Middle aged white male's impersonation of a millennial:
OMG lyke i totes didnt mean to crash the car my rich mummy bought me but i totes had to text my bff about her latest facebook selfie LOL whatevs dude
I aspire to be able to pay off my second hand car sometime next year, but in this turbulent economical state, my three minimum wage jobs barely pay my medical insurance. I've nearly exhausted my phone's data while researching scholarships that may assist me, but I did take a moment to compliment my good friend's latest Instagram photo because she has worryingly low self confidence and occasionally needs affirmation of her worth, like most humans.
Imagine being a member of Gibbs’ team while NCIS and the BAU are working together on a terrorism case involving a marine, so you get loaned out to the BAU and Hotch calling Gibbs when a bomb goes off with you inside the building, and they’re both really worried because they’re both in love with you.
——— Request for anon ———
“She didn’t get out in time, Gibbs,” Hotch’s voice through the phone is raised to be heard over the chaos, and quick due to the fact that he had to make it quick before he could get back to the crisis at hand. “Her radio’s silent. We don’t know if she’s hurt or not yet, but with the way that building collapsed, the area she’s in was the only part still standing, so we’re hoping for the best.”
Gibbs keeps his composure much better than he feels at hearing the news of your status, wishing immediately he hadn’t let the Director talk him into loaning you out to BAU for this case, “My team will keep working on our end, but I’m coming down there.”
Hotch doesn’t argue, “Alright. I’m sending Penelope to see what she can do to help McGee on tracking that terrorist.”
Imagine Gibbs being your father and taking care of you when you’re on your period.
“Dad, where’s the Advil?” you moaned, pressing your forehead against the cabinet door.
“Headache?” Gibbs asked, pulling out the bottle of painkillers and handing it to you.
You nodded, “And back pain, and nausea. Basically everything hurts and I’m dying.”
Gibbs arched a brow, “Do you need anything?”
You downed an Advil and leaned against the counter. “Do you have any idea where our heating pad went? Also, um,” you flushed in embarrassment, “I think we’re running out of pads? Could you maybe, uh, pick some up, please?” Gibbs stared at you for a long moment, heat creeping up his own cheeks, “Yeah, sure. Uh, any particular kind?”
You rubbed a hand over your face, “I’ll write it down for you.” You cast your father an awkward smile, “Thanks for doing this for me, dad.”
Gibbs returned your grin, albeit a little uncomfortably, “I changed your diapers when you were a baby, held your hair back when you had the stomach flu, and drove you home after you got your wisdom teeth out. I guess I can handle this.”
“I’d hope that a former marine could handle his daughter being on her period,” you joked, “Now, about that heating pad?”