#its called an INTERPRETATION for a reason
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Hear me out: this is a mostly plausible alternate history alphabet.
The places where this one is wrong are all the most RECENT changes to the English alphabet.* So clearly we’re looking at an alternate history with a point of divergence sometime around the late medieval / early modern period. It's got to be a post-printing-press era because the handful of letters that occurred in English but not Latin during the medieval period are all absent, and the development of the printing press was the final push that made English drop them.**
First, ⟨j⟩ wasn’t invented in this timeline. Note that ⟨j⟩ is a very recent letter; there’s no attestation of it being used to represent a distinct sound before the 16th century, and that idea didn’t make it into English until the 17th century. Before then, ⟨i⟩ was doing extra duty. ⟨j⟩ actually developed from a variant of ⟨i⟩ — if you’re familiar with the “long s”, it’s like if someone decided that we should split it off as its own letter, so e.g. ⟨s⟩ made the /s/ sound and ⟨ſ⟩ made the /ʃ/ sound.*** There was a conventional usage where sometimes you'd put a little hook on the ⟨i⟩ depending on its position in the word, just like the long s was position-dependent, and we turned the hooked ⟨i⟩ into ⟨j⟩.
Second, ⟨w⟩ developed differently. Now, ⟨w⟩ as its own letter is also recent, BUT there was already a substantial history of people using a literal double-u -- ⟨uu⟩ -- to represent that sound. However, the differentiation between ⟨u⟩ and ⟨v⟩ is also quite recent, following similar logic to the ⟨i⟩ and ⟨j⟩ thing from above, and developing around the same timeframe, which is why even though we call ⟨w⟩ a "double-u" in English, it looks more like a double-v (and in fact some languages call it that). At the time we named it, those were functionally the same thing; whether the name solidified as "double-u" or "double-v" was pretty much arbitrary. Anyway, you could interpret this alternate alphabet as having split ⟨w⟩ in two at the same time they split ⟨u⟩ and ⟨v⟩: perhaps the ⟨w⟩ with the blob in the middle could represent a "crossed" ⟨w⟩.**** If you want a speculative usage of the second ⟨w⟩ (which we could name "double-v"), I propose that one could represent /w/ and the other could represent /ʍ/.***** Of course, if I were designing an alphabet that split ⟨w⟩, I'd literally do a double-u and a double-v, so that the two characters were ⟨ɯ⟩ and ⟨w⟩.
The semicolon is a tough one, and the reason I described this as MOSTLY plausible. The only possible explanation I can advance is that its inclusion is inspired by the history of the ampersand, ⟨&⟩. For a time, ⟨&⟩ was included as a letter of the English alphabet, usually listed at the end. One could imagine the designer of this alternate alphabet as deciding that they also wanted to change things up by including a punctuation mark, and picking ⟨;⟩. But of course this is misguided, because in fact ⟨&⟩ isn't a punctuation mark; it's a ligature of ⟨et⟩, and I believe technically it qualifies as a logogram.
* I specify "English" because I am not up on the history of orthographical innovation in other languages that use the Latin alphabet. I’m sure there have been more recent changes in other languages’ implementation of the Latin alphabet, but these are the most recent changes that apply to English.
** When Europeans first started making movable type, it was designed to print Latin, so letters not in Latin weren’t available, meaning printed texts couldn’t have ⟨ð⟩, ⟨þ⟩, ⟨ƿ⟩, or ⟨ȝ⟩. Some Norse languages held onto ⟨ð⟩ and/or ⟨þ⟩ anyway and eventually people did make type for them, but English ditched them pretty quickly. To my knowledge no current writing system uses ⟨ƿ⟩ or ⟨ȝ⟩; ⟨ƿ⟩ didn't seem to fully catch on even in the medieval period, and I don't think ⟨ȝ⟩ was ever in use outside of the British Isles. English orthography was kind of already phasing out its extra letters even before printing arrived, so they never had a chance.
*** For people who don’t know IPA, /ʃ/ is the sound English currently represents with ⟨sh⟩. English apparently decided that “add an ⟨h⟩” was the basic solution to differentiating any two consonant sounds, as likewise it replaced ⟨ð⟩/⟨þ⟩ with ⟨th⟩ and ⟨ȝ⟩ with ⟨gh⟩.
**** Annoyingly, there's no Unicode symbol for "crossed W", but it's the style that they use in the Wikipedia logo if you want an example. The two ⟨V⟩s overlap in a kind of x shape instead of meeting at a point in the middle.
***** The phoneme /ʍ/ does occur in English, but it's a little hard for me to describe because it's fallen out of a lot of dialects, including my own. If you pronounce ⟨w⟩ and ⟨wh⟩ differently, your ⟨wh⟩ is probably /ʍ/.
One of the greatest Tweets and it hasn't even existed for 24 hours
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𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟𝐟 | 𝐬. 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: spencer takes care of you after a serious accident.
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐰: hospital, rehabilitation, neck and brain injury, nud1ty
𝐚/𝐧: this is one of the potential endings of my fanfiction "with the light off" which officialy remains open up to your own interpretation. this version written to comfort all the hearts i've broken <3
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 11k
Spencer felt embarrassed by how, just an hour after leaving the apartment, he already wanted to call her.
She had already occupied a near-constant presence in the back of his mind, slipping in like a shadow—elusive and playful—darting between his thoughts, flitting from one corner to another whenever he tried, even briefly, to forget about her. But now? After that night they had spent together?
Spencer knew a lot about obsession. He understood the weight of the word and was acutely aware of its gravity. Yet he couldn’t deny it—he was obsessed with her. Physical contact had always been a sensitive yet profoundly significant subject for him. He didn’t allow many people that close.
For him, touch was the ultimate proof of closeness and trust. Intimacy bred attachment. This wasn’t about desire in its rawest form—it was something else… though he wasn’t entirely sure what. He couldn’t define the bond they shared.
He felt bored, detached from the world when she wasn’t in it, and the only thing keeping him tethered to some semblance of normality was the thought—the imagining—that at this very moment, they were breathing the same air.
He was starting to think he might be losing his mind.
He held off on calling her precisely to avoid coming across as a lunatic in her eyes. He managed to restrain himself only once he was at work, where the seriousness of his profession demanded it. In a way, though, he felt lighter. Throughout the day, he was buoyed by the thought of their upcoming meeting, the excitement it brought—and the nerves. That mixture of emotions was enough to make the entire team glance at him with curiosity.
Garcia was handing out case files, her hair recently dyed a vibrant shade of red. Rossi, instead of opening his folder like everyone else, was watching Spencer from across the table, leaning on his elbow.
“Did you win the lottery or something?” he asked, so unexpectedly that Spencer glanced around at the others, unsure who the question was meant for.
When he realized the question was directed at him, he swallowed hard. Morgan’s raised eyebrow seemed to challenge him to a duel.
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“Because you’re practically glowing, sweetheart,” Penelope chimed in with a sly smile. “Don’t think you’re getting away without telling me everything later. I’ll get it out of you, don’t you worry. But for now, let’s get started…”
They immersed themselves in the case, but a few hours later, during a brief moment of downtime, he realized he was looking for an excuse to call her. Was a simple desire to ask what she was up to reason enough?
He wondered if she was still at his apartment. He hoped she was. He knew she’d eventually have to leave to prepare for the shift she was starting later that afternoon, but he couldn’t shake the unease gnawing at him about the whole situation with her roommate’s ex-boyfriend.
Realizing he’d been staring at his phone for far too long and that he’d soon need to get back to work, he made a snap decision and called.
But no one answered.
Logically, he reasoned that mornings were probably her time to sleep. Afterward, he tried sending a text message. But by late evening, when he finally returned to his apartment, he was starting to feel genuinely worried.
The question nagged at him: could it have been about the previous night? Maybe he’d done or said something wrong, something that had put her off completely?
Slowly, he walked into the bedroom, pausing in the doorway as his eyes landed on the perfectly made bed. It definitely hadn’t looked like that when he left it.
Then his gaze fell on the slightly ajar safe, and he froze. The combination was incredibly complicated, so he must have left it open when he took out his gun and badge. Besides those items, there was one more thing inside.
He had once again fallen into the trap of keeping Dilaudid close, even though he wasn’t using it. Was it possible she found it, and that’s why she hadn’t reached out?
It wasn’t that he had lied to her about being clean. She had seen how much effort it took for him to talk about it, so she approached the subject with incredible subtlety, never asking directly, but watching him closely, carefully, yet without pressing.
If she had really found it in his safe, she might have felt betrayed. Or maybe she decided she didn’t want to get involved with someone who had such a problem. Perhaps she had seen the whole previous night as one big mistake and then decided to throw him out of her life. Spencer, though it pained him, couldn’t help but feel that he deserved it.
He sat on the bed, crushed by his own thoughts. Something didn’t sit right with the version of events he had imagined. First and foremost, she wasn’t the type of person who would turn him away because of this. Her heart ached to help others; she couldn’t ignore someone else’s troubles. Even if he had hurt her, her immense capacity for understanding would have remained intact. Empathy was imprinted on her, like a deep, unshakable mark.
Driven by a hunch, he reached for his phone to call her again. That’s when he noticed two missed calls from an unknown number, just fifteen minutes ago.
He pressed the phone to his ear, his brow furrowing in confusion as he heard the first sound on the other end… a sob?
The sound went on and on, and Spencer was too confused to utter a single word.
“Who am I talking to?” he finally asked. Unable to stop himself, he stood up. He didn’t even know what was going on or who he was talking to, but he sprang to his feet anyway. His body compelled him, his insides twisting with unpleasant spasms.
It could just as well have been some stupid prank. The problem was, it wasn’t.
“H-hey, it’s J-Jude,” a voice came from the other end. Female, shaky, and choked with sobs so severe that if he didn’t already know her name, he would never have guessed he was speaking to her roommate. He stopped pacing the room. “I-it was me…I called earlier. S-she doesn’t have any…any family, and I didn’t know…I didn’t know who to inform…I can’t handle this on my own…they just took her away again…”
It wasn’t as if the world suddenly came to a halt. It simply became both sharper and blurrier at the same time. Spencer could see that single, bright strand of hair on the pillow with perfect clarity, yet his own legs seemed out of reach. When he looked down, all he saw was darkness stretching below him. Somehow, he was still breathing.
“What are you talking about?” he asked. Later, he couldn’t explain how his voice—those first words—had sounded so composed. “W-who took her… where… and why…?
“I have no fucking idea!” she shouted, followed by a long silence during which Jude took a desperate gasp of air. “I mean, I do, I do know! They just brought her in, but... but suddenly they took her back because there was some kind of…bleeding…”
“...ding?” he blurted out, the first syllable swallowed entirely by his panic.
“No, I don’t want anything to calm me down, I am calm, can’t you tell?” Her voice grew distant, as if she’d pulled the phone away from her mouth. Then it came back, clear and pleading. “Please, come here…”
She hung up. The phone slipped from his hand as if it burned him. In a frenzy, he bent down to grab it, only to drop it again. Finally, he fell to his knees, managing at last to pick it up. As he stood, he felt as though some substance was spreading through his brain—black, toxic, and utterly destructive. Its effects left him barely tethered to reality. He could hear and see, but everything was overlaid with Jude’s words, looping in his mind like printed text on a screen.
The next thirty minutes were a blur.
How could it be logically explained that, in a state of complete detachment from the outside world, he somehow managed to figure out, based on the map of the area imprinted in his memory, which specific hospital she was in? How did his panicked, trembling hands manage to cover that distance by car without causing an accident?
The only thing he knew was that he ended up at the nearest hospital, wearing just a shirt with no outer layer. It was shocking that he even had shoes on.
He should have been looking for the woman who had called him, demanding every bit of information she had. But somehow, instinctively, his eyes searched for someone else—a familiar face. He prayed it was all some sort of misunderstanding. Maybe he was fooling himself, hoping to spot her among the people passing by. A part of him simply refused to accept the possibility that anything could have happened to her.
Nothing had happened.
She was fine.
Her blue eyes were soaking in the surroundings, their gaze carrying that faint sparkle that always appeared at night. Maybe there was even a smile on her lips. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow himself to imagine what might have happened to her. It felt as though the universe itself should be ashamed for ever entertaining the thought of harming her.
"Are you family?" the man at reception asked. Spencer nodded. "I'm sorry, but I can't provide you with any information,"
"Just tell me, is she alive?"
"I can't…"
"Just fucking tell me…"
"They’re operating on her right now," a voice spoke from behind him. Spencer turned and blinked. Only then did he realize he was in a hospital. Before, he’d only had a goal—an urgent need to get there. The surroundings were just beginning to take shape in his mind. He had never seen this woman before, but he guessed it had to be Jude. Her face was swollen from crying, but she seemed less shaken than during their call. She had probably accepted the sedatives. "Again. First, they spent almost four hours working on her neck… they said she was stable, asleep, but then suddenly there was that bleeding… I watched them take her out of the room right in front of me…"
“Did you see her?”
Unexpectedly, she hid her face in her hands.
“I didn’t know who to call. She mentioned you a few times, and I had your number, and I didn’t know what to do…” she began explaining chaotically, as if it mattered at all. “It’s my fault, you know, all of this is my fucking fault…”
They were standing right in front of the receptionist, blocking his access to others who needed help. Spencer snapped back to the moment, pulling her a few steps aside.
“W-what did you say? That they operated on her for four hours?”
“Yes, the first time…”
So, she had been there for at least four hours. Longer, considering the time needed after surgery before visiting a patient. Pain spread across his chest. While he was wondering why she hadn’t answered his calls, coming to various conclusions, she had been fighting for her life?
He... had been at work, moving around, talking to others, living, while all of this was happening? He felt as if... as if he had betrayed her. It was absurd, even he knew that. Despite the state he was in—tragic, to be precise—he understood just how absurd that thought was. But he couldn’t stop the guilt and shame that washed over him every time he tried to imagine her on the operating table while he had been completely unaware of her condition.
“I need to sit down," Jude muttered, and after a moment, they found themselves on narrow chairs lined along the hospital walls. Spencer barely managed to force his knees to bend, his body to settle into the seat.
He was only beginning to adjust to the foreign gravity that was pressing down on him.
In his head, there was only one thought, one resolution, one desire. The only thing that could save him from losing his mind in this waiting room.
"I need to see her."
"We have to wait," Jude replied, pressing her hand to her forehead. More tears appeared in her eyes. She wasn’t just terrified, she was completely falling apart. "We... we once gave each other permission to access information about our health. You know, in case of an accident. The doctors told me everything. A neck sprain. A concussion. Two broken ribs and a broken forearm." Although her speech had been unclear earlier, when she listed the injuries, she sounded like a movie announcer.
Spencer quickly realized that these words must have been echoing in her head since they were first told to her. The same thing had been happening to him. Each word was like a blow delivered with full force, and his extensive medical knowledge wasn’t helping him avoid panic. He was too aware of the danger and too aware of the suffering her poor body must have endured.
They both squeezed their eyes shut tightly. Spencer felt as though his temples might explode. Waiting. Was there anything worse in the world than waiting? Being stuck in ignorance, teetering between uncertainty, relief, and utter despair? Feeling all of it at once?
"How did this even happen?" he asked the woman sitting next to him.
He was sure he already knew the answer to that question. She didn’t even need to say it. It was enough to see how she dropped her gaze, heavy with pain, and how tightly her jaw clenched.
“She... fell down the stairs.”
Spencer wanted to scoff at the understatement. The real version of events couldn’t pass Jude’s lips, but in some way, he considered that a blessing. If Jude had openly admitted that she had been pushed, he might have crumbled under the weight of the fury flooding him. But for now, his anger didn’t matter. Only the passing time did.
He felt as if he hadn’t taken a single breath since leaving his apartment. Leaning his head back in his seat, he endured what felt like two whole days, then glanced at his watch only to realize that exactly forty-seven seconds had passed.
Time—a relative concept. In physics and in human perception. Einstein had proven it, and so had that particular moment.
He started to fear that he might never leave the waiting room. Memories and emotions began to blur together. He formed a theory: that he had been trapped there for quite some time—weeks, perhaps. Back when another loved one had been on the operating table, and he’d been losing his mind in much the same way.
Could it be that, under the strain of this torturous waiting, he’d lost his sanity? That his brain, desperate for relief, had simply imagined everything that followed? The trip to the library that night, finding himself at her door, the string lights on the Christmas tree, the Venus flytrap, the bar, opening the door that night and seeing her on the stairwell—at once flushed from a night spent at the club and chilled from the December air?
And now that illusion had simply shattered, like a fragment of broken glass. He was back in the waiting room again, waiting, hurting too much—and yet feeling as though he had no right to. His pain was nothing compared to what she was going through. He should be doing something, anything, to make himself useful, to not succumb to the weight of his own helplessness.
When the doctor finally approached them, Spencer almost knocked over his chair in his haste to stand. The doctor, however, focused solely on Jude as he delivered the update, leaving Spencer questioning whether he even existed.
“We managed to stop the bleeding. That’s the good news,” he began, his dark eyes unreadable—at once cool and concerned, with the practiced composure characteristic of people in his profession.
“Thank God,” Jude whispered, rubbing her chest as if trying to calm the frantic beating of her heart.
Spencer, on the other hand, felt no relief. Not even a sliver.
"‘That’s good news,’" he repeated the doctor’s words, drawing the man’s gaze to him. ‘But… but is there something bad?’
That brief moment before the doctor answered felt longer than nearly the past two hours of waiting.
“Due to suspected brain swelling, we had to induce a coma.’
“What?’ Jude mouthed silently. “How… how could she be in a coma? Why? Was that necessary?’
“They needed to reduce the intracranial pressure,’ Spencer replied, the words spilling from his mouth without him even realizing he was speaking. ‘The coma prevents further damage and minimizes the brain’s oxygen consumption. But will she… how long will she…?’
“Only for a few days,’ the doctor assured him, understanding the question he couldn’t quite form. “As long as there are no further complications or additional bleeding. But I can reassure you for now: there’s no indication of that. Her condition seems stable. She was… incredibly lucky. It was a serious accident—a miracle, a sheer miracle—that she didn’t break her spine.’"
For a moment, he couldn’t utter a single word, his throat still tight, and the relief never came. He knew he wouldn’t feel it until he saw her, fully conscious and awake. Until that happened, he would grimace every time he heard the word miracle.
"When will I be able to see her?" he asked, surprisingly calm and composed. The question was so important to him that his voice didn’t tremble even once. In fact, it was the only thing that mattered right now.
"You’ll need to wait a few hours before visiting. We have to make sure there’s no risk of a sudden deterioration in her condition. Also, only authorized individuals can visit her."
The last part of the doctor’s statement felt almost like a slap in the face.
"How many hours?" he pressed, impatience creeping into his voice. "Two? Four? Six?"
"Please, calm down," the doctor asked, making a gesture with his hand.
“Eight?”
His voice grew increasingly sharp, desperately demanding an answer. The doctor opened his mouth to respond, but Jude interrupted with a question.
"As an authorized person, can I, on behalf of the patient, allow him to visit?" she asked, catching Spencer’s gaze for a brief moment before quickly turning away. "She would want this, I know it."
The doctor shook his head in refusal, providing them with a few more details about the surgery before turning to leave. Spencer watched him leave, something in him wavering between a sigh and a snort. So they wouldn’t even let him visit her? He understood the hospital procedures and rules perfectly well, but when it came to his own case, he hated them with all his heart. They wouldn’t allow him to see someone who meant so much to him, simply because they weren’t bound by blood or a ring on his finger. A ring on his finger… maybe he should lie and say they were engaged? Although, would it really make any difference in the eyes of the hospital staff?
Before the loose fragments in his mind began to form a plan, he noticed that Jude was staring at him. She had sat down again, pressing her back tightly against the chair's backrest. She hadn’t cried for a while now; a certain relief had settled on her face when she heard the surgery had been successful, but then the old devastation returned, stronger than ever before.
"I won’t be able to visit her," she said, her voice hollow. "Not even while she’s unconscious. And when she wakes up, look her in the eyes. Tell me, how could I do that after everything? After all of this was my fault?"
Spencer turned away and walked off.
He knew that if he didn’t, something inside him would break. He couldn’t stop the anger he felt toward Jude. From what he knew, she had repeatedly refused to report her ex-boyfriend to the police, perhaps more or less aware of the danger he posed. She had the right to do so, theoretically. But that didn’t change the fact that someone else had suffered because of her foolish decision.
In his eyes she deserved the guilt she felt.
Not knowing what to do with himself, he found a place far from her, far from anyone, where he spent the next few hours, hardly moving. Sometimes he observed the relatives of other patients in the hospital, also broken, but he had some selfish feeling that even they wouldn’t understand what he felt. He placed himself on some distant, elite orbit of suffering and felt almost embarrassed by it.
Pain always makes sure that a person feels as lonely and misunderstood as possible in it. That is when it has the most power over them.
He kept away from the windows, the darkness outside, slowly losing its intensity, putting him into a state of shock and contemplation. Maybe time was a relative concept, but that didn’t change the fact that it existed. Somewhere far away, there was light beyond this waiting room.
For some time now, he had been occupied with a certain task. He was aware of the hours passing and how, with them, his desperation grew. He felt he would go mad if he didn’t see her. The designated time during which the patient should be ensured complete rest after surgery had ended, yet he knew they wouldn’t let him in to see her. But he had a brain for a reason, right?"
He found the room where everything that mattered to him at that moment was. A young doctor was just leaving.
"Excuse me, ma'am,” he approached her politely, trying to appear calm, though his appearance and trembling hands clearly suggested otherwise. “I need to visit this patient.”
“Are you a relative?”
“No, actually…” He knew this was a desperate move and resorting to a lie, but he didn’t care. What was morality in his situation? Just a word. He reached for the badge he had with him and cleared his throat. “I’m with the FBI. I’ve been assigned to see this particular patient; it’s a matter that cannot be delayed."
Believe it or not, but people often lost their minds at the mere mention of the FBI. Spencer suspected that such a young doctor might have some gaps in experience and not know what procedures were in place in such a situation.
The surprised woman took a half step back.
“But she’s in a coma…” she said uncertainly, turning toward the room. “Are you sure it’s this patient?”
“Absolutely. And as I said, there’s no time to waste.”
He didn’t put his badge away, still holding it raised, with a serious expression on his face, as if he were interrogating someone. It was clear she was torn with doubt, but fortunately for him, she decided to give in without consulting the decision.
Spencer almost ran into the room, unable to hold back his impatience any longer. At first, he felt as if in a dream, one where you achieve your greatest goal. However, it quickly turned into a nightmare, all because of what he saw.
Whatever he had imagined, he was not prepared for this sight.
Especially because before he even noticed her face, the face he was so desperate to see, he first noticed everything else surrounding it. The hospital equipment, the machines and devices monitoring her vital signs. The wide orthopedic collar tight around her neck. The sterile whiteness of it all, obscuring her and making her almost disappear against its backdrop. It wasn’t until he approached the bed, his legs weak and unsteady, that he started to look at her, but again, not specifically at her, but at the injuries. The sight of swollen temples, the sunken eyes, pale and dry lips, skin like a sheet of paper. Every injury on her body caused him unimaginable pain, so intense it almost stopped him from breathing. He felt so much anger and injustice that she had to go through this that he almost wanted to fall to his knees and apologize to her, beg for forgiveness. For what? He couldn’t decide. It wasn’t a need driven by logic, it was something deep inside him.
And that’s what he did, even though there was a place beside the bed where he could sit. He slowly knelt down, his hands touching the edge of the bed, but not her body. After all, he wasn’t about to risk causing her any pain due to his lack of control. But he had such an overwhelming desire to take her hand, the one whose fingers shyly peeked out from under the cast.
"I should have gone with you," he said, after about five minutes spent in complete silence, undisturbed even by his breath, which he was holding back. "I should have. Walked you to the door and made sure you got inside safely. I’m sorry…"
He felt that with his pitiful apologies, he was disturbing her peace. She needed it to fully rest. So, he fell silent again, alternating between looking at her with furrowed brows in tender concern and resting his forehead against the edge of the bed whenever the sight became too painful. While before, time seemed to crawl at the slowest possible pace, now it was racing forward wildly.
In his perception, barely a minute had passed when someone’s presence appeared behind him. He turned over his shoulder, noticing the young nurse who had let him in, and it took him a long time before he even realized it. After all, he had lied to her, saying it was some professional matter, yet she had found him kneeling by the hospital bed.
He quickly got to his feet, nervously rubbing his face.
“For the patient’s well-being, no visits should last longer than twenty minutes,” the woman said surprisingly gently, leaning slightly against the door with her shoulder. An unidentified expression lingered in her eyes, making them seem...warm.
He didn’t answer, just nodded. He no longer felt the need to play that little charade that had helped him get inside. He allowed himself one last long moment, looking at her face, peaceful in sleep. He passed the doctor in the doorway, feeling her eyes turn to him, and he did the same, out of curiosity. She smiled, sadly and with compassion.
"This had nothing to do with any FBI assignment, right?”
Her understanding seemed almost touching. However, Spencer, caught in the moment, quickly withdrew, once again making his way down the hospital corridors, now completely unsure of what to do with himself. He leaned against one of the walls, slowly feeling the fatigue from the entire night spent waiting to see her. He found his phone in his pocket, realized it was already morning, and that… Hotch had called him.
It was a quick collision with the outside world. He called back, as nothing else came to mind that he could focus on.
"Reid," the serious voice of his boss came through on the other end. "Why aren’t you at work, and why aren’t you answering?"
He needed to take a breath before he could respond.
"Sorry, Hotch," he said, trying not to sound weak, but that’s exactly how he sounded. Weak, a little pitiful, and on the verge of exhaustion. "Something... something really important happened, and... I... I won’t be able to come in today..."
Spencer realized he had no idea how to explain himself in this situation.
"I can’t remember the last day you were even late. What happened?" He didn’t answer. "Where are you?" Silence. "Spencer."
"It’s... a personal matter."
There was a brief silence from his boss, and Spencer could almost imagine how he furrowed his dark brows in confusion.
"I understand." His voice was tense, but not with disapproval, which surprised Spencer. More with... concern. Had he managed to read the seriousness of the situation just from his voice? Probably, after all, he was the best profiler Spencer knew. "You’ll need to explain later, but for now... take care of yourself. Do you need any help?”
He assured him insincerely that everything was fine and found an empty chair to sit in, hunched over. A strong pressure formed in his head, amplified by the helplessness and uncertainty about what he should do next. She was in a coma, and according to the doctor, she would be in it for the next few days. And what was he supposed to do during that time? He felt that physically, he could spend another hundred hours on that specific chair. Occasionally stretching his legs. It was his plan, one that seemed more real with every passing minute. At least, until a figure cast its shadow over him.
"Reid," a familiar voice spoke.
He looked up, surprised, at Morgan. His mouth was slightly open in confusion, his forehead deeply furrowed.
"What are you doing here?"
"How... how did you know where I was?" That was the first thing that came to his mind.
"Penelope. How she knew, I have no idea, but I’m starting to suspect that her joke about having us all chipped wasn’t really a joke. But anyway, what’s going on? Hotch told me you called, and you sounded... unsettling."
His friend was watching him closely. His wrinkled clothes, his tired face.
"So... Hotch sent you to find me?"
"Reid, you’re our friend. Did you really think we wouldn’t be worried about you?"
Spencer lowered his head, listening to his words. Derek was silent for a moment, his hands resting on his hips, his tense face scanning the surroundings. After a while, he focused his gaze back on him.
"Who is the person you’re visiting?"
He hesitated before answering, not because he didn’t want to share the information, but because he wasn’t sure how to refer to her. What should he call her? After all, it wasn’t like they were in an official relationship, and the word friend seemed to leave something unsaid.
“Someone... someone very important to me. She had an accident. She has... a cervical spine injury, and the doctors, suspecting brain swelling, decided to put her into a coma for a while.”
Morgan's eyes widened.
“Damn, Reid. I’m so... I’m so sorry.”
He sat down on the empty chair beside him, his face still showing shock. Exhausted, Spencer simply rested his head on his knees, no longer able to keep his posture straight. He felt drained, yet at the same time, he couldn’t bring himself to leave—couldn’t leave her…
Morgan’s hand fell onto his back, and finally, then sighed.
“Come here, man.”
With a firm pull, he drew him into an embrace.
Spencer found it hard to admit, even to himself, how much he needed this. No words left their mouths for a long while; only that brotherly, supportive embrace remained between them.
“Have you seen her?” Morgan asked after a while.
He confirmed, but didn’t reveal the circumstances. His friend paused for a moment, as if he wanted to say something but hesitated.
“Okay, listen to me. You need to get back to yourself.”
Spencer scoffed and shook his head, ready to argue.
“Let me finish. I know you don’t want to leave her right now, but with all due respect, you look like death. You need to eat and get some sleep.”
“I can’t,” Spencer replied firmly.
“You’re going to collapse soon. You said she’ll be in a coma for a few days. You won’t make it sitting here, think realistically. No one’s asking you to go back to work, you just need to rest.” He looked at him seriously, knowing how hard it would be to convince him. Finally, he sighed once more. “Do it for her, alright? Do you really think she’d want you to wear yourself out like this?”
He had no ready answer for that. Well, he did, but it sounded like no, she wouldn’t want that.
“I’ll take you home. For God’s sake, you came here without even a coat?”
It's a strange feeling to let someone take care of you. Completely. Derek not only drove him to his apartment but also came inside with him. There was no emotional discussion between them, which he found to be a relief. Silent support, he thought.
His relationship with the other team members had been tested after Emily's death—or at least, that's what he had thought up until now. He had begun isolating himself, not wanting to intrude on their grief or burden them with his own problems. But in reality—something he hadn’t seen until now—it had been the opposite. It strengthened their bond.
The next few days revolved mainly around hospital visits. Somehow, he had managed to gain visiting rights, and the time spent by her side filled him with a certain sense of calm. He could see how stable her vital signs were, and he clung to the doctors’ reassurances that she would regain consciousness in just a few days.
He once read a series of articles and interviews with people who had been in comas. Their accounts sometimes contradicted medical facts and often included embellishments, but a significant number of them mentioned remembering the voices of loved ones and certain sounds.
He didn’t want her to remember only the sounds of medical equipment from this period. But he also wasn’t sure what he could talk to her about. Would she want to hear about the overly salted carbonara that Garcia had forced an entire pot of on him? Or about the abstract mural being painted across from his apartment—something he was sure she would have liked?
In the end, he decided to read to her, though choosing what to read proved challenging. Sleeping Beauty seemed too ironic, even though she would probably laugh about it later. She had once told him Girl, Interrupted was her favorite book, but its hospital setting made him suspect she might prefer something that let her escape this place, even if only in her imagination. The Silence of the Lambs referenced one of their past conversations, but if a doctor overheard him reading it to her, he would surely be banned from visiting altogether.
“All right,” he began one day, sitting down in the chair by her bed. “I know you’re not a big fan of fantasy. And yes, you’ll have every right to call me out on this when you wake up. But still, I hope you’ll like it.”
Arabian Nights was a collection of tales and stories originating from the Middle East, India, and Persia. Somehow, he assumed that the mysterious, often nocturnal atmosphere might resonate with her, even soothe her. After all, night had always been her favorite time of day—the backdrop to so much of her life.
That day, as he was about to leave, he leaned slightly over her bed, lowering his voice to a whisper.
"Tomorrow, I'll read you a romance, how does that sound? But I’ll have to go to the bookstore because, despite your beliefs, I don’t have any in my collection. I wish I’d had more time to get to know your reading preferences better."
During none of his previous visits had he touched her, afraid it might disturb her peace in some negative way. Besides... in the state she was in, she looked so fragile and delicate that he feared even the slightest touch could hurt her. But that time, he simply couldn’t hold back. After a long internal struggle, he placed a very brief kiss on her forehead.
Spencer couldn’t keep his promise. While he did buy a romance novel recommended to him with enthusiasm by a young bookstore clerk, he never had the chance to read it to her.
The next day, he received a message.
She had woken up.
*
You didn’t remember much.
Only fragmented scraps. The memories began with a brief moment of complete physical helplessness, a terrible pain in your neck, and a series of flashing lights mingling with raised voices—even shouting. Then came silence, vile and terrifying.
But that wasn’t the end. Something came after the silence.
Softly spoken stories. For some reason, they were comforting. In your mind, only a few blurred images remained—no clear events or words. What you remembered most was that soothing, calm voice. It felt like an embrace, like warm bedding, the first rays of cosmic light piercing through clouds, or the gentle chill of evening air.
It was… beautiful. But it couldn’t last forever. After an indeterminate amount of time, your body decided to reject that comfort and tried to open its eyes. It was an excruciating effort. You sighed with the strain. The first colors and surreal shapes began to appear before you. Slowly, you started to become aware of your existence, yet at the same time, you felt suspended somewhere outside your body and mind—alone and terrified.
The sensations were both faint and overwhelmingly intense, making you want to hide, to somehow cut yourself off from them. Yet you were equally afraid to close your eyes again. You muttered things that made no sense. You remained in this panicked state until two tiny brown points hovered above you, widening with concern. Only then were you able to calm down—at least enough to stop straining your body with attempts to move. Attempts, because your body seemed entirely unwilling to follow your commands.
The fear buried itself deep within you, drilling into your chest. At first, it suffocated you, but eventually, it began to weaken and fade.
This was how the first hours after waking from the coma unfolded.
Weakness, disorientation, mumbling, pain, discomfort, and light sensitivity.
It took a long time before you regained awareness of being in a hospital. Even more time passed before you remembered why. And then, your own condition and state.
You were so incredibly weak that it filled you with disgust, terrified by how much effort even the smallest movement required—like the twitch of a finger or the blink of an eye. Frustrated by it all, you cried, and he cried too. But his tears were born of relief and joy.
Those two specific emotions reached you the latest—only after they transferred you to a different ward, and your thoughts began to clear. Relief and joy. Hand in hand with fear and anxiety.
It felt so unreal, yet it was real—real like nothing else, and it held you tightly, exactly the way you needed it to.
*
Spencer was aware that her awakening was just another step in a very long journey.
His medical knowledge, modestly speaking, was fairly extensive, and he understood the gravity of the injuries she had sustained. Their first meeting after she had opened her eyes for the first time was nothing like a scene from a movie. She was confused, still drowsy, and as she slowly started to comprehend everything, she was primarily terrified. Her body, after the time spent in the coma, though brief, was extremely weak, and every little movement exhausted her as though she had just run a marathon.
The fear on her face pierced his chest.
He had the impression that none of the words he spoke, almost whispered in an attempt to calm her, were having any effect.
"I... I can't move," she stammered as one of the first things she said. Her eyes intensely focused on his face, searching for safety in it, and he feared he wouldn't be able to provide it for her.
"It's just temporary," he reassured her gently, leaning over her bed and trying to smile, but it came out uncertain, he was too worried about her condition. "The doctors say so, and that's the truth. Your body is just very weak right now."
"Will... will it be like this forever?"
"No, no, it will pass. I promise, it will pass," he nodded fervently. She hesitated and took a breath, as though discovering an entirely new action. But as soon as she did, out of fear, it became fast and irregular. He was terrified that his touch might cause her pain, but he didn't know what else he could do to help her. Gently, as gently as he could, he placed his hand on her cheek, barely grazing it with his thumb. "You'll feel better soon. Really, it won’t be long now. For now... just don’t overexert yourself, please, breathe."
At first, she flinched. He wanted to withdraw his hand as quickly as possible, but then he felt her press her face against it, almost nuzzling into it. A shy tear danced in one of her eyes, barely noticeable.
"It’s good to see you," she said after a brief silence, a soft sigh escaping her lips—almost like a laugh, though it didn’t quite make it. Her breath was still shallow and uneven, but with each passing moment, it seemed to steady as he held her close.
And in that moment, seeing her like that, feeling her presence so close, a smile spread across his face—a smile so genuine, so long-awaited—and with it came the tears he’d been holding back for what felt like forever.
"I feel the same," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "You have no idea how much."
*
The orthopedic collar pissed you off like nothing else.
It wasn’t even the discomfort that bothered you, it was just... the collar was such a painful reminder of your condition, a testament to what you had been through. And you were supposed to wear it for another six to eight weeks.
Two weeks after waking from the coma, preparations for leaving the hospital were beginning. The risk of brain swelling had subsided, the injuries were healing, and the concussion still made its presence known, but the pain was no longer as intense. You could even have a normal conversation, which you seized almost immediately, striking up a chat with the teenage girl in the bed next to you, her sad expression tugging at your heart.
Few people visited you; you preferred that the two most important ones could spend as much time with you as possible, rather than inviting coworkers or acquaintances you hadn’t spoken to in months. The two most important people.
Spencer had been with you since the moment you woke up, and as the doctor confessed to you with a small smile, he had also stayed by your side while you were in a coma. You were in shock. Not because he had done it—it made perfect sense, given his caring nature. The shock came from the simple fact that one person could care so deeply about another, about you.
It didn’t take long for you to realize that the moments when he visited you became your favorite part of the entire day. And not just because they revolved around checking your condition, tests, and the first, incredibly light rehabilitation exercises. You simply found yourself waiting for the moment he would appear in that doorway again, holding his coat in hand, smiling.
"Hello, handsome stranger," you greeted him one day, the first day you were starting to feel better.
Spencer stopped at the sound of that term, tilting his head with an even wider smile.
"How else did I used to call you?" you mused aloud. "Ah, I used to call you Mr. Mysterious. But I suppose that's no longer fitting, you smile too much to seem mysterious."
"Because I have a reason," he replied, stopping beside your bed and glancing at the flowers placed there, the ones that had greeted you when you woke up that day. "But in that case, 'Handsome stranger' doesn’t fit either, since you know me now."
"But you are handsome. Half of it fits, so I have the right to call you that. Who... who sent me these flowers?"
"Better question would be, who didn’t send you those?" he muttered, referring to their large number. You could only admire them—the beautiful, colorful arrangements—but you hadn’t had the chance to read the notes and messages attached. Spencer glanced at one of them, his smile fading, though not in a bad way... somehow, the expression that appeared on his face was even more pleasing than his smile. "This... this one’s from my team."
You were simply speechless.
"They... they even know I exist?"
"Of course they do, how could they not?" Spencer paused for a moment, looking at you thoughtfully. "They... they were with me the whole time you were in a coma. They helped me keep my head together."
"Don’t exaggerate," you tried to dispel the sudden serious mood. You didn’t want to delude yourself into thinking he had been that worried about you during that time.
"It’s not an exaggeration," he replied briefly and seriously, his face almost motionless.
For a moment, you fell silent, your hands resting on the blanket in front of you.
"Sorry, Spencer. I just realized I’ve never thanked you for this..."
"What?" he asked, surprised, his brows furrowing. "This isn’t something you have to thank me for..."
"But I feel like I have to. This... this isn’t some small, silly favor. You really did so much for me... I still don’t fully understand why..."
"You don’t understand why?"
"Yeah," you sighed uncertainly, not sure how to put it into words. "Don’t get me wrong... I’m so grateful to you, it’s just... look at it this way. We didn’t know each other that long, we saw each other rarely. We slept together once. It’s not like you were…obligated to help me."
"I didn’t have to be obligated to do it," he said after a moment of hesitation, circling your bed and sitting on the edge, just barely touching it. "And I didn’t have to know you for years. I just wanted to do it because of how much I cared about you. And if that explanation doesn’t convince you... then..." He swallowed hard. "Remember, you were there for me during one of the worst moments of my life."
“It’s not the same...”
“Oh, but it is. For me, it is. But I don’t want you to think that I was there for you because I felt like I owed you something. Or that I had to... I don’t know... repay you in some way. That’s not it at all.”
You didn’t answer, something tight gripped your throat. You just tilted your head, overwhelmed with emotion, speechless. The only thing you truly wanted to do was stretch out your arms and drape them around his neck, resting your chin on his shoulder. Spencer sighed, surprised and tense. It wasn’t until a brief moment passed that his hands gently touched your back.
“How much longer are you going to act like I’m made of glass?” you asked.
You knew his caution was justified, but Jesus. You just really wanted to hug him properly.
“Probably forever,” he replied, to which you rolled your eyes.
He was the one to break the hug, but in compensation, he quickly kissed the top of your head. You leaned back against the bed, feeling a pleasant sensation in your stomach. Spencer returned to the flowers to tell you who had sent them all.
“So these are from my team,” he picked up the lost thread, pointing to the arrangement of white and pink carnations. He chuckled. “And I’m pretty sure Penelope picked them out, not just because her name is listed first. White represents perseverance and strength. Pink stands for admiration and respect.”
“That’s really thoughtful. And beautiful. I’ll have to thank them. And these tulips?”
Spencer took the note attached to the mentioned flowers between his fingers.
“From... Jerry.”
“What? My husband sent me flowers?”
“What?” He jerked his head up in surprise.
You laughed so hard at the look on his face that it made you wince in your ribs.
“I’m fucking kidding, you fool,” you replied, clutching your side with a groan. “Jerry is the librarian. You should know him. He once asked me what flowers he should buy for his wife, and I suggested yellow tulips. By the way, it's so nice of him”.
You said it affectionately, but it sounded incredibly weak. Along with the pain in your ribs, a headache joined in, and suddenly all the energy you'd had earlier evaporated.
“What's happening? Should I call a doctor?”
“No,” you shook your head in refusal. “I just need to lie down for a moment. Come here.”
Spencer followed your request and sat beside your bed, his body a little stiff, as if in guilt.
"I'm sorry I made you laugh."
"That's probably the strangest thing you could apologize for," you muttered, lying down in the position that was best for your neck, one you almost hated as much as the orthopedic collar. "Well, I guess I could come up with something stranger. Sorry I left that million dollars in your nightstand. It won't happen again."
"I'm not sure if this kind of chatter is particularly good for your condition."
"It helps me mentally, and that's what matters most. Besides, stop complaining."
"How could I possibly dare?"
He fell silent, simply watching you with quiet concern. You closed your eyes for a moment, unsure if you might accidentally drift off. After spending a week in a coma, your sleep routine had become completely erratic. You slept through the nights, mostly because there was little else to do, and you didn’t want to disturb the other patients in the ward. During the day, Spencer would visit, and you wanted to be as rested as possible when he was around.
When he wasn’t there, you sometimes napped during the day as well. According to the doctors, it was one of the best things you could do for your recovery—sleep and rest as much as your body needed.
"Is something bothering you?" he asked.
You hesitated for a long moment, because yes, something was weighing heavily on your mind. Had he guessed, or had he read it on your face?
“It’s just…” you began with a sigh. “You know Jude barely visits me? I mean, she shows up every day, but… she’s so tense and distant when she’s here. She doesn’t say much, and she won’t look me in the eyes.”
"She’s blaming herself," Spencer said softly.
“God, that’s so stupid,” you muttered.
You had a strange relationship with the accident. You thought about it as little as possible, keeping it at arm’s length. You knew Richard had been arrested, but you didn’t want to know the details of his sentencing. In no way did you see any of it as Jude’s fault, and it hurt you deeply to think that she did.
You spent a quiet moment together before Spencer leaned over you again, intending to kiss your forehead.
“I’m sorry, but I’ll have to go now,” he said, to which you nodded in understanding.
But then you shifted your head, pulling back just enough to stop him from brushing his lips against your forehead. He looked at you, puzzled, since you’d never minded it before.
This time, though, you wanted him to kiss you on the lips.
He kissed you slowly. You had almost forgotten how he tasted.
After that, you didn’t bother opening your eyes again. You let yourself imagine that he wasn’t leaving at all, and with that comforting thought, you drifted off to sleep.
*
Spencer had felt strange since the morning.
Energized and excited. In the absolute best possible way.
That day, he could finally take her home. Well, to his apartment. She needed someone to take care of her, and he felt honored to be that person.
The day before, he had made a very important, yet difficult decision. He invited JJ over and confessed everything to her—about the past few weeks and his struggles with relapsing into addiction. He needed to rid himself of that burden. Besides, he had promised himself that as long as she was living with him, not even the smallest dose of Dilaudid would find its way inside. Never again.
In his worst moments, he imagined that his friend would react with disgust—pure, painful disgust—and push him away. Instead, her eyes filled with something strange the moment he began to speak about how he had felt after Emily's death. Over and over, she whispered apologies, as though she were the one responsible for it.
He still missed Emily, of course, and he knew he would always miss her. That was just the way of things—people left, and it was up to you to decide whether you would remember them with heartbreaking despair or with a wistful sigh. In fact, these were merely two ends of the same spectrum, and it was very easy to get stuck at the beginning, unable to move forward.
She was surprisingly quiet in the car and seemed depressed. Actually, it was hard not to blame her. She had spent a long time in the hospital, gotten used to that routine, and the change made her feel lost. Sitting in the passenger seat, she kept her gaze fixed ahead, but not on the road. She couldn’t see where they were headed, which made it difficult for Spencer to tell her something… at least important.
When they stopped, she furrowed her brow in surprise.
“Why are we here?”
They were parked under his apartment, and she had been under the impression they were heading to her place.
“Sorry, I should’ve told you earlier, I really apologize,” Spencer blurted out in one breath, chaotically. “I absolutely realize that this is like putting you in a situation you didn’t expect, but… but when you were in the hospital, Jude found herself a new roommate. She didn’t really know how to tell you, but she had to do it because she couldn’t afford the rent on her own.”
For a long moment, she stared at him in silence, her face a mixture of shock, followed by understanding. She took a deep breath.
“Okay,” she muttered. “I understand her, I just… I don’t understand why she didn’t tell me this herself.”
Their relationship still remained deeply complicated, put to the test by guilt. Spencer couldn’t say much about it. It was something between the two of them, and he hardly knew Jude at all.
“I’m also sorry for asking you this so late,” he continued after a moment. “But… you can’t live alone, you know that. Someone… someone needs to be with you over the next few weeks and… I’m willing to be that person.”
Her lips remained slightly parted for a moment.
“You want… no, wait, you want me to move in with you?” It was clearly a rhetorical question, because before he could answer, she started shaking her head. “Spencer, I can’t. I can’t be that burden for you.”
“A burden? You’re not…”
“But I will be. In the next few weeks, I definitely will be.”
He took his hands off the steering wheel, placing them loosely on his knees.
“Can you… can you look at me for a moment?” he asked.
It took a moment before she hesitantly met his gaze. Her eyes were filled with embarrassed tears, tears full of unjust shame. Seeing this, pain spread through his chest.
“If the accident hadn’t happened, would you want to live with me?”
Her lips remained pressed together, and she sighed.
“It’s a big decision. Aside from the fact that if it weren’t for the accident, I wouldn’t even have to consider this option…”
“I just want to know if you would want to. Don’t think of it as an option, just as… a completely normal, life decision. Do you think you’d be able to handle having me around every day?”
She couldn’t help it, and her lips curled into a slight smile.
“We could try,” she finally replied.
Spencer straightened his arms.
“In that case, let’s go inside.”
“No, wait, it’s not that simple! My opinion shouldn’t matter; it’s you who needs to think about whether you want this…”
“I do.”
She snorted, resigned, not knowing what else to say.
“I can’t even tie my own shoes,” she tried one last time.
“I’ll gladly do it for you. What’s more, I know all kinds of knots. Simple, sailor’s, Chinese…”
“Spencer Reid, you’re impossible.”
For the rest of the day, she tried every possible way to talk him out of his decision. But when she finally accepted it, she struggled to accept his help with tasks she couldn’t do on her own.
It wasn’t until later that he realized how much she had been pretending in the hospital. He had only seen her for a fraction of her day, and she seemed so positive then. But this temporary disability had really taken a toll on her mentally. He could repeat and assure her, completely sincerely, that she wasn’t a burden to him, but deep down, she still believed otherwise.
So, when two days later, she timidly appeared in the bedroom doorway with the question of whether he could help her wash her hair, Spencer felt like he had won the lottery.
“Sure,” he agreed, probably a bit too enthusiastically, jumping to his feet so quickly that he almost tripped.
She pretended not to notice.
In the bathroom, he slowly helped her pull the shirt over her head, careful not to catch it on the collar still around her neck or accidentally cause her any pain.
“Be careful not to tilt your head too much, okay?” he asked, wetting her hair with the showerhead. She closed her eyes when a few drops of water splashed onto them. “Sorry!”
“For god's sake, Spencer, you're doing it more carefully than I would have done myself.”
It was true; he was acting as if he were performing some task at work that required absolute precision. He shrugged, massaging the strawberry shampoo into her hair. Foam quickly appeared, smelling sweet.
Suddenly, her hands tightened around the front of his shirt.
“Sorry,” she whispered, loosening her grip. “I got a little dizzy.”
Spencer immediately pressed his hands, still covered in shampoo, to her waist, afraid she might fall. He stared at her face for a long moment, waiting for the dizziness to pass.
And just then, her body suddenly went limp, falling forward.
Terrified, he let out a strangled cry.
“Hold on, please, don’t fall!” he kept repeating, doing everything he could to keep her upright.
Her hands hung limply on his shoulders, the foam and water soaking into his shirt, but he didn’t care at all.
“I’m right here, hold on to me as much as you can. C-c-can you hear me at all?”
He wondered whether it would be better to stand her up or lay her down while he could get to the phone and call an ambulance, when suddenly her weak touch grew stronger, and she let out a soft groan.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t you dare apologizing. I’m still holding you, can you hear me?”
His heart was pounding incredibly fast as she gently pulled her head away from his chest. He, of course, didn’t let her stand on her own, constantly supporting her body, protecting her from a fall that could be disastrous.
Together, they left the shower cabin, her hair still covered in foam.
“Are you aware that this is how it’s going to look now?” she asked seriously.
Completely unfazed, he wiped the foam from her forehead, which was dangerously close to her eyes.
“I’d rather have you lose consciousness in my bathroom, right next to me, than risk… I don’t know, cracking your head open.”
For a moment, she was silent, the color beginning to return to her pale face, her gaze becoming more alert. He had a strange feeling that she was about to start crying, and since he really didn’t want that, he pulled her close again, in his usual protective gesture. Everything around them smelled of strawberries.
“Do you really have to be this good?”
Spencer snorted.
“I’m afraid it’s just my curse.”
*
“Are these people really arguing about whether a cucumber is a fruit or a vegetable?”
Sitting on the couch, you jumped when a voice spoke right behind you. At the last second, you caught your laptop before it slipped off your lap. You had been reading some absurd discussion on an online forum you stumbled upon completely by accident. And yes, these users were indeed arguing about whether a cucumber is a fruit or a vegetable.
“Damn it, Spencer!” you shouted, putting your hand over your heart, which was pounding in an agitated rhythm. You looked at your boyfriend with a scowl. “You almost gave me a heart attack. How is it possible I didn’t hear you come in?”
He shrugged. Leaning his elbows on the back of the couch, the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt revealed the skin of his forearms. In that position, he had a perfect view of the screen on your laptop. He had just returned from work, a rainy July evening, his hair slightly damp.
“I wasn’t sneaking around. You must’ve just been lost in thought. Want to tell me what’s occupying that beautiful mind of yours?” He leaned in to place a kiss on your temple.
“Beautiful mind, huh?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Just a few days ago, you told me that if a 19th-century priest heard even one thought from my head, he’d go into anaphylactic shock. Whatever that was supposed to mean.”
"In a big simplification, what I meant is that even though I love you, sometimes your way of thinking scares me."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"By the way, I bought land for Alexander."
Alexander was your new flycatcher, which had grown so much that it completely prevented the other flowers on the windowsill from growing. Due to its conqueror tendencies, you decided to name it after one of them.
"Do you want to repot it into a new pot now...?"
"No. Now you need to come to me."
You set the laptop aside and waited for him to take a seat on the couch. Before fully snuggling into him, you untied and removed the tie from his neck, then unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt, just the way you liked.
You sighed almost instantly; his body was more comfortable than a pillow. Warm, with your favorite scent. You rested your head on his chest as his fingers gently combed through your hair.
In the first few weeks after you were discharged from the hospital, you couldn’t even sleep in the same bed. There was a risk that, in his sleep, he might accidentally bump into your neck and cause damage. Spencer enforced that rule strictly, as he did with every precaution related to your health.
Six months had passed since the accident, and for the past four months, you hadn’t worn a neck brace or needed help with daily tasks. But that didn’t change the fact that, sometimes, when you showered together, he would wash your hair just like he used to. Anyway, you were still attending rehabilitation and would need to for a long time, but despite that, you felt like you had fully returned to normal life.
You lifted yourself slightly to look at his face.
"I was walking to the bar today," you began.
You’d been considering going back to work for a while now, and the doctors had assured you there was no reason you couldn’t. You wanted something to occupy your hands and craved the sense of purpose that came with a task. You’d mentioned it to Spencer long ago, so he didn’t seem surprised when you brought it up.
"And? Will they take you back?"
"No. I mean, it’s not that they don’t want to, I just didn’t get there. That’s why I said I was walking and not that I went to a bar. Are you following?"
"I'm trying."
"So, listen to this. I took the subway and got off at that station near the room I used to rent."
The landlord had asked for the keys back shortly after your accident. Your arrangement had been that, in exchange for using the space, you cleaned it daily. Of course, you hadn’t been able to keep up with that anymore.
"...And I don't know, I was overwhelmed by this strange feeling, like I wanted to go back to it. Helping people."
"You help people all the time," Spencer reminded you. "All our neighbors come to you to vent about everything happening in their lives."
"That's true, but I mean, you know, professional help," you said, taking a deeper breath. You couldn't decide whether you were more excited or nervous about the decision. "I've been thinking about going back to uni, Spencer."
He straightened up, almost causing you to slide off his chest. Filled with tension, you watched his reaction closely. You’d spent the entire day wondering what he might say. Would he share your enthusiasm and support your plans, or would he try to talk you out of it, reasoning that you’d dropped out of school once and might not manage it again?
These thoughts were incredibly silly. Spencer—knowledge-obsessed, ever-curious Spencer—would never say something like that.
Instead, he pulled you into a tight embrace, whispering how incredible the idea was. You melted into it completely, feeling more elated than ever and unable to stop thinking about the crazy chain of cause and effect that had led to this specific moment, this particular relationship, and above all, this exact happiness.
do you accept this overly sweet ending as my apology? :> tagging: @nightfullofparadox @lillaberry @fortheloveofgubler @opheliahotchner @cowboy1ikereid @penelopegarciaismygf
sorry if i forgot about someone!
#criminal minds#criminal minds fanfic#spencer reid#spencer reid criminal minds#spencer reid x oc#criminal mind#derek morgan#criminal minds fic#criminal minds fanfiction#dr spencer reid#spencer reid fanfic#dr reid
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Fic preview
A sneak peek of the next chapter of Come Away, O Human Child
It is loyal.
Whatever else can be said about it—and there is much—it has always been loyal. First to its cadre and home, the beautiful, sprawling nest and territory it had defended fiercely and freely for most of its life. When the cadre fell, when the nest was destroyed by awful, greedy humans who razed the land for their farms and villages and never once cared about the creatures and lesser fae who already lived there, it was loyal to the memory. To the graves of all the cadre that didn’t survive.
It spent years harassing the people responsible for the destruction of its nest. With the few members of its cadre that also survived, it made sure that no one who dared to build on the graves of ones it knew and loved knew a moment’s peace. They spent nights ripping crops out by the roots, undid latches on pens and coops and led wolves and coyotes in to feast, dropped waste and refuse into wells, tore out thatching from the roofs so they always leaked. Little things, little things, but added up it made humans miserable, made them angry, made them hurt.
It has never been a fool, and never was back then. Do too much and humans will retaliate, be too aggressive and they will hunt you. But its people have always known how to inflict death by a thousand cuts, how to be a source of grief and annoyance and pain. Just not enough.
Never enough to make up for what it lost.
It let its anger make it blind, it knows that now. Lost itself in its pain and spent so long wishing for real revenge that it lost sight of the most important rule in its whole, entire world: never trust the Fae.
It wishes it could blame youth and inexperience, but it was not young and inexperienced when the Fae passed through its territory. Its master hadn’t been posing as a lawyer when they first met; had called itself something other than Chase Mackey. But the smooth words had been the same. The slick, oily presence, the promises that sounded so wonderful to desperate ears. It has never been a fool, and never was back then…except that one time.
“Humans are so fragile when you get down to it. Easy enough for misfortune to turn into catastrophe. I don’t usually like to get involved in these things, but what can I say? The way they treat the lesser fae makes a lot of us angry. I’ll make you a deal—I’ll see to it that someone involved in the destruction of your nest is punished to your heart’s content. You can even pick the human! Decide who you hate the most. And all it’ll cost is ten years’ of service from you and your remaining cadre.”
He sounded so reasonable. So sympathetic. And it was so, so angry. All of them were so angry.
“Cost for more?” it had whispered, its wings trembling, its claws digging into newly tilled earth that had once been covered by bramble and thorns for their nest. It had stumbled over the words, unused to the language. The Fae had smiled.
“More? Well, that gets a bit trickier. Punished to your heart’s content leaves a lot of room for interpretation. Could draw a lot of attention to me, unless you’ll be satisfied with the same kind of petty revenge you’ve already been taking.”
It had dug its claws in deeper in the earth, looking back over its shoulder to gauge the reactions of what was left of its cadre.
“More,” it had said, after a long, measured look. “More.”
The Fae had smiled again, and it knows now that it should have heard the jaws of the trap closing in on it.
“I can make humans suffer until they don’t even remember what it was like to not be in pain. I can make them regret ever being born. I can make them beg for forgiveness until their throat bleeds. I’ll make sure every living person who destroyed your cadre does so, if you swear me your service until I have no more use for you.”
It would never be caught by such an obvious ploy now. But back then it hadn’t really understood the language that well and hadn’t known to insist on the Fae conducting negotiations in its own tongue. Many lesser fae don’t really have a concept of just how short-lived humans can be, and the passage of time tends to mean little to those who measure their lives in centuries. It had known never to trust the Fae…but it had just been so angry. It wouldn’t be caught now, but it had been easy to catch then.
It agreed. They had all agreed.
Less than ten of the humans who had destroyed its nest had still been alive—so far advanced in age that most of them had simply dropped dead mere seconds into the punishment it had traded a lifetime of service for.
Because its master will always have use for it. It is nothing if not loyal. <
*
There is no point in feeling sympathy for the other creatures its master traps in his poisonous deals.
It knows some of the others do, the distance and time (so, so much time) from the deaths of their cadre allowing them to let go of the anger and spite that had fueled them for so long. The most it ever really allows itself to feel is a kind of tired kinship—the creatures, humans, and lesser fae that its master makes deals with are often just as angry, just as grief stricken as it was once, and just as blinded as it was because of that. Even more often, though, they are just as greedy and selfish as the humans who destroyed its home, its cadre, and its life all those years ago. It doesn’t feel sympathy for them, and it can’t feel sympathy for the others.
The only exceptions are the changelings.
It didn’t know that its master dealt in the changeling curse when they met. If it had, things would have been very different. Even as blinded by its anger and pain as it had been, it knows it never would have trusted a creature who created changeling children. Its master sends it often to keep tabs on his changelings—to take stock of which ones might survive long enough for its master to harvest their power, and which ones are inevitably going to burn out like stars; to make sure the people in charge of their care are keeping up their end of the bargain; to make sure the changeling children are…developing…the way its master needs them to.
Sprites as a rule do not care for humans. It has particular reason to hate them. But even the human changeling children inspire pity in it. How terrible to be cast aside by your own cadre; to be seen as nothing more than a tool, something to be used and discarded. It cannot help but feel sorry for the changelings.
When its master sends it to the part of the country the humans call Pennsylvania to observe its master’s most ambitious investment, it is not sure what it’s going to find. The Buckley changeling probably has a better chance of living through his childhood than is usual, it’s true…but it doubts very much that its master is going to be able to leave the changeling’s power growing for the entire length of the contract. Thirty years? In a changeling bargain, that’s not just audacious, it’s madness.
It is perhaps expecting to find a changeling child with better control of the power that is growing unchecked in him. It has noticed that the younger the changeling children are bound to the bargain, the better they tend to do, and the Buckley child was bound before he was even conceived. So yes, better control. But it still thinks it will see the…cracks.
Changeling children are always such scrabbling, starving things. Searching so desperately for what their guardians by the very nature of the bargain have never given them. Privately, it thinks some part of the changelings knows that the magic inside them is wrong. Too wild. Too much. It has never seen one that doesn’t have a sort of hollow hunger in their eyes; doesn’t feel like a barely restrained forest fire to its senses. Breaking apart slowly, piece by piece, the power they never asked for slowly eating away at them.
Its master wants it to watch the child for an extended time. Observe his magic if it can, but most especially see what the dynamic with the sister is like. Its master’s changelings are almost always only children, for obvious reasons. Its master wants to know how much of an obstacle the sister might present. More than that, though, it is to try and determine how long the Buckley changeling might make it. Its master trusts its judgement in such matters after so many years. So many changelings.
Part of it hates that the trust is justified.
It scouts the neighborhood the child lives in for a few days before it settles in to actually spy. It is surprised to see signs of a cadre in the woods near the changeling child’s home…unusual for its kind to make a home so close to humans in this day and age. It has no right or reason to, but it cannot help the small pulse of hopeful excitement. It has been so long since it spoke with others of its kind who are not bound to its master. The ones who entered into the deal with the Fae along with it have long since ceased to be cadre, the bonds crumbling under the weight of what they have been forced to see and do, under the knowledge that it will never end.
It is…lonely. It has been for many years.
Modern cadres are so much smaller than what it remembers from when it was free. So much more isolated. If it can arrange to meet a few of the local cadre, they may allow it to take shelter with them. It hopes so, anyway. There are a surprising number of wisps, creatures, and lesser fae in the immediate area—more than it has seen in quite a long time. It never likes dealing with wisps. They tend to get hostile around it, sensing the tainted nature of its master’s magic.
It searches fruitlessly for the cadre of sprites for a few days before fate takes the matter out of its hands. It had not intended to allow the changeling child to see it. It never allows any of the changelings its master sends it to watch to see it. But when it feels the wild surge of the child’s magic one day, further out in the woods than it thinks children of the boy’s age are usually allowed to go, its curiosity gets the better of it. It means to just get a closer look.
But when it finally gets close to the child, several things are made immediately clear.
And everything it thought it knew about the risk its master is taking with this child is thrown into disarray.
#911 abc#911 tv show#evan buckley#evan buck buckley#mywriting#shameless self promotion#buddie#fic preview#new POV enters the chat#eddie diaz#buck x eddie
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I know a lot of fic writers have their own interpretations of different character dynamics (for example Mori and Dazai) I KNOW THERES POINTS OF CONTENTION OR WHAT NOT but like I wish ppl would leave others alone for having a dif take bc I got a comment on A Horse Named Cold Air (my comments were moderated at the time so I just deleted it on the spot) saying that basically my interpretation of Dazai and Mori wasn’t correct and that Dazai wasn’t abused. And now. I could go into detail on why contextually I think that that is factually incorrect in regards to canon but I won’t bc it’s not abt that.
However. What it is about is letting fic writers mind their own business bc hey yeah maybe some of the stuff is canonically inaccurate! (And again I could argue about how that’s largely because there are so many gaps w Dazais backstory anyway that it’s kinda up to interpretation anyways bc we simply don’t have all the knowledge) BUT! That’s none of ur fucking business how I intend to write MY fic. U don’t like it? Write your own. That’s the beauty of fandom baby.
And especially like bc. You never know what the author is basing those dynamics on or how much of it is projection. I sure as hell know I project a fuck ton onto Dazai and Mori’s dynamic and it’s actually rlly upsetting when ppl comment like “oh this is inaccurate he wasn’t abused” bc like cool??? U can read it that way??? However me. Being someone to relates to him thru the lens of my own abuse. I’m gonna take a certain interpretation and I’d like to have that in peace.
AAAAA the day people learn ao3 etiquette and general human decency is the day I will rest.
#bsd#bsd fic#fanfiction#ao3#bsd dazai#bsd mori#LIKE FUCK LET ME HAVE THINGS IN PEACE#its called an INTERPRETATION for a reason#god pls#like every time i read a comment like “this isnt my opinion and therefore its bad and i hate it and you should also hate it”#i just want to violently shove Stewart Hall's reception theory in their faces#bungou stray dogs#IT MAKES ME SO MAD#IM DOING THIS FOR FREE?????#like this is why AHNCA is taking so long is bc i see a comment like that and i just get so unmotivated like why am i even writing#ITS MY FIRST FIC LEAVE ME ALONE???#just?? SCROLL?? ITS NOT THAT HARD#plus i made it pretty fucking clear from the tags AND the content warnings and they still read all 14k of it#and then proceeded to leave a hate comment#LIKE BFFR#mirs bsd rambling#mir speaks#mirs violently unhinged hate moments#skk#UGH#ao3 tags#fanfic#ao3 assholes#ao3 etiquette
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sin eater
#sorry its been a minute!!! the horrors. you understand.#anyways yall ready for another gloom tag essay because here we go!!!#im constantly thinking about the ramifications of uzi literally eating cyn and her now being apart of her.#specifically how it impacts uzi mentally. like dgmw i LOVE the silly cyntail shenanigans in fanart (ive also contributed to this) however#when i really think about it in relation to uzi's arc i go crazy insane#uzi is a character who is grasping for control after a lifetime of not having it.#she has no control over how her peers treat her. she has no control over khan neglecting her for reasons that arent her fault.#she quite literally has no control over the solver taking her over and making her do monstrous things against her will#which solidifies her feelings of being a freak monster who everyone was right to outcast and mistreat.#because im Unwell i interpret her calling herself god as a way to convince herself of having control- and to lock away feelings of impurity#if anyone is in control- if anyone is loved and cherished despite any and all wrong doings- its a god.#and that all comes to a head when she eats the heart of cyn thereby destroying the AS- a literal manifestation of a corrupted god- for good#finally taking back control from the entity that had been terrorizing and traumatizing both her and her loved ones. but did she really?#cyn is apart of her now. powerless sure- but that doesnt take away the horrors she wrought previously#and even so- has uzi ever stopped being just a host? do you think shes terrified of cyn regaining power out of the blue?#do you think uzi ever stops feeling like a monster?#“sin eating” was a thing that happened where someone would consume ritual foods to take on the sins of a recently deceased person#thus absolving said deceased person of any sins and putting them onto the sin eater. being a sin eater ensured eternal damnation.#and i just think about that a lot. when applying that (symbolically ofc(somewhat literally. she very much is a cyn eater)) to what uzi did.#“gloom you're reading way too much into this” THE LITTLE GOTH ROBOT. MAKES ME INSANE IN THE HEAD. OK!!!!!#gloom.art#murder drones#murder drones fanart#murder drones uzi#uzi murder drones#uzi doorman#uzi md#md uzi#uzi fanart
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rhaenyra could say 'I wish I was a man with dick and balls' and hotd twitter would still be like 'umm she just means she wants freedom and respect but otherwise she is a FEMININE WOMAN stop making her into a man you weirdos'
#.txt#I mean she did kinda say that already 'daemon was everything I wanted to be...a man' what did she mean by this#btw I'm not saying you have to see her as trans I'm just saying it's an entirely reasonable interpretation/headcanon lol#but also like. she's not a real person she's a character and the things she says are a deliberate choice by the writers#so I dont think they wrote those lines about wanting to be a man just to mean 'I wish people werent sexist to me'#like yes they obviously mean that but stuff can be two things +its phrased in a specific way#once I saw someone be like 'well cersei has these thoughts too and nobody calls her trans' .....does he know?#the kicker is most of the time when these people are like 'stop making her a man' shes not even being hc as trans just. a masc woman lol
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I start school up in TWO DAYS ,, but anyways; hit this request when you can or when you want, anyway.
We need more Alex Rider in School, he’s always in school which end up in bad situations in the series.
I NEED HIM WHIPPING UP THE MOST JUICY PAINTING OF ONE OF HIS MISSIONS, ASAP !!!!
I hope this is what you meant dawg, I've got Alex painting that scene from Point Blanc where Greif was telling him he is going to be dissected. I also hope school's been alright for you so far.
#alex rider#alex rider fanart#ive come back from the art graveyard#almost got bumped off by a gang at work the other day so there was almost no hope for a minute#okay not that serious but the police were called lol#anyway its not good practice to paint against the light in a dim room but alex is stupid ig#if this isnt what you meant i'll try again#for some reason i had a hard time interpreting what you wanted#sorry
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Fun note of the specific pronoun situation with the translation errors between Wasp and Bugnish: under normal circumstances, Jayde would get automatically assigned he/him in Bugnish, since she uses the standard "non-queen social bug" pronouns that roughly 95% of the Wasp Hive do, which get translated to drone pronouns in Bugnish due to a roughly century-old miscommunication. She gets assigned worker pronouns in Bugnish specifically because those are what Kabbu defaults to with social bugs, and other people picked it up from him during introductions. This Will Be A Point Of Confusion For Her Whenever She Asks About It.
#we speak#headcanons#conlang#anyways. fun fact the house's pronouns get jiggled around a lot more than it/its vi and they/them kabbu. jayde is a he now#hes still a worker this is just how bugnish has settled on translating wild swamplands pronouns#for related reasons “nonsocial bug” when translated from Wasp to Bugnish will become worker pronouns#queen is still queen though#we still need to work out what neopronouns we want to sub in for queen pronouns. or if we want to sub worker for a neopronoun#unfortunately we can't just write in conlang and expect people to understand it#our translation setup to english is still very weird#whenever we get to let zbt-159 interact with out of colony bugnish speakers they might get she/herred just because#yknow. we are already translating workergender as she/her.#bug fables#theres enough language barrier and weird interpretation that character pronouns will change from perspective to perspective#she/her in wasp pov because wasp kingdom socialbuggender is still technically a worker gender#he/him in everyone else's pov because the wasp queen's drones and generals use the same pronouns and some scribes got very confused#it prioritizes drone because that's Technically the higher rank and thus the one to use to avoid offence from guests#but drones don't realistically have much station so it's sort of like calling the entire wasp kingdom except for the queen manwhores
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happy pride month
#im like 6 days late#but it’s called pride MONTH for a reason babyeee!!!#ignore how fang looks i made this at like 1 am and im to buttfucking tired to do anything about it now#boboiboy#not actually boifang#but like#could be interpreted that way if you so wish#its pride month#do whatever you want#can’t believe my first actual post here and it’s a fucking shitpost#speaking of which#shitpost
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genuine question but is there any fandom where a character is well written by the majority. im thinking about fandom culture and the spread of frustration when people dont write characters well but. honestly in all the fandoms ive been in there's only like, a Select number of authors who i trust to write Well, let alone write Well AND In Character. character analysis and writing and getting inside characters' heads are all separate skills (all of which are trained by roleplaying fyi can CONFIRM playing pretend with your friends is good for you). there's been more than once where I've disagreed with an interpretation that others agreed with, and then I turned out wrong. or i turned out right. like it doesnt matter WHO is right it just matters that differences in character analysis exist, so even if you DO write well AND write in character, your in character is still going to be someone else's out of character
there's this sort of. vibe. that to play in the sandbox you Need to be able to make a castle, and if you can't make a castle then you shouldn't bother, and it completely dismisses the idea that youre in that sandbox to PLAY in the first place. there's this Weight of disappointing someone if you can't build something that they like, but that forgets that you aren't there to build them a castle. like, be KIND. if you disagree with someone then please make an effort to do so kindly. i dont give a shit about fandom discourse but there is a reason kids get removed from sandboxes if they keep throwing sand in people's eyes. but if they don't like your misshapen sand pile, then youre not obligated to change it. even if you yourself end up hating that same sand pile later- youre not building a legacy. youre playing. and sometimes the result of that play is out of character drivel. theres a reason there are so many authors and so few who i like to consistently read and thats because everyone is Fucking Around in their hobby space. hash tag brag or whatever but i can build castles. ive built several that im v proud of. ive also dug holes in the sand for fun and then tripped on them when trying to get up. I often dug a hole and then got up and fucking- whoops, its a castle now, and i didn't realize i'd made something to be proud of until after the fact. the whole time while creating shit i was Convinced it was bullshit that didn't make sense. and then other times i was Convinced it was bullshit and then i was Right and i can look back and go. huh. ew. but it doesn't matter what the end result was, because i had fun playing in the sandbox
this wasn't meant to turn into a ramble but i have Feelings about bad art and art that's badly perceived and how public perception can screw with your head and how making art youre proud of is fucking. it's so difficult!!! it's hard!! it's really fun, which is why i try to make it, but i promise you it is Okay to not tryhard creativity. even if you CAN, it's okay not to do it all the time. or ever, even. fuck around find out have fun etc
#NOT a discourse post i am musing out loud#there's discourse goign around the dash rn or i wouldnt mention it#but the past few weeks ive seen a lot of “DONT fucking mischaracterize my guy my fuckign god”#which is one of the most frustrating pet peeve there is#but i think a lot too about little baby me#fresh on her writing journey#and how discouraged i would be if someone pointed out the mistakes id made#i made a Lot of fuckups#and i also think about this one fic where one of the characters was INCREDIBLY out of character#me today would not be able to stomach reading it#but baby me was so ENCHANTED#and it introduced to me the concept that you dont always know the reason someone does something#and it made me read even more#and because of that i eventually found Expert Skill level fics#which introduced me to MANY little tricks and fidgets ive tried to implement#there were so so many reviews on that fic that called it shit or complained about the bad characterization#but a decade later i still think about it#there were several very corny mine/craft horror fics i read#which back in the day would be called cringe#and those were what inspired me to write my first horror fic and now im Enchanted by the whole genre#theres a lot of stuff i dont like to read but i like that other people are enjoying themselves#i dont know how to be succinct i hope my point is coming across well#this ties into my thing where fiction is for you first others later#here are my credentials: bb/h fan since before the elections (hi i was the guy who noticed his lack of armour post elections)#and a cross-fandom comment trend of people going 'woa i can see this happening in canon'#im not talking out my ass i genuinely think its more important to have fun than to write accurate characterization#which. is a more 'duh' and clarifying thing than everything else ive written#but ah well c'est la vie#also also just realized this could be interpreted like that- NOT an attack on people who complain about mischaracterization either lmao#i do that too w friends. this is to reassure people who put pressure on themselves to create things Well all the time
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as one shoots a gun in the air to keep rent low, I have to occasionally say I don’t care for s0riku to keep myself from being overwhelmed by my followers lmao
#I have noticed the last THREE days quite a few s0riku fans following me#and I don’t REALLY care if s0riku shippers follow me since#I try to keep my shipping rants under read-mores and properly tagged to avoid parade-raining#HOWEVER once I made a post and then got hatemail calling me homophobic 😭 LMAAOOO GIRL WHAT#so… if you are THAT type of stan shipper… maybe you and I won’t mix and you should take the exit#(and to be be quite honest— its not the actual ship that bothers me#but the ‘Riku is the Light’ and the character interpretations and the attitude that everything in KH revolves around Riku#funny enough its the same reason I avoid GamerBro Yozora stans)#nonqueer Yozora stans 🤝 queer Riku stans (over-evaluating characters)#anti soriku#<- see at least I properly tag so ppl can filter me lol
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I was just listening to a song I used to love while we were friends. I listened to it so often, we talked so often, it became the background music to our relationship.
I'm listening to it while I knit. I often forget that I started knitting because of you. I remembered tonight. It's strange, I never knitted anything for you. I've knitted for other loved ones, rarely for myself, but never for you. I remembered you showing me the amazing things you made, and I wished I could get to that level of skill. But at that time, you had to explain to me how to purl because I couldn't get it.
Everything reminds me of you in a terrible way. Everything I do is an echo of you. I started painting so that I could paint for you. I started knitting to bond with you. I hear your voice in the music I listen to. You're haunting the things that I love. Will I ever make a brush stroke or stitch without you on my mind?
#i should be able to block all music i listened to on Spotify from 2018-2020. i was not doing well and i dont need the reminders pls#im fine this was just kinda reflective#so much of what i do was inspired by her. i havent spoken to her in three years. we havent been friends for five#but my first painting was a gift to her. i started knitting because she knitted. i got so much music from her#we bonded heavily over music. and i used it to cope after she left. so unfortunately shes mixed into so much of it#she got me into dnd which got me into a different ttrpg im playing now (unknown armies)#shes a big reason i applied to the summer camp i worked at for six years#and a big reason i took the position i had the last two years. and the reason i told our camp legend (long story)#she was in my christmas in july gift i gave and received this year#i dont think ill ever be able to forget her. on good nights thats a good thing. its reassuring. she'll always be with me#but on bad nights. i feel like im never going to stop missing her#i was knitting tonight while listening to music. as the post suggests. and i was just overcome with her#this is the bed i was in when she called and left me. this is the bedroom we used to video call to practice sign language in#oh theres another one. i was going to be an asl interpreter. years ago in another life. i always practiced with her#we're both autistic and asl is easier than speaking a lot of the time#fuck. it reminds me of the ship of theseus. its 2:30am so i wont be able to explain well but#no actually i tried and i cannot explain. youll just have to understand. some days i wish i ciuld replace all the parts that were her#and sometimes im so afraid to lose the parts that were her because thatll feel like losing her#if i ever consciously decided to stop knitting (which i may have to do soon) it will feel like im replacing a board that was hers#how many of my boards are hers? are any of hers mine anymore? how many of hers can i lose before shes gone?#that last one was asked with fear and hope. and fear. depending on the day#god im tired. goodnight
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Eyo check this out Angel and Sans
https://www.tumblr.com/jazze-bee/743658605332627456/game-jolt-share-your-creations?source=share
They watch for a moment. Angel's face lights up in realization, while Sans merely looks amused.
#undertale#sans undertale#sans#ts underswap#ts underswap sans#ts underswap au#ts underswap self insert#self ship#Crossbones and Starstruck#ask game#undertale text box#text box#sans internally: this is like those concept drawing alphys made for me...#im pretty sure its canonical that alphys helped a little w/the crossbones persona but all her drawings were “cute”#implying she was drawing him like “blueberry”: the creature that the fandom turned regular underswap sans into#look theres a reason i didnt care for underswap much until this fangame#its cuz i really disliked that interpretation of sans ^^"#call me picky ig!#anyways thanks for the question!
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semi related to lrb but i need the first person who called T N W K an incel to meet me in a cvs parking lot in 10 min for an ass kicking for the irreversible damage they did to how the fandom interprets his character!!
#whenever i see someone call him that in an attempt at serious meta im like oh okay so youre just one of those 🦜🦜🦜🦜#im working rn but i have so much hostility towards that read on his character. for many reasons.#this isnt even me being a filthy blorbo apologist i just genuinely despise that interpretation/summation#i think it's reductive and inaccurate. i think the contradictory/weird writing doesnt help the situation.#and i can still manage to laugh at tired jokes here and there (see: haha hector is a feral tree man right right)#but this one just. doesnt quite fit that bill.#whoever the og person is for sure doesnt like n w k but for all the people parroting them after--#you know when you can tell someone can't really like form their own opinions or they just commit to hating/disparaging a character to stay#in the in-group? and otherwise yeah they might have really just been indifferent or hated the char based off vibes alone.#but its like that.#also thinking of ashley ME1-3#fandom bitterblogging#xantalks
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ive changed my mind since i wrote that post if Swatch got their hands on that email freak they would rip his arms off and personally drown him
#mostly joking. but also *eyes bloodshot#ive seen some . portrayals#dib noise#and interpretations#when i wrote that i didnt mean it in a ship way#they could hate eachothers guts for all of time and i don't think Swatch would do something as extreme as the acid 'theory' implies#like i cannot stress this enough. if you treat acid theory like an actual theory about the events of the game#and not just alternate universe/fanfiction shit#it implies Swatch and Queen are the most unnecessarily cruel antagonists in the game ???#like. id hesitate to call either of them really truly evil because thats the point#and if they really did do something that cruel even to an actual villain type character#with the way the game is written it would just be weird as fuck and bad writing if it was canon???#its less popular than it used to be when the chapter was new which is nice but i still see it kick around#or be one of the only reasons someone mentions Swatch
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one of the prev posts I was like oh cql? on the url and they WERE cql...but their top tag was...bad....but I don't even have the energy to refute their nonsensical arguments for it because like that's not what shipping really is about but also THEY REALLY THINK JC IS *THE ONE* TO MAKE WWX HAPPY AND LWJ IS BORING???? incest aside like jc makes wwx MISERABLE jfc canonically yeah lwj does make wwx happy and jc is left miserable and alone due to the consequenves of his actions including actively tormenting and mocking and humiliating and trying to kill wwx. go die mad about it 😭
#like 'wow their love for each other is so crazy and all-consuming its insane to thibk some boring lan cultivator could do that for him'#WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT!!!!! their relationship is so unhealthy and marred by debt and obligations in the FIRST PLACE#and even without that yeah there's love there but they also just don't see eye to eye on so many things and jc actively impedes#wwx in things he wants or believes in and also treats him like shit like this is fully a sector of the fanbase who are just making things u#in their own head to enjoy#which would be mildly annoying if not for the fact that it's 1. INCEST#and 2. between two characters with THAT kind of history. wwx needs someone he can like...trust..#okay I guess I donhave the energy. I'm less angry at them calling lwj boring. yeah he is kind of boring but that's fine#wwx canonically doesn't think so and canonically is very happy w him#these bitches think his arguably abusive extremely immature and volatile pseudo-brother who tortured and tried to kill him is BETTER FOR HI#?????? brother jc is not better for ANYONE. there's loving someone and there's wanting to be around them and shit. like there's so much#history there it's lucky if they can even be friends again#like 🤢🤢🤢 what the fuck are you on. the narrative was pretty clear. media comprehension -100000#I don't even think this person is unintelligent or anything they just have incredibly bad and nonsensical taste#or at least used to. idk how old those posts were I fully admit#wwx with anyone besides lwj is a hard sell but jc is beyond insane for multiple reasons#even if you 'don't see them as brothers' which is an interpretation I guess they still have a horrible relationship#and jc makes wwx feel terrible bc he has a bad personality and blames wwx for all the most painful things that happened to him and he lashe#out constantly. like he canonically makes wwx miserable and forces him to prioritize jcs own emotional and physical needs. by the end he's#a little better. but he's also not the moral beacon wwx gravitates towards. he's pragmatic and callous#wwx NEEDS someone he can trust someone who shares his principles someone who will take care of him and not demand him to crush inconvenient#parts of himself and play nice. to cater to someone else's feelings#like...structurally they're so well matched this post was insane I hate c/x shippers so much 😭#cor.txt
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