#I felt a lot better all morning I love infodumping when people care

[s-ccaam-era-crepe]

disco elysium fan in the wild !!! wooo!!

[dracothedeatheatingcupcake-ao3]

slides into your inbox

hi i uh. drank a sinister potion (dr. pepper) on the way to school this morning and the problem with perfection filled my head for the fiftieth time so. i'm here now. soooo uh, warning for a very crazy caffeine induced audhd rant. 👍

i just like.... kinda wanna let u know how much this fic means to me. like fr. like seriously. it means a lot to me. we've been mutuals for a while so i feel like now's def a good time (and a long time coming lmao)

iirc i found ur fic when i was in the danganronpa trenches in like, 2021/2022 i think? it was summer and i had nothing better to do with my free time and i was super bored and ishimondo was my personality and i found it while going thru ao3 and was like "yeah. this sounds cool"

and i did NOT know what i was getting into let me tell you. adored the writing really fast. ur skill level actually blew me the fuck away like. instantly. all the characters were incredibly in character, everything was so detailed and i LOVED the fact that you made your writing very emotion driven. like you wrote a lot with like, exaggerated punctuation and pauses and spaces and stuff that i rarely ever see but i feel like your writing was like, so much better for that??? its something i've started to use in my writing because it just draws you in so much and just. puts you into their shoes almost instantly. like it sounds like you're in their head. like i think like that (got that narrator brain in me) and it was just so cool to see someone write like that. got a lot of good moments

and i honest to god binged that fic because it had me by a chokehold. like i'm talking i barely got sleep because i was so excited to read the next chapter the next day that my body would wake me up earlier. and i'd pull it out and binge the next chapter. and when i got to a point where the chapters where still being updated, i remember checking like. every sunday night or so every week to see if it got updated. so many cliffhangers that i was not normal about..........

and i recommended it to EVERYONE i knew that was into danganronpa. like i did not care if they usually read fanfiction or not i would sit there and go on infodump rants about this gay fanfiction i found on the gay fanfiction site and ik i confused them but like. that was how good it was to me. felt like it was a real book. and not only that i honest to god felt like i was reading about me.

like the way you wrote taka meant and continues to mean so much to me to this fucking day because i rarely ever see characters that are like me, at least in an honest to god way. and i was already connected to taka and loved him but i think you made him feel like an extension of me in a way and it just like. idk. it spoke to me man. ik i sound dramatic but it did.

like an autistic queer kid with a strict parent being thrown into so many situations where you just automatically assume everyone else is watching you, judging you, based on past trauma and experiences and just. at the same time so emotional and passionate and just genuine for lack of a better term. and the panic attacks that were written i actually almost had some during reading it because i felt it. that felt like me honest to god (not a bad thing btw!!! i am ok!! but that's a compliment because that's how accurate it was!!)

and during a time where i was dating people who just. idk its hard to explain. i knew they cared about me but there were so many times where there were disconnects. sexuality and gender (gender's not really a part of the story ik but yk what i mean) was a big one. and i felt how he would feel when mondo wasn't exactly the best when it came to his behaviors and expressions of love.

and now i'm with someone who is like. mondo at all his best moments. and even when he matches mondo's lower ones it feels like, there's more times where we can do what they did in the fic and work through it. be there for each other because even if we're both fucked up yk we can like. work through it. and that's so cool honestly?? its not transactional, it means something. i've felt both sides and it's so. crazy to me. it's just wild.

and while i didn't read a lot of it (mental health was NOT in a space where i could i'm gonna be so real) the other installment, the one where mondo comes over to taka's house and they gotta hide and stuff? i've felt that. god i've felt that. my current boyfriend (also a trans man) and i have had so many times where we've had to act as "friends" and hide our romantic gestures and being so deathly afraid of getting caught yk?

idk this fic made me feel seen, and i wonder if there's like... anyone else that feels that way. idk i feel like their definitely is. and i just kinda wanna like. thank you for writing something that just. made me feel heard in a time when i really really needed it. even if we didn't know each other it felt so wild to have a stranger sit there and give me and indirect hug and let me know that i am not the only guy struggling out there with this stuff. it's changed the way i view myself and how i view the world and it's so cool to me that even fanfiction of all things can do that. that's nuts man. you did that and i really wanna emphasize that you should be proud of that. that's so cool. you're writing is so fucking cool man.

and also another thing i. love. that you also wrote about sex being a form of like. expressing love for some people. i am demisexual so like. seeing a character that seemed to also exhibit that and really only feel and have that strong attraction to someone they love romantically and have a connection with, and do it to let the other person know they love them. it's like. that's cool. that's so cool. i'm shaking you that's so cool /pos

and while i'm not fixated on dr right now (as you can. probably tell. (btw obligatory "watch lego monkie kid but also you do not have to i just wanna let you know its cool" plug because of Tha Autism(tm)), and while my comic i was going to make is on a very long hiatus bc adhd is beating the shit out of me, i really want you to know how much i appreciate this fic and how much it just. lives in my brain. how much it makes me emotional to this day because it spoke to me; some random dude who was just getting out of high school who fucking needed that really really bad. and also i want you to know how excited i was when we become mutuals and i'm really really lucky to have someone so cool as my mutual, and you've become even cooler in my brain now that we're kinda yk. in a vaguely similar circle.

anyways i appreciate you so much!!!! and even if we're in different fandoms and stuff, and even if tpwp is also not being continued/on a hiatus i still appreciate what you did with it, and what you do now. don't understand all the fandoms you post but i got that respect for it. i'm in the corner with pom poms cheering u on.

so um. yeah! that was long. but i'm hyped up on caffeine and neurodivergent so ujhm. yea. hopefully this made sense lmao

~ your very much not normal mutual tyler 👍

Okay, sorry for the late response, I saw this when I got up this morning and needed the day to figure how to respond because this was. So much (in a good way I promise!!!!)

So, first of all, THANK YOU FOR THIS!! It's easy as a fic writer to feel discouraged with your writing, or to feel like you're not as "good" as other people, and it's things like this that remind me that whether or not I'm a "good writer," what I write does matter to people. And that's just... really special to me, so thank you for writing this all. It means so much to me.

I'm glad you like the dramatic pauses and the way I write, though! When I was younger, I always tried to limit doing that sort of thing, since I knew it wasn't considered "good" or "proper" writing. But with TPWP I just... decided to let myself write how I wanted to write and not think too much about it. I wrote TPWP kind of how I think, because I wanted it to feel like it was Taka's thoughts and emotions, even if it wasn't in first person. And I'm really glad that came across!

I've always been really big into psychology and introspection, which is one of the main reasons I write about things like that a lot. I like to get into characters heads and try to figure them out. See what they'd be like if this thing happened, or if this thing hadn't happened, etc. I write about struggles, because I struggled as a kid, but in more quiet ways. I mean, all things considered I had a good life. supportive, loving parents and older brother, good grades, people generally liked me and I never got in trouble. But I was so determined to do well that I psyched myself out. I was terrified of disappointing people and losing what I had, and I crumbled in middle and high school. Luckily I had good parents so I was able to stumble through it, but it always left me feeling isolated, since I could never articulate why I felt so off inside. It wasn't until I took an "abnormal psych" class in college that I even realized I had intense anxiety.

All of this to say that I'm glad I was able to resonate with you through my writing. I could never find the words to articulate myself when I was younger, so I took to writing to try and connect with people, to get a message across. Most of my stories have some form of "moral" or "lesson" that I'm trying to get across, lessons that I had to learn myself growing up. TPWP's was that perfection is impossible and that you have to learn to accept yourself for who you are. Honestly, I put the most of myself into Taka, since while I never had a distant parental figure who wanted me to be absolutely perfect, I was kinda that figure to myself. I wanted so badly to be "perfect" and "the favorite" and when I wasn't, I freaked out. I shut down and couldn't even explain to my parents why. So, with TPWP, I wanted to let other people know that it's okay to just... be you.

I don't know if any of this is making any sense, sorry. I had a long day at work and my head is a bit jumbled. Mostly just... thanks for writing this. Things have been tough lately between school and work, and it's nice to be reminded that my stories do matter to people. I never wanted to be a professional writer, but I did always want to write something that made someone, somewhere, feel something. Hopefully something good, something cathartic.

Oh, and as for the sex thing... that was honestly unintended, ha. But I'm Ace, so to me, that's what sex is. Or what it should be. A way to connect emotionally with your partner above all else. Honestly, the only reason I wrote sex into TPWP was to explore the way it would interact with their friendship, not to be like... sexual, ha. Glad you liked how I wrote it!

Anyway, thanks again for writing this!! And I'm glad we're mutuals too! Yeah, I am part of some interesting fandoms on my main blog, but I'm glad it's not too off-putting, ha. I'll try and check out that show some day, though! I don't have a lot of emotional energy to get into a new show at the moment (as I'm sure some people can understand, since starting a new fandom can be a lot at times), but maybe once (IF) things calm down for me I'll take a look! I have seen a lot of posts about the monkie kid show, not just from you, so it's something I might check out one of these days. I'm mostly waiting for Our Flag Means Death season 2 to air tomorrow so I can get washed away into Pirate Town for the next month or so, while the episodes release. 😅😅😅

[specialagentsergio]

all we can do is keep breathing || chapter two

summary: Spencer’s doing better, but recovery isn’t linear, and some scars run deeper than either of you knew.

pairing: spencer reid x gn!reader

category: angst (eventual happy ending)

content warnings: swearing, drug abuse & addiction, substance use disorder, ptsd, descriptions of panic attacks/ptsd episodes, recollection of past bullying, unhealthy coping mechanisms, yelling/fighting, negative feelings towards other team members, body image issues

a/n: i was so taken aback by the response to chapter one--i didn’t think anyone would even read it tbh. thank you all and thanks for being patient with my lack of an upload schedule. i'm so sorry the word count is massive again. you get tummy appreciation, though, because 1) we all love spencer’s tummy, and 2) i personally gained weight when i was in residential treatment and it can be a bit of a mindfuck lol.

a/n 2: repeated disclaimer that i'm not a doctor, psychologist, psychiatrist, etc., just a direct care staff, past rtc patient and trauma recovery enthusiast. the horse therapy is pretty much entirely based on my own personal experience from nearly a decade ago, so don’t expect it to be an accurate portrayal of equine-assisted psychotherapy.

word count: 7.3k

song: you will be found from dear evan hansen

fic masterlist || masterlist

He’s been looking forward to the start of equine therapy since he got a spot in the program. But instead of being excited the morning of, Spencer ends up crying for an hour straight.

The day started off fine. It wasn’t hard to get up with the horses to look forward to, and he was able to get an extra plate at breakfast, so he could keep the pancake syrup from touching the eggs and sausage. Art therapy was a few hours later. He’d started to actually enjoy the pottery project—the recreational therapist had brought him a box of disposable gloves to use so the feeling of drying clay on his hands was no longer a problem.

Everyone’s projects were coming out of the kiln today and the next step was painting them. He’d been planning out the design and colors he wanted to use since the project started and was excited to finally start applying it.

Then he dropped his item, it broke into pieces, and he burst into tears.

He’d fled the room on instinct alone and curled up in a corner of the hallway, pressing his knees to his forehead. He was upset about the pottery, and upset that he was so affected by it breaking. He felt stupid and silly for crying over it, which only made him cry harder.

He heard distant laughter and he clapped his hands over his ears. He was being laughed at again for being a crybaby. He didn’t want to be a crybaby. He wanted to stop crying, he just couldn’t. The goalpost was cold against the bare skin of his back, and his wrists were starting to burn from the ties.

I want to go home. Just let me go home, please, I’ll do anything. Let me go, let me go--

“Spencer, it’s okay. You’re safe here. Can you repeat after me? I’m safe here.”

Safe here. Safe here.

Art therapy was over by the time he came out of it.

He has lunch at his therapist’s office instead of with the group. Lara asks what his flashback had been to.

He picks at his food. “It happened a long time ago. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Alright. Can you tell me how it felt instead?”

Spencer isn’t really hungry, but bites into his sandwich to stall for time. She doesn’t rush him. Eventually, he asks, “Do you know what alexithymia means?”

“No words for feelings,” she replies.

He nods. “That’s all.”

Lara opens one of her desk drawers and pulls out a composition notebook, which she then hands to him.

“What’s this for?”

“I want you to start trying to notice your feelings and sensations throughout the day. Make some kind of note, even if you don’t exactly have the words to describe it.”

He sighs. “Why?”

“Just noticing what you feel can help you develop emotional regulation,” she explains. She’s always been honest with him about the why of what she wants him to try and do. “It’s going to help you stop ignoring what’s going on inside you.”

I don’t want to do that.

“I know you don’t.”

“I didn’t mean to say that out loud,” he blurts. “That either. I—god.” He quickly takes another bite of food before he can say more.

“It’s fine. I didn’t expect you to like it,” Lara says with a small smile. “I’m sure the thought of confronting what you’ve been suppressing and avoiding is scary. But getting better requires you to do a lot of scary things.”

Spencer wants to protest. Being strapped to a chair in a shed and dosed against your will is scary. Your mother being diagnosed with Alzheimer's is scary. Being sent to prison for a crime you didn’t commit is scary. Feeling things? That’s not scary.

Isn’t it?

He tries not to think on it too much.

Despite the unpleasant thoughts running through his mind, Spencer finds himself nodding off on the van ride to the horse ranch. His eyes unfocus, his blink rate slows… and then he jerks back awake at the sensation of his head falling forward.

A frustrated noise escapes the back of his throat. He’s sick of feeling tired all the time. He’s getting enough sleep in theory, but still finds himself drowsy at least once a day. It’s to the point that he’s regularly wearing his glasses instead of his contacts to keep his eyes from feeling quite so dry. He pushes them back up now as he tries to tune back in to his surroundings.

“… don’t get how seeing some horse is supposed to make me feel better.” That’s Aiden’s voice. He’s Spencer’s new roommate. He wasn’t happy when he found out he was getting a new one, having much preferred having the room to himself, but it’s been okay so far, mostly because they keep out of each other’s way. Aiden seems uninterested in making friends, and that suits Spencer just fine. Lara’s been encouraging him to talk to fellow patients instead of just the direct care staff, but he’s resisted it. The last time he befriended someone, they ended up--

Spencer’s fine with the two of them keeping to themselves.

Melanie, one of the staff accompanying them, is leaned over the back of the middle seat as she talks to Aiden. “Well, I couldn’t tell you why exactly, but I’ve seen this program help a lot of people in my time here,” she says. “Spencer?”

“What?”

“You’ve been reading a lot about horses, right?” At his nod, she continues, “What have you found out?”

“Equine-assisted psychotherapy lacks the rigorous scientific evidence to demonstrate if it provides benefits in mental health treatment. Horses have been used to aid in psychiatric treatment since the 1990’s, though,” he says. He intends to stop there, but can’t stop himself from continuing. “It doesn’t necessarily involve riding, but may include grooming, feeding, and ground exercises. The goal is to help the client in social, emotional, cognitive, and or behavioral ways.”

He can feel Aiden’s eyes on him and takes a breath before meeting them. He knows all too well that his infodumps aren’t always well received. He doesn’t want to be friends, but would prefer for his roommate to not view him with disdain or annoyance. But Aiden looks interested, and says as much--”that’s interesting.” He looks like he wants to say more, but doesn’t, and there’s silence between them for the remainder of the drive. It’s not uncomfortable, though.

When the van pulls into a parking spot and everyone starts to get out, Spencer begins to feel nervous. He’s read everything he could get his hands on, but as a relatively new therapy, there’s no standard program; it varies by facility, so he doesn’t know exactly what to expect. He’s been looking forward to this, but what if it turns out to be a bad fit for him? What if the people here don’t like him? What if the horses don’t like him?

He hangs at the back of their group of ten—six patients and two staff—as they’re led to a shaded area. They’re introduced to the program director and assistants, and are given an overview of what they’ll be doing over the next six weeks. They won’t be riding the horses, just doing groundwork (he’s not sure if he feels relieved or disappointed). Then he learns that intention of this specific program isn’t just for the horses to help the clients—the clients are to help the horses as well. The animals all have the gentle temperaments suited for therapy, but also have their own struggles. A lot of them were adopted out of poor situations.

They’re led to a circular corral next and spaced equidistantly around the edge. Spencer’s heart rate picks up as the horses are brought in—the animals will be picking their therapy partner, the director says. As they’re let off their leads a jolt of anxiety runs through his body, making him twitch slightly. This feels uncomfortably familiar to school P.E. when teams were picked. No one wanted him then. What’s gong to happen if none of the horses want him, either? He looks down at his shoes.

But just a few moments later, he hears his name, and looks up to see one of the horses approaching him. “Looks like you and Chance are our first pair,” the director is saying.

First?

Chance is almost entirely black, save for a spot of white between his eyes and above his nose. His size is a little intimidating, but his demeanor is gentle. One of the assistants comes up to Spencer and instructs him to hold out his hand so the horse can sniff it.

His hand trembles slightly as he lifts it. Warm breath hits his fingers as Chance sniffs at it. Then the horse presses his nose completely against his hand. The moistness would usually bother Spencer, but for some reason it doesn’t. Instead, a smile slowly spreads across his face. The assistant tells him he can pet Chance now. He runs his hand up and down the horse’s snout, and despite the slight coarseness of the hair, finds it soothing.

The horse shuffles closer when Spencer is given his lead to hold. A startled laugh escapes him when Chance presses his nose into his neck. He pats his head a few times, then takes a tiny step back. He’s thrilled that at least one of the horses likes him, but feels a little crowded by the large animal. To his surprise, Chance seems to understand, and takes a step back of his own.

He absently pats his horse as he watches the rest of the group pair up. He still can’t believe he was picked first.

The rest of their time with the horses is very simple. They’re taught how to lead them, and after practicing in the corral, they take the horses back to their paddocks. Spencer’s disappointed to say goodbye already, but understands the need to not overwhelm the horses or even themselves. “I’ll see you next week,” he finds himself whispering to Chance.

There’s ten minutes left in the session, and it’s spent with the director telling them more about each horses’ specific background. Chance was poorly treated by his previous owner, mostly kept locked up in a small barn and not properly cared for. He has many talents and abilities, the director says. He needs to learn that he didn’t deserve to be treated the way he was, and be told that he is brave.

Spencer rests his chin in his hand and stares out the window on the drive back to the treatment center. He knows from his reading that horses are emotionally intelligent creatures, but he’s still… well, amazed by how the horses all picked who was most similar to them out of the group instinctively.

He feels more understood by an animal he’s interacted with for twenty minutes than he has by a person for months.

Before bed that night, he chews on the stem of his pen cap, thinking over the events of his day. Slowly, in a manner that could almost be described as cautious, he picks up the empty composition book Lara gave him and opens it. His hand hovers over the blank page for a few moments, then he puts pen on paper and begins to write.

---

You made dinner reservations for his visit this Saturday. You’re getting ready for it when there’s a knock on the front door.

“I’ll get it,” Spencer calls from the living room.

You return to fixing your hair up. You’re not expecting anyone, so it’s probably just a package or a neighbor. But just a few moments later, you hear Spencer raise his voice.

“No! No, I don’t—don’t touch me, please.”

You’re only half dressed, but hurry out to the living room anyways. When you round the corner, you immediately see what the problem is: JJ has dropped by unexpectedly.

It’s not that Spencer doesn’t want to see his team. They just bring memories with them, and he had decided shortly after his birthday that he wasn’t ready to confront that yet.

He’s standing a little ways back from the door, staring at JJ while she looks back with hurt on her face. “Spence--” she starts before she sees you.

At Spencer’s side, you place a hand on his arm and he takes a step behind you. “JJ, what are you doing here?”

She struggles to keep her eyes off of him as she answers. “(Y/N), I’m sorry, I just—Will and I made cookies with the boys today and we had a lot of extra, so I just wanted to drop some off for you. I—I didn’t know Spence was here. I didn’t mean to--”

You hold up a hand to stop her. “It’s okay, JJ. You couldn’t have known. You were just trying to do something nice.”

She nods, relieved at your understanding. “Yeah. Yeah, I….” She blows out a breath, then holds out a plastic wrapped plate of cookies to you. You take it from her with a quiet thank you. Then she looks back to the man that’s essentially hiding behind you as best as he can, despite how tall he is. “Spence, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you wouldn’t want me to touch you.”

There’s a tug on your clothing as he curls his fingers into the fabric on the small of your back. You tilt your head to look at him, but his gaze is on the floor. “You…” he glances up once, then looks back down. “You should ask next time,” he says quietly.

“Okay,” she replies, just as softly. “I will.”

You bite down on the inside of your cheeks to hold back a smile. Spencer often struggles to advocate for his needs, especially with his friends and colleagues, in fear of being a burden or more of a nuisance than he thinks others already perceive him as. He did it a lot with you when you first started dating. It took a lot of time and reassurance that yes, you really did want to know his wants and needs, for him to open up. Telling JJ to ask before touching him may seem small from the outside, but it’s a big deal for him.

After a rather awkward silence, JJ speaks again. “Well, um, I should get going. Just… let us know if you need anything, okay, Spence? We—the team, we’re all here for you.”

“That’s rich,” Spencer mutters behind you and you freeze. You recognize that edge to his voice. It’s usually accompanied by sharp words and remarks that he’ll regret later.

Please please please tell me JJ didn’t hear that.

“I’m sorry?”

Fuck.

“I hate to rush you out, JJ, but we have dinner reservations, so--” you try to interject but Spencer speaks over you.

“I’m just saying, why should I believe you’re here for me when you weren’t last time?”

JJ’s eyebrows come together. “I… don’t understand, I’ve always--”

“No, you haven’t!” It’s like Spencer can’t get the words out fast enough, the way he keeps interrupting before either of you can finish a sentence. This is clearly something that’s been weighing on him. You just wish he was unloading it onto his therapist rather than poor JJ, his best friend outside of you, who’s just trying to be nice. “Ten years ago I was shooting up in police station bathrooms and Emily is the only one who said a damn thing.”

His grip on your clothes tightens, forcing you to take a step back. You move the plate of cookies to one hand and reach back with the other, circling it around his wrist. “Spencer.”

Realization dawns on JJ’s face and she crosses her arms. “Spence, I couldn’t--”

“You couldn’t.” The little laugh he lets out derisive. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”

You don’t know where all this is coming from or what he’s referring to, but JJ does, her expression hardening.

“You know what would have happened if the higher ups found out,” she says. “I was protecting your job. We all were.”

“You shouldn’t have!” he cries, emotions other than anger seeping into the words. “This damn job is one of the worst things that’s ever happened to me! I got anthrax poisoning, I still have issues with my knee from being shot. I nearly died from a shot in the neck, and let’s not forget, I was framed for murder by a psychopath I arrested, who then kidnapped my mother while I was in prison! Oh, and what else? Oh right, this job is the reason I’m a fucking addict in the first place!”

JJ’s clearly trying to hold back tears now, but one slips out and your heart aches for her. You close your eyes briefly and take a deep breath, then speak quietly but firmly. “Spencer, you need to leave the room.”

You can hear him breathing shakily behind you. “(Y/N)--”

“Now.” You squeeze his wrist and he finally lets go of your clothing. He takes a few steps away, stops, turns back and opens his mouth to say something, but at the look you give him, shuts it and continues on his way out.

A sniffle draws your attention back to JJ, who’s looking up at the ceiling and swiping at the tears sliding down. “Sorry,” she mutters. “I shouldn’t have come by without giving you a heads-up. I’ve just made things worse.”

“No, JJ, don’t be sorry. It--” There’s thumping noises from further back in the apartment so you step forward and shut the front door behind you. She has her arms wrapped around herself when you turn back.

“It’s not your fault,” you continue. “You were just trying to be nice. You’re a good friend to him. He’s just… everything is really raw for him right now, if that makes sense?”

She nods, wiping at her eyes again.

“It’s, uh, not an excuse, though,” you clarify. “That’s not what I’m trying to say. You didn’t do anything wrong. That was all him, so please don’t blame yourself.”

JJ is quiet for a bit, staring at the floor. Then she says, “I should get going.”

“Yeah, that’s probably for the best,” you agree quietly. Realizing you’re still holding the plate of cookies in one hand, you lift it slightly and add, “Thanks for these. And, um… I’m so sorry about that.”

She shakes her head and glances at the door. “Don’t be. Like you said, it was all him,” she murmurs.

You know she’s right, but you’re still barely able to stop yourself from apologizing again as she descends the stairs. You can’t help but feel like you should have done more, stopped him somehow, even though you don’t know how you could have. The way his behavior changed… it was like he wanted to get it all out, and when Spencer Reid wants to say something, it’s nearly impossible to get him to stop.

The apartment isn’t quiet when you walk back in. There’s the scraping and clatter of a desk drawer, followed by frantic footsteps and the thud of books falling off the shelves. You know what he’s doing, and you know he won’t find anything, so you just lock the front door and continue on to the kitchen to put the cookies away.

You lean on the counter and cover your face with your hands. It doesn’t matter if you mess up your hair or face, or anything, really, because you’re not making it to dinner anymore.

You stay like that for a while, eyes closed, trying to think of a place to even start with Spencer after all of that. When the sounds of him tearing through the apartment stop, you lift you head back up and promptly jump—he’s staring at you from the nearest doorway.

“Jesus, Spencer--”

“Where’s my stuff?” he asks, and the seriousness in his tone of voice makes your anxiety spike. You know exactly what he means by stuff.

“It’s gone. What did you think was gonna happen?”

“Yeah, but it’s…” he trails off and his expression puzzles you. It almost looks like he’s confused. “It’s all gone.”

Ah. “Yeah, well, I know you think you’re sneaky, but you’re very much the opposite when you’re not sober,” you reply. “Finding your hiding spots wasn’t hard.”

He drops his gaze to the floor, frowning. “I don’t like it when you move my things,” he says quietly.

“I don’t like it when you use,” you counter.

He visibly flinches, then his hand tightens on the door frame. “I’m not going to—to take it, I just want to hold it. Where’s my stuff?” he repeats.

“Holding it, right,” you sigh.

“It’s comforting,” he argues.

“Even if I believed that, it wouldn’t matter, Spencer. I threw it all out. There’s none here.”

The humming noise he makes is angry, and he rocks back and forth on his feet in an agitated manner. “You shouldn’t… I don’t….”

I don’t have the energy for this. It’s a thought you feel terrible about as soon as you have it, but it’s the truth. Lara had cautioned you before his first visit that he was going to be hypersensitive to disappointment and frustration until he learned how to cope with the feelings he’d been using the Dilaudid to block out. Unfortunately, the information, while useful, didn’t always make his emotional extremes easier to deal with.

You run a hand down your face. “Spencer…” you start. You’re not sure what to continue with, but you don’t have to—for whatever reason, that sets him off.

He tears his eyes away from the floor to glare at you. “Don’t—don’t touch my things ever again!” Then he turns and all but runs to the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

You suck in a breath and drop your head to the counter. The marble is cool and you thump your forehead against it gently a few times, focusing on breathing in and out slowly to calm down. When you’re ready, you walk as quietly as you can to the bedroom door and press your ear against it to hear the unmistakable sound of Spencer sobbing into his pillow.

Part of you wants to go in and comfort him, but you suspect that you’d just make it worse right now since some of his frustration is directed at you. And truth be told, you’re frustrated with him, too. So you retreat to the living room, flopping down on the couch and pulling out your phone to call the restaurant to cancel your reservations. Doing so is more upsetting than you expected; a few tears of your own slide down your face after you hang up. Before you know it, you’re calling Tara.

“Hey, what’s up?” she asks you.

“I…” You swallow down the lump in your throat. “Spencer’s… we’re having a bad day. If you’re not busy, can I talk to you about it?”

“Of course,” is her gentle reply, and you pull yourself to your feet, moving to the farthest point away from the bedroom in the apartment so Spencer won’t overhear.

“He got angry when you told him you got rid of everything?” she guesses when you reach that part.

“Yeah. He told me that he doesn’t like it when I move his things. I already knew that; that’s why everything else is where he left it. I think he was mostly just caught off guard that I knew all his hiding places.”

“If he’s having a trauma response to seeing JJ, he’s not going to be thinking clearly, either,” Tara points out. “I wasn’t there, so I could be wrong, but from what you’ve said, it sounds like she was some sort of trigger for him.”

“That’s more than a fair assessment. It’s just… confusing,” you say. “He wasn’t like this with her when he first got home from prison. He actually spent a lot of time at JJ’s house before his relapse. He’d go over and hold Michael when he couldn’t sleep. Why is seeing his best friend suddenly such a bad thing?”

“I don’t know, but it doesn’t have to make sense to us. It only has to make sense to the traumatized part of the brain,” she explains. “He may not even know why himself.”

“Hmm.” You ponder it for a moment. “I think I’d find that interesting if I wasn’t living it.”

Tara laughs out loud at that. “Yeah, I’ve found that to be rather commonplace sentiment in the field of psychology.”

You take a deep breath and let it out slowly, feeling calmer. “Thanks for listening,” you say. “I feel better now.”

“Anytime, (Y/N).”

You exchange goodbyes, making plans to catch up properly over lunch next week. You hang up, then tiptoe back to the bedroom door. It’s quiet now; Spencer seems to have stopped crying. You knock softly. “Honey? Can I come in?”

When he doesn’t respond, you try the door handle. It’s unlocked, which is a good sign—he’s upset, but not upset enough to completely shut you out. You open the door just enough to look in.

Spencer’s on the bed as expected, huddled under his weighted blanket. His back is to the door and you see his shoulders shuddering in the little breaths that follow him crying. In your experience, he usually seeks out comfort before this stage, often having the breakdown itself in your arms or stumbling into them halfway through. This is a bit of uncharted territory. You know that after outbursts of negative emotions, he tends to need reassurance and touch from someone to help him decompress and feel better. You just don’t know if that’s going to hold true for this kind of reaction. A trauma response, Tara called it. You hope it will, because you don’t know what else to do.

“I’m going to come in now,” you tell him before taking a step inside. You leave the door open behind you so he won’t feel trapped, then slowly approach him, looking out for signs that he doesn’t want you near—tensing muscles, slight rocking, shaking his head—but he stays still.

Once you sit down on the edge of the bed you can see his face. His eyes are puffy and his cheeks are red and raw from wiping away tears. A few are still slipping out, sliding sideways down his face and dropping onto the wet patch on his pillowcase as he stares blankly at the wall across the room.

Hesitantly, you reach out and touch his arm as lightly as you can. He takes in a deep breath, but does nothing to suggest that he wants you to remove it. After a few moments to ensure that he’s okay with touch, you start running your hand up and down his back. He whimpers a little in response, closing his eyes and titling back into your touch.

“Are you okay?” you ask softly.

You don’t get a straightforward answer. He chews on his bottom lip for a bit before speaking in a scratchy voice. “Can you…?” he mumbles, lifting his head up slightly from the pillow, then dropping it back down. You don’t know what he’s asking for until you see some of his fingers poking out from under the blanket and the stroking motion they’re making.

You maneuver across the mattress to sit against the headboard, jostling him as little as you can, and he shifts to place his head in your lap. When you start carding your fingers through his hair, his eyes flutter closed and he lets out a little sigh.

“What’s going on?” you ask once the tension has faded and his body has settled fully into the mattress. He just shrugs and you press your lips together to hold back a sigh. You’re familiar with him going nonverbal and you know that he can’t help it, but it’s discouraging. One of the main things he’s been working on is being more open about his emotions. It’s been a welcome change to not have to pry things out of him. But he seems to have gone right back to old habits tonight and it’s… well, it’s disappointing.

The silence carries on for a long time as you continue to run your hands through his hair. He’s so still and relaxed that you think he may have fallen asleep until he takes in a deep, shuddering breath and clears his throat. “I… I want to go back,” he whispers.

“Back whe--” you start, then your heart drops as you realize what he means. “Oh.”

Your hands fall to your lap as he sits up and clambers out of bed, muttering, “gonna get changed.” He shuts the bathroom door behind him—for whatever reason, he’s not always comfortable with you seeing him changing or in the shower anymore—and you sit still for a few moments, processing what he just said. After over a month of listening to him express his desire to come home—begging you, even, in the beginning—you were unprepared to hear the opposite.

You shake your head slightly to try and clear it, then follow his lead, leaving the bed and changing out of your fancy clothes, trying not to think about how much you had been looking forward to wearing them to the restaurant.

Spencer remains quiet for the drive back to his treatment center, staring out the passenger side window, legs pulled into his chest. He mumbles a quick “bye” to you when you check him back in—no hug or kiss on the cheek like you’ve grown accustomed to. Instead he turns right back to the nurse and staff member running the process and asks, “Is Matt working tonight? I need to talk to him.”

At least he wants to talk to someone, you tell yourself as you leave, trying to soothe the sting caused by the fact that the someone isn’t you.

---

The next time you see him is six days later, on Friday evening. You’ve only talked once since Saturday, over the phone on Wednesday night, and it wasn’t a long call. He was upset about the horse therapy appointment being canceled that afternoon because of the weather—it had rained hard all day—and didn’t say much else. He ended the call before the ten minute mark, saying that he was tired and wanted to go lie down.

He also didn’t request a visit for the weekend—he either didn’t think his treatment team would approve it or he just didn’t want one. So you’re visiting him at the center today. You’ve brought dinner with you—you cooked one of his favorites yourself—but before you eat, you’re having an appointment with him and his therapist.

Spencer glances up only briefly when you enter the office, quickly looking back down. One of his knees is bouncing.

You sit down on the other side of the couch, looking between him and Lara in the chair across from you. “So, um, what’s going on?” you ask.

Spencer looks to Lara and she gives him an encouraging nod. He takes in a deep breath before speaking. “I… I wanted to talk to you about what ha—happened last week,” he says quietly, keeping his gaze on his lap.

You don’t know why exactly he wants to do it here, with his therapist, but wanting to talk about it at all is a good sign.. “Okay. I’m listening.”

“Right, um. Seeing… seeing JJ, it--” he stops abruptly, and his hands tremble slightly as he runs them down his thighs. “Sorry, doing… doing this is making me really anxious.”

“Take your time,” Lara says and you nod in agreement.

“Okay.” He runs his hands through his hair a few times before continuing. “Se—seeing her brought up emotions and, and memories I wasn’t ready to, um, confront. It… it really tri—triggered me.”

“Yeah, I could tell,” you say quietly.

Spencer grimaces at the words. He lifts his hand, puts it back down, then lifts it again and rubs at one of his eyes. “I…” he starts, then fixes his gaze on the floor and goes silent.

“(Y/N).” You tear your eyes from him and look at Lara. “Is there anything you’d like to say to Spencer about Saturday? Maybe what it was like for you?”

“Oh. Um.” You chew on your bottom lip for a moment. You’ve worried about how what you say could effect him since his relapse—one of your biggest fears is saying something that would drive him to use. But it’s stressful to keep up with, and with his therapist is probably the best place to start ridding yourself of your new habit of… well, of walking on eggshells around him.

“I think it would be good for him to know,” Lara says.

“Alright.” You lace your fingers together in your lap. “I guess it was just… startling to me. JJ’s your best friend and you’ve never acted that way to her. Or anyone, really, other than your father.”

Spencer stays silent, but flinches at the mention of his dad.

“Do you have anything to say to that?” Lara prompts. He shakes his head, so she looks back to you. “How did seeing Spencer like that make you feel?”

You take in a deep breath and let it out slowly; you’re a little scared to say, not wanting to make him feel worse. “It was… distressing. Especially when he got mad at me for getting rid of his Dilaudid. I know he doesn’t like having his things touched without permission but I don’t think it was reasonable to expect that I wouldn’t have done that.”

Lara nods. “That makes sense. But our feelings aren’t always logical.”

“Yeah, I understand. I guess I just wish he would have told me what was wrong instead of being silent--”

Spencer finally speaks up then, in protest. “I couldn’t help it!”

“I—I know that,” you argue back. “I just—I’m just telling you how I felt.”

He looks away, folding his arms and sinking further into the couch.

“Spencer,” Lara says gently. “You wanted to know how (Y/N) felt, remember? And we talked about how you were probably going to hear things you wouldn’t like.”

You blink, taken aback that this was his idea. And with that comes the realization of just how long it’s been since he’s asked how you’re feeling. Thinking back, you realize that the last time you had a conversation that wasn’t only focused on his feelings and well-being was the day you found him asleep and tied to his mother. This… it’s Spencer before prison.

You’re drawn out of your thoughts by him sighing and muttering, “Yeah, I remember.”

“Alright. Anything else?” Lara asks you.

There’s a lot else, you’re discovering, but you’re not sure you can unpack it all right now. “Maybe…” you say. “Maybe he could just tell me what I can do to help when he’s… triggered?”

“I don’t know,” he says dully, and when he catches the small frown on your face, insists, “I don’t.”

“Yet,” Lara adds.

He sighs again. “Yet,” he repeats.

“I know it’s frustrating,” she says. “Your solution to these kinds of feelings before was denial or using. A solution, not just a problem,” she emphasizes. “I want you both to try and think of it like that, and get comfortable with the fact that it’s going to take awhile to overcome those habits.”

A solution, not a problem. It’s… weird to think of his addiction that way, but you can try, so you give her a nod.

“Yeah, yeah,” Spencer mumbles. But behind the defensive body language, he just seems tired.

He seems to relax a little when the meeting wraps up and it’s only the two of you in one of the rooms used for visits. He remains quiet, but when you place the plate of food you dish him across the table from yours, he slides it back and sits in the chair beside you. “Sorry,” he whispers as soon as you take a bite of food.

“For what?” you ask once you’ve swallowed.

“For yelling at you on Saturday,” he says quietly. “I was upset but I shouldn’t have yelled.”

His leg is bouncing under the table; you put your hand on his knee to still it. “Apology accepted,” you say softly.

He shakes his head slightly. “You don’t have to. I was awful to you on Saturday.”

You frown at his skewed interpretation of events. “Spencer, you really weren’t. You yelled at me, yes, but other than that, you were fine.” And you’ve said much worse when you’ve been high.

“I ruined dinner. And don’t say it’s not a big deal,” he adds before you can speak. “You mentioned it every time we spoke in the week leading up to it. You were really excited about it, and I ruined it.”

Spencer’s read you like a book—that was exactly what you were going to say. “Yeah, I was really looking forward to it,” you admit. “And it sucked to have to cancel the reservations. But there will be other dinners, and it’s not like you did it on purpose.”

“But what if I did?” His voice is so quiet that you wouldn’t have heard him if he wasn’t right next to you.

“What do you mean?”

“I just mean…” he rocks slightly in his seat, which you immediately recognize as one of his self-soothing behaviors. You move your hand from his knee to his hair, lightly running your fingers through the curls covering the nape of his neck to try and help. His head tilts forward a little at your touch and after a brief silence, he continues. “I just mean that self-sabotage wouldn’t exactly be something new for me.”

“Oh.” You take your time considering it; he won’t believe you if you give in to your knee-jerk reaction to protest the negative feelings he harbors towards himself. But he grows agitated at your silence, rocking a bit harder and rubbing at his eye. You tug his hair lightly without really thinking about it in response.

“I’m just thinking,” you assure. “You deserve an honest, thought-out answer.”

After taking a deep breath, he nods. “Okay. I understand. Maybe you could just, uh… to help c--comfort…” He swallows and his voice drops back to a whisper. “Could you do that again?”

“Do what?”

“Um, pull… pull my hair. You did that a few moments ago. Please?”

You almost want to tease him—a year ago, you would have. But he’s been so timid and unsure when asking for any intimate touch other than cuddling since he got back from prison. You don’t want to discourage him from asking any more than he seems to be discouraging himself.

“Of course, baby,” you answer softly, and do just that. He closes his eyes and drops his head onto your shoulder. “As far as the self-sabotaging goes, you’re… not good at lying to me,” you muse. “And after six years with you, I feel like I’m pretty familiar with all the ways Spencer Reid self-sabotages. This never even crossed my mind until you brought it up, so I don’t see that as being what happened.”

You can’t tell if he believes you. A neutral “okay” is all you get from him, but at least he’s not outright disagreeing.

You gently pull his hair a few more times. “You should eat before it gets cold and we have to heat it up again.”

He takes the suggestion, picking his fork up, but you’ve never seen him less enthused about eating one of his favorite foods. He’s only cleared half of his plate when you’re done with all of yours.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

You can’t help but sigh at the habitual response, and consider your next words carefully. “Spencer, I don’t mean to be pushy, but you told me you were working on not dismissing people’s concern for you when they express it.”

“I am,” he mutters, but doesn’t say anything else, just continues to push his food around his plate aimlessly.

“Well, is something wrong with the food?” you ask. “Did I get the texture wrong, or--”

“No, no,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “It’s not the food. The food’s great. It’s… it’s me that’s the problem.”

Your eyebrows come together. “I don’t understand.”

“I…” He starts to blush. “I’m not eating it all because I think I need to lose some weight.”

“Don’t you dare,” you say immediately without thinking. He makes a startled noise at the same time you clap your hand over your mouth. You definitely don’t want him to lose weight, you just hadn’t meant for it to come out like that.

On the day he came home and agreed to treatment, you’d seen just how underweight he’d become as you helped him unbutton his shirt. The stark outline of his ribs against his skin had been scary, and you had no desire to see that again. It was a relief when he started to gain back what he’d lost in prison and afterwards. And you were happy to see him continue to put on even more than that.

You clear your throat. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say it like that. You were just so skinny when you got here. You look good like this.”

“I’ve never weighed this much before,” he says, and the distress in his tone makes you think that this is a fact that has been bothering him for a while. “Some of my clothes are getting too tight.”

“We can buy you new clothes.”

“But we don’t know how much longer the insurance will cover my stay here. Residential treatment is expensive. We don’t need to be spending extra money on clothes when I could just lose the weight instead and not need them.”

“Hey.” You put your hand on his cheek. “I don’t want you to worry about money. The insurance is covering it for now. If they stop, that’s a problem to deal with when we get there. Just focus on getting better.”

He looks away from you, down to his lap. “I should still lose some weight,” he says eventually.

“Have you medical staff told you that?” you inquire, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” he admits with a sigh.

“Then you’re not allowed to worry about it,” you say firmly. “Finish your dinner.”

Spencer hesitates, but picks his fork back up. The corners of his mouth turn up just slightly when he starts eating again, telling you that despite his fretting, he’s happy not to stop himself from eating as much as he wants.

He seems to be in a much better mood at the end of the evening than he was when you arrived, though a bit more subdued and quieter than normal. He also appears to be very tired. It’s only 7:30 but he keeps yawning. He denies dozing off with his head on your shoulder while you were talking after dinner, but you’re sure he did.

During your parting hug, he nestles his face into your neck just like he always does when you’re sleeping in bed together. “Try and get some good sleep tonight,” you encourage, smoothing your hands down his back. “And Spencer?”

He pulls back to look at you and you settle your hands lightly on his waist. “I meant it, you know.” You squeeze slightly. “When I said you look good like this.”

It takes him a few moments to catch onto what you’re implying; when he does, his eyebrows shoot up and his breath catches. “Oh. O—okay. I’ll, um…” he glances down shyly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You better.” You look over your shoulder as you leave, and the small smile he’s wearing prompts one of your own.

--------------- 

tell me what you thought here!

i'd like to put it out there that i don’t hate jj and i really hope it didn’t come across like that. i hadn’t even planned that scene; it just wrote itself. i promise it’ll be resolved before the end of this fic.

another shoutout to the book The Body Keeps the Score for helping immensely with the planning and writing of this. i literally have pages of notes from it. 

you can also find irl pictures of spencer’s therapy horse here.

all we can do taglist: @thatsonezesty13 , @jhillio , @elitereid

general taglist: @calm-and-doctor

[iatethepomegranate]

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences (for now)

Relationship: Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast

Summary: After Aeor, Caleb buys a house in Rexxentrum with Beau and Yasha. For the first time in more than seventeen years, he has some semblance of stability. Caleb is not sure he's ready to handle it, but he's trying, and his friends are eager to see him live a good life, by force if necessary.

And then Soltryce Academy approaches him with a job offer, which could give Caleb the chance to protect the next generation of wizards the way he had needed at their age. Caleb's goal of preventing what happened to him from happening to anyone else, however, takes a far more personal turn than even he could have anticipated.

(In other words, here is a fic about Caleb settling down and learning how to be a person again. Also Professor Widogast will be a thing. Fic title is a lyric from I Have Made Mistakes by the Oh Hellos. Chapter title is a lyric from Mind by Sleeping At Last. More detailed tagging and notes are available on AO3.)

_____

Chapter 1: It's the first brush stroke of a self-portrait

Caleb had mixed feelings returning to Rexxentrum after spending so long in Aeor… and everywhere else he had been, including a fucking flesh city in the Astral Sea. Sure, he had popped back to Rexxentrum regularly to update the Cobalt Soul on his discoveries, and to testify at Trent’s trial, during the conclusion of which he had the satisfaction of turning down Da’leth’s offer to assume Trent’s position as the Archmage of Civil Influence. But now he was back on a more permanent basis.

He didn’t know what to do with that information. With this place, that was both so familiar and so foreign. Full of some of his best memories, and some of his worst.

Caleb had spent so long avoiding this place, or at least the challenging parts of it, and now Beauregard was dragging him and Yasha down the street, infodumping about a house she wanted the three of them to buy together.

“Caleb, don’t give me that look,” she said. “You’re gonna love this place. I know you like your space, dude, and this is the best of both worlds. It’s technically two houses, but there’s, like, a door between them so we can visit each other. Because you’re a fucking genius but you also forget to feed yourself.”

Yasha smiled at Caleb over Beau’s head. “She’s not wrong, Caleb.” Her soft tone made Caleb a little emotional, but he categorically refused to start crying in the street. “I like my space, too. This is a good balance. And there’s room for a garden.”

“Yasha’s not an Empire citizen,” said Beau. “It looks better if there’s two of us Empire kids on the deed so no one thinks any weird shit about her.”

Caleb sighed at her. “I will look at the house, Beauregard.”

Beau yanked them around the street corner. “It’s a great location. You can walk anywhere. I can get to the Archive, and you can get to the Academy.”

Caleb raised an eyebrow at her. “Do you know something I don’t?”

“Maybe. Astrid says hi.”

The implication that Astrid and Beauregard had been speaking to each other recently was of concern. Caleb was too tired to unpack it. He would find out what that was about eventually. It was not worth Beauregard’s sibling-level mockery if he tried to extract the information early.

“Oh, and Veth sent you this,” said Yasha, passing a wrapped package over Beau’s head.

“Yeah, I might’ve told her we’re buying a house together,” said Beau. “She made Yussa send that to the Soul so I could grab it for you.”

Caleb didn’t open the package, but he did shake and squeeze it a little. It felt like coins. A lot of coins. Oh, Veth. Still taking care of him from miles upon miles away. They’d both come so far from Veth sneaking coins into his pockets because he had felt strange about taking her money even when he desperately needed it.

“Danke,” he said softly. That was all he could say, before he risked bursting into tears again. That was happening to him a lot lately. It… wasn’t the worst thing. More of an inconvenience. He chose not to unpack it.

Beauregard was looking at him strangely. He elbowed her. It probably hurt his elbow more than it hurt her, but she was successfully distracted from his bullshit. She punched his arm. Even holding back like she did, his arm did go numb for a few seconds.

Yasha sighed. “Children, we’re almost there.”

Caleb had been down this street before. Rarely, as it was entirely residential. But sometimes he, Astrid and Eadwulf would explore the city to find excuses to get away from the Academy, especially after they had commenced their training with Trent. But, with Caleb’s memory, he could call upon the map he had drawn in his mind. This was a middle-income area on the southern edge of The Tangles, home to mostly professionals--well-off storeowners, any researchers who did not live in the Shimmer Ward or have access to quarters with the Cobalt Soul, some teachers, architects. Largely people looking to settle down with the money to stay out of the Mudtop Ward.

It was close to the Shimmer Ward, a little southwest from the gate, but not so close that Caleb felt an itch on the back of his neck. The Tangles were the oldest part of the city, with narrow looping streets with little logic to them. This area was slightly newer than most of The Tangles, but still old. Regardless, The Tangles were fairly central to the city and an easy starting point for any travel. If you didn’t get lost on the way out.

This far south in the area, the houses were a little more spaced out. A little more green space, more gardens. Duplex-style houses were common, mostly built of old stone or lumpy brick on the first floor and clay bolstered by wooden frames above that. Children were out in force, running and screaming through the narrow streets while their parents watched from the porch of their homes. Well, for those who had porches.

“There she is,” said Beauregard. They had stopped in front of another duplex-style building, newer than some of the others but still respectable in age. The first floor was made from dark reddish brick and the upper two floors panelled with dark wood to bolster the white clay walls. The first two floors were full in width, and the third consisted of two dormers peeking through the darkly thatched roof.

There were two entrance doors on the ground floor, each spaced a third of the house’s width from the outer corners. The rectangular windows were framed in white-painted wood, dividing the glass on each window into six little squares.

Before the three of them was a low wooden fence, also painted white. The paint was chipping a little, revealing the deep brown heartwood that Caleb suspected was oak. There were a number of oak trees in the Pearlbow Wilderness. Caleb had slept under them several times in worse days. Oak was rather expensive, if he remembered correctly. He usually remembered correctly.

“She’s pretty hot, right, Caleb?” Beau said, snapping out of his hyperfocus on the history of timber in the Zemni Fields.

“Oh… ja.”

“Cool, so the owner will be here in a few minutes to let us in so we can have a look. She wants to sell the place as a package deal.”

Caleb had, in some ways, trained himself out of being too attached to places or most material things (with a few exceptions such as his spell components, spellbook, and the letters he had written to his parents). Unless there was something horrifically wrong inside, he didn’t care where Beauregard and Yasha wanted to live. It was practical that they live together, after all. Caleb had healed immensely this past year, but he was self-aware enough to understand he probably shouldn’t live alone. Of the Nein, Beauregard knew how to call him on his bullshit and Yasha understood him pretty well and knew he needed space sometimes, so it was a reasonable arrangement.

“I am really not picky, Beauregard.”

“Yeah, because you still don’t care enough about yourself to give a fuck about this. We know.” Beauregard looped her arm around his neck, dragging him down to her level so she could rub her knuckles across his scalp, ruining the two narrow braids Essek had worked from Caleb’s hairline to his messy ponytail that morning before they had parted ways beside the secret entrance to Aeor. Caleb talked himself out of getting upset with Beauregard over it. She couldn’t have known, and she was being affectionate like he really was her brother.

Once he was free, Yasha fixed the braids, and Caleb had to stop himself from crying again because she had noticed it bothered him and just… fixed it without making it a thing. Beau straightened her expositor’s garb, clearing her throat.

“Sorry, dude.”

Caleb conjured a mage hand to tug on her ponytail. Beau swatted at it, but her hand went right through it. She gave him the finger. Yasha finished fixing the braids. Everything was normal again.

The owner, a half-elf woman with long blonde hair coiled into a bun that looked like a cinnamon scroll, arrived and immediately shook Caleb’s hand.

“Mr Widogast, a pleasure. These ladies have told me a lot about you. My name is Alphira Winterheart. I teach evocation at the Soltryce Academy.”

Caleb still felt a spike of anxiety when he heard the name of that place. At this point it was ingrained, even if he held out a small amount of hope he would get to teach there one day. It would be easier to fight corruption if he had some say over what the Academy put into those children’s heads.

“A pleasure,” Caleb replied, a little flatter than he had intended. He mentally shook himself, remembering to actually grip her hand for a proper handshake. “Evocation? I used to specialise in that area.”

“Ja, Ms Lionett told me you are now a Transmutation specialist but still frequently partake in the Evocation school in your travels. I’m glad to hear you intend to put down roots here in Rexxentrum. I would love to exchange theories over coffee.”

Beauregard smirked. Caleb remembered a conversation with Essek where they had agreed to return to Aeor and exchange theories. They had meant that literally. But it had indeed sounded like a euphemism to someone like Beauregard. Well, she hadn’t been wrong in the end, but certainly the intent at the time had been more about a meeting of minds than a meeting of…

Caleb concentrated on the conversation in front of him instead.

“Ja, I would enjoy that,” he replied. “What level of Evocation do you teach?”

“Oh, I teach the beginners.”

“And you live here in the Tangles?”

“I did,” said Alphira. “Archmage Beck has offered me lodging on her estate, so I am selling this house. It was always a little large for one person, and it seems you three could make better use of it than I did.” She leaned closer to Caleb, as if to tell him a secret. “The place on the left is where I prefer to experiment and study. I would recommend you look at that one in particular. The dormer is slightly larger. You could even put a teleportation circle up there if you were so inclined, given your need to travel.”

“Danke.” Caleb still felt a little weird about Rexxentrum mages not wanting to kill him, but he didn’t sense any untoward motives from this woman. She seemed genuinely friendly. “How… is the new Archmage settling in?”

“I have no complaints. She seems competent, if a little terrifying. I am uncertain if that is her past as a Volstrucker, or a necessity of the job. She has been nothing but kind to me, and I would certainly prefer to be her friend than her enemy.”

“Ja, we are familiar with her,” said Caleb.

“Caleb most of all,” said Yasha.

Beauregard had to turn away before she burst out laughing.

“We should look at the house,” Caleb said before the conversation could go anywhere strange. Gods, he missed Aeor already.

Alphira unlocked both front doors. They checked the one on the right first.

“This one has a larger living area,” said Alphira, leading them through the entrance. “I am offering the furniture as part of the sale. I have already taken everything I need.”

Beauregard threw herself onto the large couch in the centre of the room. “Yasha and I call dibs on this side of the house. Since you’re gonna spend so much time here with us anyway. We’re taking the larger living area.”

“Beauregard, we have already established that I do not mind.”

The floor underfoot was a pleasant hardwood, probably more oak, and a large rug occupied much of the space. They would have to purchase candles for the evening, but it was well-lit during the day. Caleb followed the women through each of the rooms on the ground floor on this side, largely going through the motions. The kitchen was equally large, and had a good oven for Yasha to practice baking. They would need to purchase a larger dining table.

There was one large bedroom upstairs and two smaller ones, alongside private areas for bathing and other such activities. This was where they found the door between the two houses. The top floor dormer was full of assorted furniture and household items Alphira didn’t need, but they would likely use. Beauregard and Yasha discussed the possibility of turning this into another bedroom for when they had friends over. Or perhaps converting one of the lower bedrooms into a workout space and using this as a replacement. Caleb did not need to contribute much to the conversation, aside from promising he would help move furniture with telekinesis.

Truth be told, Caleb was having a hard time concentrating on the whole thing. He hadn’t really had a home in a long time, and he could not wrangle his mind into understanding the change. The Xhorhaus had been easier to stomach, as nobody had expected to live there forever. But this? Putting down roots? Real , long-term roots?

Maybe Caleb had been homeless for too long. It was beyond his comprehension at this point. And maybe it frightened him a little. He could not afford to inspect those feelings, not right now.

He pulled himself together in time to inspect the other side of the building. His side. His house. Scheisse .

The living area was a little smaller, but could still easily welcome the Nein (just in rather cosy quarters). The kitchen, also smaller but still respectable--a little larger than his childhood home in Blumenthal. There was less furniture on this side; Alphira had evidently used this side more and therefore had more furniture to take. There were two bedrooms on the second floor, one slightly larger than the other. Caleb found himself thinking that he would probably take the larger one just so there was enough room when Essek was over, or maybe he would take the smaller one so Veth could bring her family with her. Fuck. He didn’t know what to do.

And then they visited the dormer. It was indeed larger than the other one. There was a table in front of the window, with a few dark ink stains, and plenty of floorspace to spread out notes or create a teleportation circle. A few chairs were stacked in the corner, seemingly in good condition, and one wall was lined with empty shelves.

Caleb had always been partial to a tower, and this was pretty close. It would make a great study.

He was genuinely excited over a house. In Rexxentrum. A short journey from where his childhood home once stood. He was going to hyperventilate if he thought about this too hard.

“There are already plenty of shelves in my new house,” Alphira said. “These are all yours.”

Caleb nodded slowly, pulling his mind back into his skull. “Wundervoll, danke.” He took a calming breath. “This is a nice place, Professor.”

Alphira smiled. “Yes, I did not make nearly enough use out of it. But I hear you three have a lot of friends from out of town.”

“Ja, we do not see them enough.”

“Perhaps you will see them more once you have a place to welcome them.” Alphira led them back downstairs, and into the other side of the house where they could sit around the small dining table. Alphira already had the paperwork they needed to sign; Caleb got the impression Beau and Yasha had already decided to buy the house before they spoke to him about it. He was glad the decision was out of his hands.

He signed the paperwork, using both his legal name and the name he now wore (Alphira had apparently been briefed on this, and had consulted a contract lawyer on how to make it work on a binding document). Caleb had needed to sign various statements as part of Trent’s trial, so signing in Bren’s name was not as strange as he feared it would be. He was relieved. Beau and Yasha had insisted on finding a way that his new name would also be included, given he had not gone through any legal name-change process. The money Veth gave him more than covered his part of the cost. He needed to hug her. He needed to hug all of them.

Alphira gave them three copies of the contract and handed over the deed to the property. “I will head to the housing authority and file the paperwork immediately.” She slid the keys over the table to them. “Congratulations on your new home.”

She left. Caleb traced the shapes of the letters on his copy of the contract, over and over, letting reality sink in. He had a house. A house in Rexxentrum. A house in Rexxentrum with two of his best friends. It wasn’t at all what he imagined he would have when he was seventeen, when he thought he and Astrid and Wulf would one day have done their duty for the empire and settled down together.

But this was good. This was right .

He cried. Yasha was probably crying, too, but he couldn't see. The three of them hugged across the table, the edges jabbing their ribs.

[lassieposting]

ghasdug for couple questions if you like feeding me

1. Who said I love you first?

Ghastly. Mid-orgasm. The first time they slept together. He. Is. Mortified.

2. Who laughs and kisses their partner on the cheek while their partner isn’t happy about something trivial to try and make them feel better?

Skug. Ghastly has some inadequacy issues during their first century or so, mostly about being ugly and poor - he knows skug could do better. He's attractive, he's funny, he can be very sweet when he wants to be - he could make an excellent match with someone as landed and titled and wealthy as he is.

Skug does try to reassure him, but between his tactlessness and his tendency to not take anything seriously, he kind of sucks at it. Ghastly feels like his being "less than" is a big hurdle, while skug sees it as a trivial difference - he's much happier living with ghastly's family in their cramped farmhouse than he ever was at his parents' vast estate. So he tries to turn it into a joke - "good thing I'm handsome enough for both of us, then," - while completely missing the point that ghastly wants forever with him, and he's worried he's going to spend the rest of forever getting looked down on and whispered about because skulduggery could've done better.

3. Who cuddles up to the other after a long day at work, and this soon escalates to a playful pillow fight?

Ghastly is the cuddler. It escalates because skug is adhd as hell and cannot just lie still and snuggle for long without getting bored. He needs constant stimulation. He'll sit on the counter while ghastly works and chat for hours though, swinging his legs and passing over tools when ghastly needs them

4. What is something that they gave one another that has a lot of meaning?

Ghastly makes all skug's clothes, including his armour, because he doesn't trust anyone else to keep skug safe in battle.

Ghastly has skug's signet ring, which he found in the burned down-ruins of the pleasant family home after skug was killed. For decades, it's the only thing he had left of skug - the clothes ghastly made, the scarf wifey made, and the locket with wifey and skugbab's portraits inside were all cut away and burned, and the house was razed to the ground. Skug knows he has it, but he's never asked for it back.

5. How would one another describe their partner?

Skug would either deliberately misread the question ("What, haven't you seen him? How could you miss ghastly? He's...he's this high and built like a wall.") or come out with something explicit to deter follow-up questions.

Ghastly mostly talks about how annoying skug is, but it's? Endearing to him. At this stage of their lives, he is the only person who's actually happy to listen to like, an eight hour infodump with no breaks. Skug is. A Lot to handle and society does not have the terminology for him yet.

6. Who wraps their arms around their partner as they look them in the eyes and compliments them with a goofy smile?

Ghastly. Skug, under all the vanity and egocentrism, has critically low self-esteem and very little self-worth. He's the Family Scapegoat, and got the lion's share of the abuse before he ran away, so he absolutely melts for compliments. The boy has praise kink up the wazoo. Ghastly will happily feed his ego to watch him get the smile and the sparkly eyes and puff up like a proud peacock.

7. Who loves saying ‘my wife’ or ‘my husband’ or ‘my spouse’?

They don't really have this tbh? Not only is the vocabulary of the period insufficient, they see the relationship differently.

Skug is like. Anxious-avoidant attachment personified. He doesn't like to get too close. He falls in love with ghastly a long time before he's able to admit it to himself, let alone anyone else. He essentially treats their relationship like a fuckbuddies kind of deal, and he feels safe like that, because he can't be hurt by someone he doesn't care about. He can't be let down or abandoned by someone who has no commitment to him in the first place. Admitting he loves ghastly leaves him vulnerable, and if he's learned anything in his childhood, its that vulnerable people are the ones who get hurt.

Ghastly on the other hand considers skug his boyfriend, and there's no equivalent term from the 1500s. "Gentleman caller" hardly applies when you live under the same roof and share a room (and, more often than not, a bed), so nobody is calling on anyone. Privately, he thinks of skug as his lover, but he knows skug is allergic to intimacy, so he keeps that to himself for the most part.

So ghastly usually introduces skug as "this is my - this is skulduggery pleasant" and skug usually introduces ghastly as "this is my dear friend, ghastly".

8. Who always talks about how amazing their partner is when their partner isn’t there and they just light up with genuine love and happiness?

Ghastly. Skug is his first love, and he's completely lost in it. He's had crushes before, on pretty girls who only ever spoke to him to enquire after his "handsome brother", and strapping young men at market who avoided looking at him to speak to his father, but he's never felt anything like this before. He lives with skug. He sees him first thing in the morning and last thing at night, he sees him happy and depressed and drunk and furious, he kisses him and fights with him and fucks him and defends him and laughs with him and cries with him and for years and years, they're inseparable. He's? Completely unprepared for how hard he falls for skug.

9. Who loves it when their partner kisses them good morning?

Ghastly. Drowsy morning skug is snuggliest skug. He doesn't get as many snuggles as he'd like, tbh, because skug is active and easily distracted and doesn't like staying still for too long, but in the early morning is when he's most likely to be warm and cuddly and relaxed, and when he's least concerned about keeping ghastly at arms length. He'll pull skug back against his chest and he'll wiggle round to press a sleepy kiss to the corner of ghastly's mouth and tuck his head under ghastly's chin, and he'll doze off again with his hand stroking idly up and down skug's spine.

10. Who shows the other how to balance a spoon on their nose?

Ghastly.

11. Who loves to pull pranks on the other? What type of pranks do they pull and do they pull their pranks off?

Skug likes to pick up the absolute ugliest thing he can find while shopping and pretend he loves it while ghastly cringes and swears blind that he will not be seen with you while you're wearing that thing, skulduggery, so help him god. What usually happens is that skug pulls his new purchase to pieces as soon as they get home, and then gets ghastly to make it up better.

12. What is something small that they would randomly pick up for one another?

Skug taught ghastly to read, so he'd bring home books for him while he was learning and get ghastly to read to him, lying with his head in ghastly's lap and lazily correcting his pronunciation or reminding him how to sound out the words.

Ghastly doesn't have the sort of disposable income skug does, so he makes him things instead, like stylish hats with feathers in them, even though he personally hates that fashion and is delighted when it dies.

13. Who is the one who can’t stop laughing when trying to tell a joke?

Skug. Ghastly loves watching him laugh till he chokes though. He adores seeing skug happy.

14. Who would plan the other a surprise birthday party?

Ghastly. Skug is an attention whore, he loves that kind of thing. An entire event all for him? Hell yes, baby

Ghastly himself, on the other hand, is painfully insecure and selfconscious at this stage of his life, and he'd be mortified at being the centre of attention like that. Skug is a vain, arrogant dick, but he's not cruel. He wouldn't make ghastly feel bad for funsies.

15. Who picks the other person up when hugging their partner?

Ghastly picks skug up. There's not much of a height difference between them, just two inches, but teenage skug is a lanky little twink and ghastly could benchpress him, which skug is rabidly horny over. Because, you know, muscles.

Once they join the army and skug fills out and gets all lean and fit and strong, ghastly can still pick him up, but he absolutely complains that he weighs a ton now.

Adult skug can lift/mostly carry ghastly in an emergency, like if he's injured and needs to be helped back to camp or carried off a battlefield. But it's difficult, and ghastly is really too heavy for him, so picking him up isn't something he'd do for fun. Teenage skug can't pick ghastly up at all.

[alliluyevas]

related to your thesis discussion: how involved was nina kukharchuk with the party? i mean, krupskaya helped make the revolution... (i've genuinely never even heard of nina :''()

First of all, thank you so much for this extremely Up My Alley ask, I am glad to spread the good news and also infodump on my unsuspecting followers.

So, Nina was born into a Ukrainian peasant family but was able to get a good secondary education at a girls’ boarding school in Odessa because of the intervention of a bishop who noticed her as a promising student. After she graduated high school, she joined the Communist Party in 1920 and was initially posted with a Red Army regiment. After the fighting over a territory in Ukraine (which was very hotly contested) was over, the Army would occupy it and Nina would talk to the local people about communism and the opportunities that would be available to them through the new Soviet state—education, being able to feed their families better, etc. She was basically supposed to back up the Red Army with a friendly female face and get Ukrainian peasants psyched up about the USSR. Apparently she was very good at this, which I find very believable, because she came from a similar background as them, was really idealistic and passionate about her cause, and she was also young, cute, and not at all intimidating.

After the Civil War was over and Soviet power was established, Nina started teaching at a Communist Party adult-education school, educating workers and peasants about Marxist ideology and trying to transform them into good Soviet citizens and potential active members of the Party. This is where she met her husband, who was one of her students. At first, she and Khrushchev actually did quite similar work, because they were both active Communist Party organizers in Ukraine, although she also continued teaching.

In 1927, Khrushchev became the head of organization for the Kiev branch of the Communist Party, which is the point at which his career started to progress beyond hers. This is pretty typical for the period, because while women were very active in the base of the Party, more important positions were predominantly occupied by men. They also had their first child together in 1927, a little girl named Nadya, who sadly died when she was three months old. I don’t know the cause of death, but it was obviously very upsetting for them. In 1929, they had Rada, their second daughter and first surviving. They also moved to Moscow so Khrushchev could study at the Industrial Academy there. Nina continued working after having her first two children, and once they arrived in Moscow she became head of education and propaganda for a big electrical factory.

(Funny story: Nina used both her surnames interchangeably after she married—she often went by Nina Khrushcheva in terms of personal stuff or in the context of things related to her husband, but she used Nina Kukharchuk professionally. One time, someone called their apartment in Moscow and she answered with “hello, Comrade Kukharchuk speaking” and the person on the phone asked what she was doing in Comrade Khrushchev’s apartment! She had to be like “I’m his wife. This is also my apartment” hhhhh)

Back to the action. In 1935, Nina had another child, Sergei. There was a pretty big gap in between Rada and Sergei, which I’m assuming was intentional because they were getting established in Moscow and both of them were very busy with work. After Sergei was born, Nina stopped working. There are a variety of reasons for this, both personal and political. First of all, she seems to have felt like she missed out on a lot of Rada’s baby years because she was so busy and didn’t want to do that with future children. Secondly, 1935 was also the year her husband became first secretary of the Moscow Communist Party, so Nina was now the wife of someone who was quite important and had attracted Stalin’s attention. In the upper echelons of the Party hierarchy, there seems to have been more pressure for women to stay home, partially because their families were privileged enough that they didn’t have to, and partially because Stalin was threatened by assertive, independent women and expressed disapproval. Aside from external pressure, as Khrushchev became more important, they seem to have decided (and I do think this was a joint decision, rather than him pushing her) that he needed more constant emotional support and advice from his wife.

While there were definitely some sexist attitudes at play here (men have the important career, women take charge at home), I don’t think it would be fair to condemn him too harshly for this, because you have to consider the context. Ordinarily, if some guy was all “because of my important political career, I need my wife to take care of me”, I’d roll my eyes and talk about men expecting emotional labor from their female partners and wanting to have their hands held. But in the case of someone whose important political career was situated in the Soviet Union during the Stalin era, I’m inclined to acknowledge that he genuinely needed a lot of emotional support.

Being high-ranking in Stalin’s government brought a lot of power and a lot of privilege, but it also brought an incredibly stressful day-to-day working environment with lots of petty infighting, and, more importantly, a significant and very real threat of eventual execution. This was a very dangerous world they were getting into, and it could be very isolating. A lot of Kremlin families of the era seemed to…regress into the home, sort of, and their immediate family became very important because sometimes it probably felt like they couldn’t trust anyone else. The Khrushchev family wasn’t as vocal about the effects of being part of Stalin’s inner circle, but to give some idea of the situation, I’m going to draw from the Mikoyans.

Anastas Mikoyan, obviously, was a close friend and staunch ally of Khrushchev. He had been close to Stalin longer, since the early 1920s, but by the time the purges started he also had cause to worry. He and his wife, Ashken, had discussed what they would do in the event suspicion fell on him, and he had decided that he would shoot himself rather than be arrested and charged as an enemy of the state, because he would inevitably be executed anyway and he thought things would be better for his wife and children if he killed himself before that could happen. Thankfully, it never came to this, but living with that fear must have been excruciating. Ashken Mikoyan used to wait up for her husband every night, sometimes until four or five in the morning if he’d been up late meeting with Stalin, so she could be reassured that he was okay and so she could be there for him when he got home. Ashken apparently felt like the most important thing she could do for her husband and her family was provide a safe, emotionally supportive place for him to come home to. I wouldn’t be surprised if Nina felt the same way. Like Ashken, she was probably extremely aware of the danger her husband was in, as well as the fact that often wives and children would be imprisoned or even executed as well if the head of the family was purged. Both Nina and Nikita seem to have made a lot of effort to protect their children from this fear—both Rada and Sergei remember that their parents never discussed politics or their father’s work in front of them.

In this environment, I can see why staying home would be more appealing than it might have been earlier in Nina’s life. While she clearly loved her work and found it fulfilling, it was also time-consuming and stressful, and as she had more children to take care of and her family had to live under a more or less constant threat of violence, it makes sense she apparently felt like her work had to go.

Sorry, this turned into more about the complicated and horrifying family dynamics and mentality of the Communist elite under Stalin and less about Nina’s work with the Party, but she did have a very active career for 15 years, which she then chose to leave for reasons I think are very understandable. I do think it’s kind of sad, though, that in her early years she dedicated so much of her time and energy and spirit to the Party and the state and then she had to leave that behind in part because of this climate of fear that had completely overtaken the Party and the state because of Stalin.

This doesn’t even get into Nina’s position once Khrushchev became premier/general secretary, partially because I’m still learning about that period and partially because this is already long as hell. In summary, she took on a much more public role than she had in the previous period, but it was different to when she’d been so actively involved in political organization in her early career when she and her husband had both been starting out.