khalidi says they see them. (So, too, does a sliver of alienated opinion in the West, where such views are cultivated and celebrated.)

Finally, and still more disturbing, is the fact that Ohlendorf’s defense has been revived to frame the massacre of Jews. 

[the-light-of-stars]

just checked the site of Germany's biggest publically funded news network and saw this article:

"Why pro-palestinian posts are dominating"

And their arguments for why there are more pro-palestinian posts than pro-israeli posts - something they condemn as obfuscation of facts , false narratives and antisemitism btw - are absolutely baffling.

Not once do they consider that maybe people see Israel dropping hundreds of bombs a day, murdering thousands of people, dropping white phosphorus, starving an entire population, bombing hospitals and ambulances, killing members of international aid agencies, killing specifically journalists, cutting off electricity and cell service, causing the spread of typhus and cholera by restricting access to clean water and medical help, directly stating their genocidal intent again and again - all of which has been condemned by international organisations like Doctors without Borders and WHO, has been called a genocide by the UN and recently even has been called terrorism by the Pope himself - that people see this , see western politicians completely on the side of those committing the genocide and think this is untenable and try to do what they can to at least spread awareness.

No they did not consider that, not once, instead their arguments for "the dominance of pro-palestine sentiments online" are that "there are more muslims than jews worldwide" , "most people from the middle east are antisemitic", "hamas is spreading propaganda online" and "young people are foolish and easily lead astray by echo chambers" .

And they complain about there not being as many posts in the "pro-israel" and "free israel" tags , saying that it "shows an unprofessional antisemitic bias" and call for the EU to "do something" against all the pro-palestine posts, and to instead make social media sites push pro-israel stances harder. They treat pro-palestine stances as not objective and 'fake news' influenced by the narratives of 'terrorist idolisers' while pro-israel statements are treated as trustworthy, objective and morally good and necessary. They complain why there isn't the same outrage for the kidnapping victims as there is for the actual literal genocide happening, or rather they don't just complain why there isn't more outrage about the kidnapping victims, but about why there isn't more outrage for them than for the victims of the ongoing genocide.

"The user is in a so called "echo chamber" and gets a progressively one-sided view on the actually highly complicated theme complex, says Gust."

Because being angry about a genocide happening , with full funding and support of multiple western countries , means being "one sided" and being on the side of the victims instead of the side of the perpetrators (referring here of course to the israeli -and other - politicians and companies causing and supplying these attacks, not to hostages or civilians) means that you don't understand the "highly complex" theme complex of "a western ally is carpet bombing and starving a populace with the goal of ethnically cleansing the land they live on and multiple western countries fully support that" , surely all the people saying that genocide is bad and should stop have actually been brainwashed or are simply too stupid to try and see things from the angle of the politicians committing a genocide!

I might translate the whole article later but god german media is -ironically - so extremely one sided and biased it's insane.

[apollodarling-writes]

YANDERE FBI AGENT

taken from my main :)

tws: cyber stalking, obsessive tendencies, kidnapping, corruption of evidence, framing, arrest under false evidence, abuse, threats of bodily mutilation, smothering, mentions of murder-suicide

Yandere! fbi agent who was originally assigned to your case in hopes that they could gain intel on your lifestyle and keep tabs on you

Yandere! fbi agent who while keeping tabs on you noticed that you share similar interests and spent more time off the clock watching you and learning more

Yandere! fbi agent who, when is confronted about their concerning amounts of ‘overtime’, say that they don’t have much to do anyways and would rather work

Yandere! fbi agent who realizes their growing obsession with you and tries to stop keeping tabs as often. They try to limit themselves to work hours, but quickly fall back into their routine.

Yandere! fbi agent who says that the files regarding gathered intel were ‘corrupted’ and that you might be more than the average citizen.

Yandere! fbi agent who makes you go missing and tells their boss that you went off the radar- likely because that you knew.

Yandere! fbi agent who locks you up in a house that they built/had built/found in the middle of the woods/forest a few miles away from your best friend/lover/hookup’s house.

Yandere! fbi agent who proceeds to frame that person and makes sure that nobody ever finds you.

Yandere! fbi agent who would sever your legs if you tried to run/ have run/ almost got the two of you caught

Yandere! fbi agent who just loves you so so so much and can’t ever live without you.

Yandere! fbi agent who knows this is wrong and shouldn’t keep you caged, but they just can’t help it. the government could hurt you, your friends could hurt you, your family could hurt you, YOU could hurt you!!!

Yandere! fbi agent who smothers you and will never let you go; they’d rather commit murder-suicide

[leseigneurdufeu]

OK so.

Abed had a breakdown in which he saw everything in claymation. Went catatonic at this occasion. He is apparently capable of making other people experience hallucinations (Annie in the dreamatorium, and let's not forget Jeff imagined the dark counterparts exactly like Abed did). He created a mafia family just to get more chicken (and because it was cool). Only one not affected by the craziness beam of the glee club teacher or the dean in Documentary: Redux, and is capable of sitting 26h without reacting and make other people have breakdowns just watching/listening to him (Britta, Duncan, that one teacher studying who's the boss, Duncan again...), unwillingly manipulated Jeff into revealing his biggest insecurities...

and he is the SANEST person in the group. Though no. He's the one with the least homicidal tendencies, not necessarily the sanest.

and you know what? it checks out!

Jeff is a sociopath who was ready to falsely accuse a man of human trafficking (20-to-life sentence) just so he would stop crashing on his couch, (kinda) manipulated Chang into thinking he could stay in his baby's life after the birth if he stopped crashing on his couch, assaulted other members of the group (Pierce at the hospital, the Dean at the karaoke bar, among other occasions, I'm sure I'm forgetting a few), attacked them with a fire axe yelling that the table was magic, admitted to "shielding rich people from justice" when he was a lawyer, thinks he's God, committed crimes outlawed by the Geneva convention while in a hallucination.

Britta threw a corpse through a window on accident, threw a brick on purpose through an office window, does drugs, is almost exclusively attracted to weird guys (an antique smuggler, a junkie who defenestrated himself, Vaughn, Blade, the pizza guy, Lukas...), came up with plans ranging from "weaponize a friend's absence of social filter to harass a bunch of girls" to "pimp another friend to a woman in order to ruin her son's life". She goes hysterical during the Lava episode. She arguably sleeps with Jeff so she could beat him at paintball. She tries to gaslight a friend into thinking he didn't walk in on Jeff and her. She forced everyone to tell horror stories to know which one of them was a psychopath and only realized she might be the one when they told her she had turned in her test too.

Troy is usually a sweet guy but he did a few things that could qualify as harassment (naming the monkey Annie's Boobs, or creating that twitter account to make fun of Pierce, for example) and also he challenged a guy to a death match! (but he did spare the guy's life).

Pierce invited all the group on two separate occasions just so he could mess with them (the hospital, and the halloween). He dressed as Patrick Bateman without even meaning to for a business meeting. He set up a friend to "die" (well, be shot at paintball) out of jealousy. He broke his word multiple times ("lemme bounce or i tell everyone about the trampoline" - bounces and tells everyone anyway). SUED a friend. The eulogy he gave at his dad's funeral ended by "but you're dead, and i'm alive, which means i win. suck it!". Assaulted who he thought was his father (but was a colonel sanders atari cartouche on a screen).

Shirley was onboard with getting Chang incarcerated for life (before he became even crazier, that was the time he was trying to be useful and nice). She assaulted multiple people. She has a past as a bully. She took her issues with Andre on Slater's car. She recognized she used guilt as a manipulation tactic, also used a few other tactics on some of her friends. Still, she's trying to be better.

Annie was completely down with faking her own murder to multiple people, and with torturing people mentally (Duncan experiment). She did other stuff but I'm pretty sure that's good enough for this list.

Chang is Chang, Pelton is a stalker and a blackmailer.

Abed is actually the less physically violent of the group.

[ja3gerb0mbb]

bloodsucker flashback 3: invisible string

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

word count: 1.5k

content warnings: brief mentions of death

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

eren’s pov:

the years following my mother’s death were dark. i was still a kid; glimpses are all i can remember. when my father turned; a cult formed around him. ranked with blood purity, and kept in line with blood lust. the cruelty in which he killed his own wife is what kept his followers loyal. but the first death i have memory of seeing isn’t my moms; it’s hers.

humans were easily drawn in by my fathers charm. if he himself wasn’t convincing enough; the draw of prolonged youth and improved abilities was. but with a system in place that kept vampire bloodlines clean, these people were set up for execution. free fodder for the loyal followers.

at age ten, grisha declared i was fit enough to join ‘the society,’ he called it. i already knew what he was; what zeke and i would become. but they were whispers. i never saw anything concrete until that day. i don’t remember what was in front of my eyes, but i remember the screams from the execution line. screaming from the venom coursing through their veins, changing them. it had been easy to forget my fate until then.

their shrieks of agony were easily drowned out by the squelching of their throats being slit before they could turn. maybe there was a time where i remembered the images clearly; but they are dark and blurry now. most of my memories are like this, except the first woman in line, clutching a photo with her hand as it went slack with the loss of life. 

that’s the only image i can remember clearly. just a girl and her mother. it was the price of humanity my father was ending. their faces forever burned into my mind. 

zeke was exposed to everything five years before i was. he wouldn’t be turned until he reached eighteen, but there was already a change within him. the brother that would console me, and take the brunt of our fathers anger was gone. he was the spinning image of him now. i learned quickly to camouflage in false commitment and adornment to the cause. i stood by as my father and his followers committed atrocities; refusing would be a fate worse than death. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“why are you crying?” a few minutes had passed since i threw historia off of me; both of us regaining our breath. i don’t even know who’s room this is, my shoulders lightly shuddered at the thought. historia got on my nerves easily, but it was rude to leave a girl crying. 

“god! sometimes i just cry!” she pouted, voice rising in anger. why you should just leave a girl crying. even after months of sleeping around with her, i knew next to nothing about her. i’m sure the same applies to me. she turned to the side, back facing me now. the phone screen lightly lit up her side, grabbing my attention. i didn’t really look at what she was doing; my peripheral told me she was just scrolling through pictures. 

getting up to leave, i pulled my shirt back onto my body; my eyes locking on the screen when it passed over my head. “who’s that?” the question left my mouth before i could register that i was speaking. i knew who that was. the girl in that photo. it looked like a few years of time had passed, but i would recognize her anywhere. 

the revelation blocked out anything historia might’ve said. my head was throbbing; i didn’t know how to feel. i saw her mother get murdered, and i’ve been sleeping with her friend for months? the thought that we have been indirectly close to each other made my skin crawl. how am i supposed to feel? i had never thought about what i might do if we ever came into contact. the idea seemed so far from ever being a reality; that i never considered it as a possibility. but now, i had to. 

her voice slowly drew me out of my own head, “i didn’t mean to, really. i dont know what the fuck i was thinking with porco.” porco? who was that? maybe we weren’t as connected as i once thought. but that’s a good thing. this girl had already gone through too much at the hands of vampires; i needed to keep whatever distance we had in place. especially when the day that i turn comes… it would be any day now.

“it really was a mistake-” she cut herself off with increasing sniffles, “god. the look in her eyes. i knew y/n would never forgive me. even if she did, we would never go back to before. so i lied. i let her think i hated her the whole time. that i was manipulating her. and thats why i’m here. i should be at princeton. fucking princeton!! but i wanted to go to sina with her. everyone thought she loved me more than i did. but that’s not true!” fuck. and now i knew her name. the feeling of being connected to her was overwhelming. 

it was hard to wrap my head around the story with my mind running miles. “you can just transfer back to princeton. you have the money. no big deal.” i sighed. i didn’t want to listen to her pointless girl problems. not when they didn’t tell me anything relevant about the girl who’s face had been etched into my mind for years. 

“no. this is my punishment. it was my fault. it was me who started hooking up with porco. i deserve to watch her be happy without me.” historia’s sniffling were echoing through the room; heard even through the loud muffled behind the closed door. 

it was the last time we ever hooked up. i made a promise to myself that i would keep my distance from her when she eventually transferred to sina. if she did. after marco.. the best thing i could do was stay away. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

staying away is easier said than done. even with her attending sina, i had the upper hand; i could check who was in the class before it started, and i had already been gone for a year. i was sure she already had her group of friends; and she would stick to that just like everyone else here did. 

how quickly everything came crashing down on me. she was the first person i laid eyes on in that stupid fucking literature class. my eyes always seem to be drawn to her. and now my body was; i felt no control over it as i walked myself over to her; sitting down. fucking idiot. 

the scent of her blood wafted towards me immediately; but it was easy to ignore the urge. at least i can control the bloodlust easy enough. it was quickly followed by another scent; one that wasn’t hers. a trace scent that was embedded into her clothing. my body’s innate reaction was to take care of whoever the scent of malice came from, but i knew that would only cause more harm than good. getting involved in her life; even if i did it carefully.

the class continued like it would never end; my nose was overwhelmed with that scent; taunting me. you have to do something! i didn’t even look at her. i couldn’t; i was already too attached. i didn’t understand how this could’ve happened. my mind was at war with itself, leaving my body to act on its own. i shoved my phone into her before i could realize what i was doing. 

getting her phone number was the least of my worries. i could’ve dropped the class, but i quickly found out how pointless it would be. discovering how embedded she was with my friends was the cherry on top. i knew it didn’t matter what i did; my curse would invade her life even further. i had failed. 

but if i already fucked it up, i could still do something about that god damn scent. it was at the party. in the basement; it intensified when she was on jean. initially i figured it had to be coming from him until the fair. the time bertholdt ran into her. it was then that i realized his scent was everywhere she went. it wasn’t just on her clothes; he had been following her around. 

even after cleaning up that mess; i was faced with the reason i had to stay away from her. her mother. but that crashed down too, when i realized she had no clue her mom wasn’t even alive. when y/n said the word ‘left’ and not ‘died’ i knew any barrier i tried to build would just come crashing down eventually. just like every one so far. i was totally fucked, and so was y/n. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

a/n: sorry for the short chapter; i'm very excited for the next two though ☺️

spotify playlist

[durgesupremacy]

return to fanfiction, after years of hiatus. cause: brainrot. They Meet.

Gortash did not make expectations, and despite that, they surprised him.

How should they have looked, a Child of Bhaal? It’s not as though they ought to be horribly obvious—menacing in form, imposing in stature, eyes bright and piercing with the red glow of the murder god himself. But if he had a hundred guesses, Gortash would never have gotten close to the figure he saw before him. Lithe, pale, barely meeting his height. Their short hair rippled black mixed with a deep, unnatural red, perhaps a trait of their unholy father. Sitting across from him they met his gaze with dark eyes, a black impossibly deeper than their hair that shone with a strange inner glow.

What an odd-looking elf, the street folk might say. Certainly ominous, especially in their dark garb. But Gortash didn’t feel the blood of the murder god. There was no mortal terror, no violence yet. Just an impressively calm countenance. They approached the table and sat across from him, collected and graceful, perfectly content at the heart of the Steel Watch.

“Welcome. An honor, to look at last upon the leader of the Cult of Bhaal.” At this, Gortash surprised himself. It was an honor. His acclaimed correspondent, surely known by none in the light of day. Someone who restored a church as fallen as his own. A peer.

Their head tilted, just slightly. Curiosity. “Well met, Enver Gortash.” Smooth and clear, their voice resonated through the near-empty office like a bell. “You sought me out, and here I am. Do not waste my time. Tell me of your proposal.”

He bristled at the casual command, but smiled nonetheless. For the will of Bane he would make pleasantries. Gortash knew that control over others required dominance of the self.

He would dominate them in time. But not yet. He gave in, made his offer, and let the Bhaalspawn think they were in control.

***

The Baneite was confident. It was refreshing, coming out of the zealous fervor of the temple. The unholy assassins were cunning and committed, but despite the camaraderie of their own there was a depth of insecurity to many in the temple, a desire to prove oneself. Gortash proved nothing. He simply was, despite the fact that he boldly offered alliance with the most dangerous creature he would ever meet.

“I offer my aid in reclaiming your artefacts from the Hall of Wonders. And then, in return, all I ask is that you consider further partnership. Will you join me?” he asked.

A false question. He knew what would happen, just as they would. Only he would pretend and they would not.

“Yes.” His plans were thorough and well-researched; some of the temple’s finest assassins couldn’t have done better. It was oddly satisfying, seeing the truth of Gortash in person, experiencing his shrewd mind in flesh after reading it on paper. “I will need time to prepare.”

They stood, knowing the proper time and meeting place. It seemed like they’d done enough business. But Gortash stood too, a slight scrape of the chair betraying his hurry.

“Tell me your name.” An unplanned un-question. His fingers twitched, clawed gauntlets glinting in the candlelight. Curiosity.

And a novel question, in some ways. Their name was hardly relevant in the temple—they were master, saer, Chosen, blood-kin. And no one asked their name, on the surface. Assassins hardly needed names.

“Solace.”

Gortash looked at them, expression unreadable, before nodding and gathering himself at the desk. “Well met, Solace.” He flicked his wrist and the Steel Watchers parted. Time to go.

Solace left the room, surprised to feel a bit of strength in their step. They hadn’t heard their name in months.

[frevandrest]

Hello, did you read https://ar.crimethinc.com/2019/04/08/against-the-logic-of-the-guillotine-why-the-paris-commune-burned-the-guillotine-and-we-should-too ? I wanted to ask someone who has knowledge about the french revolution's facts, from the little I know I feel like it's simplistic to a bad degree but I don't know much.. to me, it's worse when an idea I agree with is supported by false/refuctive statements, and I do believe in the core conclusion of this essay.

Thank you.

Alright, so I am not knowledgeable about the 19th century and 1871 Paris Commune so I can't speak on that, but the article itself does include numerous simplifications and errors. It doesn't even contextualize the guillotine in its original context, the way it was invented, to provide a quick and egalitarian death for everyone.

While guillotine sure overstayed its welcome (it was officially abolished only with the abolition of the death penalty in 1981, wtf), the context in which it was first implemented is important to keep in mind. The article doesn't even mention that. It does not paint it as an attempt to move away from what was before it: gruesome executions and only aristocrats being privileged enough to receive beheading (the quickest death). The article jumps straight to 1793 and the execution of the king, so we don't get any context.

Now, I am not sure what to think of the article as a whole. It seems to argue that the guillotine isn't/should not be a symbol of liberation because it includes bloody revenge (?) and a state-inflicted violence, which the author doesn't see as a correct anarchist (?) approach. Which, fine, but it is YMMV and a highly personal opinion. But the author's take on history and the French Revolution context of the guillotine is misleading (and often completely wrong). The article seems to see the guillotine in frev as the weapon of the state against its people, which misses the entire point of guillotine being used in frev to prevent (very real) direct killings committed by the people. While yes, we can talk about the role of the guillotine as a state-inflicted violence, a lot of context is missed by ignoring the fact that the people were eager to do their own revenge, and the government trying to prevent those random murders on the street by giving it at least a semblance of the legal process. It might not fly as fair legal process today, but the opposite was not peace and quiet; the opposite was sans culottes taking justice (or what they saw as justice) into their own hands. They did it during September massacres in 1792, and they were ready to do it again. And when told "hold on, the republic will take care of that", people demanded more and quicker executions. The article never mentions this; on the contrary, it contextualizes the use of guillotine in frev as a bureaucratic state murdering citizens "from afar". Which the article argues is what people today want when they talk about guillotining billionaires or whoever. Which is YMMV and highly personal opinion. But this opinion (about politics today and what to do about social change) is very different than the late 18c situation in France. It's anachronistic and, well, ethnocentric, to view the French Revolution through the lens of our own culture. Whatever one thinks about the use of guillotine during frev, it's not really relevant unless they (try to) understand the context, the time and the cultural circumstances. That not to say that anyone has to support the idea of guillotine (I for one am terrified of the thing and I rarely, if ever, post guillotine memes). But it's not possible to understand what was going on during frev (or Paris Commune 1871 for that matter) unless you understand the context. The article you linked doesn't even seem to try to do that. On the contrary, it openly interprets the past through the present and tries to explain frev through today's cultural sentiments, which is not a good way to go, imo. (Well, if you wish to understand history, which I assume was not the goal of this article). Errors and simplifications under the cut.

The guillotine is associated with radical politics because it was used in the original French Revolution to behead monarch Louis XVI on January 21, 1793, several months after his arrest.

Is this really why it's associated with radical politics? Is it really all about the king (and queen)? Even if so, it is a misleading way to put it: guillotine was implemented so there is at least some legal proceeding (trial, death penalty). The opposite is letting people punish with their bare hands whoever they deem guilty (look at the September Massacres). Whatever we think of direct action, it is clear why government could not allow that to happen (for people to go on the streets and punish whoever they want).

Which is a hugely, immensely important point behind the executions in frev. The article doesn't even mention it, even though it talks about doing revenge yourself vs distant revenge (the author seems unaware that sans cullotes in frev very much wanted a direct revenge and were ready to implement it). The article argues that people today want a distant, impersonal revenge where they don't dirty their own hands "with all the paperwork filled out properly, according to the example set by the Jacobins and the Bolsheviks". This shows a profound lack of understanding of what was going on during frev, when there was a very real struggle between the government and the people over "direct revenge". The "Jacobin procedure" was an attempt to prevent more September massacres; it wasn't something created in a vacuum because Robespierre (or whoever) just wanted to kill people with bureaucratic precision.

Maximilien de Robespierre, sometime President of the Jacobin Club, continued employing it to consolidate power for his faction of the Republican government.

This is an interesting way to describe Robespierre (not incorrect, but misleading, because so many people were presidents of the Jacobin club). At least it doesn't claim he was the president of the CSP. Minus for incorrect use of "de Robespierre" (it's typically done to SJ, so this one is rare). Still, it makes it seem like Robespierre was the mastermind behind the guillotinings (and he somehow achieved that by simply being the president of the Jacobin club?)

As is customary for demagogues, Robespierre, Georges Danton, and other radicals availed themselves of the assistance of the sans-culottes, the angry poor, to oust the more moderate faction, the Girondists, in June 1793.

Plus for mentioning Danton in this context (he is typically spared the Robespierre treatment). While it's true that there was a big Girondin vs Montagnard thing going on (both sides wanted to crush the other), the text misses to point out that: 1) Girondins had the power majority in early 1793; 2) What is "moderate" is debatable - Girondins were for the war that caused so much mess, and it's rarely mentioned as "not moderate"; and 3) (most misleading, imo) It ignores the fact that sans culottes were the ones doing the insurrection, barging into the Convention to demand Girondins be punished, "or else" (= "September massacres again"). The people (sans culottes) were very active in their ideas and demands, and the government (Montagnards included) often had to make careful moves to placate them - there is so, so much about the tensions between the sans culottes (Paris Commune) and the Government that the article doesn't even take into account. (Like seriously, it needs to be well-known.)

By early 1794, Robespierre and his allies had sent a great number of people at least as radical as themselves to the guillotine, including Anaxagoras Chaumette and the so-called Enragés, Jacques Hébert and the so-called Hébertists, proto-feminist and abolitionist Olympe de Gouges, Camille Desmoulins (who had had the gall to suggest to his childhood friend Robespierre that “love is stronger and more lasting than fear”)—and Desmoulins’s wife, for good measure, despite her sister having been Robespierre’s fiancée. 

(Was she really Robespierre's fiancée? And since we're there, should we also mention that Robespierre's sister was the fiancée of the man who killed Robespierre?) Anyway. This paragraph is super misleading because it makes it seem that it was Robespierre "and his supporters" doing all of this, when it was faction fighting where, say, Danton was pushing for the fall of the opposing factions. Yet, everyone is lumped together as Robespierre's victim. (And why is Olympe de Gouges not grouped with Girondins? Of course, we hear that she was an abolitionist, but we don't hear that the rest of them were, too, Robespierre included. Not to mention de Gouges' horrendous take on how black people should not "go too far" to liberate themselves. Like if there is one person in frev that should not be hailed as a great abolitionist it's de Gouges. But I digress).

To celebrate all this bloodletting, Robespierre organized the Festival of the Supreme Being, a mandatory public ceremony inaugurating an invented state religion.

Now they're just making shit up. I've heard many bad takes about the Festival of the Supreme Being, but that it was a celebration of the guillotinings???

After this, it was only a month and a half before Robespierre himself was guillotined, having exterminated too many of those who might have fought beside him against the counterrevolution.

Eeeh. This is more what happened to Thermidorians after the death of Robespierre, but sure we don't talk about the White Terror because it's not important (?) (It's true Robespierre miscalculated by alienating sans culottes, but not because he killed so many that he lost supporters. Again, this is what happened to Robespierre's killers, the Thermidorians, and not to Robespierre).

But it is a mistake to focus on Robespierre. Robespierre himself was not a superhuman tyrant. At best, he was a zealous apparatchik who filled a role that countless revolutionaries were vying for, a role that another person would have played if he had not. The issue was systemic—the competition for centralized dictatorial power—not a matter of individual wrongdoing.

This paragraph is not completely wrong (except it sees Robespierre and frev as being much more organized and eeeh, USSR-like than it was - a common mistake. It was a fucking anarchy where nobody had proper power and control - that is the main problem. But to understand this, one has to understand just how disorganized things were, with no institutions and with no proper bureaucratic apparatus - that was a huge problem. But the article seems to equate frev with USSR so... nah).

To a certain extent, we can understand why Robespierre and his contemporaries ended up relying on mass murder as a political tool. They were threatened by foreign military invasion, internal conspiracies, and counterrevolutionary uprisings; they were making decisions in an extremely high-stress environment. 

Oh, now we are mentioning the context, which was supposed to go to the start of the article to explain wtf was going on. That's abut it for frev. After, the article talks about 19c and I am not knowledgeable enough about that.

[pinktwingirl]

Hi. I'm not sure if you are familiar with testimonies on the Israeli side about the massacre on 7.10, but I'd like to share some with you:

There was a woman who went missing, her family did not know what had happened to her until the found a video of her being gang raped by 5-6 men while she begged them to stop. They parroted and mimicked her pleas while raping here, then shot her in the head 15 times and urinated on her body.

There were bodies of little girls found with their pelvises crushed.

There was an 8 year old girl found still alive with her arm being chopped off from the elbow. She did not survive.

someone who managed to hide reported they saw a woman being bent down while bleeding. The terrorist who raped her pulled her hair and then proceeded to shoot her in the head while still raping her. Him and other people then just disfigured her body horribly. Cutting off her breasts and playing with them

There were dead women found naked and tied, or naked and burnet, or even naked from the waist down, with signs of forced entry.

There were bodies burnet to a crisp, with forensic evidence proving they were burnt alive. There was one mass that was so mangled doctors could not identify it. After putting it into a ct scanner they realized it was a mother holding her child to her chest

There were bodies found with parts chopped off. In one especially gruesome scene, volunteers found a family dead and tied in their home, kids in one side and parents on the other. They were facing each other. Both had missing fingers and one had an eye gouged out. Now we don’t know for sure if they removed limbs before or after they died (imagine the situation) but them facing one another in such a matter might indicate they were tortured alive before being murdered.

The saddest part is that is not all and I can go on and on.

Some people in the west say it's propaganda, I find that infuriating. There are video evidence for some of it, and forensic evidence as well. I especially find it horrific that some people who say to believe the victim all of the sudden discredit any testimony of rape when it's an Israeli woman or girl. I am Israeli, and unfortunately I know some of these stories personally.

I wanted to share my thoughts with you. Thank you for reading and I hope you have a peaceful day 🙏🏻

So I want to make something very clear: I do not and have never condoned the killing and assault of civilians. Some people seem to have this idea that every Israeli citizen is a violent settler committing colonial terrorism like in the videos that they've seen from the West Bank, and that's not true. The people who were killed on October 7th were not settlers; they were normal civilians. One of the hostages that was released was an Israeli peace activist who took people in Gaza to hospitals to get medical care they needed. There are good people in Israel just as much as there are good people in Gaza. And while it is true that the IDF has made false claims about what Hamas has done, I also don't think it's fair to accuse every Israeli of lying about their crimes either. Even though I will always maintain that the Israeli government has committed infinitely more atrocities than Hamas, war crimes are still war crimes and people who commit them should be tried and condemned for them regardless of which side they are on. The message that I am trying to get across to Israeli citizens (and to their credit, the majority of them already seem to recognize this) is that your government is not interested in protecting you, and the violence is not going to be solved by bombing Gaza into oblivion. Apartheid states are not, and never have been a sustainable system. Violence is inherently necessary to maintain them, and that violence is only going to beget more violence. I don't want more people to be killed. I want people with empathy to be given the ability to make things right instead of keeping violent right-wing politicians who only want genocide and ethnic cleansing in power.

I find it extremely frustrating that so many people are viewing this issue through a simple "us vs. them" lens and assuming that anyone who criticizes Israel must be a Hamas supporter who wants all Israelis to die. Analyzing where violence comes from is not the same thing as justifying it, and if people can't look at this situation with any kind of nuance, then none of this is ever going to get better.

I'm so sorry that people you know have been hurt or killed. That is not what I want and I don't want people to think that's what I'm advocating for. Hope you're doing ok and staying safe.

[phanfictioncatalogue]

Ghost Dan Masterlist

A Small Eternity - ihavecoldhands

Summary: Dan is a sort of ghost who can never be touched by a human, or he’ll disappear. Phil falls in love with him anyway.

Bad (Actually Very, Very Fucked Up) Romance - full-dark-no-starss

Summary: A year ago, a boy died falling down the stairs of A Block. A year later, Phil Lester who accidentally lets the ghost of the dead boy possess the body of school bully and his own personal nightmare, Dan Howell.

Bury the Dead Beneath You (ao3) - pinkieprimpotter

Summary: It was a car accident. A car had rammed into Dan, as he was texting Phil that he was just down the street. He was trapped behind heat and metal, and he felt so much pain he thought he would be ripped apart.

ghost boy (ao3) - orphan_account

Summary: "Phil's house just might be haunted."

Ghost of you (ao3) - Latenightdream

Summary: Phil is recently graduated and finds his dream job as a weatherman in a cold and gloomy town but everything changes when he learns that he is not the only one living in his house. . . . . . . Aka weatherman Phil and sad ghost Dan fall for each other

Haunted - ficster28

Summary: In which Dan is a ghost. Just. Because.

Haunting My Life (ao3) - Anonymous

Summary: Any of you ever play that online game, Haunt the House?

Ghost!Daniel is antisocial as all heck, but when his house is flooded with potential buyers, he decides there's only one way to deal with it- flush them all out. Which would of course work better if he could stop getting distracted by PJ's uncomfortably pretty friend, Phil, who isn't even here to buy the house.

What began as a crack fic turning into pure fluff.

Losing a Life (To Gain Another) - harajukuhowell

Summary: Dan’s a ghost and a bit of a cock block but Phil likes him anyways.

Monster - full-dark-no-starss

Summary: Phil may have most definitely tried to bring his dead boyfriend back to life, after Dan Howell lost his life after electrocuting himself at the BBC. But is it really Dan he brings back?

New apartments bring stories with them (ao3) - gaywizard

Summary: good lord kill me

Dan's a ghost.

Phil moves into a new apartment.

Notice Me - full-dark-no-starss

Summary: Dan Howell just wants to be noticed by his crush Phil Lester. He never thought he’d be more visible as a ghost.

Paranormal Phantivity - sexyendscreensmut

Summary: Phil is haunted by not-dead university student and fan Dan Howell. Set in 2009 prior to the filming of Philisnotonfire1.

See Me (ao3) - Misha_with_wings

Summary: Dan gets in an accident, leaving him in critical condition. He ends up stuck in between life and death, watching his own body fight to stay alive- and watching Phil fall apart, but he can’t do anything about it in his ghostly form.

He was confused and didn’t know what to do but he was sure of one thing, he wasn’t going to let himself die.

Watchful - cafephan

Summary: Phil is part of one of the world’s most famous paranormal investigator groups, along with his friends Joe, Zoe and Louise. The never before investigated Harrowick Penitentiary catches the group’s attention, and they settle in the town for a week long investigation. Most importantly, they hope to make contact with one spirit in particular, Dan Howell, who was falsely imprisoned for a crime he didn’t commit, and was murdered in the building. When Dan becomes attached to Phil, things become a lot more complicated.

We Can Still Drown (ao3) - rain_on_his_umbrella (orphan_account)

Summary: Phil rents a flat he can more than well afford because of a reason he doesn't understand, until he discovers a lonely ghost named Dan is living there with him, and everything makes sense again.

You Are Not Trivial - phanimist

Summary: Dan being a ghost doesn’t once hinder the friendship between him and phil. the two are constantly there for each other, despite their various differences in problems, and they never let the concepts of what’s ‘real’ and what isn’t define them and the relationship they have.

[felixcloud6288]

Fullmetal Alchemist Chapter 60

The implications of that opening scene...Roy and Riza have a far more intimate relation than we thought.

When you strip away the color, you can't see Amestrians vs Ishbalans. It's just humans fighting humans. And Envy is laughing at it all.

Kimblee's discussion with Roy and Riza is what made him one of my favorite antagonists. He is a villainous character, but he adheres to certain personal convictions that make him more than a psycho murderer, but those convictions do not give him any noble or admirable goals.

Kimblee never pretends to be someone he's not. Last chapter, he killed two Ishbalans Armstrong tried to save, and he did it because he genuinely wanted to protect Armstrong from getting in trouble for it. Armstrong had a moment where he acted on his conviction. He believed what he was doing was wrong and he disobeyed orders to act on that belief. Kimblee responded by making sure Armstrong wouldn't be punished for it. But because Kimblee's own morals are so twisted, his solution was to kill the people Armstrong was ordered to kill.

Kimblee is annoyed that Roy and Riza have no conviction. They put on the military uniforms which means they should know they might have to kill and now they're upset they have to kill. He tells them they should either just mindlessly be a cog in the war machine or refuse to be one. But since they refuse to be either, then they had better remember every atrocity they've committed. "Look squarely at the people you're killing. And don't forget them. Never forget them. Because they won't forget you."

Roy then asks Hughes why he fights. Maybe he's hoping for his own convictions at that moment, but Hughes can only give him the simple answer that he fights so he doesn't die.

We finally see Basque Gran, the man Scar killed prior to his introduction in chapter 5. And we see a sample of what Gran can do in battle.

The strangest thing about Gran's Alchemy tools I want to point out is there's no discernible transmutation circle on his equipment. He just slams his fists together and can then channel the energies needed to change the stone walls into a heavy artillery. His gauntlets have several Latin words written over them. The only ones I was able to fully make out were 'lapifem' which Google translate says means "stone" and 'terra' which is earth. I would guess the other words are various types of metals and minerals.

And in this chapter we see the underside of the Reconstruction piece of Scar's Alchemy. On the underside, we see the word "AQUA" which means water. In the an earlier panel, we can see part of the outerside. It contains the twisting snake pattern like the destruction arm, but the colors are white. The reconstruction arm's patterns are also inverted. They point up to the body whereas the destruction arm points out to the hand.

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Spoiler Discussion

When presented the Supreme Cleric of the Ishbalan religion, Bradley mocked the very idea he was anyone of value. His mockery extended to their very god. He asked how many Ishbalans must be struck down before god intervenes.

As he walks away, he calls god a fantasy and imaginary being. The sun then shines in his eye and Bradley remarks that the hand of man is what he must be wary of.

The next time he does this - mocks god as a fake being - the sun will shine in his eye once more, and he will be brought down by the hand of an Ishbalan.

And how strange for Wrath to mock the very notion of god when Father's end goal is to contain god. But then again, he lives with a nihilism that rejects dreams, ideals, and beliefs. So perhaps he doesn't even believe in the purpose he was born with. Perhaps he thinks Father is doomed to fail. And maybe that's why he enjoys watching their plans go astray - because they're proving him right.

The only thing coming close to a belief Wrath has given is his belief that the Homunculi are superior to human. But even that may be false. "It's the hand of man, not god, that we have to be wary of."

[matan4il]

Idk if you're watching Lone Star but I am LIVID and if you've seen it I'm sure you have very eloquent thoughts??

about the (SPOILER AHEAD)

Nazi bar thing with Owen

Hi lovely! How are you? I’m giving you BIG hugs and I hope you’re taking care of yourself, my darling! *cuddles*

So I tend to binge watch shows. I know, 911 OG is a glaring exception for me (in part so I can write weekly meta posts for everyone interested), but binge watching at the end of a season is what I’ve been doing with LS. For you, however, I went and watched 401.

Well. Yeah, I can’t say that I’m feeling too great about it. As you know, I was already critical of 911 LS’ Jewish representation with TK (and his mom, Gwyn). To me, doing a storyline like this is touching on REALLY sensitive matters, and before you can do that, you should “earn” some credit. Based on seasons 1 through 3, LS has not yet earned that “credit” by showing us it is fully committed to handling these issues with the required care and sensitivity.

On the other hand, I’m also not livid. So, let me try and share my thoughts, in the form of bullet-points to give each one its space, and I hope they can explain where I’m at right now when it comes to this storyline:

First off, it always troubles me when people refer to ‘Nazis’ past 1945. After that point, it is only correct to refer to ex-Nazis or to neo-Nazis. Let me try to explain why this distinction matters. The Nazis might have started as an extremist ideological fringe group, but they rose to be a political party with considerable influence in Germany (responsible for the murder of several individuals and the corruption of German justice even before they came into power). Once they became the ruling party, which then led Germany and used all its resources to launch a world war, occupying as well as collaborating with countless countries, that increased its strength tenfold. They had power the likes of which today’s neo-Nazis never had (and hopefully never will), and they used that power to commit an actual genocide against the Jewish people, as well as persecute and murder members of many other groups. We mustn’t dilute these heinous crimes by conflating the Nazis with today’s neo-Nazis, who are still just a pitiful extremist ideological fringe group (again, hopefully they’ll never rise to be more than that. That’s on us to prevent). And we must also not absolve the neo-Nazis of what it means, that they CHOOSE to follow the ideology which was responsible for those crimes against humanity. Today’s neo-Nazis can’t claim ignorance about the meaning of this ideology, not when its history is so well recorded. The fact that 911 LS is referring to these guys as ‘Nazis’ rather than ‘neo-Nazis’ is already a bit troubling to me.

Another thing is the humorous reveal. TBH, I’m not bothered by the fact that Owen rode with these guys for a week without realizing they’re neo-Nazis. It does ring true to the way such groups indoctrinate new members, which is indeed gradual. If anything, it’s the sudden and complete reveal that they’re neo-Nazis which rings false. They would not have sprung that out of nowhere on a potential new recruit. It’s done this way to bring humor into the situation, which is 911 LS’ way of telling stories, but this is just too serious of a matter, which means once again the credit to use humor here has to be earned IMO. First show us that you’re not taking this lightly, that you are integrating this storyline because you actually care about things like the current rise in antisemitism in the US, and only then do you get to inject humor into it. The fact that this was not a throwaway joke, the fact that they will develop it into a whole storyline where they might yet show us that they are taking this seriously, is the main reason why I’m not livid right now. But it doesn’t mean that this is okay, it just means that I’m reserving judgment until we get the whole storyline and have a better, fuller idea of how they’re treating it.

One of the reasons why I’m giving 911 LS credit that it might still do this storyline justice is because I know that Rob Lowe is married to a Jewish woman, and their kids are, in terms of ancestry, half-Jewish (and in terms of Halacha, the Jewish law, they’re Jewish. Period). One of those kids actually works (I’m assuming he’s on board for s4 as he was for seasons 1 - 3) as a scriptwriter for 911 LS. Even just based on Rob’s involvement as a producer for the show, and assuming he cares about this issue as a man who’s married to a Jewish woman and raising Jewish kids, I’m willing to assume the intention was good. It doesn’t necessarily mean they’ll do this subject justice, but I am willing to believe they brought it up because it is something that does bother them.

Speaking of doing this right, Owen is actually not a likely candidate for this neo-Nazi group. I’m not saying it’s impossible, there are always exceptions, but such groups usually prey on people who are young and disenfranchised, feeling cast out and unwanted by their own societies. Young people who are likely to be patriotic towards their country, but angry towards its chosen government, which they blame for their own failures. Owen is older, less likely to be easily malleable to their ideology, he’s successful in his profession, and while as a firefighter he can be assumed to be patriotic, they have no indication that he harbors any animosity towards the American government. If 911 LS was gonna tell this story, it has no way of really doing this one right, ‘coz none of the 126 members is a likely candidate for a neo-Nazi gang. Which makes sense, that’s the cast diversity they were proud of and even integrated into the actual plot in s1, right? I can only once again assume that they took on this storyline because it matters to them, and in spite of not having the right cast to tell the story as it usually unfolds. They can still “fix” that if in the following eps they’ll have someone (like maybe the FBI agent we saw) address the fact that Owen doesn’t fit the usual profile.

Which brings me back to what I said earlier, that to a great degree I feel like my final judgment of this storyline, whether it’ll make me just slightly uncomfortable or downright angry, is something I’ll only be able to properly address once I’ve seen the whole storyline play out.

I hope this helps? I’m here for you either way, you can always talk to me about whatever upsets you, regarding this storyline or anything else. Sending you so much love, hon! xoxox

(more of my posts about Jewish rep can be found here, and my other ask replies here. xoxox)

[shimmerbeasts]

A Drink With An Old Friend

The days tended to blur into one another to the point they became one hazy fog when he tried to recollect them. Sometimes, Yasuo wondered if this was because of the copious amounts of alcohol he drank or because Vesani had taken his memories of those days. He rather bet on the former, simply because he knew the malevolent spirit's feeding habits. By the Ancient, he wished he didn't.

Some days were harder than others. However, today was special, and for once, Yasuo wished he couldn't remember why. Today was the anniversary of him having killed Yone in self-defence. Today was the anniversary of the act which had plunged the Ronin into an even greater dishonour than he had thought possible. Though really, what was worse? Being falsely accused of murder, having committed familicide or being called a liar?

Yasuo pushed open the door to a nearby tavern. His garbs weighed heavily from the snowstorm, he had just strutted through. His black hair had flakes of white littered all over it and his decorative shoulder garb might as well have been soaked in water. Yasuo pulled his shawl closer around himself and headed straight for the bar, keeping his gaze low. Even so, he could feel a few people eye him with a sense of confusion and bewilderment. Though no recognition, thankfully.

Yasuo rested on a stool by the bar. Rubbing his hands against each other, breathing against them to warm his frigid fingers, he finally turned a tired gaze towards the bartender and ordered: "Gimme a jug of whatever is drinkable. Make it your heaviest."

The bartender rolled his eyes in mild annoyance, clearly capable of smelling the residue of alcohol, which surrounded him like a cloud. However, he swiftly went to work, grabbing a glass and mixing two bottles of sharp-smelling liquid into the tumbler before he shoved it towards Yasuo. The ronin pulled out his pouch and handed the man a few coins for the service. Without a word, the bartender took them and resumed cleaning dirty glasses.

Yasuo picked up the whiskey glass and took a long sip. The mixed drink was spicy and carried some kind of kick, though Ionia had spirits, which could make an inexperienced drinker sit down on the floor. Yasuo continued sipping the drink, content with its substance. Even if it was not the heaviest he ever had, it would hopefully do its job. He needed to be close to passing out today. He didn't want to think about anyone today: Not Yone, not Vesani, not his old master... Nobody.

As Yasuo lowered his glass to allow himself a breather, he noticed somebody must have been looking at him for the last couple of minutes. Turning his head in confusion, the ronin's eyes widened in surprise at the sight of a familiar little girl with sandy skin, and warm, curly, brown hair, wearing the traditional garments of a Shuriman nomad. Yasuo would recognise those wide and inquisitive eyes anywhere.

"Little Sparrow?", called Yasuo in quiet disbelief, "What are you doing here? I thought you had headed back home." Noticing her own half-empty glass, the ronin offered graciously: "Want me to order you another one? I am pretty sure I could go for seconds."

Starter for @weavertali, based on the Specific Starter Symbol meme.

[gffa]

How do you think the galactic war would have changed if the separatists hadn't use a droid army but an army of people? How would the Jedi have dealt with having to kill people all the tiem on the battlefield? And how would that have affected the separatist cause as their own people were actually dying?

I'm not sure it would have changed much at all, because the driving force behind why the Jedi joined the war is that the people of the Republic were facing annihilation, and that's something that would always be part of whatever the circumstances Sidious cooked up for them. "Are they going to stick with their moral rules and all be killed, which makes it irrelevant, or do they help save the Republic?" --George Lucas, talking about the Jedi being manipulated into the war Whatever changes might have been made from what we got, that's still the underlying scenario that Sidious posed to the Jedi, when he drafted them, that to stand by their moral rules means that everyone in the Republic dies. So, it's not just a case of, "What if Sidious had used people on the Separatists' side?" because it would still have to come with the same context that we had in canon, that was Sidious' whole point. And I think the reason Sidious went with that because it lulled people into a false sense of security, that the Jedi weren't bothered by the destruction of machines, but by the deaths of the people they cared about (the clones), they were protecting (the people of the Republic), the people they had no quarrel with (the Separatists who were honorable), by the deaths of their own family, and how there was no breathing room in the fighting in that war, that it wasn't months between battles, sometimes it was rushing from one right to the next. And with the Separatists, they were sold the idea of a bloodless war, and I think Sidious probably could have sold them a lot of different things, given how little they seemed to actually look into what their army was doing, that Dooku and Grievous and the droids could be committing atrocity after atrocity and they never seemed to look into any of it. But would he have been able to so easily sell them on that lie, if they had had to have people fighting on their side? I doubt it, so the Separatists kind of had to have droids fighting for them, while the Jedi had to have people fighting with them, I think there's a Lucas quote around somewhere about how they wouldn't have fought with machines. My feeling is that having people fighting for the Separatists wasn't something Sidious could have sold, because it would have crashed down on the Separatists side, especially since the Trade Federation was known for using them all the way back on Naboo, so as long as the Trade Federation was part of the Separatists' side, they had to use droids. If Sidious had managed it, I think the Jedi would still have been willing to fight living people, because we see they don't shy away from killing people, but that they would have burnt out a lot faster and probably died a lot sooner and that was against Sidious' plan as well, they had to be involved in the war long enough for the public to be willing to blame them for not stopping it sooner and willing to turn a blind eye to even their babies being murdered. If the Jedi collapsed from exhaustion and burn out a year into the war, because fighting living people overwhelmed them, then they'd have been martyrs and Sidious didn't want that. So, whatever changes you make, I think it has to play out the exact way it did, because that's what Sidious was aiming for--a 3-4 year long war where everything was juuuuust tenable enough that it would hold until he wanted to break it all into pieces and remold it into the Empire.