#but that's just a theory... A SLUG THEORY!!!

[supremefloof]

ep 12 thoughts!!

WOOOOO FIGHT SCENES!!!!!!!!!

this is so interesting!! is this like the police force...? made by the commission... also Bowa says she doesn't want to be a "commission suit".

crack theory that's X's arm and he shot her

I mean the arms do match... do you see the vision

somebody give X a gun

i agree x is very handsome and strong :3

man every time you see Micky again it just gets nailed in how yucky he is.

oh my gosh the fear people... I wonder if this is an Aether labs researcher. the design is so unsettling 😭it's like a slug fused with the boston dynamics robot dog

and Queen can fly now! it seems her powers are to set rules within an area, to fly, to summon spears, and to command the spears to do things like home in on people.

this really feels chilling every time somebody vaporizes someone lost to Fear. like- that's a person. it's been shown you can take someone out of this state.

WHAT IS THIS? it seems DOS is trying to investigate X and his ties with other heroes? ...why is wreck on this screen? who is NINE? could that badass looking woman on the left be the woman who shares the billboard with X in ep 1?

Nine is a "rebel hero". does this mean like a vigilante/rogue hero? suspected ally of X?

this chart is generally confusing. does this mean Rock has a poor relationship with X or a poor relationship with DOS because both work. why would you suspect nine to be your ally. uhhhh somebody smarter than me solve this please

I like how there's powerscaling LMAO. Wreck gets a grade of A. Nine is S- (maybe this guy is in the top 10? or close?) X gets a grade of SSS.

THIS FIGHT SCENE IS INCREDIBLEEEEE. ITS SEVEN AND A HALF MINUTES LONG??!!

oh my gawddddd. they knew we would be sad about not seeing a Queen vs X fight and gave us THIS instead!! pure eye candy.

it's so long too, absolutely beautiful, love the use of being conveniently in a place with many easily destroyed shipping containers and cranes and things

I REALLY like Bowa as a character now. this is so insanely tragic to me. she's been stewing in Fear for years - but like Trust, this doesn't necessarily just seem like fear. she truly has worked twice as hard as anyone else! she is attacking in rage, yes, but the animators really made sure to show that she's also SMART.

she's got excellent battle prowess, figuring out how to work around an overpowered ability of setting rules, and is more experienced than Queen. she's DANGEROUS and she has a goal that you completely believe she could deliver on. she wants to kill Queen. she wants to stop her from becoming X. and on one of those fronts, she succeeds.

When Queen tells her she can't even go to the tournament anymore and THAT's what takes her out of the Fear...sobbing...

it seems like getting Fear inflicted on you first changes your eye color before changing your shape to be some monster. and it can last quite a long time. I wonder if your Trust Value affects how this process works.

Bowa is extremely strong with Fear, but where is the fear coming from?

Queen almost dies and takes an entire year to recover omg. the damage that heroes can cause to the environment and each other is no joke. the collateral alone probably means everybody has hero insurance or something

Cyan asks if something happened in Queen's childhood. Queen says no. QUEEN YOU ARE A LIARRRR I HAVE SEEN YOUR PV

queen is a car girlie!!

and big johnny makes his appearance!! although loli's episodes are next so hm.

[wildspectre]

Saturday after showing up with a suspicious amount of Darkbane traits, appearing for 2 episodes, and then disappearing without elaborating:

Elaborating on/yapping about the "Darkbane Saturday theory"

(also keep in mind that Nacho will be used as a basis for classifying a lot of these as "Darkbane traits" because we don't really have any other disguised Darkbane to base it on)

Canon evidence (basically anything from the show or his official character description)

The eyes - Just like Nacho, Saturday has the black eyes with red pupils.

The ears - Saturday has pointy ears, which are also a common Darkbane feature.

The white/pale markings - While one could assume these are paint, it is worth noting that Saturday slides across the floor in both Dawn of the Slug and Mission: Improbable yet it remains perfectly intact despite the friction and assuming they are not paint, paleness is a known side effect of dark energy exposure in humans (ie: the emperor and Dr Blakk) additionally, Nacho's human form is also quite pale.

Association with dark slug energy - Saturday's character description on the wiki which was originally sourced from the old official Slugterra site states that he has been rumoured to be experimenting with "dark slug magic" though what that actually means remains unclear.

Bonus/non-canon evidence (basically just some extra stuff from Slug It Out 1)

sharp teeth - Saturday's SIO1 sprite, and his appearances in cutscenes portray him as having some visibly sharper than normal teeth though this does not seem to apply to all of them.

he's in the Deep Caverns - In the optional Deep Caverns slug seeker campaign, Saturday appears as an enemy making him the only non-confirmed Darkbane/Deep Caverns monster to appear in the campaign

(photo evidence aka a direct screenshot from SIO1)

is all of this a coincidence? Probably. Is that enough to stop me from overthinking it? Absolutely not.

[triple-pupil]

Send tweet.

[professionalloregremlin]

On Ghouling

Something that's always tickled my brain is how most ghouls are feral and uncontrollable, with two major exceptions. Loki and all the slugs in "What Lies Beneath," with a focus on Burpy.

Loki is the first ghoul we can see that is capable of self-control. He even behaves like a normal (if slightly more malicious) slug. The only real clues we get that he's a ghoul are that his "illusion" showed up on camera and that he wouldn't touch Doc.

The other slugs, especially Burpy, in What Lies Beneath, behave similarly. We even see Burpy act like himself, just more unhinged. I have a theory on why this is. With Burpy, he was willing to undergo the ghouling process and didn't flinch once. My theory is that if a slug is willing to be ghouled, it can resist the mind-altering effects of Dark Water to a degree. I imagine the process is very traumatic for the poor guys, so maybe that mindless savagery is a coping mechanism for what was done to them. Since Burpy and Loki didn't fight it, they came out fairly unchanged, at least in the personality department.

Anyways, thought over, do with it what you will.

[spaghetticat3899]

Crack theory

Rainworld is small. Slime mold is small in our world, as are spiders, slugs, centipedes and many other things. Bat flies are actually the size of gnats! Lizards are just lizard-sized! Iterators are actually much smaller than we think! Puppets are actually puppet-sized! The cans are just normal sized super computers! Vultures are just funky small birds! And rain is deadly to many small animals!!

IT ALL MAKES SENSE

IT ALL MAKES SENSE

HAHAHAHA

[ssluggishh]

thinking abt the danger motif in wyfilwma and how it implies odysseus' perceived danger comes from the potential rejection from penelope. thinking abt how the motif doesnt play when the electric guitar kicks in as hes explaining the wedding bed and how that implies he was never a danger to penelope despite his feelings of anger and betrayal. im being normal about this

[boyapologist]

do you guys ever crawl through books you're not really that interested in and it's like "let's go, I can do this, just one more chapter..." and then once you find a book you actually care about you realize you read like. 43% of it in 2 hours

[loveandpeaceanddoughnuts]

To be perceived: Husband!Nanami x Reader

“I don’t feel good in anything!” Your clothes are strewn around the room, victims of your self-image. Nanami holds up a dress, raising an eyebrow in a silent offer. You shake your head. “That hasn’t fit in years!”

He sits down heavily on the bed, surveying the emptied drawers and your increasingly desperate face. He tries discreetly to check his watch. He’ll call and move the reservations back, no problem.

You take off the latest rejected outfit and sit down helplessly in the middle of the room. “Kento, I’m an ugly slug.” Your husband joins you on the floor, wrapping both arms around you.

“You’re a beautiful slug, dear.”

You laugh and lean your head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, I know we’re running late…”

He kisses the top of your head. “Don’t worry about it. I just want you to feel good. I wish you could see yourself the way I see you, my love.”

“Sometimes I wish I didn’t have to be perceived, you know?”

Nanami nods thoughtfully. “I can’t make that happen, but maybe I could help distract people. Make it so you’re not the one they’re staring at.”

You turn to look up at him. “What do you mean? You’re wearing your scheming face…”

“Don’t worry, angel. You just finish getting ready and leave it to me, okay?” He disappears into the bathroom.

In a few minutes, you’re feeling a bit better. You’ve put on a comfortable outfit and done your makeup. Nanami’s voice is muffled from behind the door. “Are you ready, darling?”

“Yes, ready when you are!” You call back.

Your husband emerges from the bathroom, a confident smile on his chiseled face. Your mind short-circuits for a moment, not sure what to focus on first- the shock of blonde hair slipping over one eye, the expertly applied black eyeliner, or the skirt swaying around his muscled thighs. He looks beautiful.

“Kento, what is this?” You squint. “Is that my eyeliner?”

“No, it’s mine,” he says easily. “I’ve had it since high school.”

“And the hair? I’ve never seen you without it gelled up…”

He blushes a little at that. “Also high school.”

You shake your head in disbelief, your heart racing at the unexpected transformation. “Well I know that’s my skirt,” you giggle.

“Ah, yes. That’s correct. I found one with an elastic waist, so I could fit- but I’ll change if you mind me using it.”

“No, not at all!” You reassure quickly. He has a good eye for fashion, despite his usual insistence on a leopard-print tie. He’s paired the skirt with one of his own button-downs, sleeves rolled up over his ropy forearms. You step forward, cupping his cheek in your hand.

“You like it, then?” He asks softly.

“You’re beautiful,” you sigh. “But what’s this all about?”

He chuckles. “I figured that although you look stunning as ever, I might get a little more attention than you tonight. Help with the whole ‘being perceived’ bit.”

You laugh and lean up on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek, careful not to muss his hair. “You’re an angel. A sexy, stylish angel.”

“As long as I’m yours,” he murmurs. “Now. I’ve moved our reservations once, let’s not be late for them again, hm?”

Nanami’s theory was correct. Every eye in the fancy restaurant is on him as the two of you are escorted to your table. Some stares are admiring, some judgmental, but he’s completely unbothered. He looks at you from across the table as if you’re the only other person in the world.

You clink your wine glasses together. “To my beautiful wife,” he smiles.

“To my beautiful husband,” you smile back.

[cruel-seduction]

Not So Golden Now, Are You? (2) 

Summary - Where in your not-quite-friendship with James Potter thrives on mutual mockery—you call him daddy’s babygirl for living off his pureblood trust fund, he calls you whatever gets under your skin fastest. It’s never serious… until he parrots back a joke you made about your looks, the kind of joke people only make after crying over it alone. What he thought was harmless banter turns out to be your breaking point, and while everyone else laughs it off, you don’t. Not this time. And now James—cocky, clueless, James—is stuck trying to fix a crack he didn’t mean to make, humiliating himself in ways no Marauder ever has… all in the hopes of earning a single, goddamn, laugh from you again.

Tone: Gritty, emotional, enemies-to-lovers like kinda (idk I am confused myself. What do you mean just cause I wrote it I should know what it means) with heavy hurt/comfort and a golden boy begging for forgiveness.

Part -1

The courtyard was buzzing. Breaktime at Hogwarts always was—students spread across stone benches and patches of sun-warmed grass, laughter echoing, owls swooping overhead. It was the kind of day where everything felt too bright.

And then you saw him.

James Potter.

Striding through the middle of it like he owned the light, only this time… something was off. His shoulders weren’t cocky. His grin wasn’t smug. And in his hands—clutched awkwardly, like it might bite him—was a mug. Ceramic. White. Painted with messy little Quidditch doodles and a crooked heart.

He spotted you across the courtyard. You didn’t move.

You hadn’t planned on talking to him again. Not yet. Not like this.

Especially not after what you’d heard that morning. The Marauders had cursed a Slytherin so bad he spent an hour puking slugs and crying.  Supposedly, it was James’s idea. Supposedly, he said it was “for a laugh.” Your stomach turned.

Cruel.

Heartless.

Classic Marauder bullshit.

And after everything? After that night in the Astronomy Tower where you bled your heart raw—he went right back to it. 

You stood up the moment he neared. Jaw tight.

“Hey,” James said, breathless, that dumb hopeful glint in his eyes. “Thought maybe we could, you know… start over.” He extended the mug toward you. “Cold coffee.”

You took it. Smiled. Sweet. And without a word— Threw it directly in his face.

Gasps echoed.

The courtyard went dead quiet. The splash of coffee dripped from his curls and chin, soaking his collar. He blinked against it, stunned. A little broken. Then, slowly—he wiped a hand down his cheek.

“Alright,” he coughed. “Deserved that.”

You didn’t wait. You turned on your heel and stormed off before he could see the rage brewing behind your eyes—no, worse—before he could see the pain.

You didn’t look back once.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

You hid in the library after that.

Sat behind rows of thick tomes, clutching a copy of Advanced Hex Theory you weren’t reading. Your face still burned, your heart pounding as you replayed the whole thing again.

You shouldn’t feel bad. He deserved it.

Except… then came the whisper. The real reason behind that Slytherin prank.

“Did you hear? That bloke called lily mudblood yesterday. Loud. Didn’t even flinch. And not only that he also tried to degrade her with other words too”

“Bloody scum. I think it was Sirius who heard it first—lost his mind.”

“Yeah, but James is the one who hexed him. Said, ‘you talk like that again, you won’t have a tongue left to use.’”

“Serves him right.”

You stared at the words on the page, unmoving. He wasn’t being cruel. He was defending someone. And that someone was none other than your bestfriend. You were so consumed with your feelings that you forgot to see her pain.

You cursed under your breath and leaned back, rubbing your hands over your face. Now you were the asshole.

Still—you crossed your arms, hugged your ribs tight, and whispered to yourself, “He was mean to me first.”

That was true, wasn’t it?

He was.

He hurt you.

He joked about your worth like it was nothing. So what if you threw a coffee in his face?

Still. The image of him, standing there soaked, blinking through the coffee with zero anger in his expression—just quiet acceptance—it clawed at you.

Because the worst part wasn’t what you did.

The worst part was that..... he was fine with it. Fuck. He smiled when you did that. That makes you wanna punch him and kiss him at the same time. Wait..? Kiss? Where did that come from? You don't wanna kiss him. Or at least your ego is too big to admit that you do.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Just because James was right to hex that Slytherin didn’t mean you owed him forgiveness. Being right about one thing didn’t erase being so wrong about you.

Because this—this wasn’t about just James.

It was about every time you looked in the mirror and thought, If I could just lose five more pounds, maybe then… Every time you starved yourself through breakfast. Chewed mint leaves between classes to kill the hunger. Every time you stood next to Lily Evans and felt like a dull, washed-out background character. A placeholder. Contrast.

 The "funny one." The "smart one.”  The "you’re so cool to hang out with but I’d never date you" one.

You weren't just mad at James.

You were mad at everything. The boys who flirted with your friends and didn’t see you. The girls who batted lashes and got everything you wanted. The body that never looked like the ones in Witch Weekly. The voice in your head that whispered, you’re nothing special, just learn to be okay with it.

And maybe it was wrong—projecting all of that onto James Potter. But God, you were just so tired. Too tired to uncoil all the layers. Too tired to explain why the joke hit different. Too tired to tell him: You took the last thread I was hanging on and yanked.

So you stayed mad. Silent. Cold. Distant. And James Potter?

James fucking Potter took that as a challenge.

At first, it was subtle.

A few too many glances your way during meals. A quiet “hi” when you passed in the corridor. Holding the door for you with awkward stiff limbs like he was scared you'd hex him just for existing.

You ignored it all. But then came…

The Violin.

It started on a Monday morning outside your Arithmancy class. A screech. A very broken-sounding screech. Like someone was strangling a cat while dragging their nails down a chalkboard.

You flinched. Everyone flinched.

And then—James Potter turned the corner, standing there with a violin tucked under his chin, a determined sparkle in his eye, and murder in his fingers. “(Y/N)!” he called brightly, eyes locking on yours. “This one’s for you.”

You blinked. “The hell it is—”

He sawed at the strings like he was trying to kill the instrument with sound alone. “I’m soooooorryyyyyyy—!” he sang off-key, not even trying to follow the right notes. “I’m an aaasssssholeeeee—!” Students around you began to whisper. One girl laughed so hard she snorted. A Ravenclaw boy dropped his quill and muttered, “What the actual f—”

You stood there. Mortified. Speechless. He ended the "serenade" with a dramatic bow and winked at you. “See you tomorrow, sweetheart.”

You hexed the violin into a pile of wood chips the next day before he even got through the second verse. James, picking up the splinters, grinned at you like you handed him a bouquet. “Thanks,” he said, completely sincere. “I think it wanted to die anyway.”

You didn’t smile. But you didn’t walk away either. You just stand there watching James get scolded by your professor while he was giving you wink. 

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Meanwhile, in the Gryffindor dorms:

James flopped face-first onto his bed, groaning into his pillow. “She hates me.” “No shit,” Sirius muttered, tossing a Bertie Bott’s bean into his mouth. “You publicly compared her to beige wallpaper.”

Remus looked up from his book. “Well, actually, you implied she was the reason the wallpaper looked better. Still cruel. But poetic.”

“I’m trying,” James whined. “I’m playing music! I’m serenading her!” “You’re torturing her eardrums,” Peter said. James rolled onto his back. “You think she’ll ever forgive me?”

Remus didn’t even blink. “Not if you keep murdering instruments.” James groaned again and stared at the ceiling. “I just—I want her to smile at me again. Not that sarcastic one. The real one. The one where her nose scrunches and her eyes do that squinty-shiny thing.”

Sirius gagged. “Dude.” 

“She used to laugh at my dumbest jokes.”

“You made her cry, James.”

James flinched. Visibly. “I know.”

There was a beat of silence. Then James whispered, “I wanna make her laugh again. Then make her fall in love with me. Then maybe after Hogwarts, we’ll get a flat together. Something small. Near a garden. With a stupid ugly cat she insists on naming after a pastry—like Croissant or some shit.” Sirius stared at him. “You good, Romeo?”

Remus snorted. “Man’s already planning the wedding and she just hexed his violin.” “Small steps,” Peter muttered. James sighed dreamily. “Yeah. Small steps.”

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

You didn’t sleep the night before.

Every time you shut your eyes, you saw your younger self staring into the mirror with fingers digging into soft skin, begging it to look different. You remembered the silence in crowded hallways. The ache of always being there, but never chosen.  You remembered the words James said, the ones that weren't meant to cut—but found the scar anyway.

So when Professor McGonagall handed you detention with a sigh and an apology in her eyes—parchment copying, of course—you welcomed it. Monotonous. Mind-numbing. Perfect distraction.

But when you got to the classroom early the next morning, head pounding from lack of sleep and soul heavy like wet stone, your desk wasn’t empty. It was stacked.

Neatly. Organized. All two hundred lines already written. Every word in your handwriting. Every letter perfectly charmed to look like it came from your hand. You froze. Stared at it.

Your fingers curled around the parchment. Your eyes lifted. And there he was—James Potter, across the room, watching you like a kicked puppy pretending he didn’t deserve the bruises.

He looked too bright. Too hopeful. Too guilty. Your stomach twisted. You hated that it made your eyes sting again.

Later, when class was over, you walked past him without a word. You dropped the parchment into his lap with the last page folded. Inside, scribbled in black ink:

"Try harder."

You didn’t look back. But he smiled. That stupid, soft smile like you'd just given him an entire galaxy.

That afternoon, you were sitting on the ledge behind the courtyard wall again—the spot nobody noticed unless they were looking. Your knees drawn to your chest, your heart somewhere between furious and numb.

And then… A presence. A familiar rustle of too-long Gryffindor robes and the sound of someone hesitating a few steps away. James Potter.

He didn't speak. Just stood there for a second. Then held something out in his hand. A piece of folded parchment—small, aged, and trembling ever so slightly between his fingers.

You stared at it but didn’t move. His voice was softer than you’d ever heard it. “If you ever want to hide again,” he said, eyes not quite meeting yours, “until you're ready...”

A pause. He didn’t say what it was. Didn’t say how it would help.But it didn’t matter.Because you knew. The damn boy was trying to give you the Marauder’s Map. He was trying to give you the one thing they never gave anyone. 

Your fingers twitched. You didn’t take it. But you stared at him. Long. Quiet. Endless. He looked different under the sunlight. His jaw clenched. “I was an idiot.”

You raised a brow, voice hoarse. “You’re still an idiot.” He exhaled a broken laugh. “Yeah. But I’m your idiot. Or—I want to be. Eventually. When you let me.”

You didn’t respond.

He shifted on his feet. Then, quieter, more real: “I thought you were untouchable. I thought… if I made you laugh, if we tore each other to shreds for fun, that meant I could keep you close. And then I used the wrong words and realized…”

He trailed off. Swallowed hard. “I realized you were already bleeding before I ever opened my mouth.”

The silence after that was cruel.You didn't take the parchment. But you didn’t leave either.

He tucked it into your bag anyway. Gently. As if he was afraid he’d break something else.

Then turned and walked away.

And for the first time in weeks, you weren’t sure who was hurting more—you or him.

James walked back to the dorm in silence, his hands trembling slightly, his throat burning. He’d made you laugh a hundred times. He’d seen you shine.nBut that day, in the sunlight, with your pain all but carved into your bones, he realized something devastating. He didn’t just want to fix it. He wanted to be there for it. For all of it.

He wanted to be the reason you smiled in the morning. The arms you could fall apart in. The idiot who stayed even when it got ugly.

He wanted… a life. With you in it. He wanted things he didn’t think he’d ever say out loud.

And just as he was about to spiral fully into a James-style mental breakdown about it, Remus lobbed a pillow at his head. “Before you plan your future wedding and children’s names,” Remus deadpanned, “maybe try just not making her cry again.”

James sighed. “Fuck you. I know that.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

James Potter had done a lot of dumb things in his life. But this? This might top the list.

The wool itched. His fingers cramped. And he was positive he’d stabbed himself with the knitting needles at least thirteen times—but he didn’t stop. Not when Sirius made fun of him, not when Peter tried to help and tangled half the yarn into a hopeless knot, and especially not when Remus muttered under his breath, “You know, flowers are a traditional apology, mate.”

But James wasn’t going for traditional. He wanted to show he was willing to bleed a little. Suffer a bit. Do something ugly and real and not smooth for once.

So he knit you a jumper.

Maroon, because he remembered you once wore it and said it made you feel safe. The letters across the front—“I’m Sorry”—were crooked. Lopsided. One ‘R’ looked like it was trying to escape.

It was hideous. And he was proud of it.

So, of course, he walked into the common room with it in his arms like it was the crown jewels. Students stared. Murmured. Whispered.

You were curled in your usual corner, books scattered around you like a shield, pretending you weren’t waiting for him. But you looked up when his shadow fell across the page.

James held the jumper out with both hands. Like an offering. Like an apology carved into yarn and regret.

His voice barely broke above the chatter. “I made this. For you.” You blinked. Slowly. Then looked at it. Really looked.

The way the letters leaned awkwardly. The loose thread at the sleeve. The stitch in the neckline that looked like it’d unravel the whole thing if you pulled too hard.

And before you could stop yourself, your fingers curled into a fist around your own anger. You stood. Took the jumper. Walked to the nearest bin. And dropped it in. 

The room went silent. James didn’t say a word. He didn’t fight. Didn’t beg. Just looked down. Then walked away. His back tense, his head low, the usual bounce in his step long gone. You sat back down like your bones had turned to concrete. Pretended to read. Pretended not to care. Pretended like your throat didn’t burn.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

That night, the tower was quiet. The fire had burned low. Everyone else was asleep.

You stood in front of the bin for a full ten minutes. Arms crossed. Jaw locked. You weren’t even sure what you were waiting for. Permission? Clarity? Something. Eventually, you reached in. Pulled it out.

The wool was soft. He’d actually tried.

You could practically see him stabbing himself with the needles. Tongue sticking out in concentration. Cursing every time a stitch went wrong. You swallowed.

And with a quiet flick of your wand, you straightened the letters. Fixed the loose threads. Tightened the neckline. It still looked ridiculous. But it looked like him. So you folded it. Neatly.  And shoved it under your pillow like a secret. Like a confession you weren’t ready to make.

You weren’t ready to forgive him. Not yet. Because this wasn’t just about James. This was about you. About every time you felt like the last choice.  About starving yourself just to feel worthy.  About screaming into pillows because you hated your body and hated your mind for caring so much.

You weren’t just angry at him. You were angry at every version of yourself that begged to be enough. Was it fair to throw all of that on one stupid boy with messy hair and a heart too big?

No.

But maybe, just maybe, he was willing to carry some of it anyway. You weren’t breaking yet.

But something in you cracked that night. And it whispered, quietly:  Maybe he means it.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Maybe James Potter was tired now.

Not just of the grand gestures, or the rejection, or the confusion—but of waiting. Waiting for the world to fall back into place. Waiting for you to look at him the way you used to, even if it was only to glare. Waiting for a moment where he could just breathe near you without it hurting. Still—he hadn’t lost that ridiculous, unkillable determination.

He’d already written five plans in his head before breakfast.

Plan A: Let you punch him square in the jaw and call it even. Plan B: Buy you that overpriced French silk dress you once stared at in a magazine for ten full minutes. Plan C: Cry. Publicly. Plan D: Make Sirius pretend to be dying just so he could dramatically say, “But first, make up with James.”

It was selfish, wanting you after everything. After not listening. After hurting you in ways he hadn’t even understood at the time. But James Potter had always been selfish when it came to you.

He didn’t want almost. He didn’t want eventually. He wanted all of you. The broken parts, the jagged edges, the terrifying, beautiful chaos. And he wanted to be the one who stayed.

He was spiraling over it again, as usual, legs dangling off the edge of the Astronomy Tower, eyes blurry with too much sky and not enough of you— When he heard soft footsteps. Then, silence.

Then... you.

You sat beside him.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t look at him. Just sat, spine straight, hands folded in your lap like it was any other night. Not because you were ready to forgive him. But because you were tired.

So fucking tired of being alone in your head. Sometimes, just sitting beside the person you’re mad at is easier than sitting with your own thoughts. James looked at you. Just—looked.

Like his soul had been drowning and you were the first breath of air. You didn’t even turn your head. “If you don’t stop staring at me like some deranged romance novel idiot, I swear I’ll jump off this tower.”

“Right, right,” he mumbled, turning his gaze dramatically to the moon. “Nothing romantic about the moon. Ugly, lifeless ball.” You huffed. That half-smile tried to sneak up, but you fought it down like a soldier.

James let the quiet stretch a little longer. Then he said—softly, not grand, not loud—just real, “Look, I know you hate me and all. I don’t think you understand what you do to me. You walk into a room and suddenly I’m breathing like I haven’t in years—like my lungs remember what they’re for only because you exist. You smile, and it’s not just sunlight—it’s whole galaxies cracking open inside me, and I swear I’d burn just to keep you warm. I look at you and it’s like the universe finally made sense and said, “Here, this one. She’s the reason.” You could scream, you could shatter, and I’d still hold the pieces like they were sacred. I don’t want some neat little fairytale—I want your chaos, your quiet, your bruised edges and bright mornings. I’d take every storm you’ve ever carried and call it a privilege. You think you’re hard to love, but baby, loving you is the only thing I’ve ever been sure of. I’d ruin myself a thousand times just to hear you laugh without flinching. You don’t need to be anything more than what you already are—because you, just as you are, you’re everything. And I mean that like I mean air. Like I mean survival.” 

You didn’t reply for a long time.

Then finally, you exhaled—like you were letting go of something that had been rotting inside you for far too long. “Please don’t say things like that, James. Not when I’ve spent so long teaching myself not to hope. You come in with all this love—too much of it—and part of me wants to fall right into it, let it wrap around me and forget everything that came before. But the rest of me is screaming. I don’t want to be a project you pour yourself into to fix what you broke. I don’t want your heart if it’s just your guilt dressed up in poetry. I’m not some fragile thing to be saved, and I don’t want to be seen as something you owe love to. I’ve spent nights convincing myself that being invisible was safer, because at least then, no one could decide I wasn’t enough. And now you’re here, saying all these beautiful, terrifying things, and I can’t tell if you see me or just the girl you hurt. I want to believe you mean it. I want to let you in. But what if you stop meaning it when the weight of what happened fades? What if I let you matter and then you forget how to hold me when I’m not glowing under your guilt? I can’t survive being seen just long enough for you to feel better. And the worst part? I think I’d still take it. Even if it’s temporary. Even if it ruins me. That’s how much I want this. But wanting isn’t the same as trusting. And right now, I don’t know if I can give you both. And maybe—God, maybe I’m dragging this out, this apology thing, because I like the way you look at me now. I like the attention. I like feeling seen. And I’m scared that the moment I forgive you, you’ll stop looking at me like that. But I can’t say that out loud. My pride’s too loud. My ego won’t let me ask you to stay, to keep seeing me, to not stop. I don’t even know if this makes sense. I just... I don’t know how to trust this. Or you. Or myself.”

The world was quiet. Even the wind dared not move. James Potter, Quidditch star, loudmouth, born showman—he didn’t try to make a joke. Didn’t reach for dramatics. He just smiled. And it wasn’t a smirk, or a grin, or a flirtatious flash. It was soft. Like worship. Like you were a sunrise he had no right to witness but never missed a single morning of. And he finally said something “Then let me say this—really say this, because you need to hear it, every word of it, like it’s the truth carved into the bones of the world:

It was never pity. Not a second of it. Don’t you dare shrink what I feel for you into something so small. I didn’t start caring after what happened—I just got loud about it, finally. I’d been loving you in silence long before the world gave me an excuse to say it out loud. You think I see you now because I’m trying to make up for something? No. I’ve always seen you. You were never invisible to me—not once, not even in the chaos of everything else. You were the constant. You were the steady, quiet hum in the back of my mind, like the world was just a frame for you to move in. I didn’t wake up one day and decide to fall for you out of guilt. I fell for you the way people fall asleep—slowly, then all at once. The way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re frustrated. The way you laugh when you think no one’s listening. The way you argue when you care too much. You made my whole world sharper, better, realer. And it wasn’t because you forgave me, or because I felt bad—it was because you’re you. You’re everything. Not just some placeholder until something easier comes along.

And I get it—you’re scared I’ll stop. That I’ll stop looking at you like you’re the sun cracking through a storm. But love like this doesn’t just fade. It doesn’t wear off like guilt. It burns. It lives. You think I don’t know the risk you’d be taking by trusting me again? I do. And I don’t expect you to dive in without fear—but I’ll be here, every damn day, proving to you that this isn’t obligation. It’s not guilt. It’s worship. And you want to talk about violin music? That horrible mess I tried to play for you? That wasn’t the first time I thought of you like a song—it’s just the first time I dared to try. Because when I look at you, it’s not silence. It’s symphony. It’s this soft, aching melody the world plays just for me when you walk into a room. And no one else hears it. Just me. You said you don’t know how to trust this. Or me. Or yourself. And that’s okay. I’ll be here while you figure it out. I’ll wait. I’ll keep seeing you. Really seeing you. Not just as something beautiful—but as something irreplaceable. You’ve always been more than enough. You don’t even have to try.”  You didn’t say anything. Didn’t kiss him. Didn’t touch him. But you looked at him—really looked. And for the first time, you didn’t flinch from how he looked back. Like you were the only girl in the world. Like he’d known it forever.

You stayed in the Astronomy Tower longer than expected.

After his confession, after the way James bared his heart like he didn’t care how much of a fool he looked, silence settled between you again. But this time, it wasn’t heavy. It was soft. Like a blanket you could crawl under, finally warm.

He glanced at you sideways, still hesitant—still unsure if that emotional striptease had been enough. Then came his voice, a little hoarse, a little vulnerable.

“What can I do to make this right? For you to give us a chance?”

And you tilted your head slowly toward him, a deceptively sweet smile curving your lips. The kind that meant you were about to be a menace.

“Admit, publicly, that Severus Snape is better than you.” James choked. Literally. The boy went pale, like you’d asked him to snog Filch or shave his head bald.

“Come again?” You leaned closer, innocently batting your lashes. “Louder this time. So the whole school can hear.”

“Oh hell no.” His voice cracked into a squeak. He looked genuinely betrayed, like you’d just kicked his Firebolt and insulted his mum.

You only shrugged, still grinning, and didn’t say another word. He stared at you like you had just announced your plan to marry a Blast-Ended Skrewt. But the challenge had been issued—and he’d heard it loud and clear.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Next morning at breakfast.

The Gryffindor table was as loud as ever—toast flying, owls dropping packages, Sirius balancing arguing with Lily over something. . Normal chaos. Until James Potter stood up.

The entire table paused mid-chew, forks halfway to mouths. Even the Hufflepuffs looked over. He cleared his throat and announced, very seriously:

“I, James Fleamont Potter, publicly declare that Severus Snape is a better wizard than me.”

Audible gasps. One girl dropped her pumpkin juice. But James wasn’t done. No—he sold it.

“In every way. His hair is shinier. His spells are stronger. He... he has depth.” He sounded like he was reading his own eulogy. Like each word carved a new piece out of his pride. His soul practically levitated out of his body in protest.

Across the hall, Sirius dropped his toast, jaw hanging open. “You traitor! You swore an oath—” Remus spat out his tea. Peter was half-under the table from laughter.

And you? You were just standing there, arms folded, laughing. That laugh—the one James always secretly adored. The one that made him feel like he'd done something right in the world. Because it wasn’t about Snape. Not really.

It was about being seen. Not as a second choice. Not as the invisible one. For once, you were standing there, centre of attention, without shame. Finally being seen by the right person. Maybe you didn’t feel this years ago because fate had a sick sense of humor. Because it was waiting for James to grow the fuck up. And maybe, just maybe... it was worth the wait.

He came toward you, face beet-red, Sirius hissing “traitor” in the background. He stopped right in front of you, running a hand through his already tragic hair. You didn’t say anything.

You just kissed his cheek. It was quick. But it was everything. James froze. Red. Redder. Red as a goddamn Gryffindor tie. Hell, you were surprised he didn’t combust.

And for a moment, all the noise in the Great Hall vanished. Because maybe you weren’t “pretty” in the textbook sense—maybe your skirt wasn’t perfectly pressed, maybe your eyeliner smudged at the corners, and maybe your laugh was too loud, too sharp.

But fuck beauty standards.

You were hot. You were confident. You were yours. And James Potter?He was a dumbass. But he was your dumbass now.

[auroraboringaliceinwonderland]

Honestly? The only way the ending would make sense was if it were a dream. Who’s dream? Arthur’s.

That was his whole weird dream and the reason he said Merlin’s name in his sleep before the battle; because of… well, you know, everything.

Maybe it was jumbled visions of sorts, revealing that Mordred would be his doom, that Merlin has magic, etc. just in a weird dream-like way.

Morgana got visions too, but hers were more powerful because she actually has magic.

Say they inherited these visions from Uther - the parent connecting them by blood - which may also explain why magic always kept coming back to Camelot in the forms of curses, undead, etc. Because Uther didn’t just betray the people of magic; he betrayed his own people and started repressing his own magic, so they were out for revenge.

(I’ve seen a lot of stuff about magic = homosexuality and such, and Uther having internalized homophobia, so).

If not that, maybe he could be having this vision because he and Merlin are connected by fate; destined forever; soulmates. (<preferred reason for the dreams honestly).

He could have either gotten these weird dreams his whole life - hence why he recognized Merlin in their first meeting - or Merlin was so worried and stressed by everything that he somehow sent a telepathic vision to Arthur. He was in the Crystal Cave at this point I believe, surrounded by magic, and he is the most powerful warlock to ever walk the earth so do you think some slug could really make him powerless just like that?

Anyway!

Arthur just somehow had a dream okay? The last ‘canon thing’ we saw was Arthur waking up next to Gwen saying Merlin’s name. His dream was the ending that we saw; we don’t know what really happened in the end.

It was probably along the lines of, yes, Merlin revealing his magic, but to kill Mordred and them having a fight and all that; sprinkle in some angst, like maybe Morgana somehow got a hold of Mordred’s blade between all the magic blasts or enchanted her own with Aithusa, so then she stabs Arthur whilst they’re fighting, and Merlin has to save him again - much to Arthur’s reluctance.

But then things go right from there - like the freezing time thing; that was genus op - and everything actually make sense. Not dream-like because it’s reality.

In the first episode Merlin slowed time for a couple of moments to pull Arthur out of a flying knife's way.

In the last episode Merlin should have literally fucking stopped time for two consecutive days while he took Arthur to Avalon, displaying how much stronger Merlin has gotten over the years and at the same time saving Arthur.

There's symmetry, there's contrast, there's pattern.

The only logical ending of the show I don't care.

[jacksabbotts]

spencer reid x fem!bsf!reader tw .' language, gideon death mention, slight subjectiveness ( bc I can't help myself apparently, but overall wholesome ) an .' to the lovely anon who requested spencer sfw alphabet, thank you for requesting 🫶 you are my first request some of these take place pre relationship and post. i couldn't decide on a concrete timeline.

masterlist | series masterlist | dividers by @cafekitsune | join the taglist | requested!!!

a is for affection

spencer isn’t touchy with just anyone.

but you’re not just anyone.

he’s awkward about it at first—stiff hugs, nervous pats on the back, hands hovering midair like he’s unsure where to land them. but you never rush him. you never tease when he freezes, never flinch when he startles at your warmth. you just… let him figure it out.

and he does figure it out.

because you keep showing up.

every time you loop your arm through his, every time you knock your knee into his under the table, every time you cup his face between your palms and squish his cheeks while calling him my favorite boy, he softens a little more.

and now? affection from spencer reid is something sacred. something rare. something real.

he doesn’t always say what he feels—but he shows it. in little things.

like bringing you coffee just the way you like it. or resting his chin on your shoulder while you work late at your desk. or smoothing your hair back when you’re stressed and whispering, 'you’re doing so good,' because he knows it’s what you need to hear—even if your throat closes up and you pretend not to cry.

he doesn’t initiate pda in front of the team often, but he lets you do it. he lets you lean your head on his shoulder during briefings. lets you hold onto his arm when you’re cold. lets your hand find his under the table and stays like that—intertwined, steady, quiet.

the affection grows with every shared look, every inside joke, every soft laugh no one else understands. eventually, it becomes second nature. not a question of if he wants your touch, but when.

and when it’s just the two of you, when the lights are low and the case files are closed?

spencer becomes even softer.

his fingers trace slow circles on your arm. he lets you curl into his lap. he kisses your hair like he was born to, murmurs facts and comfort into your ear just to keep you close, just to feel you breathe.

he holds you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

because deep down, spencer reid has always craved connection. and you made it safe to reach for it. you taught him affection isn’t weakness.

it’s the strongest thing he’s ever known.

b is for best friend

you’ve been his best friend longer than you’ve been anything else.

long before the tension, the teasing, the moments you both try not to replay at night—you were just his person. the one who knew how to ground him without using words. the one who never rolled your eyes when he launched into a ten-minute ramble about string theory or the mating rituals of sea slugs.

you always listened.

and spencer? spencer never forgot that.

you’re the person he texts first—about good days, bad days, weird dreams, book recommendations. you know the exact number of sugars he takes in his coffee and how he flinches when the microwave beeps too loudly. you keep extra hand sanitizer for him in your bag. you always carry his favorite pens.

and he… he always carries your lip balm. won’t even admit when he’s using it. just silently pops the cap, uses it, then tucks it back in his satchel like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

you bicker sometimes. he’s stubborn, and you’re worse. but even your arguments are intimate. soft. like a storm between two people who know they’ll always come back to each other. and you do—always.

he lets you see parts of him no one else sees.

the panic. the guilt. the grief. he tells you about the nightmares, the pressure, the fear of losing control. and you hold it all like it’s precious, not too heavy, not too much.

he tells you you’re his best friend. still. even when the looks linger too long, when your thigh brushes his beneath the table and neither of you move. even when he catches himself staring at your mouth during stakeouts. even when he has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from calling you mine out loud. even when the two are way past friendship.

because you are his best friend.

the kind of best friend who stays.

c is for cuddles

spencer reid doesn’t cuddle.

not in the way people expect, at least.

he’s all long limbs and awkward hesitancy, all logic and overthinking. he overanalyzes body temperature and sleep cycles and whether he’s holding you too tightly or not enough. he’ll lie there for ten minutes just debating the appropriate number of fingers to rest on your waist.

but you cracked that code long ago. you never ask. you just curl into him without warning, usually during a movie or a stakeout or a particularly exhausting plane ride. and every time, he stiffens for a second—just a second—before he melts like a candle, quiet and slow, into you.

he’s a terrible big spoon. his knees hang off the edge of the bed and he apologizes at least three times before settling. but when you’re the one behind him—arms locked around his waist, cheek pressed between his shoulder blades—he sleeps deeper than he has in years.

in public, cuddling becomes something smaller, something quieter.

your thigh against his in the bullpen. your head on his shoulder in the jet. his pinky hooking yours during late-night coffee runs. no one notices. but he does. god, he does.

your favorite way to cuddle him, though? on the couch. his head in your lap. your fingers in his hair.

he never says it, but you know it’s his favorite too. you can feel it in the way he hums, soft and low, when you comb through his curls. you can see it in the way his eyes flutter closed like he’s safe for once—like he doesn’t have to run equations or calculate risk or be anyone other than yours.

spencer reid doesn’t cuddle, its a germ thing. except when it comes to you.

and he never wants to stop.

d is for domestic moments

if anyone ever asked spencer what he pictured when he thought of the word home, he’d say your name.

it’s not just the place, or the smell of your lemon-and-lavender dish soap, or the fact that your cabinets are alphabetized because he helped you do it one slow sunday afternoon. it’s the sound of your voice calling him from another room. the clink of your mug beside his in the dish rack. the faint scent of your shampoo on his hoodie that you stole and never gave back.

its the little things.

you brush your teeth together, shoulder to shoulder at your tiny bathroom sink. you argue about laundry temperatures and laugh when he folds your shirts like file folders, citing optimal drawer space. he teases you for how you butter toast. you tease him for how he eats cereal dry. you leave little post-it notes on his bookshelves: drink water, stretch your legs, i’m proud of you.

he saves every one.

domestic life with you doesn’t look like anyone else’s. it’s not perfect. sometimes dinner burns. sometimes the sink leaks. sometimes you fall asleep on the couch and drool on his lap. but it’s real. it’s warm. it’s quiet and silly and safe.

and to spencer, who grew up in sterile rooms and too many books and not enough love, that is revolutionary.

you are the routine he never knew he needed.

the grocery list on the fridge. the sound of your humming in the shower. the way you hand him your keys without asking when he stays over. the way he makes the bed in the morning before you even wake up.

you call it domestic.

he calls it heaven.

e is for excitement

spencer doesn’t get excited like most people do.

he doesn’t jump up and down or shout from the rooftops. his excitement is quieter, tucked into the soft edges of his smile and the breathless way he talks when something lights him up.

however you bring out a different kind of excitement in him.

you make him laugh mid-sentence. you make him look forward to things—something he never really did before. trivia nights at the bar ( and the two of you always obviously ). a new coffee shop opening. a spontaneous road trip just because you read about a haunted bookstore two towns over.

it’s not just adrenaline, either. it’s anticipation.

excitement, to spencer, is your knuckles brushing his on the walk to the farmer’s market. it’s you dragging him to the front row of a concert he didn’t even want to go to—until he saw your face in the glow of the stage lights.

it’s the way you squeal when he brings you your favorite candy. the way you clap when the takeout arrives. the way you beam when he finishes a ramble and you actually listened to all of it.

your excitement is contagious, and his is nothing but devoted. yours is loud. his is loyal. and when you're excited about something, he's excited about it—purely because you are.

so when you ask if he wants to come with you—to the movie, to the bookstore, to your cousin’s wedding out of town—he doesn’t hesitate.

'yes,' he says.

because with you, even something painfully ordinary feels like an adventure.

f is for flirting

you flirt with spencer like it’s a game—like it’s breathing.

light, teasing touches to his arm when you pass him coffee. a smirk when you catch him staring at your mouth instead of listening to your facts. a playful, 'careful, spence. say one more sweet thing and i might fall in love with you.'

oh, it wrecks him.

because he doesn’t know how to flirt back. not really. not in the traditional sense. and definitely not on the same level you do so effortlessly. he fumbles. he blushes. he babbles about pheromones or victorian courtship rituals. sometimes he stares at you like you’ve short-circuited his brain.

but oh, when he does flirt back?

it’s fucking lethal.

he leans in close, voice low, eyes dark. says things like, 'do you always get this close to your friends?'

it stuns you every time. throws you off your rhythm. and he knows it.

because spencer may not flirt like you do—but he studies you. he waits, he learns, finds your weak spots and then he strikes when you least expect it.

it’s a dangerous little dance—the teasing, the tension, the way neither of you quite crosses the line.

g is for gratitude

he shows his gratitude in quiet, precise ways. he’s not great with grand declarations, and he doesn’t always know what to say in the moment—so instead, he does things.

when you bring him coffee without asking? he refills your gas tank the next time you drive ( even though it one of the things he loathe the most, more than the task of driving itself ).

when you stay up late helping him organize his case files? he shows up at your door the next morning with your favorite pastry from that bakery two neighborhoods away just because he knows that it is your favorite.

when you talk him down from a panic spiral after a rough case? he leaves sticky notes all over your apartment—on your mirror, your fridge, your laptop—each one scribbled with a fact about how wonderful he thinks you are.

he doesn’t always say thank you, not in the conventional way. but you learn to read his version of it. the little offerings, the long looks, the way his hand always lingers just a little longer when he passes you something. the way his voice goes soft when he says your name.

and when you do call him out on it—when you tease, 'you never say thank you, you know that?'—he’ll look at you, a little sheepish, a little shy.

then while he knows your not serious, he'll get the uncontrollable urge to thank you in words he's yet to find. he’ll murmur, 'you’re right. i’m sorry. thank you… for everything.'

and he’ll say it like he means it. because he does. so much more than he can ever quite put into words.

h is for hugs

spencer isn’t much of a hugger ( just like the cuddling, its a germ thing )—at least not at first.

it’s not that he dislikes touch. he just… doesn’t always know what to do with it, especially when it's you. because he doesn't want to do anything to make you uncomfortable. he doesn't know where to put his arms, how long is too long, if he’s holding too tightly, if you can feel how fast his heart is racing.

you, on the other hand, hugged him like it was the most natural thing in the world. like he wasn’t awkward or fragile or some too-smart alien with a trauma record longer than his resume. you hugged him like you meant it. like he was human. like he was yours.

the first time it happened, he stood stiff and overwhelmed, arms hovering in the air like they were waiting for instruction. but you didn’t let go—not until he finally gave in and hugged you back.

now he craves it. practically needs it.

long, sleepy hugs in hotel hallways after a tough case. silent, tight ones when he doesn’t have the words. arms around your waist in your kitchen when you're making tea. a sleepy squeeze before falling asleep beside you—platonic, he says… but his hold always lingers.

he doesn’t say it, but you know: your hugs feel like home. and he’s never had one of those before.

I is for intimacy

intimacy with spencer reid isn’t loud. it’s not flashy or fast or careless. it’s quiet, careful, and most of all, earned.

it’s the way he refills your coffee the exact way you like it before you’ve even asked. the way he walks on the street side of the sidewalk without thinking. the way he lends you books and leaves little notes in the margins—not just quotes, but thoughts. Inside jokes. a silent kind of love letter.

it’s knowing which of his cardigans you like best and not caring when you end up borrowing it for weeks. it’s how he doesn’t flinch when you touch him anymore.

it’s letting you see him cry when gideon disappears and when the weight gets too heavy. it’s forehead presses in crowded places. fingers brushing yours under briefing tables. a single look across the plane aisle that says more than a conversation ever could.

with Spencer, intimacy is dangerous. because it’s addictive. and you both know, once that line is crossed, there’s no going back.

j is for jealousy

spencer is not a jealous man. ( at least, that’s what he tells himself. )

he’s logical, rational. he'd go as far as to claim his evolved.

except, he nearly chokes on his coffee when he sees you laughing at someone else's joke. except his jaw clenches when some local deputy leans just a little too close during a case consult. except, he absolutely does not hear a word morgan says when you giggle and touch the arm of that bartender.

you’re not his. you’re his best friend.

and that’s the problem, isn’t it?

because best friends don’t fantasize about pinning you against his bookcases. best friends don’t memorize the exact shade of your lip gloss or notice when someone else smudges it.

best friends don’t feel sick when you say you have a date and try to act like it doesn’t matter. he is not a jealous man.

but the second someone else makes you smile in that particular way? the second you lean in, all warm and pretty and completely unaware of the effect you have?

spencer Reid suddenly, acutely, violently wants to rewrite the definition of 'best friend.'

k is for kisses

you kiss him first.

it happens on his couch, buried in quiet. the soft flicker of a half-watched documentary plays on, ignored. the two of you are curled close, your body angled toward his, your legs slotted between his knees like it’s the most natural thing in the world. you’re wearing his hoodie—sleeves bunched in your fists, hem brushing your bare thighs—and he smells like coffee and paperback pages.

you shift slightly, your temple resting against his shoulder. his fingers are tracing circles on your knee without realizing. and when you lift your head to look at him, something shifts in the air—subtle, but certain.

your gaze drops to his mouth.

and you kiss him. just like that.

gently. thoughtfully. like testing the water with your toes before diving in. his lips are soft—slightly parted from surprise, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and the back of his throat. you feel it—the way he freezes for half a second, like he’s afraid to move and wake up from a dream. but his hand on your leg doesn’t tighten. doesn’t flinch. just rests there, warm and steady.

the kiss lingers. then fades.

and when you pull back, his eyes are still closed.

he stays like that for a moment—eyes shut, breath shallow—as if memorizing it, etching it into the quietest corners of his mind.

then, slowly, he opens them.

and looks at you like he’s been holding his breath for years.

no words are exchanged. they’re not needed.

your fingers find his, lacing together.

and the next time you kiss—this time slower, deeper, more certain—he kisses you back like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted to do.

l is for love language

spencer shows love like he breathes—softly, instinctively, almost without realizing.

his love language isn’t grand gestures or flashy declarations. it’s quieter than that. it’s the second mug of tea he makes without asking, already prepared exactly how you like it. it’s the way he always walks on the side of the sidewalk closest to traffic. it’s the stack of books on your nightstand, handpicked and annotated, because he thought you’d like the prose in chapter seven.

it’s the way he remembers.

he remembers everything. the exact ratio of syrup you like in your coffee. the way your shoulders curl when you’re cold, even if you insist you’re not. the fact that certain songs make you cry, and which ones to play when you’re sad but want to feel held.

he’s not particularly good at saying the words—at least not at first. But his actions are a language of their own.

and when he does say it? it’s in the softest voice you’ve ever heard.

he says i love you like it’s a secret.

one meant only for you.

m is for mornings

he doesn’t like mornings. not in the way most people do, with coffee and sunlight and birdsong. he doesn’t rise early because he wants to — he rises because he has to. his brain refuses to rest for long. he’s been waking up before dawn since he was twelve. sometimes from nightmares. sometimes from panic. sometimes from sheer inertia.

now, there’s you and mornings have become something else entirely. they start slow and somewhat soft.tTame in a way spencer never knew he craved.

he always wakes first. his body trained to open his eyes just as the faintest sliver of light slips past the curtain seam. but he doesn’t move at first.

he looks at you. every time, without fail.

sometimes your face is smooshed awkwardly into your pillow, mouth parted, a little crease between your brows like you’re solving a puzzle in your dreams.

sometimes your arm is draped haphazardly across his chest like a seatbelt.

sometimes your hand has wormed beneath the hem of his shirt in your sleep — splayed warm across the skin of his stomach in a way that would drive him insane if he weren’t so thoroughly overwhelmed with affection.

sometimes you tangle around him like a vine.

sometimes you’re all the way across the bed, curled up with your back to him, and he has to fight the urge to pull you back with an arm around your waist and an anchor in his heart.

but the best mornings — the ones he wants to trap in amber and tuck into the pages of a book — are the ones where you cling to him like you were born in his arms. your face nestled into the crook of his neck. one leg slung high over his hip. a sleepy sigh escaping your lips as you press closer, even in unconsciousness.

it makes him positively melt.

he lies there, stiff and reverent, heart threatening to beat through his ribcage. he inhales the scent of your shampoo and lets himself fall into the quiet warmth of you. he doesn’t dare move.

because for once, his brain isn’t racing.

it isn’t listing prime numbers or translating ancient greek or replaying the screams of the case before. it isn’t reminding him of every way he’s failed or every way he could.

it’s just… quiet.

it’s just you.

and he’s selfish about it. he hoards the moment. he wraps his arms around you and buries his nose into your hair and pretends like he has every right in the world to be here. pretends you’re his in the daylight too, not just in these quiet, borrowed mornings before the world wakes up.

he doesn’t rush to get up anymore, not when you’re wrapped around him like this. not when you sigh his name in your sleep, soft and sweet and barely audible — like it’s instinct.

not when the first thing he sees every morning is your face.

if he had his way, he thinks, he’d never wake up alone again.

n is of nicknames

you give him so many.

it starts small. mostly innocent. a playful spence here, a sarcastic dr. reid there, said with a grin as you steal his coffee or beat him at chess. you try pretty boy once, just to see what happens — morgan nearly chokes on his water, and spencer turns red all the way down his neck.

you keep it in your pocket for emergencies.

but as your friendship deepens — as something warmer and softer grows in the space between you — your nicknames shift.

sometimes it’s doc, said teasingly when he gets too in his head, or spencey, which he pretends to hate but never corrects, especially not when it's coming from your lips.

other times it’s gentler. intimate. you say hey, genius when you hand him his lunch, or my favorite nerd when he walks in late with six books under his arm. on your sleepiest mornings, it’s just a mumbled baby against his shoulder — and that is the one that wrecks him.

he doesn’t say much in return at first. he’s too careful, too quiet, too worried he’ll misstep and make you uncomfortable. but over time — little by little — he gathers his courage.

he calls you trouble when you tease him. sweetheart when he’s tired and lets his guard down. sunshine when you’re bundled in his bed on a gray morning and he can’t believe he gets to hold you like this.

but your favorite?

your favorite is when he says your name.

not a nickname. not shortened or altered. just your name — reverent, quiet, and full of every unspoken thing he’s too shy to say.

because somehow, when spencer says your name, it sounds like poetry. like worship. like the most important word he’s ever learned.

o is for on cloud nine

he doesn’t do giddy.

he’s too anxious, too self-contained, too prone to overthinking. joy for him is usually quiet—an upward curve of the lips, a soft exhale through the nose, the crease between his brows finally smoothing out for a moment.

but you change that.

you make him giddy.

the first time you kiss his cheek absentmindedly during a case debriefing? he smiles all day. the team notices. morgan jokes that someone must've gotten laid. spencer turns red and insists that’s not what happened ( even though the idea alone makes him dizzy ).

when you curl up next to him on the couch with a book, resting your head on his shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he physically melts. you don’t see it, but he closes his eyes and lets his cheek brush the crown of your head. he doesn’t even need to read. you are the moment.

he has entire thought spirals about how lucky he is to know you, let alone love you. and when you actually tell him you love him?

he has to sit down.

literally.

on the floor.

because his knees give out.

spencer reid doesn’t always know how to express the way you make him feel — but you can always tell.

it’s in the way he glances at you like he’s making sure you’re still real. in the little, breathless huffs of laughter when you say something ridiculous. in the way he looks at your hand before taking it, like he can’t believe it’s allowed.

you are his favorite surprise. his softest place to land. and when he’s with you, he’s never once wondered what it feels like to float.

p is for physical touch

spencer used to flinch at casual contact. he wasn’t a hugger. didn’t lean in close. didn’t drape his arm around the back of the couch or press his knee to yours under the table.

you snuck in under his defenses, slow and natural. the first time you looped your arm through his on a walk, he thought his nervous system was short-circuiting. but you didn’t even notice. you just pointed out some flowers blooming by the sidewalk like you hadn’t just turned his world inside out.

now, he craves your touch the same way he craves quiet or books or the smell of old paper.

your fingers brushing his sleeve. your knees tucked under his thighs when you share a too-small couch. the way you smooth his collar when he’s fidgeting before a presentation.

and when he’s overwhelmed—head spinning, chest tight, spiraling—he always finds his way back to you. you hold his hand like it’s an anchor. you rub small circles between his shoulder blades when he forgets how to breathe.

he never asks. you just know.

and if you do ask—'spence, do you need a hug?'—he’ll nod, and bury his face in your shoulder like he’s trying to hide inside you.

because in a way, he kind of is.

when you fall asleep on his shoulder during a movie, or grab his hand without looking during a busy crosswalk—he doesn’t flinch anymore.

he leans in.

q is for quirks

he notices every single one of yours.

the way you tap your fingers on your coffee cup when you're thinking. how your nose scrunches when you’re trying not to laugh. the very specific way you fold your notes into little squares—color-coded corners, even if you swear you're not that organized.

spencer catalogues these details like they’re rare scientific data. not because he means to, but because he can’t help it. you fascinate him.

and when you make fun of his quirks—his never-ending facts, his tendency to gesture with a pen when he's lecturing, the way he counts things under his breath when he's stressed—it doesn't feel mean.

tt feels like home.

you’re the only person who can call him a walking encyclopedia and make it sound like a love poem.

sometimes you gently steal his mismatched socks, or purposefully mispronounce latin phrases just to see the way he corrects you without even looking up from his book.

you balance him. you unravel him a little.

if quirks are supposed to be strange or off-putting, then maybe you're both just a little strange. but that’s what makes it work. that’s what makes it wholly yours.

r is for rage

spencer doesn’t get angry easily. he gets frustrated, sure. he gets flustered. he gets overwhelmed and overstimulated and pushed to the brink. but rage? that’s rare. which is exactly why it’s so terrifying when it does show.

it takes a very specific kind of trigger: cruelty, injustice, manipulation. someone being deliberately unkind to someone more vulnerable than them—especially if that person is you.

you’ve only seen him truly, truly angry once.

you had brushed it off when someone said something awful to you in passing—some snide little comment about your intelligence, your worth, your relationship with spencer. but spencer had heard it. and something in him snapped.

he didn’t yell. he didn’t fight. he didn’t lose control. what he did was worse.

he went cold.

his voice dropped to this impossibly calm register. his posture stiffened. he didn’t blink, didn’t look away. he stared through the person like he was calculating every way to dismantle them—verbally, psychologically, existentially. like he could undo them with a few carefully chosen words.

you had to put your hand on his arm to bring him back. he’d blinked like he hadn’t realized how far he’d gone.

when spencer’s angry, he bottles it up. he intellectualizes it. he redirects it toward a puzzle, a lecture, a book with margins filled in red ink. but when that bottle shatters?

he doesn't raise his voice. he raises hell.

and if you’re the one being hurt?

he will never, ever let it go.

s is for secrets

spencer is a vault. a walking, talking, tragically earnest vault.

your secrets are kept in the deepest recesses of his mind—protected by eidetic memory and the kind of unshakable loyalty that borders on devotion. you could tell him something once, years ago, and he’d never bring it up again unless you did. but he’d remember. the exact words. the tone of your voice. the look in your eyes when you said it.

he holds those pieces of you like glass, carefully, reverently and never risking a crack.

but when it comes to his secrets?

that’s whole other story.

spencer is good at compartmentalizing. almost too good. he tells you the truth, sure—but never all of it. not because he wants to lie to you. he just… doesn’t want to burden you. or worse, scare you off.

he won’t tell you how long he stayed awake replaying your words from the jet. he won’t admit that he reread the same sentence in his book twelve times after you leaned over his desk in that stupid bralette. he won’t confess that every time you touch him—his hand, his arm, his shoulder—he feels it all night like a phantom burn under his skin.

the biggest secret he’s keeping?

he’s in love with you.

and he has been. quietly, painfully, and unquestionably.

he’s just scared that if he says it out loud, he won’t be able to unsay it. that if you don’t feel the same way, he’ll lose the one person who makes his world make sense.

so he keeps it buried.

under soft smiles.

under long glances.

under every whispered 'you’re my best friend.'

maybe someday, he’ll be brave enough to let it surface.

t is for texting

he is, predictably, a terrible texter—at least by modern standards.

not because he doesn’t want to talk to you. quite the opposite, actually. it’s just that spencer overthinks everything. a simple 'how are you?' turns into a five-paragraph essay he rewrites three times before giving up and sending, 'hey.'

you usually beat him to the punch anyway.

he replies quickly when it’s work-related. but if you text him something casual like 'miss you,' it’ll take him exactly twenty-three minutes to respond with something impossibly stiff like, 'that’s sweet. i’ve been thinking about you too.'

you once caught him googling 'casual responses to affectionate messages from best friend' and nearly cried laughing.

that being said—spencer does text you. constantly. he just does it in his way.

mid-case, you’ll get things like :

did you know oxytocin is released during prolonged eye contact?

you should drink more water today. you only had one bottle yesterday.

there’s a meteor shower tonight. want to sit on your roof again?

no emojis. no abbreviations. just pure spencer. thoughtful, intuitive, and quietly adoring.

you, of course, obliterate his inbox with chaos. photos, memes, out-of-pocket thirst traps, live updates of your day in ten-second intervals, you fucking name it.

he pretends to be exasperated. he’s not. he saves them all.

sometimes, when he misses you, he scrolls back months just to reread the random thoughts you’ve sent. just to feel close. just to remind himself what it’s like when you’re not there—talking to him like he’s the only one in the world worth texting.

u is for understanding

spencer doesn’t just understand you—he studies you like a science, memorizes you like scripture, holds your emotional tells with the same reverence he gives to the periodic table.

he knows when you're upset even before you do.

a certain hitch in your breath? he clocks it. the way your fingers fidget with the hem of your sleeve? he’s already sitting up straighter beside you. if you’re quiet in a way that isn’t restful, he hears it in the silence.

you don’t have to speak.

you just have to exist, and he reads you like a well-worn paperback.

and more than that, spencer listens. not just with his ears—but with his whole body. his full attention. his kind eyes, his tilted head, the gentle way he says your name when you’re spiraling : 'hey… i’m here.'

he doesn’t jump to fix things unless you ask. doesn’t tell you what to feel. he just gives you a soft place to land.

because that’s what you are for him.

you understand him, too—in a way no one else really has. you don’t get overwhelmed when he info-dumps or loses track of the conversation mid-sentence. you don’t flinch when he stumbles over social cues or blurts something too honest too fast. you know that he’s trying.

you’ve never made him feel like too much.

that’s why it works—why this friendship-turned-something-more feels inevitable.

because spencer doesn’t just understand you.

he accepts you unconditionally.

v is for vacation

vacations with spencer are planned. down to the museum hours, the best walking routes, and which cafés serve the best local pastries ( he probably read twenty reviews, cross-referenced photos, and made a ranked list in his notebook ).

he’s a walking itinerary. but—he only pulls it out if you ask.

because even though he thrives on structure, for you, he’s learned to be flexible. to let things unfold. to enjoy the chaos of wrong turns and missed buses and rainstorms that send you running for cover under a shared awning.

he’ll pick a place based on your offhand comment months ago. 'i’ve always wanted to see the northern lights…' you’ll blink when he surprises you with flight confirmations.

spencer’s ideal trip is somewhere cool and quiet—a cozy cabin with a wood-burning fireplace, a tiny local bookstore, and no cell reception. he’ll sit beside you with a mug of tea and a blanket, reading aloud if you ask. or silently, your knees brushing.

but he’ll do beaches for you. he’ll wear embarrassingly high-spf sunscreen and a button-down in the sand, claiming he’s fine as he squints in the sun and holds your tote bag. he’ll stay until sunset just to see you happy.

and when the sun dips below the horizon and the sky turns gold, he’ll lean over and say quietly, 'you’re my favorite view.'

( which you’ll tease him for. endlessly. but still write down in your notes app to keep forever. )

w is for whining

he claims he doesn’t whine, but you know better.

it’s subtle—softer than a true whine, more like a string of muttered protests delivered in that breathy, under-his-breath tone he thinks you don’t hear.

he whines when he’s tired but refuses to go to bed. when you steal the last slice of pizza without offering to split it. when you take the blanket and wrap yourself in it like a burrito. when he’s the little spoon and you start inching away.

you’ll hear it, all curled up and sulky :

'you said we’d watch the documentary…' 'you didn’t even ask if i wanted the crust…' 'that’s not sharing, that’s theft…'

if you laugh, he only gets poutier.

and yes—he likes when you whine. obviously not in public, not at work, but in private, domestic spaces where you're soft with him.

whining that you’re cold, that your feet hurt, that he hasn’t cuddled you enough today.

he’ll roll his eyes, but he’s already tugging you closer. tucking the blanket around your shoulders. rubbing circles into your calves. sliding a hand over your waist with a quiet : 'better?'

he never admits it, but your whining makes him feel wanted. needed. necessary.

( which he is, but he still likes hearing it. )

x is for x factor

it’s not just his brain. it’s not just the way he knows things, stores them, retrieves them like magic—though yes, that part is hot.

it’s not even the softness he keeps tucked behind a dozen defense mechanisms, or the quiet way he listens when you ramble, or the fact that he always remembers your coffee order, even when you change it six times in a row.

it’s all of that. but more than anything, spencer’s x factor is that he cares.

deeply and unconditionally and when it comes to you, quietly.

he cares when you say you’re fine but clearly aren’t. he notices when you wear the sweatshirt he thought he lost. he pretends not to notice when you cry in the dark and think he’s asleep—just pulls you in closer instead.

he’s emotionally fluent in your every mood. your silence, your sarcasm, your signals. he anticipates your needs before you voice them. knows when to push, when to pull, and when to simply sit with you in the quiet.

and the kicker? he never expects credit.

it’s just… who he is. spencer is himself the x factor. a slow burn, a steady fire, a man who makes falling feel like flying—because you know he’ll catch you. every time.

y is for yearning

spencer doesn’t just miss you. he yearns for you.

there is a difference.

missing someone is a passing ache, an absence in a moment. yearning is persistent. chronic. a dull pulse of longing that lives beneath his skin and lingers in every breath.

when you’re gone—whether it’s a few hours or a few weeks—spencer doesn’t just notice. he feels it. physically.

his brain, so used to buzzing with fact and theory, gets fuzzy at the edges, like he’s operating at 80% capacity, like some vital piece of him clocked out with you and hasn’t returned. he’ll try to ignore it at first and bury himself in pages of a dusty tome or hyper-fixate on a new equation, but it always circles back to you.

to how you brush your fingers through his curls when you’re sitting too close. to the way your perfume clings to his cardigans when you borrow one and give it back days later. to the voice messages you leave—rambling, chaotic, full of laughter—and how he replays them at two am with the volume turned all the way up.

he watches the door of the bau bullpen like it might conjure you if he stares hard enough. he keeps your name open in his contacts, thumb hovering over the call button, before locking his phone and tossing it onto the couch like it offended him.

sometimes, when it’s bad—really bad—he’ll fall asleep with one of your sweatshirts tucked under his pillow. he’ll wake up with it clutched to his chest like a security blanket.

and if anyone asks?

he shrugs and says he’s fine. says he’s busy. says he’s tired.

but really, he’s just spencer: a genius with a tragic crush, loving you in silence like it’s the only language he knows.

the worst part is, he never lets himself believe you could feel the same. so he bottles it up. every flutter of affection. every quiet ache. every skipped heartbeat.

but it leaks out. in the way he always remembers how you take your coffee. in the way he memorizes your laugh like scripture. in the way he turns to you first—always first—like gravity doesn't apply to anyone else.

and when you finally walk into the room again—after a trip, or a weekend apart, or even just lunch out of the office—his chest tightens with relief.

not that he says that. he just gives you a soft smile. offers you the muffin he saved and pretends he didn’t spend the entire time you were gone retracing the shape of your name in his mind like it was a lifeline.

spencer reid doesn’t just miss you. he belongs to you. he just hasn’t told you yet.

z is for zzz

he insists he’s a light sleeper. but that’s only half true.

he wants to be a light sleeper—ready at any moment for the phone to ring, for the case to drop, for something to go wrong. but the moment you curl into his side and tuck yourself against him like you belong there? he’s out like a light.

he sleeps best with you beside him—like his mind finally gives him permission to rest. his muscles soften, his breathing slows. and while the world outside keeps spinning, spencer finally, finally feels still.

and yes—he talks in his sleep. not often, but sometimes you’ll catch whispers in the early hours : mumbled bits of fact, unfinished sentences, your name.

god, your name.

like a lullaby tangled in his dreams.

he’s not a natural cuddler—at least, he wasn’t until you. but now? the moment you’re in bed, he’s got a hand on you somewhere : fingers grazing your wrist, palm pressed to your waist, your ankle resting against his. he sleeps best when he knows you’re there, that he can feel you. and if you shift away in your sleep, give it ten minutes—he’ll find you again.

he doesn’t snore. but he does let out the softest little exhales when he’s fully relaxed, the kind of sound you’d never hear at work or on the jet or in the field. the kind of sound he only makes when he’s safe. home.

he has sleep shirts, sure. pajama sets even. but nine times out of ten, he ends up in one of your oversized tees instead. claims it’s because your detergent smells like lavender and is neurologically calming. you know better. he just wants to be surrounded by you—even in sleep.

and when you wake up before him (rare, but it happens ), you get to see it : the real spencer reid.

hair a mess. mouth slightly parted. arms tangled in the sheets. that furrow in his brow gone, like he’s never known pain or fear or expectation. just you. just rest. just peace.

and if you lean over and kiss his cheek?

he’ll stir, sigh, and mutter the softest 'morning, honey,' still half-asleep.

( and then promptly fall right back into dreaming about you. )

in conclusion, spencer reid is whole heartedly, one hundred percent gone for you in every way possible.

[worm-fanon-polls]

Happy pride month! To celebrate, I'm making you all do

I've put together a list of weird and obscure f/f ships, many of which I invented just now, and I'm telling you to pick your favorite one!

Make sure to tell me what you think and why you think it!

[accio-sriracha]

Remus has... issues.

He can only allow things in threes.

If you asked him what his favourite number was he would have to say three numbers: three, thirteen, and twenty-three. The first three numbers containing the number three.

He brushes his teeth for three minutes, not two, and washes his hands for thirty seconds.

He takes thirty minute showers, but will push it to thirty-three if he needs to.

He hugs his friends, but only for three seconds, unless the other person is okay with hugging three times.

He will only eat snacks in quantities of three; three quarters of a pumpkin pastry, three bites of a chocolate frog, three jelly slugs.

He will always end his step on an odd number, always one that contains a three. He will continue to pace until he accomplishes this.

His parents think it all started when he became a werewolf, it was the third of march, three in the morning, Greyback left three scratches along his back. He was bitten three times.

Remus doesn't know if their theory is correct, but he does know the number three has since ruled his life.

That is... until he met Sirius Black.

Sirius Black shook his hand only twice, then hugged him four seconds too long.

Remus did not correct him. How could he? Sirius looked so earnest to be in his company.

Sirius Black would gift him pieces of chocolate, always in even numbers, never in threes. But how could Remus decline? Not when that brilliant smile was lighting up Sirius' face as he offered them.

Sirius patted his shoulder whenever he was down, never three times, but Remus could not bare to push him away, not when the gesture was so comfortable.

Remus Lupin needed things in threes, but not when he was with Sirius.

Remus got so caught up in the moment, it was almost like he simply... forgot.

He would steal a drag from Remus' cigarette, but never three, only one at a time.

He would feel Sirius squeeze his hand and he would squeeze back, never twice to make it three, only once to show he cared.

When Sirius kissed him for the first time, Remus did not pull away after three seconds. How could he? How could he deny himself this wondrous feeling?

But then... the most amazing thing happened.

Remus had always thought Sirius just didn't know of his odd favour for trifectas, at least, he always pretended not to notice.

So when Sirius kissed him late into their sixth year and whispered the words:

"I love you, I love you, I love you."

Remus felt his heart skip a beat.

Because Sirius had noticed. He was helping Remus, teaching him to be okay with the things he couldn't control.

And he loved Remus enough to know this moment would be important to him. This was not a boundry to push, but an act of love so sweet it melted Remus' heart.

And Remus whispered back:

"I love you."

Only once.

Because he meant it. More than anything, more than his issues, more than his need for perfection, Remus loved Sirius.

And Sirius loved Remus back, exactly the way that he was.

[rassicas]

In the splatoon fanbase, there are many misconceptions surrounding the relationship between inklings and water. without fail whenever I mention something related to the topic I'll get replies of "actually the canon is [some popular but incorrect theory]" "no they can do this and this canonically [it's actually a headcanon]" "no its really [something NOA made up]"

so to briefly go over The Facts:

Inklings canonically die when submerged in water. And yes, getting "splatted" is them dying for real, respawning is also an in-universe thing that has existed for at least 2000 years and not just a game mechanic. While the dying in water thing originally came from a game mechanic, it has been repeatedly stated that they incorporated this into the inkling's biology. The water weakness is not because of the water itself being toxic. The reason is based in osmosis. in the process of their evolution, Inklings (and octolings) changed a lot, and one of these changes was the ability to transform between a humanoid and swim form. Doing this transformation requires skin that is a thin, semi permeable membrane [this kind of skin is a trait found in real life molluscs]. The evolutionary trade off is that, because of how semi permeable their skin is, the ink inside of their bodies will bleed out when in contact with another liquid. This is the answer given directly by the series' creator. And here it is confirmed that while the water weakness originated from game mechanics, it is very much became a part of an inkling's in-universe biology. Kind of like how a slug will die if you sprinkle salt on it (for a reason that's almost the same as the inklings), but ultimately needs salt in its diet through the food it eats to live, inklings do drink water and other liquids. Its also not like they touch water and immediately explode, it seems they can wash their hands in it and dip their feet in it and be fine.

Some people think the water weakness is stupid, personally i think its reasonable because Inkling biology is already weird as hell and of how ridiculously advantageous it is to be an ink-based cephalopod. the ink gives them the ability to jump absurdly long distances and cheat death to an extent. they're not losing much by not being able to dunk themselves in water. Anyway point is it sucks that all the relevant canon information on this is one of those japan only things/exclusive to developer interviews and pretty much every time it's brought up in English the localizers make shit up. I plan to make a video about this one of these days, but with how 'controversial' the topic is, and how many little details and connected concepts there are, I've been holding it off because I want to do it right. there's also some specific details that are unclear that I've been hoping would be clarified in the artbook or a dev interview but haven't, I might just have to go for it at this point. for the time being, i hope this post helps clear up a few things!

[florenceafternoon]

━。゜✿ jily fic recommendations ✿ ゜。━

Thank you to all the authors who share their wonderful stories with us. I hope this list reminds you that I come back to these stories often and that your words are loved by many.

As always, these fics are set in the wizarding world but aren’t necessarily canon compliant.

For reference, anything in italics is taken from the summaries.

A Hundred Visions and Revisions by @yallthemwitches

She loves him like this: sleepy, slap happy, sometimes a bit handsy but willing to meet her where she’s at in the moment. It’s the quiet moments like this that keep her going sometimes, knowing that whatever is happening out there will disappear by the end of the day when they can hold each other again.

To live for the hope of it all

Whispers in the Dark also by yallthemwitches

When Lily is awarded her prefect badge in fifth year, they warn her that James Potter has a talent for disappearing... but if that's true, why does he keep coming to her night after night, hoping to be caught?

Until the Light Takes Us also by yallthemwitches

A series of drabbles and fics following the prompt of Jilytober Fest 2024.

color theory by @clare-with-no-i

Lily Evans learns about love: its hues, its tints, its shades. Some disappoint. Some dazzle.

falling (for fools) by @jjameslily

She hated him. Hated his confidence, his messy charm, the way he managed to take up space even when he wasn’t saying a word.

Absolutely. Totally. Without question.

But, as much as she tried to focus, she couldn’t shake the nagging thought.

She’d never noticed just how distracting James Potter could be.

don’t let it make you cry also by jjameslily

Her eyes glistened, the love within her radiating from her. She let it ripple outward, weaving her spirit into the air around him, reaching beyond the veil, hoping he—Harry, their son—would feel it not as a ghost of a fleeting memory, but as a pulse. Alive. Real.

Quid Pro Quo by StarsAndDiamond (on ao3)

Lily Evans was not ready to go home for her sister's Christmas engagement, but she wasn't the only one up late at night in the common room.

Sharper Than Hope by @maraudersftw

“You’re…” A lick of lips; something sharper than hope on my tongue; another attempt. “You fancy me?”

every single time by @gigglesandfreckles-hp

Unrelated drabbles, fics, ficlets, and word dumps in response to jilytober 2024 prompts

2, 5, 10, 11, 12, 16, 19, 21, 27, 29 and 30 are my favourites

Lucky Number 7 by zipadeea (on ao3)

Lily Evans thought life at Hogwarts was busy enough for her, what with Prefect duties and N.E.W.T classes and meetings with the Slug Club. Then, Marlene convinces her to try out for the Gryffindor quidditch team.

Written because James was a Chaser, and I'm convinced Harry's athletic abilities come from both sides of the family tree.

crawl home by @annabtg

He doesn’t know if he’s alive or dead. All he knows is that he wants to go home.

Exhale by @petalsthefish

"Shhh," James leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers. "I’m so sorry, but I have to set the bones again. It’s okay to cry, you're doing so well. So well, baby."

"Fuck," she whimpered through her tears. "I hate this."

"I know, I know," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I hate this too, sweetheart."

Masquerade also by petalsthefish

James was going to jinx Sarah Hitchkes.

It was Sarah Hitchkes who conceived the entire idea, driven by two main motives. First, it was a fun and creative way for everyone to showcase their Patronuses. Second, it gave her the perfect excuse to throw a massive party. Scheduled for July 31st at her sprawling estate, the event was open to all the sixth- and seventh-year students. She dubbed it the “Patronus Party,” and it was set to be the social highlight of the summer—provided you could produce a corporeal Patronus.

this trope will always be a favorite of mine

Coincidence also by petalsthefish

“You look miserable.” Mary commented, noting Lily’s bored expression.

"I need to make out with someone like I need to breathe." Lily Evans hissed as she swirled her butterbeer and peered around the bar.

"James Potter's free."

In Their Short Time by @hogwartslivy

It was one hell of a love story. One that had a most tragic, untimely ending. They could never have guessed as mere children sitting across from one another on the train, all excitement and nerves and emotions, that their stories, all hopes and fears and loves, were to be forever intertwined.

Something Old Something New by @chiechie97

Weddings are the most beautiful things in the world. Unless you accidentally end up at your ex... somethings house to play violin at a family wedding.

Lily Evans just wants to get payed and go home to her cat. Perhaps she should have asked more questinos about the location and clients of her string quartets latest gig.

It’s Always You by @joyseuphoria

5 times jily kissed before they started dating

I'll keep your brittle heart warm by Iphigenniaa (on ao3)

Lily Evans didn't have to wash the blood off her hands that night, but she did have to wash the burning odor from her clothes, which seemed to soak even her own insides.

A Life With You by @kay-elle-cee

A Jily Lives AU collection of small moments from Hogwarts onwards, using the 31 Jilytober tumblr prompts.

7, 8, 10, 11, 12, 15, 17, 18, 20, 22, 24, 29 and 30 are my favourites

don't forget me by blackcanarys (on ao3)

At the height of the First Wizarding War, Lily Evans finds herself contemplating life, death and her mortality after a routine Order mission in 1978.

It's All Politics by acciosalmon (on ao3)

The most constant emotional sentiment in Lily's Hogwarts career was her complete and utter loathing of one William Mulciber

I have yet to read this one, but it was recomended to me because it explores how jily's power dynamic is altered when James isn't potraied as white but Lily is

[haggishlyhagging]

It took about two hours for Daina Taimina to find the solution that had eluded mathematicians for over a century. It was 1997, and the Latvian mathematician was participating in a geometry workshop at Cornell University. David Henderson, the professor leading the workshop, was modelling a hyperbolic plane constructed out of thin, circular strips of paper taped together. 'It was disgusting,' laughed Taimina in an interview.

A hyperbolic plane is 'the geometric opposite' of a sphere, explains Henderson in an interview with arts and culture magazine Cabinet. 'On a sphere, the surface curves in on itself and is closed. A hyperbolic plane is a surface in which the space curves away from itself at every point.' It exists in nature in ruffled lettuce leaves, in coral leaf, in sea slugs, in cancer cells. Hyperbolic geometry is used by statisticians when they work with multidimensional data, by Pixar animators when they want to simulate realistic cloth, by auto-industry engineers to design aerodynamic cars, by acoustic engineers to design concert halls. It's the foundation of the theory of relativity, and thus the closest thing we have to an understanding of the shape of the universe. In short, hyperbolic space is a pretty big deal.

But for thousands of years, hyperbolic space didn't exist. At least it didn't according to mathematicians, who believed that there were only two types of space: Euclidean, or flat space, like a table, and spherical space, like a ball. In the nineteenth century, hyperbolic space was discovered - but only in principle. And although mathematicians tried for over a century to find a way to successfully represent this space physically, no one managed it - until Taimina attended that workshop at Cornell. Because as well as being a professor of mathematics, Taimina also liked to crochet.

Taimina learnt to crochet as a schoolgirl. Growing up in Latvia, part of the former Soviet Union, 'you fix your own car, you fix your own faucet - anything', she explains. 'When I was growing up, knitting or any other handiwork meant you could make a dress or a sweater different from everybody else's.' But while she had always seen patterns and algorithms in knitting and crochet, Taimina had never connected this traditional, domestic, feminine skill with her professional work in maths. Until that workshop in 1997. When she saw the battered paper approximation Henderson was using to explain hyperbolic space, she realised: I can make this out of crochet.

And so that's what she did. She spent her summer 'crocheting a classroom set of hyperbolic forms' by the swimming pool. 'People walked by, and they asked me, "What are you doing?" And I answered, "Oh, I'm crocheting the hyperbolic plane."' She has now created hundreds of models and explains that in the process of making them 'you get a very concrete sense of the space expanding exponentially. The first rows take no time but the later rows can take literally hours, they have so many stitches. You get a visceral sense of what "hyperbolic" really means.' Just looking at her models did the same for others: in an interview with the New York Times Taimina recalled a professor who had taught hyperbolic space for years seeing one and saying, 'Oh, so that's how they look.' Now her creations are the standard model for explaining hyperbolic space.

-Caroline Criado Perez, Invisible Women

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