Tech billionaires want to force data centers on us with little to no regard for water usage, energy price spikes, environmental harms, or basic democratic decision-making. We must rein in AI before it's too late.
So I thought y'all would like this too
This great white comes to the jersey shore every year and this year they named her and have been tracking her hella so this is Mary Lee and she decided to show herself under this rainbow for pride month
A true gay icon
I passed a flower shop next to a tattoo shop and at first I laughed because I thought it was ironic and then i freaked because IMAGINE YOUR OTP IN A FLORIST/TATTOO ARTIST AU
if you vote me for president i vow to make everything the ocean again. no more land only ocean. this will solve all of our problems and replace them with new, far more interesting problems
in which fem!reader has been gambling with her life and spencer reid is more than a little concerned
flangst, hurt/comfort
warnings/tags: passive suicidal ideation from reader, she keeps risking her life, that really grinds Spencer’s gears, established relationship, existential dread, existential euphoria, lots of stuff about grief and death and self worth, not advocating for this, pretension from the author, blasphemy probably?, reader gets fuzzy from prescribed painkillers, arguing, hospital stuff, mention of sleep paralysis involving spiders, reader gets shot but she’s fineee, I pander to intro to philosophy takers, bau!reader, neurodivergent coded reader, if she’s not exactly like you I’m sorry, bean soup
a/n: one day you’re in a writing slump literally the next you are in your notes app for six hours writing whatever the fuck this is but I think I love it even tho it’s weird and I hope u like it too!! btw this was gonna be called cotard's syndrome but then I never once talk abt cotard's but if u care that might be interesting context for the motif of not feeling human/alive, WC 3K
Spencer hasn’t spoken to you since the doctor left the room five minutes ago.
The air is antiseptic as you take it deep into the hollows of your lungs and trap it there for a moment, trying to optimize oxygen intake without actually having to breathe very often. Hospital smell is as universal as it is suffocating. It reeks of everything but death—flowers, blood, bleach, vomit. A humiliating, desperate scramble to defy the very thing that defines mortality. It’s pathetic. It reminds you of the worst instances of failure and loss and denial in your life. It curdles your blood. Literally rots you from the inside out.
You’ve had ample time to ponder that smell over the last few months because you keep ending up here, and some time ago you decided the institution of the hospital is inherently absurd. It’s stupid to think you could avoid the one absolute condition on your corporeal form: impermanence. It is the only thing that is promised, and people still waste their lives away running from it. It is the ultimate self-fulfilling prophecy.
So around the time you acknowledged that hospitals are simply monuments to the self-importance of man, you gave up on trying too hard to preserve yourself. You’ve seen death too much and too often. You’ve tried staving it off with prayer and the miracles of modern medicine, and it never matters in the end because it’s all magical thinking anyway. All the wallowing and the bargaining and pleading never got you anywhere.
You’ve accepted that from the moment you were born, you were marked for death.
But you’re not a complete nihilist. You’re not even totally resigned to the abject certainty of death—because you’ve found a loophole.
Everyone has as many chances at escaping death as other people are willing to offer them at the cost of their own lives. Not many people are willing to make that trade—someone else’s life for their own—but you’ve decided you are. Because if not you, then who?
It’s not that you don’t see the value in your own life, as Spencer keeps making it sound. It’s just the opposite. You understand that you’ve got an extremely valuable resource, and you don’t just have to sit on it. There are things you can do. Choices you can make. Ways to defy death.
Just… not yours.
Or maybe you’re just in deep denial.
Either way—this is a philosophy your boyfriend intentionally refuses to understand. He gets mad, or some kind of upset, every time you try to explain it. Usually he ends up leaving the room close to tears. You never feel good about it.
Right now he’s presumably trying to give you the silent treatment and not doing a very good job.
“Stop holding your breath. Why are you—stop that.”
Spencer’s frowning, skin sallow and milk-blue under fluorescent lighting. Purple seeps from around his eyes like spilled wine on a white table cloth. Your stomach turns.
“Sorry.”
He doesn’t tell you not to apologize. You don’t expect him to.
“Why are you doing that? Does something hurt?”
Other than your entire bicep being on fire due to the 9 millimeter Luger it recently came into contact with?
“Not really. I just don’t like the smell of hospitals.”
At that, he gets stony again. Like, Medusa stony. You feel a tightening in your chest that has nothing to do with a lack of air. His arms are crossed. A silk lined blazer drapes over your lap, and you wonder if he’s cold in just that white button up. It’s translucent in this light, like onion skin, or maybe something less organic—the folds and wrinkles look like fabric, but lots of things look like something they aren’t. In the Pietá, Jesus lounges dead on his mother’s lap, his cheek pressed to her arm like either of them have warm flesh, and her skirts drape from her knees and fall to the ground in delicate folds just like Spencer’s jacket and looking at pictures of it you swear you could find comfort there too—but if you wanted to make space for yourself next to Jesus you’d have to do it with a chisel and mallet. You’re starting to think that’s what it’s going to take with Spencer, as well.
“So stop walking into active gunfire. You’ll spend a lot less time here.”
Every deep sigh (of which there have been several) calcifies you further. Ironically, you never feel less alive than you do in a hospital.
“I didn’t walk into active g—”
“I’m not debating it with you. It’s not a discussion.”
“So you’re just going to be pissed at me for the rest of forever? I mean, if it’s not a discussion—what are you gonna do? Break up with me?”
You feel yourself dripping poison in the well. Even as you say it. As his head tilts toward you slowly and intently from his spot against the wall, and his warning gaze is cold and unforgiving and weighs 3.35 tons.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what? Talk?”
“Don’t try and manipulate me by implying that there are no options between permissiveness and dumping you!”
“I’m not manipulating you. And I don’t need your permission to do anything.”
The first part is an incredulous scoff as well as a blatant lie. You are manipulating him. Chisel and all. At least, you were trying to. It clearly doesn’t work very well. His jaw clenches.
“Is this worth it to you? Fighting with me like we’re children solely so you don’t have to take accountability?”
“Accountability for what? I made a choice. I don’t regret it. You’re upset because I did my job.”
A beat.
Silence always makes you feel the gravity of your words.
“Do you believe that?”
His voice softens so much, so quickly, it splinters down the middle.
You’ve never been known for your light touch. For someone who sees eviscerated bodies nearly every day, and prides herself on her evolved understanding of mortality, you often forget other people are not, in fact, impenetrable marble—they are flesh and blood and bone, and you’ve splattered yourself in the evidence of that.
“What?” You murmur. You easily turn timid, when you’re afraid you’ve been too heavy-handed. Spencer’s seen you sob over the birds who hit the windowpane and never reappeared from the shrubbery—their delicate wings, their little beaks—he didn’t mean to, Spencer, and now he’s dead! He’s seen you spend forty minutes catching a spider with a cup and an envelope rather than smush it, even though you have reoccurring episodes of sleep paralysis wherein a giant arachnid is sitting on your chest, hissing and clacking its pincers. He knows you are, at your core, kind and good.
It’s a little scary for someone to know that about you. It’s a little scary when you see your own vulnerability reflected in their eyes and the way they speak to you, the way you see it in him now.
“Do you believe that the choices you make regarding your safety don’t concern me at all?”
“They’re… my choices to make,” you whisper, but you’re less sure than you were a minute ago.
“I’m not talking about that—I’m talking about how it feels like you are trying to kill yourself every time we’re in the field.” His voice shakes. You swallow. “You have been hospitalized for four serious injuries sustained on the job in the past five months. Every time I bring it up, you—you talk about life like it’s optional for you. Like you’re not only willing to give it up but are actively looking to throw yourself in harm’s way every chance you get. You think that doesn’t terrify me?”
There’s a small chip in the paint on the wall next to him roughly the shape of Africa.
“It’s not like that. I’m… I’m just having an unlucky streak.”
He snaps.
“Luck isn’t going to get between you and a bullet. Ever.”
“It’s my job, Spencer.”
“No. It is a risk of the job. Not a defining feature or requirement. But you keep running toward gunfire like you have a quota to meet.”
“Spencer, I’m not doing it at you. I’m not trying to get myself hurt.”
“Well it doesn’t really feel like you’re trying to avoid it, either,” he shoots back immediately, and you feel the anguish radiating from him until it lodges in your own chest, like it was always yours. Maybe it was.
You want to make it better, but you don’t know how, and even if you did, he’s pushing off the wall and crossing the room toward the door.
“Where are you going?” You call, a little too desperately for your liking.
“You need to eat something.”
Which translates roughly to he’s pissed and upset and he needs to leave the room. You’ve done this song and dance before.
However, food and an absence of him are contenders for the absolute last two things you want right now.
“Spencer, please don’t—”
But the door is already whooshing closed.
You stare at the grey and white checkered floor. Light bounces off the waxen reflection—some sort of parallel universe you can’t reach, perhaps. The whole room is desaturated. A mechanical humming threatens to drive you insane. It doesn’t feel like a place for living humans. You’re not convinced you are one.
When he comes back, maybe ten minutes later, nothing’s moved at all. In fact you’re not even sure you’ve been breathing.
The door closes as quietly as it opens.
This time, wordlessly, Spencer comes to you. You see his shoes first—his serious adult shoes. You wish he was wearing his Converse.
Then you see the bottle of apple juice he’s cracking open for you. Blue lid. Same kind you always get.
“You didn’t bring food.”
“You wouldn’t have eaten it.”
Fair enough.
You take the bottle with your good arm and sip shallowly—all that adrenaline and the subsequent interpersonal strife has left you nauseous. The drink is too sweet. It clashes with the tang of metal in your mouth.
Still, you drink enough to satisfy him, and then you’re tossing his jacket aside before balancing the bottle between your thighs so you can screw the lid back on. He doesn’t go back to the couch or his spot on the wall.
Spencer doesn’t pull away when you lean into him, but it does take him a moment to reciprocate. You’re still grateful all the same when he cradles the back of your head to his stomach like you’re made of porcelain.
“I don’t think you understand how upset I am,” he says quietly.
Only Spencer Reid could be furious with you and still hold you like this.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur.
“That’s not good enough. You need to stop risking your life like that.”
He doesn’t get it. Your brows flutter as they try to furrow but even holding that expression saps you. Maybe the pain meds are finally kicking in.
“I just wanna help people.”
“That doesn’t explain to me or justify your urge to do it at the cost of your own life. We all want to help people, angel. The whole team. That’s why we do what we do. But we don’t run into shootouts. We don’t split off and provoke people with guns when we’re unarmed and unprepared.”
“But it worked. She got away.” You feel a spark of fulfillment at the memory of Gloria Sanchez in JJ’s arms just before the ambulance doors had slammed you into your first cage of the night.
“We don’t know if he was going to kill her. He might not’ve fired at all if you didn’t go running toward him. That wasn’t strategic, it was reckless and irresponsible and you know that. I know you do. So something else is going on.”
The pressure in your nose that usually precipitates tears comes as a surprise.
“I just—if that’s how I can save someone, why shouldn’t I, you know? Why do they have less of a right to live than I do just because they’ve been deprived of the choice? If I have a choice, and they don’t, I should choose to… to help them. That’s my job.”
For a long moment, you listen to your own breath, muffled by Spencer’s shirt, and the mechanical humming, and something dripping, and the low, buzzy chatter of nurses far down the hallway.
When Spencer next speaks you get the sense he’s holding a lot back. His voice is taut enough it wavers slightly. Taut enough that if he weren’t speaking so quietly he might be yelling. It’s like pinpricks all over your body—not enough to hurt, but enough to make sure you’re paying attention.
“You can’t help anyone if you’re dead. Do you understand me?”
And yes, in theory, you do. But that doesn’t negate your original point. It only takes one life or death moment for you to utilize the most valuable resource you have. What happens after is no longer your concern.
“On the psych evals you helped develop it asks if you think it’s appropriate to sacrifice the one to save the many. The answer is supposed to be no. If you say yes you get flagged. The FBI frowns upon… lever-pullers. And that’s exactly what I’m doing if I let one person die when I could’ve potentially saved them.”
“Protecting your own life is not pulling the lever. What you’re doing isn’t smart or morally righteous. You’re just throwing yourself across the tracks, too. If you were to fail a psych eval right now it would be because you’re passively suicidal. And you know what? The FBI also tends to frown upon self-immolative delusions of grandeur and girls who like to play sacrificial lamb.”
“’M not a… sacrificial lamb…”
“No,” Spencer agrees quietly, stroking your hair. “You’re not.”
And you can’t react to the fragility in his voice, or the content of his words, and the fact that when he says it he means something different—you can’t do anything about it. You can only catalogue it. You can only know that he loves you, and feel a little guilty about it.
Some time passes. You don’t know how long he remains standing so you can doze against him. He does not smell like the hospital. He’s the antidote for whatever grief they distill from widows and orphans before aerosolizing it through the whole place.
“Baby?” He asks eventually. You know the lilt of it. He’s been thinking.
“Hm?”
He hesitates.
“Can we talk about you maybe taking some time off of work?”
“You heard the boss,” you mumble. “I can’t come in for at least a week.”
“I mean beyond that.”
You intend to respond, but by the time you open your mouth you’ve lost the prompt in all the brain fog.
“You’re so comfy,” you murmur dreamily. “Thank you for being mad at me.”
If he responds, you miss it.
You’re imagining the bed waiting for you at home, once the doctor is done observing you—warm, neatly made. Blankets woven with soft fibers. A mattress that will sink under your weight. You think of Spencer, who’s shaping himself to you, Spencer, who intentionally inhales when you exhale at night to make room for the rise and fall of your chest against his. You think of the imprint of his buttons on your cheek. You are both flesh and blood and bone.
Strange, pill-induced half dreams and visions and memories take over. You’re in that alleyway again. That man fires. You don’t blink or scream or feel.
Just before the bullet makes contact you’re standing in front of the Pietá. It’s massive. Spencer is there, too, holding your hand.
You can’t actually see him, only, you know he’s there. You feel his warmth, his presence, when he leans over to whisper in your ear. The way you know him goes beyond sight.
The Pietá—meaning the pity, in English—is 6’7” and six feet wide. It weighs 6,700 pounds. Michelangelo had to quarry the block of marble himself. He was only 25 when he finished. The Basilica keeps it behind bulletproof glass.
Jesus and Mary behind bullet proof glass.
God. Who’d try to kill Jesus a third time? He’s already dead.
Besides—they’re both made of stone. Bullets would probably just ping right off of them. Or maybe they’d shatter just like you did.
Probably not though. You’re not actually made of marble. You’ve no idea what it feels like to be a statue and get shot at. You sure know how it feels as a human, though—and it feels like shit. You don’t really know why you keep doing it. None of your reasons are good enough for Spencer, and he’s, generally speaking, pretty smart about some things.
Maybe you’re tired of being human.
Maybe you’re tired of sleeping on your arm funny and waking up to a hand in your bed that doesn’t feel like yours and remembering all the hands you’ve held moments before they couldn’t hold yours back. Or tired of those moments where you are being held and it’s so unbelievably perfect and then someone has to let go, or when someone you love hugs you goodbye and you realize that there will always be a final I love you, or simply getting older and watching potential life paths fall away like rotten fruit to the ground. Maybe life is sometimes so good it hurts and you can’t bear it. So you tempt fate. You walk a tightrope because even if you fall and it can’t ever feel good again—at least it can’t hurt either. At least you won’t lose anymore.
And yet.
It does feel good, sometimes. Sort of often, actually. Even when it’s awful.
Dead Jesus and Mary, with their marble skin and their bulletproof glass and their holiness and their virginity and all the other things they have that you don’t. Nobody can hurt them anymore. Not ever.
Maybe that’s something you envy.
But you doubt they’ve ever been so terribly, wonderfully alive as you’ve been, or as comfortable as you are like this, leaning into Spencer’s warmth and his softness, in the hospital, or the Vatican, or your dreams. Your bicep was ruined but it’s healing. You are capable of ruin and rebirth in the same lifetime. In the same day, in the same hour.
You doubt that in 520 years, behind bulletproof glass and unyielding, eternally flawless skin, they’ve ever felt as invincible as you do now.
Tony, absolutely baffled when he’s called to pick his intern up from school, because May can’t get out of work and Peter got in a fight with another student.
He shows up late, strolls into the office of midtown high, and his kid is completely untouched. No bruises, no bloody knuckles, no shiners. Really, he just looks annoyed to be there.
Tony does the obligatory sign out, gets as little answers as possible from the staff, and walks Peter outta there.
“So?” Tony asks him, once they were in the car. Because clearly there’s a story, and it’s one he wants to know.
Peter’s buckling his seatbelt. “Guy was being racist. I told him to shut up and he punched me. So I kinda tripped him, and he hit his chin on the floor. He’s fine, nothing broke. I would’ve heard it.”
“Right. Right. And why are you bruise-free?”
“Dude. I get hit by alien monsters and guys in massive tech-suits. You think a punch from a sixteen year old who only works out in gym class is gonna hurt me? He didn’t even do it right. He probably sprained his wrist.”
Tony’s really gotta look into how durable this kid actually is.
Your friend turns to look at you in horror when you say it, "cute?! You think captain price is...cute??"
You laugh at her look of horror, nodding between bites of your food. "Yeah! I mean, the whole captain of an elite task force thing is a good cover, but if you look past that he's cute!"
You receive a scrunched up, judgmental look in return, "what, like attractive? Cute as in you want to kiss him??"
"Cute as in I wanna squish his cheeks." You sigh, just thinking about that captain makes you feel all giddy "his cheeks are so round when he smiles, and his mustache makes him look like a cute walrus!"
Before your friend can counter, you're already standing up from your seat, really getting into it. You stand, hands coming up to mimic a phantom-vest "and he does this thing where he holds his vest and rocks heel to toe, heel to toe!! Its so cute!"
You mimic the motion, only stopping when your other friend pulls you back into your seat because people started staring. Still, you tack on with a laugh "I'm serious! Captain price is just so cute! He's like an adorable puppy!"
Across the room, price is staring daggers into your back with a beet red face. He slowly takes his hands off the straps of his vest and stops rocking. Embarrassed and...something else by you calling him cute.
He pointedly ignores the knowing look soap gives him.
being a kid and hearing adults say stuff like "woah 2011 was 4 years ago haha" didn't really convey the fucking horror of a youtube video crossing my recommended labelled "9 years ago" and it's from 2017. that's not true. 9 years ago is 2010 or something. don't lie.
Summary: Fourteen-year-old Y/N Luca is navigating the chaos of high school, from moody mornings to first crushes, all while trying not to tell her overprotective SWAT dad. But when her uncle Jim notices her mood swings, she reluctantly opens up about her feelings—just in time for Luca to realize he’s a little jealous of the bond they share. 💘💔
Thank you, Anon, for the request! It is the continuation of "Uncle Jim, Daddy, and a Tiny Wedding Plan."
Fourteen-year-old Y/N Luca no longer owned a sparkly tutu.
She did, however, own seventeen hoodies, exactly zero patience, and a deeply rooted belief that high school was a personal attack.
Luca knew something was wrong the moment she came home, dropped her backpack like it had personally betrayed her, and muttered, “I hate everyone.”
He paused mid-coffee sip. “…Rough day?”
“School,” she said flatly, already heading for her room.
“Okay,” Luca called after her, careful. “Wanna talk about it?”
“No.”
The door shut—not slammed, but closed with intention. The most dangerous kind.
Luca sighed and glanced over at Jim Street, who was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching the whole thing unfold with a knowing look.
“She used to marry me when she was mad,” Street said. “Now she just ignores you.”
Luca scowled. “This is your fault. You encouraged her.”
“I gave her juice during a medical emergency,” Street shot back. “If anything, I’m a hero.”
Y/N emerged ten minutes later in different clothes—bigger hoodie, hair pulled back, face locked in the universal expression of don’t talk to me. She grabbed a snack from the fridge, checked her Dexcom out of habit, and headed for the couch.
Luca tried again. “You good, kid?”
She shrugged. “I’m fine.”
Street winced. “Oof. That’s a ‘she’s not fine’ fine.”
Y/N glared. “Can you not narrate my emotions, Uncle Jim?”
Luca blinked. “Wait—you’ll talk to him?”
Street grinned. “I have a face people trust.”
“You have a face people punch,” Luca muttered.
✖️✖️✖️✖️
Later that night, Luca retreated to the garage to tinker with something that absolutely did not need fixing. Street found Y/N on the back steps, knees pulled up, phone abandoned beside her.
“Hey,” he said gently, sitting down. “You haven’t glared at me yet. That’s progress.”
She huffed. “Give it time.”
They sat in silence for a moment before she spoke again. “High school is stupid.”
Street nodded immediately. “Correct.”
“And people are stupid.”
“Also correct.”
“And boys—” she stopped herself, groaning and dropping her head back against the step. “Ugh. Never mind.”
Street perked up. “Ah. There it is.”
She looked at him suspiciously. “You’re not gonna tell my dad.”
He made a zipping motion over his mouth. “Street code.”
“You just made that up.”
“Still binding.”
She sighed, staring at the yard. “There’s this guy. And he’s not even that great, which makes it worse. He smiled at me and now my brain doesn’t work.”
Street fought a smile. “Classic.”
“And my dad would absolutely lose his mind.”
Street laughed softly. “Yeah… he would.”
She frowned. “Why are you easier to talk to?”
That one caught him off guard.
“…Because I don’t feel like I have to protect you from the world,” he said carefully. “I just wanna help you figure it out.”
She nodded slowly. “That makes sense.”
From the garage, Luca chose that exact moment to walk out.
“…Figure what out?”
Street froze.
Y/N groaned. “Why is your timing criminally bad?”
Luca crossed his arms, eyes flicking between them. “You won’t talk to me, but you’ll talk to him?”
Street lifted his hands. “In my defense, she came with evidence and feelings.”
Luca scoffed. “I’m her father.”
“And I’m her uncle,” Street shot back. “Who once almost married her, apparently.”
Y/N snorted despite herself.
Luca’s shoulders relaxed just a little. “Kid. You can tell me stuff.”
She looked up at him, hesitant. “You promise not to freak out?”
“I am physically incapable of promising that,” he admitted. “But I’ll try.”
She took a breath. “I just… like someone. And it’s dumb. And school is a lot. And I didn’t wanna worry you.”
Luca softened instantly. He stepped closer, crouching in front of her like he had when she was five.
“Hey,” he said quietly. “You worrying doesn’t protect me. It just makes you carry it alone.”
Her throat tightened. She nodded, leaning into his shoulder.
Street smiled to himself, standing. “I’m gonna go—before this turns into a feelings circle.”
Luca shot him a look. “We’re not done talking.”
Street grinned. “You’re just mad she still likes me.”
Y/N smirked into Luca’s shoulder. “I mean… Uncle Jim did save my life once.”
Luca sighed. “I will never win.”
But he wrapped an arm around her anyway.
Some things changed.
Some things didn’t.
And even now—years later—when things got scary or overwhelming or a little too much…
She still knew exactly who would catch her before she got floaty.
Hiii, I love your writing and your poly20squad works so so much, literally you open a new world in my mind… So I wanted to request a poly 20squad x reader, where the reader is part of the s.w.a.t. and for a new case they need to work with reader’s ex and reader’s partner are like really jealous because the ex is shows himself off because he wants reader back… I leave the rest to you ( it can be nsfw or not, your choice!)… I hope this make sense and do your changes to your magic ✨ … thank youuu <3!
title : old friends and jealousy
warnings : jealous & protective!20 squad, not proof read, idk what else to add here,
a/n : thank you sm for the request !! this isn't the best but I tried, i hope this is okay :,)
word count : 803
Your partners weren't jealous people.
At least that's what they tried to tell themselves, when seeing you and your ex interacting. Your ex boyfriend was a FBI Agent, who was assigned to work the case with 20 Squad. They weren't happy to hear that, but they had no choice.
What made them the angriest was the way he still thought he still had a chance with you. He would brush up behind you, try to get you alone to 'talk'– they weren't stupid, they knew that he thought he still had a chance with you.
Chris was shooting daggers at your ex the entire time she was even close to him, he didn't notice as he was too busy trying to impress you. Street would try to never leave you alone with your ex, he was always hovering nearby, ready to step in at any moment.
Hondo would always assign you to go with someone from 20 Squad to check out a lead, completely ignoring your ex volunteering to go with you. Your ex was a stubborn man though and he never gave up.
Once you headed to the armory to grab some needed gear, your ex saw an opening and followed you, standing in the doorway and blocking your way out as he began to speak. "So after this is over, do you want to go out and grab drinks? Y'know as old friends." He winked at you, as you completely ignored him and instead focused on your gear. "No thanks." You said bluntly, as you avoided looking at you. "Why not? We were so good together." Your ex stepped closer, you simply raised an eyebrow as you stared at him. "I'm not interested, you broke up with me and I moved on."
"Oh c'mon Y/n don't be like that. They have you on such a short leash or what?" Your ex laughed mockingly as you glared at him. "I said no." You firmly replied, before adding. "And my relationship is none of your business." Grabbing all the needed gear you pushed past him to go find your partners.
You were practically boiling with rage at his words, how dare he come back into your life and try to ruin it again. The two of you ended on very bad terms right as you were assigned to 20 squad. Your new teammates were very supportive of you, always offering to help or explain something. Not like your ex who'd yell upon every small disagreement or mistake. When you first joined the team and missed a shot during a mission, Luca and Street spent an hour comforting you and cracking jokes to make you smile again.
That was the difference between your partners and your ex— while Tan would always give you his jacket when you were cold, your ex would berate you and say that it wasn't his fault you weren't dressed properly.
Those were one of the differences between him and your partners.
Hondo saw you walk out of the armory carrying a lot of heavy gear, while your ex boyfriend trailed after you like a lost puppy. Deacon also noticed and he immediately walked over to take some of the heavy gear out of your arms. "Here sweetheart, let me help." Deacon said while taking most of the gear out of your arms. "Thanks." You smiled at him brightly. Deacon shot a venomous glare at your ex as he helped carry all the gear to Black Betty.
After shift was over, you were all in the locker room changing out of your uniforms. Your ex suddenly appeared next to you out of nowhere, leaning on the locker next to yours. "So are we still on for drinks?" Your ex asked with a grin, completely ignoring the death stares from your partners.
"She's taken." You heard Hondo loudly say as he wrapped an arm around you, pulling you closer to him. "You should take a hint." Street mutters under his nose, your ex finally decided it was a smart idea to leave since he saw how your partners were glaring at him.
"You okay sweetheart?" Tan asked quietly, looking at you with soft concern in his voice. Nodding you leaned back against Hondo. "Yeah, I'm okay." You smiled at him reassuringly. "I don't know if I can stand him flirting with you one more day." Luca huffed as he slammed his locker shut. "He's just an idiot– ignore him." Chris said while grabbing her backpack, swinging it over her shoulder. "Ready to go?" Deacon asked, stepping closer to you and Hondo. "Mhm." You nodded while grabbing Deacon's outstretched hand.
"I'm gonna need a drink." You mumbled quietly while leaning against Deac. "We all will after this is over." Street laughed as he held the door open for all of you.
Requested from @foxycrafterofgreenwood (Thank you for putting in a request! Eeek hope you enjoy it! It's my first ever request and so a little nervous haha)
Summary: Y/N L/N wasn’t SWAT. She didn’t wear a badge, carry a gun, or kick down doors—but she was the one who held the team together. 💘💔
Y/N L/N had always been a force—soft-spoken, warm-hearted, and plus-size in a world that didn’t always make room for her.
She wasn’t a SWAT officer. She wasn’t built like Chris or trained like Deacon. But she kept the gears of the team running. From behind the desk at SWAT HQ, she managed reports, balanced logistics, and knew the whole team's coffee orders by memory. She was the one who left sticky notes on Tan’s locker, reminding him of his dentist appointment, and who made sure Luca’s birthday didn’t go unnoticed.
She didn’t wear tactical gear, but she wore kindness like armor.
And that? That was why the team loved her.
Street loved her harder than he’d ever loved anyone.
Hondo’s mama adored her so fiercely she introduced her as “my other daughter.” Which made Y/N feel loved and kind of adopted into the family.
Hondo himself had taken one look at her helping an injured witness with the calm of a trained medic and decided, Yeah, she’s family now.
But that didn’t mean she was safe from people like Officer Ron Blair. Blair had been around for over a decade. Passed over for promotions. Overshadowed by younger, sharper, better men. Watching SWAT from a distance, bitter and tired.
When Y/N showed up and started earning the team’s love—he hated it. She wasn’t a cop. She wasn’t “fit.”
She wasn’t someone the team should have taken seriously.
So how the hell was she at every BBQ? Why did Hondo trust her? Why was Street, golden-boy SWAT, always hanging around her desk with that look in his eyes?
Jealousy rotted in his gut. And the more she smiled, the more he wanted to destroy it.
▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎
Y/N noticed first. The way Blair stood too close. The way he stared when she reached for something. How he smirked when she walked by, not even bothering to hide it.
“Wanna get a drink sometime? I don’t mind a woman with curves,” he’d said once with a grin. She laughed it off. Politely. She always had to be polite.
Because women like her—plus-size, kind, not officers—had to try harder to be respected. Had to walk the tightrope between confident and “too much.”
She told herself it was fine. But the unease wouldn’t leave.
She didn’t tell Street. Didn’t tell Hondo.
She didn’t want to be a problem. Didn’t want to seem dramatic.
Didn’t want to be the fat girl who couldn’t take a compliment.
▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎
She’d had enough by that Thursday. Her chest felt tight. The air in HQ had been too loud, too bright, too much. Street had texted earlier, offering to come by after shift.
“Long day. Just want to be alone tonight,” she replied.
Another lie. She just didn’t want him to see her falling apart. She barely made it through her front door before the tears started.
She didn’t see the car parked down the street. Didn’t hear the footsteps until the knock came.
“Hey sweetheart,” he said, voice low. She froze at the door. “Blair. What are you doing here?”
“You didn’t answer my messages.” He said while leaning against the doorframe.
“I never gave you my number.” She replied, trying to hold her nerves
He smiled. “Precinct phone directory. Easy.”
Her stomach dropped. “You need to leave.”
“You think they actually care about you?” he said, stepping forward. “You think Street actually wants someone like you long-term?”
“Stop,” she said, voice shaking.
“I’ve seen the way they pat you on the shoulder like you’re some cute mascot. They laugh at you behind your back, you know that, right?”
She tried to slam the door. He forced it open.
▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎
She fought.
God, she fought. Scratched his face. Slammed her knee into his ribs. But he was faster. Angrier. He threw her onto the ground, hands clamped around her throat.
“You’re just a distraction,” he hissed. “Too soft. Too big. Too stupid to see what they really think.”
She tried to scream. But his hand stole the sound.
▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎
Hondo had been trying to reach Y/N all evening. He’d texted her earlier to ask if she was still planning to come to Sunday dinner with him and his mama—something she never missed.
No reply.
At first, he figured she was busy. Maybe napping. But after the fifth call went to voicemail, that uneasy feeling in his gut started to gnaw at him.
Y/N always answered by the third ring—even half-asleep.
Something wasn’t right.He didn’t waste time before calling Street.
The younger man answered immediately, voice tense. “Hondo?”
“She’s not picking up,” Hondo said, cutting to the chase. “Texted her about dinner. Called five times. Straight to voicemail.”
Street stopped pacing, silence crackling between them.
“She said she needed the night to herself,” he said quietly. “Said she was fine.”
“Yeah, well…” Hondo’s voice dropped. “She’s not answering. And you know her. That’s not fine.”
Street’s jaw clenched.
“Where are you?” Hondo asked.
“On my way to her place.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
No more words. Just motion.
▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎
They found her on the floor.
Bruised. Bleeding.
Unmoving.
Street’s scream split the air. He dropped to his knees, pulling her into his arms. “Y/N! Please—baby—come on, stay with me—”
Hondo was calling for medics, barking orders, but everything sounded far away.
Street couldn’t stop shaking. “She lied to me,” he whispered. “She told me she was okay.”
▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎
She coded once. Street didn’t breathe until she came back.
He sat by her bed for thirty-six hours, only moving when Hondo forced him to shower.
The nurses whispered about him. The way he looked at her was like she was his whole world.
▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎
The team’s rage was nuclear. Chris wanted to find who did this.
Deacon looked like someone had sucker-punched him.
Luca swore out loud in front of Hicks.
Tan stared at the wall for ten minutes before muttering, “She didn’t feel safe telling us.”
And Hondo—Hondo didn’t say much.
But when they found Blair, hiding in a motel, it was Hondo who cuffed him. Calm. Controlled. Eyes like ice.
“I hope you remember her face when they lock you up,” he said.
▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎
Street was there. Sitting at her bedside, fingers tangled gently with hers, as if letting go would break her all over again. His eyes were red, lips pressed in a thin line, trying to stay strong—failing.
He’d been crying silently for hours. “You’re safe now,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “You’re safe, baby. I got you.”
Y/N stirred faintly.
Her head turned, just enough to face him. Her throat flexed as she tried to speak, a raw sound catching in her chest, but pain lanced through her—sharp and deep. She winced, breath hitching.
Street shot upright, eyes full of both relief and panic. “Shhh, baby, don’t—don’t try to talk,” he whispered, thumb brushing gently over her bruised cheek. “I got you. Thank God. You’re okay now.”
Tears slid down her face. Not just from the pain—but from his voice. From the tenderness of his touch. From the memory of hands that weren’t his. Of a voice that didn’t soothe—it threatened.
Street leaned forward and pressed his forehead gently to hers. His hand cradled the side of her face like she was something fragile and sacred.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “It’s okay, baby. I’m right here.”
Her fingers twitched against his. Then again—tapping softly.
Street blinked, pulling back. “What is it?”
Her hand moved—slow, trembling—reaching toward the bedside tray. Her eyes were glassy but focused, locked on the small notepad beside the water cup.
Street grabbed it instantly, sliding it into her hand along with the pen.
She gripped it weakly, every movement labored. He held the paper steady while she scribbled, shaky and slow.
One word. Blair.
Street stared at the name. His face paled.
His breath left his lungs like he'd been punched. “Jesus…”
Her lip quivered. More tears came. Her whole body shook from the effort, from fear, from shame.
Street reached down again, cupping her face with both hands now.
“No. No, don’t you dare carry this alone,” he whispered fiercely, forehead pressing to hers again. “You survived him. You’re here. And now I know.”
His jaw clenched. His next words were quiet—but full of fire.
“I’m gonna make sure he never touches anyone again.”
And this time, when she closed her eyes…
She wasn’t afraid. She knew she’d never be alone again.
▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎
In the weeks following her release from the hospital, Street refused to let Y/N go home alone.
She tried to protest—tried to say she’d be fine, that she didn’t want to be a burden—but he wouldn’t hear it. Not after what she’d been through. Not after nearly losing her.
He’d fought Hondo on it, too. Hard.
“She needs quiet. Rest. Familiar surroundings,” Hondo argued, trying to keep things steady for her.
Street had shaken his head, firm. “She needs me. She needs someone next to her when the nightmares come back. Someone who knows exactly how bad it got.”
In the end, Hondo relented—because he trusted Street. And because deep down, he knew Y/N did feel safest with him.
So she stayed.
At Street’s apartment, wrapped in warmth and quiet and soft lighting. He cooked for her. Helped her dress the wounds she couldn’t reach. Sat on the floor outside the bathroom door when she had panic attacks and couldn’t step into the shower.
He never once made her feel small for it. And when the trial came?
When the subpoenas came in and Blair’s lawyers pushed to discredit her testimony.
Y/N’s hands had trembled. Her voice cracked. But she still stood.
Still got on that witness stand and gave her statement—broken in places, raw and stammering—but full of truth. Her fingers clenched Street’s hand right before she entered the courtroom, and he’d whispered, “You don’t have to be perfect. Just be real. That’s more than enough.”
And she was. She told them what Blair did.
She spoke through the pain, the flashbacks, the fear that crawled under her skin and settled in her lungs.
And when it was over? When she stepped down, shaking and pale?
Street met her outside the courtroom with open arms and tears in his eyes.
“You did it,” he whispered into her hair. “You told the truth. And you never have to carry it alone again.”
And for the first time in weeks—maybe months—she felt a little lighter.
▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎
Y/N didn’t return to work right away.
It wasn’t fear that kept her away—she wasn’t hiding.
It was time.
Time to heal. To breathe again without flinching. To relearn how to exist in a world that had gone quiet and violent all at once.
Her body ached in places she hadn’t known could hurt. Her ribs burned every time she moved too fast or laughed too hard. But Street was there. Every hour. Every step.
He helped her sit up when the pain was sharp. Walked with her down the hallway when her legs trembled. Held her through the nights when she woke gasping—his arms around her before she could fall apart completely.
He never asked for space. Never made her feel like too much.
He stayed.
And the team—they didn’t disappear either.
Luca sent a different dog meme every morning without fail, each one worse than the last, and she loved them.
Chris came by with cupcakes she didn’t pretend were “guilt-free.” She just set them on the table and said, “Sweet things for someone who survived something bitter.”
Deacon prayed for her—and with her, when she let him.
Tan showed up with a tote bag full of teas from around the world. “For sleep,” he’d said. “For calm. For comfort.”
And Hondo?
Hondo didn’t bring anything.
He just came.
Sat on her porch beside her in the quiet—sometimes for ten minutes, sometimes for hours—watching the street in silence, letting her be.
And in that stillness, in their wordless understanding…
She started to believe that she’d make it through.
▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎▶︎
The moment the elevator doors slid open, Y/N froze.
The entire SWAT team was waiting for her in the lobby.
Street stood at the front, his expression caught somewhere between a grin and a tear. He held a bouquet of her favorite flowers—slightly wilted, like he’d been too nervous to pick the perfect ones, but that only made them more hers.
Beside him, Luca was practically bouncing with energy, holding up a giant handmade sign painted in uneven block letters:
“HQ ISN’T HQ WITHOUT YOU.”
There were smudges of marker on his cheek.
Chris gave her a knowing smile, soft and proud. Tan gave a quiet nod, like he knew this moment cost her something.
Deacon’s eyes were glassy.
And Hondo—Hondo didn’t say much.
He just stepped forward, arms open wide, steady as ever.
“Come home,” he said, voice low and sure.
Y/N didn’t try to hold back the tears this time.
She stepped forward—ribs still sore, heart still fragile—and into Hondo’s embrace.
And just like that…
She came home.
a lil bit of everything @a-lil-bit-nuts - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
turnnoffyourmind
romaincrisis
theartofmadeline
snowghoul
baratheonpilled
