#The Construct of Time

[bamsara]

I think that one thing people fail to understand is that unsolicited literary criticism coming from an online stranger who is reading with no knowledge of what the authors intended goal is, is not going to be received the same as say: the authors beta reader or friends who know what the authors intended goal and has the sufficient knowledge and input to help the author reach that desired outcome.

"But I'm only trying to be helpful" How do I know you have the knowledge and literary skill for you to be able to actaully do that when we don't know each other and you are essentially a stranger to me? Are you applying this criticism based out of personal biased experience and desire to see the story or characterization be driven in another direction or tweaked, or do you know the author's intentions for the character? If the story is incomplete, are you basing your criticism of a character on the incomplete narration with only partial information available of them or are you building up a report until the story's completion? Did the author provide you with the information needed to make a fully informed criticism?

Have you discussed with the author what their plans are or are you assuming them based off the narration, especially if the narration is proven or implied to be unreliable or missing key points of the plot? Are you unbiased enough to help them reach their desired outcome for the characters and story regardless of your personal feelings towards the characters/antagonists and setting? Can you handle being told your specific input isn't wanted because you're a reader and/or have no written anything relating to their genre or topic? Do you understand and respect that the author's personal experiences might influence their writing and make it different than how you would have done it personally? Do you understand if an author only wants input from a specific demographic relating to their story?

If it's for fanfiction or other hobby media, are you holding a free hobby to a professional standard? Are you trying to give criticism because you feel like the author has produced 'subpar job performance' of their fic? Are you viewing their work as a personal intimate outlet or something that must conform with mass media? Are you applying rules and guidelines when the fic is shared for simple sharing sake? Is your criticism worded appropriately and focused on the parts where the author has requested input on rather than a general dismissal and or disapproval?

Have you put yourself in a place where you assumed you have the input needed for the story to evolve better, or have you asked what the author needs and what they're having trouble with? Can you handle having your criticism rejected if the author decides their story doesn't need the change and not take it as a personal offense against your character? Are you crossing that boundary because you think you are doing the author a favor? Are you trying to be helpful, or do you just want to be?

I think sometimes when people hear authors go 'please don't give me unsolicited writing advice or criticism' they automatically chalk it up to 'this author doesn't want ANY constructive feedback on their stuff at all' and not "i already have trusted individuals who will help me with my writing goals and- hey i don't know you like that, please stop acting so overly familiar with me'

[thewizardhole]

happy pride u vile sickos

[dkettchen]

cursed construction core hi vis bra that came to me in a dream

In the dream I saw it in the window display of a hardware/DIY/trade shop, implying it was meant to be a practical garment designed for actual female constructions workers in a Female Armour level missed-the-brief attempt at gender inclusion

The practical support from the visible underwire combined with the hi vis implying it’s not meant to be worn as an undergarment, I just-

I blame my binge-reading ND Stevenson’s gender comics talking abt masculinity and femininity incl the one abt Victoria’s Secret lingerie yesterday for this monstrosity x’D

[velnna]

our endings bound

[starry-songs-canvas]

Take Care of Him

The boy, who had Damian’s face, couldn’t be more different than Dick’s (alive?) baby brother.

Aside from his Snow White hair, he smiled and laughed freely, making puns on top of his embarrassing story about his supposed twin brother.  

(“Clones don’t have childhood memories right?  So if I have an embarrassing story or two, that’ll give you a way to check that I’m not a clone AND give you ammunition for teasing!”)

“—And that’s how his face—and his pride—was forever wounded by Sparta the warrior cat!”  Danny finished his story with a flourish, cracking up immediately after.

“Huh, and to think he left it at “training”, obviously he didn’t think anyone would let the cat out of the bag.”  Dick said, laughing even as he eyed the lookalike.

Danny snorted.  “Yeah, I doubt he thought anything as Cat-astropic as that would happen.”

They sat in silence for a moment, overlooking the buildings below, with the Dalv. Co. Labs smoking in the distance and the breeze blowing past the two, yet only seeming to affect Nightwing and not the phantom beside him.

“Is he safe?  Is he happy?” Danny murmurs as he looks up at the stars, looking every bit the forlorn ghost he claimed to be.

“…We keep each other safe.  And I’d say once he got past the stabbing faze, he’s pretty happy in Gotham.”

“But I’m sure it’d make him happy to see you again.”  Dick thought back to the comments the vampire-ghost they’d fought earlier.  It didn’t sound exactly, “happy” or “safe” for Danny.  Or anyone else involved.

Danny shook his head.  “Nah.  He’s… moved on.  And with how crazy my after-life is?  I’m already dealing with ghosts, ghost-hunters, and my—err—that frootloop from earlier.  I do not need to add furries and murder-ninjas to the mix.”

Danny sighed as he floated into a standing position.  “Speaking of which, if you could just, maybe not tell him you saw me?  Better to let dead dogs lie.”

Danny’s piercing Lazarus green eyes looked at Dick and he saw the exact same expression B had on whenever he “had to do it alone”.

“Just, take care of him, Kay?  Or I’ll haunt you to the ends of the universe!”  He said, throwing up a peace sign as he turned invisible.

Dick snorted, “Yeah, sure kid.”

Dick got up and started off toward the bat-plane.  He had a brother to interrogate, and another brother/clone of his brother to find.

[feniksido]

"We are brilliant." "..."

[yi3248]

together

[knifearo]

this year my challenge for everyone is to unlearn the association between love and morality. love is not something that is inherently morally good, and the absence of love is not something that is inherently bad. sex without love isn't morally bankrupt, it's just an action. people without love aren't less kind or less good, they're just people. when we can get past this false (and often unnoticed) dichotomy of good love/evil lovelessness then i think we are going to be able to take leaps and bounds in sex positivity, aro advocacy, certain discussions of mental health...

[katytheinspiredworkaholic]

The Construct of Time, Chapter 08

Pairing: HotchReid

Written For: The HotchReid Valentine’s Day Trope Challenge, Trope Assignments = Historical AU, Time Travel

Summary: The year is 1924, half a decade after the first World War, and a few years before the Great Depression would devastate the nation. It is a time of contradiction: the modernist uprising of science and innovation, met with a traditionalist, fearful desire to cling to the past in a fast-evolving, urbanist society. And on this morning in Washington D.C. an unmarked package is left outside the office of Aaron ‘Hotch’ Hotchner, P.I., with a note simply telling him to find the rest, and a substantial price tag attached. What he finds in this package is something he has never seen before, hundreds of years old, and he barely knows where to start trying to find more like it. Ultimately he is pointed towards someone that may just have a clue what to do with his charge: a Classics Historian working in the basements of the Smithsonian, Dr. Spencer Reid. Together, what they discover sends them on a break-neck chase across the city, searching for a mysterious collection of powerful artifacts, and the people that are trying to sell them. Forever changing everything they know about the world, the people in it, truth, lies, love, and the fragile construct of time.

Rating: Mature/Explicit (to be determined)

Chapter CW/notes: lots of mentions of blood and wounds and some wump/first-aide type stuff. And so much sexual/romantic tension. I also finally got to use my "here's looking at you, kid" Humphrey Bogart reference. So when Hotch calls Spencer 'kid' in this chapter think Bogart and not the age difference. 🙈 Shorter chapter because otherwise it would have been like 6k and this story has shorter chapters so... enjoy and look forward to the next chapter later this week/weekend. C: it’s already written lmao. 

Word Count: 2317

Masterpost Link

Ao3 Link

–

Chapter 08: A Quiet Place

–

.

It's not the first time that Hotch has had to break into his own office building after hours, but it is the first time he's had to do so while dripping blood all along the hallway carpets. The wound really isn't as bad as it seems, he just bled like a stuck pig when the blade had been pulled out of his side – so now he looks like he works in a slaughterhouse. Spencer, in particular, is very worried about it, and in turn Hotch is worried about him. Blood splattered across his face, his shirt and soaked into his sweater. It can't all be Hotch's. The blood was on him before he'd been stabbed. 

They make it into his office, Hotch turns on a desk light that barely illuminates the darkness at such a late hour while Spencer scrambles for the first aid kit. They have to move fast, not knowing how much time they have before someone comes knocking. 

It's clear Spencer is panicking, but so is Hotch, and when they come together the first thing he does is tug off Spencer's jacket and pull the shirt-tails loose from his trousers. He needs to see how bad the wound is, preying the younger man hadn't been grazed or pierced with a stray bullet.

"What are you doing?! Stop moving so much, you're injured!" Spencer protests, but even shaky from the post-adrenaline of the fight Hotch is stronger than him. He pulls the soaked sweater up to try and pry it off where the blood has begun to dry and grow tacky, making the layers stick together. God, it's everywhere.

"I'm fine! You're the one that's hurt," Hotch insists.

"Aaron, he stabbed you!"

"And you're drenched in blood!" He gets the sweater over Spencer's head, and the moment it's off the young doctor gets his bearings and grabs Hotch by the hands. Surprisingly strong, trembling in his haste.

"It's not mine!"

Hotch freezes at the tone, the words, and looks at him – really looks at him. Tears blurring his eyes, red speckled on his face in a distinct splatter pattern, what looks like a thumb print on the swell of his cheek. Tenderly placed. 

The locket had been in his hand when he appeared. He'd used it. He'd gone back in time.

Slowly everything aligns and begins to make sense. The possibilities tick off as the seconds tick by, and Hotch feels his heart thumping loud and hard in his chest.

"Is it mine?" he asks.

Spencer swallows thick, a flicker of emotion so strong that it almost breaks their eye contact as it crosses his face. There and gone in the blink of an eye. Devastating as a hurricane. "I don't know." It's the truth, and yet it's not – Hotch tries to read behind the guarded veil of the man's eyes, his stare unblinking and pleading and everything Hotch wants to drown in. He reaches up and touches the side of Spencer's face, brushing back wild curls, hovering just above the smudged print. It's the same size and shape as his own thumb. 

"And this?" he doesn't have to voice it, but it makes something shatter in Spencer's expression. He looks like he's about to cry. Hotch almost regrets bringing it up. 

"Can I patch you up now?" Spencer asks, quiet and shaky. 

"It's not bad," Hotch tells him, almost reassuring in the face of what he's just learned. "The bleeding stopped before we got out of the taxi–"

"Aaron," Spencer pleads.

And how could he ever say no? 

Hotch strips out of his jacket and leather holsters wrapped around his shoulders, wincing at the pull of his muscles against his injuries, and then peels off his dress shirt bit by bit. The dried blood sticks to his skin, and it's as he lifts his undershirt that he realizes the change in the air. The charge of it. So distracting he forgets the old wounds now exposed among the new.

Spencer goes from maudlin to flustered within seconds, the most gorgeous shade of pink warming his skin, and he makes himself busy with the bandages and stitching thread from the first aid kit. But his gaze keeps darting up, skittering along every inch of the older man's torso. Hotch sports more than his fair share of scars from the war, the stab wound would just be one more, and there are spots blooming from bruises all along his sides and chest beneath the dark chest hair. Even roughed up as he is, Hotch can't help but wonder if his thumping heart is visible through his endorphin-damp skin.

"I know they aren't pretty, but you don't have to avert your eyes for my modesty," he tries to tease, to get the man to look at him once more – with only half honest intentions. Hotch still is not entirely certain Spencer isn't hiding an injury.

"It's not that," he mumbles, and Hotch leans against his desk with Spencer standing close to reach his wound in his side in the dim angled light. Knees knocking, Hotch's body curved like a question mark towards the man, as if he can't stay away for the life of him. "I just thought it was the shoulders of your suit jackets that made you look so… broad." His eyes flick up and then back down to where he's still trying to peel bandages apart with trembling fingers. 

Hotch grants him mercy by not playing too much into that. Allowing Spencer to breathe, calm himself enough to stitch his side closed and clean it, his touch gentle on his bare skin, his scent enticing the closer they stand. Gravitating towards each other, inch by inch. The younger man thrums with contained adrenaline, energy, both spent and excess. What he must have seen that made him dare to use the artifacts, to go back mere minutes and keep it from happening.

There's no question in his mind, now, what happened.

"You saved my life," Hotch rumbles into the quiet buzz of the office. Dark and intimate. Spencer's honey hazel eyes catch the faintest traces of light, making them golden when he looks up to catch and snag with Hotch's own. God, but he is beautiful.

"You saved mine first." 

"But not to your liking." It wasn't barbed, the way Hotch points this out, but it's enough to make the other man's strong will falter within his gaze. "You used the necklace. When you swore you wouldn't, again."

Spencer licks his lips slow, looking aside in the smallest show of shame. Guilt – for breaking his promise. But not sorry he did, not in the slightest. "The cost was too great to bear." Hotch frowns, then.

"You think my life is worth more than yours?" he accuses, more harshly.

"I don't think anyone's life is worth that." 

Hotch huffs in disbelief, lightened by amazement and something much heavier making his heart still beat thickly against his bruised ribs. "Tell that to the guy you whacked with a silver tray. You're a hell of an ace in a firefight." He couldn't help but be impressed, at least on that front. It's Spencer's turn to let out a dubious sigh of laughter. 

"You'd be the first to say that," he says, incredulousness weighing down his voice.

"Hey." Hotch tilts Spencer's chin up, daring to break that contact before he can think better of it. Skin on skin beneath both their hands, with Spencer's on his waist and Aaron's on the delicate dip of his chin beneath those parted lips. "I mean it. You had my back, I had yours; that's what partners do." 

"Partners?" Spencer asks, breathless. 

"Yes," Hotch sighs, smiles the smallest and easiest smile. He feels light as air. "Me and you, kid – we're in this together." 

The last of the bandages are applied, and Spencer's touch is slow and hot along Hotch's bare skin. Burns right through him, to his core and further. 

"See? Good as new," Hotch tells him. His voice heavy and dark. "You can't get rid of me that easily."

"Promise?" Spencer still sounds spooked, and the barriers between them have officially broken down to rubble. Nothing to hold them back. They're standing so close, barely any space between them. Spencer leans in, rests his forehead against Hotch's. It makes his heart thump loud and devastating against his ribs.

"Cross my heart." 

He's not sure when he'd dropped his hand before, but Hotch's fingertips tingle with the loss of Spencer's flushed cheeks beneath his touch. So he reaches up again, cups his jaw, feels the younger man's pulse thrum and race in his throat, and Hotch tilts his face up once more. Their lips hover, Spencer's breath is soft and sweet as he exhales shakily, and Hotch wants to kiss him so badly it aches worse than the bruises. No, more than a kiss – 

Hotch wants to inhale him like smoke, drink from those lips – taste him – and his last inhibition falls away as he succumbs to how much he wants and…

 The phone rings. So loud and jarring Spencer flinches back, nearly jumping out of his skin. Hotch exhales in frustration – almost doesn't answer the shrill call. His fingers linger on Spencer's face, dragging along the younger man's jaw longingly. Spencer all but leans into the touch. As drunk on the moment as Hotch is. God, they'd been so close.

He reaches for the phone. Begrudgingly answers without looking away from Spencer's flushed cheeks and bright eyes. "Hotchner." 

"Hotch, it's JJ," comes the reply, tinny and far away. "I've been trying to reach you all day. Glad I tried your office again." 

"Yeah, impeccable timing," he murmurs, sulking. It draws a small smile to Spencer's lips, which lessens the blow not being able to taste them seconds ago. "What have you got for me?"

"I found your auction." That gets his attention right away, and Spencer's, too. He's still standing close enough to be able to hear JJ through the receiver. It takes more self-control than Hotch is willing to admit to not pull the other man into his side. See how well they fit together with less clothing between them. "Just one problem, it's already happened." 

" – Wait, what?"

"Last Tuesday," JJ informs him. "On the upper side, private showroom and not a lot of above-board dealings. The numbers I heard were thrown around could buy a city block." 

"Jesus Christ," Hotch runs a hand through his hair, thoughts whirling as it tries to get back on a business-minded track. "A week ago–"

"Sorry, Hotch. Everything you're looking for is long gone," JJ says, and does indeed sound sorry for it. "Probably halfway across the world, by now." 

"Yeah," he agrees, scratching through his dark locks at the back of his head, and resigning himself to the fact he and Spencer had been chasing their tails for days. The artifacts had left the country before Hotch ever received that puzzle box outside his office door. "Thanks for the legwork, JJ. I owe you."

Hanging up throws the office back into silence, nothing but the buzz of electrical lights and a fan spinning by the window. The mood from before dissipated along with their goals for this case.

"What now?" Spencer asks, quiet and soft. Hotch looks at him, they're still less than a foot apart. He can feel the heat of him, still dressed in a blood splattered dress shirt and his hair ruffled from Hotch undressing him so quickly. Bags under his eyes – he hasn't been able to sleep with all their running around – and Hotch knows he probably isn't much better off. Roughed up and bruised, and still on the run from whoever hit the cigar lounge. 

But that didn't make any sense. Why would someone be after them just for asking a few questions, if the artifacts were already out of the country? Just for the necklace and the box? 

"We need to regroup," Hotch decides. "There's still too many puzzle pieces, and no place to lay them all out." Spencer nods in agreement, looking around the space as if assessing what was there to be used for such an endeavor. Hotch can already picture it; his secretary's bulletin board rolled out and pieces of paper strung up bit by bit as they worked the case out with their hands. And wouldn't that be wonderful, if they could. "No, we can't stay here."

"Why not?"

"My home and office will be there first place whoever's hit squad has our numbers will be looking for us." Hotch doesn't miss how Spencer's eyes trail over the cuts and bruises on his chest, the ones on his sides blooming to the exact size of the man's brass knuckles who got the better of him once or twice in Dave's office. They were really in rough shape, and Hotch was sure the Smithsonian and Spencer's place would be out of the question, as well. He sighs, unsure. "Any bright ideas?"

Spencer chews on his lip, that distant look in his eyes that Hotch was beginning to recognize. The wheels spinning in that brilliant, gorgeous mind. "One," he murmurs, surprising Hotch once more. "My mentor – the eccentric one? We can go to him."

"You'd risk that?" Hotch asks. Thinking of Spencer's friends, how lovely and helpful they'd been. He knows both Srgt. Morgan and Ms. Garcia would give them shelter and aid in an instant, but neither he nor Spencer would want to put them in that kind of danger. 

"We'll be safe there," Spencer assures him. "He is discreet, when he wants to be, and holds a lot of academic and political pull over a lot of people. More favors than he'd ever admit to." That sounded slightly ominous. "And his home is a fortress."

Well, God bless for small favors.

"Sounds perfect."

—

tbc…

—

⬅Previous Chapter

Next Chapter➡

—

Tagged list so far: @physics-magic​​ @thaddeusly​​ @sideblogforcrimpy​ @anxious-enby​ @t4tpoisondamage​​​​

(To be added to the taglist just send me a message via comment, reblog, ask, or DM!)

[setacin]

"she's dead scar.... you won."

my cosplay of scar's secret life red life skin!

[ominous-semicolons]

honestly i have no idea how he was still standing after the a6 bossfight

[kizzer55555]

Core Gems

So when a ghost becomes injured, they have a last ditch defense where they retreat into their core. And I mean, injured badly where their body is rip apart to the point they can’t hold a solid form anymore. And they basically go into a hibernation state until they are strong enough to form again.

Ellie, Danny, and Dan are all injured in a final battle against the GIW. The organization was destroyed and the ghosts were safe but the halfas ended up being so injured that they reverted to core form and then went to sleep for a bit. When they woke up, they were still weak but at least recovered enough to gain consciousness. And realize…they are in some kind of auction…in the middle of a heist. It appeared that two furries (one in a bat costume and one in a cat costume) were ducking it out. And they…they were a necklace. All three of them had been turned into a necklace with their cores as gems accompanied by sapphires, pearls, and opals. And frankly gorgeous craftsmanship as the metal was crafted around their cores as if to cradle them and the other gems.

Unfortunately, they were too weak to take a form properly, they could still feel the strain on their bodies. But at least they could still communicate through their auras. Then the cat lady punched a hole in the glass container surrounding them and grabbed their necklace.

However, the bat grabbed the other end and it resulted in a sort of tug-a-war. Meanwhile, Danny, Ellie, and Dan were having a back and form commentary on the situation and what they should do. Completely unheard by the other party.

In the corner of their eye, the three halfas finally noticed a third contender. Some kind of clown who was…hold on…holding a gun?! And it was pointed straight at the two fighting furies who had yet to notice him. The ghosts’ protective instincts went into overdrive and they frantically tried to shout, yell, move. Just do something to warn the two but their cries fell on deaf ears. All they succeeded in doing was faintly glow which immediatly caught the attention of the fighting duo. The two turned to look at the strange necklace but right at that moment, the clown fired and a gunshot rang throughout the auction room. Having no other options, Danny and the others poured every ounce of ectoplasm they had to try and phaseshift, making the two furries intangible as the bullets passed right through them, but in their shock, the two jumped away in opposite directions and accidentally ripped the necklace apart. Gems and pearls went flying and the three cores bounced along the ground.

Luckily, the two finally noticed the clown and went to deal with him and his minions who had appeared. Seemingly putting their fight on hold and forming a temporary truce. The three halfas could only watch as the battle finally wound down, ending with the cops barging into the place and arresting the clown and his grunts, the cat managing to escape with half the scattered gems and pearls from the broken necklace along with a few other jewelry pieces (none of their cores though) and the bat leaving through a skylight.

The auction continued and in the end, despite being broken, their necklace seemed to have caught someone’s interest. A man named Bruce Wayne bought up every piece of the shattered jewelry wear. The auctioneers appeared relived that the item managed to sell in the end and gratefully gave it to him.

Bruce had no idea what happened at the auction, but he could have sworn that some of the gems faintly glowed right before he and Selina were shot. If the necklace was some sort of magical item, then he needed to understand exactly what has been brought to Gotham. It was unfortunate that Selena had taken some parts of the necklace but he utilized his vast wealth to make sure all the other parts ended in his possession. Now he would take them back to the mansion for examination.

[rebouks]

Granite Falls 20XX.. 🌲

[isawjamfirst]

🐺🐺🐺

[sarahreadstoomanycomics]

Always love when Duke is actually included.

[stirdrawsandreblaws]

hate that i have the brownie curse where i can't do shit if people are around