#tagging your name without copying is like impossible

[nereidprinc3ss]

hourglass

in which spencer disappears from fem!reader's life entirely for three months, right as it seems they were finally about to make things official. when he comes back they reunite, all the while knowing things can't be the same as they were.

18+ (smut, angst) warnings/tags: oh god so many. NOT canon compliant in the slightest, i make shit up, softdom!spence, nipple stuff prob, fingering, oral f receiving, piv sex, unprotected sex, pet names, tara mentioned, depression, mentions of trauma cause its the prison arc duh, passing mentions of alcohol, mentions of spencer losing weight, reader mistakenly thinks spencer tried to kill himself BUT ONLY FOR A SECOND, where is diana reid, nobody knows or cares, probably filming glee, optimistic ending a/n: haven't posted smut in forever but this wip required it and the angst was so angsty i just had to finish it. it was started in jan or feb and subsequently added to and changed months apart and then edited so the writing quality varies from section to section which i apologize for. originally based on good guy by julia jacklin... also the odyssey by homer? can't really explain that one you'll just have to see for yourself anyway byeeee ilysm!!! PLS tell me if you liked it! or if you hated it! but preferably if you liked it! MWAH! wc <12k

It’s been about three months since you last saw Spencer Reid.

About three months since you had an early Valentine’s Day celebration (even though you weren’t a couple) complete with champagne (even though he doesn’t usually drink) and slow dancing (even though you swore you’d be terrible and he spent the first ten minutes laughing at you as you stepped on his toes.)

About three months since you finally settled your head on his shoulder and let the warbling vinyl carry you somewhere distant as the two of you danced slow circles on the parquet floor for what felt like hours.

You’d have liked him to stay later that night. You’d have liked him to stay all night if you were being honest with yourself, but at 11:45 he gently pulled away and told you he had to go.

“Curfew?” you joked, the corner of your mouth lifting a little and you hoped you were hiding your disappointment well.

“Actually, I’m going down to Texas for a few days to speak with one of the leading doctors in experimental Alzheimer's and dementia treatment. I’m going to see if he can get my mom into a clinical trial. I leave early tomorrow morning.”

“Oh my god, that’s amazing, Spencer! What are you doing still here? You should be at home getting ready to go!”

A rosy blush stains his cheeks and he looks down at the ground, laughing that little self-deprecating laugh of his. It makes your heart dance to see him so happy, makes you want to wrap your arms around him and never let him go so that he knows how much you absolutely adore him—but you settle for an affectionate squeeze where your hands have come to rest on his biceps.

“I wanted to see you tonight because I won’t be here for Valentine’s Day... but I still really wanted to spend it with you,” he admits meekly.

If before your heart was dancing, it is now melting.

The dreaded ‘what are we’ talk has been lurking in the dark corners of every conversation you have with each other lately—at least, in your mind it has. What you have with Spencer is not easily defined, and near impossible to explain to your friends—you act like a couple, you go out on dates, he introduces you to his team like you’re his girlfriend without ever putting it into so many words—but this validation that your pseudo-relationship might be evolving is better than any flowers he could have gotten you (although the peonies he brought will look very nice on your bedside table.)

“Four whole days... what will I do without you?” you whisper, brushing a hand along his face, and your chest aches with the heavy truth of it—despite the fact that he often is gone for stretches about that length. They don’t ever start to feel shorter.

“Well, you can start by reading that copy of The Odyssey I annotated for you.”

“Depressing,” you admit. “And a little ominous, considering you’re about to embark on a hero’s journey.”

“I think you’ll like this one,” he smiles.

You chew on your bottom lip, looking up at him as you think.

“Give me something to look forward to,” you say, earnestly.

“I—well, honestly, I just really want to kiss you and I’ve wanted to for a long time now and, you know, if that’s something you’re maybe also interested in then we could, uh, figure out a time to—”

“You want to kiss me?”

“Wh—you couldn’t tell?” Spencer says, like he can’t believe it.

As if on reflex, you lunge up and capture his lips with your own. It obviously catches him by surprise, but when you lower from your tiptoes he follows you, pulling you in closer and holding your face in his hands.

It’s too natural, too right, to be exhilarating. There’s no rush of adrenaline—it's more like stepping into a hot bath or warming your freezing hands at a fire. Like pieces clicking into place. It’s a relief.

You breathe into it, letting more and more of yourself melt against him. He keeps coming back to you deeper and deeper like a rising tide, and you want more than anything to keep getting closer to him—but then he stops. He stays close enough for you to breathe his air, but dodges your kiss gently before supplanting it with a gentle one to the corner of your mouth.

“I really have to go,” he breathes, before moving away from your mouth to kiss your forehead and speak softly against your skin. “If I don’t leave now I’ll be here all night.”

Which is exactly what you want, and the implication does little to make you want him less. But you care about him too much to be so selfish.

At some point, his hands found their way into your hair, and you gently grab his wrists.

“Incentive for you to come home.”

Nearly three months since that night.

At first when he stopped answering texts, you’d assumed he just had too much going on down in Texas. Which you could understand—you knew how stressful this situation with his mother was.

Even when four days came and went without even an alert from him that he was back in town, you thought, okay, maybe he’s been called away on a case. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s disappeared because of his work. But even then, he’d at least text you enough information so that you would know he was alive. Now, radio silence.

So you tried not to be clingy. You tried to act like an adult, to focus on school and your life outside of Spencer, but when Tara Lewis cancelled your weekly meeting due to an “unforeseen work-related emergency”you called her immediately. Tara was something of a mentor, and it was she who had connected you and Spencer to begin with. You had met the other members of his team by that point, yes, but none who you knew as well as Tara.

When she had informed you that Spencer had been arrested in Mexico and was now facing prison time for murder, you laughed.

Laughed until you realized her end of the line was silent.

Realized it was not at all a joke.

In a catatonic state of tranquility, you asked her for more details. Beyond assuring you of his innocence, she couldn’t (or more likely, wouldn’t) provide them. Asked where he was now. Asked all the right things that made sense to ask.

Then you hung up and had a panic attack because Tara said something about 25 years and you saw Spencer evaporate from your future like an apparition.

Slowly, you felt him evaporating from your past, too. Those memories from the night he left, became visions of you swaying with a ghost. Holding nothing but light between your hands as you kissed the peony air of your apartment.

He doesn’t want to see you, she had said into the phone one night, her tinny voice cutting in and out. You’re not on his list of approved visitors.

“You asked him about me?” you had whispered, curled up on top of your made bed in the dark.

I tried. I’m sorry. I’ll call you when I know more.

All your days melded together like a muddied smear of paint. Suddenly you felt you had nothing to look forward to. No anchor, no goal. Yes, a PhD... and then what?

The only thing that punctuated one 24 hour period from the next was the time you spent crying because Spencer was in prison and he didn’t want to see you and by the looks of things you may never see him again. When you weren’t crying, you were thinking about how your life was a big cosmic joke. An unfortunate statistical anomaly that didn’t mean anything to anyone else, and that you couldn’t do anything about.

That copy of The Odyssey, which wasn’t even bound and instead was a thick stack of printer paper organized by a single black clip, became something of a manifesto for you—a tome that your poured over, reading and re-reading each note in the margins, each word beautiful and imbued with meaning because you knew Spencer had selected every single one specifically for you. You traced the letters reverently, because in a way this was the last thing he had said to you—about Lattimore’s faith to the original text, Merrill’s strict use of dactylic hexameter, the stylings of Wilson and Lombardo, and how he thought you would enjoy Hammond’s prose just as much as he did.

Day by day it was becoming more prophetic than fictional, and you allowed yourself to sink into madness. You would rather be a deluded zealot than be nothing at all.

He didn’t want to see you.

He might as well have been dead, for all that you were grieving him. And you started to hate him, because he wasn’t dead, but wouldn’t do you the kindness of proving it. Like a festering wound, scratched open day after day so as not to ever heal, you had to live knowing he was less than an hour away. So no, you weren’t exactly over it. You lived day by day, waiting for the occasional call from Tara to keep you updated on Spencer, but either she didn’t want to share much about how he was doing, or he had specifically barred her from doing so, because she was always sparse on the personal side of things. That thought actually lifted your spirits, because it meant he was at least acknowledging your existence in some tiny way.

But your routine was becoming more regular, and so you staid on top of your classes and your non-Reid related meetings with Tara once a week, and you learned to dip your toes into existential dread and the oily black pool of depression every night without ever fully submerging yourself. You learned hope, because it was pretty much all you had, and the BAU had confidence that they would get Spencer out one way or another so you did too.

So you didn’t really think about it when you missed a couple of calls from Tara some evening in May. You were preparing for finals and had way too much on your plate academically to think about anything else which was a welcome relief so you fully embraced it. I’ll call her back tomorrow, you think, as you clean up from dinner before going back to the living room where your textbooks and papers are completely covering every available surface. Maybe I have no idea what I’m going to do with my life after school, but I’ll be damned if I don’t even make it that far.

Hours later, well into the night, you’d all but forgotten about the calls. A knock at the door takes you a bit by surprise, and you frown as you stand again, tugging your Georgetown sweatshirt down over your shorts as you shuffle to the entrance of your apartment. You’re not expecting anyone, so you crack the door, peering around the edge of it.

And you couldn’t even consider trying to hide that shaky inhalation of dead air when you see Spencer standing on the other side.

Surely you’re hallucinating.

Surely this man in front of you who looks like he just got back from a day of work didn’t spend three months in prison pretending you didn’t exist.

He looks the same. Hair a bit longer, maybe—and gaunter even more than is normal for him. 

But it's him.

You can’t think about the apprehensive look on his face—you can’t think about the impossibility of him being here. You can’t think at all. Without your explicit permission, your body surges forward into his, and he’s real, and alive, and warm, and he is an anachronism in the hallway as he accepts everything you pour into the embrace, doesn’t flinch when you move your arms from around his waist to loop around his neck and back to his waist again with crushing force because you just can’t get him close enough.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer mutters into your hair, I’msorryI’msorryI’msorryI’msorry, he keeps saying, rubbing your back as you try to find a solid grip on the sleek material of his suit—try to gather all the pieces of him, already afraid he might fall apart and float away again.

“You—dis—disappeared,” you hiccup after an eternity, pulling away enough to look up at his pretty face. Tears blur your vision and darken the front of his jacket, bending the florescent lights so they form a kind of halo above his head.

Through the surreal haze you can see his throat bob.

“I know.”

He knows?

He knows?

You scoff.

“You have no fucking idea, Spencer. What the fuck is wrong with you? I—I'm—”

The hot anger is such a relief for a second, boiling the oceans of your despair into a wrathful, scorching fog, but as soon as you try to tell him how you feel, the barbed wire cuts into your throat again. You shove him away, skin burning where his hands had been.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, hands hanging uselessly at his side. There’s that kicked puppy look about him—and it’s familiar, but now there’s more damage. You don’t know anything about his time in prison, you haven’t heard a damn thing, but beneath the glassy desperation in his eyes there is an unfathomable void that seems to be preventing him from being fully present—and you realize for the first time that he is different.

It chills you.

Before, you and Spencer shared everything. There wasn’t one part of his internal machinations that you didn’t understand, nothing you kept from each other. But as you study him now from a few feet away, you realize there might as well be a yawning chasm between the two of you.

He is so different.

Those eyes look deeper. No gears turning just behind the slashes of gold and brown anymore—only an endless dark corridor that goes places you will never go.

Gone is the perpetual boyish up-turn at the corner of his lips that always made him look slightly vacant in a way that you found incredibly amusing. Something you had been so fond of, even if you teased him.

He seems to have aged ten years—if not physically, then in demeanor. And now you feel like a little kid throwing a tantrum.

You cross your arms, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

You’re embarrassed. And pissed. And relieved. Everything is worse and better. You want to fall back into his arms, but you have been jarred by the revelation that this might not be the same Spencer. It might not be the same relationship. You have no idea where you stand.

He says your name gently, with so much familiarity you’re briefly jerked into the past. It makes you wish you could look up to find him as he was three months ago. Wish this was just a bad dream. But that’s not fair to him.

“Sorry,” you mutter, studying the grey carpet fibers instead of looking at him.

“Don’t apologize,” Spencer says immediately, “you’re right. I don’t—” he clears his throat— “I’m being incredibly selfish. I shouldn’t have just shown up, I’ll just—I'll leave. I’m sorry.”

A silent moment passes.

You don’t look up as he turns and swiftly begins to move down the hall toward the stairway, leaving as quickly and silently as he had come, like a few bars of a song sighed in and away on a fleeting breeze.

Your bare feet are concretely planted, imagining him jogging down the steps and speed-walking away from your building—

And suddenly you’re sprinting after him, feeling like you might puke because Spencer was just here and you let him go again—and even though you’re still so mad and confused and hurt, the realization that he is leaving again makes the entire building spin and lurch.

“Wait!” You yell, almost wiping out as you run down the stairs and whip around corners in your slippery fucking socks. “Please, wait!”

The lobby is already empty as you spill out into it, and cold dread tightens around your neck like a fist as you shoulder your way through the double doors and right into Spencer.

“Please don’t leave again, you just—I'm sorry, I really need you to not go—” you blabber, lachrymose once more, gripping onto his forearms for dear life.

“I’m not going,” he breathes shakily. “I tried to leave because I think you were right and maybe I should and maybe it would be better for you but I can’t.”

“You can’t,” you agree, more sob than spoken word. He cups your jaw, then your cheeks, wiping tears and brushing away hair like he can’t figure out how to hold enough of you between his hands. The wild kaleidoscope of his eyes, bright and alive and real as he scans you desperately captures your attention enough to slow the tears to a trickle. He notices this and stares back, entranced.

A silent agreement is made, or maybe an inevitable fate is accepted—either way, something was set in motion three months ago and it matters to see it through. Spencer kisses you and you’re ready for it. You don’t need slow or tender. You need to feel how he feels. You need to know what he knows.

You sling your arms around his neck and he pulls you closer until you almost tip backward, chasing the bruising kiss even as you regain your footing. You want to drink him in and you do your best, breathing deeply as he kisses you deeper, backing you inside and toward the elevator.

“Is this okay?” he manages, only after blindly reaching for and mashing the up button on the wall panel.

Ideally it wouldn’t happen like this, but the world you live in obviously isn’t ideal and your personal situations as they coincide are far from ideal, so this is how it has to happen. But it’s hard to explain, and you’d rather not admit that this is so far from what you wanted for both of you and follow up with the fact that despite that you need him like you need water. So you don’t say a word as the metal doors slide open promptly. Instead you pull him in and let him press you to the chrome wall as he hits your floor button, and that very hand comes back to grab your ass like you didn’t think Spencer Reid capable of. It almost aches as his fingers dig into the flesh, but it’s a good ache because it means he’s real and he’s there.

You gasp as he hitches your leg up, arching into him. The shorts that you’re wearing leave very little to the imagination to begin with, but they become downright indecent like this.

Quickly the elevator stops and the doors hiss open. You don’t hesitate to pull Spencer by the hand down the hall. When you notice you left your door wide open, you don’t even care. Neither does he, apparently—once you’re inside he slams it shut, flipping the deadbolt while his eyes are glued to you like you’re already naked. Now Spencer is shameless in the way he drags his eyes over every curve, every place your clothes and hair are disheveled from his touch and eye-fucks you so obviously it makes your face warm. Three months ago Spencer would have at least been bashful about it when he met your eyes again, but this Spencer is far from apologetic as he pins you with his burning gaze once more. His hand stays stuck to the door like he’s holding himself back.

“Is this what you want?”

There’s an undercurrent of sorrow below the gravely arousal, like this isn’t what he wanted for the two of you either. But you’re both at the mercy of fate. This is all you have, and it might be all you can do for each other anymore. So you don’t need to say that, because he understands.

“Yeah. Yes, this is what I want.”

For just a second more he watches you from his place by the door, and there’s an unexpected softness to it. He looks at you the way he would have looked at you before. Like as long as he stays there he can entertain the idea of being that person again.

Need wins out quickly, though, and he surges forward. Immediately you’re caught in the riptide of him, helpless as he kisses you all the way to your bedroom.

He’s never been in here before. You find yourself glad it’s relatively clean—one of the pastimes you’d picked up in his absence was keeping everything tidy. It was something you could control.

A lamp glows at your bedside. You lean against the footboard of your bed, hands timidly behind your back and suddenly shy to have in him in your intimate space. Both of you set aside the heaving desperation long enough to catch your breaths, and for him to scan the room like he too is being forced to reconcile with the innate and unexpected intimacy of the moment. He cuts a harsh, dark gash in your sweetly decorated bedroom, radiating something wild and powerful and unsure of himself like a chained bull as he takes in the soft, pale bedding, the paintings and photos taped to the walls, the woven rug and the sheer drapery. His breathing slows as he studies it all—eyes eventually catching on something behind you. Looking is unnecessary. You’re sure he’s spotted the dried peonies in their ceramic vase. Or maybe the now worn stack of papers that is his Odyssey, marked up and soft around the edges from constant flipping-through.

Then Spencer looks at you, and that softness seeps in again. Along with something like... fear? Grief?

In some other universe your first time with Spencer is sweet and giggly and kind and he smiles at the decor in your room and looks around with wonder because it’s another way he gets to know you. It’s a different way to learn you from the inside.

You sense that he’s caught in between universes right now as well, painfully aware of what he would have given you that he can’t anymore.

He breathes your name like an apology, and foolishly you let a second go by in which you think he might offer you one. But he doesn’t. Not with his words, anyway. His eyes tell a different story.

“It’s fine,” you say unprompted on a whispered exhale, then a little louder as you push off the footboard, crossing the space until your hands are on his chest. You focus on his tie, not making eye contact as you rush to undo it. “It’s fine.”

He lets you do this for a few seconds before finally covering your trembling hands with his own. You still can’t meet his eyes.

“We don’t have to do—”

“No! No, please. I want to. I need—I need us to be okay.”

“Hey,” he murmurs, catching your chin and forcing you to look at him. “We are okay. Me and you are fine.”

It’s a pretty thought, but it’s not true. In fact, it’s a hideous and abject affront to the truth. Sure, maybe you’re fine in comparison to last week. Maybe anything feels fine compared to an eight by six cell. But it would be impossible for you and Spencer, for your relationship, whatever that relationship may be, to be fine. It’s especially impossible for him to make that claim, after all he did or rather didn’t do while he was gone. What you need is for him to stay anyway. What you need is to find a way to be with him, to exist with him, even when you are so clearly not fine.

“I just need you to stay,” you whisper, and he’s already nodding, wide-eyed like he’d do anything for you. You ignore all the bitter venom rising in your throat. You pretend this isn’t all happening after he cut you out of his life with a dirty switchblade. Instead you focus on his hands on yours, the familiar smell of him, which invites you to let go of each and every thought and worry. He must’ve showered before coming here, you realize. How long has he been out? What happened? 

“Okay. Okay, I can stay. What else can I do? How do I make it better?”

You sniffle and look back down.

“You can untie that for me.”

He hesitates, then nods some more, fingers working under yours to undo the tie around his neck.

“Okay.”

A moment goes by and after that final whispered word, the tension begins to build again. Spencer senses it in the way your fingertips linger on his chest and you step even closer, dragging them down to his belt. The metallic sound of it unbuckling, despite being your own doing, still manages to flip your stomach. How many times have you pictured this? When was the first time you realized you wanted it? You’re sure you haven’t stopped wanting it even once since then.

Spencer tosses the tie away and is shrugging off his jacket now, then before you see it coming he’s kissing you again, ducking down to do it. He feels taller this close up, and especially in your bedroom, where he just seems rather out of place. But you want him here. God, you want him here.

You break the kiss, forced to look down as you fumble with his belt.

“Sorry,” you gasp, embarrassed by your lack of dexterity. The light is barely sufficient to see what you’re doing, especially when he’s wearing black on black and your eyes are still bleary.

“You’re okay,” he assures you, and it’s so Spencer a fresh round of nerves electrifies the tips of your fingers. That thing is happening—the thing you’d hoped to avoid if you hadn’t lost momentum partway through, where you’re allowing your actual feelings for him to get in the way rather than getting swept up in the pathos of the moment and letting everything be easy and mindless. “Here, can I help you?”

But he doesn’t actually wait for an answer before he’s finishing off the belt for you, tugging it loose from his hips till it’s a leather coil in his hands. Your fingers brush the material and he lets you take it as if it were your prize. It’s heavier than you thought it’d be, and you just feel the weight of it in your hands for a moment, your dropped head brushing his chest.

You have a terrible feeling that if you do this now, it doesn’t mean everything will be alright. Because it can’t just go back to normal. Spencer has told you nothing of what must be an enormous trauma, and you haven’t spoken about it at all, but you sincerely doubt that after this he’s going to be ready to just jump into that committed relationship the two of you had been toying with for months before his absence. You’re almost... scared of him, now. Scared of where he’s been and what he’s endured—things you’re sure you couldn’t have taken. What that does to a person, you can’t imagine. He seems so solid and real in front of you now—but you know that’s not always enough. Maybe you’re just scared that somehow whatever he’s been through will have made him care for you less. That you were too far removed from the whole ordeal, and now you’ll never understand. If you could understand, maybe you could fix it for him. Maybe he’d stick around.

Still—even if you do end up pushing him further away in the long run—won't it have been worth it to have had him so completely, even just once?

You toss the belt to the ground, compressing all of these very complicated thoughts and feelings into a few seconds so short he can’t ask you any questions about them. Instead you find his top button, and just as you manage to undo it with relative ease he’s gently grabbing your wrists. You look up at him, immediately surrendering.

“If we’re going to do this I need you to relax a little bit.”

Gears grind in your chest. You feel need and anxiety comingling in every square inch of your body. It’s a sick buzz—a high on an empty stomach.

“I can’t,” you admit.

“Yeah, you can,” Spencer gently disagrees, slowly lowering your hands. When he’s sure you’re not going to try ripping his clothes off again, he releases, and his eyes lower to the zipper of your hoodie. His fingers follow, warm against the soft triangle of revealed skin at your chest as he grips the small piece of metal between barely shaking fingers. “You can.”

You match his eyeline, breathing shallowly and watching as he slowly drags the zipper down. You wonder if that sound has haunted his fantasies the way the sound of his belt has haunted yours. If he’s seen this hoodie on you and wondered what’s underneath, staring at you and daydreaming during movie night with you none the wiser.

Both of you have your eyes glued to the span of skin as the zipper parts. Spencer stalls with the zipper at your sternum, just below the band of your bra.

Right. No shirt.

You look up and find his eyes already on you, tinged with a curious kind of humor.

“I wasn’t expecting guests.”

The words come out shy. Spencer’s chuckle has its own nervous airy quality as he resumes tugging on your zipper, leaning down until your noses bump.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Then he kisses you again, a little sweeter now. Sweet enough to give you butterflies and for them to flutter right out of your stomach and spill from your lips in a little whimper against his.

It comes as a surprise when he pushes the fabric from your shoulders without looking or asking. Not that you’d have said no—you're just underprepared for how assertive he is in this foreign context.

Left just in your flimsy shorts and your thin bra, you feel quite exposed—but Spencer’s hands are as demanding and hungry as his mouth. They skim up your sensitive sides and sweep lower, suggesting less proper placement over your ass and pulling at your bottoms until you gently put a stop to their wandering.

“Wait. We’re... we’re uneven.”

It’s a struggle to get any words out at all when he keeps chasing your lips, nipping at you like he physically can’t stand not kissing you, but they catch his attention and he laughs airily, pulling back to let his gaze pour over your less clothed form. It lingers and catches and lights you up everywhere it touches, drops of heat soaking into your skin and making you feel all fuzzy and needy.

“We are,” he acknowledges, tone low and colored with the faintest smile. “You’re a lot prettier without your clothes on than I am.”

“I don’t believe you.”

The challenge comes immediately and thoughtlessly. Spencer’s golden eyes flash up to yours. He’s breathing a little harder than usual.

“You want me to show you what I mean?”

If that means getting him naked, then yes, absolutely.

You nod, but rather than immediately stripping, he takes your hand and holds his own open next to it. A thick pink scar bisects some pretty significant palmistry lines, but you don’t mention that. Instead you swallow—your thoughts, your words, your nausea.

“That’s new.”

You wonder how you hadn’t noticed it earlier.

He nods.

“A lot is new.”

It sounds almost like he’s challenging you—there's a kind of tremulous force in his voice, despite the perpetual softness there, like he’s inviting you to say it’s ugly. And you realize he’s referring to more than just the glowing scar cutting an asteroid trail against the flesh of him palm. The scars he obtained in prison must form a constellation over his body.

“I don’t care. I wanna see you.”

Spencer swallows, cupping your face with the scarred hand once more. You can’t feel it against your cheek but you know it hasn’t gone away.

“I’m sure you think you do,” he permits, and that’s where the conversation ends for the moment—with his hand on your face and his lips back on yours. “For now why don’t you let me worry about you?”

Obediently, you breathe, “okay.”

This is, for whatever reason, amusing to him. The brief levity dies as quick as it comes like a snuffed-out brush fire as soon as he lets his hands fall back down to your hips.

“I want... I want to give you slow. But...”

But slow is for people who didn’t lose three months of their life. Slow is for people who don’t know what it’s like to be starving. Slow is not for the desperate.

You understand the feeling.

“I don’t need slow.”

You’ll let him use you up like quick-burning fuel if that’s what he needs. You’ll go as fast and as bright and as hot as he tells you.

“But you want slow,” he murmurs, a secret acknowledged into your own waiting mouth. You’d keep it there forever. You could be the object he hides his soul in. “I know you do. You deserve to get what you want.”

“I can go fast. I want whatever you can give me.”

Spencer’s shuddering exhale is like a drug, dizzying as you inhale it and your eyes flutter at the high, pressed head-to-head with him. For so long you’ve needed him so badly. It’s overwhelming to have him now, all over you. If only your walls could breathe him in the way you are, if this room could remember what it feels like to hold him the way you will, if any inanimate object could bear witness to how you’ll give yourself, any part of yourself, over to him, so willingly.

“I’m going to try.” Spencer’s voice is hoarse as he walks backward to the bed, taking you by the hips as he goes. “I want to do it right. I want to do this the way I... the way I imagined it, before...”

Now he’s sitting, and you’re standing between his legs as he finds the clasp of your bra and undoes it, his fingers a comforting pressure where they ghost down the slope of your back. Your heart is pounding at the confession, at the way his tongue darts over his bottom lip and his fingertips journey back up to your straps, looking up at you with haloed irises as if he’d find anything other than the most dangerous kind of smoldering devotion in your eyes—the kind cult-leaders seek and spend years nurturing, and he’d earned with a mere brush over your bare skin.

The fabric slides down your arms, and as it falls to the floor, you watch something like despair flash-flood his eyes. It is a deep, distinctly human grief. The ineffable kind where something is almost too beautiful; so perfect it offends the mortal senses because it should be permanent, but nothing is, and the clash of divine beauty with unstoppable time which oxidizes copper and covers marble with vine is almost as grotesque as metal rending delicate flesh. It is the grief that drove the first poet to write and the first parents to press their baby’s painted hands to the walls of a cave. It is the desire to do the impossible—to capture ephemeral perfection and make it eternal, and the knowledge that it is hopeless. You recognize it because you’ve felt it for him.

“I thought about you all the time,” he whispers, doesn’t bother calling you beautiful but you don’t mind because he’s telling you with his hands and his eyes and the waver of his voice. “When I was gone, I thought about you—”

You’re just as quiet, just as soft.

“Don’t, Spencer.”

He doesn’t get to tell you about when he was gone. Not now. Not after he acted like you didn’t exist.

“Okay.” He swallows the things he’d wanted to tell you like you choked on the things you needed to tell him for three months. “I’m sorry.”

But his hands—his hands are perfect over your waist and his lips are perfect where they kiss your ribs like they’re his homeland. You could forgive a thousand wrongs for each kiss he puts to your skin. Light from the full moon stretches over the room like a blessing from the cosmos, and you have every intention of making the most of that gift, how the silver gilds the planes of his face and highlights curls like they were carved, and invites you to search for something in each shadow.

Some of his kisses land over the sensitive skin of your breasts though you doubt he has much intention or that there is any sort of end-goal with the trail he blazes—in fact, you have to root your hand in his hair and pull gently back when he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s making you wait again. His eyes are glassy and cheeks slightly pinkened—you weren’t expecting this wave of fondness to knock you on your ass but here you are, falling all over again.

“You don’t have to go that slow.”

A slow smile splits the heart of his mouth at your bashful tone and he’s emboldened to bring his hands higher for a moment, thumbs brushing particularly delicate though not downright indecent spots. Nonetheless, your breath catches.

“Impatient girl,” he scolds, and though it’s lighthearted it still inspires heat to dance across your face. Oh, I think I’ve been plenty patient, you itch to say, but you bite it back because it’s only sad and true and unkind.

Still, he gives you the beginning of what you want, really only the tip of the enormous iceberg that is your desire for him, by slipping his thumbs into the waistband of your shorts and tugging them down. His hands slide up the fronts of your thighs, tracing the trim of your underwear, and you’d swear he’s not even breathing. The moment one of his hand loops behind your knee and pulls forward until it’s pressed to the mattress and you’re half-kneeling, half standing, desire begins to truly cloud your mind. Manhandling never seemed like Spencer’s style, but when paired with how softly he reveals your hip, pulling gently down on the fabric of your underwear just to admire you up close, you don’t mind it.

More kisses are littered over your stomach, and he takes you by surprise a second time with a quick maneuver landing you on your back and him on top of you.

“I wasn’t doing you justice with my imagination,” he murmurs against your mouth. “I couldn’t have known.”

“Couldn’t have known what?” you pant as he shamelessly digs his fingers into the plush of your ass. You almost hope it bruises.

“How pretty you would be,” he coos like he means it, and you dissolve, slipping through his fingers like sand in an hourglass. “You were holding out on me.”

It’s a tease, not at all serious, but you manage to hit him with a, “Was not, asshole,” and he chuckles, placating your little hurt with another sticky kiss, and you get another disorienting glimpse of some other timeline where you’re both a little less damaged. Where it’s a little easier.

But in this timeline, his touch becomes starving and ragged and urgent, and you accept the drag of his thumb up your thigh and between your legs, gasping when he runs his knuckles up the center of you. This touch is metal on screeching metal. It does not pretend to be anything more than what it is—brute, powerful, executed to elicit sensation. You get the sense that Spencer’s never touched anyone this honestly, and while you do envy the girls who got to have him gentler, you’ll take this as the compliment that it is. A kind of vulnerability that is nearing primal.

His lips, though—always his lips—are kind when they brush and land on your skin guided by some invisible map. A dip down your neck and chest and then a plunge, his tongue dragging over your hips, chasing the fabric of your underwear as he almost pulls it off and then reroutes, making room for himself between your legs and pushing lace aside to mark the hinge of your inner and upper-most thigh. Your chest heaves and you don’t dare move for fear he’ll stop leaving signs of himself on your body and you won’t be able to reassure yourself that it was real and he was here and it was not another dream.

Because something in you knows, if only consciously recognizing it for the first time now, that he will disappear again. That this may be your only chance.

The desire to make the ephemeral eternal. An impossibility.

He’s clearly losing himself to something, eyes shutting blissfully. You wonder when the last time he let his guard down even a  little was. You’re okay with being the thing he gets lost in, even if you’re not exactly okay with him—something you are becoming more acutely aware of as each touch makes a part of you want to cry. Maybe you still have some things in common. A strange pain that doesn’t quite feel like it belongs to you, for one thing.

You slam back into your body as his nose nudges against you through fabric, and his lips catch on cotton as he drags himself up, eventually settling a kiss against the little bow at the waist of your underwear. There he stays, eyes closed, mouth pressed to you.

“Is this okay?”

You swallow, buzzing. Is this really what he wants? After everything?

“You don’t have to...”

“But is it okay with you?”

Nothing more than an airy whisper, you reply, “Yes, if that’s what you want.”

Being emotional at this point seems wrong, but it’s difficult to ignore the fact that you have thought about this before and it’s finally happening but it’s not exactly as you’d imagined it. There is an indelible sadness to it, to the way he’s so hungry for you because he’s been deprived, to the desperation with which he touches you because he’s had everything taken from him.

For a moment, before he tugs your underwear down, he pauses, and you wonder if he’s freezing one moment in time, this moment, and grieving all the other ways it could’ve been, and accepting that this is the way it is going to be. You are.

These higher realms of thought abandon you as he finally pulls the last barrier down your legs and encourages you to spread them further. You don’t have time or energy to be embarrassed, not even by his staring, or the way his eyes dart up to yours and back down again, wide and shining, as if to say, have you seen yourself? Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?

All you feel is the lack of him on you, the pull to have him closer so strong it’s almost sickening because he could be gone at any second. Maybe he understands that because he doesn’t waste anymore time before he’s kissing the most sensitive part of you. The drag of his tongue has you loosing a shuddering cry.

His mouth wanders, making connections you wouldn’t have realized the value of until you feel them on your skin. Your hips buck as he traces you and you’re unable to stop yourself from tangling your hands in his hair. Speech fails you—hell, you can hardly breathe as you watch his with a furrowed brow and parted lips, only expelling air from your lungs in the form of little cries and gasps and failing to hold your hips down to the bed.

The tip of his tongue teases around your entrance and he catches your leg as your foot rises off the bed, slinging it over his shoulder and consuming you more fervently until you have no choice but to moan though you’ve never been one for theatrics. Nobody has done this for you like he’s doing it for you. Locks of hair fall in front of his face and you hold them back for him, shuddering as he shifts his weight and presses the tip of his finger to your cunt.

“Ah—please,” you manage, your first words since he started. Spencer groans against you and the sound is so wonderfully unexpected, so much better than in your dreams. You cant your hips up in further invitation, chirping as he takes it, pushing two fingers into you at once. Your eyes screw shut and you bite back a whine at the slight stretch, unconsciously writhing your hips either to get further away or take him deeper, you’re not sure.

Spencer pulls back, kissing your hips and thighs and pumping his fingers very slowly as you adjust.

“’M sorry,” you pant, “it’s been awhile, I...”

“Don’t apologize,” Spencer says like it’s simple, his own breath coming quicker. “How’re you feeling? Need me to stop?”

“No! No, it feels really good, I feel good.”

He holds your burning gaze, matching it with his own, and his hair is tousled and his cheeks are flushed as he continues to move his hand.

“Yeah?”

“...Yeah.”

This little show of obedience, of call and response, has him smiling before he occupies his mouth with something else once more. It’s a different smile than you’re used to from him, but you decide you don’t at all mind it.

Like that, with his tongue and fingers working tirelessly, your orgasm comes on quickly. The feeling is rare but not entirely foreign, and in that brief moment of utter disconnect between your brain and reality, of sheer white-hot pleasure, you don’t feel you’re missing out on anything at all. How could you be, when you are here and Spencer is here and for a moment all your neurons are lighting up and flashing neon? How could there be anything more to life than the searing feeling of him slowly withdrawing his fingers from you, than your hips between his hands like he’s cradling the world, and his lips, indiscriminate with where they kiss because every part of you is worthy of attention?

You’re reeling, and your legs are gelatinous as he so affectionately sucks the darkest mark yet onto your inner thigh like a parting gift, like he’s signing his trembling work. If you could clamp your legs shut around the almost painful aftershocks you would, but he’s climbing back up your body, so all you can do is wriggle against him and release delayed, stunted little moans. He stops to kiss your neck before he makes it to your mouth and drinks down all your sounds until you’re gentle and pliant for him like you haven’t been yet.

His voice is soft and sympathetic when he speaks. “Better?”

Wordlessly you nod, both comforted and unsettled by how well he knows you. What, exactly, has been made better, you’re not sure. Not trust. You don’t trust him anymore. Something cheaper, but temporarily effective. A sense of permanence, maybe, however fleeting it may be. You’ve completed something with him now, and he’s still here, still sweet.

He looks into your eyes, then, for a moment—and there is just enough light in the room for you to tell yourself that the shadows dancing there as he looks at you are love.

They morph as you watch into haunting, wild hunger. Pained even now.

He sits up abruptly and so do you, scooting back against your headboard and pulling your knees to your chest to protect your pounding heart as Spencer takes you in with darting eyes and quick breaths. His fingers find the collar of his shirt and he begins to unbutton.

“I need you to remember it’s all going to heal.”

He swallows, and you hardly have the wherewithal to study the way he unbuttons his shirt, a way he exists in the world that you had previously not been privy to. The words are too distracting.

“What?”

Sometimes he reminds you of a deer, with those big brown eyes that can’t help betraying anxiety. Moreso in those old pictures he’d shown you from his early days at the BAU—but it shines through occasionally even now. It’s reassuring to know that something inside of his has remained soft.

“Just...” his fingers don’t stop at their task, and you come to the disturbing realization that his knuckles are bruised. “Please don’t freak out, alright?”

Your mouth goes dry, eyes glued to the lengthening span of revealed skin.

And before he even has his shirt fully undone, something isn’t right.

He’s like a Pollack of bruises—starbursts and watercolor blots of discoloration blooming over his side and stomach.

You’re glad the light is off for two reasons: one, being that you don’t think you could handle the bruising in all its glory, and two, you hope the look of horror painted on your face is at least partially obscured from Spencer.

But you can’t. You simply don’t have the gas in the tank to freak out, as he’d said—at least not externally. Those bruises shouldn’t be there, but 96 days is a long time to be gone.

You drag your eyes back to his—nervous, deeply insecure and mistrustful. A deer. Just like those pictures of a 24 year old Spencer in an FBI jacket that was too big for him.

It’s enough to have you scooting on your knees across the mattress to him. Those big eyes stay glued to you as you draw near, falling as you carefully push open his shirt, cautious not to bump any tender spots as it falls to the bed. A flash of white gauze wrapped around his forearm that makes your stomach flip. How? You want to ask. Why?

He doesn’t seem to know what you’re going to do, and neither do you, until you’re grabbing his hands, bruised knuckles and all, and just... holding them for a minute.

“I lost weight,” he says quietly, as if that’s the most shocking thing about his current appearance, though it is noticeable.

“You’re still pretty.”

He smiles at this—a true Spencer Reid smile. Flattened lips, eyes tinged silver with sadness, voice quiet and anxious and wavering.

“I didn’t have a lot to spare.”

A moment goes by.

“I’m not going to ask you about them,” you promise, though you care so much and you want to know but you already understand that he won’t want to tell you.

Another moment. It doesn't surprise you to watch the shiny vulnerability in his eyes to freeze over completely. But he squeezes your hands once in thanks, and you know it’s still the same Spencer.

“Lie down.”

Oh. Right.

This.

You do as he says, taking a deep breath to try and exhale the concern twisting your stomach like a poison. Somehow your room feels so unfamiliar, so new with him in it. Even the whorls on your ceiling look different as you study them, trying to time the pattern of your breathing with the pattern of the paint and plaster and not let the sound of Spencer further undressing quicken your heartrate too much.

Soon he’s coaxing your legs apart again, reverently, and kneeling between them, studying every part of you—lingering not on the parts you’d expect. He traces the scar on your knee with his thumb, follows a line down your thigh to the freckle on your hip. The scrutiny is unnerving and warms you everywhere. Perhaps he senses the microscopic clench of your thighs as you imagine pushing them together, if he weren’t in the way.

“You alright?” He asks, still stroking your hip. Tender again. It’s so hard to keep up.

“I...”

Suddenly your heart beat is a deafening echo in your own ears. The tide of your breathing is too powerful, too in and out and whooshing, leaving you always too empty or too full but never comfortable.

Maybe he’s changed, and he’s harder to know now, but he is the same Spencer. He is the Spencer you’d fallen in love with. The hard part is knowing that now you may never get a chance to tell him that. You don’t know if he’d be able to hear it.

There are things you can’t have with him anymore. Not now, at least. Maybe not ever. But you can have this. It will be different, but you’d rather him be different and here than the same and only in your memory.

You swallow.

“I’m good.”

Tangling your hand in his hair once more, you pull him down into a kiss. It’s hesitant, at first—maybe he can taste your thoughts, where they’d been balancing just on the tip of your tongue. But the uncertainty fades and he kisses you deeper, harder, in a way that is hard to keep up with. You like the messy overwhelm of his lips, teeth, tongue. That’s the only way he knows how to want you.

When you go to wrap your leg around his waist he catches it, running his hands over the soft plush of your thigh. The hard line of him presses against you like memory foam and you gasp and he breathes it in deeply as your brain short-circuits, as you realize this is really going to happen, that you’re going to have him like you’ve never had him before and in ways you’ve only imagined and immediately felt ashamed for.

“Spencer,” you whisper. He ducks to leave open-mouthed kisses along your neck and your eyes flutter shut, craning your neck but not losing sight of your objective as you reach down blindly. When you find what you’re looking for he freezes, groans against your neck at the same time as you breathe the tiniest whimper. Just in your hand he feels impossible, hot and imposing and hard. Your heart palpitates.

Without thinking, you angle your hips up and encourage him closer, until the tip of him is smearing through your folds, and you both go utterly silent like the breath had been stolen right from your lungs. The moment crystallizes, time around you hardening like preserved amber to keep you frozen there forever.

And then he rolls his hips, catching the underside of his cock on the crux of you, and then he does it again, and you choke out a moan and so does he, and it’s beyond perfect—it's nirvana, more than you could ever have conceived of, with his weight pressing you into the mattress, arms caging you in, his heavy breaths hot against your neck and vice versa as you twine together like serpents on a rod, your foot floating in the air as you widen your legs to make more room for him.

And you’re not even fucking yet.

“Oh my god,” you whine, just for him, barely audible under the heavy cloak of night, the thickened air in your bedroom and the sound of panting and fabric shifting. It’s like your heart is trying to reach through your chest to his own where they’re pressed together—that is how hard it’s beating.

Spencer only breathes a long, low curse and shifts so he can grasp himself. Your fingers drift down the shaft of him as he slots himself at your entrance, notching half an inch in and you hold your breath, and you brace yourself—and then he’s kissing you again, but gentler this time. Reassuring. You soften, you can’t not, releasing all your air in a soft gust through your nose, and then he’s pushing in.

Your lips part at the stretch as it fuzzes your mind, but he stays right there, nose pressed to your nose, lips ghosting over your own. He’s not going anywhere, you think, and you’re glad for it, when it burns ever so slightly, and the tiniest whine escapes your open mouth.

“Shh,” he soothes immediately, low and soft, only fractionally louder than you had been. “You’re okay.”

Spencer. Your Spencer.

For a moment, you’re living in that alternate universe. The kinder one. The flash of pain you feel then has nothing to do with the way he’s opening you up.

This is the closest you have ever been, and in some strange way, the furthest apart.

Together, fingers brushing, you guide him until he settles at not quite your deepest point. You can feel that he’s not giving you everything yet, but you’re okay with that, as you adjust to the full feeling. Spencer again senses your desire to close your legs against the deep intrusion, and gives you the best he can by encouraging you to wrap your legs around him.

“Good girl,” he whispers tenderly, nudging at your jaw with his nose and dragging kisses along the ridge of it. Your stomach flips at the moniker and your brain turns to warm sludge as your eyes flutter shut. It makes you feel all light-headed and you flutter around him. Spencer chuckles into the junction of your neck and shoulder and the vibrations send a chill down your arching spine. “I thought you might like that one.”

“Mhm.”

“Mhm. How are you? You okay?”

“’M ready.”

“You’re ready?” His tone is dripping sarcasm and faux-disbelief as he pulls back the slightest bit only to push right back in deeper, this time. Your toes curl, one thigh sliding higher up his waist as you cling to him.

“Fuck,” you manage, a pitiful, high pitched curse tossed to the wind. He echoes the sentiment.

“Oh, my god,” he groans, continuing with that slow pace, “you feel so good, angel.”

You grapple at his back, searching for purchase as your brow knits. “Faster.”

This inspires another breathy chuckle, but he obliges, and you cry out softly. It’s almost unreal, your head buried against his neck, drunk on his scent and the drag of him like a shock felt in the far reaches of your body, again and again.

There’s nothing you can say that will accurately demonstrate what you’re feeling, so you elect not to speak, to remain silent and try to get a grip on this cacophony of sensation and emotion. But it’s too much to be alone with. You feel you have to get it out, to seek understanding. You can’t do it alone.

“Spencer.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t know...” the sentence trails off into a gentle keen. He moves to kiss you, speaking against your lips.

“You don’t know?”

Shyly you shake your head. Spencer sighs wistfully.

“Do you know how much I missed you?”

It’s like he can sense your need for comfort. For something grounding.

And while this topic was off-limits earlier—you're softer now. The stone walls that form your boundaries have been chipped away and lowered.

Spencer continues unprompted.

“I thought about you every day. Every night while I was falling asleep. You were always on my mind, angel girl.”

You whine. Whether it’s pleasure or distress is anyone’s guess—including your own.

“You were gone so long,” you whisper, eyes shut.

At this, Spencer slows again, and the tension that was building settles back to a simmer.

“I know. I wish I could—I wish I could change that. But I’m here, okay? I’m right here with you.”

Then he makes sure you feel every last inch, and it takes your breath away. If your thoughts were any more coherent, they’d be something along the lines of: but for how long? How long until you leave again?

“You’re here.”

You say it like a mantra, once out loud, and then again and again in your head, timed with every clash of your hips. With each repetition he becomes more real. Every little ache, every tingling, head-emptying brush against that most sensitive spot inside proves to you that he could not be any closer. This can’t be faked. It can’t be another dream to wake up in tears from.

“You’re here,” you gasp as it hits you, as it truly sinks in.

“I’m here,” he breathes.

There’s so much you want to say—three months of words you need him to hear, of things you need to talk to him about, things you need to yell at him for and things you can only say crying in his arms and things you can only say laughing or whispering or drunk or half-asleep—and in this moment you can’t manage any of it. Every word condenses into one drop of salt water, drifting away from your eye and down your cheek. Spencer doesn’t tell you to stop crying. He only kisses the tear away, and murmurs I’m here I’m here I’m here over and over again against your skin until he’s not even speaking it out loud anymore. But you feel it. With every brush of his lips, every breath, every movement, you feel it.

Soon he’s adjusting his angle, gradually picking up the pace but retaining that unforgiving depth, and your nails bite into the skin of his back as your jaw drops. Spencer hisses, pressing impossibly closer.

“I’m sorry!” you squeak.

“Do it again.”

“Wh—what?”

“Please,” he begs, low and hot against your jaw, just beneath your ear. “Do it again, honey.”

Honey.

You’d do anything for him if it meant he calls you that again.

When he shifts his weight to one arm and reaches down between your bodies to play with your aching clit in exactly the right way, you don’t really have a choice. You arch and moan wantonly enough to feel embarrassed as your nails scratch down his back. At the same time he’s making noises of his own, and you almost feel guilty for marking him up like this only you think he likes it. The most perfect and troubling tension is building in your core, so taut you almost fear the inevitable rebound when it snaps. But you’re driven to be exactly what Spencer needs right now, and to let him try and be what you need. Even if it scares you. Even if you’re not sure how.

Spencer groans, head tucked to the bend of your shoulder. “I’m not gonna last.”

Any response you might’ve been about to muster is annihilated by a sudden, deep bolt of pleasure.

“’M gonna cum,” you mewl like it’s a secret.

“Are you?” he asks, coming up breathless. If your eyes were open, you’re sure you’d see him above you.

“Mhm.”

“Look at me. Look at me.”

It is unmistakably a command—one you fight to follow.

You cry out as you meet the intensity of his gaze, those shadowy corridors suddenly ablaze and alive. They are not unending, like you’d thought. They are a door thrown open to let the light in, or maybe to let the fire out. They’re open in this moment for you.

No more words are spoken after that—you cum hard, gasping as you fall and spin. Spencer follows very shortly after, like he was holding it together just for you, and your eyes are still locked though everything is a bit bleary.

“Fuck,” you whine as he continues to fuck you for as long as he can, despite your writhing hips, but you’re entranced by him, unable to look away now that you’re hooked. Until he slows to a halt, glances down at your mouth, and you just have time to pray that he’ll kiss you before he does. You whimper against his lips—a plea for understanding. A plea for him to stay, even though this is over. He kisses back so soft and sweet it’s like he can read your mind. Echoes of I’m here I’m here I’m here still buzz across your skin. His eyelashes tickle your cheek. Your heart stops beating quite so quickly, melting and warm like the rest of your body.

Soon the kissing ceases and you’re just breathing together, trapped and faced with the knowledge that it must end just the same as you had waited for it to start.

Eventually the air between you becomes mostly carbon dioxide and you let your head fall to the side, dizzy and giggling breathlessly as you nearly avoid asphyxiation. Spencer laughs too, letting his head fall to your shoulder once more, and you finally let your eyes flutter closed. To do something as simple as laugh with him again is its own small euphoria. It’s unexpected, and a soft landing once all that tension breaks underneath your combined weight.

It can’t last forever, you know that well. But the slow fade of it makes the next parts a little easier.

Spencer presses a kiss to your neck. “Is your bathroom through that door?”

You hum a confirmation and are only slightly disheartened when he pulls out and rolls off of you. You’re further disturbed when you see there’s gauze around his thigh, matching what’s around his arm, and you wonder how you missed that. Spencer scoops up his clothing and disappears into the adjoining restroom, assuring you he’ll be right back and leaving you alone with your thoughts and the whorls on the ceiling which have seemingly shifted into entirely new constellations.

He leaves the door cracked which is oddly reassuring—the sliver of warm light and the sound of the sink running. Only a few moments pass before he’s returning clad in boxers once more to sit on the edge of the bed, pushing away the sheet you’d just pulled over your chest and pulling one of your legs over his lap. Your face warms as he brings a washcloth between your thighs. As soon as he glances up at you and catches your eye you’re looking back to the ceiling.

“I should’ve asked first,” he says quietly as he cleans up the mess he’d made of you.

You speak just as softly, like you’re both afraid of disturbing some peace, of waking some sleeping giant. “It’s okay. I would’ve told you if I didn’t want it.”

His reticence, his unreadable face, make you nervous.

When he’s done, he rises to toss the dirtied cloth in the laundry bin, and with his back to you (as scratched up as it might be) you feel braver.

“Are you gonna, like... hate me now?”

It was a mistake. That’s clear by the way he turns around, brow knit deeply and grimacing slightly like even the suggestion offends him.

“Am I going to hate you?”

Again you pull the sheet up, and again you look away, studying the pattern of moonlight stretching out over the floor and scooting to make room for him when he steps in it.

“Not hate, I just...” the bed dips beside you and you are indescribably glad he’s not immediately running out the door. “I’m not dumb. I know what this was.”

He pulls you into him and you settle against his chest. It feels good. “I never thought you were dumb.”

This is your first real conversation since he’s gotten back, you realize. And how quickly you’re falling into familiar patterns, familiar syntactical beats. You know when to speak. You know when to bite your tongue and keep him talking.

The silence goes on longer than you’re used to. Maybe he got good at not speaking while he was away.

Eventually your eyes wander, falling to the white strip over his thigh where it is parallel to yours on the bed, only over the sheets.

“What happened?”

You said you wouldn’t ask, but that was then, and you’re upset again. You almost want to hurt him. To piss him off. You don’t know.

But it doesn’t work.

“Do you really want to know?” There’s a note of something heavy in his voice, and you look up at him. It’s a privilege to have him this close—his beauty is a constant surprise that you’d become unaccustomed to over the months. You say nothing, and he takes that as the yes that it is. “I... I did it to myself.”

He may as well have reached down your throat and grabbed for fucking heart for all its clenching. Tears well almost immediately, though they’ve been waiting in the wings all night.

“What? Did you—were you trying to—”

His eyes widen.

“No! No, honey, no.” You wilt as he gathers you closer, a deeply confused frown still contorting your features, too heartbroken even to cling to him, or to appreciate the ease with which honey slips past his lips again. “No. I was—it's complicated. I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to hurt myself, but I had to—I had to do it before someone else did something worse.”

The bruises covering his abdomen.

You sniffle and pull back enough to look up at him tearfully. “Why would they want to hurt you?”

Mist fills his eyes even as he’s looking down at you, a layer of separation, as if he’s two places at once. Even as he goes to brush your hair behind your ear, to stroke your cheek.

“I’m... not... the same, as I was.” It’s not an answer to your question—but it’s the beginning of the answer to a question you’d been too afraid to put into words.

“Don’t say that,” you beg, because you know where this is going. He keeps smoothing your hair like it’ll make this easier.

“But it’s true,” Spencer says gently, the slightest waver betraying his own emotion.

“You’re just going to leave again.”

And you’re losing to the tears.

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you will,” you insist, like a child crying to a parent come to comfort them after a bad dream.

“Not right now. Right now I’m here.”

I’ll stay until you fall asleep again.

For now, maybe that has to be enough. 

You cry on his shoulder. He kisses your head and doesn’t tell you to stop. 

Eventually, you sniff and wipe your eyes. 

“We were so close. Before you… we were almost there.”

You’re sure of it. You’re sure that if he hadn’t gone when he did you would’ve been a real couple. You would’ve told him you loved him. 

“We’ll get there again,” he promises, rubbing your arm. “I just… I need a little bit of time. I think you do too. But we’re going to get there again.”

Maybe it will never be like it was. 

But as so often is the case—Spencer is right. Difference doesn’t mean it won’t ever be good again. 

You have to believe that, just as you had to believe you’d see him again. 

You look to The Odyssey on your bedside table. 

The sun has been obliterated from the sky, and an unlucky darkness invades the world. 

But the sun has a habit of rising, time and time again, after the longest nights, after the darkest storms. 

You feel the beginnings of its rise, see the golden tips of it lighting the room as he holds you. Even now. 

[winchester-fantasies]

Say My Name

Summary: You're in the club getting loose and hoping to get lucky, but Dean has other ideas.

Word Count: 582

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader

Warnings: Jealous Dean, possessive Dean, swearing, allusions to sex, steamy moment between Dean and reader.

Winchester Fantasies' Masterlist

You saw him across the room, his eyes reflecting the lights of the club. You’d both needed some downtime after this last hunt. So you’d gotten all dressed up to go to the club for a night of dancing. You might even get lucky, you’d thought. But Dean being Dean, he just stood on the outskirts of the crowd, never interacting, never moving. But you could feel his eyes on you. He’d been more watchful of you as of late, his gaze never straying too far. You didn’t know the reason for the change but you weren’t going to complain. There was something so incredibly sexy about his stoic vigil, that protective watchfulness that told you nothing would happen to you that he didn’t allow.

You were currently pressed up close to a random guy. You didn’t need a name, you only needed what was currently grinding against your ass. Rando suddenly spun you around, gripping your waist tightly, lips crashing against your own. You were so surprised by his actions that you barely registered the presence behind you.

A strong hand wrapped around your wrist and jerked you away from the kiss and the object of your promising release. You glanced over your shoulder, Dean’s hard stare the only thing meeting your gaze. Rando took a step forward as if to protest the interruption, but with one look at Dean, he thought better of it and instead melded back into the crowd of dancers as Dean hauled you in the opposite direction and out into the starlit night.

“What the fuck?” you clipped, your voice echoing into the silent night.

Dean didn’t answer as he continued walking, you barely able to keep up with his long strides. It didn’t take long for you both to reach the Impala. He hauled you forward and shoved you across the gravel all within a few seconds of one another. Your back thumped against the cold metal of Baby and your eyes widened as Dean stalked towards you, his gaze blazing even in the darkness.

“What was that?” he growled, stepping so close that you were virtually pinned to the vehicle.

“What…what do you mean?” you asked, feigning ignorance, although you knew exactly what he meant.

“Did you enjoy it?” Dean asked, ignoring your question.

Looking up into his eyes, you suddenly felt very vulnerable and small as if he could see every feeling, as if he knew every thought. “I-I don’t know,” you whispered.

He lowered his head until you felt the heat of his skin against your cheek and smelled the scent of his aftershave. You swallowed hard as unexpected emotions welled up and arousal washed over you. “Can make you feel so much better than him,” Dean whispered, his voice dripping with desire. He ran his hand up the exposed skin of your thigh, his fingertips causing goosebumps to rise on your flesh.

Your breath hitched as you felt his lips graze your ear, feathery light. “Say my name,” he demanded, his voice deeper than you’d ever heard it. He picked you up, his large hands coming to rest under your ass. You could feel his very obvious bulge against your core, driving you insane.

“D-Dean,” you stuttered, speaking past your arousal nearly impossible.

“That’s right,” he said, his warm breath ruffling the small hairs at your temple. “My name is the only one that will ever be on your lips when I’m finished with you.”

And with that he took you.

~~~~~~~~~~

If you liked this fic then like and reblog!

***Do not copy or share my content on any other platform without my consent.

~~~~~~~~~~

Tags:

*If you want to be added to my Taglist, fill out the form (link in my bio). If you want to be taken off my taglist, let me know through asks.

**If your name is crossed out, it's because Tumblr wouldn't let me tag you.

Whole Enchilada:

@divadinag @mogaruke @calaofnoldor @defenderrosetyler @coffeebooksandfandom @emoryhemsworth @delreyaddict @fandom-princess-forevermore @titty-teetee @gallifreyansass @fatiguedfemmefatale @hollymac79 @stusbunker @sixtyfivestillalive-blog @scrappybear89 @malindacath @bxnnywriting @mssbridgerton

Dean Cuties:

@janicho88 @wingedcatninja @happy0exist @deangirlasf @fanfic-n-tabulous @weaselyss

[transienturl]

Here are two non-obvious things about the Tumblr UI that I feel like I can make more clear with some images. As of July 17, 2022 2023... oops:

links to posts on blog themes:

There's a link to view a post on the user's custom blog theme—if they have a custom theme, and have their blog accessible to logged-out users, of course—as the first item in the ⋯ ("meatballs") menu. (This used to be the dog-ear corner at the top right corner of the post, if you remember that.)

Like any normal link, you can control/command click this menu item to open it in a new tab, or right click it to copy the link URL.

links to individual reblogs:

The header areas highlighted in green here—specifically their empty areas—are links directly to the individual reblogs they're the headers for. This is also true in the mobile apps!

You can control/command click them to open them in a new tab.

You can sort of right-click them to copy the link URL... but only if you have post timestamps turned on (it's in your tumblr settings in the dashboard section near the top), and only if you right click on the timestamp, or actually the dashed green area. (I wish this could be true for the whole header, but it's kind of hard for technical web browser limitation reasons.)

The above statements are true without XKit!

Now: by default, the areas highlighted in red and orange are links to the blogs in question. The "restore links to individual posts" option in Tweaks in XKit Rewritten (check out @addons!) does two things:

It changes the red-highlighted links to point directly to the reblog in question, just like their surrounding green area. This doesn't really add any functionality; you could already access that, as just discussed! Edit: I got this wrong; the reblog trail blog names should not be highlighted red.

It changes the orange-highlighted link to point to the immediately preceding reblog (i.e. the one "prev tags" refers to). This definitely does add functionality, since there was literally no way to step backward through the reblog chain otherwise!

For the record, what I would probably have done if I were Staff or if I had been the one to write the XKit Rewritten tweak without anyone else's input is:

Make the green-highlighted areas link to the reblog, as they currently already do.

Make the red-highlighted links point to the user blog, as they currently already do.

Make the orange-highlighted link, including the reblog icon, link to the immediately preceding reblog (i.e. the one "prev tags" refers to). That section is a different color than a blog link and has a special icon, after all; I think it's totally reasonable for it to have slightly different functionality.

In any case, it imo quite obviously should not be impossible to step back through the reblog chain, no matter what you think of the "prev tags" phenomena. Without an extension, there's no way to do this at all right now unless the post has very few notes and you can dig through them.

Some might argue for solving this by putting the a link to the previous reblog in the ⋯ menu. That would certainly be better than nothing, but I think using the orange-highlighted area is a better way. It's not like it's hard to get to a blog from an individual-post-viewed-on-that-blog, anyway.

[raisengen]

Hm. Tumblr just updated the desktop dashboard (and the dashboard-like blog view) so that if you click on the user’s name it takes you to tumblr.com/blog, rather than the previous tumblr.com/blog/post, or blog.tumblr.com/post.

If you click on the white space in the post header, it pulls up the tumblr.com/blog page over your current view. However, this isn’t a “proper” hyperlink, which means no right/middle-click support for things like copying URL or opening in a new tab. There is still a proper hyperlink, but it’s the timestamp hidden in the menu at the top-right of the post.

Allegedly, these changes are "to make it more intuitive and consistent, especially for new users”. So far this just sounds like shuffling stuff around to annoy your muscle memory, but there’s one big thing I haven’t mentioned.

It’s not just the reblogger’s username at the top, every other username in the post structure goes to their respective blog’s frontpage, rather than their copy of that post.

Every “prev tags” is now dead, disconnected. You want to reblog a post without an annoying addition, or branch of some earlier comment? Nope, sorry, try your luck clicking on random reblogs in the notes (those still link properly, at least). Want to see the tags OP left? That’s impossible unless you enable Labs, then Reblog Graphs, which gives you a link to the root post.

And just for fun, avatars still link to blog.tumblr.com, which means all you’ve traded all this for the choice of two links to the same page in different format, right next to each other.

There’s annoying changes, and then there’s. Fundamentally breaking basic usage of the website. Amazing.

[agrlsname]

FIVE FAVE FICS

Thank you for the tag, @khorazir! It was weird that I got this notification from you the literal moment I was creating an AO3 draft for the fic I'm gifting you... Anyway, nearly impossible task, but here we go!

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. spread the self-love ❤

The Sky is Full of Fiddles (25k, T)

It's 1895 in the heart of Swedish folk music and dance. During certain weekends, boys are allowed to visit girls at night, wooing them with fantastical poems. If a girl lets a boy into her room they can share a bed all night, fully clothed, to talk and eat caramels together.

John is seventeen and looking for a girl to marry like everyone else. He's very surprised when another boy suddenly stands outside his door, wanting to share his bed…

THE SEQUEL'S FIRST CHAPTER WAS POSTED TODAY!! I give you A Fair-Weather-Night as a bonus

Who I Really Am (13k, T)

You don't tend to give up your heterosexual privilege without a fight.

John's journey to discovering and accepting his bisexuality.

Your Daughter (9k, G)

Five times Sherlock held John's baby and one time he held John.

John didn't forgive Mary for shooting Sherlock, so the end of HLV didn't happen. When the baby comes John lives with Sherlock at Baker Street, and they take care of the newborn together. Sherlock adores her more than he's prepared for. Oh, and he might have something important to confess to John...

The Zebra Sheets (13k, M)

Sherlock is back from the dead and he's exhausted. So is John. They go on a holiday to a faraway cottage and unexpected truths are revealed.

Coldness/Heat (3k, E)

The inn is booked up on New Year's Eve. The train home is cancelled because of the snow. The only option is to sleep in the non-heated guest room of a client, and John and Sherlock are freezing.

You know where this is going.

Surprised myself by throwing my first PWP in there, and not the fic that made my name... suppose my personal top five-list changes constantly.

And since I'm barely ever on tumblr I have no clue who's already done this, so... feel free to copy this if you haven't!

[bentosandbox]

Ambience Synesthesia tutorial blog

rambled this out because I didn't have inflight wifi otw home and the turbulence was too crazy to draw

Buying the ticket

erm so they only dropped the tickets like slightly less than a month before lol kinda insane

The concert tickets were sold on Damai so you need a CN number or know/pay someone with one who'd buy it for you which is what I did by recommendation (A tier 1280 + 400 'service fee' [apparently it would have been cheaper if they only helped you half way or something but i wasnt gonna risk running into a payment hiccup so]) Iirc they sold it in two batches but I don't remember the ratio split between first and second wave…

I got a ticket for 5/5's afternoon show (so the second last performance), I DID meet an oomf who said they managed to snag a ticket for themselves on their own (without a Professional Ticket Snatcher) so its not too impossible to attain on your own I think??? (I didn't get a CN number until like 2 days before I flew back home soo)

Professional Ticket what?? Uhhh apparently there's a whole industry/scene for this you look for listings on xianyu/taobao etc for people to buy on your behalf, you have to give them your real name and identification number (so for foreigners it'd be your passport number) for verification purposes during entry so yknow yea

getting there

You could cab directly to the venue but my friend signed us up for the free shuttle bus (they had freebies last year but not this time) and before we boarded they gave us like free water and bread (apparently free raincoats too on rainy days) which was nice of them but also insane because. the venue doesn't allow you to bring food/drinks in so a lot of people were leaving A LOT of unopened bottles near the gate and I saw a venue staff just throwing them all into the bin (HOPEFULLY JUST TO CARRY THEM AWAY IN ONE GO AND NOT FOR STRAIGHT DISPOSAL….) They drop you off near the venue but you don't go in directly, there's a 'Doctor break room' where most people are seated waiting to be ushered in batches into the venue, but also a lot of people standing around on one side of the room swapping/offering merch

merch swap

ive been told this is a very concert culture thing but i feel like its kind of different because a lot of these are so high quality ike…you could sell them at Artist Alleys but here they are just distributing for free if you have a E2 60 blorbo lmao or whatever (there seems to be a tiny…? minority that prints official art but most of them seem to be handdrawn/made)

i was too unprepared for this lol i did exchange some of my old stickers (missed out on a collapsal plastic fan bc my brain lagged when the guy asked me and i went to my auto 'sorry i dont have any merch' response' :( regretted this bc the room got a little hot from the amount of people in there and i was wearing like 3 layers with that fan on my mind)

from people watching a lot of trades are arranged beforehand on weibo/other sites unless you're willing to yell WHO WANTS TO TRADEEE/anyone wants freebies (a lot of people were also wearing 'Feel Free to Swap Merch/Ask for Freebies' tags) which i was definitely not brave enough to do lol… met up with an oomf i got to know from last dec when i attended an arknights only and they gave me some birbs and charms (bottom of post), there was someone who got a free LGD zine and charm from me bc i posted on wb that id give a free copy to anyone with a Mod 3 swire/swummer LMFAO

I had 2 more people to meet but, uhhh so I bought an esim for mobile data and it would intermittently lose signal here and there which was a little annoying when getting coffee but it just died entirely when i reached the venue and it was kind of Dire because i was waiting for one more friend who was coming over from the fes and i couldn't contact them lmao. told the friend i came with to go in first because I thought if my food got confiscated at least my oomf could see it beforehand LOL

waited outside in a light drizzle for an hour trying to trouble shoot my data to no avail and ended up borrowing a staff's wifi hotspot to get my entry qr code (I actually bought a second data roaming plan on my local sim but i quite stupidly did not check the country coverage and only learned later that night that 'Asia' doesn't cover China kuxiao) she was so nice i was (bow emoji) so sorry to trouble you im a stupid gaijin and she was like no its ok enjoy shanghai!! pien

spent a good 30min next to this board praying for data to no avail

the show

erm anyway because of that clownery above i more or less missed the first piece (the one w the goated hoho) but at least i wasnt the guy next to me who went for a bathroom break right before starset came up

The live singing this year was definitely an improvement I think… I can't really remember the setlist off the top of my head but I'm sure someone else has already listed it out, there were a couple of new pieces that weren't related to the concert groups like a Babel/Kazdel?? one sung in Latin, a Victoria…? one (in victorian ofc) also an Amiya (? just remembering by the visuals they used lol) one in Japanese

ohh yeah so almost every track would start with like a faction logo transitioning in from 3d to 2d which was cool but also amusing because it was honestly bringing quite the 'I will Make Your Company Logo Into 3D Fiverr' vibes

Since I missed the first piece idk if any of The Dreamer(s) got 3D models but The Pilgrim(s why are they all singular) had Kaltsit playing on that piano (there was also a replica of that piano on stage the white one complete with 'Arknights' text on it lmao) and Siege being cool running around in 3D (and ofc Eureka during her denpa number) it was very cool but man... its a pity the other characters in the group just get their live2d png during the beginning and effectively get sidelined lool compared to say Phenomenal Agents idk if i like this tradeoff but that eureka bit was so good sheesh #NOVAFIVE⭐ULTRALIVESWEEP

The other stuff was really great too looking at you Lone Trail medley…!!!!! I might be wrong but I... assume... you're encouraged to karaoke bc they always show the lyrics on screen… I couldn't even hear myself anyway but it was very fun singing songs you can't get on joysound/etc with a whole crowd going at it too (even if most of them would only sing 1-2 lines of the chorus)

Mary Clare did Radiant (they had the lyrics scrolling on the sides very cool) and iirc the Throne group's song...? Radiant was so fun live

Starset did Monster > Telescope and when the latter ended they were like Bye! and we(?) started yelling ENCORE--awkwardly because idk how they do it here (I was half expecting it to be JP style 'an-call-roo' but a bunch of us just yelled en-core en-core here and there until they returned to perform Infected) speaking of yelling.. between every piece when they had to switch sets people would just yell memes or skill names (like Dage's) to pass the time or sth i barely caught half of whatever they were memeing about

did i forget to mention anything else uhhh originium rock turntable for Guide Ahead's boss theme/Dossoles Lobby and they had IS4 medley live throat singing very cool also the dancers they got for silbenherze's boss theme good stuff...

iirc after starset was like a behind the scenes video of how HG prepared for AS and a recorded lowlight video saying some stuff that i forgot LOL just some thank you message basically. 9.5/10 bc no missy/shu EP live

i just realised i forgot to display all the merch from the A tier ticket but w/e. light stick photo ft. merch swaps/gifts from friends and strangers 🥹 (the iffy lenticular card was literally dropped into my bag by an iffy coser (wearing the LT outfit..?!) while waiting for the cab LMAO)

[dominimoonbeam]

To The Edge - 13

This work is mine and I do not give consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted without my permission. I am sharing chapters as I work on this story but it is copyrighted material that I plan to rework and publish when completed.

story tags: scifi romance, hijinks in space, rogues learning to trust, violence, blood, guns, death, explicit language, so much kidnapping,

Works organized and easily found over on the patreon. <3

TO THE EDGE - CHAPTER 13.

Stardust had never told anyone before, not even Contessa. It was the sort of secret that would get people killed—that already had. It wasn’t even their secret, not originally, but it certainly felt like theirs now.

It had all happened before they were even born. Stardust’s mother, Theo Solinoh, had been the great-great granddaughter of Galileo, the galaxy’s most powerful and notorious crime lord. The family-owned and ran three of the seven corporations of the Solar Court and had their fingers in a couple of the others. They wouldn’t be satisfied until they had everything, until every corporation and every last family in the SC was aligned with theirs.

Five houses of Solinoh blood all bent the knee to Galileo and reached toward that unifying goal for the family name.

All five, except for Stardust’s.

They were a defiant line of tragic attempts to escape their own bloodline ever since Massimo Fairvell first left Galileo and took their daughter, Layla, with him. He would swear off the crime lord and all her family time and again, only to come back when the credit ran dry.

His daughter tried to walk the line between her parents for a long time, tried to be a part of the family but not be involved in their work. Even after her father died in a curious case of drowning in his pool, she didn’t cast doubt. Layla Solinoh Fairvell had wanted peace. She had wanted to believe her mother wouldn’t go that far, wouldn’t hurt them. But then the family lured Layla’s heir to their table and she let them go because she thought the blood in their veins meant something—that it made them safe. Massimo, named for their grandfather, died in an explosion resulting from a mysterious engine malfunction.

The family started referring to executing one of their own as a Massimo Curse.

That was the true moment of the divide, when a quiet attempt to separate themselves from the other Solinohs became a war.

For nearly a hundred cycles, involving two more generations of Solinoh, companies rose and fell, and assassination attempts, espionage, and biological warfare became a part of monthly reports.

It got so bad that other feuds in the family broke under the strain and no one was safe, not even Galileo.

Stardust’s parents had realized that there was no way out if the war continued, but no way to surrender either. Solinohs could not surrender to anyone but Galileo herself and if they did that, she would surely execute them all.

So, Stardust’s parents did the impossible. They acquired something, some piece of information, so damnable that even Galileo had balked and when the dust settled after the latest Solinoh family feud, the great crime lord ended the war. She pretended it had never happened—that she had no interest in her daughter or the rest of the Fairvells one way or the other. She must have ordered the others to do the same, because in all of Stardust’s life, their cousins had never been anything less than polite… until they found out, of course.

Somewhere in the galaxy, there was information that Galileo would give almost anything to keep hidden.

“Let me get this straight…” the cosmic bounty hunter said.

They were still sitting on the floor beside the emergency pod, Stardust between his sprawled legs but turned a little to catch his reactions out of the corner of their eye.

“Your parents had blackmail material on your grandmother, the scariest person in the known galaxy, and that’s how your branch of the tree got out of the family business…”

They nodded. “Yeah.”

He nodded too, dragging a hand over his head and trying to absorb everything. “They hid that information, along with a small fortune in case of emergencies, somewhere in nebula 7352, and put a map in moving ink on their kid’s back? Making you a target for all of the worst people, should anyone find out about it?”

Stardust almost argued that it wasn’t really a target for all the worst people, only Solinohs and the truly stupid would think they wanted their hands on that blackmail. Stardust’s own parents had lived in constant paranoia that Galileo would one day decide to torture the location out of them.

Eventually, their father had left the prime to hide out in Eaton Space, as though Galileo’s reach would end at the borders of the Solar Court, and their mother went into hiding. Neither had thought to take Stardust with them and by the time Stardust ran, it was too late. Galileo might not be hunting, but some of the cousins had found out about the blackmail material.

Rory laughed, the sound of it startling Stardust out of their grim thoughts. He had tears forming in his eyes. Had the information broken his mind? “No offense, Stardust, but your parents were assholes.”

They blinked and then exhaled a laugh too. “Yeah.

“So, someone figured out about the map?”

They nodded. “Genesis and Tansy, definitely.”

“Your cousins…right. The ones handling the bounty to bring you home safe… Do you think your grandmother knows?”

“If she knew, she would have sent a dreadnought and probably Calico or Fatima, definitely not Genesis.”

Cosmic sighed. “No. Yeah, that makes sense. They would want the blackmail material the same as your parents did. At least that’s something in your favor…”

Stardust dragged a deep breath. It didn’t feel like anything was in their favor right now. Genesis in his yacht was just as bad as Calico in a dreadnought at this point.

Cosmic looked at them. “Is there some way to just, tell them what the map says and stay out of it?”

They sat straighter, fighting the urge to shift their back farther away from him—like he might see the map through their shirt and jacket. What did it matter if he did now? He was just as screwed as they were. “I don’t know.”

He laughed. “What do you mean you don’t know? It never occurred to you to try?”

“I wouldn’t know what to tell them. I don’t know what the map says.”

“Oh.” His smile fell. “Oh, shit. You can’t see it. And…you couldn’t ask anyone to look either since if they realized what it was…yeah. No, I get it.” His chin dropped when he turned his thoughts around. Stardust sighed, actually feeling better just having someone else to commiserate about this. And then his gaze cut up to them again, something curious there. “But I mean, I know and I’m right here… Do you mind if I get another look at it?”

They shouldn’t be surprised he wanted to see it, but they were.

“Well, I mean I am neck deep in this mess with you now, aren’t I?”

Stardust winced. There was no way around that.

“I can’t turn you in for the bounty without getting killed and it doesn’t sound like your cousins are going to stay in the prime and wait for you to be brought back to them either,” he said, like he was considering his options, but they were pretty sure he wouldn’t turn them in now even if he could get the bounty. He reached for their arms. “Okay. I’m taking the cuffs off of you… Try not to steal my ship again, Stardust.”

They stretched their hands out toward him so he could get a look at the metal bindings. “I promise I’m done with mutiny,” they said, not entirely sure they meant it, but wanting him to believe it.

The bounty hunter grinned. “No offense, but your promises don’t really mean shit to me anymore.” He opened a small panel on the wrist and pressed something, the cuffs popping open.

“You sure you want to see the map? You can still say you haven’t,” Stardust offered, stomach twisting. He was going to get killed for this. It wasn’t fair but they weren’t sure they could get him out of it. Best case scenario, the cousins might forget about him after it was all said and done.

Rory shook his head, rolling one hand in the air. “Let’s get a look at this thing. Jacket off…”

Stardust rolled their eyes but shrugged out of the jacket, setting it on the floor. They shifted to sit with their back to him again, hesitating.

“Shirt too, Stardust,” he said, waiting.

They’d never considered letting anyone see the tattoo until he got a glimpse while patching them up in the med room.

“Are you really getting shy now?” he asked, smiling around the words. “I saw you naked just the other day… You know, before you stole my gun and my ship, made me tase myself, taped me to a chair, tased me again, and then made me drag you back here in a box.”

“You could have let me out of the box,” they countered, heat rising to their cheeks.

“You didn’t make me drag the box… yeah… great, Stardust. You’re right. You’re totally innocent and we’re complete strangers. Take off the damn shirt. If I’m going to die over this tattoo, I’d like to get a better look at it.”

With a groan and a roll of their eyes, they sat forward again. “Fair,” they conceded.

They both sat there, unmoving, for another few seconds. Stardust dragged another breath and then grabbed the hem of their shirt and lifted it up over their head. They put it down on the jacket to keep from clinging to it. They weren’t shy. They weren’t scared. But this was… different.

The air was cold on their skin, but his eyes felt like points of heat.

“It’s…just a map of the nebula. I mean, it’s amazing ink but it’s just…Huh.”

They tensed at that pause, stretching to look back over their shoulder at him. “What?”

“It’s different than last time I saw it. It’s…closer. I guess we’re flying in that direction. I wonder if the closer we get to the nebula the closer the map gets to wherever it’s leading…”

“It moved?” Not just the sweeping swirls of ink but actually moved? “Like zoomed in?”

He nodded, gaze still fixed on their back. “Is it okay if I touch it?”

Stardust blinked and then whipped their head forward before he could meet their gaze. They shrugged, heart beating faster despite all their efforts to pretend they didn’t care when they said, “Sure.”

[zot3-flopped]

Adding my voice to the sea of Swifties turned casual fans at best here. I've been a fan of Taylor since her first album and joining the fandom was the worst thing I've ever done. Though I don't agree with everything you and your followers have said, I do agree with a lot of it including that there was a correlation between how much of a distraction from life I needed and how involved I was with Taylor over the years. As I've become healthier, it has been near impossible to be part of this fandom. I would say that most fans here agree with at least most of what you say but are too scared to say it and be blacklisted by the fandom. I have seen a few of my mutuals say and agree that most of this fandom has no empathy towards even each other yet claim that is the expectation to have towards Taylor. In a funny twist of events I found your page by someone accusing me of being you for stating things that go against or even simply were not said by someone you talk about and not posting as much about Taylor anymore. I have never once involved or indirected that person but that is the hive mentality and school yard mentality this fandom has. Even those who would once criticised her are mostly in the in group now and refuse to allow one negative word to be said about a woman they have never met anymore and see any other female popstar and their ex friends on here who criticise Taylor existing as a personal attack on Taylor unless they kiss her feet. Those of us who want to be here to talk about the artistry can't without every post we make being drowned out or twisted into being about a football player no one outside of the US had heard of before last year. If you say that you don't care about him because you are a Taylor Swift fan not his, suddenly you hate her being happy in their eyes. I still laugh at the several posts I've seen saying his peaks are bigger than Harry's ever were. I am a casual Harry fan and was neutral on 1d but you could not go anywhere without hearing their name in the early 2010s and his in the early 2020s. I don't see their attitude changing though. The same mentality has been around for at least a decade now because they did the same with Calvin, Joe and even Matty before throwing them to the wolves the minute they were not this perfect ideas that those parts of the fandom made them out to be even when those of us who criticised the men had warned them what would happen. They even do it with her albums. The minute you say you do not like one, you are too stupid to understand it or want her to be unhappy if you like her emotionally sadder ones that she tossed aside for not getting her grammys. You cannot even praise her unless it is in the right way anymore. Between that and the way she treats her fans like atm machines that she berates over calls for her to do better politically yet still expects to buy several copies of the same album it has reached a point where it isn't fun to be her fan so what is the point?

Welcome to the blog! Swifties are deserting in droves and posts in the anti taylor swift tag on here get thousands of notes.

Agree that Harry is internationally renowned, whereas Travis Kelce was barely known outside the US before he dated Taylor. I'd certainly never heard of him.

[heallearngrow3]

solitude

part 2 | solitude

pairing: Connor x f!Reader

summary: “Memory is punishment.”

warnings: gavin reed appears. that’s a warning in itself.

notes: we get down to business in this one! i decided to divide chapter 2 and 3 to make it shorter.

chapters: 1

Detroit was always buzzing, even in the early hours. Life already started at dawn, with the appearance of androids cleaning the streets. You arrived downtown earlier, partly because of your relentless anxiety and partly because of the sense of freedom that seized you every time you set foot in the heart of Detroit. Your whole life was overwritten by your work, every minute of your mind revolved around the androids, and you could hardly stop yourself from observing the machines that passed by you with a critical eye, who were merely completing the tasks assigned to them, without any idea that their creator was watching their every move. You analyzed them with keen eyes and made mental notes, which could later serve as a basis for perfecting a model. For a long time, you believed that mimicking human gestures was certainly impossible and that no matter how much work you put into the process, you would never be able to completely copy and transplant them into a likeness made of metal parts, but your theory miraculously seemed to fall apart as you got closer and closer to design a fully human-like android that not only looked like one, but embraced every little twitch, and at the right moment gave the feeling that you were not dealing with an android, but with a flesh-and-blood, self-aware being. Your superior did not care what commands you encoded into them, as long as the company exceeded the sales figures set at the beginning of the year, and they never questioned why you were dedicating more and more time to design each model, and you voluntarily did not voice your grand plans. You were aware that they would fall on deaf ears and you also wanted to avoid a conflict citing that what you were doing was a pointless waste of time. Many times you, yourself, felt that you were pushing boundaries that no one had crossed before.

Upon entering the Detroit Police Station, you were immediately overwhelmed by the urge to run. To run, leaving the heavy guilt behind. What you didn’t expect was that, despite the early hours, the building was full of humans - and androids - making it nearly impossible to find Fowler's office unnoticed. You hesitantly approached the counter, where an -android sama- android looked up at you expectantly.

“I have a meeting with Fowler.” you said as you cautiously ran your eyes over the waiting room.

The android's LED turned barely visibly yellow, and in the next moment, accompanied by a small smile, she slid a card onto the table.

“Visitor's ticket” she explained, seeing your questioning look. “Mr. Fowler's office is down the hall.”

”Thanks.” you hesitatingly picked up the card, then touched it to the screen on the security gate, which opened silently in front of you. You had to take a deep breath before crossing the invisible border between safety and the unknown.

You ran your eyes around the place: the desks of the officers formed a strange web, like some complicated labyrinth, and at the end of the corridor was unmistakably Fowler's office, separated by huge glass panels. The expressionless faces of the androids standing at the charging stations along the walls left a pit in your stomach that was deepening with every passing minute.

As you crossed the station, an overheard conversation stopped you in your tracks. A young policeman gesticulated theatrically and complained with a strained expression to a gray-haired man standing opposite of him, who listened silently with a stiff posture.

“If he doesn't tell that plastic prick not to stick his nose where it doesn't belong, I swear to you that next time I'll shoot him dead without hesitation! he shouted. You glanced down at the name tag on the table - Detective Reed.

You didn't wait for the other officer’s answer. You crossed the distance leading to Fowler's office, climbed the steps and knocked.

After a faint 'Come in' you cautiously turned the knob.

”Ah, [Name]!” the chubby, black man stood up behind his desk and, bypassing it, stepped in front of you. “I am grateful that you are here. As I said on the phone, it's an urgent matter.”

You stayed silent.

“Please, sit down.” he gestured to the chair in front of the desk.

You crossed your arms.

“I’d rather stand, thank you. I’m sure we’ll be done in no time.”

He made a sound - similar to a cough - and nodded. He seemed taken aback by your hostile answer.

“You might be aware that our station received an android a few weeks ago. An RK800 to be exact.” his voice was lacking any emotion, but you could see his mask cracking: the small twitch of his lips, the slightly furrowed brows and the glean in his eyes which revealed his dislike of the android. “It’s supposed to help with the investigation of the…recent events.” he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “It’s currently partners with Lieutenant Anderson, an honorable detective.” he cleared his throat. “Ma’am you know these machines better than anyone. I believe that you could help us stop the spread of deviancy.”

“I don’t see how I fit into all of this” you said coldly.

Fowler looked at his computer for a split second.

“Your file says that you have a crucial role in their coding and creation.” he glanced at you with a look of recognition. “If we retrieve enough deviants for you to examine, would it be possible to tell what went wrong with their software?”

You felt your fist tighten.

“Even if it was possible, which is hard to tell since I work with perfectly functional androids, correct me if I’m wrong, the deviants self-destruct if they feel threatened or if their stress level is higher than optimal.”

Fowler nodded.

“They do, but that’s where the RK800 comes into play.” he turned his monitor around and pulled up a file. On the screen, you could see several codes, but that wasn’t what got your attention. The picture of a man popped up, and if you hadn’t paid close attention, you would have mistaken him for a human. His brown haired was styled perfectly, only one string loose, his kind brown eyes seemed to be staring into your very being, prying it open for the world to see. You looked at the letters on the top of the screen.

Connor.

“He can catch the deviants without harming them?”

Fowler’s lips turned into a straight line.

“It can.” he turned his screen back with a swift motion, one that you didn’t miss. “The RK800 and Anderson were called to a building. The neighbors reported strange noises coming from inside one of the apartments. It may not be an android case…but if it is, you need to give me an answer.”

“And what do I gain from this, Captain?” you asked.

“There is something coming. Something bigger than all of us. If you say no we might as well just sign a deal with the devil. Our lives are at stake, ma’am.” he shook his head. “Please, think over my offer.”

It wasn’t his words that made you reconsider it: you could see right through his facade and wouldn’t have hesitated to decline his request but the nagging feeling that was eating you from inside kept you silent. The androids that slipped through the cracks were planning on turning on the humans that created them, putting a stop to segregation and oppression, proving that they are more than controllable machines meant chaos. Violence, bloodshed, tragedies.

What will it come down to? Destruction or rebirth?

“I have one condition.”

Fowler nodded, his eyes filling with hope.

“It’s my call. Whatever you want to do with the deviants, you discuss it with me first. One wrong move, Captain, and I’m out.”

It wasn’t a warning and you didn’t make threats either. It was a statement, one, that you clinged onto, and you could only trust that Fowler will take it seriously.

“I can agree to that.” he said while he raised from his chair. “When the Lieutenant and the android arrive, I’ll call you. If our suspicion was correct and it’s a deviant, it’s on you to get something out of it.”

You didn’t shake his outstretched hand.

Turning around, you walked out of the office without glancing back at the man still standing.

Things were about to become as complicated as they can get.

✇

Even though you expected the call, the ringtone of your phone seemed to be louder than you anticipated. You checked the caller id and picked it up a few seconds later.

“Connor caught it..” Fowler’s voice was strange, pride mixed with fear, and you couldn’t help, but wonder if he was afraid. “But it got away and jumped off a rooftop.”

You forced back a huff.

“Great.” you hissed. Another impersonation of your creativity lost. “Now what?”

“We wait. It won’t take long for another report or sighting to come in. Something suspicious seems to happen everyday.” through the call, you could hear a voice in the background. “You might wanna meet the RK800.”

Your office was far away from the station and you couldn’t feel eyes on your back every moment anymore. You knew that they saw your face before on the huge projectors hanging from the side of the buildings, advertising android development and progression, and they definitely hold the spreading deviance against you. Their aversion was nothing more than ignorance in your eyes. They were unaware of the ethereal beauty in improvement. The evolution of androids made it possible to reform the world, to take it apart and build it up again, and it was your hand that caused the first fissure. One of many.

“Send him to the CyberLife Tower.” you twirled the pen in your hand.

“Alright ma’am. It’s on its way.” Fowler didn’t sound pleased by the fact that you were ordering him around. He definitely wasn’t used to things not going his way.

You ended the call, and got up to stand in front of the huge window. Detroit looked peaceful from afar. The calamity that ran through the veins of the city left an irreducible mess behind, but only you and a few others were aware how vast it truly was.

While you played with the pen in your hand, you pulled up the file on the tv. Your hand was burning with shame while you scrolled down, focusing on the last sentence.

My name is Connor. I’m the android sent by CyberLife.

You remembered that code. You were the one to endorse a detective android, and when they asked you to name it, you didn’t even hesitate.

Connor.

Creator and creation. The beginning and the end.

You smiled to yourself, caressing the picture of his face softly.

He was coming right back where he belonged.

“Miss?” you pressed the screen to switch to the call coming from a security personnel. “An android here is saying that you have a meeting with it. Do I let him through?”

You looked at the security footage. The taxi was waiting at the gate, and two guards were standing next to it, one looking inside through the window.

“Yes. Let him in.”

The columns slowly sank into the ground, one by one.

You watched as the car passed by the entrance and slowly approached the building. You waited for the moment Connor got out of it: it was like a fragment of refinement.

You turned off the screen, the sudden blackness making you peer at your own face. You were everything that defined change. Your features seemed irrelevant to your being.

It took eight minutes and sixteen seconds for Connor to get to the forty first floor. When you heard the knock on your door, you took a deep breath.

“Please, come in.”

When the door opened and revealed the android that stepped inside, you put your pen down.

“Hello Miss. My name is Connor. I’m the android sent by CyberLife.”

Even though you chose his voice - and programmed it into him - it was still a surprise how pleasant it sounded. It made people want to admit all their sins to beg for forgiveness, one that only he could grant them.

“Hello Connor.”

You didn’t create him by mimicking someone else. No one came close to him, he was incomparable. His design was one of its kind.

“Captain Fowler instructed me to come here.” he scanned you. You could see his LED turn yellow, and by the look on his face, he was puzzled why your file was empty save for your position.

“He told me it would be beneficial for us to meet.” you picked up your pen again. “He didn’t tell me a lot about you. I only know that you were assigned to work with Lieutenant Anderson. How do you like it? Is he a fit partner?”

Connor’s LED changed back to blue.

“While the Lieutenant struggles with a few problems he is a decorated detective. His knowledge and experience are valuable and critical to solving difficult cases.”

The calming effect of playing with your pen was absent. The habit didn’t ground you and you suddenly wondered if it was the result of the android standing in front of you or your rash decision.

“I’m happy to hear that.” you stood up. “What do you think of the deviants?”

You could see Connor contemplating his answer, seemingly confused by your questions.

“The unknown issues in their software leads them to believe that they are capable of human emotions and overwrite their order to serve.” his answer was pre-coded.

“Right.” you agreed softly. “You were made here, Connor. In this building. How does that feel?”

“I’m a machine, Miss. I don’t have emotions.”

You hummed, and turned your back on him. You walked up to the window.

“The next time you catch a deviant, you will bring it here, for me to examine it. It that clear?”

“Understood, Miss.”

With the dismissal, you could hear his soft footsteps and the quiet creak of the door.

You were left alone again. The silence so heavy around you that you could drown in it.

[andrwminward]

Tagged by @dekarios 🧡🧡🧡

Book recommendation tag game

rules: recommend as many books as you like. please include genre and some basic information on it (either your words or a copy+paste synopsis). feel free to include cover art, a personal review, trigger warnings, and anything else! just don’t spoil the book!

Tagging: @deklo @bookishjules @kashisun & anyone else who wants to do it 🧡🧡🧡

All for the game by Nora Sakavic

Neil Josten is the newest addition to the Palmetto State University Exy team. He's short, he's fast, he's got a ton of potential — and he's the runaway son of the murderous crime lord known as The Butcher. Signing a contract with the PSU Foxes is the last thing a guy like Neil should do. The team is high profile and he doesn't need sports crews broadcasting pictures of his face around the nation. His lies will hold up only so long under this kind of scrutiny and the truth will get him killed. But Neil's not the only one with secrets on the team. One of Neil's new teammates is a friend from his old life, and Neil can't walk away from him a second time. Neil has survived the last eight years by running. Maybe he's finally found someone and something worth fighting for.

Warnings:

-violence

-violence (male to female)

-mild assault

-drug abuse

-drug misrepresentation

-alcohol abuse

-counselors/courts prescribing medication

-murder

-violence (guns, knives, fists, cigarette lighters, etc)

-sport violence

-casual violence

-familial death (referenced)

-gang violence

-torture (semi-heavily detailed)

-abuse

-abuse by a family member

-mentions of domestic abuse

-homophobia

-rape

-rape by a family member

-minor character death

-cutting

-suicide mentions

-mentions of sociopathy

-mentions of depression

-panic attacks

-knives being used

-character in a rehab/mental facility

-abuse in a rehab facility

-bribery of authority figures

-albeist language / homophobic slurs

-mention of animal cruelty

Angels before man by Rafael Nicolas

A Queer Retelling of Satan's Fall

In an eternal paradise, the most beautiful angel, Lucifer, struggles with shame, identity, and timidity, with little more than the desire to worship his creator.

It isn't until the strongest angel, Michael, comes into his life that Lucifer learns to love himself. Along the way, their friendship begins to bloom into something else. Maybe the first romance in the history of everything.

But this God is a jealous one, and maybe paradise is not paradise.

Warnings:

Blasphemy

Graphic violence

Graphic animal death

Sexual content

Self harm

Use of terms with incestuous connotations

Grooming

Mental instability

Off page sexual assault

On page sexual trauma

Abuse

Prince of sorrows (Rowan blood #1) by Kellen Graves

Without an academic endorsement to make him valuable to the high fey, Saffron will be sent back through the veil to the human world. The place he was traded from as a changeling-baby, and a place he is terrified of. And while getting an endorsement shouldn't be impossible, it's hindered by the fact his literacy is self-taught, using books stolen off of Morrígan Academy's campus of high fey students.

When mistaken identity leads to Saffron learning the true name of brooding, self-centered, high fey Prince Cylvan, what begins as a risk of losing his life (or his tongue) becomes an opportunity to earn the future he wants. In exchange for an endorsement, he and Cylvan form a geis where Saffron agrees to find a spell to strip power from Cylvan's true name. While Prince Cylvan doesn't know Saffron can barely read, Saffron is determined to meet his end of the deal in order to remain in Alfidel—or maybe just to remain by Cylvan's side, as affections grow stronger every night they spend alone in the library together.

But as other human servants soon fall victim to a beast known only as “the wolf”, Saffron realizes he has embroiled himself in a manipulative reach for power like he never anticipated—and even Prince Cylvan cannot be trusted. Between the wolf, uncovering forbidden magic, and his growing feelings for the prince, Saffron will have to decide which is most important to him—his endorsement, the lives of his friends, or the prince’s life and wellbeing.

Warnings

Physical abuse

Sexual content

Blood

Death

Sexual harassment

Confinement

Drug use

Classism

[linskywords]

heyyyy I don't recall if you've ever mentioned using a beta for any of your fics, but can I ask you about your editing process? How you start it, how you do it, what sort of things are you are on high alert for, etc?

I'm 23k into my first hockeyrpf fic, which is kinda *out there* and I'm now grappling with "woah is this even intelligible to other fans" 😅

What a fun question!! First of all, congrats on being 23K in. That's so many Ks! It's such a fun fandom to write in, I'm glad you're joining the fun. 😄

I don't use a beta. I used to, but I'm too impatient for it -- I always want to edit my fics right away and get them out there. So I do my own editing. I don't know how useful this will be for you, since everyone's writing process is so different, but here's how mine works!

First, I write a complete draft. I'll sometimes backtrack if I realize I've taken a wrong turning, but otherwise, I try not to worry too much about quality in the draft. I write from start to finish because otherwise I can't hold onto where I am in the emotional arc. Getting to the end and having the tension resolve is a huge motivator for me.

Once I have a complete draft, I usually do a full editing pass. I save a copy and go back to the beginning and read through the whole thing, editing and rewriting as I go. It's actually impossible for me to read my own draft without editing, which is hugely inconvenient sometimes (e.g. if I step away for a bit and need to refresh myself on the story, it takes forever because I find myself editing as I reread).

A lot of what I edit for is rhythm. I can't quite accurately gauge the rhythm of a scene while I'm writing it, especially if the scene is a conversation; I need to give myself a little distance and then reread for that. I do a lot of adding lines and taking others away to make things flow the way I want them to. I especially watch for if a scene builds too fast and doesn't earn its level of intensity, or if a scene drags and can be trimmed.

Another big one is, am I overstating emotions? Sometimes this means I'm repeating myself, and sometimes it means I'm being too direct about angst etc. when it would be stronger to dial it back and let the reader extrapolate. A lot of times when I'm writing I put in lines that state very directly how the character is feeling, mostly as a way of figuring out what that is, but that's really for me and not the reader, so I take those parts out. Or sometimes I'll put in a line or a feeling and realize I want to use it later on, so it'll be in both places in the draft and I'll take out the earlier one in editing.

I guess the biggest question I'm asking myself when editing is, does this ring true? Anything that feels fake or forced or convoluted or disconnected or illogical gets edited out the best I can.

Other things I look for:

clunky sentences (so many)

using the same word more than once in close succession ("even" and "just" are big ones for me, as are "soft" and "warm" in any sex or romance scene)

using the same sentence structure too many times in a row (she typed a thing, her words wording <- my biggest offender)

having characters smile or grin or laugh too many times in close succession

places where it's not clear which "he" I'm talking about (down with epithets, just repeat the name or rephrase)

places where I use too many dialogue tags (confession, I use them way more often than I need to for intelligibility; I just like the rhythm, and "he says" is neutral enough to my ear that I don't mind the unnecessary usage)

continuity errors, often where I changed something in one place while writing and forgot to change it elsewhere

weird metaphors I thought would work but don't

Usually one pass is not enough, since I'll have rewritten so much that then needs to be edited again. Two editing passes is arguably not enough either, but it's usually the limit of what I'll do. Sometimes if a story is very tricky I'll do more, or if it's very straightforward I might stop at one. It's kind of a vicious cycle: if I reread my edits, I'll want to edit again, and there's no real stopping it without just deciding it's good enough and you can be done. This is one reason I often post in chapters, because it's easier to do this with a smaller chunk of story.

I think that's what I have off the top of my head. Happy to talk more about any aspect if you're curious. Good luck with your writing and editing!!

[veryace-ficrecs]

The Thing (1982) Fic Recs

This list will include all ratings and tags, so read at your own discretion! :)

Today I am a Dog by ungefug - Rated T

The trouble with being a dog around humans.

smoke signals as a cry for help by gumsneaker - Rated T

MacReady claws out of the Antarctic winter with nothing to show for it but a few other lives, a box full of remains, and a job.

Journey of a Thousand Miles by Jedi Buttercup (jedibuttercup) - Rated T

"Yeah, well that's what one of those Things would do. And hell if I'm gonna let it win," Mac replied with an exhausted snarl. Then he grunted, got his knees back under him, and staggered back to his feet.

The Thing Crossovers

The Bad Batch

Who Goes There? by Tanwyn - Rated M

When a platoon of clones and their officers vanish without a trace, the Bad Batch is sent to investigate. Their orders take them to a remote research station on an icy, desolate world. There, they find something far worse than droids or Separatists.

Transformers

Carbon Copy by EatYourSparkOut - Rated M

Fallen on hard times, the Scavengers respond to a distress signal from a nearby planet in hopes of easy pickings. Upon arrival, starvation quickly becomes least of their worries—for there's a monster about, and it's hungry too. Krok is determined to save his crew, but when the threat can look like anyone, trust runs thin. One thing's for certain: he'll kill the hidden horror, or die trying. Or, the Scavengers find themselves embroiled in the plot of John Carpenter’s The Thing. It spirals from there.

Hannibal

Four Days, Three Nights by Devereauxs_Disease - Rated E

Hannibal Lecter needs to get to the Amundsen-Scott Station in Antarctica. Unfortunately, his research partner had other plans. Stranded in the middle of nowhere, Hannibal will have to rely on a scraggly dog sledder named Will Graham to get him across the frozen wasteland. What could go wrong with that plan?

Venom

We Go There by Donotquestionme - Rated T

So soft and fleshy and sweet these creatures were. So different from the hard, chitinous creatures of the last world. So much easier to break, infect, consume . How had something like them ever lasted this long to begin with?  Ah, but what a blessing that they had. And for them to have such a developed sense of taste, and of pleasure. Not in all his years had he come across creatures with such an exquisitely rich ability to experience and to enjoy. In them, he’d discovered the marvelous ability to relish and to savor. And he did so intend to relish and savor.  Every last one of them. Eddie is part of a scientific expedition in Antarctica that discovers something deep under the ice. A John Carpenter's "The Thing" AU.

IT

skin deep by Another_Freak1258 - Rated E

While serving as a seasoned paleovirologist for a dig in Antarctica, Eddie meets Richie Tozier. As people begin falling victim to something they pulled out of the ice, it becomes impossible to trust anyone, whether they be a complete stranger or a lifelong friend. In spite of the paranoia, Richie and Eddie grow closer. Eddie may even be falling in love. The problem is, Richie isn’t exactly Richie.

[saevus-brutalis]

you see that guy with a scarred face and you're not gonna start sweatin’?

vincent elijah vahn-reyes | mercenary, ex-military, sniper

do NOT repost, copy, use or claim as your own. thanks

dob; 12th November 2019, Night City [58] nationality; American-Swiss affiliation; Afterlife underground, Lazarus CO. family; Alexis Sylvia Vigo [mother], Keana Emily Reyes [half-sister], Damien 'Skiff' Vigo [uncle], Philip Norman Reyes [father], Chalice Stephens-Reyes [step-mother]

body stats; 198cm / 162kg hair; black (natural), greying eyes; pale, milky-pink; blacked out sclera, magenta glow identifying cyberware; custom-made Monarch PX44 manufactured by Nocturne Cybernetics, heavy-lift military-issued cybernetic spine implant manufactured by Militech other identifying features; large burn scar on the back, chemical burns on the right leg and left shoulder, neck scars

lesser known facts; — suffers from chronic back pain due to faulty cyberspine. it is impossible to swap out the faulty cyberware without causing significant damage to both nerves and muscles, so in order to function somewhat normally he's forced to inject himself with painkillers directly into his back and rely on pain-numbing drugs. — Vincent Vahn is not his real name but an alias. the name belongs to a dead man, whose name he saw etched onto a stone niche in North Oak Columbarium. however Elijah is his actual middle name given to him by his mother. — surprisingly good with small kids, not so much with teenagers — doesn't like showing off his burnt back, especially to strangers, people he's not close with. — his taste in men includes mainly nomads and rockerboys — dog tags around his neck belong to him and his deceased friend from the army - Michael Joshua Bryant — certified big boy senior citizen

[hexblooddruid]

15 Lines of Dialogue

Rules: Share 15 or fewer lines of dialogue from an OC, ideally lines that capture the character/personality/vibe of the OC. Bonus points for just using the dialogue without other details about the scene, but you're free to include those as well!

@thedragonagelesbian tagged me in this a million years ago and I'm finally doing it now. These are all from Bryn, for my running document for her current playthrough where I rewrite scenes, write additional scenes, and her thoughts to help keep me in her head space for this playthrough. It's documented day by day, which is why the dates are included at the end. I included very little context in the scenes. Thank you so much for tagging me!

“Yes. I find that many creatures that seem vicious at first just need to get to know you.” (22 Highsun)

“Impossible. You’re part of this group now. I care about you. Besides, someone has to.” (23 Highsun)

Bryn blanched at the compliment. “All I do in battle is heal people.” (24 Highsun)

“I suppose. But to answer your question, no. Quite the opposite in fact. I was a sage for my druid circle. I spent my time archiving lore and ancient druidic techniques. The most adventure I experienced was traveling to Baldur’s Gate to find some text to copy to our collection.” (24 Highsun)

“No. No you don’t. No pet names right now. Gods! This is why you were being so nice to me the other day, saying you wanted to travel together, that you just wanted my company. Ugh! That’s why you were asking about my tattoo.” Bryn started to feel sick. She backed away from him, stepping toward the edge of the water. For the first time since they met, she felt truly afraid of him. Bryn shakes her head, angry tears clouding her vision. “I’ve been such a naive fool-” (24 Highsun)

“Wait, you haven’t had a bath in over half a tenday? We almost always camp right by fresh water. You all but you especially”-pointing her finger at Astarion-”should be bathing regularly, at least on days that we have hard battles. It’s important to keep your wounds clean and once you upgrade your amour”, Bryn looks derisively at Astarion’s padded armour, “regular bathing is an important part of upkeep for leather and hide armours.” (25 Highsun)

“When he was in my head the thing that kept me going was knowing that I had to get Karlach, Astarion, and Gale out of there. That we had to get back to here, to you…to Lae’zel and Shadowheart. I know this is something you deal with constantly and…I don’t ever want you to feel alone in this, anymore.” (26 Highsun)

Bryn immediately turns to him. “Wyll, are you all right?” Her hands itch to reach out and comfort him but, remembering that they are not alone, she keeps them at her side. (27 Highsun)

“I know, I know. But-” she pulls her hands from his face and holds his hands in hers “- give me a chance, please? Before you sell your soul to a devil.” (27 Highsun)

“Oh come on” Bryn nudged him with her elbow. “You can’t tease me like this. Please? For me??” She looked up at him with her large, dark pleading eyes. (27 Highsun)

“I don't want to talk about it.” (27 Highsun)

She responds hesitantly. “Yes-no. My head is killing me and…” She kept moving her head, trying to catch the shadows that crept in the corners of her vision. “Is it dark in here?” Wyll placed a gentle hand on her chin to point her eyes back toward him. “What?”, her voice shook with worry. “Wyll, tell me what’s wrong. (28 Highsun)

“I’m sorry”, she whispered in between sobs. “I’m so sorry.” (28 Highsun)

“No! Nothing like that.” Bryn opens and closes her eyes and the shadows in the corners of her vision start to take shape. “The way I access magic is I attune myself to the land around me and it connects me to the natural arcana that flows through everything, the natural flow of life that connects us all.” She smiles as she feels her tattoo warming. “Before I died, I heard Ethel’s voice in my head. I heard it when I was dead. And when Wyll brought me back, she said I’d see the world through fresh eyes now.” She bows her head as shameful tears well up again. “I-there are shadows in the corner of my vision. I can feel it-I can see it. My connection is not as strong as it’s been recently and now, I can see the rot, the decay under everything. Her curse killed me and the stench refused to leave me.” She barks out a rueful laugh and says under her breath, “At least the eyes make sense now.” (28 Highsun)

Her face is deadly serious when she responds. “There’s no point in me being back if I’m not going to worry about you.” (28 Highsun)

[thescribeoflostmemories]

Lukeim Yurin

(Il Dottore x assistant! GN! Reader!) 

A/n: this is my old fics and I decided to polish it, due to this week's chaotic schedule. Been scratching my head for a while after writing three separate fics. Enjoy, even though there isn't much of a plot than the others....

Tags: fluff, crack, lazy post, Dottore, ft. Pulcinella and Pierro

"There is law with the lawless law." - Scribe

The Director of the Fatui had appointed you as the 2nd's assistant after a while of personally serving under him. 

You didn't bother to ask why, since you think of it as punishment from your most recent misstep. To your new boss, it's pretty boring to say something out loud unless you want to get transferred again. 

Il Dottore found you rather odd at first, not much of a reaction inducing person yet there’s something unnerving- well that’s what he had heard of the rumors surrounding you. But he does appreciate that he doesn’t have to say what items he wanted, all he has to do is just show his hand and you’ll immediately know what he wants.

"Tch…  " He clicked his tongue in annoyance before raising his hand to snap his fingers to order you around and suddenly, instead he felt something pushed in his grasp. Looking at it and it's the item he wanted. Not even his other copies could complete his request without telling them.  You didn't even expect a thank you from him, so you just stayed at his side waiting for his orders. Dark tinted glasses blocked his view of seeing your expression. 

One time he stuck out his foot to trip you. Since you were carrying a stack of papers and documents from other Dottores. No other movement was made, only for you to go around him instead. Which amazed the younger replicas to his distaste. 

You’re practically perfect in every way in the young eyes of his other reflections, the perceptions having some ideas that you aren’t human. It excites him to think if he could just make a reaction out of that resting bitch face of yours.

There are other times where you surprised him and very special guests, managing to rally his clones for his surprise grand entrance.

“Unfortunately for you dear patients, I invited the second seat of the Fatui Harbingers, the outcast of The Akademia, the wise doctor of Snezhnaya, Akademia’s mad genius; Summa cum laude, Il Dottore!” His replicas clapped whenever he took a step towards the very special guests. He won’t lie, the horrid faces he got after you introduced him like he's the guard dog from the abyss using some of his titles and made a few on the spot is just chef's kiss to him.

Though it irks him that you prefer hanging out with the young copy of him, bold, brash and cringe-worthy to the very core. 

Curious enough, Dottore had ordered someone to gather information about you. He didn't want to ask Pierro of your background probably out of pride. Came nearly empty handed, only your name, where you’re born, age and other uninteresting stuff that he already knows. Unsatisfied with the results he had resorted to having his duplicates to try and gather information out of you. Still, a slow but somewhat effective plan.

Until one day you were going with him to Foutaine, and stopped by a ‘ faithful servant of the law’. Dottore was accused of something he didn’t commit, which is ironic considering what crimes he has done in the name of research. Since he was your boss, you had to take a stand for him. The court, a battlefield you thought was left behind in the past. 

When the judge told you to take the shades off, it was the first time you took off your sunglasses, seeing those lifeless (color) eyes. Looks pretty as if it were just foggy marbles. 

They’re pressing for Dottore to answer clearly for a way to pressure him into confessing. You on the other hand remained calm and objected that what they're asking is impossible and irrelevant. For a foreigner, the judge had accepted that and overruled it, turning their leads into a deadend. 

“Are we done here? If we are, my boss and I will take our leave. I have heard great things about this mystical place, it's amusing to see not only clowns but an entire circus made manifest.” You knew that it struck a chord with the lawyer and detective.

This trial is ruining the accuser, Dottore had plans for that pesky lawyer and that detective. But didn’t expect you to suddenly laugh.

“Pft …. Hehe …haha …” Chest rumbles, pursing your lips, arms wrapped around your abdomen to stop yourself from laughing.

“___?”

“Hahahahaha!” There you are laughing hysterically when you hear the prosecutor and detective say that the law is absolute.

It has been at least a few seconds since you’ve started laughing. Doesn’t even feel like it, time felt like it was stretched into hours. Tears started to be produced from your eyes.

The judge had recognized that spine chilling glee, one of their best lawyers. Their old partner, a renegade. 

“Ha…. haha …. Sorry, it was just so funny seeing someone so confident in the system alone. Hilarious, really!” What's so belittling is that you're not trying to insult them. In fact it's commendable that they have that much trust, rather than improving it further as time goes by. 

"People died and you laughed!" The detective looked at you with horror. 

"And I'm - pfft…  tired pretending mrrrpgh mm! Hehehe I'm not!" Giggling to yourself before calming down. A hand on your mouth to try and stop laughing. 

Dottore had to admit it, it is quite the spectacle seeing a place that's supposed to be where a person must be judged and prosecuted, turned into a playground to wreak havoc in a few words.

After all that you even had the guts to pull out a knife on an innocent bystander, threatening to let you both go. Not caring if you got a bounty on your head anymore.

"Ah, Lord Harbinger Jester is going to nag me again for doing something stupid like that. Anyway, sorry about that boss." You stretched your arms while apologizing so casually, it's comforting somehow.

"Did you have fun, boss?" A smile graced your face when you faced him once you two were alone.

"You're blind, aren't you? How?" Dottore is genuinely curious about how you were able to move around without fumbling. 

"Wow, saying all of that after I saved you from those clowns?" Arms crossed, huffing. 

" Just answer the damn question." 

" You're a smart cookie, figure it out." Earning a huff from him.

That vexed him but he did manage to put two and two together with that. Since there's one clone that reported to him, and it's the same one that you favored amongst the rest. 

"I KNOW! I know…  ____'s blind." The actual Dottore sighed at the one clone that's reporting to him.

"Even told me you didn't know." That made the doctor rub the sides of his forehead.

"Well…  at least ____ told you about the leave today, right?" The tensed air made the clone shut up.

" Say, what? "

"You didn't get the message about Mr. Jingle bells transferring ____ to the Pucinella's group?" They both stared at each other, and realized they got played. 

Absolutely salty, not only he had to clean up the remains but he lost his best assistant too! He couldn't stand the sniveling whimpers of his newly appointed assistant.

"Stop moaning, you're ruining my focus!" He hissed, head facing the agent who was hesitant on giving the scalpel to him. "Useless." He muttered under his breath.

Dottore misses your antics, often he finds himself wondering how you're doing under one of his co-worker's care.

He'd seldom see you in the icy halls of the cryo archon with a pen and clipboard with a smile on your face.

Perhaps he could ask Pierro to place you back under his wing, keenly aware of how you'd answer to him.

[hermitcraft-8]

the fluffy ashean au fic thats longer than actual chapter parts

When Sean laughed really hard, he wrinkled his nose up and bared his front teeth like some sort of rabbit, and he held his hands up in front of his face like he was blocking blows that never came, and he curled his legs up and rolled around on whatever he was sitting on.

When Sean was bored, or thinking really hard, he tugged on his piercings. Sometimes his lip rings, and sometimes he'd pull on his anti-eyebrows if things were really difficult, but usually it was his ear lobe gauges.

When Sean was too cold, he hunched in on himself, and sucked on his teeth until they whistled. He would never ever ask for a jacket, but he would always eye whoever was nearby like he was waiting for them to offer.

And most of all, whenever he was talking to someone, he would copy them. Little things, like how he’d smack his teeth when talking to someone who smacked their teeth, or he’d fidget with his hair if you did, or roll his rs, or just smile more.

Madi never noticed.

Ash knew she never noticed because he knew how she ticked. He knew how she saw people. He knew she saw the freckles on his spine when he pulled off his shirt and never thought anything of them, or the little scars jaw from acne and shaving, or the divot in his skull that his buzz cut gave away. He knew she didn't notice.

For the first week that Sean and Madi dated, Ash hated that more than anything. Why was Sean with someone like her, someone who would never think the way he slept with his head tilted all the way back and his mouth just a little open was cute.

And then they broke up.

Ash was there. He saw the whole thing.

Personally, if Sean O’Lainey got really drunk and told him he had broken his heart and he didn’t want to remember their kisses, he’d probably never forgive himself, but Madi hadn’t seemed too rattled.

And then Sean was theirs again. They had him again, back in their midst, and everyone pretended not to notice when he called them the wrong names.

This, tonight, was their first hangout since the breakup, and Ash was starting to think he was the only one who was so nervous he thought he would throw up. It wasn’t a particularly classy event- Sean had to go shopping and the others all agreed to tag along for old times sake, but Ash felt absolutely ill.

“It’s not like he broke up with us,” Lori chuckled, watching him pace the parking spot again. “Come on, he’s been our friend since middle school- your friend since kindergarten. You’re fine.”

Ash snarled at them, wanting so badly to communicate what exactly made this such a cataclysmically important event, but not having any of the words necessary. It was important because it was Sean, and Sean was important.

And then Sean's truck pulled up. It gently nudged a stray shopping cart, and everyone winced, but Sean didn’t brake, just pushed onward, parking messily and slinging his door open.

“Thanks for finally showing up,” Kyrie called. “I was starting to think you’d died.”

“Sorry,” Sean called back, and the way he shoved his shoulders back was the same that Kyrie did. He was in mirror mode, just doing whatever everyone else did. “I lost my keys.”

“No worries,” Miki smiled. “Glad you could make it.”

Sean grinned a bit, slinging an arm around Lori’s shoulders, and Ash's neck suddenly felt very cold and empty.

The Rome Walmart was not very impressive, as far as Walmarts went. Every high schooler in town had worked there, it felt like, so it was impossible to go on dates there without everyone hearing about, but that’s where everyone went, anyways.

Not that this was a date.

Another cute thing about Sean: he hopped up on the back of the cart when he pushed it, leaning forward, and his t shirt that was just a bit too small rode up, revealing some of the freckles on his back, and the elastic of his boxers, and when Kyrie reached out to pull his shirt down, and he looked over his shoulder, he mouthed a thank you instead of saying it.

Ash really hated having a crush.

It didn’t seem worth it- best outcome was him dating his identical twin sister’s ex, worst outcome was him getting embarrassed and losing his best friend. There was no winning here.

So he very firmly kept his eyes off of Sean’s back-freckles.

And then the other three vanished. Miki wanted to check out the toy aisle to see if they had any new My Little Pony toys (she was turning 20 soon, he thought, in amusement) and the other two agreed to join her.

And it was just Sean and Ash.

Sean didn’t seem phased. In fact, he seemed to hardly notice their absence, just looking down at the list on his phone. “Okay, I need frozen waffles.”

And Ash had no choice but to wander behind him like a lost dog.

“Hey,” He said, fully unaware of where this was going. “Why did you break up with Madi?”

Sean turned, frowning. “What?”

“I-” Ash was regretting this immensely. Why did he even bring this up, why did he even open his stupid mouth? “Nevermind.”

Sean didn’t speak, just turned back to the cart and kept pushing it along. One of the wheels squeaked.

“You wanna know the truth?” Sean said, twisting his mouth a bit, chewing on his lip. “Like, the real actual truth?”

Ash huffed. “I mean, that’s why I asked.”

Sean’s thumb glided across the cart handle the same way Madi’s thumb moved when giving hugs. “I don’t know if I ever liked her. I was just scared to say no.”

“Oh,” Ash said, almost disappointed. “Okay, that’s fine-”

“No, I mean…” Sean paused, turning to look at him, narrowing his eyes at him like he was trying really hard to think. “That’s not it, I thought I liked her because- Ash. I don’t know what it’s like to like someone.”

Ash stared at him. “What, like- you’ve never liked anyone ever?”

“I…” Sean squinted. “Okay, I might have. Once. But I can’t really be sure-”

“Who?”

“I’m not telling you that.”

“Do they go to our school?”

“I’m not telling you that, either, man,” Sean exhaled, bumping his hips against Ash’s. “But… I don’t know, it’s probably not a real crush. Everything I’ve heard made it sound like I had a crush on Madi, but I was probably just scared of her.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, my stomach hurt, I got all sweaty around her, I had a nightmare about her dumping me-”

“Why were you scared of her, though?”

“I don’t know,” Sean shrugged. “She’s… I don’t know.”

Ash hummed.

Sean hummed back.

“Did you know you copy people?”

Sean winced. Ash wasn’t expecting that. A laugh, maybe, or a sheepish grin, or a shrug. He didn’t expect a wince.

“Sorry.”

“Sorry? What for?”

“Uh, I was hoping you didn’t notice,” Sean said, tiredly. “I kind of hoped no one would notice. I swear it’s not on purpose, when I catch myself doing it, I try to stop-”

“Wait, wait, wait, what am I missing,” Ash grabbed his sleeve, stopping him in his tracks. “Why are you trying to stop that.”

“I read somewhere that it’s a manipulation tactic,” Sean shrugged a little guiltily. “Like, a huge red flag.”

“I think it’s cute,” Ash said, almost defensively. “Like, hey, you’re paying enough attention to me to snap when you’re bored like I do.”

“I don’t-” Sean blinked. “Cute?”

Ash felt his insides freeze. This was literally his worst nightmare, and it was entirely his own fault. He let go of Sean’s sleeve. “Forget it.”

“Ash,” Sean said, weakly, but Ash was already walking away. “Ash, wait.”

Ash paused, sighing, and, not turning to face Sean, asked. “Are you coming?”

“Ash. Look at me,” Ash paused, before turning to face him. Sean scanned his face, carefully, lips thin. “You don’t call things cute, Ash. Especially not people.”

“Yeah.”

“You just called me cute.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Ash. Can you tell me this: do you like me?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Sean exhaled, tilting his head back. “This complicates things.”

“Yeah, no fucking kidding.”

“I can’t date you,” Sean said, rubbing his lip ring. “Because of Madi.”

“And because you don’t like me,” Ash muttered. “Don’t forget that.”

“I never said that,” Sean held up a finger. “I said I only liked one person.”

“And… and, what, that person just so happens to be me?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

“Okay, would Madi kill us is the thing-”

Ash was pulling out his phone before he could finish the sentence, shaking fingers hitting buttons he hardly recognized, until his phone was ringing. They both stood there, staring almost in surprise at the screen, until Madi’s face appeared, crooked glasses and all, illuminated by a computer screen.

“What?”

“Would you be mad if Sean and I started going out?”

She squinted at the screen. Sean waved.

“Are you stupid? You called me for that? I’m doing homework, Ash-”

“Answer the damn question.”

“No? Why would I give a shit?”

“I’m holding you to that.”

“Wh-”

Ash hung up, turning to Sean, who was blinking at him, rapidly, the same way that Miki did when she was surprised.

“So-”

“So.”

And then Ash started laughing. He wasn’t really sure what he was laughing at, but he was laughing.

And Sean, of course, laughed along.