#either an entire scene or the details of a scene

[highfantasy-soul]

I really loved re-watching Rogue One after watching Andor and reading Rebel Rising - they lead so perfectly into each other and really do fill in the gaps as to why Jyn views the world the way she does and what's going on with Cassian.

Tevik is complaining he's been trying to contact Cassian - and we now know that it was because Cass was saving Kleya on Coruscant and getting the intel that Lonnie had passed on. So when Cassian gets to him and he's confirming so much of what they've just learned - and adding more info to it - everything falling together like puzzle pieces.

There's no indication of how long it was between finding out the info about Galen Erso and prison breaking Jyn, but from the novel, we know that people who had run with Saw and knew Jyn were now working with the rebellion - there are still factions that exchange info and Jyn had been working with one when she got caught - I'm sure it took a little bit of time, but everyone putting together their own puzzle pieces could have led them to realize who Jyn really was and how to find her.

I see Cassian seeing the same rebellious and independent streak he himself has in Jyn - and can't trust that she'll use it to agree with his side of things. But in the end, their first 'confrontation', he does let her keep the blaster - he knows how the average person can make a difference with the right tools even if they'd never been part of the Rebellion before (but also knows the damage they can cause if they do the wrong thing). It's not to protocol, but the first thing Jyn experiences is Cassian breaking protocol to let her, an unknown, be able to defend herself.

Krennic's scenes with Tarkin even take on a deeper understanding - when Tarkin complains about leaks, he's talking about failure after failure, not just Bodhi defecting. We see in Andor all the failures of Krennic with Dedra and her fallout and no matter how much Krennic did with the Ghorman massacre and all his machinations, it wasn't enough and Tarkin still took control.

Cassian was sent to kill Galen but he disobeyed orders - knowing the power of a message and detailed information and how to change a plan mid-mission. Each small piece of the puzzle helps them get closer to the end game and he knows exactly when and why to disobey. He watched as Galen threw himself in front of his men who were about to be gunned down, he made a calculation and decided that Galen either had been turned or could be to help the rebellion - and keeping one more family together couldn't be a bad thing.

Jyn accusing him of being no better than a trooper was from her perspective, one we completely understand from Rebel Rising and her experience with the rebel sects in her past. But even in the 'omniscient' perspective of the scene, we know Cassian didn’t "just follow orders" nor has he this entire movie: he let Jyn keep the blaster - a hint that he's not all 'perfect soldier' and we haven't seen him ever 'just follow orders' when they were wrong. He also HAS lost everything due to the Empire - maybe not in the literal sense that people took it when Rogue One came out, but just because he has a found family in the rebellion doesn’t mean he doesn’t miss Maarva, B2, Brasso, Bix, his sister, Ferrix, freedom.

Why would the point of a war story about rebels against a cruel and unfeeling Empire be that the Rebels, too, are cold and unfeeling and have no family? That's the whole crux of rebellions: connection and empathy for others. Why would a major theme be 'actually, none of them have anyone and they spent all this time at the Rebel base and chose to not connect with anyone there except for Jyn because she's the chosen one'? When he said Jyn wasn't the only one who lost everything, I think it was opening up the theme of 'even after you've lost so much, there's still the opportunity to connect again - that's what's waiting for you in the rebellion and that's what we've all experienced'.

Cassian knows when and where and how to break orders - he knows the cost of breaking those orders and the havoc it causes in the organization. Jyn doesn't understand the ripple effect and how hard it is to make those decisions (like keeping a hidden radio and rushing off to save someone without getting permission) and Jyn is blaming him for…. doing the right thing. Exactly how Cassian used to do before he was fully 'in' the rebellion. He's giving her Luthen's tough love his own way - and it makes sense he's so pissed because Luthen would have taken the shot - Cassian didn't and yet is still getting chastised for thinking about it by someone who has avoided making big-picture calls. Jyn doesn’t know him (nor do the watchers) but everything we've actually seen Cassian do hasn't been 'rebellion approved'.

I don't know where the fandom version of Cassian who's a "good rebel soldier who only starts questioning it when Jyn arrives" came from because I think his frustration in the getaway ship is that he's /been/ choosing his own path but Jyn hasn't been there to see it and is just making a bunch of assumptions about him. Understandable assumptions due to her past, but that's part of Jyn's journey: unlearning her assumptions about the rebels. But Cassian has been getting chewed out by leadership his entire life so I can imagine it's mind-numbingly frustrating to have just disobeyed to help someone he doesn't even know only to have them, also, chew him out for it.

I love the scene after Jyn tries to convince the council so much: Cassian wasn't even in the meeting because he /knew/ what the council would say, so he went ahead and gathered a team to be waiting when she got out.

When Cassian says "They were never going to believe you" he's talking from experience. He just had the same argument with them right before Kafrene. He really sees himself in Jyn and he believes her, he saw Galen throw himself in front of his men about to be gunned down - he's disobeyed orders for the right reasons before and so has Melshi. The refrain "make it worth it" has been a thread through all of Andor and it comes to a head here in Rogue One - we've seen the things Cassian has done and we've seen how his decisions to do it hinged on the success of the Rebellion and a hope for a future. This is Luthen's last mission and he's not just going to sit it out because the council said so. He believes in Jyn's hope, so he's going to follow through.

When Jyn says "I'm not used to people sticking around when things go bad" and Cassian says "Welcome home" - it shows that this is what he does. This isn't out of the ordinary, it's natural and 'home' to not give up when you're in the rebellion, even when the council says no. This is who he is, not some change in him. And we see the same in Mon Mothma and Bail: they ignore the council's wishes too and prepare for war. Bail wanting to go down swinging, Mon knowing that you have to work around group decisions and set things up for war. This is further emphasized when the rebels get the Imperial transmission that there are rebels on Scarif and General Raddus has already taken off in his ship to go fight with them. Despite the surface-level 'we agree as a committee' they try to stick to, there are TONS of rebels who will go off-book to do what they feel is right.

Jyn and Cassian are great parallels as characters: Jyn tries desperately to not care about anything and everything around her tries to tell her not to but she ends up caring anyways. Cassian is desperately trying to pretend that he's a just a random guy who has some luck and not taking initiative, but he ends up putting himself on the line and taking those wild chances anyways because of the faintest chance of a hope.

They both try to intellect and logic their way out of doing illogical things for the rebellion, but the thing is:

"There will be times when the struggle seems impossible. I know this already. Alone, unsure, dwarfed by the scale of the enemy. [the Death Star, invading Scarif and getting the plans out while overwhelmed by the enemy]

Remember this, Freedom is a pure idea. It occurs spontaneously and without instruction. Random acts of insurrection are occurring constantly throughout the galaxy. There are whole armies, battalions that have no idea that they’ve already enlisted in the cause. [Jyn, Baze, Chirrut, Bhodi]

Remember that the frontier of the Rebellion is everywhere. And even the smallest act of insurrection pushes our lines forward. [literally everything in Andor that led to Rogue One, Raddus setting off already with his crew, Bail sending Leia to get Obi Wan so that she's in the right position to get the plans and pass them on]

And remember this: the Imperial need for control is so desperate because it is so unnatural. Tyranny requires constant effort. It breaks, it leaks. Authority is brittle. Oppression is the mask of fear. [Krennic and Tarkin]

Remember that. And know this, the day will come when all these skirmishes and battles, these moments of defiance will have flooded the banks of the Empires’s authority and then there will be one too many. One single thing will break the siege. [the rebels that get the Death Star plans off Scarif by sacrificing their lives]

Remember this: Try.

And that's exactly what Jyn and Cassian (and the rest of the crew) do: they try because it is so natural for them to do so. Because the rebellion isn't about following orders and ceding control - it's about community and empathy and freedom. There is no one, grand leader to show the way and to be obeyed - it's a collective striving together, making mistakes, finding love, sacrificing everything for someone else's sunrise.

[pooopohurl]

This is an interesting zoological detail, but I think it’s a good example of where taking symbolism too literally can start to undermine what the story is actually doing. Yes, in real-world taxonomy, stags and does belong to different deer species and wouldn’t pair, but patronuses aren’t real animals. They’re magical reflections of emotion, identity, and attachment. Saying a stag would hurt a doe only matters if you think patronuses follow wildlife behavior, which they don’t. It’s not a nature documentary, it’s metaphor.

The emotional point of Snape’s doe patronus isn’t about deer species. It’s about Lily, the love, grief, and imprint she left on him. The story explicitly draws this connection in the “always” scene in the books. That moment doesn’t work unless the patronus is hers, and his mirroring it matters. Saying it “has nothing to do” with her because of species semantics misses that entirely. The counterexamples (Umbridge and McGonagall’s patronuses) don’t really apply either because those characters aren’t emotionally linked. Patronus parallels in the story only happen when there’s a deep personal connection, which is why Snape’s is so significant.

Okay, but why is the fact that stags and does aren't the same deer species not more widely discussed in this fandom? Stag refers to larger deer species (red deers, sambars), and they mate with hinds. Bucks are smaller deer species (mule deers, whitetails, brockets, roe deers, fallow deers), and they mate with does. I wouldn't want a stag anywhere near a doe – they are way bigger and more aggressive than bucks. The doe would likely just end up hurt.

I understand that Doylist explanation is just Rowling not knowing what she's doing again, and Watsonianly we can say that Harry doesn't understand the difference or something. But maybe James' animagi form and Harry’s patronus (because we don't technically know the forms of James' and Lily's patronuses, they're just assumed) have nothing to do with Severus' patronus. Just like Umbrige's with McGonagall's. Or Nymphadora's with Luna's.

[fideidefenswhore]

Really liked your ask comparing alison weir's book excerpts to that of historians, do you have any other examples like that?

this one?

and sure, again, the important thing to remember is that pop history is digestible and straightforward; but that this doesn't make it 'better'. the genre is dependent on a misapplication of the adage, 'when you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras' to any single primary source. a better rule of thumb to go by would be that 1) where there is a general consensus by a variety of sources, and a single aberrant, it's reasonable to assume the former was true (rather than a conspiracy that only the aberrant has 'outsmarted')-- or, at the very least, widely believed to be true --, and 2) where there is a total contradiction between sources, it's reasonable to assume that the truth lies somewhere in between.

pop history also deals in truisms that do not allow for the complexity of history, nor the people of history: that praise was either always genuine, exaggerated, or disingenuous, that invective always reflected fact and complete understanding, and was never motivated by self-interest, that self-fashioning always reflected truth. as such, it does not give space for individuation and it assumes homogeneity.

this is the comfort and the insidiousness of pop history: the neophyte reader often feels that the scales have dropped from their eyes, that they have been privy to the unwrapping of the mysteries of the universe for the low, low price of £2.99...when, in reality, what they have read is merely a summation of primary and secondary source quotes with no true interrogative research and nothing approaching historical methodology, with some narrative fashioning and paraphrase techniques threaded throughout.

since you asked, i'll continue to use weir as the exemplar of these contrasts (which i'll get to, i promise, scroll down for that part if you want to reach it first, it'll be cued in red): i'm not a 'fan', but i won't diminish her efforts by denying that these books are her life's work in the sense of how much time and effort she must have put into every single one, in reading, in research, and in writing (six wives of henry viii, her first, alone had 656 pages, so did her likely second most popular, henry viii and his court, her book children of henry viii was 385 pages, her biographical books on the boleyns alone, lady in the tower and the mistress of kings, a collective 900, so altogether of her most popular that's...2593 pages, and bestselling, no mean feat...but it continues, 366 from her katherine swynford biography, 494 pages from "she-wolf of france", 640 pages of her mqos biography, 544 pages of her elizabeth i biography, 336 of her book about the princes in the tower, 441 for her biography of eleanor of aquitaine, and her book about the wotr, at 512 pages, clocks us in at 5560 pages from 1991-2010).

but there's a reason weir's published fifteen nonfiction books since 1991, and there's a reason twice as many degreed historians (the 'power couple' of john guy and julia fox), despite their collaborative efforts, together have published a comparable volume only within a much longer amount of time (if we limit to the above timeline of 1991-2010, we have his mqos biography of 574 pages, his biography of margaret roper at 448 pages, the tudors: a very short introduction at 128 pages, and julia fox's dual biography of catherine of aragon and joanna of castile at 464 pages, her biography of jane boleyn at 416 pages, clocking in at 2030 pages total...again, for perspective, this is the output of two historians in the same twenty years as a single pop historian, drafts of their upcoming books notwithstanding, they probably existed in some format, somewhere, unready for publication); and the reason is that the process of historical methodology and rigorous research takes much, much more time (not to mention, expertise...) than the process of pop history.

As a non-fiction author, I write 'popular' history. The term has sometimes been used in a derogatory sense by a few people who should know better, because all historians use the same sources. History is not the sole preserve of academics, although I have the utmost respect for historians who undertake new research and contribute something new to our knowledge. History belongs to us all, and it can be accessed by us all. And if writing it in a way that is accessible and entertaining, as well as conscientiously researched, can be described as popular, then, yes, I am a popular historian, and am proud and happy to be one.

let's say i'm not going to quibble with the generalizing, obfuscating statement of "all historians use the same sources" (is alison weir accessing archives directly? is she fluent in the languages of these sources in their original form, or is she relying on the translations of others? is she making any attempt at all to research and integrate various sources of the same events??); and for argument's sake, let's say i accept it at face value. for argument's sake, that brings me back to my earlier point: what weir's readers are accessing is a narratively entertaining summary of primary and secondary source quotes with no true interrogative research or historical methodology behind the narrative. as such, it is often teleogical and presentist. they are accessing something they anyone could recreate with their own "voice", so long as they have the same list of quotes, verbatim and paraphrased, that they could putty their own narrative cohesion in between: so long as they had the free time, the financial support, the skill, the will, the interest, the drive, the discipline and the stamina.

"history belongs to us all", yes! "history can be accessed by us all", i really wish that were true, but it isn't, not entirely. that's not me 'gatekeeping', that's me acknowledging that there are sources and books not everyone has access to, quite unfortunately. not everyone can visit museums or historical sites or archives or universities in person (whether due to cost, or disability, or both), not every book or article can be accessed without university (library) access or at quite great financial cost, even in the case of academic papers that have been made available on open access websites, some might be in a language the reader is not fluent in, and the translation either does not exist, or is not open access... not every library will have every paper, book, or access to online archives that the researcher is searching for, not every library has an ILL (interlibrary loan) program.

at least two of her most popular books were published before the advent of wikipedia, but there is, again, a reason that many chapters from many of her books read like expanded versions of wikipedia articles. they read as encyclopedic 'everyman's' entries because that is what they are, subjectivity masquerading as objectivity. anyone can have a point of view, but a pov alone does not make a work "conscientious". her usage of 'conscientous' as a self-descriptor is rather revealing in and of itself, because my impression is that she is referring to her own writing as being driven by her personal conscience, rather than any prevalent ethical standards that define the 'conscientious historian' within the professional study of history:

Q: Is it not the case that testimonies can be manipulated and distorted to serve certain interests? If so, what critical tools must we avail ourselves of to unmask such manipulation? A: In order to answer this we must refer to the epistemological structure of historical knowledge. The fundamental objective of a good historian is to enlarge the sphere of archives, that is, the conscientous historian must open up the archives by retrieving traces which the dominant ideological forces attempted to suppress.

(brief interruption here to offer my own commentary specific to the subject: a huge drawback of tudor pop history, not unique to weir, but imo, is that it acknowledges protestantism as an-- eventual, and sometimes, arguably, prescientally early-- dominant ideological force, and does not regard catholicism as a dominant ideological force in the same way...even during mid-henrician, edwardian, and elizabethan eras, catholicism was the dominant ideological force of 'christendom', at the very least, even if not in england...& at risk of losing forest for the trees, i'd also argue protestantism /= henrician anglican supremacy/caesaropapism, but i digress...)

[con't] [...] In admitting what was originally excluded from the archive, the historian initiates a critique of power. [...] The historian opposes the manipulation of narratives by telling the story differently and by providing a space for the confrontation between opposing testimonies. We must remember, however, that the historian['s] [...] [condition] dictates that we can never be in a state of pure indifference. The historian's testimony is not completely neutral, it is selective activity [...] it is, however, far less selective than the testimony of the dominant [...] Here we should invoke [the need for] 'reflective equilibrium' [...] between predominantly held beliefs and the findings of critical minds represented by professional people such as historians. Such a mechanism helps us distinguish good from bad history.

so, what is highlighted, well...weir fails to acknowledge any of this, nor does has she (and arguably, has never, or at the most generous i could be, rarely) practice any of this, and i'm about to demonstrate an example...

(if you've read this far, you're a real one, bcus i am finally going to delve into a specific, parallel example, like the former ask:

"In October 1535, Cromwell brought the King devastating news: Tunis had fallen to the Emperor, and the Turks had been crushed. Chapuys told his master that Henry and Anne looked 'like dogs falling out of a window", so distressed were they by the news. As if this was not bad, enough [...] Anne was blamed [for the bad harvest and bad weather] by the common people [...] It was not a happy homecoming when Henry and Anne ended their progress at Windsor on 26 October [1535]." The Six Wives of Henry VIII, by Alison Weir

so, let's break this down: although citations would have made an easier flow, weir has, at least, done right by at least integrating and specifying the source for the first claim: "chapuys [wrote to charles v] that [this had happened". let's examine that primary source:

"Remarks on the Emperor's military achievements. The English are much pleased at his victory, in accordance with the incredible affection which they almost all bear to him; except the King, the concubine, Cromwell, and some of their adherents, who, as a man whom he sent to the Court reports, are astounded at the good news, like dogs falling out of a window. Cromwell could hardly speak." Chapuys to [Granvelle]. 13 Sept [1535]. Vienna Archives.

is this the entire story? is this more than one angle? it's not even really an exhaustive summary, weir hones in on the reactions of henry&anne (rather than the reactions of cromwell and 'their adherents') to underline the conclusion of the summary: "it was not a happy homecoming...[for] henry and anne". it's clear that it's a partially redacted image, because as the excerpt from weir's book continues, she continues to adhere to the single source in question. i'll discuss and expand on others once i've done the comparison between her summary and the relevant report for the second highlighted piece:

"The said ambassador expressed his astonishment to me at the English being still allowed to import corn from Flanders. This, he said, would not be tolerated in France under the circumstances. My own opinion is that the affair ought to be looked into, inasmuch as the harvest here has been very poor, and people begin to murmur. The King and his concubine, who formerly had it preached from the pulpit that God favoured particularly the English by sending them fine weather, have it said now that, "whom God loves, He chastises."" + "This would be the best time [to invade England], while the people is provoked by the great cruelties daily committed and the worse than tyrannical extortions practised on Churchmen, the expulsion of monks and nuns from their cloisters, and, most of all, the famine which threatens to prevail in consequence of the bad harvest, all which is imputed to the bad life and tyranny of the King."

well...again, this is all very interesting. as weir states, chapuys reports harvest is poor, the weather is poor, and that 'people begin to murmur' at these happenings... but he doesn't specify, actually (at least in relation to the bad harvest and weather), that it's anne boleyn who's blamed by the people. actually, what he specifies here is that the famine is imputed by them to the "bad life and tyranny of the king", not the queen (or, as he names her, 'concubine'); it's reasonable to assume that 'the concubine' is part of the 'bad life' they're condemning, but she's not specifically stated as the cause of the 'murmuring', it's henry viii's actions that are (and, it makes sense that he's pushing this, because it's an uprising against henry specifically that he's promoting, here).

so, what was happening here when weir wrote this? imo, a classic case of confirmation bias. i don't think weir actually was reading quotes from the archives, i think she was reading their summaries, as given in the divorce of catherine of aragon, by james anthony froude:

"The harvest had failed; and the failure was interpreted as a judgment from Heaven on the King's conduct. So sure Chapuys felt that the Emperor would now move that he sent positive assurances to Catherine that his master would not return to Spain till he had restored her to her rights. Even the Bishop of Tarbes, who was again in London, believed that Henry was lost at last. The whole nation, he said, Peers and commons, and even the King's own servants, were devoted to the Princess and her mother, and would join any prince who would take up their cause. The discontent was universal, partly because the Princess was regarded as the right heir to the crown, partly for fear of war and the ruin of trade. The autumn had been wet: half the corn was still in the fields. Queen Anne was universally execrated, and even the King was losing his love for her. If war was declared, the entire country would rise."

that would be my assessment of this particular excerpt: it's froude that connected the 'murmurings' about the bad weather and poor harvest to anne being 'universally execrated', and it's weir, using froude as a source, that followed suit. there's the flavor of "the king was losing his love for her", asw, even if not explicit ("it was not a happy homecoming for henry and anne"...speaking of, let's see what historians say about that specific period of time in reference, post-progress, late 1535:

"Henry and Anne’s marriage doesn’t seem to have been on the rocks [at this point][…] In the autumn and winter of 1535, they were constantly described as being ‘merry together’, which is probably [when] Anne conceived […]" Suzannah Lipscomb

"Secondly, Chapuys' gossip must bet set against the far greater weight of evidence that shows that Henry and Anne were often happily together and that despite occasional outbursts, their marriage seemed set to last. On many occasions the king and queen were reported as merry, notably in October 1535 [...]"

Power and Politics in Tudor England: Essays by G.W. Bernard

weir doesn't examine the context and various sources about henry being informed of charles v's victory at tunis, nor does she here interrogate the authority and credibility of chapuys as a source. but, luckily, for the purposes of this ask, an accredited historian, does:

"Additional information came from the most varied sources, such as Joan Batcok, a resident in the empress’ court in Spain, who obtained copies of letters from Charles V to the viceroy of Navarre and sent them to her uncle, John Batcok, who forwarded them (and the copy of a letter from the bishop of Palencia) to Cromwell on 5 August, along with details he had gleaned from talking to men already back from the North African war.[...] Chapuys was ignorant of all this. [...] It was not until 14 August that Chapuys learnt of what he called the glorious and most important victory in La Goleta from the imperial ambassador in France, and sent a courier to Henry VIII with the news. There was no public audience where it could be publicised. Henry VIII gave the envoy some money as customary, and sent a deer he had hunted to the ambassador, which was interpreted as a sign of his great pleasure.

Later Chapuys found out that Henry VIII had already known of the emperor’s success and had neither celebrated it or shared the information. In fact, the king distanced himself as far as possible without breaching protocol. He instructed Cromwell to relay his «pleasure» at the emperor’s success and Cromwell did so in writing rather than in person. By contrast, when they heard that the French ambassador had news of the meeting between Mary of Hungary and Leonor, he was summoned to speak with the king and taken hunting [...]

The king again instructed Cromwell to give him some money and to inform Chapuys that he could not have been more delighted with the victory if it had been his own, and that he congratulated the emperor warmly. On 10 September Cromwell transmitted the message in writing. The offense was so patent, Chapuys reported the bare facts and commented bitterly: «God knows how much more he would have given [the envoy] for contrary news». According to the envoy, however, the reaction of the English king and courtiers to the news was extreme. He claimed that Cromwell had been left speechless, and the English courtiers so astonished and dismayed he thought they resembled a pack of dogs falling out of a window. Chapuys contrasted this with the rejoicing of «the English people» outside the court who loved Charles V. The king and his court remained inaccessible to Chapuys, who persevered by sending information. He had to be content with polite letters from Cromwell informing him that Henry VIII was «very interested» in the details, and that some of the accounts were so vivid Cromwell could almost imagine himself there.

It took repeated demands from the ambassador before even Cromwell agreed to meet him - on 13 October [1535]. Even then, it took place late in the day and in private. Chapuys’s disappointment is reflected in his comment that he hoped Henry VIII would be punished for «his impious folly and dishonourable joy at the descent of Barbarossa on Naples and at Tunis [in 1534]». To add insult to injury, false rumours spread that Charles V had written friendly letters to Henry VIII during the campaign and entrusted him with the defence of the Low Countries. Worse still, the victory made no difference to Henry VIII’s policy, nor did it ameliorate his treatment of the Catholics or of Queen Katherine and princess Mary, as the imperialists had hoped. Indeed its impact was negative: it heightened fears that Charles V would now attack Henry VIII, as the English Catholics were urging him to do. Katherine thanked God for «the great victory» and the emperor’s safe return because he could now devote himself to relieving the suffering of English Catholics, not least herself and Mary. It was not only the emperor’s covert enemies but his closest relatives and supporters in England who called into question the value of his victory. Chapuys urged Charles V to devote his efforts to saving Catholicism in England which was his duty and more meritorious than anything he had done in Africa. Some English Catholics publicly stated that helping them and organising a general Council of the Church were «more praiseworthy deed(s) than the conquest of Tunis, and more necessary than the recovery of the lands of Christendom from the Turk». Princess Mary, having praised his triumph in the «holy expedition», complained that he had clearly failed to understand the gravity of the situation in England since he had chosen to fight in Tunis. He must rectify now and do this service to God in England in order to gain «no less fame and glory to himself than in the conquest of Tunis or the whole of Africa»."

«NO GREAT GLORY IN CHASING A PIRATE». THE MANIPULATION OF NEWS DURING THE 1535 TUNIS CAMPAIGN, María José Rodríguez-Salgado

i wanted to offer up that broader, overarching context, but to settle back into the report weir offered uncritically: the broad timeline of events is that chapuys informed henry of charles v's victory in august, to which henry sent him money and a gift. he informs him again, weeks later, to which henry sends him his congratulations, and money, again. chapuys then claims (to granvelle, charles v's advisor) that henry (who already knew about it) was shocked by the (second) message, and cromwell (who already knew about it) was too stunned to speak.

[poorlittleyaoyao]

I need someone to look me in the eye and tell me to lower my standards vis à vis writing quality. Please. I am begging.

[lunavagans]

Researching medieval castle layouts for a fic rn, and apparently, in the earlier Middle Ages, dungeons were usually not underground, but rather in the most secure tower of a fortress. Depending on how closely you want Hyrule Castle to resemble actual castles, that opens up a new perspective on Zelda‘s captivity on the Tower of Winds, doesn‘t it.

[saetoru]

anon that sent me the ask about the geto fics being similar—yes :,) i agree they were eerily similar :,) so i did message the person to handle it privately and they’ve agreed to take it down so thank you for bringing that to my attention :,)

​sorry to make a vague post ab this on dash but i wanted to address it to the anon so they were acknowledged

[mkstrigidae]

Apparently, the solution to my APWH writer's block was just opening up a new word document and rewriting the whole damn next chapter.

[vullcanica]

@nightmarecountry : “God, you’re like a fancy dinner plate that you don’t wanna budge off the edge of the table.” (I'm sorry dan)

It's usually meant as a compliment, he's found. The way people look at him and think of rare, pretty, cold things by way of comparison. He's learned to accept it without much complaint, learned to gratify it when someone's tone dips saccharine and their flattery turns demeaning. Pearl, painting, plate. Proper perfect Perkins.

He's been called a thing before, in as many words as one could manage.

He's never been called fragile.

Doesn't expect to sting as much as it does, his skin assumedly thicker to the sentiment but, by god, this man - this creature or thing, whatever it is which does not seem to breathe and whose eyes clack enamel behind their shades - he makes it sound affronting. His tone lilts southern, mawkish and cloying, almost sticky-slurred from all the wretched saliva gathered just behind bared teeth, and Daniel's skin prickles. The gravel rumble pitch unnerves where it should charm, eerie in its artificiality like a distorted record. Like a predator growl. There's something wrong and enchanting and infuriating about it all.

You don't know the half of it, he thinks, suddenly, oddly possessed by an urge to defy the assumption. To commit the debasement of gracing a farce with answer. He should leave instead. Run. But disdain is a mighty root and the scowl cannot be helped when Daniel looks at him from beneath heavy brows - luciferian with anger too polite to become fury. His lips curl to stave off a rude tone. He thinks he ought to snarl but can't justify the reaction.

"I think you'll find.. I've weathered worse than a 'budge'."

[s-soulwriter]

Things Real People Do in Dialogue (For Your Next Story)

Okay, let’s be real—dialogue can make or break a scene. You want your characters to sound natural, like actual humans talking, not robots reading a script. So, how do you write dialogue that feels real without it turning into a mess of awkward pauses and “ums”? Here’s a little cheat sheet of what real people actually do when they talk (and you can totally steal these for your next story):

1. People Interrupt Each Other All the Time In real conversations, nobody waits for the perfect moment to speak. We interrupt, cut each other off, and finish each other's sentences. Throw in some overlaps or interruptions in your dialogue to make it feel more dynamic and less like a rehearsed play.

2. They Don’t Always Say What They Mean Real people are masters of dodging. They’ll say one thing but mean something totally different (hello, passive-aggressive banter). Or they’ll just avoid the question entirely. Let your characters be vague, sarcastic, or just plain evasive sometimes—it makes their conversations feel more layered.

3. People Trail Off... We don’t always finish our sentences. Sometimes we just... stop talking because we assume the other person gets what we’re trying to say. Use that in your dialogue! Let a sentence trail off into nothing. It adds realism and shows the comfort (or awkwardness) between characters.

4. Repeating Words Is Normal In real life, people repeat words when they’re excited, nervous, or trying to make a point. It’s not a sign of bad writing—it’s how we talk. Let your characters get a little repetitive now and then. It adds a rhythm to their speech that feels more genuine.

5. Fillers Are Your Friends People say "um," "uh," "like," "you know," all the time. Not every character needs to sound polished or poetic. Sprinkle in some filler words where it makes sense, especially if the character is nervous or thinking on their feet.

6. Not Everyone Speaks in Complete Sentences Sometimes, people just throw out fragments instead of complete sentences, especially when emotions are high. Short, choppy dialogue can convey tension or excitement. Instead of saying “I really think we need to talk about this,” try “We need to talk. Now.”

7. Body Language Is Part of the Conversation Real people don’t just communicate with words; they use facial expressions, gestures, and body language. When your characters are talking, think about what they’re doing—are they fidgeting? Smiling? Crossing their arms? Those little actions can add a lot of subtext to the dialogue without needing extra words.

8. Awkward Silences Are Golden People don’t talk non-stop. Sometimes, they stop mid-conversation to think, or because things just got weird. Don’t be afraid to add a beat of awkward silence, a long pause, or a meaningful look between characters. It can say more than words.

9. People Talk Over Themselves When They're Nervous When we’re anxious, we tend to talk too fast, go back to rephrase what we just said, or add unnecessary details. If your character’s nervous, let them ramble a bit or correct themselves. It’s a great way to show their internal state through dialogue.

10. Inside Jokes and Shared History Real people have history. Sometimes they reference something that happened off-page, or they share an inside joke only they get. This makes your dialogue feel lived-in and shows that your characters have a life beyond the scene. Throw in a callback to something earlier, or a joke only two characters understand.

11. No One Explains Everything People leave stuff out. We assume the person we’re talking to knows what we’re talking about, so we skip over background details. Instead of having your character explain everything for the reader’s benefit, let some things go unsaid. It’ll feel more natural—and trust your reader to keep up!

12. Characters Have Different Voices Real people don’t all talk the same way. Your characters shouldn’t either! Pay attention to their unique quirks—does one character use slang? Does another speak more formally? Maybe someone’s always cutting people off while another is super polite. Give them different voices and patterns of speech so their dialogue feels authentic to them.

13. People Change the Subject In real life, conversations don’t always stay on track. People get sidetracked, jump to random topics, or avoid certain subjects altogether. If your characters are uncomfortable or trying to dodge a question, let them awkwardly change the subject or ramble to fill the space.

14. Reactions Aren’t Always Immediate People don’t always respond right away. They pause, they think, they hesitate. Sometimes they don’t know what to say, and that delay can speak volumes. Give your characters a moment to process before they respond—it’ll make the conversation feel more natural.

Important note: Please don’t use all of these tips in one dialogue at once.

[sknyuz]

hello!! I want to make a request ; is it alright if you can write about how seong je would be with a mute!reader? i just think it’d be an interesting dynamic ..! hmm other details i’d add is the reader often giving affection in a form of gifting (letters mayb?), cooking him a meal or quality time :) you may write this in whatever format you want!! thank youu and have a nice week (ps love your writing)

synopsis — seongje is a whirlwind of noise and chaos, but he finds unexpected peace in your silence.

now playing — sweet - cigarettes after sex pairing — geum seongje x gn!reader (hard of hearing, selectively mute) genre — hurt/comfort, slowburn, angst with soft moments, unconventional romance (nothing is conventional with seongje) cw — ableism/mocking of hearing disability, bullying, violence (including implied offscreen physical assault), power imbalance, toxic behavior, minor blood/bruising, strong language wc — ~2.1k

note: this was a pleasure to write <3 i hope i did ur request justice, anon. and please do not hesitate to tell me if i wrote something wrong or inaccurate to the experiences of hoh individuals.

masterlist | join the taglist | 400 follower event

seongje doesn’t do “quiet.” he doesn’t do subtlety, either. his entire existence is loud—his presence is a storm that makes everything feel tense and unpredictable. that’s how he’s known: the unpredictable, impulsive force, the mad dog. so, when he sees you for the first time, it’s almost like a challenge.

you’re sitting there, silently, in the bowling alley, a forced audience to the bullying happening around you. the union’s delinquents have gathered, sneering as they taunt you. they wave your hearing aids in front of you like a sick joke, expecting you to react. but you don’t. you’re quiet, your face unreadable, eyes glued to the floor, trying to stay as small as possible, like you’ve done countless times before. it’s a game for them, nothing more than a way to make you feel like an outsider.

“hey, freak, what’s wrong? can’t hear us?” one of them mocks, swinging your hearing aids back and forth with a smirk.

the noise is deafening to you in a different way—a slow, rising pressure in your chest. you want to speak, to make them stop. but your voice won’t come, and the words you want to say die in your throat, replaced by that quiet ache of helplessness.

that’s when seongje steps in.

he’s not supposed to be there. he’s supposed to be in baekjin’s office, probably arguing or being a general pain in the ass—but the noise coming from the alleyway catches his attention. he comes striding out, a curse on his lips as he surveys the scene, his eyes lighting up with the familiar flash of anger.

“what’s with all the fucking noise, fuckers?!,” seongje shouts, his voice dripping with disdain as he eyes the delinquents, but his gaze lands on the one holding your hearing aids, who freezes up as soon as he realizes who’s standing in front of him.

“aww, you guys are really fucking pathetic,” seongje steps forward, his mood shifting from bored to dangerous in an instant. he slaps the delinquent’s face, knocking the hearing aids out of his grip, and catches them before they hit the floor.

the delinquent stumbles back, startled, and seongje doesn’t miss the way his bravado slips. “hey, if you want to get your ass kicked, i’ll be happy to oblige. otherwise, get the fuck out of here,” seongje growls, and his voice carries an unmistakable warning.

the delinquents scatter quickly, realizing they’re not really looking forward to get beat up by the wolf himself. seongje watches them leave with a bored smirk, but his eyes return to you, where you’re still sitting silently, your gaze downcast. his anger bubbles under the surface, but it doesn’t seem to be directed at you—it’s more frustration at how they treated you. and, maybe… it’s confusion. because why would he be frustrated?

he despises those who put on a front, acting all tough and dominant when they're around someone they know is weaker, but turn into cowards the moment they face someone like seongje. the hypocrisy makes him sick—they don’t even have the balls to face him.

you look up at him then, your lips parting as if to say something, but the words stay locked inside. seongje stares back, a little too long, before he gestures to the now-empty bowling alley with a roll of his eyes.

“shit, it’s way too quiet in here now,” seongje mutters, half to himself. “i need a fucking drink. you coming?” his fist reaching out to you, making you flinch, but he simply turns and opens his palm to reveal your hearings aids, offering it back to you, his gaze not even meeting yours.

you hesitate, a flicker of uncertainty crossing your face. seongje doesn’t wait for a reply. he knows how this works—he doesn’t need words from you to tell if you’re okay. you’ve already said more than enough with that silence of yours.

it’s a few weeks later when seongje starts to notice something he wasn’t expecting—something soft. you’re not the type to speak, but you show him things. you leave him little letters. they’re simple at first, just words on paper—carefully written, neat and soft. but each one has meaning. you might leave him a note after a chaotic day, telling him, thank you for helping me today—a gesture he’s not used to.

seongje can’t stop himself from reading them over and over, even if he pretends they don’t matter. he tosses the first one aside in an exaggerated motion, but later, when he’s alone, he pulls it out again, trying to make sense of it. there’s something oddly comforting in your words. something real. his usual sharpness dulls just a little when he reads them.

it’s a typical night, and you don’t expect anything to go wrong. seongje has always been unpredictable, but you can’t stop yourself from trusting him. there’s a strange sort of understanding between the two of you now. he doesn’t need you to speak, and you don’t need him to be anything but… himself. still, you don’t expect what happens when he calls you to meet him in a parking lot late one evening.

the dim light from the streetlamps makes the whole place feel cold and detached. you spot him standing there, leaning against the hood of a car, his eyes narrowing slightly when he sees you approach. but there’s something different tonight—something unsettling in his stance.

"come here," seongje says, his voice almost too casual for the tense atmosphere.

your breath catches in your throat as the boy on his knees comes into focus. you've seen him around before—he’s one of the delinquents from the union. the same one who’d been taunting you in the bowling alley, waving your hearing aids like some cruel joke. that memory hits you sharply, and your stomach churns with discomfort as you recognize him now, his face bruised and bloodied, a lip split open, looking like he’s been through hell.

but why is he here? why is he on his knees, shaking in front of seongje? what happened to him?

seongje stands over him, his posture casual, his grin wide and wicked as he watches the boy with almost bored amusement. he kicks the delinquent’s side lightly, like it’s a game, and the boy flinches.

"come on, kid," seongje says, his voice teasing but edged with something darker, something almost amused by the kid’s fear. "just like we practiced."

the delinquent on his knees doesn’t speak, his eyes downcast, probably too terrified to even look up at seongje, but his shaky hand lifts. you watch as he tries to make the "a" handshape, his fingers clumsy as he attempts to sign. seongje looks down at the boy, his grin stretching wider as he watches him fumble.

the delinquent hurriedly completes the sign, his hands shaking, his breath coming in short bursts as he struggles to perform it correctly. he spins his hand in a half-hearted clockwise motion, and you can tell how hard it is for him to even try. he looks humiliated, and maybe that’s what seongje wants—to make him feel small, to show that he’s the one in control now. like how the boy probably felt back in the bowling alley with you.

“sorry.” he signed.

as the boy finishes, seongje pats his shoulder with an almost affectionate thud, a grin still plastered on his face. “good job,” he mutters, voice dripping with mock praise. but his eyes flick to you, then back to the delinquent, as if waiting for some kind of reaction.

the delinquent scrambles to his feet, not daring to say a word, but you can see the fear still fresh in his eyes. without another glance, he stumbles off into the shadows of the parking lot, and seongje doesn’t follow him, not bothering with any more theatrics. “now that’s how you apologize,” he sighs contentedly, glancing at you from the corner of his eye as he walks back to where you two came from.

you don’t respond, but you follow him. because, despite everything—despite how messed up all of this is—he’s still the one who, somehow, happened to feel like the safest person to be around. despite his… unique antics.

despite the way he does things no one else would dare to. because even if he’s rough around the edges, unpredictable and loud, seongje never made you feel small. and that, weirdly enough, was enough.

seongje’s desk at the bowling alley becomes a quiet sort of shrine to you—littered with your letters and notes, half-crumpled from him rereading them over and over. he never bothers to clean it up. they’re scattered across the surface like leaves in a storm, but he knows exactly where each one is. it’s an organized mess, chaotic in the same way he is. but if anyone even looks at them too long—tries to pick one up, makes a joke about the handwriting, even breathes too close to the edge of his desk—they’re basically asking for a death wish.

“touch it and you die,” he’ll mutter without even looking up, one foot kicked up on the desk, cigarette dangling from his lips. it’s not even a threat—it’s a promise.

somewhere in between the late night meetups—where the world is quiet and it’s just the two of you—and the stolen moments in back rooms lit by vending machine glow, seongje softens. not in a way that’s obvious to most, but in ways you catch. like when he plays bowling with you late at night at the union headquarters, just the sound of pins crashing echoing through the empty lanes. he’s terrible at it, but he doesn’t care. he would fair better hitting someone at the back of the head with these bowling balls. he only really lights up when it’s your turn.

you roll the ball, knock down every pin, and before you can even react, he’s throwing his hands in the air, exaggeratedly signing applause, a wide grin stretching across his face.

“that’s what i’m fucking talking about!” he shouts, clapping loudly on top of the sign for applause he just made, just because he’s still him—loud, obnoxious, impossible—but now he’s loud for you.

yeah… to seongje, you’re like a stray puppy at first. small, quiet, following him around without saying a word, eyes always wide and watching. at first, he thinks it’s kinda funny—endearing, even. you don’t talk back, don’t flinch when he’s loud, and you’ve got this habit of showing up with little notes or food like some soft, strange ritual he doesn’t understand. he starts calling you “puppy” just to mess with you, ruffling your hair whenever you come around.

but somewhere along the way, that fondness stops being just a game. no, you’re not a pet to seongje. but maybe, you became an equal.

he starts waiting for your notes. starts leaving his office door slightly cracked, just in case you come by. he catches himself watching you instead of his phone. gets weirdly pissed off when other people so much as look at you wrong.

and the night he realizes it’s different—that it’s not just him babysitting some quiet kid—it’s when you sign “stay” with soft hands after a long night, and he does. no grumbling, no jokes, just settles next to you and doesn’t leave.

after that, it’s not a question. you’re not a puppy. you’re his person.

and yeah, maybe he never said you were dating. but everyone knows. you leave your food in the union’s fridge, your letters in his desk, your comfort in the chaos of his life. and he protects you, respects you, listens to your silence more than he’s ever listened to anyone’s voice. and no one in the union dares to bring it up or even question your soft presence in the nitty gritty bowling alley.

seongje is loud. like, really fucking loud. he talks with his whole body, yells when he's annoyed, laughs like he owns the air around him, and never knows when to shut up. he's noise and motion and chaos wrapped in one, dangerously sharp-edged boy. but you—you're quiet. not just in voice, but in presence. you move gently, offer kindness without demanding attention, speak in ways that don’t need sound.

and somehow, in all the noise of his world, your silence is the only thing that ever made sense. he used to think silence was empty, but now it’s where he finds comfort. he’s still loud, still volatile, still the type to throw a punch first and maybe ask questions never. but now there’s this... softness around the edges. a space he carves out just for you. like you’re the eye of the storm, and he’s always, always circling back to you.

in your quiet, he feels understood. and maybe that's the wildest thing about this whole mess—that a boy made of sound found peace in someone who never had to say a word.

note: aaa i feel like this so short >><< i wanted to give them more of a backstory but for now this is what i’m going with. if you’d like to see more of them that’d be nice 🫶 this is such a different take from collarless tho, and it’s nice to also write a softer character to contrast our tough collarless!reader to explore more dynamics with seongje.

i don’t aim to reform or soften seongje, but have the peaceful presence of the reader be incorporated into his life without changing his ideals and personality.

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[pathologicalreid]

the build up | s.r.

in which you and Spencer spend an entire day just waiting to make it to the hotel room

margotober masterlist

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: smut (18+ mdni) content warnings: reader is fine she's probably just ovulating, fingering, protected p in v sex, spencer does the post-coital pick up clean up, heavy petting (in the beginning), jealousy, kind of one bed trope?, spencer does math so he doesn't come too fast, not very edited, some case details and the case mentions drug use, hotch is a cockblock, spencer's tie is a cockblock word count: 4.23k a/n: okay we are so back thank you for letting me take a day

It starts first thing in the morning.

You and Spencer didn’t need to find your way to the hotel lobby until eight, so once you were both ready to go, the fact that it was only six-thirty took you by surprise. The two of you had been the first to make your way back to the hotel last night, immediately falling asleep once your heads hit the pillows.

As far as hotels went, this one wasn’t so bad. The hot water lasted long enough to get the both of you through the shower, and the promise of a continental breakfast always gave you something to look forward to. It was by pure luck that the hotel just barely had enough rooms for the team—contingent on one pair sharing a king bed.

Hotch had begrudgingly handed you the key cards, letting you know that HR could never find out that he allowed this.

Though, with the home Spencer’s hands had found on your waist, you couldn’t care less what HR had to say about it.

Very slowly, you grind your hips into Spencer’s, sparing a moment to smile against his lips. He had pulled you onto the bed while you were in the middle of getting dressed, electing to take advantage of your room assignment while you still could.

“Spence,” you whisper, your voice gentle in the dim light of dawn.

His hands were firmly set on your waist, you felt the callus on his finger that had been left by his gun, the coarseness of his hand in direct juxtaposition with the soft skin on your torso. Carefully, his thumb sweeps over the band of your bra, wanting to undo your half-adorned outfit.

With your knees on either side of him, you settle onto him, the chiffon of your blouse fluttering onto his bare chest.

Your phone going off is the most unwelcome sound, the LED screen flashing as the phone call comes through. Remaining at your perch, you reach over to the nightstand, unplug your phone, and answer the call, “Hey, Hotch.”

Recognition and a little disappointment dawn on Spencer’s face, his hands dropping to your hips.

“Are you able to be ready in fifteen minutes? There was another killing overnight, and I’d like to get a look at the crime scene while it’s still fresh,” your unit chief asks over the phone, and you find yourself thankful that he hadn’t knocked on your door.

Pressing your lips together, you nod even though he can’t see you, “Yeah,” you sigh, “We’ll be right out.”

The third body makes this the third dumpsite, the magic number that gives Spencer all of the starting points he needs to make headway on a geographic profile. He’ll be directed to the police precinct while you go to the crime scene with other team members.

Groaning, you melodramatically fall sideways onto the mattress, letting your hair fan out on the starchy white sheets of the hotel bed. “We have to go,” you announce mournfully, recognizing just how wrong it is to bury your sexual frustrations while you mentally prepare to spend your day hunting a serial killer.

In your defense, it has been a while.

Spencer gets up before you do, carefully doing up each button of his dress shirt, the plastic buttons sliding through eyelets as he does so. Against your better judgment, you pull yourself to a sitting position in bed, doing up the buttons of your own shirt with considerably less poise before standing and adjusting your pants.

Begrudgingly fully clothed, you step up to Spencer, pulling him closer to you by the fabric of his silk tie. Taking the bottom tail of his tie and pushing the double Windsor knot closer to the hollow of his throat, ignoring your impure thoughts as he hooks his fingers in the belt loops of your dress pants.

Tenderly, Spencer drops a soft kiss on your hairline, “Do you have everything?”

You nod, stepping up on your tiptoes to kiss him, “Yeah, let’s go.”

You’re about ready to sing Emily’s praises when she lifts up two cups of coffee in the air for the two of you to take, you gleefully accept one and take a sip while Spencer takes the other one. Preparing for the burnt sludge you can usually find at a hotel; you cringe when what you find in the cup is almost painfully sweet.

Reaching out your hand for the cup in Spencer’s hand, you shake your head at him, “No way, trade,” you prompt, swapping paper cups with him while he looks at you curiously, “You won’t like that one.”

He lets you trade out the cups without a debate, carefully maneuvering the cups so that you don’t get burnt by the hot coffee. Now you have your proper sludge, bitter to the tongue is better than the sugar rush you would have gotten. Part of you thinks you might be totally desensitized to the taste of burnt coffee, as that’s what you usually find in police precincts, but when you take the first sip of your coffee, you’re immediately proven wrong. Next to you, Spencer chuckles at the distaste that’s sure to be written all over your face.

Trying to ignore the way Spencer is one-handedly adjusting his satchel in front of his crotch, you stare straight ahead to where JJ and Morgan are emerging from the other hallway, “So, what do we know?”

“Similar victimology, about two miles from the last dumpsite,” Prentiss responds, taking a swig of her own coffee, “Hotch and Rossi are bringing the cars around.” She frowns at you slightly, eyeing your appearance as if she knows something you don’t.

Before you can ask, she leans in closely to you, her dark hair brushing your shoulder as she whispers, “The buttons on your shirt are done up wrong.”

Your face warms, eyes widening as she pulls away from you, “I just… got ready in a hurry this morning.”

“I’m sure you did,” she jests, raising her eyebrows as she looks out the door.

Handing your coffee off to Spencer, you reach down to undo the last few buttons of your shirt, grateful that the hotel lobby was empty while you fixed yourself up. “Thanks,” you breathe, taking your coffee back from Spencer before looking down at the redone buttons, just making sure they’re properly done now.

At least you had an easy fix, a quick glance at Spencer’s bag placement tells you he’s having a much harder time hiding the evidence of this morning from your teammates.

Being separated from Spencer allows you to focus all of your energy on the case at hand instead of drifting away to your morning, but as soon as you see him in the conference room, your resolve falters.

While he���s leaning over the table in the precinct, your eyes catch on the way he’s shed his jacket, pushing his sleeves up over his forearms in a way that makes your cheeks heat up. You take a quick detour to the kitchenette and get a glass of water from the jug, hoping to cool yourself off from the inside out.

“Hey,” a familiar voice calls from behind you, his voice is low as he gently sweeps a hand over your back. The movement is soft enough not to raise any local eyebrows about the ethics of your relationship, but it’s enough to send a wave of goosebumps across your body.

Staring at your cup of water like it’s the fountain of youth, you hum in response, “Hi,” you breathe, checking the time on your watch before you close your eyes. “How’s it going?” You ask, nodding your head in the direction of the chaotic whiteboard in the conference room. Whiteboard markers of varying colors and widths are scattered around the table.

“We have a two-mile radius near the neighborhood of Summit Cove, but I’d like to narrow it down. There’s a lot of tree coverage in that area and if the UnSub keeps accelerating his timeline, we won’t be able to cover that much ground before he strikes again.” He explains, either not noticing or not caring about the way one of the local officers is making googly eyes at him.

You keep your eyes on her, but continue your conversation with Spencer, “There’s a reservoir out there too, right? Do you think there could be a connection with the UnSub and the water?”

Thinking about it for a moment, Spencer shakes his head, “It’s not likely. There hasn’t been any indication that water is important to the UnSub so far.”

The two of you share a look, a silent acknowledgment that you couldn’t rule anything out—not in your line of work.

“Are you busy? Maybe a pair of fresh eyes could help narrow down the geo-profile,” he offers, leaning against the laminate counter of the kitchenette.

You hum, “I’m waiting on the toxicology report from our last victim.” Holding out your glass of water to him, you tilt your head to the side, “Will you bring this to the conference room? I’m gonna run to the restroom and I’ll meet you there.”

Spencer nods, taking the cup from your hands, “Are you alright?”

Already making your way to the bathroom, you give a thumbs up behind your back before nearly throwing yourself in the women’s restroom. Pacing around the small space, you take a deep breath, begging to pull yourself together. “You just have to get through this case,” you mutter to yourself, running a hand through your hair.

This morning was the third consecutive time you and Spencer had been interrupted. Every time either one of you initiates sex, something else comes up. The first time, his mother called, which you weren’t entirely sure you’d ever fully recover from. The second time, the fire alarm had gone off in your building, which was the first instance of that happening in the years you’ve lived there. Then, this morning, Hotch had called.

The universe was being a prude, and you were becoming embarrassingly frustrated.

Biting down a yelp, you jump in surprise when the door swings open. With wide eyes, you watch as Spencer shuts the door and locks it, bringing your attention to the fact that you had forgotten to lock it yourself. “What are you doing?” You ask, hoping no one spared him any mind when he went into the bathroom just moments after you.

“What’s wrong?” He ignores your question, cupping your cheeks with a gentleness that makes you want to turn into a puddle. “You’re warm,” he observes, “Are you feeling okay?”

Your head bobs, nervously trying to assure him that for all intents and purposes, you’re okay. “I’m fine,” you whisper, looking into his concerned brown eyes.

His eyebrows lift, and you can tell that he doesn’t believe you. “Well, you’re pacing and talking to yourself in the bathroom of a police precinct, so, deductively, something is going on that you’re not telling me about.”

Groaning, you tilt your head back in an attempt to avoid his gaze, sometimes being a profiler and dating a profiler was a brutal combination. “Shouldn’t you be working on the geo-profile?”

“I’m waiting for the ink to dry on the map,” he expertly maneuvers through your deflection—he’s had years of practice doing it with you. “What’s going on?”

You huff, bringing your head back down and meeting his eyes, “Spencer, I’m horny. I’m like fourteen-year-old boy who’s just seen his first pair of boobs horny. I came in here to talk myself off of a sex ledge and you are not helping to deplete my need to jump your bones.”

One look at him tells you he’s trying his best not to laugh, which would just make you feel more ridiculous. “Angel,” he says seriously, “What is a sex ledge?”

“I don’t know!” You reel yourself in, not wanting to draw attention to the bathroom, “It felt like the right thing to say at the time.”

Spencer chuckles softly, reaching a hand up to tuck your hair behind your ears before gently placing a kiss on your lips. Then another on your cheek before doing the same on the other side of your face.

Contently, you hum at your current predicament, “What-“ he kisses your lips again. “What are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer right away, choosing instead to lock your lips together. Moving them against yours in a way that resembled this morning—it made your heart soar.

Hesitating slightly, you reach your arms up and loop them over his shoulders, kissing him back as you’d been longing to all day.  

“I’m kissing you,” he whispers, kissing your lips again. “Trying to tide you over until the case is over and we get to be alone. Until then, do you want to help me narrow the geographic profile?”

In awe of Spencer’s ability to make you feel normal when you feel absurd, you shrug meekly, “Maybe one more kiss?”

“I’m shocked it was the third victim’s mother,” JJ says from the back of the group, talking about the case. The arrest was made about an hour ago, and the local precinct will be able to build the rest of the case on its own.

You raise your eyebrows, “I’m not. Thinking about the stony expression she had when she went to claim the body, I’m not surprised at all.” You met the UnSub earlier that morning, as it turned out, and the lack of surprise when you told her about the drugs in her daughter’s system made sense to you now.

Hotch checks the time on his watch, “Everyone head inside. We’ll take off with the sunrise tomorrow.”

The team nods in unison, filtering in through the lobby as everyone takes their designated hallways to their rooms, you and Spencer being at the very end of one of those hallways. You were grateful to Hotch for making the executive decision not to leave Colorado tonight, with the three-hour flight taken into account, you wouldn’t make it back to Quantico until nearly midnight.

Spencer swipes his key card in the door, letting you in before walking in behind you. He takes a moment once he’s inside to lock the door and latch the deadbolt, leaving you to walk into the bathroom to use the clean towels that housekeeping had left to wipe your face.

“Hey,” he murmurs, dropping a kiss on your clothed shoulder. He wraps his arms around your waist, holding you from behind and burying his face in your neck.

His body was warm against yours, a pleasant change from the cool temperatures outside. Leaving the towel on the bar, you turn around in Spencer’s arms, taking small steps so the two of you don’t get tangled up. Leaning your head back, you smile at him knowingly, “Hi,” you whisper, thrilled to finally be alone with him.

Carefully, the two of you move out of the bathroom, and you find yourself fiddling with the knot of Spencer’s tie, grumbling about how tight it is while trying to wedge your nail between the silk. “You’re the one who tightened it,” Spencer reminds you, making better progress with your blouse.

You roll your eyes instinctively, “I really am my own worst enemy.” You drop your arms, letting Spencer take care of his tie as you unbutton the cuffs of your sleeves and tug the chiffon off.

Taking the tie off, Spencer watches as you kick off your shoes, carefully leaving them at the end of the bed before losing your footing and toppling onto the bed in a heap. He looks over at you, a bright, loving look in his eyes, “Are you alright?”

At this point, he’s asked you that so many times that you’ve lost count, leaving you to reach our hand out and pull him onto the bed with you. You bite down a laugh when he scrambles to catch himself. “You were brilliant today,” you tell him, studying the everchanging glisten of gold in his eyes.

“You were brilliant today,” he responds, shifting so that he’s hovering over you. “You’re brilliant every day,” he reassures you.

Your eyes widen playfully, “Well if we’re getting particular—you are also brilliant every day.” You reach your hand up and thread your fingers in his hair, feeling the silky strands between your fingers, “Are we going to have sex now?”

Spencer chuckles in response, craning his head down to leave a soft kiss on your lips, “Yes, silly girl. If you still want to.”

You nod enthusiastically, “Yes,” you answer, continuing to admire the feeling of his hair between your fingers, the sensation of the heat emanating from his body warms you from above as you take a minute to breathe. “I love you,” you whisper, barely audible.

“I love you too,” he murmurs, matching your volume level.

You consider yourself lucky to be able to work with Spencer every day. There were times when one of you had to call a time-out, and you never had to worry about asking for space. “You’re wearing too many clothes,” you let him know, raising your eyebrows expectantly.

He hums in response, dragging himself up from his place above you and standing up, giving you the freedom to move further up the bed, flopping your head on the pillows and watching him take his undershirt off. Unbuckling your own belt, you wriggle yourself out of your work pants, successfully leaving yourself in a bra and panties.

“C’mere,” you beckon to Spencer, stretching your arm out to him. He takes your hand, that all too familiar callus on his hand touching the one that’s mirrored on your own.

Spencer stops about halfway up your body, resting his hand on your hip and using his thumb to rub small circles on your hipbone, you sigh contentedly at the sensation of finally being touched the way you need.

The butterflies in your stomach don’t come out of hiding until he starts to shuffle your underwear down your legs, pulling them past your knees until you’re able to kick them off on your own. “Thank you for not making me feel bad about what happened in the bathroom,” you murmur down to him, propping yourself up on your elbows to get a better look at him.

He knits his eyebrows together when he looks at you, “Why would I make you feel bad? We haven’t had sex in two weeks. I’d be lying to you if I told you it hasn’t been on my mind. You just happened to bring it up first.”

A soft giggle escapes your lips, “It’s a good thing you carry around that bag everywhere, or else we could’ve been in big trouble.” Not necessarily trouble with work, but relentless teasing was always an option.

Thankfully Emily let you off the hook, or else you’d be more concerned with being harassed on the jet tomorrow morning. “Speaking of,” he says, pulling himself back up and heading to his bag, rifling through his belongings before producing a small lavender packet. He sets the condom on the nightstand before finding his place again, “Where were we?”

You take your bottom lip between your teeth, peering down at him in awe as his hand slowly makes its way closer and closer to your core. “Just about here,” you breathe, leaning your head back while his index finger breaches your entrance, slowly sliding into you with a tentativeness to reflect how long it really has been.

The wet sounds reverberate through the room, making your cheeks burn even though you’re the only two in the room, “Let me know if it gets to be too much,” Spencer tells you, hoisting himself further up on the mattress. He changes the angle of his finger as he slowly finds a rhythm.

With him right above you, you tilt your head down, hoping he’ll take the hint and come kiss your lips. He does, his head ducking down until your lips touch, he carefully adds a second finger, eliciting a small gasp from your lips, but Spencer just takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss.

Cloaked in a sensual silence, the two of you are finally free to enjoy the company of one another, you extend one arm down, slipping your fingertips in between his stomach and the waistband of his briefs so that you can palm his cock. He moans into your open mouth as you sweep your thumb over the tip of his length, gathering his precum on your fingertip and spreading it over the head.

“Spence,” you gasp, so preoccupied with touching him that you had lost sight of your own pleasure, the way his hand was angled, the heel of his palm barely grazing your clit with every thrust. “Wait, I wanna-“ you take a breath, “I wanna go together.”

He nods in understanding, chuckling as you help him make quick work of his underwear, “Eager,” he observes, reaching around your torso to unclasp your bra.

“Yes,” you affirm, letting the underwire fall from your body, your nipples standing at attention, matching his cock perfectly as he reaches to the nightstand for the condom, tearing the purple packet and pinching the reservoir tip before rolling it over his length with ease.

You let your legs fall open as he finds a place between you, kneeling between your legs before he props himself up above you, your head still spinning as his hand moves between your bodies, positioning his covered cock at your pussy before he eases himself in. He takes it bit by bit, giving both of you time to adjust before he fully sheathes himself inside of you. “Fuck,” he groans in your ear, the curse falling from his mouth in exactly the same way you were thinking it.

One of your hands drops next to your head, and Spencer takes the chance to intertwine your fingers together, your hands interlocked on the bed as he takes a deep breath. Hesitantly, you ask, “What are you doing?”

“Thinking about what we have to get done when we get home tomorrow,” he tells you, dropping his head into the crook of your check.

You laugh breathily, “Right now?”

He drops a soft kiss to your collarbone, “Better than lasting thirty seconds. I haven’t done that in years.”

You hum thoughtfully, “What about last month when— ah.” He expertly cuts you off by withdrawing himself from you, almost leaving you entirely empty before easing himself back in. Apparently, he didn’t want you to bring up the time you caught him trying to hold off an orgasm by doing math.

Poking your head up, you guide Spencer’s head up, his lust-hooded eyes meeting yours when you set your lips on his, soft whines escaping from your mouth as you lock your ankles behind his back, “You’re so perfect,” he murmurs against your lips, seemingly spurred on by your need to keep him close.

In an act of desperation, you move your hand from his jawline to your clit, rubbing the sensitive spot in time with his thrusts, “Baby,” you breathe, your voice a word of warning as you feel your impending orgasm twist through your abdomen.

“Me too,” he answers, dropping his head back into the crook of your neck, continuing his movements, though they grow messy as he gets closer. “Let go,” he encourages, “Come around me.”

With a whine, you do just that, your toes curling as you reach your peak, your walls pulse around Spencer’s cock as you come, the sensation just hurtling him closer to the same euphoria. “That’s so good,” you say, your ankles coming uncrossed with the movement as Spencer works you through your orgasm.

A choked sound comes from him as his hips stutter, his movements halted by his own orgasm, spilling his cum into the condom as you run your newly free hand down his spine, skimming your fingertips over the ridges as the both of you catch your breath.

Lifting his head, Spencer flips his hair from his eyes, sweat-dampened curls falling in front of his forehead, “Woah,” you breathe, flopping your head back on the pillows, whimpering when he pulls out of you.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he whispers, carefully taking the filled condom off before speaking again, “I’ll be right back, honey.”

You nod absentmindedly, pulling yourself to a sitting position on the bed, a small puddle of slick beneath you almost made you wish you had a second bed in the hotel room. “Thank you,” you say when Spencer returns with a dampened washcloth.

He shakes his head when you reach your hand out for the cloth, taking it upon himself to clean you up. His gentleness as he takes care of you makes your chest tighten, he catches the way you’re looking at him when he moves to set the washcloth down, “What’s wrong?”

Shaking your head, “Nothing, just… can we cuddle for a little bit?”

Spencer nods immediately, leaving the washcloth on the dirty side of the bed before laying down next to you. You settle your head on his chest, letting your body melt into his.

You know you’re eventually going to have to get up, but right now, you’re just grateful that the world decided to slow down for you two tonight.

[cerisereids]

𝗜’𝗹𝗹 𝗕𝗲 𝗪𝗮𝘁𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗬𝗼𝘂 (𝗘𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗕𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗵 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗧𝗮𝗸𝗲)- 𝗦.𝗥.

Pairing- Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader

W/C- 6.5k (crazy shit)

Summary- You and Spencer have never gotten along. Yet, you can’t seem to ever take your eyes off each other.

Contains- 18+ MDNI, not super smutty but there is a sex scene (not super detailed) canon typical violence, enemies to lovers, Spencer losing all brain cells over a pretty girl, bitchy!Spencer, reader and Spencer are held captive by unsub, dramatic love confessions, kissing, some icky misogyny directed at reader from unsub but it's quite brief, guns, unsub death, honestly this reads a lot like a regular cm episode but with Spencer being down bad, this low-key turned into smut when I didn't plan on it but c'est la vie

A/N: I can’t find the OP of the divider but it is not mine!! This is a little proofread but not a lot of proofread, I am also thinking about making a part 2 w some actual smutty smut so lmk if you guys like this!

An itch of irritation crawls up your spine, a deep ache settling in your skull as you sit in the BAU conference room. You massage your temples as a rapid, grating voice nestles its way into your ears.

“The fact that this unsub feels comfortable targeted a densely populated area such as D.C. tells us he’s either impulsive or incredibly bold,” he remarks, arms crossed, a pensive look on his face as he studies the map in front of him.

Despite your annoyance, you keep your eyes trained on the profiler as he rattles on. Your eyes narrow just slightly, You’re seated directly across the table from him, and you watch the way he gets lost in the information, almost like it’s in control of him as he frantically circles different locations on the map. Spencer Reid speaks with his entire body, he always has, ever since you started at the BAU one year prior.

“Maybe it’s a comfort zone,” he stands back, leaning his weight on one leg. Your eyes drift down his lanky frame for the briefest moment, lingering on his popped hip. They furiously snap back up to his face once he starts speaking again, cheeks heating up.

“The lines of longitude and latitude at each murder sight are equivalent to the central area of the city,” he mumbles.

“Okay, so we need to know what’s there. Something clearly happened to our unsub that has made him choose these locations,” you cross your arms over your chest, “you really think our unsub measured all of the crime scenes on a map? That shows an incredible amount of organization that I don’t think he has.”

Your tone is a bit defensive, skeptical of his work. To you, profiling is a subjective art. Your best profiling comes from understanding emotions, trauma. Spencer works completely different.

While you do have to recognize his intelligence, the strict logic in which he operates in this job is not something you entirely agree with. He spouts rapid fire facts nearly robotically, like he’s reading straight from a textbook. It drives you batty.

You’re not typically someone who’s thrown off by a different approach. Normally, you accept and encourage a fresh set of eyes while you work. If it wasn’t for what Spencer said your first week…

Plus, you had an early acceptance to Harvard before you decided to go to the academy. His intelligence doesn’t impress you that much.

“Yes, as a matter of fact I do. He’s very clearly organized, it fits the profile,” he states, his irritated gaze pointed directly at you.

You stare back brazenly, in a silent competition with the man across from you.

“I’m really just unsure how that helps us right now when central D.C. is so big. How are we going to narrow down his tie to the city?” His eyes narrow to slits at your question.

“She’s got a point,” Hotch succinctly breaks through the tension, and you’re reminded that you’re in a room with the entire team. “Give the information you have to Garcia, have her narrow it down. Afterwards, I want you and Prentiss on victimology in the bullpen,” he says.

You puff your chest slightly, sliding out from your chair to get closer to the evidence board. You feel his eyes burning a hole into your back before he huffs an irritated sigh, exiting the conference room with a harsh slam of the door. You keep your gaze on him through the window as he walks to Penelope’s.

Spencer grumbles under his breath the whole way down to Penelope. Head down, brows furrowed, he barges in there with the map. Without so much as a hello, he posts it on her wall.

“Well, hello to you too, Doctor!” She chastises him as he keeps his gaze on the map, like she’s not even there.

He knows it’s mean, that she deserves more respect than that, his brain is just unable to process anything other than her. She makes him want to explode.

“Sorry,” he grumbles, continuing his previous work on the map.

“Spence, you gotta stop letting her get under your skin like that,” he hears the pity in her voice, which only makes his blood boil hotter.

“Nobody’s under my skin, I’m trying to solve the case,” he’s speaking too quickly, like that’s even possible for him.

“Yeah, okay,” she mumbles sarcastically. She begins picking up what he’s doing on the map, entering coordinates in her computer as he works.

“She just-” his pen clatters to her desk, a knowing smile growing on Penelope’s face as she types. He ignores it. “She has to question everything I do! If she doesn’t trust me, why are we on the same team together. You know?” He huffs a heavy breath.

Penelope turns to him, “Spencer, she trusts you. Hotch wouldn’t have either of you on the team if she didn’t. Just because she has a different approach doesn’t mean she’s undermining you.”

He rolls his eyes, he knows she’s just trying to help. The irritation crawling under his sweater, seeping into his skin, is suffocating. He tugs on his collar so he can breathe.

“Then why does everything she say feel like an attack?” He asks, scratching the back of his head.

“Have you ever thought that maybe you want to impress her?” Penelope asks, and it knocks the wind out of him. “I mean, she’s like, the only person in the world who isn’t totally blown away by your incredible mind. Probably because she’s so smart herself,” she remarks under her breath. He rolls his eyes at that. “Regardless, you want her to agree with you, right? You might just want to impress her.”

Spencer’s face heats up as she raises her brow at him. His gaze immediately drops to his shoes, fidgeting awkwardly before turning back to his map.

“We need to get back to work,” he mutters.

-

To Spencer’s dismay, she stands in his exact line of sight as he’s with Emily, working on victimology. He stands at her desk, and he really should be listening to what Emily is saying. Instead, he has a laser focus on her.

She’s leaning over the conference room table, her back to the window. There’s a slight arch in her back as she pops her hip out. The silky fabric of her black pencil skirt clings to her and Spencer almost forgets why he’s so mad at her all the time.

Emily follows his line of sight and he rolls his eyes, as if she’s the one being ridiculous. The deepest parts of him know it’s not fair, but he’s never done well with his feelings on display. He feels vulnerable, like a raw nerve.

He feels exposed at the low chuckle escaping Emily’s lips. His gaze shoots towards the case file, now in an iron grip in his hands, clearing the awkwardness that has crept up his throat.

“I’m not sure who either of you think you’re fooling,” she nonchalantly mumbles under her breath, viewing her own copy of the case file.

“I’m sorry?” He snaps, his eyes squeezing shut in a long blink, as if he’s trying to unsee her.

“Y’know, if you just talked to her, really got to the bottom of your disagreements, maybe you’d see that you two are a lot more alike than you think,” she raises her brow at him, and it feels as if his heart’s been slashed open, bleeding on display for everyone to see. He always feels this way when someone shines a light on his vulnerability, his natural instinct to run from it. If it’s not there, then he can’t get hurt.

“I’m just trying to catch a killer,” he squeaks, his high pitched voice giving him away almost immediately. Emily playfully rolls her eyes and chuckles once more. His heart rate picks up, cheeks heating to an alarming degree.

The door of the conference opens, then. As if the universe is playing a cruel, practical joke on him, the click of her heels get closer and closer, until her perfume has invaded his senses.

“So, we figured out that our unsub was recently released from a mental institution in the greater D.C. area. Garcia is working on which one, but is there anything in the victimology that points toward abandonment issues? Particularly from a motherly figure?” She rattles off, the sound of her voice like a knife to the chest. It’s sharp, infiltrating every piece of him, stripping him of his defenses even further.

He stares at her, unabashedly. His eyes trail from her pink button up, sleekly tucked into that godforsaken skirt. He studies her as if it’s the first time he’s seen her, memorizing the ways her curves ebb and flow around the fabric.

His heart picks up when she looks back, but he doesn’t look away. Their eye contact is tense, as always. There’s a fire in her eyes that’s always there when they’re in the middle of a case. Her passion burns through, heating him all over.

“I think our unsub is too organized for him to be abandoned,” he replies, “typically when we see people traumatized by abandonment are reckless, but he’s taken the time to clean up after himself, even starting the dishwasher and laundry machine in his victims’ homes.”

“You still think he’s organized?” she asks right back, not missing a beat.

“He loaded the dishwasher and the laundry machine, that’s not organized to you?” His skin crawls as he answers, the usual thrill of her challenge thrumming through him.

“But if you look at these pictures…” she trails, grabbing crime scene photos of the laundry and open dishwasher from her file, “this is not the doing of an organized person. The plates are mixed with cups, there’s bowls where the silverware would be. It’s very evident he just shoved everything in there. Same thing with the laundry, we have socks with jeans. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe it’s a mix of both,” Emily suggests, “a sort of compensating? He was abandoned by his mother so now he’s completing what could be seen as motherly duties.”

“I could definitely see that,” the voice to his right mutters, and he watches as she chews the tip of her pen in concentration.

“We don’t normally see that in male serial killers…” he trails off, trying his best to appear nonchalant as he flips through the case file. The one he’s already memorized front to back.

“There’s a first time for everything,” she says, the slight uptick in her tone barely there, but he catches it. He always does, a telltale sign that he’s gotten under her skin. He seems to live there these days.

He takes her in again, the glint of irritation in her eyes. A hand on her hip, the other resting on a chair near Emily’s desk. Her stance is closed off, shutting him out. Even still, he sees the way her eyes drift toward his direction. Her gaze is facing the floor, but he can tell his shoes are in her line of sight, and a strange surge of pride rushes through his chest. He can’t repress the need for her to notice him, in any capacity.

You feel his eyes the second they hit you. It’s like a sixth sense, knowing exactly when he finds you. It’s become natural, almost instinctual, for his eyes to be on you. You’re no better, though, mirroring him as you watch each other.

He’s thin, sinking into his button up, a pair of slacks hanging low on his hips. You catch the way it pulls taut where it meets his belted waist, the slightest bit of skin peeking through at his hip.

Your heart races at the sight, even more so when your eyes snap back up to his, and you know he caught you. Your body heats all over, every bit of you on fire as his gaze pierces you. The heat spreads internally, acid bubbling in your stomach. It feels as if he sees right through you, looking into the deepest parts.

You shake your head, shedding the feeling of him like a snake. “What have you guys found?” You ask, doing your best to focus on the victimology.

“We think he’s finding these women from their social media accounts. He’s targeting women who post emotionally. The last few posts from each victim were about some hardship or another. Maybe there was a woman in his life who made her emotions his burden,” Emily suggests, and you cut your gaze to her, shaking Spencer out of your system.

Then, you hear it. It’s small. Under his breath. It infuriates you.

“Wonder what that’s like.”

Something inside you snaps, like a rubber band that’s been pulled too tight. It ricochets off your heart, piercing your stomach until you lose control over your response.

“I’m sorry, what is your problem?” It takes all the energy you have left to not absolutely screech. Your snappy tone still calls the attention of the people around you. You feel eyes on the two of you as you pierce him with a cruel gaze. You no longer have the capacity to care.

“My problem?” He retorts, knowing full well what she is talking about.

“You have been at odds with me this entire case. Actually, since I joined the bureau,” You scoff, your insides boiling over. All the frustration of bickering with Spencer for the past three years has finally come to a head. “If you don’t trust me if you don’t like what I have to say, then you need to be a man and do something about it,” the words drip off your tongue like acid.

“Like what?” He bites back, squaring his shoulders toward you, “take it to Hotch? You and I both know where that would get us. Why is it just on me? Because you’re never wrong, right? Our BAU princess is always correct-”

“Enough.”

Hotch’s stern tone cuts through the sarcasm falling from Spencer, and the two of you straighten up in record time.

“The rest of the team is going into the field to finish this case. You two are on paperwork duty until we get back. That’s an order,” he turns to collect the rest of the team, you and Spencer mirroring each other’s shock as you watch them go.

You deflate. The smack of your file hitting Emily’s desk is the only audible sound as you grab a box, hauling it to the conference room. Spencer follows suit, and the two of you begin to work in tense, angry silence.

You study him as he works, long, deft fingers moving in a rapid speed that nearly hypnotizes you. You catch his brown eyes, softer now, still focused as they flit through the endless pile of papers. You massage your heart, as if it’d ease the ever growing ache there.

“Do you remember this case?” Spencer asks softly, and you can’t recall a time he’s spoken to you in such a tone. It makes your heart flutter in a way that scares you, the giddiness warming your skin. You roll your shoulders, hoping it’d release the tension built up in your neck.

You lean a bit towards Spencer, glancing at the file that reads, ‘Plymouth Family.’ You can’t help the smile that spreads your lips, your cheeks bunching up around your eyes.

“Family of four, two girls, all kidnapped, all recovered safely,” you recite softly. You touch the pictures of the young girls, your eyes glassing over. “Four and six…” you whisper shakily, “they were just babies.”

You remember the way they clung to you when you found them in the shed they were kept in. They were dirty, smelly, and shaking. Their arms and legs were wrapped tight around you as you carried them to the medic. You sat with them the whole time the team looked for their parents. You were there when they woke up in the hospital.

“You were amazing on this case,” Spencer says. You feel the warm skin of his arm against yours, and you realize how close you’ve gotten. “You were empathetic, smart…” he trails off, eyes lifting to your face.

Your eyes dart up to meet his. “Thank you,” you mutter softly, your eyes scanning the length of his face.

“You’re welcome,” he replies in the same tone.

“Spencer,” you start, and he knows what you’re going to say before you go any further. His breath hitches, and you continue anyway.

“How did we get here?” You ask, shaking your head incredulously, “We’re two of the smartest minds on the team and we’re stuck here on paperwork duty.”

“I would argue it’s our inability to work together without high levels of conflict,” he responds, sarcasm lacing his tone.

“Yeah, well, you made that bed, now we both have to lie in it, I guess,” you mutter under your breath.

“I’m sorry, how is that so?” He asks.

“Are you serious?” You respond, your blood starting to race through your veins. His brows raise, prompting you to continue. “Do you not remember one of our first conversations after I joined the bureau?”

His brows furrow in confusion. You keep going.

“We were in St. Louis. We were working on the case with that Jack the Ripper copycat. I was so focused on analyzing the unsub’s background, digging into everything I could. You told me that if I value emotion over logic I’m going to get tunnel vision. That I wouldn’t last long if I let myself stray from the facts.” The words still sting, all these years later. You avoid looking at him, turning your back to him so he can’t look at you either.

“We’ve been like this for three years because I told you that you value emotion over logic? I thought that was a known fact,” he states plainly, as he always does when he thinks something is obvious.

“We’ve been like this for three years because you were someone I looked up to. When I was scouted for the unit by Gideon, a big reason why I agreed to join was because I’d get to work with you. The great Dr. Spencer Reid. I read about you, when I was at Harvard. I was amazed. A little jealous, too, but amazed all the same. When you said that, it-it was belittling. Like you didn’t believe in my ability to do the job. I spent everyday since trying to prove you wrong,” you rattle off in one long breath.

Spencer is still as a statue, watching you intently. His eyes are blown wide, his mouth slightly parted.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters lowly. “I’ve always used logic. It’s gotten me where I am. You came in here with a completely different approach, and it worked. Really well. It threw me off, it intimidated me…” he trails off, his cheeks tinting red as his chin drops to his chest.

“Intimidated? By me?” You saunter closer to him, a wicked grin on your face. You plop down on the chair across from him, knees barely knocking.

Spencer’s heart beats faster as she leans closer to him, her knees now slotted between his. The contact makes him dizzy.

The beep of his cell phone jolts him away from her. Spencer fumbles with his phone for a minute, before opening it with a shaky, “Yes, Penelope?”

You can hear her screech over the phone. “You and Miss BAU Princess need to turn on the news. Now.”

His cheeks heat at the nickname. He chokes on his own breath, exhaling sharply before grabbing the remote to the big screen in the conference room.

What he sees makes his stomach drop.

Multiple black SUVs, driving at top speed on the tail of a dirty, beat up grey sedan.

At first, in the pent up anticipation of the moment, he hardly registered her grabbing his hand. Once he did, the feeling of her branded his skin. A white hot sensation that spreads to the tips of his toes all the way to the top of his head. He wraps his fingers around hers and squeezes.

He takes a glance at her, and he wishes he hadn’t. His heart aches at the look of sheer panic on her face. Her furrowed brows, glassy eyes, and parted lips squeeze at his heart from all sides. He pulls her into him, allowing her to take refuge in his chest.

It’s not long after that he hears it, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. It’s the creak of the door. The click of a loaded gun. She must feel his rigidity, because she lifts her head up to look him in the eye.

“What?” She questions, lifting her head from his chest. She feels it too, he can tell. The lingering sense that something’s not right.

“Someone’s here,” he mutters, “stay here,” he moves to arm himself. It’s muscle memory at this point, his body moving of his own accord.

He feels the scoff she emanates deep within him. A small smile forces its way on his lips at the sound.

“Yeah right,” she replies. He feels her behind him, her own gun peeking through his peripheral.

He’s flooded with adrenaline, his blood thrumming in his veins. He moves slowly, tactical steps as he opens the conference room door. He’s met with a sharp pain cracking down on his head, rendering him unconscious.

Your hands are bound behind your back, legs tied together. Your wrists and ankles chafe raw at your resistance. You bite down on the tape plastered over your mouth, desperate to claw your way out. Your heart races, adrenaline pumping through your veins as you try and maneuver through the conference room without being seen.

After Spencer was knocked unconscious, he was dragged out of the conference room. You’re not sure where he is, and the thought renders you dizzy. You attempt to peek out of the window, the bullpen now completely cleared, save for the agents that were caught in the crossfire.

You flinch at the sound of loud, hard footsteps nearing the door. Scrambling back into place, you avoid eye contact as the strange man drags an unconscious Spencer toward you. He props him up next to you, his chin hitting his chest.

Your eyes glass over as you take in the bruise coloring his right eye a deep blue. The split on his pouting, bloody lip is crusting over.

A pair of cold fingers dip under your chin, forcing your head up to look this man in the eye. His hard stare burns into you, but before he can do anything, his phone begins ringing.

“Saved by the bell…” a gruff voice spits out, letting go of your face with a shove.

Your eyes squeeze shut, bracing for contact on the wall behind you. The blow stings for a moment, but you’re able to shake it off when Spencer starts to stir next to you. Your breath hitches as he grumbles, his eyes barely opening.

“Spencer,” you whisper, “what is going on?”

“It looks like a team,” he considers, maneuvering his body to sit up further.

"Where were you?" you hissed back, worry lacing every feature of your face.

"Hotch's office," he grumbles, "I kept...I kept drifting in and out of consciousness. But I spoke to him. He's fixated on the two of us, but he wanted a lot of information about you."

He adjusts, cracking his neck from where it rests against the wall. "Hotch is going to have to hire carpet cleaners when they get back," sarcasm laces his tone, and you can't help but roll your eyes.

"You just got beat within an inch of your life, and you're making jokes?" you scoff affectionately.

"How could you tell?" his voice shifts then, seriousness lacing his tone suddenly.

"How could I tell that you got hit?" you repeat, eyes scanning over his face and body. "You're bruised in multiple spots, a bloody lip, a black eye forming..."

"You're always looking at me. You think I've never noticed?" he mutters, and it steals the breath from your lungs.

"You're always looking at me!" you hiss, no choice but to deflect.

"I know."

It's the last thing that's said before the door opens again. You sit straight up, your back pressed against the wall as the man shuffles in. You immediately clock the gun in his hand, pointed directly at Spencer.

He stalks over to you, gun still pointed in Spencer's direction. His dry, cracked finger hooks under your chin, pulling your head up to face his.

"Do you want to know what he told me in there?" his head jerks back, gesturing towards Hotch's office. He stands up, moving towards Spencer again. "Wanna know what your pathetic, disgusting, deplorable coworker told me when you weren't here?" Each insult is matched with swift kicks to Spencer's stomach and chest. He groans, rolling on his back now as he tries not to succumb to the pain.

Your eyes don't leave him. You're not sure you could pull your gaze away if you tried. You don't have much of a choice, though, as the man yanks your head back to look at him.

"He told me..." the gun comes up under your chin now, holding your head in place once again, "that he has a little crush on you. Isn't that just pitiful?" he laughs sarcastically, shaking his head.

You study the man, recalling all the knowledge you gained about him over the course of this case. He's insecure, probably impotent. He hunts women because he could never get them any other way.

"Guys like us..." he yanks Spencer to sit up by his collar, "we don't get girls like that." He's nearly spitting in Spencer's face, and you know he's slowly dying inside.

"Spencer..." you breathe out, "is it true?" You do your best to appear completely turned off, though you know you never could be. Your brows furrow in disgust as your lips curl downward.

"See, look at her," he's got Spencer's hair in an iron grip, forcing you two to look at each other. "She's disgusted, she doesn't want you. How could you be so stupid?"

"I just got caught up in it," the words spill out of Spencer's mouth, "we spend so much time together, and you're so pretty, so witty, so smart. I just couldn't help but fall in love with you."

Those words knock the air right out of your chest. A crush is one thing, but in love? You shiver, his words unzipping down your spine.

"You see that?" he growls, yanking Spencer's hair even harder, "she doesn't want you."

"He's right," Spencer flinches at your words, and you continue despite the hurt in your heart, "I don't want you, Spencer. Because I want you."

You turn your gaze to the unsub, staring him straight in the eye.

"I just can't resist you. The way you've dominated us..." you breathe out a huffy laugh, "it's undoubtedly one of the most attractive things I have ever seen. Way more attractive than anything he has ever done," you nod towards Spencer as seduction laces each word, though it tastes like poison on your tongue.

You see Spencer in your peripheral. You can barely make out the look in his eye, but you swear you see the faintest tint of insecurity lacing his gaze. The fear that maybe you mean it. Your heart clutches at the thought, and you note to do something about that later.

He lets Spencer go, his attention is now fully on you. He saunters closer, a hand reaching for your tied up ankle. His hands feel like sandpaper on your skin, gritty and unwanted.

"You really think so?" he whispers, his grip now shifting to your bicep. "Then prove it. Come with me."

He yanks you up, helping you move with your tied up limbs. You glance at Spencer briefly before you're led out of the conference room into the bullpen.

It's not long before a gunshot rings out, and you prepare for the blow. You fall to the floor, though, suddenly unsupported by the man propping you up. You turn from your spot on the ground to find Spencer wielding his gun from the conference room, miraculously unbound.

"I had him!" you scoff, rolling your eyes as Spencer undoes your hands and ankles.

"He told me what he wanted you for when he had me in Hotch's office. Believe me, I did you a favor," his brows furrow in what looks like frustration, possessiveness, as he continues to free you from your bounds.

A shiver runs through you again, shaking the disgust at the thought. You let it pass, though, he's dead. He can't hurt you anymore. Once you're free, you fall back into his chest, letting him hold you from behind. Tears slip through your closed eyes as all of the emotions of the past two hours course through every part of your body.

Spencer tightens his hold around you, soothingly rubbing his large palms up and down. Your hand reaches up to the back of his scalp, gently massaging the spot where the man had pulled.

"Are you okay?" you whisper, your faces inches from each other.

"Better now," he replies.

"Me too," you smile.

Before you can manage anything else, Spencer's mouth is on yours. It's a small kiss at first, tentative, unsure. It deepens when you turn to face him, Spencer now resting on his knees. He opens his mouth further as the kiss envelops you both. He's desperate, as if he's trying to swallow you whole. The kiss is all consuming, the corners of your brain turning fuzzy as you let yourself fall further into his arms.

"Anyone wanna tell me why you two are making out next to our dead unsub?" you and Spencer break apart at the intruding voice, like two teenagers caught in bed.

It's just Derek, thankfully. A playful, supportive brow is cocked in Spencer's direction as the poor guy next to you flushes a shade of red you didn't think existed.

"I'm not against it," he says, moving to help you off the floor, "just maybe find a better setting next time."

Your face is on fire, probably just as bad as Spencer's. You see him move out of the corner of your eye, and you grab his hand. You run your thumb over the chafing on his wrist, your heart clutching when he hisses at the sensation.

"Hey, Spence?" you mumble, exhaling a shaky breath as your eyes lock on his red wrist.

"Yeah?" he mutters back, matching your intensity.

"How did you get out of those knots? I tried the whole time he had you, they wouldn't budge." You look up at him now, his big eyes tightening at the edges as a small smile spreads across his lips.

"It was a classic prusik knot. I just had to reverse it and I was out," he states like it's the simplest thing in the world.

"Right. Of course you did," you smile, no teasing in your words, just true affection. Maybe a little bit of shock as well. His mind always has amazed you, even when you were too proud to say it.

You give his hand a squeeze before separating to be checked out by the medics. The rest of your team engulfs the two of you with worried looks and comforting words. As always, you find Spencer in the chaos. As always, he's already looking at you by the time your eyes find him.

Spencer sits on the edge of his couch, a bag of frozen peas resting on his black eye. It never gets easier, the fear and adrenaline of being taken by a psychopath. No matter how hard he tries, he still has to fight that feeling at the end of each day. The feeling that, no matter how hard he tries, how good of a profiler he is, it'll never take away the visceral fear of having your life in someone else's hands.

A knock on his door snaps him out of his spiral, and he silently thanks whoever is here at 8:47 p.m. on a Tuesday. He swings open the door to find the last person he expected to see. Her. She's here, to see him, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. Her hair is up, not an ounce of makeup on her face. She's perfect.

"I couldn't sleep," she whispers, and he's now registering the sleep mask that must've never left her forehead the whole way here. As his eyes trail down the rest of her frame, he takes into account the stuffed animal nestled in her right elbow, the fuzzy slippers on her feet.

"Me either," he responds, unable to help the smallest uptick of his lips at the sight of her. She looks so soft, and he has to fight the urge to reach out and grab her. He would never let go.

"Can I come in?" she asks, her eyes wide, and he's not religious, but God. How is he supposed to say no?

He nods simply, moving his body out of the way so she can enter his apartment. She looks around, taking in the intricate rug, the bookshelves lined from floor to ceiling. A bolt of self consciousness strikes him. The fear of her not liking what she sees runs through him for the briefest moment. The fear is gone, though, when she turns to him with a huge smile on her face.

"It's just as I assumed it would be."

He smiles at that, his tummy turning over her imagining what his apartment looks like, over her thinking about him that much in general.

"Are you oka-" He begins his question, but she barrels right through him.

"Did you mean what you said earlier?" It bursts out of her, as though she couldn't control it. He knows exactly what she means, and she knows he knows. He plays dumb anyway.

"Which part?" he croaks. She rolls her eyes, though there's no malice in it.

"When you said you were in love with me. Did you mean it?" Her honesty burns right through him, exposing all of him to her without even trying.

"Yes," he whispers, "I just thought you never liked me. I thought it'd be easier to pretend I didn't like you too."

She smiles, a bit self-deprecating, a lot of adoration. "We need to get better at talking to each other," she remarks. She saunters closer to him, wrapping her arms around his waist.

Her touch makes him feel like he's on fire, his blood thrumming through his veins right to his heart. It feels like it's burning to a crisp, yet he never wants her to let go.

"I love you, too, Spencer. I think I have since before I even knew you. I was so hurt when you made that comment all those months ago. I was more naive then, took things too personally. I thought that maybe if I just repressed the feelings, they would go away," she says, and his heart grows three sizes at the confession. "Of course I didn't mean what I said, either, I hope you know that."

He nods, feeling even more on display. How could she tell he took that to heart?

"Why do you think I always look at you?" she continues, "I couldn't ever take my eyes off you, even if I was paid to. You're too beautiful."

He blushes something fierce at that. Beautiful is a new one. He's been called a lot of things, nerdy, annoying, genius. But never beautiful. It burns him hotter, a white flash of light spreading through his entire body.

"You're beautiful," he replies, his arms finally coming up to pull her closer, his forehead resting against hers.

"You really think so?" she teases, a cheeky smile spreading her lips.

He nods, "Prettiest woman I've ever seen," it's a whisper, and it's true. No one has ever taken the wind from his sails the way she does.

"Can you kiss me again?" she breathes against his lips, desperation punching through each word.

He grabs her then, his hands coming up to cradle the back of her head as they desperately chase each other's lips. She plants short, staccato kisses all over him. She starts with his lips, kissing him once, twice, three times. She moves to his face, then, trailing her lips and tongue along his jaw, biting lightly behind his ear.

He feels her smile at the noise he emits, a whiny breath of air that would leave him embarrassed with anyone else. With her, though, with the way she's worshiping him, it doesn't even cross his mind.

He pulls her head back as she reaches his cheeks, feeling sorry for making her do all the work. He smashes his lips back into hers, lifting her legs so he can move her to his bed.

She cuddles into the soft mattress the second she's there, her eyes piercing his. He watches the way her gaze rakes down his body, a boost of confidence pumping him up. He takes his shirt off, a swift movement that surprises the both of you.

"Is this okay?" he whispers as he crawls on top of her, settling his long legs between her spread ones.

She nods sweetly, "Of course."

His heart stutters at that. Of course. Those words have the power to knock him off his feet. Her hands drift up to his hips, lightly squeezing the tiny bit of excess body fat there. He kisses her cheek. She rakes her hands up and down his back, nails scratching ever so slightly. He shivers.

It's not long until they're completely tangled in each other, breathy moans escaping her lips as he moves in and out of her. He wants to drink up every noise she makes, every low groan and high pitched whine that escapes her the most enticing elixir.

When they're finished, he's in a state of content and peace that he had never previously imagined possible. Peace and tranquility floats through the room as they take turns glancing at each other. Every time their eyes lock, they burst out giggling like children.

She's glued to him, whining high and long whenever he tries to move. She'd nearly strangled him with her grip when he went to get her a towel. She only relented when he- very thoughtfully, he might add- educated her on the risks of UTIs after sex.

They're laying in a light, airy silence now. One that drowns out the horrors of the day. He recounts the events of the past year, everything from meeting her to where they are now. His mind plays it over like a VCR tape stuck on rewind. He's desperate to find any evidence of her feelings before today, his mind whirring nonstop.

When she shifts in his arms, though, her heavy breathing indicating a deep sleep, it suddenly doesn't matter. He's here now, with the prettiest woman he's ever seen. He's so grateful he never took his eyes off of her.

[postcardsfromheapside]

This game has been out since Halloween.

In that time, there have been numerous Veilguard positive posts in which patient, loving, wonderful, insightful and intelligent individuals attempt to impart lore onto a fanbase which doesn't deserve their time and attention.

I can't believe I'm running across posts made within the past five days which express disgust and frustration towards the devs over things which have been explained in great detail multiple times on this site, BUT IN THE DAMN GAME.

AND Y'ALL KEEP COMPLAINING THE GAME TELLS BUT DOESN'T SHOW. AND YOU DON'T EVEN LISTEN OR WATCH.

"the crows are presented as wholesome" - they are not. this site has a crow fanbase which has run off and lionized Viago as Daddy, conveniently ignored all the in-game details which either hint or baldly state things Definitely Aren't Cool, and generally fetishized what it means to be a Crow because of Zevran and Lucanis. Then the same people, or others who weren't paying proper attention, whined when the headcanon crowded out the actual in-game material, and they said "Antiva is whitewashed." There have been multiple posts about this.

"slaves are meant to be everywhere in Tevinter and we don't see that" - we aren't everywhere, we're specifically in Docktown which is poor and people generally can't afford slaves there, but we do see evidence of slavery, and we run around with abolitionists and help save people from fascist slavers and free people who will either be slaves or victims of blood magic so IDK what to tell you, there have been multiple posts explaining this too, maybe leave your slave or savior fetish somewhere else.

"Racism is supposed to be rampant" - fuck off. I actually will not be explaining this because for once it was nice not to be called a slur. If you need this to feel "immersed" or to feel there are actual problems, I need you to check yourself fucking hard. If you want to masquerade what it feels like to experience bigotry, go play one of the prior games. This has also been discussed in multiple posts.

"Handling pure lyrium is fine now" no handling the dagger is fine Solas cleansed it, the dagger woke something up in Harding specifically she talks about how some dwarves are connected to the stone, she previously had not been one of them and maybe the dagger woke something up in her, or did you need a pop up explaining this? Were you paying attention during cut scenes and dialogue?

"Adult Dalish without vallaslin" - in the 10 years since Inquisition/Trespasser, doubtless some dalish have come to adulthood and found out what assholes their gods were and made the decision not to go through that specific cultural rites. Or maybe city elves joined the Dalish. Who knows who made up the elf population at that ritual site. Elves are not a monolith. We've made multiple, multiple posts about elves not being monoliths.

"Solas' opinion on blood magic went from neutral to negative" SOLAS FUCKING LIES. We've made multiple posts about Solas lying, if you need this explained further I suggest you play the game all over again, he lies to you throughout the entire game.

"Re-write of the after credits scene in Inquisition to recontextualise the Flemeth and Solas interaction" it's recontextualized because now we know who and what they were to each other. Learning new information does that. This is literally what happens all the time in science and history. You recontextualize what you thought you knew with new information. You're supposed to change your position, not whine about how the new information makes everything different.

These are just some of the things I pulled from a list on a post in which someone was really just upset about everything. Everything. Varric, Morrigan, Solas, everything. But I can't take their criticisms seriously, because they're upset that "too much was told" and "not enough shown" and yet didn't even pay attention to DA lore or in-game dialogue or context clues around the world of Northern Thedas to answer their own questions.

Everything in this game makes complete sense if you use lore from prior games and a single iota of imagination to see how it fits. We've had many delightful posts discussing this, seeing how things could be explained, when approaching the game from a place of curiosity rather than being upset because personal headcanons weren't satisfied or long-held expectations weren't met.

[theesteppenwolf]

More Lucanis rambles because I’m still thinking about it and got nothing better to do :P

I am not here to tell anyone how to feel but putting words into peoples mouths who criticize the Lucanis romance (or Lucanis in general) for being unsatisfactory by saying;

“You don’t know what a slow burn is/ it’s because you expected zevran / you don’t get it he’s traumatized/ you just wanted something spicy and didn’t get it so now you’re mad” etc.

Is completely disregarding the fact that his lack of reactions and lack of content actually led people to believe he is bugged. Most DA fans didn’t expect spice or steam or whatever but they did expect an effective story, one they didn’t get.

This is at the end of the day a visual storytelling medium and implication will only get you so far, if i have to start thinking up entire plotlines in my head to make sense of the story or relationship progression then they failed at good storytelling. If i have to write paragraphs of explanations that the game doesn’t even remotely touch on then that isn’t a slow burn, it’s just a lack of content and poor pacing.

If he is traumatized and reluctant because of it you have to give me a scene where i can actually read that. If he is awkward and doesn’t know how to react to flirting you have to exaggerate to an extent for people to tell. If there is longing and angst give me banter that reflects it.

A romance in a game should give me some kind of deeper personal insight into a character and if i have to do the writers job and in my head think up those insights then the actual romance is mostly moot. I’m not saying give me all the details i’m saying at the very least give me a jumping point, some info buried in the game i won’t get otherwise. His romance fails at this.

Mary Kirby was fired yes and it’s awful what happened but unfortunately the product still remains and it leaves a lot to be desired for a big amount of people. When players are straight up going back on saves to romance someone else it’s a real problem. For me, it soured my first playthrough, especially later when i saw how Davrin and Emmrich had content, convos, specific romance outings and at the bare minimum actually had a noticeable reaction to flirting dialogue.

Again I’m not telling anyone how to feel, if it works for you that’s awesome, but to disregard his obvious lack of content by calling other fans basically stupid is incredibly disingenuous.

I love his character, loved it since The Wigmakers Job and he is still my favorite after my first playthrough. I think the beginning of his romance was very promising and the end is great but everything else is missing I’m sorry. His romance was not well executed and i honestly don’t think his character really was either. (But i won’t vent about that right now)

I know what a slow burn is, i was not expecting Zevran, i did not want a steamy romance. I wanted a well executed story and i didn’t get one. I am critical because i think it could’ve been great, i still love the game and i am not shitting on it, his character or other fans i just hate wasted potential.

[tenleaguesbeneath]

If you need investigation and perception skills so you can play a character who can search a room thoroughly in a way that you as a player can't, why not have more? why not a Questioning skill so that you can play a detective who can always find out what people are hiding with a minutes of talking to them (five minutes with a target + a successful Questioning check makes them either reveal everything they know about a topic of your choice or have the GM tell you they're hiding something about it). Video games do this by exposing the entire dialogue tree to the player, but TTRPGs usually don't.

But we can go further. Why not an Inference skill so your character can put clues together even if you can't (a successful Inference check requires the GM to tell you a relevant conclusion that can be drawn, or at least part of one, from information that you already have?

With that, you could adapt the 4e skill challenge system to cover mystery gameplay, or elaborate on it to make a mystery cover a complete adventuring day.

That way, a clever, focused, logical character won't be punished by being denied the ability to solve a mystery just because their player spent the entire session playing tower defense on their phone, and GMs can plan a scene where the PCs put together all the clues they need to get to the climactic set-piece CR-appropriate boss fight without having to worry about what happens if they don't find all the clues or put them together wrong because they have Inference checks to back them up. In fact, one could even head this off entirely by simply rewarding them with clue tokens for completing the right encounters (and making the necessary Investigation and Questioning checks) and having their characters put the clues together with an Inference check at the end without bothering overmuch with the details of what the clues are (so that players don't have to deal with lore dumps the DM put into the world and can just interact with the numbers on their character sheet if they so choose).

[visualtaehyun]

TNP EP.1 language annotations & novel extras ✨

We made it y'all 🥹 It's finally here and I couldn't be happier!! Without further ado, let's get right into it~

Disclaimer: not a native Thai speaker, still learning 🙏

I mentioned this already in my post about the trailer but there's some interesting linguistic switching getting kinda lost in translation in the introductory conversation between Charan and the King. Charan starts out all proper, using royal language:

Charan: กระหม่อมเชื่อว่าฝ่าบาททรงมีเหตุผลส่วนพระองค์พ่ะย่ะค่ะ /gra-maawm cheuua waa faa-baat song mee haeht-phohn suaan phra-ohng, pha-ya-kha/ = I am certain that Your Majesty has Your Majesty's own justifications.

These will keep coming up so I'm just gonna explain all of them in one go here for y'all to refer back to:

-> กระหม่อม /gra-maawm/ = male 1st pers. pronoun used when addressing royalty -> ฝ่าบาท /faa-baat/= 2nd pers. pronoun used for royalty -> ทรง /song/ = prefix that turns common verbs into royal ones (here before มี /mee/ = to have), used in other royal context as well -> ส่วนพระองค์ /suaan phra-ohng/ = royal version of ส่วนตัว /suaan dtuaa/ = personal, private -> พ่ะย่ะค่ะ /pha-ya-kha/ = male (ending) particle used with royalty of certain ranks

The King then reprimands and reminds him not to use royal language (คำราชาศัพท์ /kham raa-chaa-sap/) with him:

Thipokbowon: ปู่พูดไปหลายครั้งนะ เวลาอยู่ด้วยกันสองคนนี่ไม่ต้องพูดราชาศัพท์ ยังไงเจ้าก็เป็นหลานที่ปู่เลี้ยงดูมาแต่เด็ก /bpuu phuut bpai laai khrang na. weh-laa yoo duay gan saawng khohn nee mai dtaawng phuut raa-chaa-sap. yang ngai jao gor bpen laan thee bpuu liiang duu maa dtaae dek/ = I've mentioned this many times. When it's just the two of us, there's no need to use royal language. You're still the grandson that I've looked after since you were a boy.

He refers to himself as ปู่ /bpuu/ (= grandpa) with Charan and throughout the entire conversation refers to Charan either just by his name or เจ้า /jao/ (= polite affectionate 2nd pers. pronoun used by sb. who's senior/older for sb. who's junior/younger) - and in some instances หลาน /laan/ (= grandchild, nibling, or a nibling's child).

Once reminded, Charan stops speaking in royal register yet still remains formal and polite:

Charan: ตอนนี้คุณปู่เป็นยังไงบ้างครับ /dtaawn nee khun bpuu bpen yang ngai baang, khrap/ = How are you doing currently, grandfather?

It's only when the King has given him his mission, while calling him หลาน /laan/, that Charan also uses the very familiar pronouns set by the King, referring to himself as หลาน /laan/, and ditches the formal คุณ /khun/ and ครับ /khrap/:

Charan: ถ้าปู่ไว้ใจหลาน หลานจะไปนำมาให้ /thaa bpuu wai jai laan, laan ja bpai nam maa hai/ = If you trust me, grandpa, then I'll bring it to you.

He is of course back to royal language right away though lol:

We're still not done with this scene though 🤡 Charan and the King use certain codes with each other that are explained in the novels since this chapter is a Charan POV one. The codes I mean are:

"The cicadas are shedding their skin. Summer must be coming soon."

the chamomile and oolong tea

If you don't care for novel details, you may of course scroll on to the next section but here is further explanation from Ch.3:

Thipokbowon: "I wish the cicada would have a little longer time... I wish summer would come later, but that's not going to happen." -> "Charan had long ago read about the life cycle of cicadas from a children's book the king had given him. The king had said, 'The life cycle of cicadas is one of the world's wonders. The nymphs live underground for two to seventeen years until they are strong enough to emerge, molt, and continue their species above ground.' So, it means... the time has come."

"Chamomile tea meant the king wanted to relax and have a casual conversation. If he chose this tea, it meant he just wanted to see Charan and talk a bit, maybe ask about his well-being. But if he chose oolong tea, it meant he had a secret task for Charan, and the order would vary based on the king's needs."

Nin is a business student and I was so delighted to see they actually went with Bayes Business School as the authors had outlined in these character profiles over two years ago!!

In the novels, Nin is making his way from home to the uni's Fencing Club and gets on at Earl's Court station. The tube station Nin makes his way to in this EP. though looks to be set at London Bridge station, judging from the signage:

All the way from when Charan and Nin first talk to each other here, up until a certain point in the EP., they both use ผม/คุณ /pom, khun/ (= polite formal male 1st pers. pronoun and polite formal 2nd pers. pronoun) with each other, no polite particles in sight though!

Nin: นี่คุณมาตามจีบผมหรอ /nee khun maa dtaam jeep pom raaw/

-> จีบ /jeep/ isn't as harmless and noncommittal as 'flirting', it's actively pursuing, wooing, courting, there is intent. In the novels, it's Nin's friends who suggest this guy might be stalking him because he fancies Nin so it's all the more funny having Nin say it himself! Really says something about his confidence lol

The dish Thatdanai is preparing is likely either regular Khao Soi, which is Emmaly's national dish in the novels, or the version they created for the series that Nunew spoiled the other day during their LINE MAN live :D

Thatdanai and Nin refer to themselves and each other as พ่อ /por/ (= dad) and Nin นิน, his dad also calls him ลูก /luuk/ (= child, son) sometimes. Keep all of this in mind as it changes later :(

-> from Ch.1: "Khanin thought his father seemed more like a soldier than a writer, with his stern demeanor, strictness, and firm voice that he often used during fencing practice. It felt like being trained by a medieval knight commander." + "In reality, Tatdanai's main job was as a ghostwriter for celebrities, mostly writing autobiographies of athletes."

Thatdanai, interrupting Ran: ผมจัดการเอง /pom jat-gaan eng/ = I'll handle it myself. Nin: แล้วเมื่อกี้พ่อบอกพ่อจะจัดการ พ่อจะจัดการอะไรอะ /laaeo meuaa gee, por baawk por ja jat-gaan. por ja jat-gaan a-rai a/ = And you just said you would handle it. What're you going to handle?

-> จัดการ /jat-gaan/ = deal with, handle, manage, take care of

This is way bigger than what they called a party in the novel xD

It's giving American teen movie house party rather than the comparatively small get-together in Ch.6 lol – in the novels, they're just sitting in a circle together drinking and playing party games on Samantha's roof. Nin knows Samantha's friends from playing music with them (he was on keyboard) and occasionally uploading covers on tiktok, they're music geeks and film students. Charan, by the way, is the only one not drinking alcohol in the novels.

It's interesting they made Khanin aware of the Emmalian belief about kissing so early on cause he finds out much later in the novels which puts things into perspective for him. I do love though how they conveyed that info to both him and the audience (I previously addressed my doubt about how to nicely incorporate this into the show in an ask (spoilers ahead!)).

Thatdanai: ผมไม่รู้จะบอกเขายังไงดี ก็ตลอดเวลาที่ผ่านมาผมรู้สึกผูกพันกับเขาเหมือนเขาเป็นลูกแท้ ๆ ของผม /pom mai ruu ja baawk khao yang ngai dee. gor dta-laawt weh-la thee phaan maa, pom ruu-seuk phuuk phan gap khao meuuan khao bpen luuk thae thae khaawng pom/ = I don't know how to tell him. Throughout all this time, I've become attached to him as if he was my real son.

Then once Nin enters, Charan starts speaking to him using royal language:

Ran: ท่านชายคณินทร์ พระองค์มีสายเลือดของกษัตริย์ และฝ่าบาทต้องเสด็จกลับเอมมาลี /than-chaai Khanin, phra-ohng mee saai leuuat khaawng ga-sat. lae faa-baat dtawng sa-deht glap Emmaly/ = Prince Khanin is of royal blood. And Your Royal Highness must return to Emmaly.

-> ท่านชาย /than-chaai/ = Nin's title, his rank is lower than his biological father's for example: Prince Tharin เจ้าชายธาริน /jao-chaai Tharin/ -> พระองค์ /phra-ohng/ = previously mentioned, can be the royal equivalent to ตัว 'body, self' as well as a 3rd pers. pronoun used for certain ranks of royalty -> เสด็จ /sa-deht/ = another royal verb used for any movement by a royal; used in other royal context as well

And then everything's falling apart...

Thatdanai, after bowing to his own son: ท่านคือท่านชายคณินทร์ /than keuu than-chaai Khanin/ = You are Prince Khanin, Sir. -> ท่าน /than/ = respectful formal 2nd pers. pronoun

กระหม่อม... ไม่ใช่พ่อที่แท้จริงของท่าน /gra-maawm... mai chai por thee thae jing khaawng than/ = I... am not your real father, Sir.

[...] ที่ฝ่าบาทจะต้องกลับเอมมาลี /thee faa-baat ja dtawng glap Emmaly/ = that Your Royal Highness must return to Emmaly.

I cried buckets over Nin and Thatdanai, y'all. Both while reading the books as well as while watching this singular EP 🥹

Charan is also in royal language mode:

Ran: หน้าที่ของกระหม่อมคือดูแลและปกป้องฝ่าบาท /naa-thee khaawng gra-maawm kheuu duu-lae lae bpok-bpaawng faa-baat/ = My duty is to take care of and protect Your Royal Highness.

When Nin sits down with his dad to have him explain everything, Thatdanai calls Nin ฝ่าบาท /faa-baat/ and himself กระหม่อม /gra-maawm/ again and uses royal register. And since I've reached the picture limit and that's a new one for me 🤡 no more screenshots from here on out but I'm almost done, thankfully

เสด็จปู่ของท่านชายเป็นเจ้ามหาชีวิตของประเทศเอมมาลี /sa-deht bpuu khaawng than-chaai bpen jao ma-haa cheewit khaawng bpra-theht Emmaly/ = Your Royal Highness's grandfather is the King of Emmaly. -> เสด็จ /sa-deht/ = here used as a prefix for a member of the royal family, kind of like- venerable grandfather -> เจ้ามหาชีวิต /jao ma-haa cheewit/ = the king's title

ขบวนเสด็จของเจ้าหญิงคุณิตา พระมารดาของฝ่าบาท ถูกมุ่งร้าย /kha-buan sa-deht khaawng jao-ying Khunita, phra-maan-daa khaawng faa-baat, thuuk moong raai/ = The royal procession of Princess Khunita, Your Royal Highness's mother, got targeted. -> พระมารดา /phra-maan-daa/ = มารดา /maan-daa/ is already the formal expression for 'mother', พระ /phra/ is a prefix added for royalty

เจ้าชายธารินสูญเสียพระชายาและพระโอรสไป /jao-chaai Tharin suun siia phra-chaa-yaa lae phra-oh-roht bpai/ = Prince Tharin lost his royal consort and his son. -> พระชายา /phra-cha-yaa/ -> พระ /phra/ see above + ชายา /chaa-yaa/ = consort, wife -> โอรส /oh-roht/ = royal expression for 'son'

When Thatdanai later comes to check on Nin and leaves him the caramel candy, he's back to พ่อ /por/ (= dad) and Nin นิน 🫠

NEXT WEEK: Ran and Nin on the move, meeting Vetith (Vatis? Wetid? ...เวทิศ!) in Thailand, Tharin finds out his son is alive, more tears and more bickering!

⇒ emblems, territories and royal houses of Emmaly ⇒ royal family of Emmaly + other character bios ⇒ relationship chart ⇒ characters and cast of TNP ⇒ all my TNP posts