I'm Curious. Reblog This If You Know How To Cook

guyyys....

cowboy!reid coming to YOUR Tumblr page soon!

”pdf file” “unalived” “grape” “corn” what if i killed myself right here right now

pocketful of sunshine, s. reid

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in which, spencer valiantly defends your honor. as best as he can, at least. it's cute, i promise.

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trope: whimsy!reader x spencer, coworkers/friends

warnings: no smut, fluff, comfort, honorable mention of spencer's hands, defensive spencer, asshole cop wc: 2.34k

summary: The BAU cases are always dark, but you're like a little pocket of wonder in the chaos — always carrying odd little trinkets for good luck, quoting poetry at random, and doodling stars in the margins of case files. Spencer tries to act unaffected, but he starts picking up the habits too: absentmindedly quoting literature back, carrying a lucky coin you gave him, and smiling when he sees your sketches. Of course, being a glowing pillar of light in most rooms has its downs.

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You like the concept of tarot cards. It gives you a good sense of control, of stability in a job that tends to try and make things tumble out of their place, a way to have hopes for destiny. If you believe in that sort of sentiment. It stops the books from flying off the shelf. The awakening engine of the jet snaps you out of your thoughts as you raise your attention from the tarot cards sitting untouched in your palm. It's only a bit jarring, as always; planes startle you a bit. Emily sits across from you, book in hand, although you can tell she's not reading it. She's already falling asleep, the absent hum in the background serving as white noise for her napping. You flip through the tarot cards, brow furrowed in concentration as you turn three of the top ones over. The Lovers, the Fool, and The Hermit. The Fool's upside down. Hopefully that's not a bad thing. You slip the cards back into their respective places in the deck and pop up to get a coffee, careful not to bump Emily as you shuffle down the aisle. It's getting humid outside--condensation creeping up on the windows and clinging for dear life--you don't doubt it'll start raining soon.You're just about to pour your steaming hot black coffee when Spencer materializes behind you, and you almost spill all of it on yourself. "Crap! Spencer, what're you doing?"

He smiles apologetically, sheepishly. "Sorry, I--um, I was just wondering if we had any sugar." He holds up his own coffee mug, a black one with a cat on the front.

You sigh, handing him the mini sugar packet. "Don't apologise, some people just tread lightly. Scarily so, apparently." You smile back reassuringly. He nods, not moving away as you stir your coffee. You can feel his eyes on the back of your head. "So..." Oh, no, I've said the dreaded conversation opener. Don't panic, your charm will save you. If I even have any. He watches you intently, taking a sip from his coffee. He looks just about as if he'll hang onto your every word. It's making you nervous, and maybe it's making your face hot too, but you hope the lights are dim enough for it to be unnoticeable.

"What're the details of the case?" You finish up the coffee combo, turning so you're leaned against the back of the wooden counter.

He jumps into action, the awkwardness easing up as he shares details. "Looks like a 30-year old female victim, 27 year old male, about 23 stab wounds to the chest, arms and abdomen."

"Wow. That sounds...angry. Rage induced, I mean." You correct yourself, wincing mentally at the wording. You're smart, really smart, you just tend to forget technological terms in front of him.

"It looks like it." He hums as you both head back to the seats, sinking down across from one another in the leather. "The MO wasn't vehemently consistent, except for one thing." He pauses for dramatic effect. You nod, prompting him to go on as you cup your coffee mug in your hands.

"Crows."

You blink, tilting your head inquisitively. "...crows?" He nods rapidly. "Yeah, crows, carved in by the stabbing. As far as I've deduced, it matches up with an old poem about the meanings of amounts of crows. One for sorrow, one for birth, and so on.""Huh." Shuffling the tarot cards, you cross your legs. "So our unsub's intelligent. Maybe he thinks of himself like a poet?"

Spencer's shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. "It's too early to tell. It's a message, that's for sure." That sentence catches you a little off guard. Usually Spencer's determined to figure things out, determined to do everything he can to work out a puzzle as baffling as this one. But for some reason, he's quieter. More sullen, in a way.

You're not one for frowning, but one crosses your features anyways. "You okay?" He looks as if he's been caught, raising his brows and making a soft, dismissive noise. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. I just haven't slept too much."

Of course he'd say that. You're still worried, but nonetheless exhausted from the day. It's always a good idea to catch a nap on the jet.

"You should just sleep through the flight. We both should, catch some Z's."

That wording just about makes you pinch yourself in frustration. You keep saying stupid things around him, and you're still not sure why to this day. All you know is that it annoys you severely. As you both drift off into a half-awake half-asleep state, you're too delirious to note the almost frivolous, unnoticeable detail of Spencer holding your lucky coin between his fingers as you fall asleep.

`✦ ִֶˑ ִֶ𓂃⊹જ⁀➴ When the jet hits Georgia, it apparently wants to hit you too. You're woken from the peaceful slumber by the turbulence, disoriented and bleary as you peek out the window. God, it's sunny. Too sunny for sensitive morning eyes. Nonetheless, a sense of your usual hope fills you as you peek out the window, think of a short sacrament to the sun and let her continue her slow burning of the Earth.

Spencer wakes up across from you as well, his expression adorably confused as he blinks. You observe. Wonder how his under eyes always stay the same hue of dark grey, then you go back to pedantically staring out the window. Apparently you two (with the exception of Hotch--does he ever sleep?) are early birds. The team's still dozing. Your eyes wander back over to him eventually, spotting the coin in his hand. "Hey, you kept it." He tucks his hair back behind his ear then smiles, just a little. "Oh. Yeah, I did. I don't usually believe in luck, but it's kept me safe so far." The words make something grossly warm and sticky build up in your chest and you snort, putting on your best 'newsperson' voice. "Rare sighting. A man of science carries a lucky coin." Spencer laughs. God, that's a pleasant sound. It's about just as sweet as he takes his coffee. There's a comfortable silence for a little period of time, just the two of you sitting there. Unsure of what to do or say. As you sit there, you end up watching the movement of his fingers around the coin. Flip. Flip again. You've always been somewhat aware of his dexterity, but just silently watching him now brings heat to your face. Nimble fingers, neat fingernails and ridges between his knuckles that you just want to trace with your own touch. Of course, said silence is eventually broken by Garcia's chirping tone. "Good morning, good morning, my loves, I am souped up on five coffees and feeling amazing." There's a collective groan between JJ and Morgan. Derek rubs his forehead, sitting up from the visually uncomfortable-looking position he'd taken on the couch as they start to land. "Babygirl, there are better ways to wake us up than singing in our ears." "Derek Morgan, if we were alone right now, I can assure you I'd be waking you up differently." Garcia jokes in her usual sultry tone, their casual friendly flirting making both you and Spencer roll your eyes. It's another three minutes before the others come to, and another five before they've drunk enough coffee for them to be able to profile efficiently. The little TV lights up with Garcia's face again, and she smiles. "I return, bearing less of a zapped, coffee-fuelled mind. Let's get into it." After you all go over the details of the case, discussing patterns in the signature and the whole crow thing Spencer mentioned before, you get off the jet with your go-bags. "It's bright." Is the first thing you can muster, cupping your hand above your eyes to avoid the harsh glare of the sun.

"Really bright." Reid adds on, frowns on both your faces. You get a little pouch out of your bag, picking out the gem of the day. Alexandrite. Brings balance, and luck. Also, it's pretty. The greeny-purple hues glimmer a bit in the sunlight as you turn it over.

"Let's get moving." Hotch says firmly, the rest of the team tagging behind albeit in a fatigued manner. It's going to be a long drive. `✦ ִֶˑ ִֶ𓂃⊹જ⁀➴ The station is quiet, it's the first thing you notice. Except for the papers rustling about, the typing, and scattered talking, it's not as busy as you'd expect it to be in a place that's currently rampant with serial killings. Spencer looks mildly horrified at the state of some of the officer's desks. "Do they not sanitize? There are at least over 10 million bacteria on a standard office desk." "Spence, I don't even think they sanitize their hands." You comment, noting the intern in the corner eating his takeout and typing. The expression on the genius' face after seeing it is comical. You almost want to laugh, but you're reminded it genuinely disturbs him, so you're just left giving him a brief, reassuring shoulder pat.

Ah, yes, the shoulder pat. The one form of human bodily communication cue your hand just itches to choose in pretty much any conversation. It's a problem, frankly. He doesn't seem to mind too much, anyways. Your hand drops from the fabric of his cardigan as you enter the tiny briefing room they have set up. It's a little more accommodating; a nicer table. "Okay, what do we know?" Hotch crosses his arms, letting the team file things away in their heads. You squint and focus on every aspect of the photos propped up on the board, your mind sharpening. Crows. Your thoughts fall down that rabbit-hole again, the interest peaking a bit. On this particular body, there are six. Six for gold. You can't understand the sentiments of the act at the moment, or at least, not the connections that the unsub was thinking of when he carved specifically six. If that was the intention, that is. "The MO isn't consistent with that of an organized killer but he's still careful enough not to leave behind DNA or anything obvious. Just obvious things on the bodies." Spencer pipes up, explaining his crow theory to the group a little excitedly. It's cute to watch from a different perspective.

A burly man--who you assume is the higher-up here--approaches Hotch with a firm handshake and a nod. A very, very quick moment passes between the two. A silent sharing of thoughts, if you will, and you just notice it before it's gone as if it was never there at all. Then introductions, and when Hotchner gets to you, the old man looks a bit...baffled? Maybe the better term is nonplussed. Flummoxed. Either way, he's looking at you like you're a different species. Your way of dressing, the trinkets and odd bits n' bobs pinned to your pants. It's not like you're unused to this sort of reaction. He's just sort of...pushing it. Making a hyperbole out of something that's not even a sentence at all. Then again, he seems like the type of guy to get annoyed with someone for licking an envelope wrong, so you just give him a blank stare back. "You're a bit...unorthodox." The officer raises a brow. You squint, unsure of how to reply. You're usually loquacious, but when it comes to backhanded insults you sort of just...shut up. The team seems stumped as well, but not pleased either way. "She's a valuable asset to the team." Hotch says stoically, tone flat. You just stand there. You're sick of this. Not the comments, but the wasting time. What if someone else is being murdered right now? And this station is what, sitting around eating Thai food and waiting for a saint to show up and fix their problems? It doesn't work like that, not in your head. The officer seems to like talking. "Well, I know, she probably is, but does the FBI really let its agents dress like that?" He makes a gesture to you with his hand. You eventually take a brief look over at Spencer, and it puts you into a state of momentary shock when you see he's bristling, jaw wound tight and frown creasing his brow. "She's good at her job, how she dresses isn't relevant, I think you'll find." The usually socially aversive doctor doesn't hesitate to shut down the chief's observations, brushing past him so he can get to the pin board. "I think we should review the crime scene instead of talking about things that aren't important at all." You raise both eyebrows. Okay, this is weird. Spencer's still going over the board, but it's obvious enough that he's not pleased. His mind is racing about two million miles a second as he tries to take his mind off that idiot who thought it'd be okay to try put you down, even mildly. Eventually when things have calmed down a bit, you sidle up next to him, peeking up at the board and pointing out a few small things. He lets out a huff of air, relaxing a bit at your presence. More pointing, then two or three infodumps later, he turns to you. "Are you alright?" He peers into your eyes with his own brown ones. They're like actual melted chocolate, so inviting and addicting. Like little chestnut pools of dopamine. You snap out of it so you can answer his question. "Oh, right. I'm fine. Little peeved, but fine." His brow furrows further as he observes, analysing your micro-expressions to judge whether you're actually okay or not. "You're sure?" You nod gently, leaning against the round wooden table propped in the middle of the room. "I'm sure, I'm fine." His hand hesitantly, very, very, hesitantly touches yours, another smile on his face, this one more embarrassed and trying to gauge your reaction so he'd doesn't mess up. "I need just one more confirmation to be sure. Think of it like a three-step verification, in a way." You sigh, little, pleasant pins and needles flickering up your arm in the form of goosebumps when he touches you. "I'm fine. There's number three." You take his lucky coin out of his pocket and hold it in front of him, your fingers intertwining with his in your free hand. "And, this can count as a number four." You're not sure what you mean or whether it makes sense, but Spencer can take that up with the universe later. "Sounds good to me." `✦ ִֶˑ ִֶ𓂃⊹જ⁀➴ a/n: PLEASE DONT HARRASS ME I WROTE THIS AT 1AM ON MY PERIOD WITH NO RELIEF I KNOW IT MIGHT NOT BE GOOD

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ok which one of you motherfuckers got access to the uk paramount+ account?

fuck you tumblr

favorite morgan/garcia scenes:

we are days away from derek morgan returning for the season finale of season 12 as a guest star and it has me screaming in excitement. I cannot wait to see their scenes together for the episode. which had me going back and watch some of my favorite scenes between the two of them. the chemistry between shemar and kirsten is always insanely amazing and just wonderful to watch.

thought I could share my favorite scenes between these two:

Season 3 Episode 9 - “Penelope” (the aftermath when she got shot and he brought her home. the first moment where we hear morgan saying he loves her and vice versa)

Morgan: “Hey, silly girl.”

Garcia: “Hmm?”

Morgan: “I love you. You know that, right?”

Garcia: “I love you, too.”

Season 4 Episode 1 - “Mayhem” (because she’s his God-given solace, that’s it)

Morgan: “Garcia….I’ll tell you what you are to me. You’re my God-given solace. Woman, you promise me one thing - whatever happens…don’t you ever stop talking to me.”

Garcia: “I can’t right now ‘cause I’m mad at you.”

Morgan: “I can wait.”

Season 5 Episode 21 - “Exit Wounds” (when she ran toward a dying victim without hesitation and realizes that the job is starting to change her and she’s scared.)

Morgan: “I’m proud of you, Penelope. Despite everything that happened, you came back….and you got the job done.”

Garcia: “The sight of blood used to make me run away. And two nights ago I ran towards it.”

Morgan: “It means you’re changing into someone stronger than you realize. You cared enough to risk your own life to try and save someone else.

Garcia: “Yeah but…what’s the difference between being strong and being jaded? I’m scared, Derek. I don’t want to lose who I am just so I can do this job.”

Morgan: “We are in one of the most beautiful places on earth. I know you see that, don’t you?”

Garcia: “Yeah.”

Morgan: “Then we have nothing to worry about. It’s who you are, Baby Girl. You see the beauty in everything and everyone no matter where you go. That part of you is never gonna change, and I won’t let it.”

Garcia: “I don’t need you to protect me.”

Morgan: “Tough. I think I’m gonna stay on the job a little while longer.”

Garcia: “Yeah?”

Morgan: “Mm-hmm.”

Garcia: “How much longer?”

Morgan: “Every day of my life.”

Garcia: “I kind of love you, Derek Morgan.”

Morgan: “I kind of love you, Penelope Garcia.”

Keep reading

My Journey to Escape the War in Gaza

My name is Abdelmajed. I never imagined I’d be sharing my story like this, but life in Gaza has become unbearable. I am a survivor of the war here, and in the blink of an eye, everything I once knew—my home, my safety, my community—was ripped away from me.

The war has transformed Gaza into a graveyard of broken dreams. The buildings that once stood as symbols of life and resilience are now piles of rubble. Every corner is filled with the echoes of explosions. Every moment is shrouded in uncertainty. There is no security. There is no stability. There is no light at the end of the tunnel.

Basic needs have become luxuries. Food is scarce. Clean water is even scarcer. Hospitals are overwhelmed and under-resourced, and there is almost no medical care to be found. Every night, families go to bed hungry, praying they’ll wake up to see another day. The cost of basic necessities has skyrocketed, and it’s become a daily battle just to survive.

I’ve seen things I never thought possible—standing in long lines for a piece of bread, rationing every drop of water, and watching my people suffer in silence. I have lost everything—my home, my safety, my dignity.

Escape from Gaza is my only hope, but it’s almost impossible without financial help. The cost of evacuation is far beyond my means, and without support, I’m trapped in a warzone with no way out.

I’m reaching out to you now, in the hopes that someone, anyone, can help. I am not asking for luxury. I am asking for a chance—just a chance—to live. A chance to escape this never-ending cycle of fear, destruction, and loss. A chance to rebuild my life somewhere safe, where I can begin again, where I can find hope once more.

Chuffed

Help Abdelmajed Escape Gaza and Rebuild His Life

My name is Abdelmajed, and I am a survivor of the war in Gaza. Everything I once knew has been taken away—my home, my safety, and the people

Any amount you can give will help me get closer to safety. Even the smallest donation will make a difference—it could be the lifeline I need to survive. If you are unable to donate, please share my story. The more people who hear it, the better the chance that I can find the support I desperately need.

Your kindness and support mean the world to me. You’re not just helping me escape a war; you’re giving me a chance to live, to rebuild, to breathe again.

Thank you for listening. Thank you for caring.

Vetted by @gazavetters

have a jazzy thursday

guys omg

remember that scene in one of the later seasons where JJ asks Reid what he'd be if he wasn't an FBI agent? .......cowboy reid. don't worry it's officially on my list