#or at least super policed

[satellites-halo]

If you're trying to develop a game and have an official discord server for it, it is a bad look to have online discourse opinions in your info sections ("why bi lesbians are bad", why [blank] isn't valid, why you shouldn't support [blank]). It makes you look unprofessional and actively pushes people away from your game. Keep your opinions to yourself and your friends, it isn't that serious.

[todayisafridaynight]

thinking about vampiric arakawas again just so i can make a 'blood-sucking politician' joke

[samandmaxsecretsanta]

It's soft marketable baby versions of Sam and Max, here to convince you to join my Secret Santa! Entries close on the 16th, so please sign up (HERE) asap if you're interested! Please read the rules (linked here) first, and share if you'd like!

(version without text under cut)

[chompe-diem]

also ik some ppl are not the most pleased abt some consistency things like sklonda already being a practicing lawyer but tbh 1) we have no idea how long it takes in brennan's made up fantasy world how long it takes to become a lawyer and 2) it's been several real life years. it's been months since sophomore year but in real life it's been like 4 years. go off i get it king it's not a big deal

[halforcdad]

ngl seeing the way some fans have been speaking on yasmine’s absence this season has been so upsetting like you have grown adults out here really wishing for her to get kicked off her other show (and being disappointed that she isn’t! in this economy!) because some unfortunate scheduling conflicts got in the way of filming s2. it’s one thing to miss your favorite character, but it’s another to wish for someone to lose a job over it (tacking on “glad she stays booked and busy though” at the end of these posts hardly makes it come across any better) 

it’s not like you constantly see poc actors getting work that doesn’t force them to be anything more than stereotypical one-dimensional villains of the week or guest characters that get maybe 5 lines, let alone getting booked consistently, so it should be a good thing seeing an actor you like (especially a woc actor) staying busy and having other projects to work on (and she’s not the only one on the show to do that obviously, they’re actors they gotta make a living outside of the show too)

and there’s also people who talk about lucy's absence like it’s the writers’ fault that she’s not in the episodes, like it was the writers’ decision to just randomly write off one of their regulars and one half of their main couple for half a season. i think it’s fair to say that the writing has been hit-or-miss for s2 (and it’s definitely shakier in episodes where lucy’s absent) and you’re allowed to be dissatisfied with that and critique it, but there’s a difference between critiquing the writing and looking for someone to blame (critiquing the story reasons they’ve written for lucy being out/lack of lucy mentions in the interim vs. blaming the writer’s for leaving lucy out of an episode when yasmine just wasn’t available to film).

i know everyone’s frustrated and afraid of a repeat of s2 where she’s gone for half the season, but that doesn’t excuse anyone from acting like this lol. she’s a series regular, i doubt they’d let her continually miss half the season every season especially for a show she’s not a main character on.

[lupizora]

It's funny how in the fandoms I've been so far, the jokey posts/fanarts were usually exaggerated situations or things taken out of context. But in DetCo they are all 100% true to the series LMAO 😂😂😂

[puppys-rhythm-heaven]

fitting view count there-

[frotting-corporations]

microdosing insanity by looking at university programmes

[defiant-firefly]

Oh yeah fun fact about those escape room games me and my mum have been playing: they make no fucking sense. Not in a 'we can't solve them' way, they're actually fairly easy (for me anyway but I think that's cause mum gets bored) but because the protagonist is a detective with stupid reasoning sometimes.

Mostly saying this because she got shot at and kidnapped (by the guy wearing the keffiyeh so like... yeah that's not helping her case here), ended up in a cabin in the woods, found this guy's camera in his backpack, and said one of the photos on it was suspicious. Two of the three photos were pretty sus. First one is of the protagonist and her friend (I think) investigating the disappearance of a woman at the petrol station from the previous chapter. It's from an angle that makes you think he was just camping out in the fucking trees to take this photo, so yeah that's a bit weird. The second is of the missing woman sitting on a bench reading a paper, taken from within the bushes. Pretty sus, right?

But it's the third one that gets logged as vital evidence. That's the one that makes the protag think there's more than one kidnapped woman here. Clearly, super important! So what was it?

A wedding photo. The culprit's wedding photo with a blond woman hugging him. She's wearing a flower crown that's part of a puzzle, but otherwise, that's it.

The protag thinks a wedding photo is more suspicious than a photo of a woman taken from within the bushes. The Arabic man can't have married a conventionally attractive woman! No villain like this has ever been married before! No no no that's just not right! She must have been kidnapped too and coerced into this! How cruel! /s obviously

Like. Come on. They could at least have made the woman look even remotely like she didn't want to be there if they were going for this. They're not even trying to be subtle about this.

The REAL fucked up thing about this man should be that to get into the attic, he has to pull down the mounted animal heads on the wall in the right order. And he had a fucking lightbulb in a draw that only opens when the guns in the rack are in the right places. And he didn't notice the distinct lack of boards over tha attic window when he pulled up outside. And his number plate combined with a fishing bait catalogue is the security pin for the basement door that unlocks from the inside where the victims are.

The more fucked up guy is the fisherman who locked his car jack behind a number code box. And the protagonist for spending like an hour solving puzzles to put out an engine fire rather than get the fisherman out the fucking car before it explodes.

The culprit is actually cool btw. He has a fucking secret cave behind a waterfall as a secret spot to hang out in after he kills someone. A secret cave!!! Behind a waterfall!!! With a comfy hammock in it!!! And he's trying to kill this dumb fuck protag!!! Sure he might be a murderer but I'd forgive him if he kills this racist, judgemental idiot that has to spend forever organising the box of donuts before she can take one, and locks her office phone inside a locked draw you can only open with the key from a safe, where the code is the amount of squares on the files in the cabinets she also has to organise before she can use them.

Like damn bitch, you live like this?

I get it's an escape room puzzle game, but like. There are some things that maybe just make your characters look insane if you make them puzzles ngl

[todayisafridaynight]

time a flat circle why the hell am i usin the same loafers i bought for one cosplay of my fave antagonist for another fave antagonist

[anendoandfriendo]

CONTENT NOTE: this is very much a vent and is going to sound VERY bad, we're also trying to work through some bullshit The Eras have said to us before (and we guess the brainbody's family too re: tags). Also a tinge homocidal thinking (underexaggeration). Sorry. We hate mornings but not for the reasons most people do and this blog serves secondarily as a diary/journal. We just. We don't know where else we could get this off of our chest because "therapists" don't actually exist, and can't tell their head from their ass/intent to act from a planner by heart venting to keep people safe.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

"You can't care about a culture's people if you don't care about the norms in that culture thats like...thats the whole culture" no no no you don't get it, if just for a random example, the midwestern US is going to be full of eugenicists then frankly midwestern us culture shouldn't exist, we should replace it with a less eugenicist culture that rips people to shreds for even suggesting applied behavioral analysis.

Yeah, see, you just argued that would be CHANGING the culture but there's only so many seams you can pick at before something unravels entirely, and ableism is at the deepest roots of so many cultures that we feel like they fundamentally would not be those cultures anymore if we removed it. Our talk of burning things to the ground not always being physically violent DOES have a logic to it, actually. Physical violence should be reserved for the scumbags.

Oh, poor things, you don't actually see that though, do you? You think because you're literally monsters on the inside, that somehow you're ~scarier~ and could try to determine our system origins for us, tell us what to do, and also tell us how to think. Right? That's what you were thinking? If you weren't that was certainly how you came across. Now where's our fucking knife. 🔪 🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪

[kutyozh]

iqpb was amazing btw if only the police hadn't stopped us from marching for 2½ hours 👀

[happy74827]

Joyride

[Wade Wilson x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Remember kids, always look at the road when driving. It can help you avoid certain blabber mouths 🫶

WC: 2556

Category: Fluff, Annoying!Deadpool, 4th Wall Breaks, Insane Amounts of Profanity {TW: Deadpool (for obvious reasons)}

In honor of watching Deadpool 3 (super good btw), enjoy this random chaotic fic I created with the help of @yoursacredqueenmother. This is super chaotic lmfao

『••✎••』

Shit. Shit. Shit. SHIT.

A millisecond ago, you were driving down a street. In the middle of traffic. At a red light. Now, you were panicking, looking over the front of your car for the flash of red you had just seen. It took a couple of seconds for you to realize that there was blood on your car and on the ground—a lot of blood.

"Oh, shit. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!"

You quickly hopped out of the car, rushing to the spot you thought the person… or thing would be, but… there was nobody. There was blood on the ground but nobody.

Did you hit a deer, and it just… ran off? No, that can't be right. You definitely saw something red, and it most certainly was not a deer.

You looked around, confused. How the hell does something bleed all over the ground and then disappear without a trace?!

You got back in your car, deciding to drive to the closest police station. Maybe they knew something about this.

So, you decided to abandon the shortcut home and drive to the nearest police station, which happened to be just down the road. But as you were minutes into the drive, you felt the sudden urge to look in your rearview mirror.

And there you found your mysterious red-suited victim in the backseat, holding the biggest knife you have ever seen as his white-covered eyes stared at you from behind the mask.

You never hit the brakes faster in your life. The car made an ugly screeching sound, and the sudden force slammed the red-clad man into the back of your seat, making him let out a surprised yelp.

The car finally came to a stop, and the masked man recovered quickly, pushing himself off of your seat and glaring at you.

"Well, aren’t you just a heart break—"

He didn’t get the chance to finish his sentence.

You grabbed your keys from the ignition and popped off the attached pepper spray, turning around and squirting him in the face. He let out a scream, and you quickly got out of the car, shutting the door and running as fast as you could.

Unfortunately, you didn’t get very far. Despite being hit by a car, and subsequently getting pepper sprayed, the man (or what you assume to be) caught up with you and blocked your path, his hands on his hips, his head cocked to the side.

"Alright, lady, what the fuck?" He asked, his voice sounding nasally, most likely because of the spray.

You stared at him, confused. He looked like he was waiting for an explanation.

"W-What the fuck?! What the fuck me? What the fuck you!" You exclaimed, your voice cracking a little. "What the fuck are you doing in my car?!"

"Well, I was trying to hitch a ride! But clearly, that didn't work out. Thanks a lot, by the way, for the pain and suffering. You’ve really opened up my horizons here."

It almost sounded like he was pouting.

"What the—! A ride?! Why in the hell would you just hop into someone's car?!"

"Uhh, because you ran me over, genius! I mean, come on, the least you could do is offer a guy a ride home after that. And then, the cherry on top of the fucking sundae: pepper spray!"

The masked man, so to speak, threw his arms up in the air, and you could almost see him rolling his eyes underneath the mask. Of course, that’s when you noticed the obvious broken bones in his hands. And the blood. There was a lot of blood.

"Look," the guy started, walking closer to you. "I know, I'm a big scary guy with a big scary knife and a bad temper and all, and you’re just… well, I’m sure you have an amazing personality, but how about we put all that aside, and you give me a ride, alright? Just drop me off at the corner of 10th and 55th, and you can forget this ever happened."

"You’re arm… your wrist. It's broken," you told him.

"Yeah, no shit," the man scoffed. "Got any Taylor Swift CDs in that car?"

"Uh… no, not really. Why?"

"Cause, baby, I’m Shaking It Off!"

There was a pregnant pause, and you weren't quite sure if he was being serious or not. I mean, surely he wasn’t about to just ignore the fact that his arm was the complete opposite of norm—

But when he shook his arm in a violent manner, and a loud crack followed suit, you realized, with a heavy heart, that yes, this guy was serious.

What you didn’t know until a few seconds later, however, was that he snapped his bones back into place like it was nothing. It took the flexing in his fingers to realize it, too.

"Holy shit." You truly were in awe.

He seemed to find amusement in your expression, tilting his head slightly and giving you a once-over. And, yes, you could feel his eyes on you, and for some reason, it sent a shiver down your spine.

"So… Wendy Torrance, about that ride? Can you give me a lift, or are we gonna start that chick flick moment where your mental breakdown leads to slow-motion running to a Sia song?"

You could only stare.

"Alright, well, if you're going through with the latter, then at least play something that doesn’t involve that little dancing girl who likes to wear potato sacks as clothes."

You couldn’t believe this was happening.

"You are literally insane." You breathed out, shaking your head.

Even if you couldn’t see it, something told you that he made the biggest grin underneath his mask.

"Why, thank you, darling."

Fast forward a couple of minutes, and you found yourself driving towards the address the red-suited stranger had given you. You couldn’t really make conversation. He had his hands in his lap, playing with a knife, and was staring at you, his head tilted.

"You can blink, you know. I'm not a zombie," he informed you, making a gesture to his mask and eyes, which you assumed he was blinking underneath.

"Right," you nodded.

“Well, mostly, at least. I mean, I still have a pulse, but it's kind of irregular, and I think it's because I keep getting shot and stabbed in the heart. Oh, and I guess I'm also pretty much immortal, so that's probably the reason. But I think the whole not-dying thing cancels out the heartbeat thing, right? Like, the more times you get impaled or decapitated or set on fire, the more it doesn’t matter because it doesn’t affect you anymore, am I right?"

You glanced at him. He was staring at you, his hands still and his knife resting on his leg.

"…Do you ever shut up?"

"Woah-hoho, feisty. And here I thought I was going to break the ice with a good ol' fashioned knock knock joke."

"I don’t think that would've been funny."

"That's what the last girl said."

"Oh yeah?"

"Mhm. Except she wasn’t talking about the joke. I made her laugh in a different way."

You glanced at him again, and he was giving you a knowing look.

"I can't decide if you're disgusting or not."

He hummed, shrugging his shoulders. That made him shut his mouth just long enough for you to turn on the radio but not long enough to avoid the inevitable.

"Hey, hey, I got a good one: Knock knock."

You let out a long sigh, closing your eyes. "Who's there?"

"Orange."

"Orange, who?"

"Orange you glad I'm not a serial killer?"

"That wasn’t even good."

"I know. It would've been better if I could've pulled the knife out of my belt. You know, just for show." He twiddled his fingers at you.

"That wouldn’t have helped," you said.

"Nope," he agreed. "But it would've made a great story."

"I suppose."

"Yeah. Hey, hey, I got another one: Knock knock."

"You just—"

"Knock knock."

You let out a huff. This man was the most childish, annoying, idiotic, strange, weird—

"Knock knock."

"Oh, just fucking tell me the joke!"

"No! It doesn't work that way!"

You rolled your eyes, but before you could answer, he beat you to it.

"Okay, okay, how about this: Knock knock."

You didn't say anything.

"Knock knock."

Your eyes flickered over to him for a second.

"Knock knock."

"For fucks sake!" You exclaimed. "Who's there?"

He leaned forward, closer to you, and you could see his mouth moving.

"Deadpool."

You were confused.

"D-Deadpool? Is this a reference to that shitty horror movie? If so, that wasn't even good, and I'm not laughing, and I don't get the joke."

He just gave you a blank look, or at least you thought he did.

"No. My name's Deadpool."

"That’s…" you trailed off. "A pretty dumb name. Like that outfit you're wearing."

"Hey! Diss the name all you want, but don’t you dare diss the suit. It's my trademark. Not everyone can pull off this type of look; it’s a very rare art."

"Whatever. You still haven't told me the punch line to your dumb joke."

"Punch line? I never said there was a punch line. It was a knock knock joke."

"So then… What was the point? To annoy the driver into wanting to run you over again?"

He chuckled, a low, deep sound that vibrated in his throat. That… That was… oh.

He was still close, and now, with the new angle, you could see the small, yet very visible, curve of his lips, and that made you wonder who was actually hiding behind the mask.

"You are seriously the strangest person I've ever met."

"Oh, babe, you don't even know the half of it."

"Please, enlighten me," you replied sarcastically, glancing over at him.

His masked eyes looked into yours, and you knew he was grinning; you could practically feel it.

"What do you wanna know?" He asked.

"Uh, I don't know. Something other than the fact that you're a nutcase. How about your real name? It's obviously not 'Deadpool,' and I doubt anyone actually calls you that. So, what's your actual name?"

"Oh, wow. Right off the bat, huh? You know, the last girl I was with wasn’t nearly as direct. Then again, she never sprayed me like I was a roach in her kitchen."

You didn’t respond. You kept your eyes on the road.

"Fine," he relented. "But don’t expect a happy ending. This isn’t Kanas anymore, Toto."

He leaned back in his seat, his arm hanging off the open window, the wind blowing through his red suit.

"Names Wade, like the boxers, but without the fancy pants."

You raised an eyebrow.

"Wade Winston Wilson, I love long walks on the beach, and a good movie, and tacos, and chimichangas, and guns. Especially guns. Kinky, but not too kinky… and did I mention the tacos? Cause I love fucking love tacos."

Maybe you should start carrying tape around.

"What about you, sugar lips?" He asked, gesturing to you with the hand he wasn’t leaning against. "Got a name, or can I call you mine? Ooh, I should’ve used that before the pepper spray. 'What's your name, or can I call you mine?' Classic, Wade. Well, except for the fact that I forgot the 'I'd like to hit it from the back' part. Damn, should have used that, too. It's a good thing they gave you the lead. Otherwise, the audience would've been confused. They would've been wondering, 'Why did the writer suddenly change the dialogue to be about sex? Wasn’t this supposed to be that pure Notebook love story we all wanted?'"

He paused for a moment.

"Wait a minute. Are we still doing the monologue thing, or is the writer done? Cause, no offense, but that was a shitty transition. And, come on, no one wants a Notebook love story anymore. Who writes those? What we need is a little romance and a whole lotta smut."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Me? Nothing, just giving some feedback. I've always had an open relationship with writers. Some might even call me the next J.K Rowling. Except, instead of a lighting scar and magic, I have an ass load of weapons with an insatiable lust for violence and blood. And tacos."

You decided to ignore him.

"Anyway, back to you. You never answered my question. Do you have a name or not?"

"I can’t believe I actually agreed to give you a ride home."

"Yeah," he said, sounding bored. "Why did you do that?"

"I don’t know. Because I hit you with my car and felt bad? You had a broken arm and were bleeding out all over the ground."

"First sign of insanity."

"What?"

"Nothing," his mask wiggled around the area of his eyebrows. "So, your name? Don’t tell me you’re gonna pull out the classic yes and no abbreviations. You know what? I’m just gonna call you Spidey. It's easier, and it’ll sound sexier when you're screaming it later."

You rolled your eyes, deciding just to ignore his comments for the rest of the drive. You were wishing that you didn't live in a city full of traffic cause, damn, this was taking a while.

"Alright, turn here."

You followed the directions and pulled up in front of an abandoned-looking building. You didn't say anything, but you did raise an eyebrow in question.

"What? A guy like me has to keep his place secret, especially when the fangirls are after him."

"I didn’t ask."

"Yeah, but I saw you wondering."

"Right."

"Hey, Spidey," he said, unbuckling his seat belt. "Thanks for the ride."

"No problem. Just make sure to keep your ass away from car bumpers. And out of my car."

"Awe, come on, baby cakes, don't be like that. You're really missing out. My ass is the finest in the business. Not to mention my package. You should see the reviews I get online."

You snorted. "I'll take your word for it."

"Yeah, you will," he said, leaning over and patting your cheek. "Hey, if you ever get lonely, or bored, or horny, or whatever, just give me a call. Here," he handed you a crumpled piece of paper. "Don't lose it, that's my number. We should totally bang, like, tomorrow, or tonight, or right now."

"Goodbye, Wade," you said, and he took it as his cue to leave. He gave a silly salute and exited the car, but not without giving you a wink first.

"See you soon, Spidey!"

With that, he walked up to the building and disappeared inside. With a sigh, you collapsed into the seat, not even bothering to watch him. You were exhausted, and all you wanted was to go home and sleep.

After a couple of minutes of relishing the nice breeze that came through the open windows, you sat up and un-crinkled the paper.

The only thing written on it was a phone number, with a small, messy, red heart and a few words that honestly had you questioning the sanity of the world:

'If you're lucky, maybe I'll even let you top. ;)'

——

Spoiler alert: it took about a month for the two of you to hook up.

And no, you did not have Domino’s luck.

[apas-95]

'I have just awoken from a seventy-year suspended animation. Please, update me on the political situation.'

'Well, fascism is about to overtake the country!'

'Damn, damn, damn! Well, if that's the case, have we already begun establishing underground cells? Caching arms and equipment? I'm sure you know that links with the trade-union movement are-'

'What? Don't be crazy. What's super important right now is stopping them from getting into power. We can still vote them out.'

'Ah-ha! Though parliamentarianism failed in my time, you must have managed to strike up a favourable position. Who's the communist party put forward as candidate, then?'

'Commu- no, not third party, are you trying to let the other guys win? I'm talking about the Democrats, see - here's video of the DNC for their platform.'

'That police officer just said their goal is to ensure the US military is the most lethal force in the world. They're talking about enlargening the police to secure the border. Those protestors with the sign about genocide, what was that?'

'Yeah! They're the lesser evil, y'know, at least they're not fascists.'

'I see. Before I continue, could you kindly confirm whether people of your era are still vulnerable to handgun bullets?'

[luveline]

Hi there! I hope your day’s been going well :)

Could you maybe write something with Spencer where Reader faints? Feel free to ignore this if you’re not up for it!!

thank u for ur request! fem!reader, 1.6k

"It's so hot," you say, startled. The lobby of the hotel had been blissfully air-conditioned. The difference hits you immediately. 

"Don't worry about blazers or professional attire," Hotch says, though he quickly amends, "within reason."

You take off your jacket and follow the herd of the BAU into the black SUVs. The SUVs are even hotter than the outdoors, blistering ovens of heat that have you feeling nauseous instantaneously. Spencer rubs your arm with the back of his hand swiftly —it's a friendly touch to say he's here, but it's quick to prevent any unnecessary added heat. 

It's August in Texas, 107 degrees Fahrenheit. Emily smells distinctly of sunscreen from the front passenger seat. Derek, behind the wheel, looks hot around the collar. Spencer looks as though he wishes he'd had a haircut before he came, chin length curls tucked tight behind his ears. 

Despite this, none of them complain beyond the general whine every now and then. You try very hard to shut up and focus on the case with them, but as the day goes on, bumping you from hot car to hot crime scene (with all inclusive smells of gore!), you feel wobbly on your feet. 

"Spence?" you ask, sitting in a hard-backed chair in the police precinct. 

"Yeah?" He doesn't look away from the geographical profile he's building. You're supposed to be helping, but your notes are half-hearted, likely useless. "What?" 

"Do you have any water?" 

He pushes a pin into the left of the map and grabs a ruler. "No, sorry. There's a staff room by the bullpen, the secretary said to help ourselves. Actually, she said to 'go ham.'"

"Okay. I'll be right back. And I'll be more helpful." 

"You're plenty helpful," he murmurs, leaning down to follow the line of his rules with a pencil. 

You don't feel helpful, you feel awful. Head heavy, eyes aching, every step sends a jolt through your teeth and jaw, your skull like a mashed potato. You know you're a poor sight with sweat wetting your hair and a crawling sensation between your legs and the fabric of your pants. 

Letting yourself into the staff room, you're unsurprised to find a bone dry water cooler and a crate of water bottles with only one remaining. Spencer needs a drink too, and he has a thing about germs. You frown at the water bottle as though that might duplicate it, but when it doesn't, you're forced to take it and put it under your arm. You look around for a mug to at least have some tap water no matter how ill-advised that may be. They're all dirtied in the sink and on tables. Fuck. 

Spencer is super, super lovely to you. You wonder sometimes if he might ask you out, or at least want to, but most of the time you're sure it's just a little extra friendliness because he knows how it feels to be the youngest on the team, how patronised or lonely it gets. And the weight of trying to prove yourself every mission, it's almost as heavy as your head. 

"Hey," Spencer says as you open the conference room door. "I think I've worked something out. Could you call Garcia for me? I've got dry-erase marker on my hands." 

"Got this for you," you say, offering him the bottle. He takes it without looking. 

"Thanks. Are you feeling any better? I know you can be sensitive to the heat." 

"Maybe we can get portable fans on the FBI budget next year," you say wistfully, pushing a chair in at the table. You lean on it to grab the phone in the middle of a sea of papers and cases and jackets, black spots popping up in your vision. "My head's rushing." 

"Hey, guys," Emily says, sounding strangely chipper as she and Hotch trudge in. Her hair is in a tight ponytail away from her face. 

You try to greet them and end up hanging your head. 

"Y/N," Spencer chokes, alarmed.

You slump forward over the chair, desperate to keep your footing and failing. Your shin knocks into the chair and your hands grasp at the top of it, but you can't hold yourself up any longer, knocking your face into the chair as you collapse. A cheap tent in a strong breeze, you fall with little more than a weak sigh. 

You're hurting a lot when you come to, blinking like your lashes have been brushed with glue. The lights have been turned off, and a blissful chill soaks your hairline. Someone presses a water bottle to your lips and lifts your head. You drink half the contents in three gulps and get laid down again with the utmost care. 

"She's coming around," Hotch says. 

Your neck aches propped over a leg. Two deft hands hold your head still. 

"Don't move too much," Spencer says, his voice odd. You blink as his face moves into view upside down. "An EMT is on the way, okay? You passed out." 

You can't find your voice. Spencer strokes your cheek with his thumb, says, "Hey, can you hear me? Let's hear your voice. Talk to me." 

"You don't sound like yourself," you say hoarsely, each word tenuous. You wince at the bruising heat that radiates from your nose with each word. 

"I'm worried about you," Spencer admits. "It makes it hard to stay objective." 

"No, you sound funny." 

"I'm worried," he repeats. His smile is strained. 

"She's okay," Hotch says. 

You realise Emily's got your hand in hers when she squeezes it. "Have you had anything to drink today?" she asks you, fondly incredulous. 

"No, she hasn't, and I didn't say anything about it. I'm an idiot. I'm so sorry, Y/N," Spencer says. 

"Y/N's responsible for her own preservation, Reid. And it's been a tough case, with the heat. Let's not blame anyone for anything." You press your chin to your chest to see Hotch's anxious frown. "We will be having a discussion about this later." 

You turn your face into Spencer's thigh. "Oh." 

"Don't close your eyes," Hotch says. He employs a firm, boss-like tone that has you rushing to follow orders. "You hit your head." 

"I don't feel well," you complain, wanting to close your eyes.

"Considering your behaviour," Spencer says, one of his hands trailing down your face, neck, and collar, where he rests it genially, "you likely have a mild to moderate concussion. And you're dehydrated, so you'll be feeling the effects more severely."

"Why haven't you been drinking?" Emily asks. 

"I just…" You blink sluggishly. "I don't know… We don't take anything that isn't coffee with us places and…" You lean your cheek into Spencer's hand, not quite connecting that it's his hand, or that you're laying on the precinct floor. "They only had one bottle in the staff room." 

"Why didn't you drink it?" Spencer asks softly. 

"I knew you hadn't had anything to drink, either." 

"We could've shared," he says, sounding genuinely confused. 

"You don't like sharing stuff like that. Germs." 

Spencer's voice is barely above a whisper, "I wouldn't care about your germs, Y/N. They're your germs." 

You don't have time to ask him what he means, but you've ample time to think about it on loop when the EMT arrives. He props you up, checking you over thoroughly, shining a light in your eyes and deeming you concussed.

"You don't have to see a doctor," the EMT advises. "But we're happy to take you to the hospital if that's what you want." 

"Yes," Spencer says, as you say, "No." 

Spencer puts a hand on your shoulder blade. It is an extremely forward move on his part, so unlike him that you recognise how odd it is despite your foggy mind. "She should go." 

"She fainted, Spencer," Emily says. 

"Exactly! So she should go to the hospital and–"

"I didn't break anything," you say, waving a shaky hand at the small but concerned crowd of people you've attracted. 

"Luckily," the EMT says. "Drink plenty of water and take it easy. Don't be afraid to call again if you feel worse." 

Hotch walks the EMT out, needing to take a phone call. Emily goes with him, promising to return with a dry shirt for you to wear now that yours has been soaked at the collar by the water they'd been cooling you down with while you were unconscious. 

Spencer settles practically knee to knee with you in two of the uncomfortable chairs, his assessing gaze frankly perturbing. 

"You'd share germs with me?" you ask. 

Spencer's hand leaps across the gap to yours where it rests on your knee. His eyes, brown and sweet, have all the light of a blinding smile as his lips quirk into something more sheepish. "If it stopped you from fainting, yeah. And even if it didn't, I'd be stupid to care about germs when I…" 

You breathe out slowly. "When you what?" 

"Well," he says, looking down at your hands. "I guess I just wouldn't mind your germs, that's all." 

If he's saying what you think he's saying, he's doing it in the most Spencer Reid way possible. Concussed, your charisma fails you. You've no wit to tease him with. 

You fold your hand around his. "Thanks for catching me," you say gently. 

He squeezes your fingers clumsily. "You're welcome. But it was actually mostly Emily." 

[bet-on-me-13]

Dash Baxter as the Overly Competent Metropolis Cop

We all know the "Dash becomes a Police Officer" trope, but I can never remember what Coty he is placed in.

Now, Imagine if Dash is placed in Metropolis? He starts out on the force and keeps telling everybody that this City is "Nowhere near as exciting as I thoight it would be" and "There aren't even any Supervillains that I can arrest"

And everybody else is just thinking that he is just overconfident in his own skills than that he is just a glory seeker.

And then one day, Lex Luthor breaks out of Prison and gets one of his Giant Mechs. Superman arrived on scene to try and stop him only to discover Dash handcuffing a peefectly fine Lex on the hood of his Car while Lex's Mech Suit is laying 10 meters away totally unscathed.

This random cop somehow managed to defeat Lex Luthor's Mech Suit (Which was designed to battle SUPERMAN) without needing to hurt Lex OR damage the suit in any way.

Well, at the very least that must have been a difficult feat to pull of-

"That was easily the worst Power Armor I have ever had to fight dude, are you sure you're a Super Genius?"

What?!