#so these are very likely to reflect the fact that i cannot write an office setting to save my life 💀 i hope they're still of some use lol

[scealaiscoite]

coworkers to lovers prompts ˗ˏˋ ꒰ 🍊 ꒱

¹⁾ “hey - in case no-one else’s said it, you’ve been doing some really great work lately. i really apprec- i mean, all of us really appreciate it.”

²⁾ “if you keep putting in nights this late, i think [boss] is gonna start charging you rent.”

³⁾ “stop jumping in whenever you think i need saving! i don’t need defending, and i don’t need you!”

⁴⁾ “you remember how i take my coffee?”

⁵���  “you don’t need to keep pushing yourself so hard, you know. we all know how hard you worked to get here - it’s okay to let yourself breathe now.”

⁶⁾ “if you don’t wanna spend the night in a empty house, you could always come over to mine.”

⁷⁾ “normally when you invite me to lunch, it’s with everyone else too. what’s so different about this time that you needed me alone?”

⁸⁾ “don’t tell anyone else, but i like working with you the best.”

⁹⁾ “hey, why are me and [name] being split up? you know we do our best work when we’re together.”

¹⁰⁾ “i figured you wouldn’t have the time, so i went and picked up lunch for you.”

¹¹⁾ “wow, someone’s looking good. who’re you trying to impress?”

¹²⁾ “[other coworker] told me you nearly lost it when they all tried blaming me for what happened. why did you care so much?”

¹³⁾ “do you make house calls to all of your coworkers when they call in sick, or am i just that special?”

¹⁴⁾ “why are you freezing me out all of a sudden? I thought you were happy I was dating again, and now you act like it pains you to hear about it.”

¹⁵⁾ “until such a time as the two of you can prove that you can work as well on your own as you do together, you’re going to be put on different schedules.”

¹⁶⁾ “why didn’t you tell me you were up for the promotion? did you seriously think i wouldn’t be happy for you?”

¹⁷⁾ “you do know you’ll be seeing me first thing in the morning, right? what’s so important that it couldn’t wait until then?”

¹⁸⁾ “one date, that’s all i’m asking for. one night to let me show you how good we could be together.”

¹⁹⁾ “i think people are starting to notice that you spend more time at my desk than you do at your own.”

²⁰⁾ “no, you don’t get to do this. you don’t get to make me fall in love with you, and then tell me there’s no way for this to work because of the job!”

[affableramen]

hiii i love ur writing and i have a request. what do u think pantalone would do if reader got a vision? tysm!!!!!

Hi, thanks so much

Actually it is a very complicated situation both in terms of emotions and future interaction of the characters. I think there could be 2 possible scenarios of how this case could develop:

The reader is hiding existence of her Vision for a long time, wanting Pantalone to feel closer and more similar to her in terms of being a loser, unsuccessful and not chosen. Yet she ends up getting a Vision after all.

Potentially it would mean that she is lying to him and sooner or later he will find out about it, as we all know Pantalone is a pure character of wisdom, there is nothing to slip off his fingers. In this case he would call her privately to his office and plan the discussion with cold mindset. He would even make his own lines in his head to not appear agitated (he is very agitated and shaky, but because it is also Pantalone we may not even see it – he is a good example of artless subtlety).

The reason for you to hide your Vision from him is because you would like to make him feel safe and protected, knowing that you are just as desparate and lonely as him. Around you there is a bunch of ‘heroes’, Vision users which make Pantalone most definitely feel like a black sheep. Knowing that you obtained no Vision he found himself comfortable, given the feeling ‘Yes, she is just like me’. After a while this however vanishes, once he learns you actually possess one. He cannot be mad at you, because he realises it is your responsibility to wield one, but he cannot deny how infuriated he becomes because of your lies. In this case I think he needs time and the best you can do for him is just leave him alone for a while before he cools off. He will, for sure, have a long ass conversation with you about why you’d keep it secret from him. In this case you just calmly explain him the situation that you wanted for him to feel better and you to not be the one priveleged.

However if acquiring the Vision was a recent achievement for you and Pantalone discovers it in the real time, he will be extremely shaken as the situation happens right in front of his eyes, and he is the spectator. When it is something that happened before you knew him, it is more likely acceptable for him because he does not hold power over your achievement, however if you get one during a relationship (or simply encounter, let’s imagine the two of you are not necessarily lovers) it will be difficult for him because it is something he could not control.

***

Pantalone was sitting in his headquarters, his hand gripped the glass of whiskey when he called you in. The guards carefully led the way to his private office and shut the door tightly, making room for you and Regrator to have a private conversation.

His fingers gripping the glass were shaking slightly which was definitely ironic, considering how usually composed he was, in front of you included.

As the door was closed you slowly approached his desk but stopped at a reasonable distance as you sensed the cold atmosphere between you two. It felt like Pantalone was not ready at all to let you in closer.

“You got a Vision”, he didn't ask you, rather stated a fact. A fact that raised both panic and frustration in you as you understand how it might affect the relationship between you two.

In all his hundreds of years he never got one, but you received it just in your twenties. His blood must have been boiling.

“I got it just recently.”

His playing with the whiskey glass stopped and he looked at you. The lights reflected the metal of his silver glasses which would only add coolness to the already icy room.

“How did you get it?”

That was the question you feared the most. Yet he already asked you in, and you had no point in lying and keeping things to yourself. You were not currently on good terms exactly and suffered quite an argument however Pantalone still treated you as a valuable asset, with a possible development of you into his official lover. Or at least that’s what you wanted to believe in. You wanted to feel as someone important to him, and it wasn't entirely stupid. It’s just that it was above his icy-cold rationality.

“Actually, after I fought you”, you responded quietly, your voice suddenly breaking, no matter how anxious you were, you felt as if you had to. “I got my Vision after I fought you.”

Pantalone scoffed,

“Wonderful. Amazing. You got what you wanted, didn't you?”

“I do not understand you.”

Pantalone shifted in his seat and finally stood up, he approached you with solid steps.

“Wasn’t it your dream – defeating me? I thought you would feast upon my sufferings. But you seem reluctant to it. What, cat got your tongue?” he would continue mocking you, his face inches away from yours, but his eyes were glassy once he opened them, as if he were crying all night like a teenager after being bullied at school.

“You know it is not like this. I dreamt of Vision, but when I met you, I promised I wouldn’t be seduced by its power.”

“Yes, that’s what you promised. And look at yourself now”, circling over you languidly, Pantalone used an excruciatingly degrading tone. “Now you’re chosen. You’re a hero. And what heroes do? They defeat villains. And that’s exactly what you did.”

“I never wanted this”, you tried to convey some thoughts into his head, to soothe him, but Pantalone immediately became blind to all your opinions. “It is not my fault that the Vision appeared to me. I didn't force it to come.”

“You want me to believe in this bullshit? You used me like a piece of meat to only leave me in shambles and get your little artifact. And now I am nothing in your eyes except for a villainous Harbinger.”

His words hurt and you could not deny it. Your hand softly grazed his fingers, not inviting into a intimate contact but making it enought for him to have shivers down his spine.

“Your tongue is spilling poison, as always, but weren't you mad now, you would never say such things to me. You just need to cool down.” With those, you exited his office, leaving him completely alone with his dark thoughts. But the way you touched his hand was so warm and gentle, he felt as if he needed more of those, and his conflicting thoughts were messing around his mind. He was weaker than this, he wanted you back immediately.

“I did not allow you to leave my office yet”, he spat. “Come back.

You’d ignore him and decisively leave without looking bad knowing that it would be better for him.

“I said come back here you idiot!” He’d scream and run after you, but it was late and made no sense. He fell to his knees, both his traumatic experience and alcohol taking a toll on him. Weak in his legs, he silently started sobbing, his head hanging down as he found himself completely shattered and unable to hold back tears. How could a mere mortal obtain a Vision while he was the one waiting for it for almost 400 years? This is unfair! How is he worse than anyone? How is yourself better than him? Where did he make a mistake? Why is he such a failure? Is he a joke, a mistake of this world?

You thought that once he’d be tranquil again, you’d visit him and make amends, but currently all he could do was accuse you of something you weren't guilty of. However, once the quiet sobs reached out to your ears, you made your way back from the staircase to his office. Upon entering the lavish, elegant decorum of his headquarters you see a not so elegant man sitting on the floor like a pathetic mess. The sight was nothing you would ever expect from him and if such a rational and reserved man acted this way, it would only mean the pain was insufferable. It is stupid, you thought, but you got nothing to lose, as you kneeled down to him and took his hands in yours, the cold leather of his gloves rubbing against your hands as you embraced him, trying to share the heat with his shaking body. And he let you do this, surrendering himself to you as he realised all you ever did for him was caring, not taking. And he had no right to accuse you of obtaining a Vision, no matter how hard it was to his chest.

[vickyvicarious]

Jonathan is really being very clear about his survival strategy today.

I began to fear as I wrote in this book that I was getting too diffuse; but now I am glad that I went into detail from the first, for there is something so strange about this place and all in it that I cannot but feel uneasy. [...] Let me be prosaic so far as facts can be; it will help me to bear up, and imagination must not run riot with me. If it does I am lost. Let me say at once how I stand—or seem to.

Write everything down in detail so that he can confirm it later. Already, several odd instances have happened, as well as him noting multiple times on different days that "the Count himself did x" which then supported his theory, confirmed today, that there are no servants here.

I started, for it amazed me that I had not seen him, since the reflection of the glass covered the whole room behind me. In starting I had cut myself slightly, but did not notice it at the moment. Having answered the Count's salutation, I turned to the glass again to see how I had been mistaken. This time there could be no error, for the man was close to me, and I could see him over my shoulder. But there was no reflection of him in the mirror! The whole room behind me was displayed; but there was no sign of a man in it, except myself.

When something weird happens, double-check to make sure you observed it correctly. In this case he checked back in his mirror and yes, there really was no reflection.

When I found that I was a prisoner a sort of wild feeling came over me. I rushed up and down the stairs, trying every door and peering out of every window I could find; but after a little the conviction of my helplessness overpowered all other feelings. When I look back after a few hours I think I must have been mad for the time, for I behaved much as a rat does in a trap. When, however, the conviction had come to me that I was helpless I sat down quietly—as quietly as I have ever done anything in my life—and began to think over what was best to be done. I am thinking still, and as yet have come to no definite conclusion. Of one thing only am I certain; that it is no use making my ideas known to the Count. He knows well that I am imprisoned; and as he has done it himself, and has doubtless his own motives for it, he would only deceive me if I trusted him fully with the facts. So far as I can see, my only plan will be to keep my knowledge and my fears to myself, and my eyes open. I am, I know, either being deceived, like a baby, by my own fears, or else I am in desperate straits; and if the latter be so, I need, and shall need, all my brains to get through.

A whole bunch going on here. His instinctive reaction is panic, but a type of panic that actually matches his character really well: being thorough, checking every possible option. But as soon as he can, he calms down and tries to think things through logically. His solution: keep quiet about it.

We saw this the other day in the caleche ride actually. Jonathan specifically said that he if he was right that the driver was deliberately delaying, then asking about it wouldn't help in any case. It's the same thing here: his own observations make it clear that Dracula is acting against him, and confronting him about it would only prompt him to lie. Worse, he may get more openly aggressive. Better to stay quiet and observant. Try to think clearly.

He did not come at once into the library, so I went cautiously to my own room and found him making the bed. This was odd, but only confirmed what I had all along thought—that there were no servants in the house. When later I saw him through the chink of the hinges of the door laying the table in the dining-room, I was assured of it; for if he does himself all these menial offices, surely it is proof that there is no one else to do them. This is a terrible thought; for if so, what does it mean that he could control the wolves, as he did, by only holding up his hand in silence. How was it that all the people at Bistritz and on the coach had some terrible fear for me? What meant the giving of the crucifix, of the garlic, of the wild rose, of the mountain ash? Bless that good, good woman who hung the crucifix round my neck! for it is a comfort and a strength to me whenever I touch it. It is odd that a thing which I have been taught to regard with disfavour and as idolatrous should in a time of loneliness and trouble be of help. Is it that there is something in the essence of the thing itself, or that it is a medium, a tangible help, in conveying memories of sympathy and comfort? Some time, if it may be, I must examine this matter and try to make up my mind about it. In the meantime I must find out all I can about Count Dracula, as it may help me to understand. To-night he may talk of himself, if I turn the conversation that way. I must be very careful, however, not to awake his suspicion.

Jonathan recontextualizes earlier incidents based on his current knowledge, and builds hypotheses about what might be going on. He doesn't immediately jump to conclusions but he also doesn't dismiss seemingly supernatural or superstitious elements, both helpful and harmful. He uses the fact that Dracula likes to talk to him in order to subtly gather information. He also is clear here that he doesn't immediately write down his suspicions. He's thought since the beginning that Dracula was alone here, but has confined himself to mentioning direct observations until he had firm enough evidence to confirm his theory. I think this is especially interesting in the context of things like him not mention outright that Dracula could beat him in a physical confrontation, or stuff like him not wandering the castle too far yesterday. He may well be thinking about what 'locked doors' mean with great worry immediately, but he doesn't act right away and doesn't tell his entire chain of thought to his journal. Later on when he may seem to jump to conclusions at times it's very possible that he's had theories percolating for a long time before mentioning them.

Above all he tries to operate under facts, and to keep calm and amass as much information as possible, while staying under the radar as much as possible.

[anavilante]

Yeah, this is non-con Stalag AU

@mstrota I like your tags. It’s also worth mentioning that Ulrich is not like Gale in bed at all. Gale is the only man John has ever slept with (in my headcanon John is not even bi, he has never been interested in men, dicks, asses, all of that, he is gale-sexual, he likes Gale not because he is a male and he has a dick, but because he is GALE). That's why it's even more difficult for him, because not only he does not want it, but Ulrich is also a male, and John didn't think he'd ever have to do this with anyone other than Gale or women. Ulrich is not like Gale in bed at all. John and Gale always had to hide, do it secretly, quietly, unnoticed, muffling moans, quickly, plus Gale doesn’t really like to openly say what he wants and what he needs, relying more on the fact that John will guess it and he won’t have to to voice this, but Ulrich is loud, demanding, arrogant, he knows what he wants, he commands John without any embarrassment. And this difference between them, this whole thing simply kills Bucky, making this all even more unbearable. And then this is reflected in his psyche - apathy, depression, thoughts of suicide, anger, aggression, persistent desire to get out of the camp, etc.

@shprka I don’t know about the fandom, but I love angst, basically I can read anything, but I can produce almost exclusively angst, if I start to develop thoughts, they almost always end on the dark side, and not on the light side.

@avonne-writes What interests me specifically in this situation is sexual assault against a man, when he is not in the role of a passive receiving part, but quite the opposite, it seems to me that little attention is paid to this and I am interested in thinking about it. There is such a subtle matter of consent here. No, Ulrich didn’t tie Bucky up and stick his dick in his ass. And no, he didn’t tie him up and don’t jerk his dick and then go down on him. He put John in a position where he had to agree to it himself. Yes, he threatens trouble for Gale and his people, but Bucky makes the decision himself whether to participate in all of this. Is this rape or not? Is this consent or not?

Plus I really want to emphasize that Ulrich is not just another guy, he is not just a person on the other side of the fence. Ulrich is the ENEMY. He has no feelings for Bucky, except for sexual interest, the desire to possess him like a rare beast, he doesn’t just force Bucky to do what he hates, he forces him to do it practically in front of his loved one and this gives Ulrich the same pleasure as the sex itself. He hates these Americans who came from overseas to bomb his German cities, he will do everything to make them regret their decision to come here, and even if he cannot kill them, he can destroy them to the ground in another way. And what's wrong with having a little fun in the process?

Ulrich loves to say "Come on John, don't be so stiff, fuck me like you fuck your Gale boy, you know how to do it" and Bucky wants to puke.

As a bonus, I want to say that when Gale found out, he didn't take it well. Generally zero of this fandom understanding, containing all the patience and love of the world ("Oh my poor Bucky, they forced him, he suffered so much! Come to me, I’ll hug you and we’ll cry"). No, Gale takes it very bad, very fucking bad. His boyfriend, his man, the only one with whom he had sex (he once called it making love, haha) REPEATEDLY FUCKED AN ENEMY, A NAZI OFFICER under his nose, and then returned and behaved as if nothing had happened, took Gale by the hand, helped with small matters, he pretended that everything was as it was. Was he threatened? They are all threatened, he is trained from the start what to do with threats to him or anyone else. Maybe Bucky is a traitor? Maybe he tells the Nazis everything he knows in exchange for extra food or better treatment? Gale doesn’t know, Gale no longer understands anything and he’s not sure of anything except that his world has cracked, split and fallen to the ground with small sharp shards of pain, resentment, anger and misunderstanding. And it will take a long time before there is even a little space in Gale’s mind to understand why Bucky did all of this.

Do you know what bothers me? This German officer Ulrich Haussmann, who interrogated Bucky…

He is played by Louis Hofmann, a German actor who starred in the movie Die Mitte der Welt (Center of My World) where he played a needy bottom.

And his top looked like Bucky - tall, big, with dark hair and blue eyes. And it just burned through my brain like a hot iron from the first seconds of his appearance on the screen. Remember his voice during Bucky's interrogation? How sweet and seductive was he?

And now this AU in which the German officer Ulrich Haussmann combines business with pleasure: he likes the American pilot Bucky, he would like to force him to fuck him, and fortunately, this pilot’s lover Gale Cleven is already in their captivity. Remember that scene when they asked how they would make us do this? And Bucky put his finger to Gale’s temple, showing exactly how.

Bucky knew what he was talking about, because this is how Ulrich made him fulfill all his desires. For Ulrich Haussmann, it's like killing two birds with one stone: getting a great black-haired blue-eyed lover who will do anything to keep his boy Gale out of trouble and at any moment you can report this information to Cleven, and that will certainly ruin the relationship between the two damn American pilots. It's a win-win situation. And Ulrich blackmails Bucky for some time, forcing him to fulfill his desires. And then Gale finds out that his Bucky is fucking a German officer. Can you imagine a lot of angst from all sides?

[astrologista]

i wonder why the functional cultural attitude towards fiction has changed to the point where the average person cannot suspend their own disbelief anymore.

everything has to be “realistic”. i guess internet critique culture like cinemasins has played into this where every single point of a film that’s not perfectly realistic gets pointed out and scrutinized like it’s a bad thing.

but the result of that is... just boring, bland moviemaking. like, it’s fiction. fiction. it’s not real. crazy things happen that wouldn’t happen in real life because it’s not. real.

the idea that fiction must perfectly reflect reality in every way is not necessarily groundbreaking or interesting when it’s done in a heavy handed way. it can be fun to be meta, to poke fun at fictional tropes, to question the way something is being done or write a script that feels relatable for modern audiences. but where’s the magic, the fantasy, the suspension of disbelief. 

where’s the character motivations - people do crazy things out of love, anger, grief. where is that reflected in modern, corporatized, neutered scripts where all characters have to be 2010s post-ironic and show as little genuine emotion as possible. why can’t the magic bring that character back from the dead even though that’s “so cliche”. it’s a story. it’s not real. it doesn’t have to be.

it pains me to realize that the animation industry used to be about true innovation. there was a belief that audiences wanted to see crazier and crazier adventures with out-of-this-world visuals, interesting stories, higher stakes. that was what animation was, it was freedom. pure ideas. the very fact that a movie was fictional gave its creators the freedom to portray almost anything through a director’s unique vision.

but somewhere along the way, studios decided that movies should be produced to be bland, tasteless mush with quips and joss whedon tier writing. never taking a risk, content to make their money back. don’t want to end up as a box office bomb and have 1000 youtube essays made about us, now do we? the funny thing is that literally every movie has at least 100 youtube “critics” trying to be doug walker and yms with a thumbnail that says “x movie was horrible”. just ignore this shit. it doesn’t affect the bottom line as much as you think it does, studios. damn.

i really hope we see some improved stuff after the writers and actors win their rights back. i am not bothered by the strike as there was pretty much nothing coming out that i was interested in seeing. i just want to see someone’s passion project again. bring the sincerity back and put artists back in control of their product, not finance guys. this is the one and only thing that can save this industry.

[sashi-ya]

ᴍɪɴɪ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛ > ＣＯＴＴＯＮ ＣＡＮＤＹ ＣＬＯＵＤＳ˚۰

ＣＩＮＮＡＭＯＮ ✧ ＳＣＥＮＴ ａｉｚｅｎ ｓｏｓｕｋｅ ｘ ｆ！ ｒｅａｄｅｒ

request. @zella07 asked: Hello sashi ya how are you? I just saw the cotton candy event it looks amazing can I request Cinnamon scent Sōsuke Aizen x female reader can it be N s fw 😅 thank you tw. kinda +18, sexual memories. not really super descriptive. I feel a little sorry for Aizen, so, I personally like to write him that way since the scenario takes place at the muken when he is all tied up. don't cry, he still deserves a few spanks. Also, was he really dreaming? under an illussion?... 😏 wc. 988 masterlist.

Alone. because I am superior? Lonely. I’ll be always lonely. And it’s ok. But sometimes, even I, miss you…

Deep, deep down the pit the only scent is the humid smell of passing time. Brown eyes too powerful to be uncovered. Lips closed. Tied, tied tightly.

It doesn’t hurt, he can’t see without his eyes. He doesn’t need it. His solitude, is this enough to pay for the sins a god has committed?

Covered, completely covered. It’s a little heavy on his shoulders, but he doesn’t care. nobody can come closer or else he would be even more alone.

However, there is something changing. He doesn’t know what it is, nor he can sense it. He is to strong to even feel another being’s reiatsu. But that scent, that scent reminds him of his old captain days.

“It’s all been a lie; then why do I feel sorrow for those days?” he questions himself; he knows he never intended to be a Gotei 13 captain. Aizen only wanted to be treated like what he still considers he is, a lonely god.

“What’s been a lie, Aizen-sama?” you ask, holding a cup of hot cinnamon tea in your hands.

The man tied to that eternal chair flinches, he can barely move his head, his hands are almost melting against the armrests. It’s so painful, so hard to see him that way.

He can’t speak, but for the first time he is dying to do so, to break the ties… at least just for once, only one time, a last time.

Aizen, however, is sure that he is hallucinating. There is no way you are there; you cannot be there. By that time, his reiatsu could have crushed you and soon your soul would be turn to invisible litmus dust.

And he shivers. What if… what if he has done that to you? He panics, a god with such intellect couldn’t panic. The heart? He has one? Is it freedom what he is longing for? Or is it your touch for one last time?

The cinnamon scent is now present all around him, stronger, so delicious. His mind plays tricks on him, he remembers the way your naked back looked while resting on the floor next to him. Writing stuff he only wrote to play the game, the candle reflected on his glasses, and your naked body like a trophy.

Aizen feels on his fingertips, the twitching sensation of your wet lips surrounded around them. The sweet nothings he used to repeat to you, just to trap you, like a spider ready to devour his little pray.

Your moans that were a mere showing of your human facet. Looking down at you, as he used your body, the way your back arched whenever he rammed deep, deep inside of you. He always thought, he always believed, you were nothing but a piece of his masterplan, perhaps a simple pawn on his chess game. But Aizen now realizes maybe it wasn’t that way…

“Aizen-taicho, you want tea? I prepared a special blend” you always told him, waiting outside his office. And he swears he can hear you now asking the same.

And almost, as if it was only work of his heart, he begins to feel weak. Hungry for the very first time in his life. “Come closer, I won’t hurt you” he tries to say, to even mumble, but his lips are sealed.

“Can I sit on your lap, Aizen-taicho?” he listens, are you really there?

You walk towards his black straps surrounded body; he can feel your palm on his cheek. “Yes, yes… sit on my lap, please” he thinks, he could swear his eyes feel a little watery.

Aizen can feel your weight on his legs, he plans breaking every bone of his arms just to cut the ties that hold him still. In fact, you can hear the snapping sound of them. He is not using Hado, he could hurt you, he could kill you.

“Please, stop Aizen-sama…” you whisper, pulling down the reiatsu concealer ties over his lips. The moment you do, he takes a big gasp of air. It feels refreshing, and even a little intoxicating to get that much oxygen.  “Don’t hurt yourself, calm down…”

His lips are dry, and the slowly move. “(Nam- Name)?” he asks, amazed. When did you ever hear him being that way? Never.

“Yes, Aizen-sama… hush… please, have some of your tea. I prepared it just for you” you tell him, pouring little by little the cinnamon flavoured hot beverage on his tongue. He swallows, slowly enjoying it, like a balsam to his throat, like a warming hug to his troubled soul.

A drop falls from his mouth, staying there on his lower lip, right on the verge of falling. A drop you trap with your own lips. He shivers, and a little “huh” escapes his lips as a rough sketch of a moan.

“You are so sensitive…” you whisper, right on his ear. You notice how much he tries to pout; he tightens his jaw muscles. More, more, give him more of your lips over his.

“Touch me more, please” he pleads, so needy… Aizen Sosuke, needy?

You giggle, sexily, like a succubus that visits his victim on their sleep just to suck their energy through misleading lustful traps.  “More, Aizen-sama? Do you want a kiss? Or two?” you purr, coming closer, so dangerously close to a creature that nobody should be able to touch.

He can only emit sounds, after all, even if he is a god, he is a man too.

Your lips interlock with his, tongues dancing, so wet, with the back taste of cinnamon. He can feel himself becoming even weaker, but he smiles… and this time is genuine, it’s not a cocky smirk… is a relieved smile.

“(Name), thank you for coming…” “I will always visit your dreams when you need me, Aizen-sama… stay strong, your time is about to come”

[criminalmindzjunkie]

The More Loving One

Masterlist

Summary: Professor Reid finds himself falling for a student. 

A/N: This fic is based on this request. I changed a few things up, but I hope you like the finished product!

Long time, no see! It seems like forever since I got to sit down and just enjoy writing something. And enjoy this, I did. I approached this one a bit differently than I usually do, but I like how it turned out none the less. I hope you all enjoy my take on the Professor Reid arc. The first poem I use in this fic is titled The More Loving One by W.H. Auden, and the second is from a collection of Perry poetry.

Also, I recently hit 2k followers, which is absolutely unbelievable. I can’t even begin to explain how thankful I am for each and every one of you. This fic is my love letter to you. Thank you all so much. 

Pairing: Professor!Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Content Warnings: a few swear words maybe?, teacher x student relationship, age gap, exhibitionism (sorta?), vaginal fingering, unprotected sex

Word Count: 4k

           For as long as Spencer can remember, he’s always had a predilection for the finer things in life.

           Spencer attributes the origin of his preferences to his upbringing. In his childhood, before his mother’s disease got the better of her, she exposed him to all sorts of literature. While he ventured to read all types of writings, he’d always been partial to tales of extravagance. A young Spencer Reid sought refuge in the profligacy of it all, as it was so starkly different from his own reality. Forced to bear the burden of household and a sick mother from an early age, Spencer’s own life left little room for reckless indulgence.

           Now, as a single adult male, Spencer makes it a point to give himself up to the finer things as often as he can. Spencer isn’t a rich man, nor is he careless with what hard-earned money he does have. He simply likes to treat himself to the occasional five-star meal, and even more frequently, posh clothing and rare books. Walls lined with hundreds of antiquarian novels and a closet full of Comme Des Garçon cardigans are where the indulgence ends, however, and until recently Spencer was content with this.

           But when she strolls into his life on the very first day of his teaching career, Spencer knows that his small luxuries will no longer be enough to keep him satisfied. The part of him that longs to have only the very best roars to life as he takes in every perfect inch of her. She stands before him, the embodiment of divinity and grace, looking like every fantasy he only dares to conjure up in the late hours of the night. A litany of cliches from every piece of romantic literature he’s ever read spring to the forefront of his mind in the instant that her eyes met his, but there is nothing stereotypical about the way her gaze banishes the air from his lungs. It is as jarring as it is intoxicating. He never wants to look away.

           Unfortunately, she doesn’t feel the same. With a light flush of her cheeks, she turns away from him, and in an equally unfortunate turn of events, she proceeds to shuffle down the aisle and into the second row of seats to the right of the podium. The realization that washes over him feels like ice water in his veins.

           She’s a student. Worse even – she’s his student.

           Spencer wrenches his gaze from her as if he’s been burned, and the fiery shame of his embarrassment makes him tug at his collar. As he struggles to stave away the lingering heat in his chest and even more embarrassingly, the tightness in his trousers, Spencer chastises himself. His own carnal urges often go ignored, a fact that is glaringly obvious as he cowers behind his podium in an attempt to hide his arousal. He feels more than a little bit pathetic. No self-respecting thirty-five-year-old man gets hard just from gazing upon a beautiful young woman.

           When Spencer pulls himself together enough to start his lecture, he positively forbids himself to look her way. It is hard to fight the urge, but every time he catches his eyes wandering to her, he reminds himself that she is an indulgence he simply cannot partake in. No matter how badly he wants to.

--

           It doesn’t take long for her to notice him noticing her.

           In the early days of the semester, she manages to convince herself that the stolen glances are but a figment of her overactive imagination. That, or an unhealthy dose of wishful thinking. But as the semester stretches on and the professor’s eyes linger more and more, wishful thinking gives way to a startling realization that she isn’t alone in her attraction. Professor Reid is, to her complete and utter astonishment, just as taken with her as she is with him.

           This is all but confirmed when a slight brushing of the hands during an exchange of papers leaves them both with flushed cheeks and pounding hearts. Both of their heads snap up, two sets of eyes meeting in a prolonged stare that results in an understanding of sorts. It’s mutual, this thing blossoming between them. She can see her own hopes reflected in two velvet pools of brown – can see the longing, the desire that burns within them. Her heart soars, as she imagines his does, and she accepts the papers with a smile.

           She also imagines that, if he could, he would tell her to wait for him. He would tell her that, for now, their relationship must stay strictly professional.

           This doesn’t stop them from sating their cravings in other ways.

           She makes it a point to stop by during office hours at least twice a week. Her visits always fall under the guise of her studies, but within minutes their hushed conversations stray from the professional and towards a more personal nature. She learns of Spencer’s mother and her condition, of his unusual job and his coworkers that were more like family. In return, she tells him about her upbringing in southern California, as well as her dreams of becoming a criminal psychologist. They never go as far as to discuss what will happen when the semester comes to a close. It is an unspoken agreement that the end of the semester will find them in each other’s arms. All they have to do is wait.

           Spencer can’t voice his affections with words, but he more than makes up for this with his actions. Without fail, every Monday following the very first clandestine brushing of hands, lavish bouquets of flowers arrive at her workplace. Each bouquet is always paired with a notecard inscribed with a brief explanation of the meaning behind that week’s flower of choice. Cherry blossoms to pay homage to her beauty, plumeria to symbolize their new beginning, agrimony to convey his thankfulness that she is willing to wait for him.

           Her favorite bouquet arrives four weeks before the end of the semester. As she steps through the doors of the bakery, a vase full of nine red roses sits atop the counter. The sight of them nearly takes her breath away. She pauses for a moment and runs her fingertips across the velveteen petals before plucking the notecard from its place.

           This week, Spencer chooses to forgo the explanation in favor of a messily scrawled poem;

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well

that, for all they care, I can go to hell,

But on earth indifference is the least

we have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn 

with a passion for us we could not return?

If equal affection cannot be,

let the more loving one be me. 

           That evening, Spencer receives his first bouquet from her. On his desk sits an arrangement of pale pink ambrosia.

           The meaning isn’t lost on him, but if it were, the note that sits next to the vase makes her intentions clear.

We never had to force love.

We were drowning in it from the moment we met.

--

           Spencer is horribly frustrated.

           A mere twenty feet away from where he stands, the notoriously garish and wholly unprofessional PhD program director is gesticulating wildly to the young woman that stands trapped between him and the hors d’oeuvre table. To find Professor Van Wesep in such a position is not uncommon, due to his penchant for trying to charm (terrorize) the prospective female doctoral candidates. The man is practically a walking harassment complaint waiting to happen. Spencer would abhor Van Wesep even if he weren’t the only thing standing in the way of him and his lover.

           At long last, the semester has drawn to a close. The lonely nights spent longing to hold her in his arms are a thing of the past. By the time the sun rises again, Spencer will no longer have to wonder what her body will feel like pressed against his. He’ll be thoroughly acquainted with every inch of her, and she with him. The thought sends a thrilled chill down his spine.

           The torturous foreplay they’ve been engaging in for the last four months would have surely broken a lesser man. Spencer would be lying if he said he wasn’t tempted on more than one occasion to have her during one of her frequent visits to his office. Some days, when her visits came later in the evenings, just as the sun began to dip low in the sky, her eyes would glisten in such a way that told Spencer her thoughts were none dissimilar to his own. That glimmer of lust had him holding on to his restraint by the skin of his teeth.

           And here they were, on the last evening of the semester. Final grades had been submitted and were released hours prior. Spencer would have been content to skip this event altogether, in favor of more… recreational activities, but his lover insisted on attending.

           Initially, Spencer assumed her insistence lay in her desire to mingle with her future peers and mentors. Her true intentions come to light when she breezes into the room clad in a pair of sleek, designer pumps. Her lips, painted fire engine red, curl up into a playful smile at the sight of a slack-jawed Spencer Reid. The devious glint in her eye twinkles sinfully in the light.

           Tonight isn’t a social call at all. Tonight, she wants to play with him.

           And play she has.

           From the second she arrives all eyes are fixating on her celestial beauty. Peers and mentors alike trip over themselves in their haste to capture her attention, if only for a fleeting moment. She works the room flawlessly, leaving a trail of smitten men of all ages in her wake.

           The most smitten is Spencer himself, because he’s the lone recipient of countless heated glances, as well as more than a few knowing smirks. She well aware of what she’s doing to him, and she takes pleasure in watching him squirm.

          Spencer intervenes when Van Wesep makes the ill-advised decision to reach a hand up to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. He barely has the time to withdraw his hand before Spencer is upon them.

          “I apologize for the interruption,” Spencer casts a faux apologetic glance at his colleague, before settling his gaze on his target. “Ms. Y/L/N, may I speak to you for a moment?”

           She looks positively gleeful. Perhaps Spencer should have intervened hours ago.

           “Absolutely, Professor Reid.”

           The honorific sends a jolt of heat straight to his groin. He definitely should have stolen her away earlier.

           The two of them say their goodbyes to a confused Professor Van Wesep, whose imploring eyes follow them as they hurriedly slip from the party and down the hallway.

--

           “Where are we going?”

           Spencer leads her down a long corridor, far beyond earshot of the other guests. Pushing her into a dark corner, he positions her between himself and the cold wooden door of an unoccupied office. The only sounds that can be heard are the distant thrum of the music and the eager pants falling from his lover’s lips.

           Spencer pulls her into a searing kiss, one hand tangling in her hair and the other finding purchase on her waist. He worries for a moment that he’s being too rough with her, that he should have taken a more careful approach to their first kiss, but she assuages those worries when she kisses him back with equal enthusiasm. Her hand reaches between them and clutches his tie, then she’s pulling him closer and whining wantonly against his lips. Spencer takes this as an invitation to slip his tongue inside and he finds himself letting out a low groan when he tastes a hint of strawberry.

           Spencer pulls away to catch his breath. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

           “Oh, I think I do, Professor,” she laughs, breathless. “Probably just as long as I’ve wanted to do this.”

           Spencer jolts forward when her hand slides down to cup him over his trousers.

           “Could’ve done that a lot earlier if you hadn’t insisted on teasing me for the entire night,” Spencer growls through gritted teeth. He’s more than a little proud of his ability to string together a sentence with her hand working him over with slow, steady strokes.

           He trails a line of kisses across the underside of her jaw, before taking her earlobe and nipping it lightly with his canine. Spencer’s actions are rewarded with a full body shudder. He dips his tongue in the hollow at the base of her throat and her hands ball into fists against his dress shirt.

           “Spencer, please.”

           Spencer hums and pulls back to look at her. The hand in her hair lowers, and he trails a thumb across where her nipples are hard against the fabric of her dress.

           “Yes, my love?”

           Her eyes flutter against the weight of her arousal, and Spencer twitches in his pants. The sight of her with her hair disheveled and her lipstick smeared on account of him is a heavenly thing. He doesn’t know how he ever deprived himself of such a splendor.

           “I want you. Right now.” She punctuates her words by pulling him down into a frenzied kiss. One of her hands tangles itself in the hair at the nape of his neck while the other busies with tugging his shirt out of his pants.

           “Right now?” Spencer taunts, mouth against mouth. His hand trails down the side of her breast, caressing her rib cage and her hip before stopping at her upper thigh. Spencer’s fingertips toy with the tops of her lace thigh highs. “But anyone could walk by and see us.”

           “I don’t care,” she argues, fumbling clumsily as she struggles to undo his belt buckle.

           Spencer’s wandering hand dips below the hem of her dress to explore the silky-smooth skin of her inner thigh. She’s soft here, too, he thinks to himself as his hand travels up, up, up. He stops just short of where she wants him most and she lets out a despairing cry.

           “You wouldn’t mind someone walking by and seeing you with your pretty legs spread wide for your professor?”

           Spencer brings life to his words by lifting her leg up, hitching her thigh around his hip and pressing into her. The silk fabric of her dress rustles as he pushes it up and out of the way.

           A breathy moan tumbles from her lips as he rocks against her, dragging his arousal up and down the front of her lace panties. The friction is maddening in that it provides only the smallest bit of relief. It’s not enough for Spencer, and judging by the way she desperately pushes down the fabric of his pants, it’s not enough for his partner, either.

           “Need to get these off now,” she murmurs against Spencer’s mouth. An eager hand tugs at the elastic band of his underwear.

           Spencer places his hand on hers, stilling her movements. “Not so fast, baby. Gotta make sure you’re ready for me first.”

           Her fingers clamp down on Spencer’s wrist, guiding him to the sodden lace between her thighs.

           “Don’t think that’s gonna be a problem,” she whimpers as Spencer’s fingers take appraisal of the drenched cloth. “In fact, I think four months of foreplay is sufficient enough. Wouldn’t you say?”

           “Maybe so,” Spencer muses, voice muffled as he sucks at the skin of her neck. “But I’m not willing to chance hurting you our first time together. You’re entirely too precious to me.”

           Spencer captures her lips in a kiss so sweet it has her sighing into his mouth. When he pulls away, he fixes her with a smile.

           “You’re not particularly fond of these panties, are you?”

           Her eyebrows pull together. “No, why?”

           Spencer pulls at the flimsy fabric harshly and it gives way under the force of it. He reaches back to stuff the thong in his back pocket.

           “That’s why.”

           Spencer’s lips come down against hers at the same time his middle and index fingers drag across her slickness. His foresight pays off when his mouth muffles the sound of her cries. As confident he is that they won’t be found, a cry like that would certainly have drawn unwanted attention.

           The swipe of his thumb across her crest paired with the gentle pressure of his fingers dipping into her heat is enough to make her legs buckle. Had it not been for Spencer pressing her against the wall, she surely would have fallen to the ground in a trembling heap.

           “I could get lost in you for hours,” Spencer groans, curling his fingers inside her in such a way that makes her clutch desperately to his shirt.

           “Spencer, oh my God,” she keens. “I need you, please.”

           “You have me, my love,” Spencer whispers the promise against her parted lips. “You’ve had me since the first moment I laid eyes on you.”

           Spencer speeds up the onslaught of his fingers until the telltale tightening of her heat warns him of her impending climax. He has to bite down on his lower lip to regain his own composure. The feeling of her tight and wet around his fingers is almost too good.

           “Spencer, I’m getting close,” she whimpers.

           Spencer continues until she’s on the cusp of tumbling over the edge, until one more pass of his fingers against her crest would surely seal the deal, and then he’s removing his hand and taking a step back.

           “Spencer, what the fu-,” she pauses when he promptly shoves his pants and underwear just enough to free himself from their painful confines. “Oh.”

           A dazed smile makes its way to her face as Spencer presses himself against her once more. He sweeps her up into a kiss comprised of pure, unadulterated desire, before pulling away and smirking deviously at her.

           “Jump.”

           It takes a moment for her pleasure fogged brain to make sense of the request, but as soon as it does, she complies without question.

           Spencer’s hands grip her thighs firmly and in one swift thrust he sheaths himself into her fully – an indulgence so grand that all others dull in comparison. Now that he’s had the finest, felt it wrapped around him like warm velvet, he can’t imagine a world in which he must live without it.

           “Spencer!”

           Spencer swears he’s never heard a sweeter sound than her crying out his name as their bodies come together for the first time. It’s synonymous with a siren call, he thinks, because in that moment she could lure him to certain death and he knows he would go with a smile.

           His lips seek purchase on the exposed skin of her chest as he buries himself in her paradise again and again. The sharp sting of her heels digging into his back with every thrust brings out a sort of primal urge in him, spurring him to rut up into her like a man possessed.

           “You feel perfect,” Spencer groans out against the flushed skin of her neck. He presses a soft kiss to where her pulse bounds just beneath the skin before pulling away and locking eyes with her. “When I’m old and gray and can remember nothing else, I’ll remember this. I’ll remember how it felt to kiss you for the first time – how it felt to touch you. How it felt to worship you and make love to your body.”

           Spencer’s voices catches, thick and overwhelmed with emotion.

           “I’ll remember how it feels to love you.”

           Her breath catches in her throat and sharp pang of panic burns hot in his chest. Had he misinterpreted her affections? Did she not burn for him in the same way? Perhaps the ambrosia meant nothing. Spencer’s movements falter, and for several torturous seconds he’s nearly paralyzed with fear.

            She silences those fears with a kiss.

           “Oh, Spencer,” she sighs as she presses her forehead against his. “I love you, too. More than you could ever comprehend.”

           Spencer resumes moving in and out of her, but the frenzied feeling from before is replaced with something else now. Something softer, but no less passionate.

           “Yeah?” he inquires, searching her eyes for any trace of insincerity. He finds none, and it’s a relief. Any hint of falseness in her claim would surely lead to a heartbreak he could never recover from.

           “Yes.” The word trails off into a moan. “I love you, Spencer Reid. I don’t imagine I’ll ever stop.”

           Spencer’s heart jolts and he whines pathetically against her mouth. “I’m counting on that.”

           “I’m close, Spencer,” she pants, her breath hitting his face in warm puffs. “Don’t think I can last much longer.”

           “Me, too.” Spencer nudges her nose with his own. “Reach between us and touch yourself, my love. I want us to cum together. Can you do that for me?”

           She nods, and the hand that clung to his right shoulder dips in between them to rub tight circles against her crest. Spencer doubles his efforts when he sees her eyelids flutter closed, and the resulting tightening of her core leaves him panting hard.

           “Spencer, I-” her breath catches in her throat as Spencer delivers a particularly strong thrust. Her head falls against his shoulder, her soft moans of his name like heaven to his ears.

           “Cum with me, baby,” Spencer grunts out desperately. He needs it like he needs air to breath and water to drink. And once he has it, he knows he’ll need it again and again.

           She gives it to him with a muffled cry of his name and he’s instantly swept away, drowning in the blissful way her body sings for him. His body follows her lead, shattering completely under her fingertips.

           While he’s been through similar acts with previous partners, those instances always felt impersonal and clinical. The caresses and whispered words were all a means to an end, an end that usually left him feeling lonelier and emptier than when he started. But right now, as he feels the beat of her heart pressed against his own, he swears he couldn’t feel fuller - full of adoration, full of affection, full of love. It’s beautiful and overwhelming and everything Spencer didn’t know he was looking for.

           A raucous round of applause erupts from the direction of the party, startling the two of them. Spencer feels her laugh against his neck.

           “It’s almost as if they were applauding us for a job well done.”

           Spencer presses a chaste kiss to the crown of her head.

           “As they should. That was sensational.”

           Spencer carefully pulls out and lowers her to the floor. He wastes no time in tilting her chin up and capturing her lips in a reverent kiss. Spencer hopes his lips convey his gratitude.

           The two of them pull apart and set to making themselves presentable. Their efforts prove to be in vain when Spencer points out a dark purple love bite nestled into the crook of her neck. She counters this by taking note of the smudge of red lipstick on his collar.

           “What an adulterous pair we make, Professor.”

           Spencer rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “I’m not your professor anymore.” He bends down and places a kiss to her lips before taking her hand in his.

           “I suppose you’re not,” she muses as they meander down the corridor. “Whatever shall we do now?”

           As the two of them step out of the dark hallway and reenter the party, Spencer smiles to himself. Visions of wedding rings flit through his mind. Spencer supposes he’ll have to take a break from the posh clothing and rare books in favor of saving his money. He’ll buy only the finest ring for his future wife, after all.

           “I have a few ideas.”

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[a-pretty-nerd]

V HITS DIFFERENT

FUCK ME

I WOULD LET THIS MAN DO UNSPEAKABLE THINGS TO ME!

So here's some headcannons because my hyperfixation is taking over my LIFE.

For my sanity's sake I'm going to say that after the events of DMC 5, V became his own entity outside of Vergil and he's now his own person.

Though he has Vergil's memories and considers them his own, he's his own individual which leaves him free to do as he pleases.

First on his list is his partner. Or hopefully soon to be partner. See, he met you and kinda fell for you before he merged to bring back Vergil.

In fact his memories and feelings for you was apart of how he came to be his own person aside from Vergil. While he was every human part of Vergil, it was his individual growth that made it too much and so Vergil was forced to spit him out while staying the same.

So now that he is free, and has you, his new life can begin.

Let's get the sweet SFW shit outta the way-

V can be stoic and quiet at times. Sometimes you might think he's mad or upset but really he's just thinking.

He's really taken with you.

Your strength, your interests, your personality, your appearance, your very being. He's enthralled by you and he cannot get enough.

You start living together pretty early on, and he's in heaven.

Sometimes poor guy gets imposter syndrome and he's prone to melancholy bouts of depression.

You're each other's emotional support Demon Hunters.

He'd probably go crazy without you.

Obviously he loves books, music, and surprisingly, cooking.

He's a creative type, clearly, and your shared spaces reflect that.

A two bedroom apartment or home is always necessary just because you always have to have a library/office space for the both of you.

One room with two desks and every wall covered by bookshelves. His collection grew really fast and continues to. So much so that you have to make him donate or trade in his old books in favor of new ones.

He won't talk about it unprovoked, but please, ask him about the book he's reading. Let him indulge in his hyperfixations and share them with you.

He has a very dry sense of humor. But you never fail to make him laugh.

He thinks you're perfection itself.

You make him feel so loved and cared for. He'd do anything for you.

He has all of the love languages. All of them.

He writes poetry about you and hides it away. You'll either have to find them yourself or beg him to let you read it.

When he realized you loved his poetry, he got more confident about it and he started writing poetic letters to you and leaving them for you to find around the apartment.

V gets flustered and blushes at the little things. Like you making him some tea, buying him something on a whim, turning over and snuggling him in your sleep, kissing his cheek without warning, smiling at him, etc.

V is very physically affectionate when you're alone. PDA isn't his thing. He does however, stay close to you in public. So don't turn around too fast because you might bump into him.

He's a tease on every level. He likes to you tease you about little things and crack witty jokes. He likes to get under your skin.

He loves it when you tease him back. He likes the witty back and forth of it. He doesn't laugh loudly very often, but he does smirk and chuckle.

Alright, now to the fun bit, NSFW:

V is cruel in bed.

Oh my God, his voice. He knows it makes you weak for him. He'll tuck his chin on your shoulder and speak softly in your ear.

The way he touches you, soft as a feather across your skin in an attempt to savor the feeling.

He's a switch, but rarely is there a real dom/sub thing between the two of you.

He'll try almost anything for you, he has his hard limits but other than those he's pretty kinky.

V doesn't have a super high libido, but he will almost never pass up an offer for sex with you.

He's a fast learner, sex also comes very naturally to him. The motion of the ocean is very, VERY good with this one.

He prefers to take his time, quickies are fun but not frequent.

V loves lingerie on you. He loves tracing the lacey patterns around your form with his eyes. The more delicate and artistic, the better.

As gentle and loving as he can be, he can and will fuck you into next week.

His favorite postion, now that he is in much better health and doesn't really need his cane, is having you on the edge of the bed while he fucks you.

He loves being able to lean up and grope you. To hold you and run his hands along your body. He loves to see your face, the way you look at him sends a chill down his spine.

He really likes talking dirty to you. He does it without really putting much thought into it. When things are really intense he'll just repeat himself in your ear.

"Yeah? Are you going to cum for me? Cum for me, love. Cum for me. Cum for me. Cum for me." He mutters into your neck.

He has a praise kink, of course. Tell him how good he makes you feel, how much you want him. He can't get enough.

Somedays, he just wants to stay in bed with you all day and fuck you over and over and over again. He wants to keep you all to himself, no interruptions, no distractions, just you and him.

He prefers to cum inside you. Of course with your consent. But it provides an intimacy he loves to indulge in.

He loves edging.

He does love the way you melt into his arms when he teases you. He's not one for control play, but sometimes, he can't help but revel in the way you beg for him. The way you moan and leave yourself so vulnerable to him to do as he pleases. You trust him so completely and that is a turn on for him on its own.

Somedays he just wants you to fuck him. He'll never explicitly ask for it but he wants you to pamper him.

Body worship is a big thing for him, giving and receiving.

It might actually take a minute for him to get comfortable to say what he really wants from you in bed. It's more comfortable for him to start out as the top, but as your intimate relationship builds, he will get to a place he feels safe and tells you everything.

Kiss him, everywhere. Especially his hips. For some reason his hips are sensitive to gentle touch. Kiss them, lick them, bite them, leave a hickey. In fact, leave hickeies everywhere.

V loves hickies, the look, the sensation. By the time you're done you're both riddled with them.

He hates the idea of public sex or sex tapes. He wants you alone. Those intimate moments are for you and him alone and he treasures them. No way in hell is he letting anyone else see that.

Bonus: Dilf V?

V is prime dilf material.

I think V would definitely need to be in a very specific, very safe place in life to want to have children.

He's not against having kids, especially with you. In fact, it's you that makes him warm up to the idea. If it's with you, then yeah, sure, but on several conditions.

He wants to keep them as far away from demons and demon hunting and all that, as possible.

If he is going to have kids, they are growing up nice and safe and normal.

He doesn't feel like he's great with kids, sometimes they make him nervous, but kids love him.

He's a hit during family events. He lets the kids "color in" tattoos. It's mostly children smearing marker over his arms but still, it's sweet.

V is very calm and kind, and somehow that translates into wild children stopping everything just to listen to him talk.

As a father, he's fucking ADORABLE.

He also refuses to let anyone else hold them for the first few months.

He is constantly doting over the baby, it is so hard for him to leave the house.

Reads to them, everyday. So precious.

He wants everyone to see and know about the baby and how amazing they are, but at the same time doesn't want anyone close to them.

Very protective papa.

After he gets over the nerves and fears with the first baby, he wants another.

Loves watching you with the kids. He thinks you're such an amazing parents.

[utterly-emotional]

hey, lover! today's is valentine's day and your little love has something for you:

i would like to start quoting vladimir nobokov in one of the letters he wrote to his wife. last week, i got to reed some of the author's letters such as kafka's letter to felice or milena, virginia's letters to vita and, of course, nabokov's letters to vera. it creates a space of intimacy, i liked his letter because it felt so passionate, the way he described her lover is something truly unique.

"How can I explain to you, my happiness, my golden wonderful happiness, how much I am all yours — with all my memories, poems, outbursts, inner whirlwinds? Or explain that I cannot write a word without hearing how you will pronounce it — and can’t recall a single trifle I’ve lived through without regret — so sharp! — that we haven’t lived through it together — whether it’s the most, the most personal, intransmissible — or only some sunset or other at the bend of a road — you see what I mean, my happiness?"

as you may know -because you know me very well- i'm not really into being "possessed" by someone, however i feel the need to be yours in some sort of spiritual way. i like you, i love you and i would love to be engraved on your ribs, on your skin, on your lungs or your heart; i would love to be hanging of your eyelashes or the sharp words that come out of your mouth when i'm not close to you. i know for a fact that we're not truly possessed by each other but i do know that we like under each other's skin like some parasitism interaction. i continue to quote from another letter:

"I simply want to tell you that somehow I can’t imagine life without you…

I love you, I want you, I need you unbearably… Your eyes — which shine so wonder-struck when, with your head thrown back, you tell something funny — your eyes, your voice, lips, your shoulders — so light, sunny…

You came into my life — not as one comes to visit … but as one comes to a kingdom where all the rivers have been waiting for your reflection, all the roads, for your steps."

by the time we met -or the time i found you- i had been craving love, closure yet i couldn't give myself to someone else because i was afraid. that first contact felt so... intimate too. you told you were moving and you wanted me to celebrate with you that you got a new apartment. i was pretty sure that you wanted sex but then you said you wanted to kiss me even if it was on the door of your office, in front of every coworker there. there i knew it wasn't just physical, it was a mere connection from the soul and it felt as if i finally was getting home. i'm telling you this because nabokov always thought his land existed to wait for vera and i felt the same when i met you; as if my neck and cheecks were waiting for the tenderness of your kisses, and my ear were waiting for your loving words.

we've -for sure- hurt each deeply, once nabokov cheated on his wife and contemplated the idea of committing suicide, yet we're still together -and they died being married and loving each other-. i'm glad to get to be your lover, your husband, your boyfriend, your friend and your valentine today but, most important, i'm glad to get to be the one of your dreams because you're the one in mine. i love you, i adore you, i desire you, i worship you, my biggest love.

[alighieri-sparda]

DMC Boys Sucking Male S/O Off

➤ Masterlist | Rules

Yeah, I know it’s not a request, but I had this idea a month ago and just now I decided to write it out. I took a while to finish it (as usual), but here we go.

I have a lot of Male!Reader stuff prepared to be written. Boys also deserve attention from our handsome devils, right?

Enjoy. :)

WARNING: Explicit descriptions of oral sex under the cut.

‣ ‣ ‣

Dante

It is one of his favorite things to do on you. No matter if it’s part of foreplay or just a random blowjob in the office, Dante likes giving you as much as he likes receiving it.

When he wants to have you in his mouth, you can easily catch him staring at you and then sense him behind you. His arms embrace your shoulders as he guides his mouth to your ear and asks you to sit on his chair and let him have some fun.

“I mean… You want it now?”

“Why not? You and I aren’t that busy anyway,” says Dante, trying to run away from his responsibilities.

Even though Dante can take you entirely in his mouth with no difficulties, he usually starts slowly to tease you. He loves when you start to beg him to go deeper with his mouth in a muttered and shaky tone of voice.

Dante is also very much skilled at deepthroating. This teasing devil is aware how much you like it when you can feel the tip of your shaft touching the back of his throat and how difficult it is to keep quiet when he does it, so Dante rather saves it for when you’re close. Thereby, he can make sure he’s going to swallow everything, wasting no drop of your seed.

He’s probably going to touch himself while he has you in his mouth. Not only to please himself but mainly because the grunts and moans he lets out against your sensitive skin make you throb even harder between his lips.

Read his actions while he’s sucking you off. If he’s constantly grabbing your thighs and being too slow, Dante can’t wait to have an opportunity to fuck you. But if his actions are a bit intense and he’s moaning too much against you, it is a not-so-subtle request to get laid. If you’re not sure about what he wants, it’s okay to ask him when you’re both done. 

That’s pretty obvious at this point but it has to be said regardless: Dante has no gag reflex. Don’t be afraid to cum at his throat and neither feel guilty if your mind was too numb to warn you were close. Dante knows when you’re about to come and he always swallows, so that’s no big deal for him.

Nero

Oh, if it isn’t a hell of an amazing experience. Nero somehow manages to make you feel that’s the first time you’re feeling his delicious mouth around your flesh. Perhaps the factor that increases his ability is his true desire of doing it since he explicitly prefers to give you head instead of receiving. He likes when you do it on him of course, but if he had to choose, the answer is pretty obvious.

Most of your make-out sessions with Nero will end up with him kneeling before you and teasing you to death. 

Though he doesn’t necessarily want to make you beg for him or whatever, even if he thinks that’s a nice extra. Nero enjoys the sight of you gradually losing your composure, going from a few simple gasps to a bunch of contained groans and desperate hip movements.

“That serious already? Let me take care of it then.”

He’s usually submissive to your commands, so take advantage of it and tug his hair to control his head or thrust against his mouth, moving your hips at the pace you enjoy. When Nero wants to dominate, he’d go for some lazy and controlled handjobs on you.

And yes, he loves when you facefuck him. This is important.

Nero has an average experience. With a bit of effort, he can take your cock entirely in his mouth — and even not so skilled at deepthroat, Nero doesn’t mind choking sometimes. He’s naturally too giving, so he’s constantly trying to take you deeper and make you feel more satisfied at each attempt.

Similar to his uncle, Nero is a damn switch. However, unlike Dante, Nero will always act the same when he’s sucking you off, whether he wants to fuck you or be fucked. What will determine his preference is the sentence he says after swallowing your cum. 

“I’m not done with you yet,” Nero would say before preparing you to be fucked in the nearest safe spot. But if he wants you to fuck him instead, you’d hear something like “Why don’t take care of me now, hm?”

V

Sudden blowjobs in empty alleyways? It’s more likely than you think.

The lack of experience of Vergil obviously reflects on V. Much likely his complete part, V doesn’t rush his apprenticeship: he acts slowly, repeating what you do on him. He’s more used to submission than Vergil though, so even after learning everything, V can switch between dominating you or just obeying your commands.

During his first attempts, you are completely free to control his head movements or just face-fuck him, but always remember to be gentle to the fragile poet. V can easily choke if you go too hard on him — but the fact that he doesn’t complain about choking makes you think of interesting possibilities.

He likes the idea of swallowing, but you’ll prefer to cum on his lips and face instead of doing it directly on his throat. Eventually, it’s going to become his preference.

V may not be skilled at blowjobs in the beginning, but his devilish hands compensate it all. He’s constantly stroking the part of your shaft he cannot take in his mouth yet and massaging his balls/inner thighs. It helps him a lot since he knows the pace you like when he has his hands on you.

If you want to press his “hornier” button, caress his hair and praise him. Tell V how fast and well he’s learning, and how good his mouth feels around you. Extra points if your voice is trembling due to the pleasure you demonstrate you’re feeling.

Speaking of which, you better don’t hold back a moan because V won’t do it either. This new sensation is so good for him, feeling his mouth so full with your throbbing and wet sex, so he takes his chance to stimulate you even more with the vibrations of his groans around your sensitive skin.

Once he learns what to do and gets confident about his skills — which won’t take much longer if you're praising him correctly —, V will realize he prefers to give you oral instead of receiving it. No matter if he’s going to fuck you until you’re both exhausted or if he’s about to be gently pegged by you, V will always kneel before you to at least tease your cock with his mouth.

“It’s not my fault you taste so good, prince.”

Vergil

At first, you’d avoid asking him to suck you off. Vergil is still pretty inexperienced and you’d be afraid to make him uncomfortable somehow. But Vergil himself will come up with this idea during foreplay, not exactly giving you the chance of objection though. He just knees and hopes you get what he will do.

“Vergil, what are you—”

“Just let me do it.”

His first movements are going to be gentle and almost experimental. It’s not like he has absolutely no clue of what to do because… well, he has a dick himself and you already satisfy him like this very much. He only needs to get used to having his mouth full while he tries to satisfy you.

He tries to imitate what you usually do on him with some variations. Since Vergil cannot take you entirely in his mouth at first, he decides to stroke the part he doesn’t reach. Depending on your reactions, Vergil surely will risk some attempts to take your entire shaft.

Vergil won’t ask for it, but he will be very grateful if you gently guide his head at the pace you prefer — he already enjoys it when you tug his hair while he fucks you anyway. Do not be afraid of giving you some tips and do not contain your reactions: those factors are important for him because that’s how he knows if you’re liking it or not. 

But when he finally learns how to do it properly and what you like, don’t even think about trying to control his movements. Vergil will press you against the mattress and suck you off while he spreads your legs and grips your thighs, preparing you for what will come next.

He doesn’t like the idea of swallowing at his first attempts, so take care not to surprise him and choke the poor devil: warn when you’re close. After some practical lessons, however, you’re always going to feel a low satisfied grunt against your shaft whenever you cum between his soft lips.

It’s also important to say that Vergil won’t deny you a blowjob — woah, never —, but he usually doesn’t offer to do it. So, if you want it, you will have to ask him.

[askfriskandcompany]

So, I need to be able to cite the sources for everything you put on the Crinja page to prove it's credible. Could you repost that here?

(Clears throat)

The Way of the Crinja is a semi-religious philosophy founded by the first-generation ninja master Silvamaru. He was, by all accounts, a very tacky individual whose mere presence inspired second-hand embarrassment in nearly all who saw him. He wore bright colors, mixed patterns, fishnets, a spiked collar, his hair was rainbow colored, his left eye was black and red, his right eye was pale white, he spoke in an exaggerated accent of unknown origin, and no matter how much he bathed he always smelt strongly of citrus. And on top of all that, his personality was big, loud, boisterous, blunt, and prone to misreading social situations.

Silvamaru found great difficulty in finding friends due to him inadvertently annoying a lot of people. And when people DID sort of accept him it was always with the expectation that he had to “tone it down a little”. For the first ten years of his time in Trashlandia, he slowly began dressing more conventionally, faking a softer voice in a more “normal” accent, dying his hair black, and trying in vain to suppress his pervasively citrusy odor.

Living like this caused Silvamaru great anguish over time, to the point that he began contemplating taking his own life. According to legend, he decided one day to throw himself off of a great sea-cliff which is now known as Dousatsu no Gake, or Insight Cliff. It is said that after he fell into the sea, Trashlandia Herself fished him out of the water and resuscitated him. The sea water washed the black dye from his hair revealing it’s rainbow colors again. Once he was awake, Trashlandia stayed with him for a time and talked to him about his troubles. She told him that he should not feel ashamed of himself, and that the ones who ought to be the most ashamed are the ones who made him feel that he had to be another person to gain acceptance. She then brought him to the home of a doctor, explained the situation, and taxed the doctor with looking out for Silvamaru’s mental health.

Eventually, after a long period of self-reflection and working on his mental health, Silvamaru made the startling discovery that the emotion of Cringe could be used as a source of magical power. He then developed his own technique and philosophy for wielding this power effectively. This power made him a powerful solo-combatant and surprisingly subtle infiltration expert. He named this power Crinjutsu. He primarily used his newfound power in service of defending his village from brigands, warlords, and other outside threats.

As he grew older and his body could no longer keep up with his demanding job, he retired from ninja work and began instructing several disciples in the art of Crinjutsu. Eventually he committed his teachings to writing in a huge scroll called “Way of the Crinja”.

The first chapters of Way of the Crinja are dedicated purely to the philosophy of Crinjutsu. He writes that one cannot truly master the Crinja Way without first accepting yourself, accepting others, and riding one’s self of selfish pride. Only then can one master the magical techniques of Crinjutsu, as well as reach true joy and peace.

This philosophy is now held widely by the majority of people who live among the islands of Trashlandia’s eastern seas.

A mastery of Crinjutsu is seen as proof of one’s moral character, thus all leaders, from the Grand Kage to the Cheif of the smallest village, are expected to display skill in Crinjutsu to even be considered for office.

Since acceptance is the highest virtue of a Crinja, the people brought up in Crinja culture are exceedingly individualistic in personal expression, yet also United under their common belief system. The Crinja tolerate nearly anything, except of course for intolerance, which they are quick to stamp out on sight. They tend to be suspicious of those who do not adhere to Crinja ideals, and although they respect Trashlandia as a kind and moral person worthy of respect, they do not worship her as a goddess. In fact they often distrust those who DO worship her.

The majority of Crinja are descended from abandoned ninja-OCs or anime-OCs of various kinds. Most (but not all) are humanoid, and speak a dialect of Trashlandic that incorporates many Japanese words, idioms, and honorifics. Their clothing styles run the gambit from purely practical to completely ridiculous.

-TQ

[chainofclovers]

Grace and Frankie 7x1 - 7x4 thoughts

Meh? Like...I love them so much, but...meh?

(I did enjoy this line about brunch.)

I really loved season 6 of Grace and Frankie. I thought it was well-paced, largely very well-acted, generally well-written, and it culminated in a massive moment of character development for the title characters, who, having spent years growing closer and being there for each other when others could not or would not be, finally articulate to each other that they are the primary person in each other’s lives. Platonic gal pal soulmate BFF emotional support witches 4 lyfe!

I know progress isn’t always linear, and in fact is very rarely linear, but after a moment that significant, you’d think the writers on this show would maybe come up with some more interesting things for these characters to do than spin in circles?

@bristler and I watched on Friday night, and just this morning over breakfast had a good conversation about the first four episodes of the new season now that they have settled in our brains a bit. We concluded that the writing (often noticeably clunky, like the dialogue is responsible for more narration than usual) and the tone (aggressively wacky) feel really off, especially compared to the prior season. I think we diagnosed the big issue, which is that Lily Tomlin and Jane Fonda are by far the most talented actors on this show (if you disagree, fight me in the parking lot) and it feels surprisingly unfortunate that their characters have, to this point in the new season, pretty much figured out their perspectives on each other. No matter how people feel about Grace and Frankie’s sexualities, the whole show has been about them finding each other and getting in deeper and deeper, and it’s less interesting to watch other characters have realizations about that than it is to watch Grace and Frankie having realizations about themselves. If the title characters are now limited to reacting to other people’s actions, and the title characters are played by the best actors on the show, the whole show’s gonna suffer. And is suffering, very much so, at least for these first four episodes. I’m definitely still excited for the final twelve in 2022 (twelve! I cannot believe this season will have sixteen eps!), but I’m pretty disappointed so far.

Stuff I Loved:

The family brunch. These families have been entwined for so long, and the backstory for this particular brunch was so fun (even though I didn’t care for the effects they did to depict Grace and Robert 25 years ago; there was no need for a visual flashback in the scene). I love that Grace hit Frankie with a wiffle ball bat. I love that the two couples realized some of the emotional reasons behind their decisions to lie to each other about Bud’s Bunny and about M’Challah. I love the way Jane Fonda sounds uttering the phrase “Bud’s Bunny” with little to no irony. I love that Grace is able to recognize and articulate just how deep and miserable her anger issues were, albeit with the continued help of her omnipresent martini, and that Frankie told her she’d now make up a holiday in order to spend more time with Grace. I really, really hope Frankie does exactly this at some point in the remaining episodes of the season. I love that Grace is generally a pretty good person now, with aspirations of being a delightful person. I love that she and Frankie don’t have it in them to stay angry with each other, and I love all the evidence that they really, really talk to each other about everything now.

Frankie talking to the man at the office (I don’t remember who he was supposed to be? A toilet manufacturer? I didn’t mention this before, but I actually got pretty high while watching?!? Believe it or not, this was the first time I smoked pot and watched Grace and Frankie at the same time despite having enjoyed both activities on their own for quite some time. I would recommend the combo! And I think I still pretty much got what was happening) about paying for the toilet parts with candy. This whole subplot with the money laundering was absurd and not that interesting, but I loved this particular scene because it was finally evidence of some really thoughtful writing. The concepts aren’t enough! You have to write them into good dialogue! And the whole cash/candy thing was a moment of dialogue that only someone as hilarious as Lily Tomlin could pull off. Which she did, IMO.

In a show about super messy people, Coyote has stayed sober this entire time. He is sober, employed, in love, and preparing to buy a full-sized house with his partner. He hasn’t murdered anyone in his family. Hasn’t even attempted murder once.

In 2017 or whatever, Grace Hanson would have been furious about Frankie using obscure Beatles references like a treasure map when hiding the cash. But here in 2021, she cooperates and even gets in on the fun. The writing is very unsubtle this season, but that did feel like a reasonably subtle moment that shows how good of a partner she is for Frankie. (Platonic, of course! So platonic. Female friendship, amirite?)

Stuff I Did NOT Love and Felt Incredibly Negative About:

Brianna. I can only conclude that June Diane Raphael has decided she’s happy with playing a character whose primary role in life is to be hot and mean. She succeeds at being hot and mean, but I have reached my limit with this character. I realize we’re only a quarter of the way into the season, but I don’t think I can take another arc about her learning to compromise only to reveal to Barry that she never intended to compromise at all. At this point, it’s both abusive and boring. How?! The Grace/Brianna parallels aren’t interesting anymore, because one character has grown and the other is stagnant. I get that Brianna was raised in an emotionally stilted environment by two unhealthy people. But I think it would be very cool if she could learn something from her mother at this point. Grace has put a ton of effort into dealing with her “rabbit-killing, mad-at-the-world anger.” She’s put a ton of effort into figuring out what makes her happy, what she wants her life to look like. She’s even started accepting her age and abilities without shame. And that growth is believable; Grace is still short-tempered and she still slugs back way too many martinis and she struggles to articulate certain things, but she’s grown into a truly lovely human. And while, as a daughter with a mother, I can absolutely attest to the fact that it can be difficult and uncomfortable to learn lessons from one’s mother, Brianna really, really should. Grace spent decades letting anger and shame trap her in a small, miserable life. Brianna—and even Mallory, who just seems like a vapid idiot this season—are traveling that same path, but there’s someone right there who could really help, maybe even more than Frankie helped when the Hanson girls were first growing up.

The arraignment. The scene might’ve been salvageable if it was filmed from Grace’s perspective, and filmed to reflect how surreal and improbable it all was. But speaking of non-linear progress, this scene erased everything Nick Skolka has done to put himself in my good graces (LOL) over the past couple seasons. I mean, I tried, man. I even wrote fic about Nick, Grace, and Frankie making a genuine effort at polyamory. But the arraignment is so emotionally manipulative, such a slap in the face of everything Grace has worked for, and while we’re certainly “supposed” to feel the weight of the moment, I mean, it’s not like we’re supposed to be like, “Oh, cool, we’re in a rom com now! This is adorable!” it still felt bad and unearned and slapdash.

And I want Frankie to process these things with her! Frankie seems so happy to have all this information about Grace and how Grace feels, but I want to see scenes in which we can gain an understanding of how Frankie actually feels. Hearing Frankie talk to other people about how Grace feels is interesting, but it’s like there’s no room in these episodes for us to learn anything new about Frankie herself.

Grace’s transitional wig. Is so. Bad. It is. Such a. Bad wig. Oof. I mean, I like what they’re doing with Grace’s hair from a plot perspective, although (see one bullet up) I would really like to get more of an understanding of what’s happening in Grace’s head, not just on top of her head. And gosh, Frankie would be a really good person to talk to about this in a conversation that lasts longer than 30 seconds. But the wig! She’s in a wig in all four episodes, of course, since Jane Fonda went grey and cut her hair short before they started filming this season. The wig for episodes 1 and 2 is fine; it’s a good approximation of Grace’s typical hair, and of course we know that canonically Grace’s hair isn’t 100% her own hair anyway. But the wig with grey roots looks so weird. The part that’s growing out doesn’t look the same as the hair on the wig from 1 and 2. And the grey roots look like a yarmulke. I cannot wait to get to the point in the season when Grace goes all the way grey.

(One more thing about the hair. I can’t let it go. I paused the show while we were watching to rant, but I’m not done.) I had the great privilege of seeing Jane Fonda in person at a protest in 2019. She is an insanely beautiful human. She was growing her hair out and it was partially dyed blonde and partially grey. It looked really cool. I am not ashamed to say I spent that day learning many things about the climate crisis and about Jane Fonda’s hair. Having seen her in real life with her real hair looking that fucking great, I just have a an extra-large grudge against everyone involved in that horrible wig. The wig is necessary, but it didn’t have to be this bad.

What Do I Care About Now?

I am pretty intrigued by the way Grace threw out her real age in a conversation with Nick and Elena. She has nothing to fear anymore! She’s so chill about aging! What could go wrong? I assume that Nick and Elena maneuvering for Nick to be on house arrest in Grace's house specifically has to do with the fact that Grace is 82. She’s gonna find out that Nick is allowed to be with her because she’s ancient and helpless and the court took pity. Or something like that. She’s going to feel betrayed on top of feeling stifled and overwhelmed by Nick’s presence. I want to see where this goes for sure.

Other than that, and other than the fact that I really do continue to believe this show is moving in a direction in which Grace and Frankie will choose each other, I feel very whatever about this whole thing. I love this show and I will always appreciate this show for giving me some incredible characters to spend years of my life writing about, and for bringing me some pretty amazing friendships. Speaking of those friendships, yesterday @ellydash and @telanu and I were talking about some of the incredible TV we’ve watched recently, like Ted Lasso and Hacks and Fleabag and Killing Eve, and how great it feels to watch beautifully written TV crafted by writers who are profoundly—organically yet intentionally—attuned to even the most minor character’s rhythm. The disappointment of these first few episodes of the new G&F season feels like a mild disappointment rather than a sharp heartbreak, and that has a lot to do with being deeply invested in other shows that could also go in all kinds of different directions but with writing I fundamentally trust.

Also Jane Fonda and Lily Tomlin are my forever faves and my appreciation for their performances and general awesomeness onscreen and in life is undiminished. So that’s pretty cool.

[hephaestuscrew]

Minkowski's Position as Commander: An Attempted Analysis

TLDR: Increasingly as the show progresses, Minkowski's role as Commanding Officer of the Hephaestus is not about the position given her by Goddard but is instead about a choice that she and her crew continually make.

At the start of the series, Minkowski very much believes that she derives her authority from the position given her by Goddard Futuristics. It's clear that this military chain of command is really important to her. For example, when Hilbert attempts to leave Minkowski to die in space, the main thing she says to try to persuade him to let her in is:

This is treason. This is a betrayal of your commanding officer.

[CONTINUED BELOW THE CUT]

It's quite revealing that Minkowski thinks that military protocol / her role as Commanding Officer provides the most powerful reason for Hilbert not to kill her, even though he has known her for nearly two years and they have generally been on quasi-friendly terms.

After Hilbert's Christmas mutiny (and to a certain extent even before that), the Hephaestus crew know that Command cannot be trusted. The authority that initially conferred a position of power onto Minkowski has lied to them all and is actively malicious. So past that point, Minkowski's status as Commander isn't really determined by the fact that Goddard Futuristics gave her that position, because the crew have no reason to obey Goddard anymore. The basis of her authority no longer comes from Goddard, but more from a kind of unspoken agreement that someone needs to be in charge and it ought to be her. As rebellious as Eiffel and Hera both are, neither of them actually question Minkowski's status as Commanding Officer. It's true that they often don't obey her orders, but when they go against what she's said, it is with a conscious sense that they are disobeying not just another crew member, but their commanding officer.

The next major wrench to be thrown at Minkowski's Commander status is the arrival of Lovelace, who is arguably more qualified to be Commander than Minkowski. Not only has Lovelace commanded the Hephaestus herself (and for a longer period of time than Minkowski has), her title of Captain outranks Minkowski's title of Lieutenant. In Lovelace and Minkowski's power struggle after Lovelace's arrival, they are both coming from a perspective of "I was here first". Lovelace commanded that ship first, but Minkowski commanded that crew first and that ultimately gives her more power. Minkowski remains the Commander of the Hephaestus because the crew know her and trust her.

Eventually Lovelace comes to trust Minkowski too and to view her as the rightful Commander of the Hephaestus. In S3 and S4, she often backs up Minkowski's authority and tells the others that they ought to follow Minkowski's orders.

When Kepler shows up, there's a new official Commanding Officer of the Hephaestus. The si-5 declare that Minkowski is stripped of the title of Commander. Of course, I couldn't write this post without mentioning this iconic exchange:

EIFFEL I'm glad to see you too, Commander.

MINKOWSKI You heard the new boss, you don't need to call me that anymore.

EIFFEL Uh, yeah, they can go screw themselves. The entire universe will freeze before you're not the Commander of the Hephaestus.

Minkowski is ready to accept that she's no longer the Commander, because a part of her still thinks leadership is determined by the official chain of command. But Eiffel doesn't accept that. And he's not the only one who still acknowledges Minkowski as leader despite the arrival of the SI-5. Although her programming prevents her from addressing Minkowski as Commander, Hera believes that:

Lieutenant Minkowski's still the one who gives the marching orders.

Throughout Season 3, there's the sense of a crew-within-a-crew on the Hephaestus. Sure, Kepler is officially the overall commanding officer, but to Eiffel, Hera, Lovelace and even Hilbert to a certain extent, Minkowski is their true leader. Even though Lovelace and Hilbert do go behind Minkowski's back, they still seem to have a sense that a mutiny ought to have her Say So.

Another interesting element is that, in the eyes of Command, Minkowski was never the highest ranking crew member on the Hephaestus. Kepler confirms this in Ep48 when he says that the "Highest ranking member of each crew was briefed on the possibility" of a Theta scenario and that for both Hephaestus missions that was Hilbert. To Goddard Futuristics, Minkowski was the Commander in name only.

The Hephaestus crew (by which I mean everyone except the si-5) treat leadership as something official and codified, but not as something conferred by external authority. They follow a policy where one person has to be clearly designated as the Commander, but where Goddard Futuristics does not determine who that person is. This approach is displayed in Ep47 when Minkowski asks Lovelace to take over command of the Hephaestus. Minkowski's status as Commander is proved to have been a choice, because she can also choose not to be Commander. This choice is a personal one. There's no military protocol involved, just a discussion between two friends and the handing over of a title.

It's also worth noting Lovelace's reluctance to take over the role of commanding officer and her insistence that this is a temporary arrangement. Her reaction demonstrates how much she has come to see Minkowski as the rightful Commander. S2 Lovelace would have responded very differently.

When Minkowski becomes Commander again in Ep53, she has another conversation which reveals a lot about her attitude towards leadership. I'm just going to put the whole long quote here because I think it's all very relevant to what I've been talking about:

MINKOWSKI It's just... there's been all these times when somebody put me in situation where I was "in charge," but I wasn't... in control. I can't think of a decision in my life that wasn't already determined by someone else. But... even then, there was always a choice. I always made it. Even when I didn't realize I was making it. So now... I think I need to make choices by myself. For myself.

LOVELACE Aaaaand does that mean you're perhaps ready to take command of a certain space station again?...

MINKOWSKI No. Because I've never been in command, I can't retake it. But, if you'll allow me, sir, I would be honored to relieve you of your duties, and assume command of the U.S.S. Hephaestus Station.

Lovelace SMILES, and salutes Minkowski.

LOVELACE About friggin' time, sir.

Here it's made explicit that the question of Minkowski's status as Commander is tied into themes of choice and responsibility and control over one's own life. Minkowski recognises that her starting the Hephaestus mission as Commander was a choice made for her by Goddard (this is especially true because Minkowski applied to be just a Navigations Officer, not a Commander). Her continuing to be Commander was a choice, but it didn't feel like one to her at the time. To some extent, it was a choice she made passively (although I think her crew actively chose to follow her).

This conversation shows how Minkowski's view of leadership has changed dramatically. At the beginning of the series, she probably would have said that Goddard's choice to designate her Commander was what made her a Commander. She probably would have said that was how leadership ought to be determined. But by Ep53, she no longer wants to be dependent on the decisions of others to decide her role. Being Commander is not only a choice, it is now a choice she makes consciously and independently. She doesn't really have any more control over their circumstances when she retakes command in Ep53 than she did before handing over command in Ep47. Nonetheless her decision to make active choices for herself is still a significant one, because it reflects a paradigm shift.

Of course, there is some cruel irony in the fact that very soon after this conversation Minkowski is put under Pryce's mind control. Sometimes the choice to take control of our lives is taken away. Notably though, Eiffel still calls her Commander when she's not even able to command her own actions. And when she does regain her autonomy, she automatically assumes command of a new crew-within-a-crew (Eiffel, Hera, Lovelace, and Jacobi).

Cutter recognises how important Minkowski's role as Commander is to her. In the finale, he tells her:

People cared about you because of what I made you: A soldier. A leader. A commander. I gave you that

But I would argue that this isn't true. Yes, it was Cutter who initially gave Minkowski the title of "Commander", but that was never what made her a leader. Goddard never saw Minkowski as a leader. They saw her as a tool. She became a leader in her own right because she strived to do the right thing for her crew and because her crew trusted her to lead them.

For a final example of how important Minkowski's role as Commander is to her, here's what she says to reintroduce herself to Eiffel after the memory wipe:

Hi. My name is Renée Minkowski. I'm the Commander of this space station.

At this point, Minkowski knows that the space station in question is not going to exist for much longer. She knows its been a long time since Goddard would have said she was the Commanding Officer of the Hephaestus in any sense. And yet, the second thing she wants Eiffel to know about her is that she is the Commander. She asks him to call her Renée, but she still wants him to view her as a commanding officer. This makes sense when we recognise that the trust of her crew - and of Eiffel in particular - has been the essential foundation of her status as Commander after the foundation from Goddard fell away.

Throughout the course of Wolf 359, with the various revelations about Command and with the arrivals of Lovelace, the si-5 and eventually Cutter & Co., the official reasons to classify Minkowski as the Hephaestus' commanding officer are eroded. But Minkowski still ends the show as a Commander. She's the one who decides whether they are going to stay and try to stop Cutter's plan (the others recognise that it's up to her even when they disagree with her initial decision to leave without trying to fight Cutter). Lovelace calls her Commander even after the Hephaestus is gone. Minkowski represents the ship when speaking to Earthspace ATC. And she's the one who finally brings the crew home.

[ninma]

A look at Dream's punishment through irl rules and taking into account UN's rules regarding prisons. Because it is just interesting and it proves how there is NO justification for it. But mostly because it's interesting to look at and you may learn a thing or two.

I have seen too many times people trying to justify Dream's punishment. I did research and read through multiple articles and documents (over 73 pages of two different documents) about the more legal sides of his punishment. While Quackity's physical torture is obvious, I am here to address that even before that it was still very illegal. I know it is fictional! This is just a look into the real life facts and rules regarding prisons because it is interesting to look at Dream's punishment and Pandora's Vault under the light of these. So keep that in mind while reading this!

Welcome to my ted talk with actual facts and be prepared for quite the ride!

While yes, he has done bad things...however he has not done something so bad that he deserves a punishment so cruel that it's considered too inhumane for even mass murderers. Like actually! Stay tooned and you'll see what I mean.

His sentence is indefinite solidary confinement. Which is defined by the united nations as:

"the confinement of prisoners for 22 hours or more a day without meaningful human contact."

This means his punishment fits the definition for all his time (including visits) except when Tommy was locked inn and now with Quackity (although I'd consider the last one a turn for the worse). Now that we have that cleared up- lets get into the rule breaking. But first, let me introduce you to The Mandela Rules!

"The Mandela Rules reinforce human rights principles, including

 the recognition of the absolute prohibition of torture and other cruel, inhuman

 or degrading treatment or punishment and effective guidance 

to national prison administrations for persons deprived of their liberty"

Now that we have established that, lets get into this concerning fact train!

Rule 43

1. In no circumstances may restrictions or disciplinary sanctions amount to torture or other cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment or punishment.

The following practices, in particular, shall be prohibited:

(a) Indefinite solitary confinement;

(b) Prolonged solitary confinement;

(c) Placement of a prisoner in a dark or constantly lit cell;

(d) Corporal punishment or the reduction of a prisoner’s diet or drinking water;

(e) Collective punishment.

Yeah...pretty clear breaking of 4/5 there. They can't even break e! Not to mention the pretty explicit breaking of d that was probably a surprise. You can count it as them breaking 4/4 if you count the fact that they can’t even break e. Rest assured my friend, this is just the beginning.

Rule 44

For the purpose of these rules, solitary confinement shall refer to the confinement of prisoners for 22

 hours or more a day without meaningful human contact. Prolonged solitary confinement shall refer to 

solitary confinement for a time period in excess of 15 consecutive days.

Already broken this one too huh. Even visiting days counts because I don't think anyone has been there for hours and I also don't think Sam's interactions would be long enough or count as meaningful human contact. The time with Tommy and Quackity is the only time it dosen't count as solidary. So this is getting...very much concerinng. But this is still only the start.

Rule 45

1. Solitary confinement shall be used only in exceptional cases as a last

 resort*, for as* short a time as possible and subject to independent

 review, and only pursuant to the authorization by a competent authority. It

 shall not be imposed by virtue of a prisoner’s sentence.

2. The imposition of solitary confinement should be prohibited in the case

 of prisoners with mental or physical disabilities when their conditions

 would be exacerbated by such measures

Woops...so not only is it illegal as a punishment...but also the "he is a psychopath" argument (which is already a bad stereotype, but I won't get into psychology here. It's a common misconception and c!Tommy not knowing is almost to be expected. However please do not say that someone, character or real person, have a mental disorder or illness without proper knowledge about psychology and in the case of characters we shouldn’t put labels unless the writer has said that they have taken mental disorders or illnesses into account when making the character) just got yeeted out the window. Actually that argument just took a loop and now is an argument for the other side. It makes sense because as it says: it exacerbates their preexisting mental illnesses. Which is why it's prohibited. 

"In no case may a detainee’s contact with the outside world be

 dependent on his or her cooperativeness, be used as a disciplinary

 sanction or form part of the sentence."

  - Special Rapporteur on Torture and Other Cruel, Inhuman or Degrading Treatment or Punishment, Civil and Political Rights, Including the Questions of Torture and Detention, ¶ 43, Comm’n on Human Rights,

“…The medical officer should visit prisoners held in solitary confinement

 every day, on the understanding that such visits should be in the interests

 of the prisoners ’ health. Furthermore, prisoners held in solitary

 confinement for more than 12 hours should have access to fresh air for at

 least 1 hour each day” - Subcomm. on Prevention of Torture [SPT]

Wow Sam...it is almost impressive in a dark way just how explicitly these are broken. The Warden's very punishments for disobedience just straight up counts as torture. And for the obvious record I highly doubt Quackity's daily visits to the green bloob counts as anything but 'the interests of the prisoners' health'. You can disagree here...but I am being very sarcastic.

Rule 22

1. Every prisoner shall be provided by the prison administration at the

usual hours with food of nutritional value adequate for health and

strength, of wholesome quality and well prepared and served.

Raw potatoes every day for the rest of your life..eehhh no thanks. If Dream ever gets out he will probably join me in the 'eating potatoes trauma' box. As funny as that sounds, it isn't a joke. I was force fed potatoes as a child and I hated it to the point where it gave me a mental block that stops me from eating them as my body just does not want to swallow it. It's a problem. But I can joke about it. Maybe Tommy will join us too, although it wasn't really the eating potatoes that caused that trauma...rip. Rest in anything but potatoes.

Rule 42

General living conditions addressed in these rules, including those related

to light, ventilation, temperature, sanitation, nutrition, drinking water,

access to open air and physical exercise, personal hygiene, health care

and adequate personal space, shall apply to all prisoners without

 exception.

I think it's pointless to say more on that topic as it's pretty much already summed up. Let us now move over to what are probably some of the qoutes so specific that it's scary.

“Furthermore, [the Committee] is concerned about the use of solitary

 confinement for indefinite periods of time.... Full isolation of 22 to 23

 hours a day in supermaximum security prisons is unacceptable

(art. 16).” - Committee. against Torture [CAT]

Oh wow.. talk about on the nose. I should've just started with this one as it pretty much says pretty clearly how it is unacceptable. Like yikes...can you get more specific? It is just downright ridiculous at this point. (-_-;)

“Solitary confinement, when used for the purpose of punishment,

 cannot be justified for any reason, precisely because it imposes severe

 mental pain and suffering beyond any reasonable retribution for

 criminal behaviour and thus constitutes an act defined in article 1 or article

 16 of the Convention against Torture, and a breach of article 7 of the

 International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights."

Ahaha...ha....yeah for those who justify it...the convention against torture is very much against it being justified...Imagine if the characters could read these rules, that'd be interesting. Although I am pretty sure they don't follow realism for the imprisonment. As I have already said; this is just an interesting look at the irl rules and how Dream's punishment and Pandora's Vault stand under light of them.

“No prisoner, including those serving life sentence [sic] and prisoners on

 death row, shall be held in solitary confinement merely because of the

 gravity of the crime.”

 - Special Rapporteur on Torture and Other Cruel, Inhuman or Degrading Treatment or Punishment

Like...there are no loopholes here. It is so extremely clear that it truly is darkly impressive how the characters don't seem to have a second thought about this. How do you accidentally sentence someone to a lifetime of torture without realizing? If they do know...It'd be very dark.

Btw Tommy's exile and his time in prison doesn't count as solidary confinement. Just to clear that up.

It amazes me how badly they break these rules...I know they probably didn't take the realism into consideration. However it is still kind of darkly impressive. Especially considering how scary specific they break them too. Even though this is just a interesting (I was about to write fun, however I wouldn't count realizing how inhuman the prison is is 'fun'. But it is interesting) look at Dream's punishment and Pandora's Vault under the light of real life rules for prisons. (lol my paranoid self have said this so much)

These facts also proves how saying it's justified...is kind of morally bad. Not attacking anyone! I just want to also say how while it is pure fiction and the characters in the story can have whatever opinion they want as they are characters. However when it comes to fans approving and justifying it without taking time to consider how it really isn't something that can be justified (real or no). You can have whatever opinion you want, however just maybe take some of what you have learned today and reflect over it? To think twice after having received new information dosen't hurt. I am not here to tell you what to think, so rest easy. Only to share some facts^^ (*so obviously scared of offending anyone*)

I recommend taking some time to look it up yourself if you want to look further into it. The psychological aspects of it is also interesting to look at!

I hope you have learned something here today and found this post and my research interesting! I spent hours on this so I hope you have enjoyed this! I originally posted this on reddit and I was very surprised at how many stopped by to read it and therefore I choose to post it here as well because you learn something and hopefully also gained a new perspective. 

Ninma over and out!

[olivinesea]

In the Golden Dark

a/n: Having never done any ship writing before I’m just going to jump feet first into the deep end with a little Hotchreid for you today. It’s nice. No warnings except maybe some angst because we are who we are. Probably the softest thing you will see from me so enjoy the moment. Completely unnecessary disclaimer that I would find this relationship wildly inappropriate in real life but thank god we’re out here in the lawless fiction of the internet. And you’re getting full on song lyrics bc Hotchreid is nothing if not decadent af. There’s more but I’m impatient so here’s the first bit. ~ 2.7k

what the hell am I doing here in the golden dark? feeling like I’m someone else who looks the part I built up barricades to block my heart cause I don’t wanna fear you

He leaned back in his chair, reaching his arms up and clasping his hands behind his head, arching his back slightly. With his eyes closed it could be any time of day. He inhaled deeply and pretended for a moment that he was nowhere. He even gave himself a few extra seconds, indulging in the quiet that was the office at night. If only he could feel so peaceful in the right moments—before sleeping perhaps. When he opened his eyes all he could see was the reflection of his office light in the black windows. There hadn’t been daylight for hours. He’d switched off the overhead lights in favor of the small desk lamp that pooled the light only in the area of immediate relevance. Everything beyond its reach faded in and out of existence as his focus fell deeply into the forms in front of him.

He pressed his elbows back as far as they would go, pulling up slightly on the base of his skull, stretching out a day’s worth of stress, countless hours spent bent over report after report. He never could have imagined that saving people would require so much paperwork. Reducing the chaos of the lived experience, the searches and the takedowns, the intricate patterns of dozens of personalities layering choices upon one another; it turned out to be quite difficult to do. It took him hours to wrap up cases, even with everyone doing most of their own reports. Which, through no fault of their own, wasn’t always the case. He usually ended up siphoning off a fair number of those reports in addition to his own.

He didn’t mind, he needed to go over everything, needed to make sure that any possible negative feedback that came back would fall to him and he would be prepared if it did. His team were his responsibility, he would be neglecting his duties if he didn’t ensure that things were handled properly. None of them needed the headache of administrative errors. He was good with details, good with forms, good with protocol. He would happily be the filter that saved them all the trouble of little errors even if it hadn’t been part of his job.

But that didn’t change the fact that it was eleven o’clock on a Wednesday and everyone else had gone home hours ago. Only the late night janitorial staff wandered in and out occasionally, nodding at him in silent greeting as they reset the offices to give the illusion of an endlessly renewable supply of fresh starts. People that didn’t stay late never gave this transformation a second thought. They left the office with full trashcans and small debris scattered on the old carpets, only to return the next morning to find a place untouched by human presence, metal fixtures shining and glass doors free of oily fingerprints. That was just how the world worked for them, generous with new beginnings. People who lingered knew better, that effort was put into the effect. Beginnings were never easy, never flowed so inevitably as the set and rise of the sun.

Hotch had been working late for many years, long before he was even in the BAU. He had learned in law school how to brew the coffee strong enough to stay up all night if need be. How the indoor lighting changed without the support of daylight, tinting the world a thin sickly green color without the natural light to round out the fluorescence. He only got worse about it once he joined the Bureau, the stress of the job causing old habits and old secrets to float to the surface. He compensated by working the hardest, doing the most, never allowing anyone to see him need things that other people needed. He could handle this job, this was all he ever wanted after all. To save the world. Or maybe, more modestly, to save the world of a few.

Now, with Haley gone, Jack with her, somewhere well out of his disastrous reach, there was no reason at all not to fully give in. No reason not to let his insomnia at least be productive. To let the latent self destruction that fueled his actions at least have a positive impact on the people he cared about. He could do that at least.

He rubbed his face with his hands, he was getting loopy. There was no reason to be letting his mind wander so far, there were still reports he could get through. Perhaps, as unlikely as the idea felt, he could even get ahead. He looked back down at the paperwork, letting his feet settle flat on the floor. The letters swam in front of him and he sighed, rolling his pen beneath his thumb, considering. He could probably make it another hour. He could get another pot of coffee into himself. He cast about for his mug, finding it empty on the shelf behind him. He sometimes kept it there to prevent his reports from acquiring telltale dark rings. Rolling back from the desk, he hooked the handle with two fingers and headed out to the kitchenette.

Wrapped up in making plans for what he could finish tonight and what could be left for the morning he was startled to find a light still on in the bullpen. He was certain everyone had gone home long ago. They’d each passed by his office, offering him an out as they made their ways home—perhaps their exit could be the motivation he needed to break out of his office, to head towards his own home. What they didn’t realize was that home was not better for him. Work was far better, far safer, with tasks to complete, a purpose. If he was smart he would stay at work forever.

So he waved to them as they checked out, giving them small smiles that, though imperceptible to strangers, they recognized as both apologies and well-wishes. He knew they worried, that they didn’t like to see him tied to his desk late into the night. They thought it was one of his many methods for making himself suffer but he didn’t have the heart to tell them that this was him making a good decision, this was him trying his very best. In his experience, nothing good happened at home.

He thought he remembered everyone leaving, each goodbye. But every day was the same and they all bled together so he must have missed one because he cannot deny the light down below. As he walked down the stairs, confused by the discovery that he was not as alone as he had been imagining, his tired vision focused better. He could make out dark blond curls and a darker sweater hunched over the desk in the middle of the room.

“Reid?” The name came out as a croak, he hadn’t spoken in hours and probably hadn’t had any water in that time period either. He cleared his throat and said it again, louder and closer to the other man than before. Reid’s head snapped up, expression as guilty as a child caught out of bed.

“S-sorry,” he stuttered, eyes wide.

Hotch frowned, not because he was upset but because he was still a little disoriented and his muscles fell back into the most familiar actions.

“I—“ Reid ducked his head and started pushing papers together on his desk, shoving them haphazardly into a file folder. “I was just…” he trailed off, not really having intended on explaining himself. He was simply also startled and reverting to the familiar.

Reid explained compulsively, able to handle the world when parsed down to facts and numbers. He didn’t have a fact for why he had stayed so late, only a feeling and that he didn’t know how to explain. Nights had been particularly lonely recently so he had allowed himself to stay later and later, getting lost in his thoughts at his work desk. Even without people around there was a sense of occupancy, their faint impressions lingering in the air. Plus there was always Hotch up in his office. He didn’t actively think about him or what he was doing but he liked knowing the man was nearby. Hotch’s solid presence always made him feel more secure, less concerned with whatever might jump out at him from the shadows overlapping the world and his mind.

He couldn’t tell Hotch that, was far too embarrassed to admit that sometimes, even with all the lights on, it was too dark in his apartment. No matter the illumination, he couldn’t quite dispel the unease of the night when he was alone. It wasn’t always like this, sometimes he had enough brightness to spare. Recently, however, things had been hard. So much had been going on, he couldn’t quite pinpoint why but he knew he felt uneasy. Too much had changed, there was too much risk that the floor could still fall out beneath him at any moment. And it hadn’t been so long since he’d escaped the consequences of his kidnapping, his addiction, that he trusted himself to be able to manage too much more uncertainty. Backsliding was always a risk and right now the world tilted at a frightening grade. So he let himself stay late in the safety of familiarity, sometimes working but more often not, idly rereading the books he had brought in and forgotten around the office. Tonight he had actually started to doze off, which contributed to his shock upon being discovered.

Hotch continued to frown at him, watching as the thoughts raced across Spencer’s face. He noticed how deep the shadows were beneath his eyes, the way darkness pooled in the space below his cheekbones, as if they were concave impressions filled by seawater. He knew Spencer didn’t eat enough, was all too familiar with the ways too much coffee and not enough calories pinched the skin and exposed the fine lines of capillaries beneath the surface.

“Sorry,” Spencer repeated.

He looked genuinely ashamed and it made Hotch a little sad. Couldn’t Spencer see that he was just as guilty of whatever it was he thought he was doing wrong by being here? He made a conscious effort to soften his expression, to show the warmth he felt for the younger man. After having spent his entire life masking his emotions, protecting himself one of the only ways he could, it wasn’t always easy to show his affection. Especially not at this time of night, when all he could do was cling to his walls and hope to find himself still on solid ground when the sun rose. Spencer wasn’t looking at him, too caught up in his own maze.

“Let’s go get something to eat,” Hotch said, trying a different tactic. He was smart, he knew not to make it a demand or a comment on Spencer’s health. It was only an invitation, firm enough for Spencer to know he meant it, that it was not just a pleasantry or an obligation he’d rather avoid. A hand extended, an offer of easy company to pass through a little more of this unwanted time. Spencer looked up from where his fingers were worrying at the corner of the file in front of him and smiled shyly. Hotch smiled back, a real smile that scrunched up his dark shining eyes.

“Give me five minutes to close up,” he said and turned back toward his office. As he packed his briefcase, his heart felt like it had been wrapped in a soft blanket. He didn’t bother questioning it—who didn’t like finding someone to commiserate with when they’d only expected more of the lonely dark?

*

Their late night meals became a regular occurrence. Not every night but once, maybe twice a week, they found themselves the last ones in the office. They fell into a rhythm, each learning to read more from the other’s subtle cues. They almost always went to the same place, a 24-hour diner near the office with deceptively strong coffee and a seemingly endless variety of pancakes. Hotch rarely ordered food, though he encouraged Reid to get anything he wanted. He accepted bites of whatever the younger man ordered, happy enough to reciprocate the excitement over strawberry rhubarb or cinnamon blueberry pancakes.

They talked about inconsequential things, mostly Hotch listening as Reid spun out information on whatever topic was on his mind that day. Reid, for his part, made mental note of the things Hotch responded to and had opinions on. Spencer sought out more information in that vein to bring up. He loved to talk, sure, but what he loved more was to discuss. During the day there was rarely time to let his thoughts wander so freely. It was a dream to have someone there, following along and challenging him with questions, building up new conclusions.

On the nights that followed difficult days, when they were both too stubborn to order anything of substance, they drank their coffees and avoided looking at each other too directly. Those nights they were both tied up in their own thoughts, islands separated by more than just distance, but there was something undeniably pulling them together. It was probably just the natural consequence of having opposite dominant sides but they mirrored each other perfectly across the table. Once, they both happened to reach for their mugs at the same time and the backs of their hands brushed against each other. They each noticed but responded differently. Hotch repressed any reaction, pretending the quick touch of bony knuckles and cool skin hadn’t registered. Maybe it hadn’t. Reid, on the other hand, jumped as if shocked, sloshing the hot coffee into a puddle on the table. This only flustered him more and he yelped at the sting of the liquid and the sting of embarrassment. It wasn’t like they’d never touched before. But here, in this nowhere time they’d constructed, it felt different. In his mind that brief touch became nails dragging across his skin, impossible to ignore. But he pretended the mug was too hot and Hotch didn’t argue, quick to assist with napkins and sounds of agreement to accompany Spencer’s half-coherent excuses.

When their meals were done, mostly cleaned plates of syrup and crumbs stacked to one side, they hesitated before standing up. Hotch always offered to give Reid a ride home, Reid always declined, insisting he could get there himself. This led to Hotch giving him a doubtful look and insisting that it was no trouble. Reid, secretly wanting a ride the whole time, struggled to argue for his self-sufficiency a little longer before giving in. It became a silly thing, both of them knowing exactly how the argument ended but they held onto it for some reason. It was a part of their ritual now, an important piece of the night. It kept this, whatever this was, contained, strictly occasional, random even. Not something they planned for, not something they looked forward to.

Hotch waited for Spencer to get in the door of his building before driving away. He knew it wasn’t necessary, Spencer was a grown man and a trained FBI agent with a weapon. Still, it made him feel better to see him safely inside. Sometimes he thought he would feel even better if he could walk Spencer all the way to his front door. But he knew that would be asking too much. As it was, the nights when they shared this extra hour or two together, extended further by the drive home, had been giving him more than he could have imagined. He wouldn’t dare impose himself further. The brittle excuse of safety would crumble if he were to start following the other man inside. He was not ready to find out what that would mean. He smiled unconsciously as he drove to his apartment. For now, it was enough that he had found companionship on these late nights when he would otherwise be slowly, meticulously, working his way into the grave.

~Part 2~

[ladynestaarcheron]

Fears All the Way Down - Chapter Three

ao3 - masterpost

happy friday! here's chapter three, a little long, and dramatiqué so enjoy:)

canon fixes this week: 1) gwyn mentions the priestess who counsels them. nesta was never offered counseling. bullshit. 2) gwyn says they never talk about each other because they've all been through a lot. mm. okay. i went to a girls' school. you don't just not talk about anyone because they've been through a lot. it doesn't have to be cruel gossip, but you definitely still talk. and if someone is a bitch to you, then yeah, it's gossip.

---

When Nesta had first been brought into Prythian, right here into the House of Wind, she had often thought to herself that her life could not possibly get any worse. She was a faerie now, a monster, and Elain was wasting away before her eyes, and Feyre was off to no-one-would-tell-her-where doing no-one-would-tell-her-what. And every other day, Cassian would come by and interrupt her fear and anxiety to irritate her beyond belief.

‍And then the war happened, and the impossible happened. Her life did get worse.

‍And now she is here again, and it is...different. Sometimes worse. Sometimes better. Sometimes neither. But it's different this time.

‍This time, she doesn't have to be worried about her sisters. They're the ones who are worried about her. She isn't scared of her own reflection anymore--not comfortable in this immortal skin, but used to it nonetheless. And most striking...Cassian doesn't seek her out.

‍He doesn't sit with her for breakfast, though the healer, Daphne does come up every morning to check up on her (unnecessary. She is miserable and in pain, but stable). She hears him during the day, making rounds around the House, or doing something up on the roof, but she doesn't see him while the sun is out. He meets her once for dinner, to watch her take her mock liquor, and then once again when she hurls out her insides in the middle of the night.

‍And then the week is over, and he is gone.

‍Feyre is there to greet her for breakfast.

‍"I hear you slept the night!" she says, enthusiastic.

‍Nesta doesn't answer.

‍"You've detoxed," Feyre says. "I...I'm really proud of you. I know that was a long five days. Elain's proud of you, too. She sends her love."

‍Nesta nods slightly. She sits down at her usual spot at the head of the table, the chair dragging itself out to meet her.

‍Feyre notices. "Kind of creepy, isn't it? The magic all on its own?"

‍"I don't mind it," Nesta says.

‍On the contrary. The first morning she had awoken here, she had desperately wanted to bathe. But she stumbled into the bathroom and her body had seized up as she imagined herself sinking in the tub. Sinking...drowning...getting pulled under and never getting out. Perhaps it was being back here, but she had asked the House for some buckets, and reverted to her old practice of washing herself.

‍She had fully intended to accept her fate, coming to terms with the fact that while she was in the House, forcing herself to sit in the tub would be far too difficult, and she'd have to suffer through being covered in her own sick for a week, but on the second morning, the House had gifted her with an out.

‍The tub, ridiculously wide and deep--to accommodate wings, she realizes now--was still there, but hanging from the ceiling, almost like a chandelier, was a faucet. The House had turned on the water for her; she hadn't known what it was. The water came out like rain, with dozens of tiny streams instead of one the size of a fist, like in the bath. And she could...stand under it.

‍Nesta still isn't quite sure how much the House can hear, or if it cares. But she takes extra care to say please and thank you now, for things she wouldn't have bothered before.

‍"Well, at any rate," Feyre says, pulling her back to the present. "You'll be starting at the library today. Are you ready?"

‍Nesta shrugs.

‍"Do you want me to walk you down?"

‍No. Maybe. No. "Do...are girls normally escorted in?" she asks carefully.

‍"No," Feyre admits. "Normally...they're just brought here right after...but it's allowed. I mean, whatever's more comfortable for you."

‍She doesn't know what to say, so she deflects. "Did Elain not want to escort me?"

‍"She just didn't want to come by until you specifically asked for her."

‍"Why did you come, then?" She's blunt, but she only realizes how it sounds until after it comes out. She isn't trying to be cruel, though.

‍Feyre doesn't bristle. "I wanted to see you. And update you on the Illyrian situation."

‍"The rebels?"

‍"They're doing a good job of keeping their meetings secret," Feyre admits. "But don't worry. We're better."

‍"I'm not worried," Nesta says, and she honestly means it. She remembers the war well. Remembers Cassian's skill, precision, deadliness...no one compares. If he's defending her, there's no cause for concern. Except him, of course. "What is it?"

‍"They know you're at the House." Their spies in Velaris had probably noticed Cassian flying about, had marked Elain moving her things out of her apartment in the city...Nesta isn't scared of any Illyrians tracking her down while she's here, but the idea of some wretch skulking after her sisters in the dark....

‍Feyre continues, "And we do know they want to make a move. But they can't, Nesta. I promise you're safe here."

‍Nesta keeps her voice impassive, almost bored, when she says, "He's gone, though?"

‍Feyre knows whom she means. "Cassian? Well, we're still keeping the House secure...you might hear him or Rhys or Az checking the wards a few times a day, but that's it. No one in the House any longer. Just as you'd prefer it."

‍Nesta blinks. She hadn't realized this threat was real enough to warrant the three of them visiting the House multiple times a day. Perhaps...perhaps there is reason to worry. Or fear.

‍Because she certainly will be afraid...if it happens like last time. Strange faerie males breaking down her door, ripping her out of bed. By her hair, by her arms. Grabbing at her, pinching her. Elain screaming from her room down the hall.

‍"So, you'll go down yourself, then?" Feyre asks, dragging her back to the present.

‍Nesta blinks again, shoving that horrible night out of her mind. "Yes," she says, and because she doesn't want to give herself another moment to slide into that place again, rises to do just that.

Feyre had escorted her down to these doors once before, and they had descended the levels to find Hybern. This time, she is alone, and there are two priestesses waiting for her when she enters.

‍One clearly defers to the other, and she stands behind her. Her hood is set atop her head, and her brown face is pretty aside from some light scarring on either cheek. She smiles and says, "Welcome, Nesta."

‍Nesta cannot tell if the higher priestess smiles or not, for her hood covers her face. But truth be told, even if she were entirely naked, Nesta would only look at her hands, for they are wrecked beyond comprehension. Fingers at wrong angles and parts missing and--

‍"Hello," Nesta blurts out, because it's the only thing she can think to say and she doesn't want to stare. She hates when people stare at her. Her cheeks flame; she's not cut out for this. She can't be around these females.

‍The high priestess lifts her head slightly, enough for Nesta to see that she is, indeed, smiling. A parchment and fountain pen--and quite a good-quality one, she notes--appear out of thin air, making her jump slightly, and in a neat script write out:

‍Welcome, Nesta. I am Clotho, high priestess of the library. This is Thalia, one of our senior priestesses. She'll be showing you the library today. I hope you find it to your liking. I'll see you later today.

‍"Oh," Nesta says, not quite knowing what to reply. "Thank you," she adds, figuring that's as good as anything.

‍Clotho raises her head once more to offer her another smile and then sweeps away, parchment and pen disappearing after her.

‍"Shall we begin our tour, then, Nesta?" Thalia asks. She waits for Nesta to nod before beginning her descent down the spiralling levels of the library.

‍Thalia explains about the different sections of the library, and points out different offices for the other senior priestesses and what their specialties are. They meet some females here and there, and she introduces them, but luckily no one sticks around for a chat. Already Nesta can feel her pulse quickening, sick at the idea of having to be with all these people all the time. She is immensely grateful for her sisters for keeping her alone in the House during the nights, at least.

‍When they reach the fifth level, Nesta stops in her tracks. Thalia looks at her, patient and unhurried.

‍"Is it--back?" Nesta asks, unable to keep the fear out of her voice.

‍Thalia smiles. "Bryaxis has never harmed any of us and is no cause for alarm," she says gently. "But no, it is not returned."

‍No cause for alarm? Cassian was scared of that thing.

‍But if it's not here...fine.

‍"Where's your office?" Nesta says, grasping for a subject so she doesn't have to see the look on Cassian's face when he found her running out of the library in her mind's eye.

‍"Level six," she replies. "Come, let's go there now."

‍Thalia's office is clearly very separate from the library, as it has the least amount of books of any room here. Which is still substantially more than what Nesta guesses the average room in Velaris has, with one wall made up of fully stacked floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and some on the desk in the corner and one on the coffee table in the small sitting area.

‍"Come sit, please, Nesta," Thalia says, choosing a couch for herself. "Well,"she says, when Nesta is settled in an armchair, "what are your first impressions of the library?"

‍"I've been here before."

‍Thalia smiles. "So you have. But you're a bit better informed on our particular brand this time around, aren't you?"

‍Nesta nods.

‍"Well, allow me to explain further. I am the priestess who counsels the females who choose to join us."

‍"Counseling?" she repeats, her heart speeding up. So she's supposed to just tell this female everything about herself? Is that what her sisters expect her to do?

‍"I know that's a loaded word, but I promise it isn't as scary as it sounds."

‍How can she be so cavalier about this? All smiles and twinkling eyes.

‍"We can have sessions as often or as rarely as you'd please. If you'd like, you never have to come to another meeting with me again after this, or any of the classes or sessions my colleagues direct. Except, of course, for our weekly check-in."

‍"What's the weekly check-in?" Nesta asks, because the priestess won't say anything otherwise.

‍"We do one mandatory group session a week where we all check-in with each other. Everyone attends. No one has to speak, but we all attend."

‍All right. Fine. She can do that. Sitting in a room one a week, silent. Listening to other miserable girls talk about their problems.

‍Could be worse, she tries to tell herself.

‍"So what exactly...does life at the library entail?"

‍"Our institution exists for the purpose of preserving and furthering knowledge on every topic we can get our hands on," Thalia says, "but we also serve to help females heal from various traumas. Because everyone is different, there's no one correct way to go about this journey. But a very broad number of sessions and exercises are available to you, and you are welcome and encouraged to try any of them. In addition to these, you will also be invited to work in the library. First you can start with menial tasks, and when you've got your bearings you can be given a more specific assignment.

���"But the real question, Nesta," the priestess continues, and Nesta startles when she breaks her generic explanation to address her by name, "is what you want life at the library to entail."

‍She clenches her fists at her side, trying to draw the blood away from her cheeks. "What?"

‍"What would you say your goals are?"

‍Her throat tightens. Goals? Nesta hasn't had a goal in...probably since she stopped taking magic lessons with Amren. And for her life, well....

‍"Why don't we start with what urged you to make the decision to come here?"

‍Blinking twice, Nesta says, "My sisters."

‍"Did you come to appease them, or another reason, or a mix of both?"

‍Perhaps it's something in the female's tone, that genuine curiosity, that puts Nesta the slightest bit at ease.

‍"For them, mostly. But...a little bit for me." It sounds stupid when she says it, but Thalia does scoff or roll her eyes--of course not. And that's enough for her to continue, unprompted, "I want to live again."

‍Without missing a beat, Thalia leans over and picks up the book from the table and takes out a pen from the pocket of her robe. "Why don't we figure out how you can do that, then?"

Perhaps it was because of the topic of conversation--Nesta hates talking about herself--but she didn't remember sober conversations being so...difficult.

‍Thalia had coaxed Nesta into telling her the things she most wanted to happen. She had congratulated her on her sobriety--almost a full week, Nesta's mind bit with mock enthusiasm--and encouraged her to take her success there as indication that she is capable of working towards everything else she desires.

‍But so far Nesta is only sober because she lives in a house completely inaccessible to the outside world--unless she wants to hike down ten thousand steps, or ask Rhysand to carry her down--and there is no alcohol inside of it. She can't possibly manage any of her other goals in the real world.

‍"Why not?" Thalia had asked. "And who says this isn't the real world?"

‍That was fair. So Nesta shrugged, and after a painstaking few hours, they had a list of things Nesta wanted to do for now, comprised of a sentence Nesta worded and then Thalia's additions.

Not drift off inside her own head for undetermined amounts of time -> determine triggers.

Not always feel like she needs alcohol -> find productive coping mechanisms.

Be able to talk to Elain and Feyre normally -> determine what is stopping her since all three of them want the same thing.

Start reading again.

The fourth one Thalia had been very pleased to hear, and she had left as Nesta said it.

"I'd be happy to give you some recommendations, if you'd like," she'd said.

"There are romances in the House," she said. She had spotted some on the shelves in her room that hadn't been there last time. And who knew when the next time she was going to have sex was? Who knew if she'd ever have sex again? So she'd better find a good novel.

She didn't tell the priestess that, of course.

So after a morning of that, and a quiet lunch of one slice of toast by herself in the House--not much, but more than she'd expected to have. The detoxing must've given her the slightest bit of appetite again--Nesta descends down to the library again to begin her new job of shelving books.

The work isn't so bad. Dusty, and tedious, but it's good enough at distracting her from herself, because she doesn't know the library well enough for it to be mindless. After a few hours of this, a strong bell rings out--the call to prayer. The priestess all make their way to the same place, leaving Nesta alone in the library for half an hour, then they are back. No one asks her why she didn't join. No one asks her anything at all the whole day, until a second, softer bell rings out, and the priestesses begin to leave for dinner, and she back up to the House, and Clotho waits for her at the door.

Hello, Nesta, she charms her pen to write for her. How was your first day?

"All right," she says. It was. It was...fine. Not terrible.

Thalia tells me she's very impressed with your progress.

Nesta blinks. She hasn't done anything.

Clotho huffs a small sound of amusement, swaying her hood slightly. It can generally take a long while for someone to share with Thalia as much as you did.

I noticed you seemed interested in the Wats books.

At this, Nesta blushed slightly. Children's books, tall tales. "I hadn't realized I was being watched."

Clotho only waits.

"Yes," she says eventually. "I...like stories."

One of our senior priestesses is giving a series of lectures on the history of children's literature. There's one tomorrow. Perhaps you'd like to join.

The pink tinge in Nesta's cheeks hasn't fully faded. "Maybe."

Was there something else you wanted to say, Nesta?

Is it that obvious? Nesta's always thought she's good at keeping her thoughts off her face, but Clotho and Thalia seem to see right through her.

"I still don't understand how this is supposed to work," she admits.

Clotho lifts her head to show her another smile. I'm afraid "this" will require some patience. We want to find the right path for you. In the meantime, however, you are welcome to join sessions or lectures, and I will figure out an assignment for you within the coming weeks.

You have nothing to worry about, Nesta, Clotho adds. You're going to do so well. You're stronger than you think you are.

She has to say that to everyone, Nesta supposes, but she nods anyway, and turns to go up into the House.

Dinner is as quiet as lunch was, and Nesta manages to stomach another slice of toast and even some raw celery. Anything hot or rich, Nesta finds, is too much for her to bear, and she can't keep down. Even buttering her toast is too much for her. The House doesn't seem to grow impatient with her as she uncertainly, almost shyly, asks it for new foods. Just to see if she can smell them without growing nauseated. Small steps. Perhaps one day she'll be able to eat normally again.

Or perhaps not. Perhaps she'll be this wretched, vile, pathetic thing--

I have never in my life thought you were pathetic.

It's not an uncommon occurrence, for Cassian's deep voice to echo in her mind, but it's been some time since they've felt so...comforting.

Your sisters love you. I can't for the life of me understand why, but they do. Yes, that had spun around in her mind for months. And most nights, sometimes even with another male's arms around her...I have no regrets in my life, but this. That we did not have time. That I did not have time with you, Nesta. I will find you in the next world - the next life. And we will have that time. I promise.

He hadn't meant it. Or...he had in the moment and then without the looming threat, he had changed his mind. Or she had done something...

But this is real.

I have never in my life thought you were pathetic.

It feels real. It feels honest and true and tonight, it is enough to drive out other thoughts, enough to spur her into choosing a book to start, enough to make her forget that she wanted the fifth thing on that list to be Not be so awful and disgusting and useless and pathetic because if he think she's not, then she's not.

It's enough to make her think she's doing the right thing, and enough to make her do it again tomorrow.

The next day, no one seeks Nesta out for a session. Some of the senior librarians say hello to her, but she is mostly left to her own devices and continues shelving books on her own. She does so all morning, and she expects to do so all afternoon, but around two, a priestess approaches her and asks her if she wants to join her lecture circuit on the history of children's literature. There's no real reason not to go, so Nesta agrees.

‍The room is smaller than the ones Father had once described to her were at higher institutes on the continent. It's the right size for the dozen or so priestesses already sitting in a semi-circle, facing a black board where a charmed piece of chalk already begins to write.

‍Nesta sits in an empty seat on the edge of the semi-circle, next to a copper-haired priestess, with her hood hanging at her shoulders. Actually, Nesta muses to herself as she studies the girl out of the corner of her eye, she might not even be a priestess at all. She isn't wearing that necklace they all have on their foreheads. It's nice to think that there's someone else here who doesn't worship that thing.

‍The lecture is interesting, if a bit confusing at times. Nesta is largely unfamiliar with children's stories over the Wall--there had been no magical quests or enchanted objects in her childhood. The witches and sorcerers and faeries had always been the villains.

‍But it's nice. To learn something new, to hear it from someone who is clearly passionate about it.

‍When the lecture is over, the priestess--Calliope--talks to her while the other girls file out.

‍"To your liking?" she asks, blunt.

‍"Yes," Nesta answers.

‍"Thalia said you might like some recommendations. What are you interested in?"

‍"Anything good. Romances."

‍"Are you well-versed in fae classics?"

‍"No," Nesta says. She's fairly well versed in human classics, though.

‍"I'll get you started. I'll have a pile ready for you by the end of the day."

‍"I...thank you," she says.

‍The priestess nods once and turns on her heel to leave.

‍Nesta blinks. She didn't realize priestesses could be...not so like Thalia or Clotho and maybe more...like her. Back when she was like herself, at least. She shakes herself a little and walks out of the room, too.

‍"What did Calliope say to you?" asks a clear, pretty voice from behind.

‍Nesta turns. The ginger possibly-not-priestess.

‍"Excuse me?"

‍"What did Calliope say to you?" she repeats, taking a step closer.

‍Tensing slightly, Nesta says, "She asked me if I liked her lecture."

‍"Well?"

‍Hands now fisted at her sides, Nesta says, "I beg your pardon?"

‍"Well, did you like it?"

‍"I did," Nesta says shortly.

‍"Do you think you'll be assigned to her?"

‍"I..."

‍"You haven't been assigned yet. I mean, you're new, so that's not unusual, but since you don't live with us and you're only coming now we wondered if you were going to be assigned earlier."

‍Nesta raises an eyebrow. "We?"

‍The girl offers her a sheepish grin. "It's not every day we get someone new. We...the other girls and I...we were just a little curious."

‍"Hm."

‍"Well, do you think you want to be assigned to her? I'm Gwyenth Berdara, by the way, I'm another student here."

‍"Nesta."

‍"I know. You're the High Lady's sister and you slew the King of Hybern."

‍Nesta freezes slightly, for a moment. Then she says, "I didn't. I stabbed him."

‍"Oh," Gwyneth says, teal eyes widening. "Well...they call you kingslayer. Not kingstabber. It's a better nickname," she adds, when Nesta doesn't say anything. "As far as nicknames go. Mine's Gwyn, by the way. Or what everyone calls me. Not as suave as kingslayer, but what can you do?"

‍Gwyneth Berdara...talks more than Morrigan.

‍"Sorry," Gwyn says, laughing a little. "We're not supposed to overwhelm you. I just...wanted to talk to you."

‍"Were you told not to overwhelm me?" Were those Feyre's orders, she wonders.

‍"Just anyone new. But...some girls don't talk for weeks, and you've already come to a lecture on your second day. And you talked to Thalia for a long time yesterday."

‍"I hadn't realized I was being studied."

‍Gwyn laughs. "This library's smaller than you think. So, you liked the lecture? Do you think you'll come to the next one?"

‍"Probably." What else is there to do?

‍"I like Calliope's circuits. She's always doing something interesting, if you like books. Do you like books?"

‍"I do."

‍"Well. Then you'll probably like her circuits."

‍They are both silent for a few moments, before Nesta realizes it is probably her turn to initiate conversation. "How long have you been here?"

‍"Two years, about." She is quiet for a beat, before she adds, "Lord Azriel and Lady Morrigan brought me here."

‍Nesta blanches. She's never heard them referred to with their titles before.

‍"Do you like staying at the House of Wind?"

‍"I...it's all right. Yes," she decides. "I like it." Why not? It gave her a standing bath. It keeps the fireplaces empty and uses some other form of magic, she thinks, to heat her room.

‍"Oh," Gwyn says, and Nesta thinks she deflates a bit. "I thought you might prefer to stay in our dorms."

‍"I'm not very religious." That's polite. Nesta actively hates their god. Or whatever the cauldron is supposed to be. Demon, more like.

‍"Oh," Gwyn says, blinking in surprise. "Oh. Well. That's all right. If you...ever change your mind. And you want to stay in our dormitories, I could help you find a room."

‍"Thank you," Nesta says.

‍Again, they are both quiet. Perhaps neither of them has had a friendly conversation in a while.

‍With a jolt, Nesta realizes--this has been a friendly conversation.

‍Nesta tries to grasp at something to say, something friendly. Has she been friendly? Or has she been cold this entire time? No, if the girl has been talking to her all the while, she must have been friendly. It's not as though Nesta's never been friendly in her life. She's had friends before. Clare and Joyly and Heather. She knows how. Even if none of them had thought her a good enough friend to bother trying to talk to her after she had distanced herself, after Tomas, after Feyre--

‍"I have to be getting back to my priestess. We're researching dimensions and other worlds. But I'll see you, Nesta." With a small wave, Gwyn bounds away.

‍"See you," she calls after her.

‍That...that's good, isn't it? Probably something Elain and Feyre would be pleased to hear. Maybe she should tell them. Invite them up for dinner.

‍Or is it too pathetic? One cordial conversation isn't anything to write home about. But maybe they'd like to know she's doing better; pathetic as her version of better is.

‍I have never in my life thought you were pathetic.

‍Maybe...maybe she should.

‍She'll just write them a letter, she decides. No, that's too formal. But sending them up is too dramatic...but if they want to come see her--

‍Nesta pinches herself. Hard. Enough till she's only focussing on the pain, so these incessant, stupid thoughts are driven out of her head.

‍Just go back to shelving books, she tells herself. Just put away the books and don't think about anything else.

‍Her mind does stray, though, and she wonders if any of the minuscule steps she takes in the right direction are worth the spiralling she has to go through after.

Despite her echoing anxieties, her physical weakness, and sheer exhaustion of being herself, Nesta does manage to get through the weekend--Feyre does not visit, but she and Elain both send up letters, decorated with little paintings and pressed flowers--and to the weekly check-in on Sunday. She doesn't know what to expect, but Gwyneth Berdara is there in the large hall, where they all sit in a circle, and waves her over.

‍"Good morning," she says.

‍"Good morning," Nesta answers.

‍"First weekly check-in."

‍"Yes."

‍"You don't have to say anything, if you don't want to. I didn't for months. Ten months, actually."

‍She certainly does talk a lot now, though.

‍"I didn't realize there were so many females here," Nesta says, looking around. Dozens of girls...probably more than fifty, plus the twelve higher priestesses. Gwyn is the only one who doesn't wear the necklace on her forehead.

‍"A lot don't wander so much. Some don't come out of their rooms except for this."

‍"Oh," Nesta says. So it's...good, then. That she can still go places. Talk to people. Maybe she really isn't as hopeless as she thinks.

‍Not that these females are hopeless. That's not what she thinks. Oh, that's a horrible thing to think, especially after what they've been through--

‍"That's Merrill," Gwyn says, pointing at a senior priestess. "I'm assigned to her."

‍Carefully, Nesta says, "Maybe I'll be assigned to her, too."

‍"Ooh, you better hope not. Merrill's the worst." Gwyn shudders.

‍"What?" Nesta asks. "Aren't they all supposed to be nice?"

‍Gwyn scoffs. "Says who? Are you nice?"

‍"I...guess not," Nesta says. "But I'm not a senior priestess."

‍"All right, that wasn't nice," Gwyn admits. "Sorry. You're right. She should probably be nicer. She should definitely be nicer...and you're all right."

‍"I'm not nice." She has never been nice.

‍Gwyn shrugs. "Well, I like you anyway."

‍Nesta's heart stutters. "Er--why don't you ask Clotho to reassign you?" she asks, pulse pounding in her ears.

‍Gwyn crosses her arms. "I can stick it out."

‍Is that what she looks like, Nesta wonders, to other people?

‍She should tell her something. This Gwyn. Tell her to switch priestesses. Or...tell Merrill to be nicer. Or tell Clotho to tell Merrill to be nicer. Or maybe she can do it for her.

‍"Good morning, everyone," Thalia starts, and Nesta's eyes snap to her. "Let's begin, shall we?"

‍The weekly check-in is mercifully not as terrible as Nesta imagined. There's no announcement of her presence, though she can feel plenty of people stealing glances ("It's not every day we get a Lady of the court in here," Gwyn whispers to her. "Especially not the kingslayer."). Thalia announces changes in the schedule for the week, and one of the other senior priestesses gives a short lecture on her specialty, and then Thalia asks who'd like to begin the circle.

‍The circle, Nesta learns, is the worst of it. Everyone goes around in a circle and introduces themselves by name and says whatever they want. True to Thalia's word, though, no one has to talk, and no one says anything horrible. It's mostly banal, like I worked really hard on a paper last week or I sent my mother a letter and she still hasn't replied and I'm feeling anxious or I don't have anything to say today, but I hope everyone has a good week.

‍And then it is her turn, and who-knows-how-many pairs of eyes are locked on her and she just...can't. She can't. What are they thinking? Gwyn says they call her kingslayer, so they must know what happened.. Are they thinking about how she couldn't save her father? How she killed one thousand Illyrian soldiers? How about how she drowned herself in alcohol, how the mark of its loss is still clearly etched in the bruises under her eyes, the dullness of her hair, the sallowness of her skin. How ugly she is, how she never deserved anything better than that slew of nameless males who didn't care about her, how she just fails at everything she tries--

‍"My name is Gwyn. I had a good week."

‍The next girl speaks, and the eyes are--finally--off Nesta.

‍Gwyn touches her shoulder. "Don't worry about it," she says in a hushed voice. "At least you didn't cry."

‍Nesta manages a small smile. It might look more like a grimace, but Gwyn gives her a grin.

‍"It's really not half as embarrassing as you think," she whispers. "Everyone here is way more concerned with what others think of them...until you realize no one's thinking about that."

‍Maybe she's just saying that.

‍But...maybe she can just believe it. Just for now.

‍The weekly check-in ends, and the week passes by.

‍Nesta doesn't get assigned to a priestess, but she still--she thinks--makes progress. She may be making a friend, as Gwyn seeks her out a few more times. Sometimes just to say hello, sometimes to ask her if she wants to join her for a lecture or a session. She generally goes. She likes the jewellery making, finding that working with her hands keeps her focused enough that she can't think about herself. All the lectures, actually, Nesta finds interesting, as there's just so much she doesn't know about this world.

‍On Tuesday, she writes a letter to her sisters, telling them she's doing all right, and perhaps they can come visit over the weekend.

‍On Wednesday, she feels hungry and restless--hungry and restless. So she has two slices of bread with soup and she doesn't even feel sick, and she goes for a walk afterwards, on the track circling the outside of the House.

‍On Thursday, she brushes her hair in the morning, and almost none of it is ripped out with the brush. She makes Gwyn laugh with something she says about a lecture they disagreed on. Thalia tells her she thinks she has some ideas for coping mechanisms she wants her to try. She goes for another walk in the evening, even jogging a bit as the House hurries her along with flashing faelights.

‍"What is it?" she says, as she enters the door, gasping slightly. Goodness, she's never been so out of shape in her life. That was barely a run.

‍But the House isn't done yet, flashing more lights, leading her into her bedroom.

‍"Oh...do you...are we playing a game?"

‍The House swings her door--impatiently?--to get her inside, and when she is, it swings shut behind her and disappears into a wall.

‍"Hey!" Nesta says. "What are you--"

‍A tea cart appears in front of her. Nesta can smell the lemon and honey from the kettle as it rolls towards her. One of the armchairs pulls out.

‍"Are we having a tea party?" Nesta asks.

‍As if in answer, a book appears on the coffee table.

‍"Do you want me to read to you?" Nesta asks.

‍The curtains pull shut and her faelights flicker on.

‍"I'll take that as a yes," she says, and sits down to entertain the House. She gives a small huff of a laugh. "You had to finish my walk early, did you?"

There's no way around it: Cassian has never been more pathetic in his life than he is with this female.

‍Whether it's circling her estate, thinking of insults to throw at her, or circling her apartment, imagining himself tossing out the male with her that night and confessing everything to her, or circling the House to sneak a peek of her through one of the Windows...all right, so it's mostly all the same move. Gods, when had he become so predictable?

‍Pathetic, nonetheless.

‍The worst part of it is, he doesn't even try and convince himself to stop anymore. Not when Elain shrieks one morning and says Nesta's invited her and Feyre up for lunch on Saturday. Not when he sees her go out for a walk Wednesday evening--a walk, with a bit more meat on her bones, and a shine to her hair and--he might be too far to tell, but it looks like--life in her eyes.

‍Not joy. Not...excitement. Not even contentment. But life. And that's...so much more than what had been last week.

‍He wonders if it might've consoled her to know that he was just as miserable as she was. More so, even. Because he felt all the pain she did and he also felt his own pain of seeing her that way. Of knowing that fierce, cunning, determined, wildly brave, unnaturally beautiful female was...struggling. So, so hard.

‍Sleeping a level above her each night, and thinking only of her...and knowing she's not thinking of him. Of course not. It was stupid and selfish and stupid again, but...it's true.

‍And her getting better is not for him he tells himself, as he watches her go on a walk for a second evening in a row.

‍(Not that he's watching her. He's checking the wards. It's not as though he knew she'd be out. He didn't. It just happened.)

‍Not for you, he says to himself. Feyre had been clear. This is for checking the wards; to make sure she's safe. And the extra weight on her is not for him to better imagine holding onto something as he presses her against himself; it's so she's healthy. So she doesn't wither and waste away. She is not imagining a stroll through the Night Court botanical gardens with him right now; she's just getting fresh air.

‍Time to go. Wards are checked, alarms are set, so it's time to go.

‍He doesn't let himself steal another glance--not for you--as he turns to fly away.

‍He should go to the ends of the city. Shake this off him, put his head on straight. This is pathetic. This is just sad. Maybe he should go out with Mor. He did this for her, didn't she? For five hundred odd years. She can do this for him. Maybe he can even meet someone, just for a night, just a distraction--

‍But Nesta is all he sees when he closes his eyes. The beautiful woman she once was, the sickly female she is now, and guilt and revulsion rock him to his core at the very thought of someone else...

‍Pathetic, since she doesn't want him, and probably never will. No, not probably, just never.

‍Three clear bells ring out in the distance, and self-pity and misery snap out of Cassian as blinding fear takes their place.

‍The alarms.

‍Nesta.

‍He is on his way, flying faster than he ever has in his life, before he even registers it. And for the first time, he wishes he were like Rhys or Az and could winnow--prays one of them is already there, or both of them, to fight off whoever it is, to keep her safe--oh gods--oh, she's so scared, she's terrified, she's afraid for her life--and the priestesses--

‍Rhys and Az are already there, inside the House, and there are half a dozen. Illyrians. Illyrians.

‍So they were right. He hadn't wanted to believe it. Doesn't want to believe it. That they would ever...that they would dare...

‍Cassian can't think, just has to move, get them out, kill--

‍"No," Rhys snarls at him.

‍Dimly, Cassian knows why. They're plotting a rebellion. To take over their court, and to give Nesta over to their enemy. Direct attacks against the royal bloodline. They need to be interrogated. They can't be killed.

‍But they can't live. They're going to hurt Nesta; they can't be allowed to live.

‍INCAPACITATE, Rhys barks to his mind.

‍Fine. He will. But he doesn't have to make it clean.

‍He does it quick, though. Nesta's scared. She's probably hiding somewhere, scared for her life. He needs to do it quickly for her.

‍They're fair warriors, but no match for the three of them. It's not close to being a fair fight. It's only a few minutes before he and Az have knocked out the six of them--Az letting him do the brunt of it--and Rhys drags back another two who had gone off to find Nesta.

‍"Easy," Rhys snaps at him.

‍"Calm down or go," Az adds. "Nesta's in her room. She's safe."

‍"You'll scare her."

‍"I won't," Cassian says, growling.

‍Rhys unceremoniously drops the two Illyrians on the floor next to the six others. "Well, you've already destroyed her living room," he says drily, "and you're covered in blood."

‍"Not mine." Not enough.

‍"Calm down," Rhys says, and this time it's an order.

‍Cassian takes a deep breath. "She's in her room?"

‍"I can bring Feyre up--"

‍"Bring her, but I want to see her. She needs to see me." The words come out of their own accord, but neither of his brothers corrects him.

‍"We'll both go," Rhys says. "Az...take care of this."

‍Az nods once, and they go down the stairs.

‍Nesta's scent grows stronger as they descend. Not much fear that he can detect, though. None of the bitterness of adrenaline. Just that sweet, gutting floral, mixed with traces from books she's always buried in. And, he realizes pleasantly, no alcohol.

‍When they get to her floor, Nesta's bedroom door is missing. In place is a wall. Before he can hurl himself at it to break it down, it morphs back into a door, and Rhys is there, knocking, again before Cassian can move.

‍"Nesta?" he calls out. "It's safe."

‍Cassian can hear her shuffling around before she comes to open the door.

‍He fights to keep upright and still as her eyes meet his, widening more than he's ever seen.

‍"What happened to you?" she asks, voice stronger and clearer than he's heard in a long time. Beautiful, lyrical, even if she does sound appalled. "Did you come from a battlefield?"

‍"How did you get the door to change into a wall?" Rhys asks her. "That was clever. Was that your magic?"

‍Nesta blinks at him. "No...the House was playing a game."

‍"You play games with the House?" Cassian says softly.

‍She turns to him again.

‍Yes, look at me, look at me, look at me, Nesta Nesta Nesta--

‍"I...we're friendly." She tinges pink.

‍"You're friends with the House?" Rhys says, blankly.

‍She reddens still--yes.

‍"Why are you covered in blood?" she says again.

‍"You...don't know what happened?" Rhys asks carefully.

‍Nesta rolls her eyes--oh, gods, how he's missed seeing her irritated. Oh, maybe she'll turn red again. "Obviously not."

‍"The important thing to remember is that you're safe," Rhys says, his voice patient and gentle.

‍Nesta shoots him a sharp look, fully aware he's never taken that tone with her.

‍"What is it? What's happened?"

‍Oh, brilliant--now she's scared.

‍Cassian takes a step closer. "The House was breached," he says to her, and her face pales. "But that's what the alarms are for. They worked. And we all got here, and we've got them. Now we're going to figure out who else is working with them. We're going to keep you safe."

‍Nesta looks up. "I was safe. I am, I mean. The House...I didn't even hear anything. It just told me to come into my room and gave me some tea and asked me to read to it."

‍"It asked you to read to it?"

‍"I thought it was a game." Nesta moves past them, walking upstairs. She gasps slightly when she reaches the main floor and sees the state of the living room.

‍Cassian ignored the pointed look Rhys gives him. "I can clean it up." Thank the Mother Az has already gotten the eight of them out.

‍But the House already appears to be doing so itself. It even moves some furniture around, away from a wall that's been badly damaged.

‍Nesta sucks in a breath as she walks towards it and crouches down on the floor. "Oh...did they hurt you?" she says, quietly to...to the House. "I'm sorry. I...thank you for keeping me safe. I'll...I can fix this for you. I'll get you something to fix it." She puts her palm on the cracks and craters, as if stroking the hurt.

‍You will not, Cassian tells himself sternly, be jealous of a house.

‍Pathetic. Just...pathetic.

‍"Your sisters will want to see you," Rhys says. "Maybe you should spend the night at our home."

‍"No," Nesta says, not turning from the wall. "I'm staying here. Oh!" She leaps up, whipping around, face white again. "Is--are--the library, was it--"

‍"The library is fine," Rhys says smoothly. "The priestess are all fine. They wouldn't have even heard any of this."

‍Nesta breathes a sigh of relief. "All right," she says. "That's...that's good. All right."

‍"Are you sure you don't want to come down, Nesta?" Rhys asks, voice kind again.

‍"Yes," she says. "But Elain and Feyre can come up if they want to," she adds. "I'm all right, though. Really. I know I'm safe here." She touches the wall again.

‍Nevermind that it's he who's covered in blood, who fought them off for her. It's the walls she's grateful to, the walls she reads to and plays games with--

‍Shut up, idiot, shut up.

‍"We'll go bring them up, then. Unless...would you like one of us to stay with you?"

‍"I'm really fine."

‍"All right. Well...we'll be back in a few minutes."

‍Nesta nods and turns around to put her hands on the wall again, to talk to the House.

‍Rhys, the bastard, takes notes and gives him a grin as they step off the veranda and fly down to the riverfront manor together.

‍"I was jealous a lot before Feyre told me she loved me, but never--"

‍"Shut up," he snarls, and Rhys has the audacity to laugh.

‍He doesn't mind so much. Nesta's safe and...she's doing better and eating and going on walks and she has a friend.

‍Even if it is just a house.