#and obviously a reading that is not intended by the author can often still be well supported by evidence from the text

[likecastle]

Is it a hidden clue in the text, or are the writers just not that deep?

[aliteralsemicolon]

I'll wait for your love - 18+

See part 1 | See Part 2 | Part 3 of We can't be friends (wait for your love)

The only thing you’re sure of is that you don’t want things to go back to the way they were and Spencer agrees that change may be for the best.

Spencer Reid X Fem! Reader

DISCLAIMER This story is NSFW and contains graphic depictions + detailed descriptions of adult content. It is intended for mature audiences only, minors do not interact!  You are responsible for the content you consume. Make sure to read all necessary warnings. Please remember this is a work of fiction; if you don’t like it, don’t read. 

WARNINGS: Panic attack mentioned, slight PTSD depictions, case details (barely) mentioned, alcohol mentioned like once. Smut (not the focus at all): making out, nipple play, clitoral stimulation, praise, use of pet names (angel, pretty girl, etc). Proceed at your own risk.

Word count: 10.4K See notes at end for authors note & spoilers.

Avoiding Spencer wasn’t overly difficult on the flight back to D.C. You weren’t entirely sure how to face him after he risked his life for you, so you just pretended to be asleep the whole time. You even took a separate jeep from the tarmac to avoid a car ride back with him, and almost made a clean getaway to your car in the parking lot when Hotch stopped you. 

“I’m sorry to hold you back, but I do need the Anchorage report on my desk before tomorrow morning. It can’t be put off any longer.”

He looked extremely apologetic and you understood. You’re grateful he gave you as much time as he has. That’s how you ended up stuck at work til the later hours of the evening. Besides the few workaholics, security guards and janitors roaming around the corridors, the only other person there with you is Spencer, oddly. Even Hotch has gone home. You’ve spent more time stalking the doctor work through the pile of case files on his desk than you have writing in the one on yours. Only when you're caught do you look away. 

“Everything okay?” The innocent curiosity in his big eyes further reddens the hot embarrassment in your cheeks.

“Fine.” You mutter, dipping your head back down to the open page.

You’re never going to get this damn file done if you can’t get him out of your head, and him being barely three feet away from you doesn’t help. It’s very difficult for you to get your words from pen to paper. Anchorage wasn’t haunting you like it did at first. It was a traumatic event, yes, but alone isn’t the cause of this…block. Obviously the reality that you’re leaving is starting to dawn on you. Somehow your mind has linked this case with your departure and finishing this report makes it more official than your actual resignation. 

Plus, as much as you definitely hate Spencer, you do did care for him. The shock of him almost getting himself killed in front of you is another thing occupying your mind. It’s barely been twenty four hours since then, it’s still fresh. You can see him stand and grab his satchel in your peripheral vision, he’s preparing to leave. There are a lot of memories attached to that brown leather bag. 

Things he would carry in there for you when you forgot your own bag. 

You don’t make it obvious that you’re watching him gather his things in small glances. 

He bought extra hair clips for you to keep in there because you would often forget those too. 

It’s over now. No point in dwelling on it. You shake your head once he’s out of sight, trying to force him out of your thoughts. Now that he’s gone you’re hoping to actually be able to get some work done.

He taught you chess with the mini chess set he keeps in there. You discovered that you actually quite liked chess and would ask to play with him all the time. It was also his ‘secret’ weapon to help you calm down. 

You roll your eyes to push back the tears from the memories that refuse to stop playing. This can wait until you get home, it’s not important. 

It wasn’t the chess set that helped you feel calm. Spencer could win chess against you in just a few moves, but he would deliberately stretch out the game so you could have room to breathe. The longer the game, the more time you had to spend focused on the moves and slow down your thoughts. You could open up at your own pace. He would let you feel in control.

It doesn’t matter if he’s near you or not, Spencer has a way of invading your headspace wherever he is. Your train of thoughts is interrupted with a light thud on your right. You covertly roll the tears away again and turn to examine the source of the noise. A mug of coffee placed on your desk by

“Spencer?” You sputter breathlessly. 

“Sorry. I know you told me to stop. This is the last time I promise.” 

You don’t fully comprehend what he’s going on about, not expecting him to be here at all. 

“I thought you left.”

“I did– was. I was leaving, but I thought I’d make you some coffee before I go. Since you’ve been here a while.” He awkwardly explains. 

You steadily direct your attention back to the mug, reeling in what was happening. 

“Before you get mad, this really is just a cup of coffee from a colleague who thought it might help keep you energised if you’re planning to stay late. There’s no ulterior motive…”

He continues rambling but you’re not mentally present to hear any of it. 

He made you coffee. 

Even though you’ve been nothing short of an absolute bitch. Granted he was a bitch first, but the point is that he’s still thinking of your well being regardless. You can’t hide your tears from him this time. It’s the soft buzz of your name that draws you back to him. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you! I’ll take the coffee–”

His panicked sentiment is cut short when you jump out of your seat and shove past him. The breakdown you’ve been avoiding hits you like a ton of bricks. You run into the nearest empty office and he runs after you, making it past the door before you can lock him out. 

“Spencer p–please get out! I’m fine.” You’re pacing in the same spot, fanning away the stream falling down your cheeks, hyperventilating.

He doesn’t respond to you, instead cautiously taking your hand in his. You’re in too frenzied a state to care. He guides you to sit on the couch against the wall and you blindly go along with it, still trying to get yourself together. 

You want to stop the tears, but you can’t do that until you get your breathing under control. He slowly wraps his arms around you and you slump into him, head buried in his chest. You should try to fight it, you should push him away, but you can’t. Right now, surrounded by his scent, held in his arms, you don’t want to move. It’s not something you can properly explain, but the feeling is so comforting that nothing else matters. All you know is that you’re safe and that’s enough for you to allow yourself to finally break down. 

The first few sobs are loud, like there’s not enough air in the world to stabilise your lungs. They fizzle out into silent whimpers and you grasp onto the fabric of his sweater, balling it in your fist, just letting yourself feel. Spencer still hasn’t said a word. His right hand is rubbing circles on your back and his left hand is gently scratching just above the nape of your neck. 

You stay like that for a while, even after you’ve stopped crying. It’s been so long since you’ve been in this little bubble with him and you don’t want it to end. You pull away when you feel the strap of his satchel across his stomach as your hand drops to his lap. He visually follows every move you make. 

“You’re still wearing your bag.” You sniffle, leaning back. 

“I am.” He whispers, understanding that you no longer want to be touched. 

He stays in his original position; facing you, but now with one arm resting on top of the backrest and the other idly in his lap. You’ve moved so that now you're facing ahead with your back leaning against the cushions, pulling your knees into your chest. You had never found comfort in silence until the first time you experienced it with Spencer. Staying huddled, you divert your eyes towards him. There’s a distinct wet patch on his shirt. It’s less visible on his sweater-vest, but it’s there. 

“Your shirt’s wet now.” It’s almost impossible to make out what you’re saying with your mouth muffled against your arm, but of course, Spencer manages anyway. 

“It’ll dry.” He smiles, tone delicate. 

“But– germs.” You choke a little due to your previous crying. 

“It can be washed.” He’s using his comforting voice again. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

The silence resumes. Neither of you dares to move, trying to freeze this moment. It’s obvious that you didn’t grasp how badly you craved each other’s presence. 

“D–do…” The initial sound grabs Spencer’s full attention again. You take a deep breath, hoping he wants to stay here as much as you do. “Do you still carry that little chess set with you?”

A small, airy chuckle comes out from him. 

“Would you like to play?”

“Please.” 

He creates some more space between you and begins to set up the board once he’s pulled it out of his satchel. You move to accommodate the set up, now facing him with your legs crossed on the couch and shoes abandoned on the floor. You wait for him to make the first move. After the opening moves the game doesn’t seem to get any harder and you know he’s throwing the game. You’re okay at chess, but he’s obviously a lot better. 

“You’re going easy on me.” You mumble.

“Because you’re not even trying.” He replies blithely.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Like I said, you’re making it too easy.” He gently teases.

“Not that. Helping me. You hate me, remember?” You say it like it’s the most casual thing in the world. 

“I don’t hate you.” 

“You literally told me that you hate me.” You chuckle, numb to the hurt that sentence once brought you. 

“So did you.” He counters in defence, trailing your hand as it carelessly moves your queen to her demise. 

“I was angry.” 

“So was I.” He spared your queen, in turn leaving his king vulnerable. 

“It doesn’t matter now…” You don’t finish the rest of your sentence but Spencer still hears it.

You’re leaving soon anyway.

“It matters to me.” If he left something unsaid you choose to ignore it. 

“You’re letting me win.” You whisper, feeling the urge to cry some more, but there’s no tears left. 

He doesn’t make a move, bringing the game to a halt. He’s waiting for you to meet his eyes. You know what he’s going to say. 

“Spencer, don't.” You beseech.

“Why?” If you looked at him instead of the board you’d see the way his eyes are pleading at you. 

“There’s no point.” This time it’s your voice that cracks. 

You're looking everywhere else and it makes you too aware of your surroundings. Like how the couch is lined up directly under a window that anyone could peek into. 

“Leaving is not the only option.” He solicits. 

He regards your discomfort and closes the blinds from where he’s sitting, pulling you back into the privacy of your bubble. 

“There’s nothing that you can say to make things go back to how they were.” You bite the inside of your cheek, fiddling with a random pawn. 

It’s not a proper two way conversation. You’re talking to yourself just as much as Spencer’s talking to you. You’re both trying to convince you of what you’re saying. 

“Things don’t have to go back to how they were.” The squeaks in his soothing tone are starting to melt any resolve you have left. 

“There’s no reason for me to stay.” You oppose, trying to make any argument stick.

“I can think of more reasons for you to stay than for you to go.” 

There’s an underlying tension bubbling. Neither of you notice it over your desperate tug of war. 

“I don’t think there’s anything that you can say to get me to stay.” Another baseless sentence meant more for you than for him. 

“Give me one chance. One chance to convince you.” He can see your internal struggle at his request and he throws out one final plea to sway you. “For nothing more than closure.” 

Closure.

You’ve spent months in turmoil over the hows and the what ifs, trying to conjure answers to questions that wouldn’t stop pestering you. You couldn’t turn him down even if you wanted to. 

“Closure?” You repeat, eyes finally latching onto his.

“Closure.” He whispers back in reassurance. 

“Even if you can’t convince me?” You caution, not wanting to give him false hope.

He doesn’t say anything, thinking over the scenario in his head. He simply nods and you mimic the action, blinking away the blur in your vision and dragging around chess pieces. It takes Spencer a second to figure out that you were moving them back to their default places.

“Okay new game.” You announce. 

Spencer blinks in confusion, waiting for you to elaborate. 

“I can ask you any question I want and you have to answer honestly. If by the end of the game I’m not convinced to stay, you back off for the remainder of my time here.” You pause for him to interject, but he doesn’t. “That means we stay away from each other, only talking when needed for work. Even then as cordially and professionally as possible. No more trying to make casual conversation or bringing me coffee or anything like that.”

“Till the end of the game?” He studies you. 

“Yup.” You smack your lips together. “Til one of us checkmates the other.”

“This means you’ll actually give me a fair shot?” 

“Between the two of us, I’m not the one known for cheating at games.” You jab, trying to ease the tension you could definitely feel now. 

“I meant a fair shot at convincing you. As in you’ll seriously take what I have to say into account.” He discards your attempt.

“No, I know. The opportunity was just too good to pass up.”

He can tell you’re trying to hold back a laugh from the small smile on your lips. It’s as adorable to him now as it was the first time he saw it. 

“Any rules before we start?” He asks, unable to hide his own smile.

“Only that we have to be honest.” You answer, immediately dropping your smile.

“Okay.” He agrees, smiling slightly wider.

“Okay.” You nod again.

When he finally makes the first move it hits you that you don’t actually know where to start. Theoretically, you know what you want to ask, but don’t know how to ask. You don’t know if you should jump straight into the questions or start with some ice breakers. Nothing is said for about four to five moves when Spencer pauses the game. 

“Are you going to ask any questions or have you decided that you just want to play one last game for your closure?”

“Huh?” You snap your vision away from the board. “Oh, sorry. I was thinking.”

“Do you want to return to the game after thinking of a few questions to ask?” He raises his brow and relaxes his jaw.

“No, no, we don’t need to do that. Let’s keep playing, the questions will come to me.” You brush off his suggestion and motion for him to continue with his turn. He doesn’t.

“What?” Your voice raises and you scrunch your nose from perplexity.

“Sorry, it’s just that you’ve put us on a time limit and this is how you’re using our time?” He airs, failing to conceal his amusement.

“Well excuse me if I don’t exactly have a list of questions ready to go for you.” You narrow your eyes in annoyance. 

“Why would you suggest this if you don’t have any questions?” He tries to hold back his laugh and ends up snorting as a result. 

“I have questions!” You jabber, unable to maintain your annoyance. “I don’t know what– where do I even start?”

“Start with whichever one comes to you first.” He shrugs, finally making his move. 

A lot of things come to mind when you think about it. The thing that screams the loudest twitches a nerve and you become instantly irate. 

“Okay.” You nod, tone harsh and flat. “Let’s start with whatever the fuck possessed you on the last case. What was your thought process when you put your life in danger like that?”

He almost gets whiplash from the change in mood, his face literally reads ‘are you serious?’. 

“He was going to shoot you.” He states like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

“I was wearing a vest, I would’ve been fine.” You contend. 

“I wasn’t willing to take that risk.” 

“Risk?! You literally put yourself in danger for no reason!” 

“I think it was a pretty good reason actually!” 

“Spencer that was–” You stop yourself with a grumble, inhaling deeply. 

“It was instinctual, okay?” He softly explains. “I saw him aim the gun at you and I just reacted.” 

“Well it was a stupid reaction!” You whine. 

“I’m not going to apologise for it.”

The glare you give is piercing, you bite the inside of your cheek to hold your tongue before you say something you can’t take back. Spencer throws his head back and sighs. 

“But I will promise not to do it again.” He adds, not fully intending to keep it. 

This was slowly turning into another argument, both of you shooting back too fast with your responses. You aren’t in the mood for another argument. So you redirect your attention to the game. 

“Check.” You mumble, buying yourself time to think of another question. “Why are you here so late anyway?”

“I wanted to finish some work before tomorrow morning.” He replies, moving his king to safety. 

“Yeah, what’s up with that? You could’ve done those tomorrow as well.” Your voice softens out of curiosity. 

“I wanted to get them finished in case there were more tomorrow.” It’s not his best excuse. You don’t know what he means by that. He doesn’t know what he means by that. He’s lying to you. 

You scoff, poking your tongue against your cheek. “Wow. You really can’t not cheat during a game, can you?” 

“Right, sorry.” Spencer clears his throat after the initial confusion clears. Complete honesty, it was your only rule. “I wanted to be here.”

“For…” You egg on, purposely rolling your ‘r’s to prompt him. 

“I wanted to make sure that you were okay.” He admits, looking away from you. 

“Why?” You’re genuinely puzzled at the admission. “You’re the one who almost died. I mean, it was stupid and your fault, but still. If anything I should be checking up on you.”

“Check.” That’s the only response he gives you. He hopes that you don’t push further, but he knows that you will. 

His lack of response only forces you to think about the possible reasons by yourself, using context clues to figure it out. You are a profiler, after all. 

“Is this because of the panic attack?” You note how his jaw twitches when he swallows at the mention. “It is! You seriously chose to spend your night stuck at the office because of that?” 

“What else was I supposed to do? It’s not like you would talk to me, you literally refused to even look at me!” He gripes. 

“Spencer I think anyone would panic if they got tackled to the ground by a six foot man without warning. I’m fine.” You giggle.

“What happened to complete honesty?” It’s his turn to glare at you.

“I am being honest!” You protest.

“Lying by omission is not being honest.” He rolls his eyes.

“Okay Mr. know-it-all, what am I lying about?” You challenge.

“Seriously? You don’t remember?” His approach is doubtful and he just stares at your dazed expression.

“Fucking spit it out already, Spence!” 

Any sarcasm he had geared up for a response dissipates at your use of his nickname. He’s heard it plenty in the last few months, but not from you. For a moment things feel like they never changed. It stings in a bittersweet kind of way. 

“You sc–screamed– uh–” He clears his throat and rapidly blinks, his nose twitches in the process. “During that panic attack, you repeatedly asked me to stay with you. Y–you, uh– you said you didn’t think you could li–”

“Stop. Stop. Stop talking.” Your voice quavers and you hold your hand up, ears burning up. “I don’t wanna know.”

You don’t know why it makes your heart race the way it does, you don’t even remember it. He waits a while before speaking up again, wanting to be careful about how he goes about the topic without you shutting down.

“May I ask you a question?” He voices professionally, trying to make the conversation less personal so you don’t feel cornered. 

You nod, moving your king out of check.

“Is there anybody you will talk to about Anchorage? Without pushing them away?” He keeps the game going as he speaks to provide you with a distraction. 

“Woah– Anchorage? Where is that coming from?” You titter.

“I want you to remember that we promised to be honest and I won’t push if you ask me to stop, but I know for a fact that you aren’t okay.” He waits for you to stop him but you don’t, even though you know roughly what he’s going to say. “Panic attacks aside, your avoidant behaviour around the topic, inability to focus, being easily startled, you’re showing signs of PTSD.” 

“Spence, c’mon. I don’t need to talk to anyone. I already passed the psych evals.” You attempt to make light of the situation with carefully chosen words so you’re not lying. It was a futile attempt, you know he’s not willing to budge when he doesn’t give you anything more than a blank stare. 

“Why does this matter so much to you?” You sigh in defeat. “Whatever happened…that’s a part of the job, you know that.”

“I also know, first hand, that it takes over your life. You can’t run from it, no matter how much you try to.” His tone is soft as he speaks, yet you feel like he’s accusing you. 

“I am not running! Why would you say I’m running?” You object with a high voice, shrugging your shoulders. “And it’s not taking over my life. Also, check.”

“Because that’s what you do when you don’t want to deal with something.” He states point blank.

“Woah– so– that was entirely unnecessary.” You stammer, unable to deny it. 

“I’m not criticising you. I just happen to know you and I know that you have a tendency to run from your problems. And it is taking over your life.” 

“You’re profiling!” You gasp.

“You know that it’s not something we can just turn off! No matter how much we pretend like we can.” He waves his hands defensively. 

You can’t argue with that, your lips twisting to the side. 

“You want me to be honest?” You murmur sheepishly. 

“Always. Please.” He responds gently, wanting you to be as comfortable as possible.

“I don’t want to talk about it. I spend a good chunk of my day actively avoiding thinking about it, but somehow I always end up thinking about it anyway. At times it’s like I can almost feel…” You breathe in instinctively. “This is the first time in months I’ve been able to do anything without it lingering in the back of my mind. Can we please talk about it another time? I would rather talk about other things…”

Another time. 

“...right now.” 

You’ve implied that there will be another time to talk and he definitely caught it, even if he pretends that he hasn’t. You don’t even know if what you said is true, you got too comfortable with the familiarity of his friendship. It was something you said out of habit from back when you two actually were friends. Not even a full hour's worth of conversation with him and he’s already worming his way back in.

“Um–” You drag yourself further back on the couch, creating more physical distance. 

“That’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it at all.” Spencer senses your urgency to leave the situation and jumps into damage control. “It’s your turn.”

“No, um, I should– I should go. Thanks for doing thi– helping me.” You turn away from him, aiming for your shoes and ready to bolt.

“The game’s not over.” He points out.

“Yes it is.” You declare, still in the process of putting on your shoes.

“You said til checkmate.” He huffs, shifting out of his seated position. 

“I forfeit!” You throw your arms out in a shrugging manner, standing up after him.

“I can’t believe this. You’re going back on your word!” He doesn’t even raise his voice. He’s just hurt. 

“What’s the point, Spencer? Closure doesn’t mean anything, I’m still leaving! You can’t magically change my mind!” You yell, getting louder with each sentence. 

“I disagree. I think that you’re running again!” He blocks your way and yells back, maintaining his volume throughout. 

“Maybe you should think less!” You suggest, still yelling. Sarcasm is your defence mechanism when you have no actual defence. 

“You know what else I think?” He continues, emphasising the word ‘think’ every time he says it out of spite. “I think that you agreed to this thinking I won’t be able to convince you, but I am!”

“I don’t care what you–”

“I think you don’t want to finish the game that you started, because you’re afraid to ask the harder questions!”

“Stop.” You command, but it doesn’t deter him.

“I think that you’re scared to hear my answers because then it all becomes too real for you–” 

“Stop!” The words almost get stuck in your throat, but you choke them out. “You’re wrong.” 

“If I’m wrong then prove it. To both of us.” He sits back down and motions to the board. “Ask the real questions.” 

“I don’t need to prove anything, you’re wrong.” You uphold.

“So leave.” He challenges, knowing that you won’t be able to. 

If you truly believed that he’s wrong you wouldn’t feel the need to prove it, but you do and he knows that. You walk back over to the couch, head nodding from irritation, tongue poking your cheek. You kick your shoes off with a bit of force and return to your earlier position across from him. 

“Your move.” He reminds you as you settle in.

You don’t reply yet, but move your rook to set him up for the next move.  

“Check.” He smugly states.

“Who was she?” 

You don’t move, examining him close for any change in his behaviour. He obviously didn't anticipate that question first, snapping his sights back on you. 

“Sorry?” 

“The woman who greeted me at your door. That night at your apartment.” 

“Charlotte.” He replies, holding your gaze to show you he’s got nothing to hide. “We met at the library a week before.”

“Are you guys together?” You break away first, diverting your eyes to the chess board and trying to seem unfazed when moving your knight. 

“No, God, no.” He denies immediately. 

“I don’t know, she seemed pretty cosy for someone you met a week prior.” You don’t mean to sound as snide as you come across.

“No, it wasn’t like that at all.” He shakes his head. 

“You sure? Because I’m pretty sure I saw her mark you up with a kiss on your cheek before disappearing.” You don’t look at him, examining a captured pawn as you wait for him to make his move. 

“Mark me up?” He cognizes it instantly. “Are you…jealous?”

“What? No!” You vehemently deny, your voice rising in several pitches. 

“You are!” His eyes widen. 

“I am not jealous.” 

His jaw slacks and he lets out an amused scoff. He doesn’t say anything, making you feel the need to fill the silence. 

“I only bring it up because…I know you have a thing with…germs.” Your words falter because of your own uncertainty and you want to dissolve into the fucking floor. 

Spencer tries to suppress a smile by poking his tongue out slightly. If the atmosphere was lighter he’d tease you about it, but he doesn’t want to make you take off again. Still, he feels the need to clarify the events of the night. 

“I don’t know why she kissed my cheek, it was completely random.” He takes his time saying it, still fighting a smile.

You swallow nervously and purse your lips to the side in response. One question answered and you only have new ones in its place. Did she stay the night? Did she sleep on the couch or on his bed? Did he see her again? 

“I drove her home right after you left.” He can almost hear your thoughts. 

“Was it a date?” You softly gulp again, unsure if you even have a right to know.

“Yes.” He hesitates. 

“Oh.” 

“I wanted to try out casual dating for once.” He chagrins. “I honestly don’t know how you did it, it’s not even fun.” 

“No it’s not.” You chuckle dryly. “So no second date, I presume?”

“Definitely not. I was just stressed the whole time.” He chuckles with you. 

“Take a shot of tequila before you go next time, it helps settle the nerves.” You joke, jumping to give him advice you hope he doesn’t take. You can’t help it, it’s what you’ve always done. Even if it goes against what you desire. 

“While moderate consumption of tequila can help relax the nervous system, I will not be turning to alcohol for stress relief.” 

“Then blast classical music while you get ready and give yourself a pep talk out loud, it’s actually really efficient–”

“There won’t be a next time. For a really long time, if ever.” He interjects, miffed at your insistence. 

“You willingly plan on committing to lifelong celibacy?” You exclaim with a puzzled look. “Why?!”

Spencer laughs at how raw your reaction is. He didn’t plan on giving out any more details but, with that prompt he decides that it’s now or never. 

“I don’t think any future dates will appreciate me picturing someone else in their place the whole time.” 

Oh. 

Both of you lock eyes at the same time. This is not a road you’re prepared to go back down, even if that’s literally the whole point of this conversation. You’re too stunned to reply and Spencer uses this as an opportunity to be elaborate. He doesn’t want any misunderstandings this time. 

“I couldn’t stop pictur–”

“Shut up.” You blurt out the sentence in almost one word. 

Your heart’s racing like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff. You’re flustered, every part of your body is heated from how terrified you are.

“Y–you don’t have t–t…you don’t owe m–me an explanation.” You try to elaborate, contradicting yourself and stumbling on your words.

“I want to.” He reads that you’re apprehensive but pushes regardless. 

“Please don’t.” The tears that you thought had dried out were building again.

“Why ask if you won’t let me answer?”

You don’t have anything to say to that. Did you want answers? Yes. Still, you didn’t expect how hard they’d be to hear. He whispers your name and you scramble to think of your next move, and not in chess. You’re unable to even think about the game right now. You want to bolt, but you can’t even get yourself to move. So you deflect. 

“Because it doesn’t matter.”

“I disagree.” Although his tone is subdued, the pace of his wording is faster. “I think it does matter and that’s why you’re afraid to hear it.”

He’s right but you can’t bring yourself to agree. This is only going to over-complicate an already complicated situation.

“It’s not enough.” Your voice cracks.

“How can it be if you won’t even give it a fair shot?” 

“Fair?” 

It comes out louder than you intended. His words trigger resentment within you and you snap. 

“Nothing about any of this is fair! I mean, fucking hell, Spencer, four years. That’s how long we’ve been friends. I mean I’ve shared shit that I thought I would be taking to the fucking grave with you! You were my best friend for four fucking years and all it took was like, five seconds?”

You sob, softer than when you were first crying, but the frustration is clear. He reaches out to touch your hand, but you push his hand away. 

“No!” You choke, sobbing harder when you try to compile your thoughts. “Five seconds to destroy all of it! It makes me wonder if everything we shared, our friendship, was it ever even that strong?”

Your anger simmers to sadness, as evident with how your yelling fades into whispering in the last sentence. 

“I can’t even tell you when exactly those five seconds were. I mean, I know…but…I don’t. Where did it go wrong, Spence?” 

“I don’t know.” Is all he can say after a beat of silence.

He knows exactly where it went wrong. 

“Yeah, me neither!” You sniffle, immediately wiping a single tear that manages to escape. “So again, it doesn’t matter.” 

“When you took it back.”

“What?” 

“That’s where everything changed for me. You showed up at my apartment drunk, after your date with Nathan. Your exact words were ‘I mean as an amazing friend’.” His voice strains like he’s forcing himself to speak. 

Your gaze falls, eyes darting everywhere as you try to jog your memory beyond the one sentence you remember. 

“I don’t understand.” You croak.

“You know, if I wasn’t who I am, maybe you could love me the way I love you.” He chuckles bitterly, fighting back tears of his own. “That was– that was, uh, what you said before you took it back.”

“Spence, please…” You whine without sound, tilting your head back and chewing on your lip as a final attempt to stay composed. 

“No, you wanted to know where it went wrong.” He laughs falsely to downplay his tears. “You can say it doesn’t matter all you want, but the fact is, it does matter. It matters to me and I won’t let you run from it anymore.” 

You can’t look at him. Not with tears free falling down your face. You cup your hands together in your lap, pressing your fingers and nails together. 

“You told me that I couldn’t love you.” You struggle to sound your words. 

“I’m an idiot.” Another chuckle, but he sounds defeated. “When you said that, all I could think about was how badly I wanted to say that I do love you.” 

You tearfully laugh at this admission. 

“I only took it back because of what you said. I panicked. I thought I’d ruined things…which I guess, I still did.” Another laugh from you.

Spencer responds with the same regretful sound. 

The irony spurs another fit of giggles amongst you, this one slightly longer and infinitely more rueful than the last. You look anywhere but at each other until it grows quieter. 

“If you loved me, why the fuck would you tell me that I couldn’t love you?” You sound just as, if not more, defeated than him. 

“Love.” Spencer corrects without missing a beat. 

Your brows twitch up and your heart jumps. 

“I was so hung up on every single part of your sentence that I didn’t know what to say first.” He proceeds to answer you without leaving much room to process what he said. “I wanted to tell you that I do love you. I love you as you are. Not as somebody else.”

“But you didn’t say any of that.” You ignore all his admissions, not fully comprehending. 

“Like I said, I’m an idiot. I was in so much disbelief and that was the first thing that came out of my mouth.” He sullenly huffs.

You don’t reply, sniffling with your head down. 

“For like a second, I had everything I wanted. Then you took it back and it was like my whole world had been ripped out from under me. In those five seconds, you’d given me a taste of what I’d spent four years convincing myself I couldn’t have and I just– I couldn’t go back after that.” He adds after a stillness. 

After a short while, your focus shifts from your hands to the board in front of you. The game’s been long forgotten. You’re immersed in the conversation, in spite of how strenuous it is. 

“I understand why you were distant, even mean, at first.” You snivel. “But after a while you just became downright cruel.” 

Spencer doesn’t shy away from your gaze when you do look at him. His skin is as drenched from crying as yours is. 

“I mean ‘I don’t want to see your face’? I know that I don’t really have a leg to stand on anymore, but, what the fuck Spencer?” 

He doesn’t cringe any less with every reminder. He’s truly regretted the words since they left his mouth. 

“I wanted to hurt you.” He reveals. “I thought you were being deliberately cruel and I wanted you to feel exactly how I was feeling.”

“Deliberately?” 

He nods, hanging his head.

“I thought that you knew how I felt and were just trying to be funny or something.” 

“Well I didn’t. I wasn’t.” You cut him off with a constricted voice.

“Even if you did, it’s not an excuse.” His eyes are glistening from the outpour of tears, but he still lifts his sights back to you. “I’m sorry.” 

You don’t know how to acknowledge his apology at all. You’re not even angry anymore, all you feel is sorrow and regret for the way everything happened. An entire friendship down the drain due to an unfortunate set of circumstances. 

“This is so fucked up.” You say with another mordant laugh. “All of this could have been avoided if we just talked about it.”

It stung less when you had somebody to blame for it. Your vision blurs and you make no effort to clear it, letting yourself cry openly. 

“We’re talking about it now?” It’s almost a squeak, the way it’s spoken.

“Yeah, but,” your shoulders slump, defeatedly, and you have to pause to control your sob, “what good does it do now? I’ve already lost the best thing that’s ever happened to me in the most pathetic way possible.”

“I’m right here.” He counters in such a small voice that it gives your goosebumps. 

“Spencer, too many things have been said…”

“When you first joined the team, I instantly knew I liked you.” 

He chews on his lip and darts his eyes around while he contemplates if he wants to continue. 

“I thought it was because of your kind nature. You were so sweet to everybody.” He decides he does, but his voice shakes throughout. “You have this gift…you make people feel so good about themselves. Whenever you spoke to me, I felt like the most important person in the world. It was impossible not to like you.”

You want to pretend like you don’t know where he’s going with this. You want to stop him, but your voice is stuck in your throat.

“It wasn’t until you bought me coffee for the first time that I realised just how much I liked you.” He chuckles again, as he reminisces in the memory. “You didn’t even get my order right until the fourth time, but it was still my favourite cup of the day.”

“You make me sound like a saint.” You finally choke out, attempting to play down the confession so it doesn’t crush your heart. “The only reason I even started bringing you coffee is because you learned how I like my coffee first.” 

“Not a saint, an angel. I’ve fallen so deeply in love with you that there are times where it genuinely feels like I’m in the presence of an angel.” 

It’s stated with such sincerity that it knocks the wind out of your pipes. Your eyes are widened and you’re biting your tongue with your mouth closed, staring at him with your chin tucked. He seems so confident, even with the glistening from previous tears in his eyes.

“I wanted to be in your life in any way you would have me. Even when it meant that I had to accept you with other people. And it was bearable, until…” His reminiscence only ends at the memory of the night that changed everything. “Like I said, I couldn’t go back.”

The last part fades into another whisper, only then do you find the courage to speak up. 

“Exactly.” You stick to your denial. “It can’t go back to how it was before.”

Your heart is so sure of what it wants, but your head is blinded by fear. You’re at a crossroads, except one path, the path that leads to everything you long for, is clouded with a fog of uncertainty. The other path is so painfully clear, you can practically see what’s on the other side. A fresh start, where the risk of fucking up further doesn’t exist. What you don’t see is Spencer.

“Good. I don’t want it to go back to how it was.” 

Spencer’s waiting for you to enter the fog. He’s going to be there holding your hand every step of the way. 

“I’ve already handed in my resignation.”

“That matters less than everything you’ve claimed doesn’t matter.” He leans in, intensifying his eye contact. 

“I’m pretty sure Hotch is really close to confirming my replacement.” You comment half-heartedly. 

You’re trying anything to dissuade both him and yourself from acknowledging the obvious, but he doesn’t plan on letting you avoid it. 

“I love you.” He whispers softly.

“Spencer…” You begin when he takes hold of your hands and whatever you had to say disappears from your tongue. 

“I love you. With every atom that makes up my body.” He repeats himself with further elaboration to instil it in your mind.

“I’m scared.” You whisper back with a sob, finally accepting it. 

“Why?” His voice can’t be any softer, but it still cracks a little.

“Because, you can’t guarantee that it’s going to end well.” You allow your vulnerability to peek through. “And that’s going to hurt more. I’d rather leave now than fall deeper.”

Although you didn’t say it back, it’s an indirect admission that you love him too. And it’s enough for him to fight harder.

“I know that my credibility isn’t the greatest,” he coaxes a small, sad scoff out of you, “but I truly believe that this, us, we’ll work. Because I know that I’m going to do everything I can to make this work.”

He feels bolder when you don’t pull away from his touch, folding your fingers into your palms and cupping over them. You observe the sight as it unfolds in lieu of a verbal response. 

“I’ve spent four years judging any man that comes into your life, wishing I was in their place, swearing I would treat you better than all of them.” 

Spencer feels the need to fill in the silence and he lets honesty guide his confession. He leans in further as if he’s indulging his deepest secret. 

“Four years wasted wondering what could be, cursing out those idiots, but taking no action to make it happen. And that makes me the biggest idiot out of all of them.”

When he speaks like this, with his big, imploring eyes and prayerful tone, it melts your heart to a point where it almost hurts. The more he talks, the more you begin to lean in, opening yourself up to him.

“It took losing you to realise how badly I fucked up and for that I will never forgive myself. I know that I have no right to ask you to waste any more time on me…”

There’s no more resistance against the pull you both physically feel to each other. 

“...but I’m begging you for a chance to do today what I should have done way before yesterday.” 

Your faces grow closer by the second, you can feel each other's breaths against skin.

“And I’m going to spend every tomorrow proving what I said today.” 

The likelihood of him changing your mind with one conversation wasn’t very high, both you and Spencer knew this when you got into it. You’re not entirely surprised when he somehow manages to overcome those odds too. You take the step to close the gap and lightly press your lips to his. 

It starts off soft, there’s no lust, no ulterior motive behind it. It’s a simple confirmation that you’re both present and this is real. Spencer doesn’t shy away from the kiss, not that you’d call this a kiss. It feels more intimate, more unguarded.

Spencer pulls you onto his lap as he shifts and leans back against the backrest to allow more room for you. You wrap your arms around him and the kiss deepens. In the midst of you straddling him, he slides the entire chess board off the couch and the pieces scatter on the floor. It’s only when you feel that the kiss can’t bring you any closer to him does the lust emerge. It fuels a desire to prove that you both whole-heartedly belong to each other. 

There’s no pinpointing when the switch happens. All you know is that the feeling of his lips against yours is no longer enough. You cup his jaw in your hands, swiping your tongue on his lower lip and it causes his grip on your waist to tighten. He parts his lips for you and it starts what you can only call a dance with your tongues. 

Your breathing grows hotter, your hips subconsciously grind against him. There’s a prominent bulge that brushes against your heat and you whine into his mouth. Spencer grunts your name in response and then abruptly pulls away.

“Wait, wait, wait, slow down.” He breathlessly whispers against your lips. 

“What?” You whisper back with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” He gazes into your eyes, afraid that you might regret this later.

“I’ve never been more sure, actually.” You’re confident at first but the look in his eyes makes you pull back further. “Unless…you’re not sure?”

“No, don’t misunderstand me. I want you.” His tone rises just above the previous whisper with his clarification. “It’s just that the last thing I want to do is take advantage of you when our emotions are running high.”

“Four years, Spencer.” You lean in again, just brushing your lips against his. “The only reason you should be making me wait is if you’re not sure.”

He shuts that idea down by crashing his lips on yours. The kiss is so hungry, so desperate, it’s everything both of you have longed for and denied yourselves everytime you’ve been in each other's presence. It doesn’t take long for hands to start to roam. He traces the curve from your waist to your hips, stopping just at the hem of your shirt, tugging it like he’s asking for permission. 

You rush to undo your buttons and he meets you halfway, starting at the bottom. His fingers brush against yours as you two reach the final button and you pull the fabric off yourself. You do the same with his shirt, lips remaining locked, except for the small gasps of air you take in between. It requires a bit more manoeuvring with him, but you’re both soon shirtless. 

His mouth travels to your jaw and you shut your eyes from pleasure as he continues down to your neck. The stubble on his chin tickles your skin. You cup it, gently pushing him away with a giggle. 

“Forget to pack a razor in your bag, Dr. Reid?” Your voice is teasing, more playful than seductive.

He chuckles, airily, hiding his groan. He knows you’re being sarcastic, but the use of his title, with your voice in this context, catches him off guard. You moan as you feel his growing bulge against your heat when his arms tighten around your waist, pulling you into his kiss. You swiftly undo the clasp of your bra, but before you can take it off, Spencer grabs you from just below the hips and lifts you up off him, gently laying you down on the seat of the couch. 

There’s no room for hesitation as his lips find your neck again and he nips at the skin. Every suckle earns him short gasps and the grip in his hair tightens as he travels lower. He stops just above your breast, pulling himself up to sit on his knees. You stare up at him with a heated gaze, the nail of your thumb resting between your teeth with your lips parted to make up for the loss of his lips. 

He reaches for your bra strap and begins pulling slowly, searching your eyes for any signs of you withdrawing consent. All he sees is how beautifully they sparkle when you give him a light nod. It’s been too long since he’s seen the stars that you hold in your eyes, stars he accustomed himself to before he even got to properly know you. 

Gazing into his eyes, you’ve never felt more sure, more safe. You trust him implicitly and you’ve never wanted anything more. His constant need to make sure you're comfortable sends shivers down to your core. He slides the garment off you and Spencer’s beyond grateful that he’s already on his knees, knowing that if he was standing he’d fall to them because of the sight below him. 

His eyes don’t falter once, he’s trying to permanently etch this moment into his brain. He hovers his fingers above your body, thumb brushing against your hardened nipple and you softly whine. He looks awestruck, almost like he doesn’t believe what’s happening. You can’t help but wonder if he thinks your boobs look weird. 

“Beautiful.” The words fall out of his mouth in a whisper, as if on cue. He’s really just thinking out loud.

Before you can respond he lowers down and plants a small peck to your sensitive nub before taking it into his mouth. You gasp again, head lolling back in pleasure. One of your hands goes for his hair, while the other clings to his hand that’s already holding yours. He switches between sucking, pulling and squeezing; rolling it between his tongue and uses his teeth to squeeze ever so slightly.

“S–spencer.” A strangled moan falls from your lips. 

You tug his hair, whining and moaning as your hips roll against the strain in his pants. When your motions become continuous, he lets out his own strained groan and is forced to release your nipple with a small ‘pop’. 

“Angel, I really need you to stop doing that.” He murmurs in your ear with a gentle, gravelly tone.

As soon as the nickname reaches your ears your hips involuntarily buck up again, making his hips automatically push down against yours. His cock presses against your core and you both moan, his head falling against your shoulder.

“Spence, more.” You quietly whine in against his ear. “I need more.” 

“More?” He echoes back, turning his head so that your lips brush past each other when speaking. 

“Mhm.” You nod weakly as he brushes a strand of hair out of your face and weakly connects his lips with yours.

Even when he’s got you vulnerable and at your most compromised, he’s still as gentle as ever. You don’t feel him undo your pants or sneak his hand in them, but you definitely feel him press the pads of his fingers against your clothed clit. Air escapes through your nose in a huff of surprise and you hum in his mouth, hips jolting at his touch. He can feel your slickness through your underwear. 

“Oh, my pretty girl.” He sighs, breaking the kiss and directing his whispers in your ear again. “All wet for me?”

“Please..” Even with your broken whimper you beg him for more. 

“Like this?” His deft fingers swipe your panties to the side, fingers landing directly on the clit this time. 

They feel cold at first. The contrast against your heated body makes you squirm and you groan in a soft, high pitch. 

“What are you feeling right now?” He pries a verbal response from you, circling your bud lightly. “Tell me.”

“Good.” You sigh, eyes shut as you try to savour the pleasure. 

“Good?” His voice is still soft against your ear.

“Mhm.” You nod, one arm draping against his shoulder and the other hand running along his scruffy jaw. “So good.” 

“And this?” He adds pressure to his movements. “Does this feel good?”

Your hips buck again and he feels rewarded when you moan. There’s no doubt that the sound of your voice is his favourite. He especially loves it when it’s directed at him. Whether that be in the form of a laugh or your sweet moans. It makes him somewhat dizzy. His lips attach to the skin just under your jaw in an attempt to coax more. 

It’s very effective. Fingers working your bundle of nerves, circling and flicking while changing the pressure, and mouth kissing and sucking near your pulse. It makes your back arch, hand gripping his shoulder so you don’t float away. He’s careful not to leave any purple traces of him on your neck, mindful of you being bombarded with questions from your colleagues.  

“I love how reactive you are, Angel. You sound divine– fuck.” He can’t help the grunt that escapes him. “You are divine.”

His touch alone is enough to make you feel electric, but the sweet nothings he’s whispering in your ear will be what send you over the edge. It’s a foreign feeling, being reminded that he values you for more than just your body. Just under an hour ago you had incredibly high walls built around you and none of them are left standing as you exposed under him.

Spencer’s not the first man to touch you, but he is the first that loves you. It’s something you’re not at all used to and it feels as overwhelming as it does good. It transcends the want, no, the need for the man on top of you beyond lust or love. You plan to show him just how strong that need is tonight. 

The carpeted floor is littered with your clothes, carelessly thrown around and tiny chess pieces scattered around the abandoned chess board. Spencer’s comfortably lying on the couch, facing the ceiling and you’re lying directly on top of him with your face buried in his neck. 

You run your fingers back and forth along his jaw, scratching his beard in slow streaks. He’s enveloped you in his arms, one around your lower back and the other playing with your hair. It doesn’t feel as peaceful as it seems, both of you are afraid of being the first to speak. You know you can’t stay like this forever and you decide to bite the bullet. 

“Spencer?” 

You only get silence from his end. You know he’s awake because his motions in your hair don’t stop. You push yourself up to face him, trying to study his face. The sudden movement brings him back from wherever he was zoned out to. 

“Hm?” His features jump.

Does he regret it?

“What’s wrong?” Your voice shakes from worry. “You have this look on your face.” 

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m just thinking.” 

“About…?” 

“How bad we are at communicating.” He chuckles. “It’s concerning when you think about how all we ever do is talk.” 

Hearing this makes you snort and you fall into him again. It sends both of you into a short fit of laughter. 

“Oh that’s promising for the success of this relationship.” You giggle, sarcasm evident. 

Hearing relationship makes Spencer inhale sharply. 

“So you’re staying?” 

“Well obviously, Dingbat.” You scoff playfully at the question and shift upright, straddling him. “But we really do need to get better at the communication thing for this to work.”

Spencer mounts his weight on his hands by either side of him and pushes himself up to you, stealing a deep kiss. 

“Yes, we absolutely do.” He whispers, breaking away for only a second. 

The kisses fizzle in you a plethora of smaller kisses. 

“Spencer, I’m– serious.” You voice in between, loosely draping your arms on his shoulders. 

“I am too.” He says in a hushed tone as he pulls away. 

“I want to take it– this,” you motion between the two of you with your finger, “us, slow. Not four years slow, but, like, by a couple of months at the very least.”

“Okay.” He agrees, his eyes scouring your face with complete adoration. It’s not ideal, but he understands where you’re coming from. 

“That means that we start again. Romantically. We have to talk about a lot of things first.” 

He shifts his body out from under you, resting his back properly against the couch and pulls you back into his lap in one swift motion. Both of his hands graze from your shoulder to your wrist.

“How about…you come over this weekend,” He suggests, wrapping his arms around your waist for a hug, “we’ll do snacks, a movie, maybe an actual game of chess.” 

“That sounds like a date.” You wrap your arms around his neck to return the gesture and lean your forehead against his. 

“It’s not a date. Not yet, anyways.” He whispers. “I’m asking you to come over this weekend so we can talk about things properly, because frankly, I don’t think either of us is in the right headspace for it right now.” 

“Should I be offended at that?” You giggle, not entirely sure what he’s alluding to. 

“No!” He snorts with a high tone. “Dopamine aside, our Norepinephrine and Serotonin levels are too high right now for us to have a proper conversation about this.” 

“I’m not saying that you’re wrong, because you’re not, but I also think you’re just using science to try and confuse me, so that I agree to wherever this speech is heading.” 

“It’s times like this where your attentiveness puts me at a disadvantage, because this tactic has a hundred percent success rate on everybody else.” He grins and you chuckle, both leaning in for another kiss. 

“Can we hold off on starting over? Just for tonight.” He reluctantly voices, not wanting to push any boundaries. 

You draw back and raise your eyebrows with your eyes widened. 

“Spence, I have waited for years for this. You’re insane if you think I’m giving that up without relishing in it for at least a night. We’re not starting over until we’re both officially back on the clock.” 

“Okay.” He heaves from relief, leaning in for another kiss, but quickly withdraws with a new question. “Don’t you think the team’s going to be suspicious when we’re not fighting tomorrow?”

“Forget them, what am I gonna say to Hotch when I ask to withdraw my resignation?” You huff out a tiny groan. “He’s gonna hate me for all this paperwork.”

Paperwork reminds you why you’re here to begin with. You audibly gasp, jumping off Spencer and scrambling to put your clothes back on. 

“Fuck! Spencer, get dressed!” 

Spencer doesn’t share your panic, but adheres to your demand. You mutter a continuous line of obscenities as you throw on your clothes and when you don’t seem to be getting calmer, he intervenes. 

“Hey, hey, hey!” He coos as he steps towards you, still undressed on the upper-half. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong is that we’ve been here for hours!” You shriek, now fully dressed. 

You push past Spencer and grab his shirt, deciding that he was too slow on his own. He lets you dress him as he probes further. 

“That’s okay. No one’s going to notice this late.” 

“No– Spence–” You sigh, throwing your head back. “In less than four hours, Hotch is going to walk into his office expecting the Anchorage report on his desk. I’ve barely been able to get half of it done in weeks, how am I going to finish it in four hours?”

You shake your head and begin working on his buttons. He grabs your wrists, urging you to look at him. 

“You’ll have it done in less than one. I’ll help you!” His voice is light, airy, soft and accompanied with a chuckle.

“Spencer, you’ve already been here later than you need to be. It’s okay–”

“Let me help you.” He resorts to pleading, releasing your wrists and cupping your face.

You don’t have it in you to argue, his eyes staring back at you with sincerity. He wants to help. There’s no point in pushing him away, because as scared as you are about being too vulnerable with your trauma from that case, you trust him wholeheartedly. You know he won’t push for more than what you choose to share right now.

“Okay.” You nod and smile into the kiss he leans in for after the confirmation. 

“Okay. Now, you go and start some coffee.” he instructs softly with a wide grin, waving to the scattered chess ensemble. “ I’m going to clean up here and join you.”

“I love you!” You lean for another kiss and hushedly exclaim as you break away, receding towards the door. 

It’s Spencer’s turn to lose his breath. He’s affirmed his love for you countless times tonight and this is the first time you’ve verbally reciprocated it. He knows that it won’t be the last time either. That, to him, makes him the luckiest man in the world. He stops you from going any further by your arm and gently yanks you in his direction, crashing his lips with yours. 

“I love you too.” He whispers after the kiss, letting you go. 

Heat rises in your face again and you struggle to hide a huge dopey smile, one that Spencer has too. You’re floating on cloud nine, finally out of the blurry hurricane you’ve endured for months. There’s still a lot of things that you need to work out, but the thought of them doesn’t make you feel dread like it once did. 

"One word frees us of all the weight and pain in life. That word is Love." - Socrates

Spoilers: Yapperoni (so much dialog in this chapter), BAU! Reader, enemies (kinda) to lovers, hurt, comfort, love confessions (they might be a little too sappy, idk, I was sleep deprived), the praise made me giddy at some point, smut but I edge you by not writing out everything, happy ending.

AN - I have a little tiny fear that people (me) will nawt (I don’t) fuck with this monstrosity, but out of all my drafts, this felt like the most natural course of action. I thought it would be really fun to go from friends to enemies to lovers. Now, literally nobody talk to me about writing fics after this. Uni’s started, so I’ll be very inconsistent for a bit. Casual reminder: I am not Spencer Reid. I don’t have an IQ of 187. Any facts I make him spew could very well be bull-shit and he only spews them for the purpose of the story. I also have no knowledge of how the FBI works and lack a ton of common sense. A lot of things were made up for the purpose of this story.

A comment today keeps semicolon away (from showing up to your house and eating all your snacks).

Thank you for reading!

[acti-veg]

how can we respond to "Romans 14:2-3 tells us, “One man’s faith allows him to eat everything, but another man, whose faith is weak, eats only vegetables." ?

Well, most of us can pretty much just respond with: ‘Okay? I’m not a Christian, and neither are the animals you’re eating.’ I do eat only vegetables and my faith isn’t just weak, it’s non-existent. This passage is irrelevant to anyone who doesn’t believe in the moral authority of the Bible, and even for those who do, it’s hardly a good ethical argument.

People interpret scripture in ways that are useful and meaningful for them, which is completely fine, but what someone may happen to believe a man wrote 2000 years ago and how much they believe in those words gives them absolutely zero right to harm anyone else. They can believe in the Bible all they want, but it doesn’t give them the right to enforce those beliefs on anyone else, or kill someone on the basis that ‘Paul said it’s fine.’

Paul is also fairly obviously not offering a moral defence for eating factory farmed, industrially slaughtered animals in the 21st century. Paul is writing a letter that certainly isn’t intended to be any sort of reflection on animal rights. I’m not going to go on into the various interpretations of that passage, but suffice to say that if this line were a moral argument in favour of eating animals it would be jarringly out of place in the context of the rest of that letter. That should be pretty obvious on reading it even if you don’t have much scriptural literacy.

Even if it were, things change, society changes, and religion has always changed with it. The Old Testament was often quoted by pro-slavery polemicists, for example, as it was by those opposing women’s suffrage. It is still quoted as a way to justify homophobia today. Do we really want to treat every word of the Bible as an unchanging, infallible moral law, despite the fact that it is made up of many books, written at different times and by different people, all of them being fallible mortals who were very much a product of their time?

More fundamentally, why should the rest of us have to answer to or even respond to scripture we don’t believe in? We don’t live in a theocracy, and the Bible is not a universal moral law applying to all peoples. I mean, how do you think the Christians making this argument would respond if I told them that they were not allowed to call Jesus divine because in the Guru Granth Sahib, Guru Arjant warned us to ‘call no man God’? I don’t imagine they’d find that any more convincing than I find this.

The biggest question for them to answer though, is why an animal’s life should be forfeit because of their spiritual beliefs. Their right to practice their religion is important, but it is not so important that it can take away someone else’s right to live free from exploitation and harm. Religious freedom is not unique compared with any other kind of freedom; it has to be balanced with the competing rights and freedoms of other parties, and doesn’t automatically override everything else. ‘My religion says X therefore I am allowed to harm Y’ should be dismissed as the obviously self-serving nonsense that it is.

[larebiscornue]

(EDIT: This is getting visibility so reminder to do your daily clicks in arab.org (not only for the Palestine tab) and check this list of vetted palestinian gofundmes)

So, per typical Friday, we had a new page of La Grande Vague, but (at least when I checked), for the first time, the comments were... Pretty negative! And it's no wonder, we only have 2 more chapters episodes til this wraps up and, if you have read it, you know exactly how lackluster of an ending for the Wakfu story if this were the ending. (Sure, we'd have the upcoming Flo and Mad comic to cover one part of the cast, but LGV IS advertised as the great finale for the main story.) I really get the disappointed feeling, especially because whether you get the cheap or expensive pack, reading LGV at full is NOT free. And I'm not even touching, of course, the issue with season 5 being a webcomic.

But, if what other commenters said is true, Tot said LGV is actually going to have a hundred episodes or so! (I haven't been able to find the source. Maybe twitter? Feel free to send it to me. I'd be doubtful on authenticity but with many people saying it.. It sounds too specific)

However, I do still think some degree of criticism to how LGV is handled is still warranted for sure.

Like. The way it was marketed... Were we told there would be more than 10 chapters? Correct me if we have, but there being a bit of an ammount of fans in the comments not knowing tells me it was not well expressed.

The webtoon/webcomic(?) issue would be the pacing, I do agree.. Webcomics can have quite an iffy pacing to get used to as they do obviously need to be spread in time, often in short bits like lgv (though, at least it isn't as this one comic I read as a teen that was only a page per week. We were fine with it because it was a one person team but geez, it made action full high plot point chapters/episodes/(gah I find the names confusing..) tough to read with unchanging hype... (I'm not saying any webcomic author or even company should be pressured to upload even more than a page per *insert period of time * but we cannot deny the medium has its limitations. Idk if this also happens with comic books, since while they come in issues, they're longer book releases) For full transparency I'll say I'm not that much of a webcomic bluff at all aside from wakfu and the other one, so take it with a pinch of salt.

I think the problem is, we as a wakfu audience are used to get meaty 20 minute episodes, and while each lgv episode has content, because of the medium and the way it's structured, it definitely lasts less. Does this have any solution? I dunno. Webcomic was the only compromise to s5 not being able to be animated. And not to mention how passionate we are about this series.

On one hand, I feel some of the uproar should be saved til we see how does this progress and how Ankama handles the situation, cause if lgv is really gonna be 100 episodes long, we have to see how stuff plays out. On the other, I feel we as fans have the right to freely critique, (like the "ammount of chapters wasn't well advertised") healthily!

This isn't intended to be a proper essay, sorry if some of the wording doesn't make sense, and as you can see I have NOT touched on the plot itself cause I don't feel its that relevant for this post. Feel free to share your opinions with me!

EDIT: @/julith-jurgen and @/cocogum shared me a link to Tot and Cathiane (LGV's artist)'s statement in the replies, the 100 episodes/chapters (Again I still struggle with proper webcomic terminology lol) thing is real:

https://x.com/Totankama/status/1781321831263424875 https://x.com/Cathianedraws/status/1781379849606529479)

[bandtrees]

scp is extremely not my thing anymore but i have been reminiscing reading tales and the like i used to enjoy and it’s kind of hard for me to put into words my present opinion on 4231. i admire it greatly from a technical standpoint, it influenced my writing a lot hence why i return to it as often as i do, its author’s way with words is utterly stunning to me as is their use of the format and it still blows me away in this regard and im sure it always will, but in terms of content i find it like… presently more than a little uncomfortable that the vision of it is essentially, out of universe, “this character is a misogynist because he was abused by an Evil Woman” however emotionally the article goes about writing that abuse.

i don’t think it’s, like, sacred and untouchable and free of criticism for a delicate subject matter and as i get older i find its portrayal of that subject matter more and more questionable. it feels, in content, like you canonized someone on ao3’s beautifully-written-but-holy-shit ventfic, and i don't say that to criticize fanfiction. it feels at times like it’s got its hands on its hips and is going, “see? men can be abuse victims too!”, which is… obviously a true statement but at times it delivers more nuance to the situation it’s writing than i know it intends. questions it does not intend on answering because the built-in answer is “lilly is evil and horrible and any question otherwise is francis being in denial”.

like, i think it would be more interesting if lilly was more of a character with a personality and not just Evil Abuser Woman. i think it would be more interesting if francis/clef was a victim with flaws beyond being reasonably cagey and intentionally annoying. because a lot of the intrigue the article sets up is the in-universe question of what happened with 4231-a and 4231-b, but none of that intrigue really goes anywhere beyond pointing and going “aren’t these assholes wrong about francis?” because the question is flattened to “all of this is happening because there was one abuser and one victim, and lilly did every horrible thing you can imagine and is evil and horrible and people are misinterpreting francis” - when, to be honest, with how grand and dense the article is you’d think there’d be more meat to it than that.

and, like, that’s not to say in-universe i think clef is evil and lilly did nothing wrong because holy shit no, but from a writing perspective, and this feels like sacrilege to say on scp tumblr, i think it’s good to knock it off its pedestal of “writes about a Sensitive And Important Theme”. i used to adore 4231 for that reason when the concept of something portraying romantic/sexual abuse in a meaningful way at all was enough to win me over. and i think i've just grown out of it as my standards got higher i suppose. which is a me problem to be fair.

funny because i fucking love the rest of the article. the foundation altar. the cornwall incident itself is utterly HAUNTING. the alternating povs. the worldbuilding. i just wish the heart of it lived up to that grandiosity ig.

[tiddiesoutwhenthetisout]

i read a fic once about achilles being the early-riser in the relationship.

idk about you but i think not lmao. i mean, i see the vision. it's cute, but my brain insists he sleeps 16 hours a day plus 3 naps (yes, like a cat, yes) and then gets zoomies at 2am (moreso in modern maybe bc it can be hard to fuck up your sleep schedule in ancient times)

since i can't resist yapping, here's some

sleep headcanons!

sleep is a really important thing to me obviously.

patroclus: sleeps last but wakes up first. light sleeper because he grew up hypervigilant when referencing tsoa specifically. otherwise, i think he's sort of a heavy sleeper (bc tired) who would wake up when roused by achilles in the middle of the night, would give brief gestures like chuckle or pat his head before going back to sleep but he doesn't remember any of it in the morning.

has a harder time going back to sleep, but he's normal about it. just gets up and does something. can get grumpy at unwanted interruptions but only when he's absolutely sick and tired of being alive (modern hc: a doctor or something so since sleep is hard to come by, he has rough days). sleeps mostly on his back, may start snoring so achilles has to slap him (gently) awake.

when entirely modern, i think he adhered to a routine when he lived with menoetius. so he's kinda used to that too, waking up before the sun is completely up. don't know what to give him as a traumatic experience (like pushing a boy to his death) since obv we can't have that here and i'm kinda bad at hcs, so... let's just say he used to have nightmares about it when he was younger, but not anymore.

big spoon status wearer

achilles: sleeps first, wakes up last. isn't really sleeping deeply sometimes, he just has his eyes closed and his surroundings blurring in and out through sense of hearing. sometimes he also stays in bed in the morning because he knows patroclus likes to stare at him like that, and he enjoys that 100% focused attention before the other decides it's time to do some work. light sleeper, though. glowing green eyes shooting open in the middle of the night and when patroclus is still awake he sometimes gets a scare.

sometimes the greeks would hear shuffling outside their tents and it's just achilles scrabbling around instead of sleeping. sometimes humming. has definitely given one or a few soldiers a heart attack at some point. happened more often when he stopped fighting bc he had all the day to sleep.

can get really irritable when he's sleepy. can also get really irritable when a person he fucking hates (aggy?) yells or makes any noise and he wakes up with a start. ("who the fuck was dropping spears at dawn?!" "agamemnon" "oh if it wasn't him i would have been fine") day ruined, patroclus has to calm him down because his soldiers are quaking in their sandals.

modern: will sleep with a plushie or not at all. anything to hug. patroclus or something.

i intended to end this here but now i have to ramble so read on if you're interested 👍 will have less lighthearted topics.

still modern, sometimes he wakes up because he doesn't want to be on his own defenseless and vulnerable (applies to tsoa because of how he had pyrrhus with deidameia. basically grape. he also said it was dark, so it's not too far off the mark when i assume she went into his room at night and suddenly went at it. his attitude when asked was also giving dissociation, especially after i read this fic on Ao3, bless the author wherever they may be now, that his stay in skyros really impacted him a lot).

or because suddenly the other side of the bed feels cold. he turns around to grasp at his lover's clothes or skin depending on whether or not he slept shirtless, and his hands snatch air. he's expressed his mini heart attacks when this happens, which patroclus acknowledges, but achilles knows he has things to do.

so one day on a particularly rough patch for achilles, he wakes up, finds patroclus gone, and starts to cry until the latter hears this and drops what he's doing in a panic to come see what's wrong.

achilles doesn't speak at first. just clings on to patroclus like he's scared of losing him. and he admits that later on when he's calm enough. that sometimes it just really scares him patroclus has been taken away from him. he doesn't want to say "dead", but it's stuck at the back of his throat and he swallows it down. he does not know where this comes from, but there is a hollow ache in his chest whenever it comes to haunt him.

or, achilles says, is scared of the illogical prospect that he himself has been taken away by god-knows-who or what. scared of waking up among strangers who do not have the best of intentions (again i believe it to have something to do with smth like deidameia incident-- thetis has either a role or is not involved but she has passing remarks that made achilles too shameful to say anything to anyone until patroclus).

but the constant is patroclus being gone.

and patroclus just doesn't know what to say, because he wakes up in the middle of the night sometimes from weird feelings of deep-seated fear, checking with every single one of his senses if achilles is still beside him. he can only calm down when he has checked once, twice, thrice. and he moves to hug him as if it isn't an option to not do so. he is careful not to hug him too tight, as he has done that at one point and it was not a nice awakening for achilles. but he just wants to hold on to him as tight as possible so he does not suddenly vanish.

i guess you could say it is in patroclus' favor that he sleeps last (to see if achilles is still there), and wakes up first (to see, also, if achilles is still there).

but he doesn't say this. instead hugs achilles tighter now for he is awake, and they decide to take that morning very, very slowly.

brainrot so bad it probably wasn't a very pretty read (vocab bad, arrangement bad-) but i had to finish it 😫

[sophierequests]

the lights and noise are blinding // academic affairs part two

Navigation┃Main Masterlist┃Requests

Pairing: Jesper Fahey x gn!Reader

A/N: Back again with a Jesper x Reader fic! This is part two to a miniseries I started, so please read part one before this one. You can find the link to the miniseries masterlist right under the author's note :)

This is part two of an ongoing miniseries! Find the miniseries masterlist here!

Summary: The reader goes out to meet Jesper at the Crow Club to give him back his jacket. Or are there other reasons involved?

Genre: Fluff, a tad bit of Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 5.6K

Warnings: Gambling, drinking, typical Crow Club shenanigans, poor proofreading

“Sooo, who’s the lucky guy or gal that managed to pry you away from the library every once in a while?” You almost choked on your tea in response, clearly not expecting your previously semi-serious academic discussion to take that turn.

“What do you mean?” 

“Oh, don’t act dense, Y/N!” your friend groaned, grabbing the textbook out of your hands and tossing it to the couch next to you. You let out a dissatisfied huff, folding your arms in front of your chest to signalise that you were not about to be involved in any sort of gossip she was about to wring from you. “The jacket. It’s so not your style. Definitely not yours.” 

She pointed to the rust-coloured leather jacket that you had slung over the backrest of your chair. Jesper’s jacket. It had been over three weeks since that fateful encounter at the institute and, regrettably, he had been on your mind ever since. You had no idea why it took him so long to come back to the University District, but you began to worry that something might have happened to him. Having an article of clothing that constantly reminded you of him only managed to distract you even more.

After the first week of him not showing up to see you, you began taking his jacket with you to university; just to have it at the ready once he came to get it back. You hadn’t intended on wearing it as often as you did, - quite frankly, you hadn’t intended on wearing it at all - but whenever your eyes would find it hanging on your coat rack in the mornings, you just couldn’t help yourself. By now it didn’t even smell like him anymore. The strong smell of gunpowder mixed with cinnamon and what you assumed to be his cologne had lingered in your flat for close to four days and you had to admit that you were a bit disappointed that it had ebbed away that quickly. 

Saints, you sounded insane. You barely knew him!

“Well,” you stammered, your brain going into overdrive while you attempted to search for a believable lie. Your friend raised her brows almost comically high, a shit-eating grin spread all over her face while she watched you haggle for words. Maybe you’d just have to settle on telling half-truths instead of lies. “It’s not like that, Mila. He’s just a friend.” She snorted, giving an incredulous look which you tried to ignore as best as you could.

“A very good friend I assume?”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes. “Like I said, we’re just friends. He came by to visit me at the institute a few weeks ago and gave me his jacket for my way home because I had left mine at home. Nothing more and nothing less.”

Mila was visibly dissatisfied with your answer, still looking at you as if you had just told her something utterly otherworldly. “And he didn’t want it back?”

“He told me that he’d drop by to get it, but he obviously didn’t do that yet.”

“He’s probably still busy thinking about more ways to ask you out after his first attempt of giving you his jacket seemed to have flown completely over your head.”

“Mila!” you laughed before you bent down and picked up the previously discarded textbook, giving her a few gentle slaps on the shoulder with it.

“Okay, okay! I’ll drop it!” she yelped, blocking your assault by putting her arms in front of her. “But I have to admit, this jacket does look nice. You should genuinely think abo- ow!”

“Jesper, what’s going on?” Inej sighed, finally taking it upon herself to ask the sharpshooter why he had been acting even more erratically than usual during the last few weeks. 

He looked up at her from his spot on the couch, biting the inside of his cheek as he thought about a possible explanation for his restlessness. The only problem was, that he really didn’t know why he felt so on edge recently; he only knew that it had to have something to do with your appearance in his life. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way your face had been lit up by the welcoming light of the oil lamp, the warm feeling of your hand on his thigh, or the wide smile you gave him when he gave you his jacket. It intoxicated him, made him reckless and stupid. He wanted to see you again, but he also needed to ensure that he could keep seeing you afterwards.

“What are you talking about?” he laughed nervously, tapping his foot to at least be in some sort of movement. 

Inej sat down next to him, laying a hand on his knee which he promptly jerked away. He didn’t know why he did that, but something about her almost motherly behaviour ticked him off. Her gesture was very similar to yours, yet it just wasn’t the same. Inej wasn’t you.

Thankfully, she didn’t use this sudden reaction against him, merely giving him a concerned glance before pulling her hand away. “You’ve been acting…different recently, Jes. I worry about you, what’s on your mind?”

“I don’t know what you mean, nothing is wrong.” He had the urge to stand up and leave. Inej’s scrutinising gaze made his instinct to flee stronger than ever.

“I don’t believe you.” She didn’t catch his pleading eyes that begged her to drop it. Or maybe she did and just didn’t care enough to stop. “Ever since you came back late that one night three weeks ago, you started acting like you have something that is bothering you. Something happened and it’s been on your mind since then. I just want to know how we can help you, please.” 

Jesper let his hand run over his face in exasperation. He knew that lying to the Wraith would be futile, she’d figure it out eventually anyway, but the nagging voice inside his head told him to keep this one secret. To keep you for himself.

“I promise you, there’s nothing wrong. I’m fine. You don’t need to worry.” There’s nothing any of you could do to help me anyway.

He could see the apprehension in her eyes. She didn’t want to leave him in this state, however, if he wasn’t willing to talk to her, there was not much she could do to change that. Unwillingly, she stood up, giving him a curt nod before turning to leave. 

She paused at the threshold of the door, casting another hopeful glance at her friend. “Just so know, should you ever want to talk about…whatever it is that’s on your mind, I’m always there to listen.” With that, she was gone, soundlessly slipping through the dim cracks of the Slat like the phantom she always had been.

The room was draped in silence again, the weight pressing down on his chest and burying him underneath it. If he didn’t take the initiative to see you again soon, he’d probably never bring himself to do it. 

For now, he needed another type of distraction though.

You hadn’t been able to focus on the books in front of you for the entire day, especially not after your friend had pointed out the fact that Jesper still hadn’t been back to retrieve his jacket. You were seriously starting to think about all the worst-case scenarios, ranging from him getting stabbed and thrown into the harbour to him being taken by the Dime Lions and tortured in some dim basement. Even though it was a terribly stupid idea, you decided to take matters into your own hands. 

Quickly, you pulled on the most casual-looking outfit you owned, throwing it on carelessly before grabbing his jacket and leaving your flat. Going to the Barrel alone and in the middle of the night could definitely be added to the list of your less intelligent decisions, but you couldn’t help thinking about the damned sharpshooter and whether or not he was alright. You needed to see him with your own eyes to calm every erratic nerve pestering you about it.

The walk to the Crow Club was a bit longer than you had expected. You had been here before, right after your first semester ended and you and your friends wanted to go out to get drinks since the clubs in the University District were more like glorified cafés than actual bars. It wasn’t your kind of establishment though, filled to the brim with pushy men or other odd figures looming around every corner. Nevertheless, you tried to look past your previous experience and still find some entertainment in your uncharacteristic nightly expedition. You were here for a very specific reason this time. A charming, lanky reason, that is.

Upon pushing open the already battered wooden door that lead to the club, you were met with the pungent smell of cigarette smoke, spilt alcohol and what you assumed to be vomit. You looked around the room cautiously, rooted to your spot next to the door. A few people thrust past you, laughing almost maniacally as they staggered outside, visibly drunk. This really was not your kind of establishment. 

It wasn’t as crowded as you had expected it to be, however, it was deafeningly loud. People yelled, laughed and quarrelled loud enough for the words to reverberate inside the cramped space around you. Jesper really did fit right into this mess of a place.

Speaking of the devil, when your eyes landed on one of the gambling tables at the other end of the room, you spotted exactly the person you were looking for. He sat at the head of the table, shaking a pair of dice inside his hands and letting them hit the crimson cloth with a certain skilfulness one mainly saw in people that frequented dens like this. You frowned at that thought. Him being a gambler would explain a lot; his relationship with his father, his indenture to the Dregs, the thrill of always seeking something to bring up his adrenaline. But it also reminded you of your father; a man lost in the game, barely ever having enough money to take care of himself and eventually getting swallowed by the constant need for something he just couldn’t win. Needless to say, this habit hadn’t worked out well for him.

Still, you decided to weave through the crowded room, avoiding the prying eyes of the other patrons who seemingly had nothing better to do than to stare at people that didn’t quite fit in here. The closer you got, the more of the table you saw. The other men sitting next to him looked decades older than him, sunken in faces, uncombed hair and crooked grins on all of their faces. There was also a younger boy standing next to him, leaning against the wall and casting woeful glances at Jesper. His hair was an eye-catching shade of red, some strands almost shimmering golden as the light hit him. He looked a bit too frail for the Barrel, small shoulders, shy eyes and a generally pretty defenceless stance, but somehow, he seemed to fit in better than you ever could. Occasionally, he tried to speak to the sharpshooter, who in return, only dismissed him with what you assumed to be a playful or teasing comment, leaving the younger-looking boy with flushed cheeks every time.

You approached the table slowly, mentally going through all the possible ways you could begin a conversation. None of your initial ideas felt right, judging by the fact that you literally only met him once. What could you even say to make this not completely awkward for the both of you?

 Hey, I don’t know if you still remember me, I was the person that saved your ass a few weeks ago and with which you continued to talk for roughly three hours afterwards. Anyway, here’s the jacket that made probably everyone around me think that I have a boyfriend because I started wearing it while I waited for you to return. 

Yeah, that sounded like a great plan.

While you were still busy contemplating your words, his head turned to face you. He initially didn’t see you, the flashiness of the Barrel providing enough distraction to swallow you whole, but after doing a double take, realisation dashed over his features. You watched as he said something to the others surrounding the table, giving his red-headed friend a pat on the back before scrambling to stand up. The friend in question looked at him with a befuddled expression before shaking his head and wandering off. You wondered what kind of relationship the two of them had.

Jesper didn’t give you too much time to think about that though, since he appeared in front of you in a matter of seconds. There was a wide smile painted all over his face, and he hadn’t even seen the jacket in your arms yet. Instead, he seemed to be absolutely elated to see you. The mere thought of you having that effect on him made your heart rage against your ribcage.

“Y/N?” he asked giddily, almost as if he couldn’t quite believe that you were actually in front of him. 

His next move was a stupid one, but he acted purely on impulse. Without thinking about it, he leaned down towards you, wrapping his arms around you to engulf you in a surprisingly tight hug. You reciprocated the gesture, albeit a bit hesitantly, resting your hands on his back to not have them awkwardly hanging at your sides. Hugging him felt surprisingly welcome; you wouldn’t have complained if the two of you stayed like this forever.  

After a few moments, he pulled away, a slight hint of embarrassment filling his eyes. “I, uhm, sorry, that was inappropriate. I’m just happy to see you again,” he stammered, taking a quick step back to put some distance between you. You were almost disappointed when he did so, but you couldn’t possibly pull him towards you again. 

“Oh no, it was totally fine, don’t worry about it,” you tried to reassure him, smoothing over a few wrinkles on the jacket that was still draped across your arm. Suddenly, you remembered the reason why you came here in the first place. “I came here to bring back your jacket.” You held it out to him expectantly, waiting for him to acknowledge it.

His smile faltered ever so slightly, not enough for it to be noticeable to anyone else but him. Of course you weren’t here for him. He was delusional if he had genuinely believed that you cared enough for him to come to the Barrel just to see him again. He shouldn’t have projected his own feelings onto you this much. 

He reached out to take it from you, his fingers accidentally brushing over the exposed skin of your wrist. It felt as if this brief contact sent an electric shock through him, causing him to quickly pull away, not noticing the way your eyes latched onto the spot he touched. 

“Thank you again for lending it to me, it kept me from freezing my ass off on my way home. You didn’t come to pick it up, so I already expected that something was holding you back.” He didn’t miss the way your eyes flickered towards the cards table, swallowing thickly as he realised what you thought he did instead.

“I wanted to, I really did. But my boss wasn’t too happy about the fact that I was gone for so long. He forced me to watch the door basically every day since then as a punishment. I only got him off my back this week.” He bit his lip, not quite content with his rather clumsy delivery. “I’m sorry, I should have let you know or shown up a bit sooner. It was unfair of me to expect you to watch it this long.”

“It was no trouble at all, Jesper. I was just starting to get a bit...well, worried since you didn’t show up.” You wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly feeling very empty without the jacket in your hands. “I hope you don’t mind that I fixed some of the bullet holes, I assumed they weren’t there for stylistic purposes. If they were meant to be there I'll be happy to open the stitches again.” 

Jesper looked down at his jacket, immediately spotting a handful of stitches that closed the holes and rips he had been too lazy or busy to repair. He allowed his hand to trace the lines of your handiwork that were basically invisible next to the other seams of his jacket. His heart fluttered when he thought about you taking the time out of your day to sit down and sew together all of the damage he had caused. He decided to ponder all the other implications of this statement later.

“Y/N, you really didn’t have to,” he mumbled, still focused on the fabric in his hands. “That must have taken so long.”

“And you didn’t have to give me your jacket. I just wanted to even out our debts.”

“Even out our debts? I still owe you for saving me from the Dime Lions, my debt to you isn’t paid off in the slightest, sweetheart.” He bit his tongue instantly after finishing that sentence. Calling you ‘sweetheart’ was definitely pushing the limits, he was sure of it. Would you have been literally anyone else, he wouldn’t have minded. But you weren’t just anyone.

Much to his surprise, you either hadn’t noticed his slip of the tongue, or you simply didn't seem to mind. “Maybe I could accidentally walk into Dime Lion territory on my way home so that you can jump in and rescue me?”

“I’d rather you use it that pass for something less lethal.”

“Noted.”

Jesper casually slung the jacket over his shoulder, staring at you for just a little bit longer before opening his mouth again. “Care for a drink?” 

You gulped; you hadn’t prepared yourself for that offer. You actually hadn’t prepared yourself for anything other than giving him his jacket back. Of course, you wanted to stay with him for a while longer, but drinking with him while you were still unsure of how you felt seemed like a terrible idea.

“I really don’t think I should, you’re probably really busy and I don’t want you to get into more trouble. I also should probably head back home now, it’s already a bit late.”

He frowned. Everything started off so well and now you wanted to leave? This was not how he wanted your second meeting to go. “I promise you won’t bother me.” Quite the opposite actually. “And you won’t get me into trouble. Stay here a bit longer. Please?” 

“Fine,” you smiled, making his face light up in an instant. 

His free arm found its way around your shoulder, stirring you into the direction of the bar as if you wouldn’t have been able to find it on your own. Your body was flush to his side, the warmth of your skin seeping through the two layers of clothes separating you almost effortlessly. When you looked up at him briefly, he could feel your hot breath hitting his neck, and even if it was just for a split second, it made a range of goosebumps rise in its wake. His heart was going crazy inside his chest, but he tried to downplay his panic as best as he could. 

At the bar, he ordered for the both of you, quickly putting a stack of kruge in front of the bartender to keep you from attempting to pay for your own drink. “Drinks are on me,” he laughed, bumping your thigh with his and giving you a cheeky wink.  

The bartender placed two glasses of whiskey in front of you, a few ice cubes swaying in the amber liquid. He shoved your drink over to you, almost spilling some of its content in the process. It made you wonder whether he already had a few glasses before you arrived here. Jesper lifted the glass into the air and you mirrored his gesture. You let the glasses clink, the ice inside them echoing the sound as both of you put them to your lips. You’d probably regret drinking something when you still had to find your way back home later, but that thought definitely wasn’t at the forefront of your mind.

“You know,” Jesper’s voice broke the comfortable silence between you. No matter whether it was his first or third drink, the alcohol did seem to have a slight effect on him. The lopsided smile that spread over his entire served as enough proof for you to believe that. “I quite like that outfit,” he said, his eyes wandering up and down your body as if he felt the need to underline his statement. “It suits you. And it’s good to know that even someone like you is able to let loose every once in a while.”

“Someone like me? What is that supposed to mean?” you snorted, feigning offence to hide how light-headed his compliment had made you. Or maybe it was the whiskey, you weren’t quite sure.

“I didn’t mean, uhm, I meant that I didn’t expect someone as smart as you to have something so fitting to wear for an…establishment like this.” He gestured around the room roughly, ignoring the muddled glances the other customers gave him.

“Aw, you think I’m smart?”

“Probably one of the smartest people I’ve met,” he replied with surprising sincerity. He hastily put the glass back to his mouth to keep himself from spilling any more of his honest feelings.

“You haven’t met many smart people then.” You could feel the heat rise up to your cheeks and hoped that the warmth wasn’t also accompanied by a physical manifestation.

The two of you kept talking for what felt like an eternity. He ordered a few more drinks, while you were still busy nursing your first one. Walking home drunk in the middle of the night didn’t seem like the best thing to do, so you wanted to keep at least an ounce of your previous sobriety. You wanted this conversation to last forever, despite the fact that you could do without the constant shattering of glasses or drunken yelling of names. It wasn’t a noise level you were used to, but one you’d definitely be willing to endure if it meant spending more time with him.

As much as you wanted to stay, after some time you felt the weight of the day have an effect on you. You were constantly suppressing a yawn and it became harder and harder to stay focused on whatever topic Jesper was talking about now. 

“Tired much, love?” he laughed, but a faint hint of disappointment tainted his words. 

“A bit,” you yawned again, not trying to hide it this time. “I should probably go back to my flat now, I have to get up early tomorrow and I don’t think a lack of sleep will help me with that.” He gave you an acknowledging nod, not trusting his voice to stay composed. “Thank you for the evening though, I enjoyed being here…with you.”

“I enjoyed myself too,” he assured hesitantly, sliding off his chair and offering you his hand to stabilise you while doing the same.

You accepted his offered hand, carefully getting back to your feet while trying to not stumble over your own feet. When you were back on your feet successfully, you kept his hand in yours for a moment longer, letting the touch linger until it became suffocating. You quickly removed it when you saw him pursing his lips, internally praying that he didn’t think of this as weird.

What left his mouth instead went in a completely different direction. “Would you like me to bring you back home? It’s not really pleasant to walk around the Barrel during this time of the day, so maybe you’d like someone to accompany you.”

Even though you wanted to tell him that it wouldn’t be necessary, the offer sounded so tempting that you just couldn’t bring yourself to refuse it. “I’d like that.”

With a dazzling smile, he threw on his own jacket; the same jacket you had worn only a few hours prior. But of course he didn’t know that. He led you out of the club, the noise immediately fading away as he shut the door behind you. 

You walked next to each other, a fair amount of distance between you that was just close enough to imply that you were friends, but also just far enough to imply that you weren’t more. His pace was surprisingly secure, probably way securer than yours, even after more than a handful of drinks. You almost envied him for his skill of keeping himself this steady.

His pace faltered a bit when you approached a somewhat wretched multiple-story high building that had probably seen better days at some point. Two people stood in front of it, eagerly conversing about a topic you couldn’t quite make out. The man was completely clad in black, a sorrowful, almost annoyed, look on his face as he leaned on an extravagant cane with a crow’s head on top of it. You imagined that he wasn’t necessarily a pleasant person to have a conversation with and pitied the smaller woman that stood next to him. She, however, didn’t seem to be bothered by his glare at all, merely continuing to speak to him in a hushed voice. She was also dressed in black, but with a few hints of purple sticking out from beneath her cloak. Her long black hair was neatly plaited into a stiff braid that swayed behind her loosely as she moved. 

“That’s the Slat.” Jesper leaned towards you, nodding in the direction of the building you had been looking at. “All the Dregs live there. It’s kind of trashy, but it’s home nonetheless.”

“You live there too?” 

“Yep.” He pointed at one of the windows on what you assumed to be the third floor. “Right there.”

“And do you also know who-”

“Jesper!” A gruff voice cut you off rudely. It took you a second to realise that it belonged to the man with the cane, whose attention was now completely focused on the two of you. He raised his brow suspiciously when his eyes met yours. Simply making eye contact with a man this rough made the blood in your veins freeze. 

Jesper sighed, giving you an apologetic look as he turned to look at the raven-haired stranger again. “What is it, boss?” he asked, almost making you choke on your own spit.

That was his boss? Suddenly you felt even worse for stopping him from getting back to work all those weeks ago. A man like this surely didn’t have much mercy when it came to punishments.

“Tell your…company to go back home on their own and get yourself ready,” his boss ordered, a certain amount of venom lacing his voice as he spoke. “We have a job on West Stave tonight. I expect you to meet us at the Crow Club in fifteen minutes. You better hurry.”

“But Kaz, I-”

“Jesper.”

“Okay, fine,” he groaned, watching as the man disappeared inside the building again. The girl stayed there a bit longer, mouthing something that you could only think of as a silent ‘sorry’ before also taking off to go Saints know where.

Jesper turned to look at you, his previously chipper and excited demeanour completely gone, replaced by a rather sombre expression you couldn’t quite follow. “Y/N, I’m so sorry, I didn’t-”

You put up one hand to get him to stop talking, an understanding look on your face. “It’s fine, Jesper. It’s work, and as much as I would have loved to keep talking, you should probably better get going. Your boss doesn’t really seem like he’d take it too kindly if you’re late.”

“He wouldn’t,” Jesper muttered under his breath, visibly frustrated. “You sure you can get home on your own? I can ask one of my friends to keep you company. At least until you're out of the Barrel.”

“I’m sure I can handle it.” You bumped his shoulder with yours, hoping to at least bring a little smile to his lips. The corners of his lips tugged upwards a bit before he cast an anguished glance at the door of the Slat.

“I should better get going then, or else Kaz might genuinely have my head for this.”

“Which would be a real shame for someone as pretty as you.” You wanted to take the words back as soon as they slipped from your lips, knowing that this kind of flirtatious behaviour was going way too far for people who only met each other twice. But he didn’t seem to mind, a genuine grin gracing his features.

“It really would be a shame.” He pursed his lips to say something else, but you beat him to it.

“Just in case you’re interested, the offer of you dropping by to visit me at the institute still stands. With or without your jacket.”

He stood still for a second, uncharacteristically still. You feared that you had said something wrong, maybe even something inappropriate. Maybe you should have dropped the comment about the jacket. Maybe that was a bit too straightforward, too pushy. Maybe-

“You’ll be so annoyed when I actually end up taking you up on that offer.”

“I think I’ll be able to handle myself,” you laughed, a weird sense of excitement overtaking you as you turned his words around in your head. “Now go, or else your boss might rip off my head instead.”

He gave you a mock salute before turning around to leave, barely unable to contain his newfound giddiness. 

You were really in for it now.

“Who was that?” Inej threw an inquisitive look at Jesper while they trailed behind Kaz whose pace was unsurprisingly brutal today. 

“Who was what?”

“The person you were walking with earlier. I haven’t seen them around here before.” She inquired carefully, not missing the faint blush that tainted his cheeks now. “You looked quite happy with each other. Are you friends?”

Were you friends? He wouldn’t call you a stranger, or even an acquaintance, but calling you a friend made it feel like things were moving way too quickly. And maybe they were. Time seemed to be nothing more than a concept since meeting you. 

“They aren’t in the Barrel.”

Inej blew a harsh breath out of her nose, obviously dissatisfied with his less-than-sparse answer. “How do you know them then?”

“I, uhm, we’re friends…”

“Friends?”

“Friends from uni.” That wasn’t a complete lie at least.

“You managed to make friends in one week of barely going to your classes?”

“And they stuck around long enough to still be in contact with you now?” Nina chimed in as she hastily jogged up to them. Of course she wouldn’t let this sort of juicy gossip just pass by.

“Apparently they did,” Jesper grumbled. Why did they have to bring all of this up now?

“Wait.” Nina stopped dead in her tracks, narrowing her eyes while she kept on staring at the jacket he was wearing. “Isn’t that the jacket you ‘lost’ when you went on that job three weeks ago?” 

“Like I said, ‘losing’ was relative in that situation…” At this point, he would have preferred walking next to Kaz.

Inej’s eyebrows threatened to shoot off her face as she began connecting the dots. “Jesper! Are you…seeing someone?” She sounded as if it would be inappropriate to suggest that he could, in fact, be in a romantic relationship that went further than the casual hookup.

Nina’s mouth stood agape, a wicked grin spreading over her face. “Oh my Saints, are you seeing that ‘friend’ from university? Did you give them your jacket? My, my, who knew that you were such a romantic?”

“I don’t see how this is any of your business,” he stammered, speeding up his pace to fall into step with Kaz.

The girls didn’t dare to question him again that night, but they sure as hell remembered this crucial piece of information to tease him with during the following days.

When Jesper fell into bed after their job, you were still the main focus of his thoughts. He couldn’t bring himself to occupy his mind with anything else but the intoxicating feeling of your smile, or the warmth of your body against his. He was so lost in thought that he didn’t even feel the need to take off anything other than his boots. 

His head dropped onto his shoulder as he lay there, wrapped up in a terrible myriad of thoughts and what-if scenarios that just didn’t want to be still. However, something about the smell of his jacket sobered him up in a matter of seconds.

It was to be expected that it would smell differently after three weeks of not being in his possession, but this scent was strong. Stronger than it should have been. It smelled clean and homey, a mixture of scented candles, old books and some floral perfume he hadn’t smelled before.

No.

He had smelled it before.

Of course, it was your perfume. 

He sat up straight, shrugging off the jacket and smelling it again. He was really starting to feel insane now. 

The jacket smelled like you.

And he didn’t want it to change.

Taglist:

Grishaverse fics in general: @yesshewrites1 @dal-light @pomagranteseeds @treasureofmy-heart

Jesper Fahey: @ell0ra-br3kk3r @writingmysanity @fall-writes

[whinlatter]

author's note | chapter four: habitat 🍂🐾

here is the author's note for chapter four of Beasts! this chapter sees gin return to the skies and starts to explore flight and fear (and asks some tricky questions about the soul). come to watch an author who can neither throw nor catch a ball try and write about sports; stay for the henry viii cameo & the girls getting their arts and crafts on. ok all the usual writing notes, headcanons, fic/meta inspo recs are below…

….as is a ✨ sneak peek ✨ of chapter five (did someone say hinny seaside fluff?) 🐚🎣🌊

 🏹 spoilers for this chapter under the cut! 🏹

[ habitat, n.: the natural environment in which an animal or plant usually lives ]

writing notes and headcanons: 

on writing: this chapter was the toughest yet to write honestly - still feel i'm learning the ropes about pacing, foreshadowing and suggesting, and how to balance flashbacks with driving plot forward in the present. i've made my peace with how it turned out and was excited to put it out after a lot of revision, but damn did you know writing was hard who else knew this and didn't tell me hmmm! also i'm a fair weather writer and a chipper lil bean why am i writing all this sad shit. questions without answers

on quidditch: ah man i honestly love writing about quidditch (the metaphor potential!) re the muggleborns in quidditch issue - i know in PS/SS there’s talk of the first-years having multiple flying lessons, but it always seemed wild to me how obviously at a disadvantage muggleborn students would be at with confidence and practice on a broom (like, no shade to the weasley boys, who are clearly a talented bunch, but they do get to spend the first eleven years of their lives and every summer after that playing and practicing in their orchard - like, justice for dean thomas making it to be a reserve, honestly!) ginny is her father’s daughter, so reckon this is bit of a social justice issue for her, but in a sort of i-want-the-best-and-i’ll-find-it way (i also think she knows from playing on a team with ron that underconfidence doesn’t mean a lack of talent). much more to come on rina!

on souls: one of the things i had the most fun with in this chapter was the soul chat scene - a tricky topic for a teacher to broach, even under normal circumstances, but especially for this bunch of war-hardened teens, some of whom (ginny and hermione, but also all the azkaban survivors) have far too much first-hand experience with soul magic of the darkest kind. i’ve learnt so much from some truly fantastic metas and analyses of souls in hp (some shared below) and have always wanted to think and write about the soul-as-both-personality-and-conscience tension that runs throughout canon - in harry’s narration, other than in passing in conversation with dumbledore over horcruxes, we don’t get a ton of exploration of what a soul actually is. i intended to do it as a meta but honestly i’m having so much fun trying to weave these ideas and speculation into this fic, as well as use questions of souls and what makes you, you, as ginny herself goes through this unwanted process of self-examination and reflection as she’s knocked off course with her own sense of self 

on molly and ginny’s letters and their relationship: a lot of what i want to use Beasts to explore are the relationships between different female characters, including mothers and daughters. a criticism often made of molly from her critics is often that she doesn’t really write to harry or any of her children when they’re at school. to that i say: here are all my headcanons defending molly weasley til the death!  in canon, i think ron’s lingering jealousy of molly’s attachment to ginny and fears that she favours ginny (‘least loved always, by the mother who craved a daughter…’), and ginny’s constant conflict with molly over her coddling risks means we don’t always get to see a positive read on ginny and molly’s relationship. we also know, though, that ginny and molly both enter and end the series beside one another, and we saw molly become a killer to defend ginny from bellatrix. this is such an important relationship and i'm so excited to write about it in this piece. i just love the idea that ginny and molly are extremely close over the years, actually, despite their conflict, and that they were in regular contact throughout the school year in ways the boys just would never have been, making each other feel less lonely in their more solitary years. 

on ginny and hermione: relevant to the above and honestly a bit of a soapbox issue/manifesto for this whole fic - it's really important to me to try to find a way to write friendship and conflict between two characters (especially female characters, and particularly female characters who have historically been at the centre of fandom shipping wars), while doing justice to both characters’ perspectives and not bashing either of them. i love both hermione and ginny as characters. i’m very interested in their friendship and both characters’ flaws and failings, and so getting to write this post-war year with both of them back at hogwarts, spending the most time together they ever have but also such different wartime experiences and perspectives is just *chef’s kiss*. we know their friendship is strong - hermione and ginny do appear in canon as people who have fun together and serve as each other’s confidants on key issues. but they’re also two strong-willed characters who canonically do fall out and must, by virtue of their characterisations, have certain faultlines running through their friendship. obvs they famously have that fantastic clash over harry and the sectumsempra curse in HBP that i’ve always been kind of obsessed with (ginny coming out swinging for harry, very strongly, rightly calling hermione out for being manipulative, but also immediately going mean in her response - the “oh, don't start acting as though you understand quidditch you'll only embarrass yourself” is, like, as iconic as it is devastating, lol) that scene remains a big jumping off point for thinking more broadly about their dynamic and relationship in this period of their lives. hermione can be tone-deaf and patronising sometimes, ginny can be angry, spiteful and childish - i want to write about that, and let both women be flawed and interesting and still worthy of respect and affection. (also i re-watched fleabag for this fic, because we're thinking about sisterhood here babyyy)

on parallels between harry and ginny as characters: writing this fic has just been me repeatedly finding 9000 more parallels between ginny and harry throughout the series i'd missed lol. this chapter i was thinking about how ginny is harry’s understudy in two quidditch finals (both of which she wins obvs), and again in the DA during DH (i know neville ends up as the only DA leader by the time of the battle of hogwarts, but i think we can tell from their canon characterisations and the deliberate parallel building between the golden and silver trios that ginny = harry, hermione = luna, and neville = ron. it’s also strongly implied in chapter 15 in DH through phineas nigellus’ testimony about the sword-stealing incident that it was ginny who was the DA ringleader and architect of that mission). now, here they are again, two captains, mirror images again. it’s just a throwaway line from angelina in this chapter (“you’re no harry” to ginny when she's trying out as seeker) but i’m having so much fun finding these parallels but trying to understand what that must have been like for ginny, to repeatedly be stepping into the shoes of the boy she loves and admires (soulmate shit, but also soul-searching shit, no?). even the way ginny is reacting to stuff in some of these scenes - hermione going to london and ginny doing her best not to sound openly jealous but failing - i was thinking about ron and the prefect badge all over again. ginny is not harry, crucially, and she has her own distinct characterisation and different responses, but they are enormously similar characters in ways i’m still learning about. (these guyyssssss honestly)

on seamus writing to ginny: have literally decided the seamus and ginny friendship arc from pebblysand’s the fault in faulty manufacturing is canon soooo that's what that is!

on the twins and ginny at muriel’s: firstly, i'm so sorry!!! secondly... i’ve had a version of that scene in my head for so so long and never knew how to use it. i briefly flirted with the idea of writing a fic about fred, george and ginny in hiding together with their parents at muriel’s and what those weeks were like for them, in what ended up being the last weeks of fred’s life. but honestly uh i cried writing that tiny vignette (and tbh welled up writing that last sentence jfc), so clearly i would not be able to get through writing that fic. their DH coins lighting up and the three of them being like woo we’re free from muriel’s we’re going to go fight let’s go? but it’s actually them going to fred’s death? i’m not ok!!!

on ginny’s card-making materials: canon compliant ginny weasley is an arts and crafts girlie. love u cute little loser girl! i see you with your sticky tape and gel pens! girls who make dumb crafts and inflict them on their friends representation!

reading list for chapter four: 

on ginny and flying: 

Little Sugar Men by DopeyTheDwarf @bluethepineapple

on ginny and hermione’s friendship:

I'll Be There by StarlingFlight

you were broken-hearted and the world was, too by celaenos

on souls:

The soul in the Harry Potter universe; a joint meta by @artemisia-black and @ashesandhackles

The Infinite Divide: A Study on Horcruxes and Souls in the Harry Potter Universe by @celestemagnoliathewriter

songs from the playlist particularly for this chapter:

for the widows in paradise, for the fatherless in ypsilanti - sufjan stevens | morrison's jig by orthodox celts | dot the dragon's eye by hanneke cassel | featherweight by fleet foxes | soon-to-be innocent fun by arthur russell | troubled waters by cat power | fallen fruit by lorde

and a sneak peek of chapter five because we need harry and gin to hang out again don't we? we've kept them apart enough 🌊🐚🎣

Of course, they get fish and chips by the sea, their new little ritual. Both of them hang off the counter, a little giddy, pointing at the notices stuck up on the wall ('Should we look for that man's cat, do you reckon? 'Gin, that cat's been missing since June, it's extremely dead'). Harry’s appalled by how much vinegar she makes the man at the shop put on her chips, grumbling as they leave the shop with the goods wrapped in warm newspaper paper. ‘I have to kiss you after you eat those, you know –’ ‘Have to?’ They perch up on the beach wall while she does battle with a ketchup sachet. He's cracking open a can of a suspicious-looking Muggle fizzy drink made by a man claiming to call himself Dr Pepper. ‘What do you mean, have to? Real hardship, is it? Great burden?' 'Yep.' He takes the ketchup sachet off her, tears it open, hands it back. 'It's tough work, but someone's got to do it.' 'How about I find myself someone else on this beach who's not such a baby and doesn't mind kissing a girl after she's had a bit of vinegar -' (She gets an unvinegared chip to the head for that one. He does let her share the fizzy drink, though it transpires he knows shamefully little about the identity of this Dr Pepper character.)

[ballsballsbowls]

I wanted to ask, since you read a lot of erotica and romance, do you have any recs for people interested in plot-heavy erotica? Thanks in advance!

I know how difficult and frustrating it is to see erotica (especially popular erotica!) that's got plotting somewhere between "shoestring" and "incoherent." In fact, there's a couple of semi-popular erotica authors that I gave up trying to read because they basically can ONLY write sex scenes and everything else is an incoherent mess. If feels as though you can really only write a lot of sex OR a lot of plot.

I'm still not getting as much plot as I'd like most of the time, but stuff that has helped me get a FEW tolerable books is:

I, pretty much universally, don't read books under 250 pages. I'm sure there's a lot of pretty good erotica for my ereader that doesn't meet that page count, but I suspect plotting it not its strong point.

Scifi/post apocalyptic/fantasy/paranormal is almost certainly going to have more plot and contemporary is almost certainly going to have less. Fortunately, I like those genres pretty well, so that's not really a hardship for me.

Obviously, mind the trigger warnings and all of that since I am useless for that stuff. Everything links to amazon because that's where I'm buying things, unfortunately. I've picked all of these up either for free or for 99 cents, so if you have time to wait you can get them pretty inexpensively.

Actually billed as erotica, either on Amazon or by author:

Beyond Shame - Kit Rocha

Post-apocalyptic/scifi with a political/gang plot, main pairing is MF but there's plenty of other stuff including MMFF. The religious theocracy part of it was a bit of a tough read this year, all things considered, but I really liked it otherwise. When I get my TBR a little more manageable, I intend to read the rest of the series, which goes on sale fairly often.

2. Initiation: Sex Wizards 1

Fantasy with mostly M/M and M/F but there's a lot of other stuff, too. I don't know that it has quite enough plot to make it onto the list, but I feel like there's enough worldbuilding to make up for it, hopefully.

3. The Rose Contract - Scottie Kaye

Fantasy political thriller with primarily M/F. This one maybe just sneaks onto the list as I'm not quite sure it has enough actual sex scenes to count in my mind, but it's billed as an erotica. These are also shorter than I normally read. I've read the first three books and do intend to read the others at some point.

Technically billed as romance, not erotica

Dark Deception by Sarah Piper

Paranormal vampire romance with substantially more sex than your average vampire romance and substantially more discussions of art history. Main pairing is MF. I bought the next book in the series.

I also have to recommend Emma Holly again for this, which is a copout as I have already recommended Emma Holly to you, but one of the most universal complaints that she got about Strange Attractions and the Hidden series both (both of which I've read and liked) is that she's got so many B and C plots in them that don't pay off because of the length of the book. Strange Attraction's entire haunting/hallucination subplot is pretty notorious for this.

I have a wishlist on amazon that's mostly 'porn with a decent plot' recs that I am desperately watching for sales, and I mostly got the recommendations from this thread, so I am hoping to have read a lot more porn with plot in the next eight months or so, but who knows. My TBR of dead tree books is about 50 books and on my ereader is about 250, so we'll see how fast I get to much of anything.

I debated sitting on this ask for another few days and thinking a little harder, but I didn't want you to think I'd forgotten about you.

[ectonurites]

Hey I noticed you saying you weren’t a Geoff Johns fan, and I was wondering why? I love his Flash, GL, and Justice League work, amongst others although I haven’t read his Teen Titans, and I’d defer to you as the expert on the core four anyway. So I was wondering, is that run just bad or is it something about his writing as a whole? Obviously not an issue you dislike Johns, just curious why.

AH YES okay so. Yeah, my problem is more specifically about his Teen Titans run rather than necessarily Johns as a writer in general. (Which I can understand not being 100% clear from the context of what I recently said. My point was primarily 'it's frustrating talking about this run with a Johns fan who blindly defends that run's characterization of the core four despite how drastically Johns had altered things')

Frankly, I don't even think I've read all that much of his work to even try to make super general comments/form general opinions on him as a writer. His Teen Titans run often incites a fiery rage within me if I try to think about it too hard/don't just joke about the funny (not intentionally funny, just turns out that way funny) parts, I was Not a fan of Three Jokers after the first issue, I did enjoy Stars and S.T.R.I.P.E., I do really enjoy Superboy: Boy of Steel, and Infinite Crisis was like, interesting. Those are the main things that come to mind that I've read from him, so like, there's definitely varying opinions there—it's not all negative. Just the negative feelings are Strong when they occur.

Anyways, to TLDR why Geoff Johns Teen Titans bugs the shit out of me: it just shows a blatant disrespect for the history and prior characterization of the Core Four! It's not even that I think the book is entirely bad, there are plenty of elements of plots I like (though it's a lot of... 'cool idea, i do not like this execution') and it in general does have some good moments... BUT I think that time where within a three day period I did a full read through of Young Justice (1998) -> Graduation Day -> Teen Titans (2003) thus within a pretty short period of time consumed about 13 years of content that pretty consistently featured at least some combination of Tim, Kon, Cassie and Bart... well it was just eye opening and showed how little care was put into many choices made with how those guys would get portrayed when they transitioned between teams.

Now, at this present point in time, it actually has been a while since I've given Teen Titans Vol. 3 (or even just Johns' run of it, so #1-50 barring a few issues with guest writers) a full reread, so I'm maybe not in the best position to articulate all my thoughts on this subject. Though I did find this post from pretty freshly after I'd done that big mega reread talking about my frustrations in how Cassie was handled.

Just seriously, look how he massacred/yassified my girl….

(Teen Titans Vol. 3 #25)

Now, one thing about me though, is that when I approach these books, even when I have problems with them I don't like to ignore them (the ‘reject the canon you don’t like’ approach to fandom simply does not work for me personally outside of situations where canon literally has conflicting info you need to ignore some of to try to reconcile things OR things get rewritten over like by reboots/retcons).

I like to try to find ways to rationalize/make sense of the things that occur, I try to put pieces together and still find something enjoyable out of it even if it’s far from what the author(s) intended. That’s how I manage to feel as negative as I do about TT Vol. 3 while then also enjoying Boy of Steel—because many of my problems with TT Vol. 3’s approach to Kon come from how changes with him were made and handled… but when I approach Boy of Steel accepting that those changes happened and taking that story in not just still being mad about the previous stuff, I do really like it. I contain multitudes.

Anyways I rambled far more than you probably needed me to, but uhhhh. yeah!

[zazzander]

Octavian's Morality

I've always felt that Octavian's moral code was simply different, rather than absent, in comparison to the other characters. Most of the main characters of the series were raised in the USA, and of course the author himself is American. Therefore while Octavian acts very Roman, that runs contrary to the morality presented by the series.

This is not to say Octavian is good, but simply that Octavian does have a code that he follows.

So I wanted to discuss with Roman virtues we could ascribe to him.

Ambition

The first and most obvious one, in New Rome we learn that ambition is a virtue. Octavian doesn't lack for ambition in the series.

“A man who turns down power?” she said. “That’s not very Roman of you.” (Son of Neptune 182)

Octavian climbs the ranks during the series and before. We know he was given the post of centurion at some point. He is also the camp's augur. He later tries to get elected praetor. He seems to either have been made or made himself Pontifex Maximus (exactly how this goes down is hard to determine). However this isn't inherently bad, nor is the war with Camp Half-blood.

Reyna is often shown as an ideal Roman in the series, as opposed to the doubting Jason or the evil Octavian. Yet she sees that war and expansion as good, recruiting "friends" (read: sponsees not lovers) is part of that.

The praetorship will be yours for the taking. Together, you and I could expand the power of Rome. We could raise an army and find the Doors or Death, crush Gaia’s forces once and for all. You would find me a very helpful… friend.”

Obviously Reyna has a different target in mind than Octavian, but Octavian believed that Gaea was working with the Greeks, so ultimately - not that different. Octavian is ambitious, but that's not necessarily a flaw where he's from!

Firmitas "Tenacity"

One thing Octavian doesn't lack is tenacity. While Octavian doesn't have a lot of physical strength (at least, that's what Riordan intended though there's some evidence to the contrary) he does have strength of mind. Yeah, he has a lot of emotions and he was also certainly experiences psychosis at the end of BOO, however, he still manages to lead an army and eventually helps take down Gaea.

Octavian is determined. He sticks to his purpose. He can endure set back after set back without losing sight of his goals. Hell, he was covered in melting gold and still managed to keep going.

Honestas "Respectibility"

Definition: The image that one presents as a respectable member of society.

Okay, so this isn't something most modern folks necessarily see as a virtue. People don't walk around in suits anymore for example, but that doesn't mean Octavian wasn't raised with that expectation. Throughout the series we see Octavian wearing his toga or his armour even when others are not. His image as a proper Roman is just as important as his actions. This isn't necessarily something that Octavian likes doing, I think he prefers more casual clothing - as seen through his baggy shirts and pants. But he knows that isn't respectable.

Humanitas "Humanity"

Definition: refinement, civilization, learning, and being cultured

Octavian is knowledgeable about history, myths, and legends (as seen with his research on the Sibylline books). He's also a good orator, a good speaker.

Pietas

I would argue that his most tightly held virtue is his pietas. This Roman virtue has many levels and ways it can be expressed. It's deference to one's parents and ancestors. Which Octavian definitely had going on. It's also about fulfilling his duties to the gods and following their will in all aspects of life. Octavian acted with the guidance of the gods. We know that many of his gods were supportive of the war: Mars, Victoria, and Apollo to name a few. It's recognising your place in the community. As the augur, Octavian has set duties that I personally believe he was trying his best to fulfil. After all, the previous augur screwed up royally back in the 00s with Varus, so Octavian has that added pressure regarding his role.

Octavian smiled. “Already decided I’m your enemy? That’s a rash choice, Percy. I’m a loyal Roman.”

When Octavian says "I am a loyal Roman" I think this is what he's meaning. Technically pietas doesn't mean loyalty, but the way Octavian uses the word fits best. This virtue includes ideas like patriotism. I feel the concept of pietas fits better than the nationalism some have argued.

And this is something he values, outside of those who seek a second chance (and redemption) he's critical of all who lack pietas.

“Good!” Octavian yelled. “They’re traitors. All traitors!”

And I think Octavian's pietas is also one of the things that makes him seem so odd to the POV characters. It's not something they see as important, most don't really respect the gods at all (who are also their parents). So when Octavian talks about his loyalty to Rome, when he follows orders he doesn't like, or when he acts within the expectations of his rank - they see it as inherently wrong when Octavian would see it as honourable.

[aquietwritingcorner]

Knife Wound

Title: Knife Wound       Day: Febuwhump 2023 Day 20: Knife Wound Fandom: TMNT 2003 Word Count: 4316   Author: aquietwritingcorner/realitybreakgirl Rating: T   Characters: Donatello, Leonardo, Raphael, Michelangelo, Splinter     Warning: SAINW references, blood    Summary: Donatello stares. He should be doing something. He should be moving. He should be helping. He should be breathing. He’s not. It’s like he’s frozen, and he can’t move. He’s stuck. He feels like he’s stuck between worlds and there are different versions winking in and out of existence before his eyes, even though he knows in his head what should be right. Or, well, who should be the right one. Because nothing about this is right. Mikey is laying in their medbay, a large knife from a Karai bot sticking out of his side. And Don isn’t sure how much of what he’s seeing is this reality, or another reality. Notes: Is this what I originally intended for this prompt? No. Is this what happened? Yes.   ff.net || AO3

______________________________________________ 

Knife Wound

Donatello stares. He should be doing something. He should be moving. He should be helping. He should be breathing.

He’s not.

It’s like he’s frozen, and he can’t move. He’s stuck. He feels like he’s stuck between worlds and there are different versions winking in and out of existence before his eyes, even though he knows in his head what should be right.

Or, well, who should be the right one. Because nothing about this is right.

Mikey is laying in their medbay, a large knife from a Karai bot sticking out of his side. And Don isn’t sure how much of what he’s seeing is this reality, or another reality.

Suddenly, Raphael is in his face, blocking his view of Mikey, and yelling at him.

“Don! DON! Snap out of it! What do we do next!”

He shakes Don, and that, plus not seeing Mikey seems to break the spell. Right. He has a job to do. If he doesn’t want to lose his little brother today (or at all, a voice says, unlike before. Don tries to ignore it) then he has to snap out of it and move. Because if he doesn’t, Mikey will die, thanks to a blade from a Karai bot. Just like—

No, no. Donnie shakes his head and refocuses. He has a job to do. He’s always been good at compartmentalizing. So that’s what he’ll do now.

“Alright, um… okay, here’s what we’ll need.”

Don isn’t a doctor. He’s an engineer. He’s a scientist. But by virtue of overlapping fields and sheer intelligence, he’s often forced to be a doctor. Leo is pretty good at it too, working as Don’s nurse a lot of times. If Don couldn’t be the doctor, then he’s sure that Leo would be able to take over very well.

He’s grateful for that today.

While Don usually drops himself into a headspace where he can effectively treat his brothers, it’s never quite felt like this before. Don’s work is all competent and professional, but he doesn’t feel like he’s the one doing it. It feels more like he’s observing himself from inside his body, as if he isn’t the one in control. He obviously is, but it doesn’t feel that way. He’s read about this before. What is it? Disassociating? That might be it.

Still, he manages to remove the knife from the Karai bot that is still inside Mikey, scoring down his unprotected side. There’s blood, so much blood, but Don keeps working, Leo by his side, removing any foreign debris, checking to make sure nothing inside is too damaged, and cleaning and stitching the wound. Raph hasn’t left the room, staying near Mikey’s head, and Splinter came in at some point, although Don isn’t sure when that happened.

And then it’s over, and Leo is taking care of the cleanup, and someone is telling him to go wash up. He goes to the little sink in the corner of their medical area and begins to wash his hands, starting, slowly to come back to himself. They’re fortunate. The wound wasn’t as bad as it looked, and Don will be forever grateful for that. But he can’t stop thinking about the last time he saw Mikey with Karai bot blades stuck in him, about all the blood there, and he washes his hands harder. The blood swirls in the sink, growing redder and redder and all he’s seeing is his brother with Karai bot blades stuck in him and it’s his fault, it’s his fault, it’s hisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfault—

Someone touches his shoulder, and he jerks back with a gasp, spinning to look at the person, hands reaching for a bo that he doesn’t currently have on him. It’s just Raph, and he’s saying something, but Don can’t make it out. But he stares at Raph, at the eye that isn’t there, and the wounds that cover him, and Donnie can’t breathe.

--hisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfault--

Leo says something, and Don’s attention snaps up to him. But he’s not young anymore either, old and scarred and nearly blind. He’s stabbed through, bleeding out, dying and Don has no idea what he’s saying.

--hisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfault--

He glances at Mikey, and—was he always missing an arm? Wasn’t it just a cut he was treating? No, no, several cuts, several sickening swipes from Karai bots and Mikey is covered in wounds and there’s nothing he can do, nothing at all and—

--hisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfault--

--and there’s a hand on his shoulder, smaller, furry, and Don looks down at Master Splinter, who shouldn’t even be here, and he locks up for a moment. Its too much, its all too much and he wants nothing more than to flee, because it’s too much. He tries. He tries to run away from it all, but his legs are traitors and before he can do more than take a step, his legs are giving out and he’s half sitting, half falling, and his arms are around his head and there’s a high-pitched whine coming from somewhere—

Oh. That’s him.

He can’t seem to stop, though, and he can tell that his family is talking, but he can’t understand what or why. All he knows is that he can’t breathe, because it’s all his fault, all his fault, all of it all of it, all of it is his fault.

--hisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfault--

A sob bursts out of him, and it’s like the dam brakes. He tries to suppress it, tries to hold it in, but now that one sob has happened, others follow. He curls over, hands still clutching his head, still sitting on the ground. It feels rough now, and there’s the smell of smoke in the air. His ears ring, leftover sound from the gunshots. There’s something wet on the ground, and he knows that it’s blood. His brothers’ blood. He lets out a wail, but it does nothing to ease the torment that is happening.

--hisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfault--

He feels hands on him, trying to get him to uncurl, but he won’t. He can’t. One set of hands seems to give up and starts running over the places they can see as if searching for something. The other set keeps trying to draw him out of his doubled-over position. They feel like his brothers’ hands, but that’s impossible now. Those hands will never feel anything again.

--hisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfault--

The hands give up, and he feels himself being bodily moved by both pairs of hands until he his deposited on something else. Someone hugs him from behind, arms and legs wrapping around him as much as possible, pulling him to whoever it is, and squeezing up against his shell. He can feel the way the person is breathing, he’s so smashed up against him. It feels suffocating, but he doesn’t want the person to let go either. He can’t breathe, which is a problem, but he feels a hand on his chest, pressing against his plastron firmly. He doesn’t consciously realize it at first, but the hand is applying pressure and relieving it in regular intervals. It matches the breathing of whoever has him and, Don realizes with surprise, he has matched it too, quite unconsciously.

--hisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfault--

It takes him a moment to realize that his sobs have calmed, that he’s breathing again, and that he can hear what’s going on around him.

“There you go, just keep breathing with me, Donnie. That’s it. Nice, even breaths.”

Confused, Don looks up into Leo’s face. His brother has a calm expression, and it’s his hand on Don’s plastron. He looks over to the medical bed where Mikey is, only to find his brother sitting propped up, looking at Don with worry. Next to him is Splinter, his hand on Mikey’s shoulder. That could only mean that Raph is the person behind him, and he glances down at the hands and legs that are wrapped around him, providing pressure. That is definitely his brother’s skin tone.

None of them are old or scarred or mortally injured. Most importantly, none of them are dead, and for a moment, Don can’t understand how that can be. There was no way that they survived unless Don had missed something, but—

--hisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfault--

Donnie wiggles a little, loosening, and Raph lets up with the pressure, allowing Don to uncurl himself from the position he was in. Raph doesn’t leave his back, though, and Leo doesn’t take his hand off of his plastron.

“There you are,” Leo says with a smile. “You back with us, Don?”

“I… how…” he reaches a trembling hand up to Leo’s face, and Leo doesn’t flinch away from it. He lets Don touch his face, and Don marvels at the fact that there are no scars on his face. Bewildered, he looks around. Splinter is standing there, alive. Mikey is awake, propping himself up to look at Don, both arms in clear view. Don twists around just enough to see Raph. He has both eyes. “You’re all…”

--hisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfault--

Don deflates, leaning back on Raph, as reality settles in once more. This isn’t that place. This isn’t that future. His brothers are here, with him, young and whole and alive. Master Splinter is here with him, alive and in no danger of being killed. There’s no smoke, and the ringing in his ears is just a memory. He’s not covered in blood, and nothing around him is in shambles. He tilts his head back on Raph’s shoulder for a moment, closes his eyes and just breathes.

The silence stretches, and Don is both not sure how to break it and unwilling to break it. He’s lost all ability to track time at the moment, so it could have been seconds or half an hour later when Splinter is the one to break the silence.

“My son?” he asks. “Are you alright?”

Don opens his eyes and looks around the room again, noticing the looks and undercurrents of concern that are being directed his way. He looks away from them and closes his eyes instead. His hands fidget with one another. “Yeah,” he says softly, willing his voice not to break. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Raph’s familiar rumble comes from behind him, and Don can feel the way it vibrates in his chest. “Don, you ain’t got nothin’ to be sorry for.”

Something in that makes Don’s heart hurt, although he’s not sure why. As far as he’s concerned, he has plenty to apologize for. So, so much to apologize for.

Suddenly, he feels Raph’s arms tighten on him again. “Hey,” his brother says from behind him. “Don’t go getting’ yerself all worked up again.”

“Don, what was that?” Leo asks.

Don feels a lump form in his throat. He shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says. “It was nothing.”

Don can feel Raph tense behind him, getting ready to say something but Leo steps towards Don instead, taking his hands. “This isn’t nothing, Don,” he says, pulling Don’s hands apart. “If it was, you wouldn’t be doing this to yourself.”

It takes Don a minute to realize what Leo is talking about, but he looks at his hands. The skin on them is irritated, and belatedly Don realizes that he had been rubbing them hard enough to irritate the skin. If Leo hadn’t of stopped it, if Don hadn’t of noticed, then Don’s sure he would have kept going until he was bleeding.

--hisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfault--

“Was it because of me?” Mikey asks. “Because I got hurt?”

The idea of Mikey thinking any of this is his fault strikes Don hard, and he hurries to reassure his brother. “No, no, it wasn’t your fault, none of it is your fault. It never was.” Don is babbling he knows, but he can’t seem to stop. “It was—

--hisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfault--

“—mine—”

--hisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfault--

“—All of it—”

--hisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfault--

“—and I couldn’t—”

--hisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfault--

“—I couldn’t see it again—”

--hisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfault--

“—I—”

There’s a firm shake from behind him, and Raph’s sure voice speaking in his ear again. “What the shell are ya talkin’ about Donnie? You weren’t anywhere near Mikey when that bot got him. There was nothin’ you could have done.”

Don felt like he couldn’t breathe. Raph was right. Once again there was nothing he could have done to save his brother, nothing at all and—

“Actually, it’s because of you it’s not worse.”

Mikey’s voice breaks through the building panic, and Don’s head whips around to him, ignoring the soft “hey” from Raph as his bandana tails hit his brother in the face.

“I mean, I didn’t even know it was there, but then you yelled, and I was able to move back. I mean, yeah, it still got me in the side, but if I hadn’t of moved it woulda been a lot worse. And I only knew to move because you yelled.”

Mikey’s looking at Don with earnest eyes, and Don knows that his brother is telling the truth. But that doesn’t erase the panic he feels at the thought of even one of those bots coming near Mikey.

“My son,” Splinter steps forward, reaching towards Don’s hands and Leo steps to the side. “You said that you couldn’t see Michelangelo injured again.” Don’s breath hitches. “But Michelangelo has never been injured severely by one of these robots. Where have you see it happen?”

His father’s eyes are on him, searching, but full of compassion, and it undoes Don. He can’t keep it inside anymore. He feels his eyes well with tears, and he slumps as much as he is able with Raph’s arms still around him, his head bowing.

“…in the future,” he whispers out.

“The future?” Leo says, clearly surprised. “But when did you see the future?”

“When Draco and the Daimyo’s son sent us away,” Don says, and he hears the intakes of breath around him, feels Raph’s grip tighten from where it had slacked.

“What happened, my son?” Splinter asks, and for a moment, Don says nothing. They Splinter lays a hand on his cheek, directing his head up to look at him. “Donatello. Please. What happened?”

Don trembles. He leans into his father’s hand, and he breaks. Between tears and gasping sobs, he tells them the story.

“When we were sent away, I found myself in the lair. Only… it was destroyed. It looked like a fight had happened, one that destroyed walls and rooms. The only thing I saw in one piece was the tunnler. I went above ground to see what I could find. As soon as I appeared up there, there were lights on me and people demanding that I surrender. I didn’t know what to do, so I was going to comply, try to figure out what was happening. But then I saw the emblem that the people wore. They worked for the Foot. Before I could do anything about it, though, something started to attack them, taking them out quickly, effectively, and silently. He didn’t reveal himself until after he had taken care of the Foot soldier.”

He pauses, and looks up, eyes only for Mikey. “It was Mikey. But… he was old. His voice was deeper, and he was scarred and… and… he only had one arm.”

Mikey’s eyes widen, and by reflex he touches one of his arms. Don wonders if it chance or some predestiny of the universe that he touches the one that was missing.

“He told me… he said that I’d been missing for thirty years. He said that the Shredder had taken over. He’d conquered the Utroms, he’d conquered the earth. People worked eighteen-hour days and he had troops and spies and Karai bots everywhere.” Don pauses, but feels the tears come faster. “He had been taking me somewhere and when we stopped, it was in the park—at your grave, Sensei.” Don’s voice trembles and he leans more into Splinter’s hand. Splinter lets him and squeezes his hand with the other. “He said… you’d died… you’d died protecting… well, not us, because I wasn’t there. But them.”

Don pauses, trying to get himself back under control, to where he can speak clearly again. “After that, he took me to April. She was running the resistance. So many people had died trying to stop the Shredder, but they kept fighting. Even Casey had died.” He hears Raph’s sharp inhalation when he hears the fate of his friend, but Raph doesn’t let go of Don. “I knew there had to be a way to stop him so I—” Don shudders, and he can feel Raph hold him tighter, feel Splinter grip his hand more.

“I was foolish and arrogant, but they believed me anyway,” he says and it probably doesn’t make sense to anyone but him at this point, but he doesn’t care. It was true. “I asked April to set up a meeting with Raph and Leo. According to Mikey, after I disappeared, the family fell apart. He said, ‘I guess we really needed that big brain of yours’ and blamed me not being there, me not being able to help keep things calm, on why Leo and Raph split.”

He can feel some sort of emotion ripple through the room, but he doesn’t want to identify it. He can’t. “They showed up, but… Raph had lost an eye, and was scarred all over. Leo was blind or nearly blind, also covered in scars. The moment they saw each other, they almost went to blows. I stopped them and—”

He pauses here, shuddering a bit and leaning back into Raph. His tears fall faster. “Raph hugged me tighter than I’ve ever been hugged before. It surprised me, but it felt so desperate, so relieved. I didn’t—I wished I’d let him hug me more now.”

Raph tightens his hug, leans his forehead on the back of Don’s head, and Don continues. “I don’t know why they listened to me. They shouldn’t have. But they did.” Don’s breath hitches. “I convinced them of a plan, using a captured Karai bot and the tunnler, a plan to take out the Shredder once and for all.” His breath stutters. “I wish I never had.”

Sensing something bad coming, his family closes ranks, as much as they can. Don’s tears fall faster but he can’t stop now, the words spilling out.

“We went in, in the tunnler, my brothers as themselves, me in a mech suit. The plan was to lure the Shredder to the tunnler, get him into position and turn on the drill, ending him once and for all. But—” He shudders, and Raph leans into him. “Karai was there, and Karai bots and—and I took on the Shredder, but they were still there. The bots, they got to Mikey first, surrounded him and—” Don lets out a sob. “He called to me! He called my name! Right before they cut him down, slashed him to death, he called out for me, and I couldn’t do anything!”

--hisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfault--

“Absolutely nothing!” His head bends forward, his eyes scrunch closed. “I saw it happen, I heard him call for me and I couldn’t do anything! And then—” his breath hitches again. “Karai—she and Leo had been dueling and… I don’t know, I think they were also talking. I’m not sure. But he had her! He had her and then one of the bots came up behind him. Leo turned to take care of it and she—she—she just—she stabbed him! Right then, right there and—I could see the moment he died!”

--hisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfault--

He’s curling over more now, despite Raph’s grip on him. He’s pulled himself out of Splinter’s grasp, his face no longer in cupped by Splinter’s hand, and his hands pulled inward again. “Raph saw it too, and he lost it! He went after Karai. They fought, but in the end, he took mortal injury. I thought—I had hoped that maybe—seeing as April killed Karai with a rocket before Raph died that maybe—” he shook his head violently. “He called out for Leo, crawled to him, and then died right there.”

--hisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfault--

The tears are falling faster now, but Don is barely feeling them. “The Shredder goaded me about it and I—I lost it. I shot him with machine guns, and I screamed at him. He still managed to get ahold of my suit, but he was in position by then, and out of allies. I tethered him and myself to the tunnler and turned on the drill. I slipped out of my suit and I stood there and I watched as the drill tore him to pieces. I was glad he was dead. But—”

--hisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfault--

“April said that I had saved the world, saved them from the nightmare, but… they were there. I could see them. My brothers. All dead. And—and all because of me! Because of my plan! Because they trusted me! Because—”

--hisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfault--

“—Because it’s all my fault!”

Don’s hands are up by his head again, clutching it and pressing in. He’s as doubled over as he can be as sobs pour out of him.

“My fault, my fault, my fault, my fault, they’re all dead and it’s my fault! It’s my fault! Mine! My fault—”

Warm arms embrace him again, and then he feels another set, and another. The ones already on him tighten, and he doesn’t fight them as he sobs. There are noises, sounds, but he can’t make heads or tails of them. But they’re comforting, and even as he wails out the despair he’s been holding onto for all these months, the arms never leave him.

Finally, he’s spent, and it feels like the only thing holding him up are those arms that are around him. He wavers a little, and the pair that hasn’t let go this entire time stays steady.

“We gotcha, bro,” Raph says.

Don looks up at his brothers. “S-sorry,” he said.

Mikey reaches up and flicks him on the snout. “Nuh-uh,” Mikey says from where he’s worked himself under one of Don’s arms. “Like Raph said earlier, you’ve got nothing to be sorry about.”

Leo leans his warmth up against Don’s other side. “No wonder you were so upset about a knife wound. After what you’ve been through, I think I would have lost my mind.”

“I know I would have,” Raph says.

“Don’t you have to have one first to lose it?” Mikey quips, and Raph reaches over to pull his bandana tails.

“Ow!” Mikey rubs his head, but turns his attention back to Don. “Seriously, though, your freak out makes total sense now.”

“…but I don’t even know if that’s our future,” Don says, sniffing. “It might not be. Or maybe it was but now that I know it’s not going to be. Or maybe it was a different timeline altogether. I—"

“You have been through something traumatic,” Splinter says, interrupting him. “Whether or not those were these brothers that you have here, or another set that were indistinguishable from them, what you have seen and been through is real and traumatic. That is all that matters.”

“It’s not all, Master,” Leo says. “What matters most, now, is that we’re here for Don. And we won’t ever let that future happen.” He looks over at Raph. “No matter what, right?”

Raph nods. “No matta what,” he agrees.

Don laughs or sobs, or maybe both, and leans into his brothers and father, into his family, letting their presence envelop him. It’s peaceful, even if Don does feel absolutely spent.

“Hey,” Mikey says, because Mikey can’t be quiet for long. “Are you going to react to all knife wounds I get this way now? Because that might cause some problems down the line. If I need stitches, I need you to be all there, okay? I gotta keep my handsome looks.”

Raphael puts a hand in Mikey’s face, lightly shoving him away. “Mikey,” he growls, although they all know it’s not his serious growl, “’shuddup and go make us some popcorn. I think we need a night together.”

“Star Trek marathon?” Leo offers as he lets go and moves back, offering Don his hand.

Don takes it, wavering a bit as he gets up. Raph is right there beside him to steady him. “Sounds good, Leo,” Don says.

“Oh, let’s make it Original Series!” Mikey says as he scampers out of the medbay, only, apparently, a little slowed down by his wound. “It’s the cheesiest and the ones that Don can recite in his sleep.”

“So can you,” Raph shoots back. He looks over at Leo and Don. “I’ll go get the pillows and blankets.”

Leo nods, and, together, he, Don, and Master Splinter make their way out of the medbay. Don can already hear the popcorn popping and Mikey humming in the kitchen. As soon as Leo makes sure Don is on the couch, he leaves to help Raph in gathering the blankets and pillows. Master Splinter settles into his chair, even though Don knows that Star Trek isn’t something that their father really cares for.

Don still feels guilty. He still has a voice chanting “myfaultmyfaultmyfault” in the back of his mind. He’s still going to be obsessive over the lair’s security and his brother’s safety, and their bonds, and a million other things. He’s positive he’s going to keep having nightmares and sleepless nights.

But as he listens to Mikey’s off-key singing, and Leo and Raph’s quiet conversation, as he relaxes in his father’s presence, Don is satisfied that at least there’s this. That experience will always be a part of him. But so will the moments like this, and maybe that is what can help him heal and keep that future from happening again.

[sixofravens-reads]

Finished Chlorine!

I am extremely conflicted about it, mainly because I don't know if the author intended for the MC to be such a raging asshole edgelord or if this is a case where they think the MC behaves totally fine in all circumstances and truly all their problems are everyone else's fault.

Ah well, we embrace death of the author.

IF this book is written so the MC, Ren, is intentionally a huge asshole who takes very little agency in her life, rarely communicates her thoughts with others, treats her best (and only) friend horribly, and constantly blames others for her own actions (ie. telling the doctor she was no longer feeling pain from her concussion and then getting angry later because he didn't realize she was lying to get a doctor's note), it's an interesting and complex tale about a conceited, selfish star athlete who develops the delusion that she's a mermaid and [insert body horror here]. Obviously not everything that happens is her fault either--her swim coach is a certified pervert, she faces racism throughout the story, etc--but that what makes it interesting, untangling her complicated and often blatantly incorrect inner narrative.

Throughout the story there are also letters from her friend Cathy to her, explaining Cathy's perspective on things and apologizing for perceived wrongdoings. The thing is--comparing the two narratives it becomes clear that this is an extremely toxic friendship. Cathy is in love with Ren, and also trying to be the best friend she can be. Ren seems to completely ignore her, disdain her friendliness, is openly rude to her, and complains about how shy and anxious she is. It's clear this is one of those classic Jennifer's Body-esque Girl Friendships where Ren is the leader and Cathy is more like her devoted follower than an equal.

Idk--the way it's written though, I can't really tell if the author recognizes this fucked-up-ness or if she truly thinks her MC is okay to act this way because she's ~different~.

Another thing is that the story is being narrated by future!Ren who has apparently become a real mermaid (though tbh I think you can also read it as her just being delusional, she did sew her own legs together to make a mermaid tale after all, we're given no proof that magic is real in this world and she could very well be narrating this as she swims herself to death) and I think that takes away from the story a bit--every scene is coloured with her teenage views and opinions and angst.

It makes it hard to see what Ren is feeling in the moment, for example when the doctor she sees after getting a concussion asks her how much her head is hurting, she replies with "what if I hurt everywhere all the time?" and then clarifies to the reader that this is "the pain of living in the human world." As in, some existential pain and not real, physical pain. Which comes across as eye-rollingly #edgy emo kid nonsense, but also makes no sense because for the first 2/3rds of the book she doesn't really address the "I transformed myself into a mermaid because I didn't want to be human" thing. She constantly wants to be swimming, but it's specifically about her swim team and scores and such and not about any existential longing.

Anyway my final complaint is that the word chlorine is badly overused. The author basically uses it as a replacement for the word 'water' for most of the book. And I understand and Ren's thing is that she wants to become a "mermaid" via swim team success and therefore obsessed with chlorinated water, but it's absolutely overkill lol. You can still say water or pool water and people will know what you mean.

So, I'd say 3.5/5 for this one, interesting book but I think with this being the author's debut novel she still has some work to do on writing style, purple prose, and making her characters believable.

[carcharsaur]

I like doing my little rant posts 2 people read so I'm doin it again this year :] this time I finished something way sooner too

fatamoru... took me half a year to get myself to actually read it but well it's a classic and it's good as hell what can I say (spoilers under cut)

gonna link my longass livetweet thread here for posterity so it's not completely lost in the mire

this felt so targeted though it's legit dumbfounding. I went into it only recalling 1 and a halfish spoilers of 1) michel is the MC and 2) he had trans stuff going on and honestly if anything my jumping at shadows and going HUH WAIT ? the whole time knowing that kinda heightened the experience for me early on. I was about to say at first it was hard to know what parts of the story I should really sink my teeth into but I think that was the intended experience... these stories aren't yours etc... the atmosphere and ost especially is also like soooo crazy good I was worried it'd be hard for me to stay focused on this game without voice acting but I was surprised how well it stuck even if some of the sfx are very obviously old and scuffed none of them took me out of it much (this has been a legit issue for me with some games.. the otomate sound library is really scuffed sometimes LOL) and even when the game was going over the same events, in different contexts etc it never started grating on me so that is a huge W. too many fucking games act like you just weren't paying attention when you were reading and it not only pisses me off but it's just so boring. so this avoiding that entirely was really good. GRIPPING. some of it was so edge of my seat I think I played for like 10 or more hours straight I thought I was gonna die but in a good way LMAO I don't think I have anything interesting or poignant to say about the actual story itself other than despite everything I want jacopo dead, I totally get the point about letting go and moving on and a cycle needing to be broken and it was visceral and moving and so real to me. but also. jacopo deserved all that shit. everything else though I'm just sitting there yelling TRUE AS HELL!!!!!! really loud. I love you michel I love you giselle I'm gonna get u outta there morgana. wait I lied. morgana as the white haired girl. it's not fucking fair.... I wanted to save her... I do think 'she' truly did become part of morgana again though, based just on how scared morgana was of didier at the end, at the cries of being called an unholy witch... a fear that only she held, morgana sort of reveled in being a witch in the course of carrying out the cruelty. but the saintly part of her feared that fall, that complete inversion of her self and the hatred it pointed towards her as well... man : ( ........... : (

I could write an essay specifically on the ways I relate to michel to a like genuinely scary degree the overlap made me sick to my stomach in the best way. but honestly I would be a weepy mess at the end of it so I don't wanna do all that. as an aside though apparently the author(s) have said he's "only intersex, not trans" but man I think that's a stupid as hell delineation to make. he's both. he was assigned 'female' at birth and was raised as a woman and chafed against the social role of 'woman'. IF ANYTHING I relate to him more about not necessarily feeling dysphoric/lacking in regard to his genitals on his own but more about the fact that that somehow invalidates his status as a 'man' being something that torments him. it's a topic that overlaps imo. but the fact the game handles it with as much tact as it does while being as old as it is surprised me. though I could see it being still too upsetting for some because the depiction of the trauma is kind of like. viscerally too real almost. when giselle described her abuse... it wasn't even descriptive in the disgusting voyeuristic way it so often is in other places, but the representation of how it just feels to be subject to that was so real that it really really fucked me up... I'M DOING THE THING I JUST SAID I SHOULDN'T AAHHH but well. it's really good. it's like eating a heavy but hearty meal where it's so good but I can feel it sitting in my stomach and the weight of it just makes me groan. does this even make sense anymore. man.

ok a selection of my fav screengrabs to play me off before I continue in such a manner.

GISELLE PUFFED CHEEKS VERY CUTE

[enneamage]

continuing with the whole pet name/nickname argument, i think i'm kind of an anomaly in that i think the usage of petnames when it comes to crimeboys isn't as far off from real-life as people make it out to be. i'm the youngest (with a large age gap like wilbur & tommy) and i have an older brother & two older sisters, all of which frequently call me nicknames like baby or baby girl, which might sound kinda weird to an outsider but that's just how the dynamic is and there isn't anything inherently wrong with it. i don't think the issue is with the nicknames, i think it's because 1. they're real people and obviously not actually related, so it'd be like friends* calling each other darling & that's obviously gonna raise some eyebrows. people don't realize that though because the family dynamic was sowed into their friendship from the very beginning. *two people who met online with an 8-year age difference 2. the way they're written (again talking about crimeboys bc that's what i'm most familiar with) has a LOT of romantically(?) charged subtext. wilbur's often portrayed as weirdly possessive over tommy, almost like you would be in a relationship, and as you said they take any chance for intimacy & pass it off as platonic, especially when it comes to the whole animal shifter type fics. that's where the main issue comes from, not really from the nicknames themselves. just my two cents though

I agree that nicknames aren’t the source of the issue as much as a symptom of it. I know I’ve seen “sunshine” around, and that’s pretty much a fandom nickname for Tommy, so as a fanon thing it’s kind of at a crossroads. The thing I keep an eye on is if the nickname is used to create some of the power dynamics I talked about in the kink post, if it’s an act of possessiveness or it’s intended to make him seem unnecessarily small compared to other people. It’s better to think of them as tools and look at what atmosphere they’re used to create, if it either seems romantic or very charged in a steep uncanny power dynamic way.

The thing is that the fic author also has control over how old he is in a fic, so they can just say ‘of course they’re babying him he’s a seven year old’ as though that was not also a choice made by the author. Fic that is now keeping him small/young or freezing him in place to keep the ‘family’ dynamic going is in the danger zone for me recently. In a world where trends come and go and people naturally get bored or move on to different dynamics, it’s kind of telling when someone chooses to ignore what him being a young adult brings about and focuses on aging him back down or even younger to create the most extreme possessive/caregiver dynamics possible. Everyone in SBI kind of takes turns being a self-insert depending on what the author wants and there is still some innocence in young people thinking that they want to read about an ideal family, but they’re mixed in with people who have different desires as well.

It can be really hard to point to a scene and objectively say ‘this is romantic’ so I’m just working from the clues I can point to. I know I’ve always been sensitive to when stories paint two characters as each others one-and-only, like it’s very clear that their life at it’s core will revolve around and prioritise this partnership, and even that’s not completely unrealistic for a platonic partnership. The thing is, I think that’s the loophole. People can dress things up as uplifting familial/platonic relationships and come down on others for calling things into question because it seems progressive to ‘normalise’ non romantic connection and intimacy (even physical initmacy,) they’ve seized the moral high ground. Now that they have a strategy they can do what they want with the strategy, and it becomes telling what they choose to do with it.

[miss-windsong]

I’ve sat on this website for quite a while without actually using it for its “intended purpose” - that is, it being a blog. I realized it this morning, while I was watching a silly youtube video where someone vented their thoughts into the void of the internet, and I found myself thinking “I wish I could do that”. Well, it turns out I can! So I will. And while my stomach will boil with anxiety that someone will somehow find my inner dialogue an intrusion on their day and respond to me with a strongly worded comment explaining how my comfort in sharing myself is misplaced, I think I’m a little tired of letting that anxiety dictate my decisions. So... yeah. Here you go.

I will preface all of this by saying I speak on a lot of topics with a frankly astonishing amount of misplaced confidence. I think that’s almost a prerequisite of being in your early 20s, so I try not to worry overly much about it. 

I was thinking this morning about the idea of being happy with yourself. I think for a long time, I have chased the idea that if I succeed at my goals, that I will wake up the next day happier, or fixed, or at least that my problems and my self-doubt and all the little whispers my brain helpfully supplies me with will be faded away, and it’ll all be replaced with some glorious never-ending sunrise of happiness and self-love.

Obviously, that’s not how it works - but it’s shockingly easy for me to forget that I’m deluding myself into thinking that it is. It’s not often that I stop and question why I want my goals. Of course I want to finish a book, or go to school, or accomplish some nebulous idea of “being successful”, but why? I think the biggest warning sign of the way this particular tragedy tends to play out can be seen in just how many authors and athletes and actors and other successful people in careers starting with the letter A seem to struggle with the kind of depression that never goes away. I hate generalizing, but I’m going to do it anyway - I can imagine some unknowable percentage of those people are stuck with this realization that achieving the things they dreamed of did not, in fact, fix their problems for them. I can see that exact problem in my future (or at least, in a future where I manage to “make it”). 

But that’s only half the battle, isn’t it? I can pat myself on the back and be proud for spotting that out, but the problem now is what to do about it. Does it mean that my dreams aren’t worth fulfilling, if they aren’t going to fix everything? Of course not. I think they’re worth chasing just for the sake of having something to chase. Life seems terribly dull without something unachievable to fruitlessly chase while convincing myself that I can do it because I am Me, and that makes me Special.

So I suppose that means that the solution to these inner problems is to actually sit down and solve them myself, by hand. A very unglamorous proposal, considering it took near a decade just to convince myself that I am even worth working on. I expect any such work of that description to be filled with anxious days and anxious nights, backsliding, tears, burnt bridges, and burnt dinners when I get too wrapped up in my own thoughts and forget to turn the stove off (I am still mourning the remains of the chili I made a few nights ago. Food is the true victim of self-reflection).

I have no clue how to wrap this up (or any of my stories, if anyone who reads this knows how to write satisfying endings please message me, I am desperate for guidance), so I’ll just end with the hope that someone else reads this and gets something out of it - whether you see yourself in my ramblings, or you just liked a turn of phrase and wish to steal it. Now, I’m going to go for a walk and stare at some trees and desperately try to convince myself that posting this was a good idea. If you actually waded through all of those words, then I hope you have an absolutely lovely day, and may your chili remain gloriously unburnt so you may have leftovers tomorrow.