blake kathryn
No title available
No title available
The Stonewall Inn
Cosimo Galluzzi
★
wallacepolsom
ellievsbear
Today's Document
noise dept.
Claire Keane
gracie abrams
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
Game of Thrones Daily
Stranger Things
almost home
NASA
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
#extradirty
seen from Malaysia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from South Africa
seen from Malaysia
seen from Canada
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Australia
seen from Germany
seen from Germany
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Slovakia
seen from France
@hotwheelsenthusiasthic
Saying "I love you" made him so happy that it literally killed him 😵💫😵💫😵💫 Like the entire concept of Cas' deal and his confession is insanely romantic and tragic, I think memefication of 15x18 makes us forget how crazy this entire storyline was. But it was. It was insane.
i think avoiding everything is going to save me for real this time
"girl dinner" "boy kibble" can y'all just eat a meal gender neutrally
gender neutrients
it hits you that your feelings for Katsuki might be romantic. not when he brings you around his friends, not when he kisses you good morning, not when you stay the night without sleeping together-
but the first time you meet his ex wife. She floats into the gathering like a dream and Katsuki immediately stands to greet her, looping his arm over her shoulder. casually, like he's done it a million times, he presses a kiss into her hair before pulling awaym
"This is my mom's intern," he says and it rings hollow in your skull.
Eu vou sumir e ninguém nunca mais vai me ver eu vou explodir e eu quero que todos sumam tbm
need to be fucked so hard i factory reset
I GOT A FUCKING RAISE THE POTATO WORKED WTF
This potato works. Every. Fucking. Time.
Then bring me luck
the day after I posted this last time I was notified that I was selected for a really cool mentorship gig and got an unrelated glowing review at work
Hey Potato, cure my -ing cold so I can have a good time while away.
Here's the potato. Make what use of it you will. :)
God I need this so bad for my Midterm so please let this work again for me.
I could use some luck
in waiting on college acceptance letters. PLEASE GOLD POTATO.
I figure there's no harm in trying lol
love arranged marriage unfortunately. the idea of being married to a knight who's not even in the city, but away on the front lines. it's a benefit for your family, so they dont even question sending you to his home to await his return...
you meet him three months into the arrangement. He arrives after the sun has already set, his features set strong in the candlelight. His body is heavy with exhaustion and tension, his eyes dull and tired.
you've grown to hate this place, this castle gifted to him for war victories. The halls are barren, the garden yet to bloom. The maids are pleasant, but they keep their distance, as if you'll strike. Maybe your husband is the kind to hit. You wouldn't know.
When he looks at you, it's only in short bursts, his eyes suddenly low. There's a long stretch of silence between you and you consider introducing yourself, but decide against it. He knows who you are.
"The maid is drawing me a bath," he says suddenly and a sick feeling pours over you. This day was always coming, but you aren't sure you're ready to lay under a stranger.
"Am I expected to join?" you ask and his nose crinkles.
"No." He steps back and away. His departure is brisk and driven. You retire for the night by yourself and awake alone. Your husband is set to leave again in a few hours; a few soldiers have already gathered in the front garden.
"Don't you wish to give your new wife a goodbye?" one asks, unaware of your open window. "One night and you've already had your fill? Or has she been filled too much?"
"I refuse to believe she is real!" says another. "What kind of woman has worn down our brute and turned him into a family man? Should we expect a gaggle of children in the upcoming year?"
Your husband growls. "You will leave the poor lamb alone. She suffers enough."
That softens you. Just a bit. You rise from you bed and go to the window, leaning out enough to catch the men's attention.
"Until next time."
He watches you, expression caught between more emotions that you can count, then turns his gaze back to his mount. The two men share a look, wide, wide grins on their faces.
"Until next time," he repeats back.
In his absence, he sends gifts. They are tiny things, sweets and oiled combs and scented oils and a porcelain figure of a cat, aimless in their direction towards you. Just simple niceties he could give to any woman in the world. You imagine he sends one to the lovers he has in every city as well.
(he must have lovers, you imagine. He hasn't touched you; he must be getting his fill with women in other cities, maybe women he actually loves. these are trinkets to keep his wife amused while she wastes away.)
none of the gifts come with a note.
one day a bolt of fabric arrives, yellow and ornate. It's only a small amount, not enough to make a dress, but enough for you to unravel and admire. It's beautiful and clearly expensive, golden threads woven into flowers and vines. Your father was a silk merchant; while you never wore the silks, you can recognize their quality.
the following week, the delicious man rides up on his steeds and presents a letter. The handwriting is rough. Knights that come from the lower class do not have the schooling of highborns; as fair as you know, your husband was born a street rat and worked his way theough the ranks to glory.
-I have been told by my secund that I did not send you enuf fabric for a gown. I do not no these things.
The spelling mistakes screw a smile out of you.
"Wait a moment." You stop the boy before he can leave. "I wish to send something back."
You take your time and use your finest calligraphy, tucking your note in with a handkerchief you had spent the week on. It's fine work-- one that would please even the hardest of hearts.
-Dearest husband,
Please take this handkerchief as a sign of my thoughts.
Your patient and thoughtful wife
A second letter arrives within the week.
-are you cros with me? A scrap of fabric for a scrap of fabric?
The response is what makes you cross. The poor messenger boy has to stay the night while you percolate over a response.
-Dearest, sweetest husband,
A handkerchief is a traditional gesture of affection. I have embroidered the edges by hand, with your family name and your roses, and it smells of my perfume. It is a piece of me for you to carry. If you do not appreciate my kindness or if you think it will turn away your lovers, you may return it. I do not wish it wasted on you.
Your less than patient and less than adoring wife
The poor boy scatters off in the morning and returns a few days later.
tortured wife,
I wil cherish it. I am sory, pour lam. I wil do better.
your loving husband
Happy pride month to Bucciarati and Abbacchio from Narancia
"girl dinner" "boy kibble" can y'all just eat a meal gender neutrally
gender neutrients
Normal straight guy: free coffee, nice.
Normal gay guy: free coffee, nice.
Abnormal straight guy: I'm not drinking out of small cups that's gay.
Dean winchester, abnormal ??? guy: these cups are gay. this coffee is gay. No don't take it back I'm gonna drink it I just wanted to let you know it's gay but I am going to drink this gay coffee.
waking up really is like this isn't it
Soviet poster. "СИОНИЗМ — ЭТО РАСИЗМ!" — "Zionism is Racism!"
"The essence of racism is everywhere the same: oppression, humiliation, cruelty, war."
This poster references UN General Assembly Resolution 3379, passed in 1975, which declared "Zionism is a form of racism and racial discrimination." The resolution passed 72-35.
The U.S. and Israel fought for 16 years to have it revoked, and succeeded in 1991.
Me every morning whenever I forgot to take my meds:
Estou sendo cancelada no spirit fanfics KKKKKKKKKKK AI era o que me faltava
sweater
spencer reid x bau!reader
summary: you show up to the bureau wearing his sweater
The first thing Spencer notices that morning isn’t the case file in his hands.
It isn’t Morgan talking, or Garcia rambling through the speaker, or even the faint smell of stale coffee lingering in the bullpen.
It’s you. Specifically what you’re wearing. Or what you’re not wearing. Because that is definitely his sweater.
His brain catches it in pieces at first. The oversized sleeves. The slightly worn cuffs. The exact shade of dark gray he remembers because he bought it during a lecture tour in Boston three years ago. The one that’s softer than it should be because he’s washed it too many times.
And it’s on you. Spencer stops walking mid-step.
“Reid?” Morgan nudges him. “You good, man?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Because now you’re turning around, completely unaware, balancing a cup of coffee in one hand and the sweater shifts slightly off your shoulder.
His sweater. On your shoulder. Spencer’s brain, usually operating at a terrifying speed, completely stalls.
“…that’s my sweater,” he says under his breath.
Morgan follows his line of sight. Then grins. “Oh,” Morgan mutters. “Oh, this is gonna be fun.”
⸻
You don’t notice Spencer at first. You’re too busy trying not to spill your coffee while flipping through notes, muttering to yourself about timelines and inconsistencies.
It’s only when you feel someone hovering nearby that you look up. And there he is. Standing way too still. Eyes locked on you or, more specifically, on the sweater.
“…hi?” you say, a little confused.
Spencer opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
“That’s—” he gestures vaguely, like words are suddenly optional, “—you’re wearing—”
You glance down. Oh, right. His sweater.
You’d grabbed it last night without thinking. You’d stayed over, fallen asleep halfway through one of his rambles about cognitive bias, and when you left in the morning, it was just there. Comfortable. Familiar.
You didn’t really think about how it would look walking into the BAU.
“…yeah,” you say, suddenly a little self-conscious. “I, um—hope that’s okay? I meant to bring it back but I was running late and—”
“You can keep it.” The words come out too fast. Too immediate. Spencer freezes after saying them, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
Your eyebrows lift. “Keep it?”
“I mean, not keep it permanently, unless you want to, which would be statistically improbable given normal clothing rotation habits, but—” he stops, exhales, visibly trying to reset his brain, “—it looks… good.”
There’s a pause. A very noticeable pause. Because Spencer Reid just said something looks good. And he is not looking at your face. He is very, very focused on the sweater. On how it fits you. On how the sleeves fall past your hands. On how it’s unmistakably his and somehow… better on you.
Your lips twitches, “You’re staring,” you say softly.
“I’m not—” he immediately looks up, which is worse, because now he’s looking directly at you, and his ears are turning pink, “—I just recognized the fabric composition.”
“Oh, of course you did,” you tease.
Morgan snorts loudly from across the room. Spencer glares at him for half a second before looking back at you, clearly trying to recover.
“…you didn’t have to bring it back,” he says, quieter now.
Something about the way he says it, less flustered, more honest, makes your chest tighten just a little.
“I know,” you reply. “But I wanted to.”
His gaze flickers, just briefly, to the neckline of the sweater again.
“…you can still wear it,” he adds.
Now you really smile.
⸻
The rest of the team catches on quickly. Garcia notices first, obviously.
“Oh my God,” her voice crackles through the speakers. “Is that boy genius couture I see?”
You choke on your coffee. Emily leans over her desk, squinting. “Wait… is that actually Reid’s?”
JJ looks between the two of you, already piecing it together, a knowing smile forming.
Spencer, meanwhile, looks like he’s about to combust. “It’s just a sweater,” he insists.
“Your sweater,” Morgan corrects.
Spencer adjusts his satchel strap. “Clothing items are frequently shared among—”
“—people who are dating,” Emily finishes.
Silence. Spencer blinks. You raise an eyebrow. Morgan grins like he’s just won something.
“…we’re not—” Spencer starts, then glances at you, falters, and immediately loses all confidence in the sentence, “—I mean, not officially, not that labels are necessary for—”
You step closer to him. Not enough to make a scene. Just enough that your shoulder brushes his. He freezes instantly.
“…you okay?” you ask, voice soft, teasing but gentle.
He swallows, then nods, “…yes.” But he doesn’t move away. And he doesn’t stop looking at you.
⸻
Later, when the bullpen quiets down and everyone’s distracted with their own work, Spencer finds himself standing beside you again.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just… lingers.
You glance up. “You’re hovering again.”
“I’m not hovering,” he says automatically.
“You are,” you smile. “But I don’t mind.”
That seems to short-circuit him a little.
“…okay,” he says.
There’s a small pause.
“…it suits you,” he blurts out.
You tilt your head. “The sweater?”
He nods, “I like it better on you,” he admits, quieter now.
That catches you off guard. Because Spencer doesn’t say things like that casually. You study him for a second, really look at him.
At the way he’s trying so hard to stay composed. At the way his fingers twitch slightly, like he wants to reach out but isn’t sure if he should. So you make it easier.
You gently tug at the sleeve. “Maybe I’ll keep stealing your clothes, then,” you say.
His eyes widen slightly. “You can,” he says, almost immediately.
Then, softer, “…anytime.”
Your heart does something stupid in your chest. And for once, Spencer Reid doesn’t try to explain it away with science. He just stands there, a little flustered, a little breathless and very, very aware that you’re still wearing his sweater.
