#it’s so irritating having to look up synonyms :(

[sagegreenfrogs]

out of context spoiler for the Apollo & Hyacinth AU Sorvus fic 😔

[parfaitblogs]

you're losing me ❀ s. reid x reader

in which he's an entirely different person after prison, and your relationship is crumbling. 

pairing: spencer reid x reader genre: angst tags: post prison reid. no happy ending. argument/fight. strong language. word count: 2.0k a/n: big fan of soul crushing angst. clearly. i dreamt this one up in an everything shower. likely place for me to plan fics? whole lot of nothing happening i love yapping about sadness!! my least favourite spencer trait is that he doesn't think he deserves good things so he pushes them away so obviously i have to write novellas on him doing just that? this used to be based on tolerate it but i listened to ylm the entire time so erm. things change! lol enjoy xoxo

Perhaps you were stupid. 

Very, very stupid. And ridiculous. And every other synonym for those two words that your brain could not possibly imagine up right now. You were all of them. But also none of them. Because you also felt like there was not a single word that could describe you anymore; if there was, maybe you'd consider yourself a person. But clearly you weren't a person. Not anymore, at least. Not to him. 

An awfully painful year it had been. And maybe that's what stripped you of your right to be a person. Maybe it was the overtime. Maybe it was the lack of sleep. Maybe it was everything all at once. Maybe it was nothing at all. 

Three years of dating one man meant you learned quite a bit about who he is as a person to you. Eight years of knowing him meant you knew very well what sort of person he is in general. 

And this wasn't him. 

He was sitting on your couch. A piece of furniture that had, in just one year, erased the memory of you from it, there no longer being an indent on the right side where you always sat. A book was sat in his lap, but he wasn't properly reading it. You could tell from how slowly he turned the pages. From how he stopped every few minutes to rub his eyes, his eyebrows creasing and a quiet, irritated huff leaving his lips. 

It was a habit he had developed. 

This was how it was every night. Three o'clock came, and your body would wake you up from an otherwise restless sleep, and you would drag your feet out to where the man who should be occupying the other side of your bed, actually is. And he wouldn't look up, but you both acknowledged each other's presence, silently. 

And you would watch him for an hour. Until your eyes began to droop, and your feet started to ache, and your heart couldn't handle any more shattering for the night. And then you would drag yourself back to the bedroom, and you would climb into a now cold bed, and you would fall back asleep for another two hours. 

Like clockwork.

You were good with him. So patient. You would make him mugs of morning coffee that he wouldn't drink, and you would wash clothes he wouldn't say 'thank you' for. You wondered if he was actually grateful or not. 

You were too scared to ask. 

"Hey," you said, quietly, when he had come home from work, shrugging his bag off his shoulders, and slipping shoes off his feet. 

"Hi," he answered. As if on instinct, he moved to where you were seated at the barstool to kiss you in greeting, before brushing past and heading into the kitchen. 

You watched him for a few moments as he found a piece of bread to eat, nothing on it. Just... dry. Before your eyes returned to the laptop screen you had open in front of you, fingers tapping away at your keyboard. 

"There's been another terror threat," you said to him, tilting your head to the side. "But they let me work from home."

"Why'd they do that?" he asked, but he could not sound less interested. 

You lifted your head, because you thought he knew. "Because of you, Spence."

"Oh, okay," he answered, and you watched as he threw out half of the bread he did not eat, before he disappeared down the hallway. 

He didn't even care. 

You stared at the empty space down the hall, where he had once been, heart lodged in your throat in an uncomfortable lump you couldn't swallow. This was why you felt stupid. 

Maybe you were sick of feeling stupid. You must be, because subconsciously, your feet had already planted themselves firmly on the floor, and your legs were already taking you down the hall in the exact direction he had just disappeared to. 

He was taking his button up off when you appeared in the doorway to your bedroom, replacing it with a t-shirt. You had never seen him wear so many t-shirts until now. 

You cleared your throat, alerting him of your presence, and he turned, his eyebrows furrowing when he saw you. 

"You know you can talk to me, right?" you said, voice wavering with cautiousness. 

His lips parted, then they closed, and all he managed was a short nod, before he turned back around to find pyjama pants in his drawers. 

"Spencer, I'm serious," you pressed, taking a step into the room. "You need to talk to someone about this."

"I have those counseling sessions at work," he answered, turning back around to face you only once he was wearing pants. 

Your lips pursed. "You hate those."

"Yes, but I'm talking to someone."

"Not someone you trust!"

"And if I talk to you, it would be so different compared to a counsellor, right?"

You froze. He froze. Maybe he realised the implication of his words, you certainly did. That such a simple spoken sentence had your heart stuttering in your chest. 

You shakily exhaled. "I'd hope it would be different," you decided to say. "But I wouldn't be surprised if it isn't anymore."

He stood straighter at your comment. Perhaps not the best thing to say. Certainly not the most mature. 

"What does that mean?"

Right. The reason you decided to follow him in the first place. "I just—I don't feel like you care anymore. And I have tried to be patient, Spencer. I really have. But you shut me out, and we don't even talk anymore. I make you coffee, I do your laundry, I offer to cook, I clean up the house, I do everything I possibly can so you can focus on healing, and I can't even get a proper sentence out of you unless we're arguing."

He inhaled sharply, staring at you. "I don't know if you forgot, but I was locked in a prison for three and a half months."

Your shoulders deflated, your eyebrows creasing and lips pulling down into a frown. "Seriously? I express that I am feeling neglected, and your only response is that you've been in prison—"

"—Well, it kind of changed who I am!"

You fell silent for a few moments, trying to collect your thoughts before you threw them all in his face and actually ruined things between you two. 

"I just feel like you don't care anymore," you repeated, voice awfully soft compared to how hard your body was shaking in anxiety. 

He ran a hand through his hair, and he opened his mouth to speak with that same frustrated frown, so you cut him off. 

"And yes, I know you're dealing with everything that happened to you in prison. I only know what they told us, so I can't even imagine how much you're withholding. Because I know that's what you do. But that doesn't give you an excuse to treat me like I'm not important in your life anymore. I mean, If I'm not, then tell me. If you really don't care, or you've decided that you can't be in a relationship and process everything at the same time, then I'd like to know."

The silence is uncomfortable. And thick. And you're staring at him with eyes that burned with tears you weren't ready to shed yet. He's coming up with a response, so slowly you think maybe prison actually did break his brain. 

"I do care," he finally said, and you wondered if it took him three minutes to come up with that because he was controlling a lie. You pushed that thought out of your head. "But I also don't want you to wait for me to be better, if it's making you feel this way."

Oh.

"Okay," you manage to say, voice not above a whisper as you stared at him. 

"Okay," he echoed, and the tears you were trying so hard to keep in brimmed your waterline, blurring your vision. If he hadn't become one big blob in your vision because of them, you might've seen his eyes soften and his shoulders deflate. 

Maybe he was waiting for you to confront him about it all. So he could end things. Maybe he's been thinking about this for too long, and this was just the final push he needed. You'd like to hope it was a spur of the moment decision, and he wasn't banking on this relationship ending. 

"I'll stay at a friend's," you then murmured, wiping the tears from your eyes, sniffling pathetically. 

"No, this is—"

"—You deserve familiar walls," you cut him off. "I'm sure anything else would freak you out."

He fell silent, because you were right. But he didn't want to kick you out of your own home. He didn't want to kick you out of his life, a sickening revelation he was having all too late.

Maybe that was why, when you turned around to leave, he called your name. Pleadingly. So, you turned back, and he stared at you, and silence fell over you two again. 

"What?" you breathed out after a few too many minutes of quiet. 

"I don't know how to talk to you. Or anyone. Not—not just you."

"About what happened?"

"In general."

You stilled, confusion sweeping across your features, for the thousandth time tonight alone. "You don't have to talk to me, if you can't. Regularly, I mean. That's not... that's not what I'm asking of you. I just need you to communicate with me. I feel like you don't even have feelings for me anymore. That's where most of my issues lie."

"I do have feelings for you."

"It doesn't feel that way."

More silence. More thick, deafening silence that felt like you had submerged your head underwater. And you really just wanted to come to a final conclusion. If this was the end.

"Then is it just that you don't want to be with me anymore? If it is, please tell me," you said, voice pathetically desperate.

He stared at you some more. Silence accompanying him, like some (annoyingly) comforting best friend amidst this conversation. And you slowly nodded your head as what he wanted became clear to you, your heart stuttering uncomfortably in your chest. Your stomach flipping. 

"Indecision doesn't look good on you," you finally cut through the blanket of quiet. "I need a verbal answer, Spencer."

"I do want to be with you—"

"—Then fight, dammit!" you finally snapped, the tears you had managed to control coming back to you, a sob lodging in your throat. "I am sick of you saying you do feel this, and you don't feel that. Make a fucking decision. Please. I cannot keep up a fight for the both of us anymore. You're losing me here, Spencer."

"I'm scared!" he shouted, and you took a step back, his voice vibrating throughout the room. He waged an internal battle for a few moments at your recoil. "That. That right there is what I'm scared of. I am so scared of scaring you."

"You scare me more when you shut down. I will take your anger over your silence."

"I won't," he snapped, watching you flinch. Again. You wanted to stop flinching. 

"It proves to me that you're actually feeling things. Spencer, I feel like I've been living with a ghost."

"I can't control my anger anymore," he added your name with a voice crack, mirroring your heart.

You blink some more tears down your cheeks. "You don't have to. You are allowed to be angry."

"Not around you," he shook his head, his hands brushing curls out of his face. "What if I—I hurt you."

"What if you don't?"

It seemed he hadn't considered that possibility, because he fell silent, and averted his gaze to the ground. He shook his head after a beat. "I can't take that risk."

You stared at him for a moment longer, weighing up your options, before you sighed. "Fine. Don't." He said your name again. "No. If you're not willing to fight, then... then fine. Don't fight. But neither will I."

He didn't say anything as you took a step back from the room. And even as you stilled for a few seconds longer, achingly but silently begging him to ask you to stay, he didn't utter a word. Which was, really, all you needed in confirmation. 

And so you left.

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated dearly ♡

[aestas---estas]

Working hands

MDNI 18+ | Part 1 | Part 2 | Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader | ~4,6k words | fem!reader, assistant!reader, reader described as shorter than Simon, suspend your disbelief for how long it is inbetween missions, basically all fluff | if I forgot a tag/tw please tell me | divider by @cafekitsune | Read on AO3

It's early Saturday morning and you get woken up by a strong fist incessantly knocking on your front door. It's pointed and regular, military in its consistency. While Price knows where you live — it's on your paperwork after all — and you have no doubt in your mind that both Johnny and Kyle could've easily found out, you know in your bones that it's Simon.

“Coming!” You call out, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you quickly find a pair of sweatpants to throw on; it would probably be in bad form to open the door in only a washed-out shirt and underwear. You stop in front of the bathroom mirror to quickly fix your bed hair as much as possible, splashing some cold water on your face in an attempt to look more awake than you feel. Simon’s still knocking intermittently and you can practically hear the irritation he’s starting to feel through the door — the man does not like to be ignored or left to wait.

“Good morning,” you say as you finally fling your door open, annoyance at having been so rudely interrupted clear in your voice despite the amicable words. He’s standing with his fist raised, ready to knock once more, a tool kit gripped in his other hand and you eye it curiously. “What-?”

You don’t really know how to end the sentence — what is he doing here? What’s with the tool kit? What makes him think he can wake you at 7:30 in the morning on your day off? — but you’re cut off before you manage to get another word past your lips, as he’s already made his way into your flat and toward the bathroom.

In confusion you close the front door and follow behind, your bare feet padding against the cool wooden floor, making you wish — not for the first time — that your landlord allowed heated floors. Simon’s courteous enough to have already toed off his boots by your shoe rack, so at least you don’t have to clean up dirt and grime, but the barging his way inside your space only worked to further annoy and confuse you.

“Simon, it’s not even 8,” you say as you lean against the doorframe of your bathroom, watching as he gets down on his knees in front of the broken washing machine you still hadn’t had a chance to look at. The annoyance seeps out of you as you remember the conversation you had that Monday; about how you wanted to return his jacket washed, but hadn’t been able to do your laundry. It’s a thoughtful gesture, one you can’t help but smile in appreciation at.

“I’m an early riser,” is all Simon says in return, not even glancing your way. He’s already busy with turning the machine on and off, looking at all the hoses and pipes, to try and discern what the issue might be.

For a moment, you just stay there, watching him quietly. He’s not wearing the skull mask or printed balaclava that had become synonymous with his alias, but rather a more simple black surgical mask. You don’t really know what you expected Simon to look like; you knew he was blonde, something Johnny had once shared with you to tease his Lieutenant, yet the sight of the surprisingly well groomed tresses on his head make something inside of you stir. His hair is just long enough for you to be able to card your fingers through it, and his left eyebrow is cleaved in half from a faded scar. You can’t see his jaw or chin properly, and the only time you remember him ever lifting his mask in your presence was to drink his beer in the pub all those weeks ago before he walked you home. You’d been drunk back then, hadn’t had the sense of mind to memorise his visage, and you mentally kick yourself about it now.

“It’s the water,” you supply, wanting to be helpful and hopefully distract yourself from thoughts of how it would feel to pet his hair and trace his scars, and Simon turns his head to glance at you. “It doesn’t drain properly, overflows about half the time too.”

Simon nods before turning back to the washing machine, pulling it away from the wall with little effort. “Sounds like the hose, or maybe the drainpipe. Could also be the lint trap. If there is one.” He’s mumbling more to himself than to you at this point, craning his neck to look at the backside of the machine all while nodding or shaking his head, making mental notes of possible solutions.

“Might be a while, love. Why don’t you go make us some tea?” It’s the out you didn’t know you wanted, but the second the suggestion leaves Simon’s lips you pounce on it, leaving the bathroom for the kitchen with no words or fuss.

You make two cups of some berry blend one of your friends got you as a birthday present — the mugs are white, bland, a little too boring for your liking, but they get the job done. And besides, you have more important things to spend your money on than crockery.

When you return to the bathroom, two steaming mugs in hand, you can’t help but stare at Simon for a moment before making yourself known. While the hoodie he’s wearing doesn’t provide you with much, his jeans are tight fitting around those muscular thighs of his, especially with the way he keeps crouching and kneeling. God, he’s got an ass too. The thought makes heat race to your face and you pull your eyes away from the enticing view of his rear.

“One cup for you,” you say, placing the tea down on top of the washing machine for whenever he feels like taking a sip. He sends you an appreciative look before focusing back on the task at hand; you’re both relieved and disappointed that he didn’t remove the face mask to have a taste of the drink right then and there. But then again, if he did, you’re more than sure that his uncovered visage would haunt your dreams in the best way possible.

“I’ll, uh, leave you to it then,” you say when he makes no move to speak again. 

It’s odd having Simon in your space like this. Sure, he spent the night on the couch that night after the pub. But you had been drunk then, had thought of nothing but the soft embrace of your bed that awaited you. Now you’re both sober, both clear minded and both all too aware of whatever it is that’s been growing between the two of you. 

Usually on your days off you would sleep in, would take a long shower so hot the fog on the mirror wouldn’t disappear for over an hour afterwards, would even make a proper breakfast if you had the energy for it. But Simon was currently occupying your bathroom, so a shower was out of the question, and while a short nap as he worked didn’t sound so bad it felt almost rude to go back to sleep as long as he was still there. He was doing something sweet for you; fixing something you hadn’t had the time or money to fix yet yourself.

So instead of your usual routine, you plant yourself under a blanket on the sofa with a new book you’d been meaning to read but haven’t had the chance to just yet and turn on some music. You can hear Simon in the bathroom, the clattering of tools and humming of the washing machine as he starts and stops new cycles every so often. The whole thing feels almost domestic, and it tugs on your heart in a way you don’t want to look too deep into.

---

“Can I ask you something?” you question and Simon grunts in that affirmative way he always does when you knock on his office door in the mornings. He had felt you coming back into the bathroom five minutes ago, leaning against the door frame, watching him with inquisitive eyes; but he had kept his attention on the washing machine. “Why do you wear that mask?”

If you hadn’t been studying him so intensely, you might’ve not noticed the way his shoulders and back tensed for half a second; it’s gone before you even have a chance to ponder about his reaction.

“Anonymity,” he answers at length, but you can tell there is more to it. Most of the other operators don't wear facial coverings — and if they do, it’s only while in active combat.

You understood wanting to keep his identity anonymous in the field, not letting the enemies know his name or face, it was dangerous work what he did after all, yet you couldn’t help but press. “Everyone on base already knows your name. And besides, there’s no one around but me right now.” Who are you hiding from? is what goes unasked, but the question still makes the air around you both feel heavy.

“They know what I want them to know,” he supplies, as if that would be a satisfactory answer. And it is, you suppose, at least somewhat. It doesn’t answer why exactly he keeps himself closed off, why no one — not even the men he fights beside — knows what he looks like. But it does tell you that he’s deeply paranoid and near obsessive with personal security. It tells you that he’s willing to show more of himself to the few he deems worthy; god, you want to be worthy.

“When’s the last time you took it off?” It’s a gamble of a question, but you know if Simon wants to leave the conversation he’ll let you know it in no uncertain terms.

“Last night.” You roll your eyes at that, because of course he doesn’t sleep with a stupid balaclava or face mask — maybe in the field, but you don’t know what goes on during their missions if it’s not in the reports.

“I meant with someone else in the room, Simon,” you tell him and cross your arms over your chest.

It’s quiet for a few moments, seconds stretching into minutes as Simon gives no indication of giving you a reply. Just as you let out a sigh, ready to give up on the conversation and walk back to your living room, he speaks. “It’s been… a while. Years.”

You don’t feel sorry for him, you have a feeling Simon wouldn't take kindly to pity, but empathy courses through your veins at the pain evident in his voice. He puts down the tool in his hand, turning his head just enough to make you appear in his vision, but makes no move to stand up. You realise he’s studying you, your reactions, your body language, every micro expression you don’t have the education to hide like he does.

“That sounds lonely,” you eventually say, taking the few steps from the doorway to where he’s kneeling beside the washing machine, lowering yourself until you’re eye-to-eye. “If you ever…” you hesitate for a second, but the fact that Simon has yet to end the conversation makes you power through. “I’ll be here, if you ever want to show someone.”

It’s not a demand or a manipulative tactic to get him to feel secure before ripping the rug out from under him; you genuinely want to be there for him, face or no face, want him to not go through his life with that crushing loneliness that’s been making it hard to breathe freely for years. Your eyes shine with open honesty and it’s almost too much for Simon to bear. He nearly tells you everything then; about his past, his family, Roba, everything. But you seem so innocent, untouched by the cruel reality of the world. And although he’s destroyed more uncorrupted and pure lives than yours, he wants you to keep living in the bubble of life is worth living for as long as possible.

“It’s not pretty,” is what he says instead. It — his life, him. A sad smile passes your lips as you nod your understanding.

“I’ll be here,” you repeat, giving his shoulder a quick squeeze before standing and leaving him alone in the bathroom to work.

Simon stays there for another half hour before packing everything up and making his way towards the door. Truth be told he had figured out the issue after only ten minutes, had fixed the problem — a clog in the drain pipe — as slow as possible just to be in your presence for a few minutes longer. He knew he had disrupted your morning, had woken you up too early on your day off just to selfishly indulge his own need for your warmth, and now you were offering him unadulterated support without demanding anything in return. He didn’t deserve your kindness, had used your predicament to satisfy his own wants. It made him feel low, dirty, unworthy. 

“It works now,” Simon tells you as he walks past your spot on the couch, heading towards the front door without a second glance back.

Quickly you scramble from the couch and follow behind him, the blanket once more wrapped around your form. “Thank you,” you say, your eyes tracking his movements as he pulls on his jacket. “I’ll get your jacket back as soon as it’s washed.”

Simon shakes his head. “Told you, love, keep it.” There it is again; love. Before that weekend he had never called you that, and in the moment you had assumed the nickname had slipped from his lips the same way you had called him baby — simply to sell the illusion of a relationship so the creepy guy at the club would leave you alone. But now you couldn’t be so sure.

“At least let me buy you lunch or something as a thank you,” you insist, catching him by the wrist as he reaches for the door handle, grasping at straws for anything that would allow him to stay in your life. You had always done a good job at keeping your private and professional lives separate; but that was before Simon.

Simon’s eyes flicker down to where your fingers envelop his wrist, but he does not shift out of your grasp nor tell you to let go; so you don’t. “It doesn’t have to mean anything other than thanks,” you say, hoping the reassurance will help him decide.

Something indescribable passes through his eyes before he gives a firm nod. “I’m not much of a restaurant guy, but… a lunch sounds nice.”

“Great!” You beam, something akin to butterflies fluttering around inside your chest. “We can order in if that makes you more comfortable.”

Simon nods and it feels like he wants to say something, but no words leave his lips before he’s out the door.

---

As the hours of the day tick by, you find yourself glancing over to the hook where Simon’s jacket hangs. He said you could keep it, that it looks better on you. It feels wrong both to keep it — like you're owed something when you're not — and to give it back — like you don't appreciate his gesture of friendship.

It's a tightrope, one you can't navigate properly, one that wobbles and every step threatens to topple you over. It's anxiety inducing yet the most excited you've been in a while.

Deciding to bite the bullet, you send him a text.

Hope I didn’t scare you away with the invite to lunch.

You chew nervously on your bottom lip, already dreading his reply, but before your inevitable anxiety can spin out of control, your phone buzzes in your hand and the screen lights up with a new message.

You have plans tomorrow?

You don’t, actually, and tell him as much. It’s a few, short back and forths after that — Simon is concise even in text — but you have an official game plan that involves takeaway from the Indian place down the street and Simon showing up at your place around noon.

---

Simon had left the ordering up to you, having no idea what was good at the chosen restaurant — but he trusted you to guide him. He shows up just as you hang up on the Indian place, a can of WD-40 in hand, and you raise an eyebrow in question.

“Heard the god awful squeaking of the hinges on your bathroom door yesterday,” he explains with a shrug before making his way over to it without invitation.

You follow behind with a soft smile on your face, watching with more fascination than really necessary as he sprays the hinges and moves the door back and forth a few times until satisfied.

“Thank you. You didn't have to,” you say, giving his bicep a quick squeeze in gratitude. You'd lived with those squeaking hinges for months now, it had annoyed you in the beginning but it quickly fell into the background and it just became a noise you now ignored. 

“The food should be here in fifteen minutes,” you add.

“Alright.” Simon gives you a short nod, not quite meeting your eyes. If you hadn't known him, you would've thought he was uncomfortable or seeking an escape — but you did know him, knew that he would just up and leave if that was his prerogative. But he was here. He brought lubricant for your door without prompting. He entrusted you to pick the restaurant and the food. 

“Do you wanna sit?” you ask, gesturing to the couch; a fluffy blanket was draped over one of the armrests, embarrassing really how many times you folded the damn thing while cleaning up to make everything look presentable.

You were nervous, buzzing with both excitement and anxiety. You had hung out with Simon one-on-one before, a few times where he had walked you home from the pub, that time you called him after being ditched by your friends at the club, every single morning when you brought him a cup of tea in the office, and just yesterday when he had showed up unannounced to play handyman. But it had never been anything preplanned, you had never had time to rethink your decor and spend hours meticulously vacuuming and dusting and rearranging everything. And the realisation from the day before, about how kind and strong and capable and downright attractive he was, did not help.

You knew you wanted this to be a date, but there had been no clear confirmation from either side whether it was or wasn’t. Maybe he just saw this as lunch between co-workers, or as some sort of indebted meal because he fixed a problem that was entirely yours to sort.

It comes as no surprise when Simon spreads his legs wide on the couch when taking a seat, one arm on the armrest, the other slung lazily across the back. You knew if you sat down next to him, his knee would press against yours and his hand would be dangerously close to falling around your shoulders.

It was an easy choice, really, to plop yourself down beside him.

The conversation flowed easily, one topic blended into the next, Simon relaxed fully in his seat and you found yourself smiling enough to make your cheeks ache. It wasn’t until after you had thanked the delivery driver for the food and was starting to unload the various dishes you had ordered onto the coffee table, that his previous visible trepidation came back.

“I may have gone a little overboard,” you explain nervously, eyes downcast as you organise and open the boxes of food. They smelled delicious, and steam was rising from all of them; it nearly made your mouth water. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I ordered a little of everything.”

It’s good to have left-overs, your brain chimed in in defence of your own actions.

“‘S not that,” Simon replies, reaching for one of the dishes. You study his movements from the corner of your eye and as he stops his hand mid-air to his face you realise what the problem is — the mask.

“I can… turn around or something,” you supply, hoping to be helpful, to ease his nerves. But Simon just shakes his head and pulls the band away from behind his ear, letting the mask dangle for just a moment before unhooking the other side too.

You try not to stare — it’s obviously a big step, something significant that he chose to do with you — but it’s hard to tear your eyes away when the image in your head of what he looked like was actively being shattered and reformed.

There’s a raised, jagged line across his right cheek, a bump that makes his nose just a little crooked from where it hadn’t set properly after being broken, another smaller scar down the left side of his jaw. But the one mark that rocks you the most is the Glasgow smile. It’s only one side, but it’s clear as day that it wasn’t just someone getting a little too close with a knife in the field; it’s meticulous, sharp, someone with a steady hand had held his face still enough to carve it slowly. Not a battlescar, but rather one from torture.

You shake your head slightly, forcing yourself out of the spiral you’re otherwise likely to go down, and grab one of the boxes at random. “Let’s eat.” You hope your voice doesn’t shake, but when Simon raises an eyebrow you know you’ve failed.

“It’s okay to say it. It’s ugly. Told you it was.” He doesn’t sound mad about it, more exhaustedly used to it. Like it was an inevitability you would find him unattractive once he showed you everything.

As if instinctual, your hand shoots out to cup his knee. You can’t give him reassuring words, because the scars are awful, and you know Simon would see right through you if you try to lie and say you barely noticed. But they don’t take away from his attractiveness; rather, they make you sad at everything he’s gone through and angry at every person that’s inflicted pain upon him and forced him into the hard shell he now hides behind.

For a split second, Simon freezes, the unexpected touch sending adrenaline coursing through his veins as his body gets ready for a fight that never comes. He’s unaccustomed to friendly and harmless touching, at least the kind that lingers. The occasional congratulatory pat on his shoulder from his captain and teammates, but never one from someone like you.

“Let’s eat,” you repeat, giving his knee a quick squeeze before resituating yourself on the couch and digging into your food.

---

It becomes a form of routine after that; Simon showing up at your place the weekends he has off. More often than not he’s got a toolbox in hand, fixing small things around your flat that he grumbles that your lazy landlord should’ve already fixed ages ago. You always say it’s not his job, that you’re used to the leaky tap and squeaking hinges and uneven shelves, and then thank him with the offer of lunch, trying a new restaurant every week; he seems particularly fond of the various noodle dishes they provide so you order those more than anything else.

Eventually he starts placing the black KN95 on your entryway table when the front door closes behind him. You never mention it, and neither does Simon. And even when there’s nothing left to fix (apart from completely ripping the floorboards up and installing heating, but you vehemently refuse to let him do that in fear of being kicked out), he still shows up for lunch and just a conversation. Most of the time he lets you ramble on about whatever you please, chiming in with hums of acknowledgements and one-worded replies — if he was being honest with himself he could listen to you talk for hours and be satiated.

You kiss his cheek goodbye every time before he shrouds his features again with the mask; your lips are soft and reverent, right over the scar that gives him a perpetually lopsided smile. It takes Simon four goodbyes to let his hands rest, warm and heavy with intent, on your waist, and it makes butterflies flutter to life in your stomach.

It’s a simple gesture, inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, but it’s also a big step. While you haven’t shied away from physical intimacy — a hand squeeze here, a bumping of shoulders there, all the cheek kisses — it was the first time Simon allowed himself to reciprocate.

It takes him two more goodbyes to finally angle his face enough to let your kiss catch the corner of his lips.

“Sorry,” you mumble and try to take a step back, but Simon’s grip tightens and keeps you firmly in place.

“Don’t be. I’m not.”

Oh.

Oh.

Carefully you raise your arms to wrap around his neck, going slow enough that even just a twitch from Simon would stop you in your tracks. But he stays still as a statue, eyes flickering between yours before settling at your lips.

“Is this okay?” you ask, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, nails gently scratching his scalp.

“More than,” Simon replies, his breath washing over your face as he dips down, letting his lips hover over yours, his every exhale intermingling with yours.

You press yourself closer and in turn his hands slide from your sides and around your back, holding you in place firmly against him, his touch leaving a scorching trail on your skin despite the fabric that separates you.

You don’t know who moves first, who closes the small distance between you, but suddenly his lips are on yours and the butterflies in your stomach metamorphosize into fireworks and you can feel your heart race against your ribcage. His lips are warm, softer than you'd imagined, and you can still taste the cigarette he smoked before entering the building. Your fingers tug gently at his curls, angling his face to your liking so you can easier slot your lips over his.

A broken moan leaves your throat as Simon’s tongue finds yours and it’s all he can do to not push you up against the wall and fuck you right then and there. God knows he’s fantasised about it enough, fisted his cock to mental images of how you’d sound as he punched the air out of you with every thrust, how you’d look with his cum dripping down your thighs, how your eyes would roll to the back of your skull as he wrings out another orgasm from your already spent body. But he knows that’s not the way to go about this, not if he wants to keep you.

He licks into your mouth, exploring and teasing all at once, indulging in the sounds you let slip from your lips. His hands twitch, eager to wander over your body, but settles on curling his fingers in your shirt, pulling you impossibly closer.

“Fuck, sweetheart, you trying to kill me?” Simon rasps when you eventually break to catch your breaths and your teeth nip at his lower lip.

“No,” you hum and trail a hand down his face and neck, smoothing your thumb over every risen scar in a show of unadulterated affection that makes him preen under your touch. “Quite like you alive. Like you a lot actually.”

Simon surges forward again, captures your lips in another bruising kiss because, fuck, if that doesn’t make his heart soar.

He doesn’t know what the future holds, how this will affect both his and your work, neither of you do. But he knows he’d rather be right here, with you in his arms, kissing you senseless, than anywhere else in the world.

--- Masterlist

[junosmindpalace]

s/o asking dcst characters what hairstyle do they like the best on them? (like braid, low/high ponytail, bun, hair down, etc?) some fluff :)

preferably with senku, gen, ryusui, sai and tsukasa, but feel free to change the characters if you want to ^_^

thank you very much for you request!

a/n: if the premise didn't give it away...reader is implied to have long enough hair for styling in certain ways, but i did my best to be vague ;,)

SENKU: hair tied back.

-He’s not the type to care so much as to have a preference. Consciously, at least.

-But you spend loads of time with him in the lab, doing experiments or just spectating as he performs his own. Either way, most of your time with Senku is spent with your hair tied back. 

-Whether it be a headband or hair clips or a hair tie, you’ve gotta have it outta the way when you’re in the lab. So for the most part Senku is accustomed to seeing you with your hair back.

-And as everyone knows, science is his greatest love. He loves doing experiments, he loves learning about science, he loves talking about it, he loves it when people indulge him in his rants and is able to talk about it unfiltered with the person on the other end not only being able to keep up, but add on to the conversation meaningfully. 

-And you do all of that. 

-The connection here is weird, but bear with it!!

-There is nothing more attractive to Senku than someone who is passionate, and can keep up with him, as his general company usually cannot. Someone who takes an interest in his interests, and are capable and witty--and kind. 

-And because you spend so much time with Senku doing science related activities--going to museums, doing experiments, talking about theories, spending time in the lab--that big love of science sort of becomes synonymous with you.

-He starts seeing you just a little differently during all of those times when your hair is back; when you say something witty, when you laugh victoriously at a successful or aweful experiment, when you challenge his views with ideas of your own. When you best demonstrate your intellect and curiosity, all things that Senku finds leave a stirring in his chest and when he sort of views you at your most beautiful, your hair is tied back.

-So even though on the surface he really doesn’t care how you choose to wear your hair, subconsciously, he’ll always find you at your most beautiful when your hair is back, associating it with the thing that made him so attractive to you in the first place. 

“I don’t really care.”

“Can you not be difficult for once?” You deadpan from behind your goggles. He doesn’t even spare you a glance when he responds to your question, keeping his eyes trained on the various beakers in front of him as he circles the counter they were sitting on. You huff as you approach the opposite end of the counter, lowering yourself to be at eye level with his engrossed gaze. “I mean--really? You don’t have any style that stands out to you?”

“Maybe if you randomly shaved it all off.”

“So you like buzzcuts?” 

“I don’t care.” He repeats back, this time finally looking up to shoot you an irritated look through a slit in between two beakers, and you huff, muttering about how he’s no fun before getting back to the experiment at hand. 

But when he’s certain you aren’t paying attention to him any longer, he lets his eyes find you again, and they linger as he takes in your features. 

He can’t help but think back to your question as he does so, his mind simulating various styles he’s seen you wear your hair in almost like a makeover game. 

They’ve all been nice, every single one he envisions in his mind. Some quirkier and more elaborate than he personally prefers in general, but still; nice. 

The simulation ends in his mind's eye and he’s back to present day you, with your hair tied back as it often is with all the experiments the two of you work on, and he can’t help but think he has a certain appreciation he just can’t describe for it. All he knows is that he likes it and that it suits you it in a way that leaves his heart skipping a beat, and if he really had to answer your question, he’d probably say that he preferred this style.

GEN: hair down, framing face.

-It’s a more modern, glamorous preference, what can he say. 

-It’s pretty stereotypical, but there’s a reason why it’s so appealing. 

-He likes how perfect your hair looks, as if you came out of a dream. 

-It just takes his breath away; of course you look gorgeous any time, but when you go out of your way to style your hair all shiny with delicate and elaborate pieces framing your face, his breath gets caught in his throat and he’s staring a little too much. 

-It’s maybe because it’s more rare; you’re not always going to have the energy to style your hair so elaborately, so it’s more of a treat that he can’t help but appreciate. It’s a good kind of different. It only enhances your already gorgeous features and he can’t help but grow warm at the sight. 

-He’s embarrassing, really. It’s soo obvious he has this preference, but it’s also endearing the way he can’t stop making heart eyes at you. He’s sooo fucking smug with himself when you hold his arm when you wear your hair so elaborately, as if he’s showing off a treasure chest of gold--though not even all the jewels in the world could amount to you. 

-Also likes to twirl the framing pieces with his finger. He thinks he’s so slick, he tries to be 100% more charming. You just make him so nervous with how gorgeous you look, he feels the need to make up for his own feelings of inadequacy. Especially when other people also appreciate the look as well. 

“So you think I’m ugly, then?”

“I never said that!” 

You snort at his horrified expression, crying out defensively when you accused him of only finding you attractive with the glamorous hairstyles he had been dreamily going on and on about since you asked him, with his answer being a lot longer than you anticipated. 

“I’m kidding! But really? I rarely style my hair like that.”

“I can’t help what I like.” He replies simply, leaning an arm back against the trunk of the tree the two of you were sitting against as he leans over to tug at the ends of your hair. “It’s grown out a bit.” 

“Not like I can get a proper haircut in this era; or a glamorous look.”  You state frustratedly, observing both yours and Gen’s primitive clothing slightly distastefully. It could be absolutely worse, but you miss your old, comfortable, stylish clothes along with the elaborate do’s you’d get done for special events.

Gen could only turn his brows up empathically and offer you a shrug, pulling his hand away from your locks of hair. “Haaah…well, what can you do?” 

He stares at you from the corner of his eye, however, a playful smile dancing across his lips.

“You don’t need it, though. You look breathtaking all the time.” 

You snort again and roll your eyes at the exaggerated compliment, but lean in closer so you could rest your head against his shoulder. 

“Wish I could say the same about you.”

“Oh, you wound me.” 

RYUSUI: he likes them all…but likes when you accessorize your hair. 

-It’s criminal that you'd ask him such a question, really.

-When he absolutely ADORES all of them. 

-Each one makes you a different kind of endearing that he just can’t get enough of, from simple, lazier looks to time-consuming and expensive do’s that make you look like you belong on the red carpet--which he always thinks you do, by the way (not to mention he funds all your trips to your stylist).

-He genuinely has to wrack his brain and pick apart all of your looks if you really insist on him answering the question properly. He thinks of all the updos, all the curls and waves and straightening, all the specific cuts…and he STILL can’t pick a favorite.

-Sorry, you can’t get much more out of him than that. He can go on and explain the appeal of each one if that's what it’ll take for you to realize what you’re asking isn’t so easy to answer. 

-To satisfy you, however, he does say that he particularly loves it when you accessorize your hair in one way or another. He likes the creativity, and it just suits your hair type so well. Whatever it might be--pretty hair ties, any special head accessories, whatever--, he thinks it only enhances your already incredible look. 

“Ryusui, I don’t care about all that. Can you please just answer properly?”

He gets where your exasperation is coming from, truly; after all, he’s the one having the most difficulty answering your question as he illustrates in detail what’s going on in his mind as he thinks, every hairstyle having its own charm that he adores. 

“But how can I pick? I love them all!” 

You frown at him for a moment before eventually sighing and shrugging your shoulders, putting your hands up in surrender as you sit down on one of the benches in his workroom. “Okay, fine. If you can’t choose, you can’t choose.” 

“Exactly!” he says almost relieved, pointing the pencil he was using to make blueprints at you. But even so, he follows and takes a seat on the bench beside you and continues to go through that mental list of hairstyles he’s seen you wear as he leans his head back against the wall and eyes your strands of hair. 

There’s a pause between the two of you for a moment before he says, with all the seriousness in the world: “But you know…I especially like when you accessorize them.” 

You tilt your head to look at him and raise your brows. “Accessorize? With what?”

“With anything. Any way you wear your hair is gorgeous, but it’s somehow even better with something in it.” and as he says this, he brings the pencil he had been twirling between his fingertips up to your face, tucking it into the strands by your temple. You laugh when he pulls away, and he can't help but smile.  

Yup, any accessory.

SAI: anything with a braid.

-He is SO flustered when you ask.

-And even more embarrassed when you insist he gives you a straight answer after he meekly responds that he loves every single one of your looks.

-And it’s the truth!!!

-But you still want a singular, concise answer, so he thinks, nervous that this might be some sort of test he has to pass. 

-And like his brother, he truly can’t pick one specific look that he really likes. 

-But then he spots a pattern when he reflects on looks that he’s really liked and realizes they all shared a common feature: they all had some sort of braid in them.

-Doesn’t care about the style, length, thickness, whatever. Whether it’s one big one or two small ones framing your face or your entire head braided, he loves them. He loves the variety, and in general he just finds the design so beautiful. 

-He doesn’t admit it when he answers your question, but he finds himself even more in awe of your hair if the braids in one way or another are accessorized. A ribbon, a bandana, whatever, he thinks it adds to the look tenfold. But he thinks just the simple braids on their own look gorgeous.

“If this is another one of your tests--!”

“I promise it isn’t! Can you please just answer?” 

He stares at you expectantly, and a little bit nervously, as he tilts his head away from yours. 

“I mean…” he starts carefully, still not fully convinced by your words. “I like them all…”

You give him a look that tells him you aren’t convinced by his words, and he finds himself getting irritated again from the (completely unnecessary) pressure of the question. “It’s the truth!” 

“Yeah, but! Don’t you have one specifically?” 

“I don’t know…”

You huff, frustrated by his lack of response, and take a step away from him. He mentally sighs in relief over being free from the hounding. “Not even one?” You try for the final time. He pursues his lips and thinks on your question again.

He likes that one time you wore your hair up; he really liked that one. And then that other time you had a sort of half up half down. And those unique buns were also pretty nice...

And as he continues to reflect on instances where he found himself doing a double take over your hair, he realizes that all of them share one detail in particular. 

“Braids.”

“Hm?” 

“I like…when you wear braids.”

Not actually expecting a genuine answer, you can only stare and blink at him. His face grows warmer at the blank eye contact, pink rising up his face at your lack of a reaction. “What?!”

“Nothing! I just didn’t expect that.” 

But after your initial shock, you can't help but smile at how bashful he is over his answer, and he only grows even more exasperated (and embarrassed) when you now badger him about which specific braid styles he likes best.

TSUKASA: low styles, specifically hair down. 

-It’s simple, but it's the simplicity that’s so beautiful to him. 

-He likes to be able to touch your hair one way or another, whether by patting your head, twirling the strands or raking his fingers through the locks, and having it in an updo or some sort of elaborate hairstyle means he cannot do that. Doesn’t mean that he doesn’t like them of course! But if he were to have a favorite hairstyle, it’s a more casual one. 

-There isn’t all that much to it. He isn’t one to find a specific style uglier or superior, but he likes that this specific style is so versatile; it doesn’t necessarily have to be open either. Whether it’s in a low hairstyle like a bun or a ponytail, he just likes the lower styles better. 

“What hairstyle do you like best on me?”

It’s quiet in the classroom the two of you are sitting in, most of the students simply lounging and drifting around as they wait for their next class to begin. You and Tsukasa respectively lean your arm against your heads to bring them closer together, faces only inches apart as you talk lowly among each other. A little break to catch up after spending the busy school day mostly apart. 

He watches you as a finger circles around a stray strand of your hair, brows ever so slightly creasing together. “Hairstyle?”

“Yeah, like…do you prefer my hair in buns? In waves? Think I’d look good with an undercut?” 

He glances at the hair curled over his finger and framing your face, thinking to himself for a moment as he mulls over the question in his head. “I like your hair right now.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I like it down.” he mutters with a small smile, twisting the soft strands between the pads of his fingers, reveling in the sensation and watching the curl it creates bounce.

“You don’t like waves, or a cut of some kind or…?”

“I do. But you said to pick one, right?”

And with all the love and attention he’s showing your hair as he delicately cards his fingers through the strands, you can’t help but smile and hum in validation, satisfied enough with his answer. Enjoying the relaxing sensation of your hair being played with, you rest your head down on the desk, and he smiles at your content expression.

[radiant-reid]

Truth

Summary: Reader knows there’s something going on between JJ and Spencer but she trusts him that that’s just the way they are... until he goes to LA

i cannot find the request for this, ugh !!! 

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader (Angst)

Word Count: 3.7k

Masterlist | Navigation

Y/n had let it go after that night.

"You're not seriously upset about this, are you?" Spencer asks incredulously once the apartment door clicks shut. 

It had been an incredibly awkward car ride together, twenty minutes home in complete silence. He hates when it gets cold and distant between them, even though he usually causes it by neglecting to discuss his feelings, but this time, he's fired up. Y/n can't read if he's dumbfounded or shaken. 

Although often synonymous, there's a difference here. If Spencer's dumbfounded, he thinks her suggestion is ridiculous and totally, 100% wrong. It would be offensive wording but best for the preservation of their relationship. If he's shaken, then she's correct, and he's coming to terms with the significance of that discovery himself.

Y/n sighs as she spins around to face him, her plan of making a beeline to the bedroom falling through. "That was flirting. She was flirting with you, Spencer." She tells him firmly. 

Spencer shakes his head, stunned by the allegation she's choosing to repeat. "She was- are you okay?"

"Don't make it about me." She instructs. 

"It's about you when you're talking..." Crazy is the word he stops himself short of saying- they both know it. He breathes deeply to calm himself. "She wasn't flirting with me." He maintains. "We're friends." 

Y/n shakes her head. She knows he needs it explained to him, simplified to an extent, but upholding his position so staunchly doesn't make her want to do that. "You don't have to best track record for knowing when people are flirting with you." 

"What's that supposed to mean?" He asks, his eyes narrowing. 

There's a specific incident she's referring to, but there's been more than a few annoying instances when she's left standing at his side fuming. She's aware he doesn't do it on purpose. Spencer's not an asshole purposefully trying to make his girlfriend jealous by accepting flirtatious behavior from other women, but he's handsome. And unfortunately, not immediately rejecting advances makes it seem like he's interested.

"Spencer." She had told him when she finally pulled him off to a slightly quieter corner of the bar the team was in. "Her asking you what you're doing this weekend isn't her having an interest in your Korean film festival."

Spencer had been much better at getting it since then. He profiles a bit more cynically, purposefully looking for indicators that someone's interested in him. 

Not tonight.

It was Michael's first birthday which, of course, meant it was a big celebration- BAU style. Spencer attended like the proud godfather he was, making sure every single one of JJ and Will's friends knew their son's achievements. 

What should have been a lovely day would have turned into a discussion about them having their own kids when Y/n expressed how attractive Spencer looked while he held Michael's hands so the boy could practice walking. 

But no. 

Instead, they're standing on different ends of the kitchen island, both uncompromising in their views because of more than a few moments at the party between JJ and Spencer. 

"She was flirting with you, Spencer." Y/n holds firm. "Touching your arm, giggling at your jokes, whispering stuff to you." She lists the frequently used tactics that she witnessed. She's become accustomed to them working on Spencer, but he has always admitted, upon later reflection, that the motive was more than friendly.

He can't believe it this time, and he quickly gets defensive. "Just because you don't think I'm funny doesn't mean everyone doesn't."

Y/n scoffs, irritated he would twist it so spitefully to play the victim. "Seriously?" She deadpans, waiting for him to react better. 

"It was an inside joke." Spencer tries a different tactic that only has her eyebrows raised again. He sighs dramatically, gripping the edge of the bench. 

"This is ridiculous." She states. 

"I'm glad you see that too." He argues. "JJ was not flirting with me."

His insolence further fuels her anger. "Even Will looked uncomfortable." Y/n hits back.

"She's my friend." He repeats. "We are their friends. JJ and Will have been married for years. They've lived together and raised a son for even longer. I'm their sons' godfather. She's been my friend for more than a decade. There's nothing malicious going on."

It didn't feel like that. And that was likely because Y/n had only gotten to know them years following their friendship's establishment.

Maybe he's right. It's feasible that Y/n just hasn't found her place in the dynamic. "Are you sure?" 

Spencer senses her walls coming down, and he steps closer to her in a few tense strides, cupping her cheeks in a way that makes her melt. His eyes soften until there's no anger remaining. "Yes, my love. I promise there is nothing romantic between JJ and I." He assures her.

It's so sincere. Spencer has always been a persuasive talker, and it's gotten him out of dangerous situations.

Maybe the deep gut feeling she has is off. There's no way to know what happens behind closed doors, but JJ and Will appear to be happily married. Her life seems completely fulfilling. It makes no sense for her to have a crush on Spencer. 

So she's determined to shake it off- for Spencer, her own sanity, and their relationship. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have jumped to such a drastic accusation."

"No, no. Hey, I will always listen to your feelings." Spencer reminds her softly. "I'm sorry I didn't immediately hear you out. It was just unexpected. I would hate for you to stop talking to me about your emotions if you think I'll shut you down."

"Thank you, and I'm sorry," Y/n replies.

His words are massively relieving, and her negative thoughts aren't weighty. "I love you, Y/n."

She smiles softly. "I love you too."

"Can I kiss you now? I've been wanting to for hours." He begs, thumbs stroking over her cheekbones. He's elaborating a little but for good reason.

"Please." She agrees. 

His fingers curl around her head while he leans down to kiss her, not breaking it until they're both out of air. Everything's okay.

And so Y/n had let it go after that night.

She was with him through everything. Dealing with his mom, Mexico, prison, and the long recovery after that. She was with him through thick and thin, even when Spencer had given up on himself. He'll never understand what he did to deserve her love, but it means everything to him. She's the calm presence in amongst his chaos.

No issue in their relationship has been too hard to tackle when they worked together through Spencer's personal problems so well. Nothing between them seemed insurmountable since Spencer's life was so tumultuous.

When he gets home from his case in LA, she's in the bedroom, checking his suit for Rossi's wedding the next day is in perfect condition. The ironing is crisp, not a single wrinkle on the fabric.  

He usually calls out when he enters the apartment door, both so she'll reply, and he'll know what room to navigate to, and so she doesn't freak out about hearing footsteps on the floorboards. 

This time, he doesn't. 

It's like his brain got torn out and is still sitting on the floor of a little jewelry store in downtown LA. His thoughts remain entirely occupied by the previous day's events. Even though the jet home was long, he didn't sleep for a second. It's 7 am East Coast Time now, but it feels like just a second ago, his world got rocked.

"You're back!" Y/n grins, still unaware of the grave news he's bearing. She searches through her jewelry box for a piece to complement her dress. Her final moments of blissful ignorance. "Okay, so I was thinking you might need to nap before the wedding since it'll probably go late- I mean, you know Rossi."

"Y/n." Spencer whispers, trying to stop her from spreading joy and being the life in his life. He absolutely does not deserve that, as he lies by omission. He speaks weakly on purpose, wanting to listen to her excited ramble despite knowing he needs to be honest and say something that will crush her.

She doesn't hear him, and hasn't looked at him hard enough to see his devastation. "But your suit is good to go. I've got some other stuff to do, so have a nap, and I'll have lunch ready when you're up."

"Y/n!" He snaps much too loud. 

Her eyes flick to his, and she knows something drastic has changed. Her stomach drops in dread as the air in the room turns stale.

"What?" She asks cautiously, voice wavering. Her heart thumps in her chest. "What is it, Spencer?"

"JJ said..." Spencer trails off, looking straight past his girlfriend. He's not brave enough to look at her directly. 

No more explanation is needed for it to click. 

Her whole world gets shattered instantly, everything she built with Spencer, every dream and hope she had with him, is destroyed in a second. 

Her stomach stays dropped so low it feels like it's weighing her down and that she could be physically sick. She feels paralyzed until tears start streaming down her cheeks. 

"Oh." She whispers, although it's as loud as a jet engine in the silent room. "Wow. Okay."

Spencer wanted more than that. He wants her to scream at him, telling him he should have stopped thinking he knew everything and listened when she was suspicious. Spencer would take any range of passionate emotions over the silence she's giving him as she processes it. He begs with his eyes for her to tell him what she's feeling. 

It's to no avail. 

He thinks he's getting somewhere when she stands up, that maybe she'll hug him or enquire about the cut on his hand. 

"What happens now?" Y/n asks, ignoring her own tears and his. She always cups his cheeks and wipes them up gently because seeing him in pain pains her. That's how love works.

"Y/n..." She needs him to say more that time. Her soft-spoken name leaving his lips is bad news.

She forces herself to nod and swallow down her distraught tears. "It's okay. I know." It would hurt to hear him admit it, but she might think he's not a coward. 

Now Spencer's paralyzed, watching his nightmare play out in front of him, and he's incapable of preventing it, of making her stay. 

Her delicate, shaking fingers unclasp her necklace, and the 18k gold chain with an 'S' pendant burns a hole in her hand before she thrusts it into his. 

It's warm against his cold hands, a sign it's not where it should be. It's supposed to be daintily sitting on Y/n's chest, near her heart, for the rest of forever.

"No." He finally says, gasping a breath out. "What are you-"

She cuts him off before he talks for too long and causes her to remain so in love with him that she can overlook a massive problem. "You love her." She voices what they've been dancing around. It's an ugly, hurtful truth. "You might be in love with me, but you love JJ more than you should."

Spencer shakes his head, frantically denying the claim they both know is factual. As awful as it is, he's thought about a future with JJ on more than one occasion and during a long-term relationship. It's not that he wants to be with her- which would be a complicated mess and break everyone involved hearts- but something between them remains unresolved. All because of two tickets to see the Redskins.

Y/n speaks before he can, tilting her head upward as she tries to brush back some of her tears. "Don't lie to me, Spence. Please don't." 

He figures he owes her that much. Nothing he could say would fix the torpedo that ripped through their relationship. So he doesn't protest or fight for their relationship as she readies to leave him.

"I'll go now and get some stuff once you've gone out." She decides.

Her stuff which means she's planning on separating everything, and he'll never see her things again. Never mind the possessions- he might never see her again.

There's no point in making a case for her to come to Krystall and Dave's wedding when she only knows them through him, but Spencer isn't sure how he'll be able to sit through a ceremony and speeches and dinner and drinking and dancing- where everyone's feeling the love- when all he would have been thinking about is how it should be his turn next. It sounds like torture.  

Spencer stands there, horrified and helpless, as she slips past him. "Goodbye, Spence." 

And just like that, she's gone. 

It's surreal. 

Surely- surely- the love of his life hadn't just walked out the door and left him. That can't have happened.

He doesn't even feel overly tired, but he must be so sleep-deprived that he's imagining things. Having visions is a less scary thought than Y/n leaving. 

The surreal feeling and eerie silence deepen, and he quickly collapses on the couch from overwhelming fatigue, hoping the past hours have been a terrible nightmare. 

When he wakes and calls out for Y/n, quickly realizing she's not there and his worst fear has come true, Spencer sobs. He cries so much through getting ready for the wedding that his cheeks are blotchy, and his eyes blood shocked as he looks at himself in the mirror. He looks terrible, but he feels so much worse. It's emptiness. His eyes look dull, his hair scruffy, and his heart aches. 

Her dress is still there- dark blue that compliments his suit, but it's matchy-and it hangs in the wardrobe on a coat hanger from the dry cleaner, taunting him. Spencer's hand comes to cup his mouth as panic and nausea rock his stomach. Y/n should be wearing the dress and beside him the whole afternoon while they celebrate love. Something's amiss, and he hopes no one calls him on it because he will, without a doubt, break down in sobs.

Germs feel permanently on him, and he's guilt-ridden. Sure, JJ's words in LA weren't his fault, but- fuck- he should have said something to stop the love of his life from walking out under the wrong impression that he loved someone else.

He makes a beeline for Penelope at the bar to avoid being around JJ and get some alcohol in his system so that maybe everything will hurt less.

She looks pretty, but Will gazes at her like she hung the moon, and Spencer quickly realizes he could never feel that way. Her glances across the room at him piss him off, whereas Y/n's would make him blush.

"No Y/n?" Penelope asks, looking disappointed when he walks over alone. 

That's the reaction his amazing potentially-ex-girlfriend inspires in his friends. People love her for her warmth and humor, and Spencer's sure the team is grateful someone's making him smile. 

"Unfortunately not." Spencer grimaces as he gets the lie out. "She's sick." Or, more likely, bawling her eyes out at her friends because her boyfriend is a jerk, Spencer figures. He would feel worse for lying if it were possible. 

"Oh damn, I have heard there's a bad flu." Penelope easily believes the lie.

"What are you making?" Spencer asks, redirecting the conversation to the cocktails she's expertly whipping up. 

The wedding is small, which Spencer's sure is appropriate for a fourth or third round 2. It feels wrong to be there without Y/n. If he's eventually going to have one of these with her, surely he should be looking at the flower arrangements while she notices hair options. Not judging, just getting ideas.

It would be nothing like JJ and Will's wedding. Y/n would hate a surprise wedding with no choice in decor or food, even though it's romantic in theory.

He could never marry someone like JJ. He could never marry JJ. 

She's a real person. That seems to be a fact he keeps forgetting when he thinks about a future with her. She can't be the idealized version of her from his 24-year-old self's fantasy, and with her sitting no more than 20 feet from him, he's positive she's not who he's compatible with.

It's worse at the speeches. Emily stands with perfectly crafted words, and Spencer's almost in tears when the story verges from being Dave-and-Krystall specific.

"...that this was fate." His running thoughts halt at Emily's words. "...that their marriage was in the stars."

That's him and Y/n. They lived a block from each other in DC but had to travel three and a half thousand miles across the Atlantic Ocean to meet. That's fate. He recalls her laughter when he joked that the universe got sick of them not finding each other and forced them together. And the subsequent, love-filled conversation where they decided soulmates, and twin flames, must be real because they are the embodiment of the term.

Rossi is always a high-roller at Vegas casinos. There was no doubt he'd meet a blackjack dealer. It's not fate the way he and Y/n are fate.

He's always been sure she's the one, but this is the ultimate determining tool.

They have to be together. Spencer and JJ had bottled up their crushes without voicing them for more than a decade, and that's why it messed with his brain so much. Emily talking about confessions taking time to work out is not about them.

His fingers play with the tablecloth as he drafts a speech of his own, one that will set things right. He's too antsy to enjoy the rest of dinner or dessert. All he's thinking about is how soon he can leave- of course, after wishing the happy couple well. 

Spencer knows where she is. The doorbell camera already notified him when she had arrived at their apartment, which might now be an invasion of privacy.

It's a bit of a drive to get home, and he's thankful he stopped at one cocktail so he wouldn't do something stupid, like yell at JJ in front of their friends. As mean as it sounds, he doesn't have emotion to waste on her. It's all poured into love for Y/n. 

He doesn't have time to wait for the elevator, taking the stairs three at a time.

"Y/n!" He calls out as soon as he swings open the door. His heart pounds in his chest thanks to his poor athleticism, but mostly because this is the most important thing he'll ever do in his life.

"Yeah?" She replies, her voice coming from the bedroom as she steps out

She looks heartbroken seeing him, destroyed by the damage he caused over the last ten hours, and there's no way this can be how he leaves her, that this can be the last time he sees her.

"Don't say something that hurts." Spencer can tell Y/n's trying to be firm, but she's begging. There is no way he can ever hurt her.

"I won't." He swears. It's tense, and he feels award standing there. "Y/n, I-"

"I told you." She reminds him, referencing one conversation he's been thinking about. She was so good at dropping it after he offered her unknowingly untrue reassurance. Her plan to let him do the talking flies out the window, and she can't help releasing the brewing emotions. "I knew she loved you and hoped you didn't love her back. And now everything is fucking mess, and I just didn't think that you would do that."

"I don't love her that way." Spencer declares, and he doesn't feel guilty because he's not lying.

Y/n rolls her eyes. "You owe me the truth."

He tentatively steps closer, and she doesn't stop him. "I don't look at JJ and see my future. She's not the person I think about when I see an old couple walking down the street. I don't know the songs she listens to when she's sad or the correct amount of syrup she likes on her pancakes. I don't know the number of her childhood home or favorite piece of art in the Met. I'm not sure if she sings in the shower or if she ties her shoes with two loops. And I don't want to know any of that. You're the only person I ever want to know that personally. I don't love her the way romantic love works. But I didn't know that until I met you, and the very first day, I realized it was different. I know you said that, and I am so sorry I convinced you not to listen to your gut."

Y/n's crying by the end of his beautiful, naturally spoken words. He rushed to get it out, and she processes it for a minute. "Okay." She decides, accompanied by a choked sob.

Spencer frowns because he can't read her properly. "Okay?" He repeats softly. 

She steps forward, which has to be a good sign. "I need you to kiss me now." 

Spencer's crying too slightly as he closes the gap between them, cradling her face like he might shatter her in his palms. "Okay." He whispers, closing the distance between their lips without wasting another second. It's heavier than usual, holding a thousand unspoken words, but it feels like a resolution.

He holds her long after they've run out of air, finally feeling like he can breathe now that he's home.

"I am so in love with you." He tells her. "There is no one else I could ever be with."

She smiles softly back at him. "I'm in love with you too." She replies. "And this suit... you look very handsome."

He smiles widely. "You're the most gorgeous girl in the world." She doesn't bother reminding him that she's been crying and looks washed out. Spencer will forever insist that she is perfect. "Can I take you to dinner? Because I have missed you."

She nods. "I'd love that. And I have the perfect dress."

Tell me what you think

Taglist

Join here

@anonymous-reading @bingereid @measure-in-pain @archer561 @la-vie-en-amour1 @cynbx @spencers-dria @hardpartybasketballshepherd @ilovespencerreidmarryme @mrsobrien888 @parahmur @averyhotchner @honkroselyn @randomwriter1021 @bunnyweasley23 @rebeccasoutlook @teenwaywardasgardian @bubb1eana1ee @icequeen6666 @are-y0u-sirius @psychomanias @this-is-doctor-and-its-calm @jswessie187 @k-gallacher @morganwilliams @vaella1821 @ndubes04 @juneballoon999 @tiaras-amongst-trash @onceinadifferentdimension @criminal-reid @yikesyikesyikes95 @80strashbag @ilovespencerreidmarryme @citylights31 @ssavanessa22 @thedancingnerdmermaid @doctorspenceryeet @camreid @canadailluminate @lethpartridge @ssagube @spencerreid-mgg @nightlockcornucopia @allexthakatt @silverhetdanes @aperrywilliams @g-l-pierce @reidswhoree @beepbooptoop @silverhetdanes @kyanyakya @katiejozeisler @matthewwhore @megnotfound @80strashbag @mrsobrien888 @morganwilliams  @j-cat @440mxs-wife @hueycat2004 @gspenc  @icurasthefallenangel @iheartspence @ssavanessa22 @bisexual-virgin @thecraziestcrayon @katesreading @cance1medaddy @kuolonsyoja @alexlovescriminalminds @kahootlobbymusic @nomajdetective @idonotexiste @drayshadow @justalittleweirdoo @a-little-bit-of-everything19 @spencesscarf @lhhluvr @holding-on-to-my-youth @averyhotchner @mugi-chwan95 @gspenc @navs-bhat @idkbubs @mochionly  @nessy-nygma @nani-2305 @casfellinlovewithhumanity @shinyanchorface @nbyrd390 @drayshadow @hot-dino-nuggies @averyhotchner @simonsbluee @collectiveuniverses @meggie-m00n @allthecolorsneverseen @sassymoon @nomajdetective @exmachina187 @exhaleli @lucymfer @stumbleonmywords @reeid @hopefullawyerfishprofessor @graktung @sir1usblacksgf @pinkcoffeecup  @luckyladycreator2 @fairyellieee @malboroniightz @kateyee @corefleur @maybe-not-this @starrylang @citylights31 @baby-bi-bi-bi-yeah @ssa-uglywhore27 @kitkatkaitin @rocketxgirl @navs-bhat @bellarkeselection @strugglingtodoshit @joy-soul-gallery @venomsvl @harry-is-my-sunflower @luckyladycreator2 @egglantine23 @holding-on-to-my-youth @misselsbells06 @starrylang @lokisel @gryffi-ndor @lilibet261@idkbubs @slutalexis46 @glimmering-darling-dolly @kodiakwhiskey @rocketxgirl @mochionly @goldentournesol @xdsage @missusstark @spaceygirly1 @holding-on-to-my-youth @insomniacbeth @nbyrd390 @shirleyrose @airedale17  @tanyaherondale @buckys-estrella @geekykeen @lovingsherlockmolly @rory-cakes @muwun-blossom @jetblckdreams @i-wanna-be-conan-obrien @reidsbookmark @way-too-addicted-to-fandoms @idfvc @sammypotato67 @tanyaherondale @1-800-brain-and-heart @stcrrjoon @this-is-doctor-and-its-calm @wholesome-beans @frickin-bats @chaoticevilbakugo @goldeng1rl8 @arrowurboat @itzyourgurlnihya @belongwithreid @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @spencer-reids-mismatched-socks @addievermore  @harrymybelovedd @chimpmunk @i3k2ts @axen-gers @gxrlwithluv @finny-of-the-rear @greengarsstuff @altsvu @jakiki94 @narryl0ver @justreadingficsdontmindme @hobireasns @goldentournesol @kbakery @kaitieskidmore1 @twofacesoftheworldbutnotsome @chaoticconnoisseurgiver @kbakery @twofacesoftheworldbutnotsome @geekykeen @thisbitch-6 @andreead @kayleea122 @xoxospencerreid @dirtytissuebox @xoxospencerreid @jaydahlynne @sultrypotter @awhoreforspencerreid @sprinh @doe-eyed-fallen-angel @kamilaxq @beans-beanz @malindacath @halloween-is-my-nationality @kenny-0909  @mexicosuitrry @lucyysthings @iheartfinnthehuman101 @vane28282 @mente-sindescanso @lucyysthings @tatespillows @cecethoughts @manuosorioh @matthew-gray-gubler-lover @barbietiingz @grandhideoutavenue @feelinlento @i3k2ts @malindacath @luredwithpretzels @sanaz1dlol @ant-mans-tacos @mente-sindescanso @yumuramma @bubblebuttwade @bellarkeselection @spenceswifewhore  @barbiekatz @itseightbeats @neptunes-curse @sucker1-1punch  @nyx2021 @stilinski-void-04 @dirtytissuebox @daydreaminrry @mysticfalls01 @furiousladyking @gildedstarlight @halloween-is-my-nationality @reidsmexyconverse @scargarcia-magshotchner @wdytminy @rio-reid-whoreee @lovelyxtom @b3ast1706 @slvdsjjk @beenz-beenz @alltoowell-lilysversion @la-reine-des-enfers @mochi-moons @itzliyalupin @queenofrandom @ryswritingrecord @ynbutbetter @thxtmarvelchick @allthingsfashionn @justlivinginadaydream @liltimmyst @catertotshitposts @max-mml @crynroom @sugarcoated-lame @lilibet261 @bts-sugaplum @dezibou @a-marlene-s @crynroom @tracysnook @spencersprettyslut @alexxavicry @reidingspence@melonmochi @thicksexxualtension @haylexo10 @rosaliedepp @bport76  @dirtytissuebox @itsmekarlam @saintnourah @liltimmyst @mikkelsenlover @spencer-reid-wonderland @dirtytissuebox @esoltis280  @berenicexd @lyn07 @crynroom @taysatlantic @alphabetbarnes @4margaritasalex  @namelesslizz @allisonslibrary @suckmyass-things @jasminesacademia @littlemoon-fairy @lucy @waywardhunter95 @neptunes-curse @rayrayfrommindless21 @regulus-black-223048 @dingusfreakhxrrington @sluttt444slashersss @little-miss-blinder @fdl305 @feltonswifesworld87 @sunsetlarry @lovelyvante @rintheemolion @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @dashneydanger @namelesslizz @malindacath @sleepy-enby16 @itzteaganbitch @baubarbie @rippl3s @kokoterainonago666 @mizzysx @princess-of-the-snake-pit @cvrosstuff @coldheartedmar @fudge13 @mushy-mushroom04 @live-laugh-love-spencerreid @crazy4chickennuggets @lundenloves @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @sapphireplums @no-soy-fer @haleyshue97 @rippl3s @writingliv @poppetbaby02 @not-feeling-so-good @mizzysx @reidssweatervest @gabxbyr @tayswozle @mslowlife @spencybear @brightlilith​ @pauline5525mgg @fanf1ctionwrit1n @j-cat @captainhotchner @ceeellewrites  @randommmguerr / @sinnxagain / @alotdreamers / @resident-boygenius​ @tyblackthornsheadphones

@gublerstwilight @iamreallytryingiswear @gublur @countingthestarsinfinitely @actingchica @illegallygingerr @uhuhuh  @alexxavicry @probablycryingg @black-veil-baby @uwu-queen-420  @one-sweet-gubler @buckys-doll17 @gubedawnreid @ummvengers @parahmur @whovianayesha @love3babies @simonsnowsblog @geekykeen @allthingsfashionn @spideyjass @flipperpenguins @j4sephluv @sophneedsfandoms @asantos7783 @hotchandspencearedilfs @sammypotato67 @dimpledsmilex3 @altogeek16 @nervous-plant @safespacespence @maraudersminds @bakugouswh0r3  @ilovespencerreidmarryme @fangirling-galore @ah-blossom @matthewgraygublerlover @happypixy380 @alohastitch0626 @nyx2021   @assemblemotherfuckers @hwngslove @helen-with-an-a  @sia2raw @hufflepuffwhore13 @pastelbabygirl19 @chazubagi @spencerreidsmommy @blomfildsbeauty @urbestgrrl @hagridsmomma @alexxavicry @eichenhouseproperty @langcvn @paperbackprettyboy @spencersprettyslut @devilslilbabysblog @padf00ts-l0ver @pancake2603 @lonnie2390147 @nyenye @mrshoranhmm @honey-stark @an0bra1n @jordierama @bellenotthebeast​ @darkenwolfie @jellycolors @obviouslyfred @neptunes-curse @cloudxxs

[ruruumin]

Fruit Sandi + green tea please 🙌

₊˚ ᗢ college au! alhaitham x gn! reader.

⤷ being stuck in the same general class as alhaitham. 

when you first met him, you thought he would be like any other student. by this definition, you hoped he’d come in, smile, talk about his major, and fade into the back of your mind until the two of you had to work together on a project. this picture-perfect version you made ob f him in your head instantly vanished the moment he opened his mouth.

he was an attractive guy, having neatly combed his hair before class with an outfit comparable to a forty-year-old man. he was certainly easy on the eyes, so why did it have to be spoiled by such an arrogant tongue? the contrast between his appearance and personality was truly jarring, and you were beginning to understand why people around campus thought of him as a weirdo. 

he’d be an amazing person when it comes to work as he’s diligent and gets things done on time. it’s simply the way he uses his intelligence against you that makes him so peeving. 

texting him about deadlines? he’ll make sure to wait three to five hours before replying with a link to the finished product. what happened to communication? did you both share numbers for nothing? (it’s because the word communication doesn’t exist in his dictionary, and even if it did, it would be another synonym for ‘irritation’)

want to study outside of class? he’d show up with his laptop and books but only look up at you to give you a snarky comment. he would even have the nerve to sit close to you, elbows touching so he could lean over with his tall frame. at least had the decency to buy you coffee, you can overlook this small pet peeve (and you swear it’s only because he brings you coffee and remembers your order.) 

despite all of this, he’d share his textbook with you, even going as far as giving you his annotated version so you could have an easier time studying. and when he doesn’t reply to your messages, he still reads them. you only learned this because you texted him out of the blue about having a cold. rather than let you fend for yourself, he showed up to your dorm with the completed coursework in his hands. he even had a mask so he could stay and tutor you. 

only when the class ended did he confront you about his feelings. he wrongfully assumed he was being very obvious and straightforward with his advances (he was not.)

[eamour]

daydreaming and imagining

when it comes to manifesting, people like to either daydream or imagine their desires which does sound like pretty much the same. nevertheless — it's not. daydreaming does not equal imagining, vice versa.

daydreaming

meaning · thinking of your desire

to daydream replaces the term "thinking of your desire". when you are daydreaming, you occupy a state of mind where you view yourself as well as your desire separated from each other. you could also say that you only pass through your desired state without truly embodying it and end up going back to your old dwelling state (wavering). you don't claim to have your desire, nor do you declare yourself to be in possession of it. you feel distant to it, almost as if it's impossible, unrealistic or illogical to achieve. you are desiring, aware of wanting your desire, craving and longing for the feeling, making you experience the lack of it. you feel uneasy about how your current reality looks like as you are waiting for some sort of movement or shift. you are dissatisfied about the present moment and view your manifestation as a target you need to aim for, perceiving it as a goal to attain. internally, you know that your desire hasn't been realised yet and wonder how it could possibly materialise. you analyse and examine your outer world a lot, judging it by its looks. you often ask yourself if your desires are ever gonna unfold. thus, you rely on the evidence of your senses, using the 3D as a tool to validate you. by waiting for its confirmation that you ask for so desperately, you automatically assign meaning and also power to the outer world. you let the physical world determine and dictate your mental world. by doing so, you give away control, but still continue to feel responsible and guilty. you repeatedly spiral, wondering what you could be doing wrong, not having full faith or trust in yourself. you don't quite believe in yourself and tend to give in. you endure the 3D as best as you can but often times, you consider your desire to be out of reach. you dream of the mere possibility and depend on the next moment you feel a motivational boost. frequently, you start to doubt, feeling uncertain and unsure about your ability to manifest. you find yourself feeling incapable and scare away from seemingly "big" wishes and wants. you feel needy, irritated and confused. you fight feeling resistant or pressured towards how you want your life to be like. you are afraid that you might never manifest your desired life.

imagining

meaning · thinking from your desire

to imagine can be used as a synonym for "thinking from your desire". as the term says, when you imagine your desires, you think from the point of view where you have them already. you experience them and live life from having whatever it is that you desire. you occupy the state of your wish being fulfilled, knowing and accepting that what you want already exists within you. you understand that nothing can exist outside of you and that life happens from you, so you trust yourself, believe in your capabilities and have faith in the law. you feel calm, confident and content as you are fulfilling your inner self, leaving the outer world as it is. you don't feel the need or the urge to change or control the 3D. there is simply no need for you to stress, worry or struggle. you understand that everything is yours, creation is finished and it all exists already. all you do is step into the state of having and being, living in the end where you got it all. you are one with your desire, you are connected to it as well as all the other contents of your reality. your desire has now become a part of you and you are free to chill, relax and to surrender. you have full trust that your desire will and has to unfold exactly how you want it and don't disturb your inner peace by overanalysing or unnecessary questioning. you don't need to rely on external proof, making your state of being depend on the outer world. you are the owner of your desire, the owner of your reality and stay unbothered by any physical circumstance. you are unaffected by anything that isn't favourable for you and refuse to be led on or negatively influenced. you remain living in your imagination, declaring it to be your one and only reality. whenever you desire something, you know that you don't go outside of yourself, searching for what is already within you. anything you could possibly seek, exists in your mind.

with love, ella.

[eldrai]

Autistic Dogma headcanons

Used to (and does, but is used to it) find eye contact uncomfortable and was frequently reprimanded for disrespectful conduct as a cadet for not holding eye contact

As a result he can force himself to make eye contact and often does, to an abnormal degree, out of habit even when he's not talking to COs.

Has the sometimes unnerving side effect that he can get lost in thought while still staring, pretty unblinkingly, at someone. This also got him in trouble as a cadet but with other cadets who took offense to it

(Attempts to rope him into a staring contest fail though; intensely looking into someone else's eyes with no other purpose? No thank you.)

Very much wore his heart on his sleeve as a cadet and was a frustrated cryer

He's also managed to train most of that out of himself and his expressions tend to fall either very blunted (most emotions) or very expressive (anger, irritation; the "permitted" emotions.)

Strong sense of justice, though until Umbara his concept of justice was essentially synonymous with following the rules

If there's anything Dogma would get in trouble for as a cadet, it's for protesting unfair treatment. Mostly for his batchmates and classmates, less often for himself.

(This did not always end well for them or for him – there's a reason it was so engrained in him the chain of command stands above everything else)

Feels perceived injustice incredibly strongly, more than anything else.

That said, he does like having rules and clear boundaries and examples. It helps things make sense and gives him a metric to compare himself against, a standard to hold himself to.

Before he began to stifle the habit, Dogma had a tendency to stim especially by chewing. As a tubie, it was often the collar or sleeves of his shirt; in blues, he bit his fingernails; throughout intermediates, his stylus was distinct because it was the one with the tooth marks. By the final stage of training in his reds, he'd mostly managed to make himself stop but the habit crept up on him around stressful times. It wasn't uncommon to see Dogma studying for an exam slapping his stylus down on the table determined not to bite it, only for it to end up between his teeth in five minutes' time

(This despite his worry about "damaging GAR property")

Rhythm is a consistent stim for him since he can do it internally: repeating words in his head in a certain cadence, the left-right-left of a march, anything he can run in his head because they can't tell he's doing it. Consequently he was/is among the best at drills in his training group

Routine, routine, routine. Absolutely thrives in the routine of military life—not uncommon for clones, given their entire upbringing, but similar to rules the structure of it all is actively soothing where others just are used to it

Alexithymia

Seriously, other than "pissed off because something is unfair" or "that's breaking the rules, that's Wrong" which are two very straightforward feelings, he is not good at identifying his emotions. Let alone recognising that he's actively really experiencing them.

Not much better at reading other people's emotions. A common complaint during training was that he didn't see why it mattered, because someone's stance in a fight both gave away more AND was more important to be able to interpret than their face (and one he still stands by, thank you very much)

Difficulty reading faces means he finds it difficult to distinguish between someone being subtly mean or just teasing. Errs on the side of assuming they are, which means he enters a lot of conversations as defensive if not mildly hostile.

Low empathy, finds it very difficult to put himself in someone else's shoes

Therefore is – unfortunately, in some circumstances – largely trusting of people and especially authority figures; in their position, he would not have bad intentions so he does not assume it for them. This, paired with the strict following the rules... Umbara. Umbara happens.

With the exception of in training/battlefields, often does not respond to intuited questions—sometimes he fails to recognise them entirely, sometimes he doesn't answer because they might not want him to. Makes small talk difficult and he comes off as a lot more disinterested and blunt than usually intended.

(As a cadet, frequently found his full answers being cut off or laughed at and began to pre-empt this by waiting on someone to ask him to clarify)

On the battlefield, however, information is key so he can and will answer every question to the fullest extent required.

Seeks out and requires a lot more time alone than most clones do

Struggles with grey areas, prone to black or white thinking. Something is right, or wrong. Bad or good. Binary.

Struggles with changing his mental framework even for minor things. Has a very rigid thought pattern

Interested in linguistics, and often searches up new words/slang to understand it, particularly new idioms as they are the hardest to understand. Genuinely just interested in language though!

Hyposensitive to pain, due to bad interoception (internal sense of the body - different to proprioception, which is about the body's position relative to things); this was frequently a positive during training simulations, though it meant he also tended to aggravate still-healing injuries

He does not avoid the medbay, but he does loathe it. His blunted affect and propensity to answer only the precise question he's asked have left Kaminoans, primarily, but also some past medics doubting whether he's in the pain he claims to be when hurt

(Kix does not doubt him. This is possibly even more unsettling.)

If a hug doesn't make it hard to breathe, it's not tight enough for him. Used to sleep under multiple blankets in Kamino's warmer season when his brothers discarded them. Deep pressure is very soothing.

(He'd rather die than actually ask for a hug, though. Or a blanket.)

Doesn't understand why people find inventory boring. He'll agree it's hardly the most intellectually stimulating duty but there's something nice about organisation (but don't ask about it unless you want to hear his full, lengthy thoughts on the subject)

When possible, he separates the food on his plate to ensure he gets some of every element in each bite, and he's learnt to do it pretty quickly too. Can finish a meal this way as fast as his brothers who just shovel it down regardless.

Their field rations don't bother him as much as they seem to bother everyone else. They're always consistent in texture and taste. That's a good thing, as far as Dogma is concerned.

The best way to find out what's on Dogma's mind is to give him a task that requires minimal concentration and no eye contact—he's much more likely to relax and accidentally talk more freely when he's distracted. Conversely, while being upfront with words helps, a face-to-face confrontation about anything even slightly emotional—barring an argument—is the best way to find out how stubborn and closed off he can be.

Struggles to categorise his relationships with people and to judge their level of closeness. Most of the time, someone outright calling him a friend is the first time he will let himself consider that they are a friend of his, too.

(There are not many people he knows on more than a passing acquaintance, and fewer still as friends)

Loyalty to people he's close to, primarily his batchmates, often presents as being overbearing and/or domineering in an attempt to protect them—well-intentioned but maladaptive. Less so since he was a cadet, but it runs deep.

[kimoralov3]

mornin'

mornings in the harrington household had become synonymous with chaos.

"willow dear, would you please sit down so mommy can give you your breakfast?" steve pleaded with your 7 year old as he wrestled your 1 year old daughter into her highchair. you would think by now he would learn how strong babies can be.

willow, always wanting to be helpful, ignored steve's plea. instead, she was busy trying to convince her 4 year old brother asher to leave his toys behind and join the five of you at the table. she wasn't having much luck either.

"willow, sweetie?" you call as you help steve get sage into her highchair. willow turns to you and smiles sweetly.

"yes, mommy?" she asks as she drops her brother's hand.

"you know what would be really helpful? if you sat down at the table first. asher will surely follow the lead of his big sister, hm?" you say as you continue trying to get sage into her highchair. you let out a triumphant laugh as you finally manage to get her in, steve buckling her up.

willow thinks about it for a minute, seemingly considering her options. she eventually decides that you're right, climbing up into her assigned seat beside steve. you mumble a thank you and press a quick kiss on her head, smiling as you see asher climbing up in his seat beside you.

you quickly tear up their waffles, making sure they've cooled down enough before setting their plates and forks in front of them. willow had basically achieved mastery when it came to using utensils, but asher still had a few accidents every once in a while. you just have to keep an eye on him.

"god damn it." you hear steve mumble as sage hits her bowl, causing the contents to spill over. you quickly hand him the wet wipes, picking up the bowl and placing it by the kitchen sink. "guess she's not hungry." he jokes as he unbuckles sage and hands her off to you.

you laugh as you settle sage on your hip, grabbing a wipe to clean off her face. she whines softly as it touches her face, yanking her head back. "c'mon sweetie, we have to get all the oats off your face." you say as you gently bounce her on your hip. after a few more failed attempts, you finally manage to calm her and wipe the breakfast from her chubby cheeks.

the rest of the morning goes on without a hitch, you and steve helping willow and aj get ready for school.

"dad, where's my project?" aj asks as steve helps buckle him into his car seat. the both of you freeze, giving each other a subtle look.

"what project are you talking about, bud?" steve asks as he straightens up.

"the family tree! you and mommy helped me with it last night." he says as he looks between the two of you. steve looks at you once more, silently begging for help.

you falter for a moment, trying to remember what your son could possibly be talking about. last night, after you made dinner the kids all took a bath, then you all watched an episode of clifford before putting all the kids to bed. once they were settled, you and steve enjoyed a nice glass of wine before-

"oh shit." you mutter as you close your eyes.

"that's a bad word mommy!" willow says quickly.

"sorry sweetheart, mommy'll put a dollar in the swear jar." you apologize as you give your eldest a sweet smile before turning to aj. "i'll go grab your project right now, okay sweetie?"

steve watches as you scurry off back into the house, confused and concerned. when you come back a few minutes later with a mess of blue and green construction paper, it all clicks for steve.

aj had gotten out of bed last night while the two of you were on the couch, telling you (for the first time, to steve's irritation) about a family tree project he had for school. the two of you were slightly drunk, so the resulting project was a half assed cutout of a blue tree with green leaves to represent every member of your little family.

"what would i do without you?" steve mutters as you pass by him. you chuckle, handing aj the project before turning to face your husband.

"be stuck with three crying children." you joke before getting in the passenger seat. steve rolls his eyes, although he has to admit that there is some truth to your statement.

---

a/n: shout out to jess (@arkofblake) she helped me create this world lol

[karmaholik]

“Why are you mad?” Suguru sighs in exasperation. Satoru shoots him an irritated look over his shoulder as he briskly walks away. Suguru jogs to keep, sighing again. This time making a show of it. If Satoru could be dramatic, so could he. Satoru stops and swiftly turns around, vexation etched onto his face. Suguru thinks he looks like an angry kitten. He bites back a laugh at how cute the other boy looks.

“You bit me.” The younger boy blinks, not understanding what Satoru is trying to get through to him. While they were making out, Suguru got a little adventurous. He gave him, uh… What was that word again? Suguru thinks for a minute, mouth twisting in thought. He had read it on some site… Oh! Love-bite. Stupid name, but it severed a purpose.

“Yeah, I know. It was supposed to feel good.” Suguru says with a shrug. Satoru’s eyebrows knit down and he glares. Suguru stops himself from pulling out his phone and taking a picture. It was just too cute. Instead he tries to look as nonchalant as possible.

“It did not /feel/ good, pleasant, nice or any other stupid synonym for that word! It hurt!” Suguru isn’t sure if Satoru is being sensitive, he isn’t really good with pain. Infinity and all. Some people have a pain kink but this was supposed to be more of a nibble of shorts. Maybe he bit down too hard? Or… Wait, maybe be wasn’t supposed to bite at all?

He and Satoru hadn’t done much besides making out and some mindless rutting with their clothes on. Suguru tries to take them to the next and they didn’t even need to have full on sex yet. Suguru is sure he probably isn’t even ready for that himself but if he so much as thinks about sticking his hand down Satoru’s pants the other boy turns bright red and refuses to look at him for the rest of the day.

Suguru gets by with dreams of eating him out and his own hand on his dick. It’s fine, Suguru could wait until Satoru was ready. It doesn’t make it easy though.

Satoru huffs, crossing his arms and turning his glare to the floor. It was supposed to feel good? What the hell was that aimed to mean? He palms the bite on his neck and shivers. It hurt when Suguru’s teeth pierced his skin but… For some reason Satoru wants him to do it again. He would never admit it out loud, it was too embarrassing.

That was kind of problem though. All of this intimate shit embarrassed him. He wanted to go further with Suguru. He’s had SO many dreams about it and he’s sure the real thing would be even better. Making out with Suguru felt amazing. But Suguru tries to go further and every time he freezes up.

Suguru’s arms wrap around Satoru’s waist, pressing up against his back. He kisses the white-haired boy’s ear before resting his chin on Satoru’s shoulder.

Satoru leans against the toned torso behind him, placing his hands on top of Suguru’s. Instantly relaxing into the other boy’s hold. Suguru is always has so much patience with him.

“Well…” He says to get the black-haired boy’s attention. Suguru hums softly next to his ear, not moving from his spot resting on Satoru’s shoulder.

“We could try again?” He mumbles it, face heating up into a bright blush. Suguru hears it loud and clear. He places a loving kiss on Satoru kissing Satoru’s shoulder moving up to place another on the junction between Satoru’s neck and jaw.

He trails kisses to the line of the other boy’s neck until he gets to the sensitive flesh still adorned with his teeth marks. He presses an apology kiss to it before lapping at the broken skin. Satoru squirms but doesn’t try to break out of his hold, small little gasps escape his lips.

It urges Suguru on, latching onto the mark with his mouth and sucks a bruise into Satoru’s pale skin. Satoru can only whine in response.

Suguru forces down a smirk. Screw the biting. If Satoru was going to react like this? Suguru would suck a bruise onto every inch of skin Satoru wants him to.

After Satoru’s newfound love for hickies (also called love bites, Suguru sheepishly admitted he did it wrong the first time), he developed a habit of jumping Suguru at any giving point and demanding one. Suguru is happy to oblige.

[thenightfolknetwork]

People have been ignorant to me for as long as I can remember.

Of course, as a child I didn't mind very much. It was a chance to educate Sapios, to show who I was and what that really meant. But honestly, it's gotten tiring. I can only deal with one more "Are you related to Mothman?" or "Aren't moth people only in America?" I will go beserk.

It's just so irritating. It gets under my skin like nothing else. Of course I'm not Mothman's cousin or aunt or sister or niece. Mothman doesn't even really exist in the way Sapios think he used to. He's not the only moth person on the planet, or even ONE of them. The Sapios for decades have just caught snapshots of various moth people over time and referred to all of them as 'Mothman' their made-up famous cryptid. It's stereotypical at best, and offensive at worst.

Moth people are extremely diverse and we live all over the world, not just in Washington state or Oregon or any other forest-y biome in the USA. I've never even *been* to America. Recently, I was at the supermarket, just buying my regular shopping, when a curious worker approached me. I prepared for some of those questions, but he just looked at me and said "Nice cosplay, looks really realistic!"

It's just, ugh. I know he was trying to be nice, but I'm sick of all this ignorance. I just wish Sapios could be more reasonable. How do I deal with all the comments without getting angry?

I don't think you need to worry overmuch about not getting angry, reader. Anger seems to me a perfectly appropriate and reasonable response to this kind of ridiculous stereotyping. The trick is to channel your anger in a healthy way – and what that looks like will depend entirely on you.

Anger is a very poorly understood emotion, often treated as synonymous with violence, losing one's temper, or being unstable. People believe anger cannot be expressed calmly, or without a loss of control. Even when people express their anger in safe, healthy ways, others often feel uncomfortable, especially if their actions have been the cause of this anger.

But that, as they say, is their problem. Your anger in these situations is justified, reasonable and entirely healthy. Of course you're angry when people reduce your entire genus to a flat stereotype. Of course you're angry to have your body compared to a fancy dress costume. And of course that anger has built over time, as these insults are layered one on top of the other, piling up over the years and years of unchecked sapio-normativity.

Instead of trying not to get angry, I urge you instead to let yourself use that anger as a driving force behind positive action. The next time a person says something unspeakably ignorant about your genus, express yourself. Stay calm, and speak clearly and firmly. Let them know that actually, such statements are in extremely poor taste and that you'd like them to apologise.

You don't have to go any further than this. You aren't responsible for other people's education any more than you're responsible for their ignorance. If they want to know more, you can point them in the right direction to educate themselves – the National Lepidopteran Alliance website is an excellent starting point. And if they are upset by your anger, so be it. That's the price they pay for being so utterly insufferable.

[For more creaturely advice, check out Monstrous Agonies on your podcast platform of choice, or visit monstrousproductions.org for more info]

[dr-demi-bee]

Happy Fic Moment from 2024!

There's a cute little trend going around where folks are sharing cute/fluffy/happy moments from their fics written in 2024!

Thanks for the tags @purpleasters-inseptember and @12thhouse-sun! 💖

It took a little but to find a moment that didn't have some thread of angst in it 🙈 Here's a cute little pre-primalweave moment from Service and Worship are not Love!

“I wanted to apologize,” Tav starts hesitantly. Gale quirks a brow, but allows her to continue without comment. “I am sorry for how I ended things last night.” “Ah,” he smiles fully at her, “No need to apologize. I enjoyed sharing a moment of magic with you.” “Enas'i. I as well,” Tav works to muster her usual courage. She could flirt with satyrs, for gods sake, this is one human man. A very handsome man. “I am grateful you shared your knowledge with me.” “You are among a lucky few to have had the pleasure of my instruction.” “Are you always this humble?” Tav is teasing, but Gale takes it quite literally. “Only when the occasion suits,” his grin turns a bit smug, “That's mostly a synonym for 'yes', by the by.” Normally such arrogance would irritate her. Yet in Gale she somehow finds it cute - there is no mean spiritedness behind it. Tav lets out a soft laugh despite herself. “And here I had thought wizards talking in riddles was meant as a joke.” Gale laughs amiably. She looks away again- finding it hard to maintain eye contact when he looks up at her with eyes full of soft adoration. She finds herself picturing what it might be like to climb onto his lap... Tav shakes her head lightly, trying to clear the thought away. She trains her eyes on where Astarion examines a table full of potions across the room, desperate for the distraction. She meant to embrace Gale's kindness and interest, not mount him like she was in heat. Hells. “I was enjoying our moment alone,” she continues, looking to gauge his feelings after resolving the fallout from yesterday. “I confess I have been thinking about it often.” “Have you?” Gale inquires with a pleased smile, and an inquisitive brow. Tav nods, watching the glint in his eye as he looks her over. “As have I,” he muses, his smile confident and a bit smug as he goes on, “You see, I'm not a big believer in fate, but I do believe in serendipity.” “Seren... I do not know this one.” “Serendipity,” he repeats. With a pleased smile, his finger lofts between them, “What we can call accidental discoveries of things which are desirable.” “Desire?” Tav's cheeks feel hotter now. How does this man get under her skin so? “Oh yes,” that infuriating smirk spreads as he tilts his head thoughtfully, “Life is a tempest of events that sometimes we brace against, and sometimes embrace.” His voice pitches lower, and he leans in towards her. “You're one such event that one day soon perhaps, I'd like to embrace.”

[eris-eveningstar]

Chapter 9 fic excerpt

Sorry for not updating sooner guys. I was procrastinating. I got like 6k written (I wrote most of it today and yesterday but that's neither here nor there), and I wanna offer you an excerpt as a little peace offering, so here's a little something in Ginny's pov.

***

"So," she started, refusing to nervously bite her lip, "what are your intentions?"

The alleyway was so silent she could hear a pin drop.

That's about when Harry choked, and shocked laughter bubbled out beside her.

Riddle simply stared unflinchingly; she was a bug under his gaze, but she refused to budge.

"I had a question." And the words I expect an answer were just on her lips.

A smile, brilliant and bright and all those synonyms for charming and handsome appeared on Riddle's perfect lips. He looked good, innocent, if she didn't see the monster hidden behind perfect, pin-straight teeth and intimidating crimson eyes. The man was imposing yet charming, a strange combination that made Ginny feel wrong-footed. She didn't like it.

"My intentions with Harry, Ms Weasley, are wholly pure."

Harry snorted.

"—are honest," Riddle corrected with a pointed look. "I wish to keep him, treasure him, provide for him a life of luxury as I court him and make him mine."

Harry eeped, and from a quick look behind her, Ginny could see a flush building on his cheeks and neck. She also noticed some hickies, but that wasn't her business aside from an eyebrow raise. Merlin, Riddle fucks hard, she thought, though that should have been obvious from Harry's, ah, detailed description of their encounter months ago in...the Ministry, in all likelihood. Harry and Voldemort were both missing for about an hour....

She was utterly scandalised, yet endlessly curious. Good Merlin...just what exactly were these two up to?

Ginny gave a strong exhale, and she pinched her nose with two fingers. These two would give her a heart attack one day.

"Good enough," she glared. "Now, just before you run off and I interrogate Harry, I need you to know a few things...."

He looked amused. "Things? Whatever do you mean by that?" They both knew she couldn't actually intimidate him, and if he chose to kill them both she could do nothing, but fuck that, she thought. She would make her thoughts known.

She stepped up to Riddle until she was a pace and a half away from him. "You listen here, Riddle.... Harry is my friend, practically my brother, and you will properly court and mate him, I expect nothing else but the proper deference. You will spoil him rotten and treat him like royalty, like he deserves. You won't ever hurt him and most of all, you—will—respect—him. Do you understand?"

Riddle smirked, but he nodded convincingly. "Of course, Ms Weasley, I would do nothing but."

"Call me Ginny, you did spend a year possessing me once." If Voldemort was going to be her brother-in-law, it wouldn't matter much what he called her.

"Ginevra, then."

She scowled, and then Riddle chuckled.

He turned to leave, but before he did so, he stated pointedly, "You are far less irritating at fifteen than eleven, Ginevra, just so you know. But don't push it."

Ginny's jaw dropped, and she would have choked on her spit if her jaw didn't immediately snap shut at seeing Riddle steal a long, deep kiss from Harry and a quick squeeze of his arse before he left.

Harry gave a sappy smile as he stared after Riddle.

Ginny blushed bright red. Wow, those two were something. She could practically feel the pheromones in the air.

[autisticlancemcclain]

Betrayer. Deceiver. Double-crosser. Fink. Turncoat. Rat —

“You are the biggest drama queen,” Hunk says in fond amusement. He even pats Lance’s head patronizingly.

Lance bats his hand away, turning to glare at his best friend and making a high, angry noise in the back of his throat so Hunk understands that Lance is still name-calling him in his mind even if he’s out of synonyms.

“I cannot believe you’re doing this to me.”

Hunk doesn’t even look a little bit phased, which is extra insulting. He should be wracked with guilt. How dare he. “I need to go study, Lance. I can’t stay any longer.”

Lance skids his board to a stop for dramatic effect, then throws his hands out to the side and scoffs as derisively as he can manage. “You can study here! With me! And watch me occasionally! So I am not here alone! And lonely and miserable and sad!”

Instead of immediately pledging to never leave Lance’s side again, Hunk only shakes his head at him in something like awe.

“You are truly something else,” he says. “If you told me you weren’t a graduate of dramatic arts at Julliard, I’d be shocked.”

Lance opens his mouth, then closes it again, trying so hard not to laugh and failing.

God, he fucking hates it when Hunk makes him laugh when Lance is trying to be mad at him.

(Even when he’s not really mad. But still.)

“You’re the worst and you don’t love me,” Lance informs him. Hunk just smiles, shaking his head, and starts to pack up his things. He’s been trying to study while Lance skates, but if Lance is being entirely, one hundred percent, no word of a lie, completely honest, then he can admit that perhaps he is a little tiny smidge distracting.

He can’t admit defeat, though. He and Hunk have known each other so long that the lines between friends and family blurred long ago, and if there’s one thing Lance knows, it’s that you never admit when your siblings are in the right.

On pain of death.

He huffs as loudly and melodramatically as he can, flopping on Hunk’s back with a hand over his eyes to slow the man down. He even squirms a little, determined to be extra irritating and at least knock a pencil out of his hand. Unfortunately for him, however, Hunk is well beyond used to his shit, and has no issue holding Lance up and still easily and neatly putting everything away into his backpack.

“I am going to start a mean rumour about you,” Lance tells him when he stands, gingerly removing Lance from his person.

“You are not,” Hunk dismissed easily. He doesn’t even look a little concerned, which is rude. Lance could totally be a massive evil douchebag asshole if he wanted, and it’s very cruel of Hunk not to support that path for him.

Lance tells him as much.

Hunk only laughs.

“You come to the skatepark by yourself every single day,” Hunk reassures, patting him a little more lovingly on the cheek than before. “You’re just being clingy because you’re bored now that you’re done school. But it’ll even out, Lance. Promise.”

Lance sighs, relenting. “Alright, fine. I suppose my heart will only break a little at your betrayal. I’ll probably heal.”

Okay, well, he relented a little.

Hunk grins, wrapping his big arms around Lance and giving him one of his patented ‘Hunk spontaneous spinal rearrangement’ hugs. “That’s the spirit! See ya, buddy. Love you.”

“Love you too,” Lance says, watching to make sure Hunk makes it to the bus safely. One his bus pulls away, he sighs again, to himself this time, and turns back towards the skatepark.

It’s not empty anymore — it was mostly just Hunk and Lance in the early afternoon, but by now school has let out and homework is done, so it’s pretty crowded. People of all ages are doing all sorts of tricks, using equipment and things that are very much not equipment to show off and dick around and generally have fun. Even more people are sitting and chatting around the edges of the grounds; parents supervising their kids, non-skater friends coming to watch, people taking a break, or just people enjoying the atmosphere. It’s always pretty packed by now, and will be for the next couple hours.

But Lance has shit else to do, since Pidge is away at her internship thingie, Veronica is on yet another date with the girlfriend of the month, Marco is a poser who thinks skateparks are stupid, Luis and Lisa and the kids are at hockey practice, and he and Rachel don’t hang out (they just occasionally accidentally show up at the same place, because they are rivals and Lance would not be caught dead asking her to come to the skatepark with him. That would be humiliating).

So Lance is on his own.

But that’s cool. Lance likes his own company. He’s cool as shit.

He chucks off his shirt — it’s only gotten hotter over the past couple hours, as the late spring sun peeks through the clouds — then kicks up and grabs his board, jogging over to his forgotten backpack to stuff his shirt inside. He digs around for his earbuds, now that Hunk’s gone home, and shoves them in his ears, scrolling through his playlists until he finds one to fit his mood — nothing too upbeat, but nothing in-his-feels; something chill that will fade into the background. Once he finally finds one that works, he takes off, hopping on his board and pumping his leg to get it rolling the second he hits the concrete.

He skates around for the next half hour, mouthing along to his music as he dodges random uncoordinated children and stoners alike, randomly doing tricks for no one in particular (but that are cool enough to get scattered “Nice, man!” comments from other skaters, which he will admit makes him preen).

Deciding that he can use more strangers thinking he’s cool, he sets his sight on the bigger rail of the two at the park, pushing on his board to get it to roll as fast as he safely can, curving around on of the pits, and flipping the edge of one end of the board at the last second to glide it along the end the rail. The impact shooting up his shins makes him grin sharply, loving the familiar ache of it, and he curves to keep his balance with the momentum coming off of the grind.

Only, the edge of the rail is too close to one of the short walls at the edge of the skatepark. And Lance was too busy basking in the feel of a successful trick to properly clock his surroundings to curve sharply enough to avoid heading straight for the wall. And there’s a guy sitting in the wall, looking intently at his sketch pad, right in Lance’s path.

He tries in the split-second he has to grind his board to a stop, putting all his weight on one foot to force the wood and wheels to scrape to a stop. It works, kind of, but his body keeps its momentum, sending him crashing for the guy. At the last second the guy notices Lance’s falling at him, and yelps, twisting away slightly as Lance hits the ground, sprawled on his ass, phone knocked from his pocket and earbuds ripped from his ears.

Brain tipping out of his ears, too, because the guy Lance has nearly hit is cute as all hell, and holy shit is Lance losing his ability to think at frightening speeds.

“Hi,” he says, putting an arm behind him to balance and untensing slightly.

The guy smiles, which softens his whole face; big indigo eyes sparking with amusement and pierced lip quirking up slightly.

“Hi yourself,” he says. He puts his ripped-jean clad legs back down on the ground now that Lance is not at the risk of slamming into them at top speeds, resting his sketchbook on his knees. If Lance had his good sense he’d make an emo joke, what with the black skinny jeans, black and white striped shirt under a band t-shirt, fingerless gloves, beat up black Chucks, choppy black mullet, and more chains and studs than he can actually count, but unfortunately this boy is quite possibly the prettiest person he’s every seen and Lance is always kind of a goober around pretty people.

“You’re hot as hell,” he blurts.

Case in point.

Luckily for him, Cute Emo Boy doesn’t roll his eyes and stomp away — well he does roll his eyes, honestly, but it’s more of an amused thing, so Lance isn’t counting it — and even laughs a little. He glances Lance up and down, slowly, making it abundantly clear that he’s checking Lance out.

Lance flushes.

“You’re okay,” Cute Emo Boy teases. “I mean, for a shirtless skater boy.”

Lance scoffs. He is great for a shirtless skater boy, thanks very much. High above average, even. “Not everyone can pull off the cute emo boy look.”

Cute Emo Boy laughs again, and before Lance can stop himself Lance pumps his fist in success.

(Step one to making people fall in love with you — have them think your dumbass tendencies are funny.)

Cute Emo Boy shakes his head, still grinning, and returns to his sketchbook, lining something lightly with a pencil. “You’re something, Skater Boy.”

Lance narrows his eyes. He knows what Capitalised Letters sound like. He is doing the same thing in his own head, which means Cute Emo Boy has also given him a nickname, which means he is as interested in knowing Lance’s name as Lance is in knowing his.

Well, hopefully.

“The name’s Lance.” He doesn’t bother sticking out his hand to shake, because he honestly finds handshaking to be kind of disgusting, but leans back on his hands and tries to summon his smoothest, most player grin. He imagines Cute Emo Boy trying to hide flushed cheeks and a swoon (look Lance is tired of being the only red-cheeked one here, okay, time to even up the score) in the face of Lance’s loverboy scale turned up to eleven.

But Cute Emo Boy doesn’t even look up from his sketchbook.

“I know.”

Lance freezes. Shit. Does he somehow know Cute Emo Boy? Has he forgotten he name? He never does that! He’s very good with names and faces!

“Your babysitter said it lots of times earlier,” Cute Emo Boy continues. “Often with varying levels of exasperation.”

Lance is confused for a second, then he realises what Cute Emo Boy is implying and his jaw drops in indignation.

“Hunk is not my babysitter! I am twenty one years old!” he squawks. “Meanie!”

The corner of Cute Emo Boy’s mouth is twitching, again; Lance’s main clue that he is very much flirting and not just clowning Lance for no reason.

(Would Lance be any less attracted to this man if he was being mean for no reason?

…Well. Lance has never claimed to have good, healthy taste.)

“Could have fooled me. With all the —” he looks up from his sketchbook briefly to imitate Lance’s presumable expression from earlier — “‘Hunk! Hunk! Hunk! I’m doing a trick! Watch!’ I thought you might have just been part of the after-school crowd.”

Lance pouts. Cute Emo Boy pats his knee condescendingly.

“Hunk is childish too,” he grumbles, conceding to the point that he was, perhaps, acting like a child forcing a parent to watch them do a flip every three seconds. “I had to bust out the Drunk Hunk Backpack Leash on Friday because he kept trying to run away from us.”

The story startles another laugh out of Cute Emo Boy, which Lance relishes. “Sounds fun. And a little embarrassing.”

For a moment Lance scrambles for something to say — he can’t let the conversation end, he has to keep talking to this man who smiles and laughs at Lance’s jokes and who finds his ridiculousness endearing, apparently, and who is also lowkey hot which doesn’t hurt — but then something occurs to him.

Cute Emo Boy has been watching him. For some time, obviously, or he wouldn’t be able to tease Lance about Hunk.

Cute Emo Boy is into him, concretely, and has been for longer than Lance has even noticed him, which means Lance has the upper hand in this scenario and might be able to tease a blush out of the hottie yet.

Hell yeah.

“It was,” Lance agrees, letting some of the cockiness bleed into his voice. Cute Emo Boy hears it easily, finally looking up from his sketchbook to look at Lance with a raised eyebrow. Lance pauses a moment for dramatic effect, because yes, okay, he’s a bit of a drama queen. “Almost as embarrassing as watching someone skate for two hours without bothering to try and talk to them.”

Just as he predicted, Cute Emo Boy flushes, completely caught out. He sputters for a moment, trying to come up with an excuse, and Lance goes for a double whammy.

“I didn’t spend that time trying to put their likeness to paper, either.”

It’s honestly just an estimated guess, that Cute Emo Boy has been drawing him, and it’ll be super humiliating if he’s guessed wrong. But Cute Emo Boy’s jaw snaps shut with an audible click, and he goes even redder, turning his gaze back to his sketchbook.

“…Point to Lance,” he concedes after a moment of silence.

Lance grins. Bingo.

“I’ll trade in my point for your name, I think. Can’t keep calling you Cute Emo Boy if I’m going to take you out on a date.”

“Keith.” Cute Emo Boy grins wide enough to show off crooked incisors. “And I guess I wouldn’t mind spending some more time getting to know you. It’ll be good drawing practice, at least. I can’t quite seem to get your eyes — they’re a shade of brown I haven’t seen before.”

Pleased, Lance leans closer to Cute Emo Boy — to Keith — and opens his eyes a little wider, catering to his unspoken request.

Maybe, in hindsight, he can forgive Hunk’s betrayal.

———

based off this video

[goddess-aelin]

Hyacinth and Hollyhock

Part 3 of "Peonies and Poplars"

Masterlist | Part 1

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: mentions of throbbing members lol

Shit, shit, shit. She was in deep, unending shit. The man sitting across from her was incredibly intimidating, especially when she wasn’t expecting to see him today…or ever again. R.J. White was the author of Aelin’s favorite book series, Tales of Flowers and Fortitude, which featured three books that had the most incredible world building and heartachingly beautiful romance. If she was being honest, Aelin would have said that R.J. White had to have been a woman since the experience and prose in the book series was unmatched. But now, Aelin knew she was wrong.

She was so, so wrong. 

Because R.J. White, who was currently sitting across from her in the cozy coffee shop she frequented, was the biggest asshole known to the universe. He was arrogant, toyed with people for fun, and chose to be a haughty, pompous, pig-headed, condescending–

“So, we meet again.” 

Pretty. Did she mention he was pretty?

No. No! She was not going to go down that road. Even if his voice sounded deep as the depths of the largest ocean and his cologne smelled of the pine woods Aelin so loved. She was not going to get caught up with this beautiful, brash, irritating, stupid, asshole–

“Miss? Are you with me?” A tan hand waved at her, causing embarrassment to overtake the flush of her cheeks.

Aelin once again snapped to attention at the sound of his voice. Shit. “Oh! Sorry, it’s just been a busy day.” The lie fell flat even to her own ears. It was barely 10am, the day hadn’t even really started. Aelin knew it. Aelin knew R.J. White also knew it. And it seemed like R.J. White also knew that Aelin knew. 

“O…kay. I can just find a different seat if I’m a bother, sorry. I just thought…” He shook his head, “Nevermind. I’ll just let you get back to your book.”

  “No!” What!? Why on earth did she just say that? She thought. Yes, you absolutely should find somewhere else to sit. “No, you can stay here, it’s fine. I’m just a little out of it today.” It seemed like she truly was since her mouth was saying things she didn’t want it to say.

  R.J. gave a noncommittal hum and a small smile and set his still-full coffee cup back down on the table. “So, what did you think?”

“What did I think?” Aelin’s brows furrowed. “Of what?”

R.J. gave a huff of breath and a slight uptick of the corners of his mouth. “Of the book, of course.”

“You want to know what I thought of the book?”

“Well…yes? That’s what I said.”

“Oh, well, it’s good, I guess.” She looked down at the blue cover of her book and the vibrant pink bookmark she attached. Her brows furrowed. Why did he want to know about her book? “I’m not done yet and the main character is a little annoying but the smut makes up for it, I think, since that’s basically the plot of the story.” Aelin let out nervous laughter.  “I mean, the author describes everything in such detail and it’s pretty good without being completely raunchy. There are some positions in here, though, that I’m just wondering if they’re real or if the author just thought it would sound poetic. But do I really need to know that the guy has a 10-inch co–”

R.J. cleared his throat. “I actually meant Peonies and Poplars but I will keep this book in mind if I ever need ideas.” Amusement laced his tone and it looked like he was fighting back a smile.

Aelin’s mouth dropped in an “O.” “Oh. I just thought…” Aelin’s cheeks heated again. Of course he was talking about his book, not the random smutty book she happened to pick up from a clearance rack. “I’m so sorry. I just am not in my element today, I guess, and not used to people chatting with me while I’m reading..”

“Reading smut in public will do that to you.” A laugh laced his words. “Especially when the male lead has such a spectacular…appendage.”

Aelin groaned. “Please don’t tell me you’re one of those authors that uses ‘appendage’ as a synonym for ‘cock.’” 

“Since you’ve read my work, you know that I don’t.” He looked all too gleeful at her statement yet she could’ve sworn there was a slight tint to his tan cheeks. “I’d obviously rather use throbbing member or meaty manhood.”

Aelin snorted so hard, she could feel the slight burn of the coffee she was sipping coming back up her nose. And of course, since she was Aelin and since this conversation was going so well this burning in her nose also started a coughing fit. R.J. looked slightly concerned for a second before amusement took over his features. Once she got herself under control once again, she said the only thing she could think of at the moment. “Please. Please with sprinkles and cherries on top, please never say either of those words again.” 

His laugh was deep and his smile truly lit up his already handsome face. Smiling like that, though…he looked younger, more relaxed. More handsome, if she wanted to wander back down that road again.

“Okay, deal. But only if you tell me your name.”

She held her hand out. “Aelin.” He took her hand and she couldn’t help but notice how his callused hand felt against hers. Dare she say her hand fit perfectly in his. How cliche of her. “ Should I call you Mr. White or R.J?” 

“Neither actually.” His voice got slightly lower. “My name is Rowan. Rowan Whitethorn.”

“Ah. I see where the R and the White came from. Is the J a middle name?”

“It sure is. James. Rowan James Whitethorn.” He fiddled with his nails, as if revealing this part of himself to someone who also knew him as R.J. White was something he rarely did.

“Well Rowan James Whitethorn, what made you take the pen name?” She kept her voice low, just in case anyone could overhear. Rowan seemed like a private person, someone who didn’t like the spotlight.

“I just like my privacy. That's why I don’t have any pictures of myself on my books or on my website.” He shrugged. “I know how intense some people can get about their fantasy books and this gives me at least a little bit of a normal life.”

“What about doing interviews and book conventions and things?” 

“I just don’t do them. My agent always has me sign books before they’re sent out as a special edition and she takes care of the blurbs that are sent out. All interviews are done via email or video chat but the interviewer is always sworn to secrecy. And they usually don’t know my real name to even look me up. It’s not like I have any personal social media anyway.” He shrugged, not fully confident in admitting this, yet he wasn’t shying away from eye contact, either. 

Aelin pondered this for a second, trying to come up with the nicest way of asking what she wanted to know. She decided that Rowan seemed like someone who valued directness. “Can I ask you why? I mean, imagine how great the publicity would be and I’m sure you’d get a lot more deals and recognition if you showed the world your pretty face.”

“Aw, you think I’m pretty?” Aelin rolled her eyes at that while Rowan just chuckled. “I don’t know. I just want people to focus on my writing and what they feel about the story rather than me as a person. I understand that it is a detriment to promotion and future book deals but my agent and I have worked it out so that I get my privacy and she handles all the extra stuff. She’s pretty awesome.”

“I get it. Really. I’m a middle school teacher and these kids pry endlessly about my life. So much that I consistently make up lies about how interesting my weekend was and use my first and middle name as my social media handles instead of my last.”

Rowan chuckled. “I can totally see you as a middle school teacher. Those kids wouldn’t get away with a lick of trouble with you watching over them. And let me guess which subject you teach…english? Or reading? Something along those lines.” 

Aelin rolled her eyes again, the perfect confirmation that Rowan was correct. 

“Knew it,” he laughed. “And since you asked me a bunch of questions, now it’s my turn.” 

Aelin gave him a scathing look. “One. You can ask one question.”

“Five.”

“Two.”

“Deal.”

Rowan rubbed his hands together, contemplating what he was going to ask. “First question: what’s your middle name?”

“That’s what you want to ask?”

“It’s only fair that I know yours since you know mine.”

Aelin sighed. “Fine. It’s Ashryver.”

“Ashryver?” From Rowan’s slight accent, the single word sounded like two -Ash River- rolling off his tongue. But Aelin nodded nonetheless.

“It was my mom’s maiden name. So instead of giving me a full middle name, she and my dad just used her maiden name.” Aelin shrugged. “It’s kind of nice, having that piece of her.” 

Rowan just gave her a small smile and nodded, sensing the sadness in her tone.

“Ok, what’s your second question?”

Rowan rubbed at the stubble along his chin. “Question number two…hmm.” She could tell the moment that he thought of his question since his eyes sharpened in on her like a hawk’s.  “Well, Aelin Ashryver, why haven’t you put my number to good use yet?”

A/N: Here's part 3. And you guessed it, there will be a part 4. I'm hoping to wrap this one up because this chapter was really fighting with me. But I have an idea where it's going so it'll hopefully be a satisfying ending!

Tagging: @cretaceous-therapod @morganofthewildfire @tomtenadia @live-the-fangirl-life @charlizeed @violet-mermaid7 @euphoric-melancholyy @kritical24 @rubyriveraqueen @dealfea @wellofnothing @ayaashryver @moonknight-spector @leiawritesstories @whoever-you-choose-to-love @holdthefrickup @heirofflowers @thecrispypotatochip @shanias-world @rowanaelinn @bruiseonthefaceofhumanity @hanging-from-a-cliff @fantacysoup @swankii-art-teacher @thegreyj @fromthelibraryofemilyj @westofmoon @lovely-dove-zee @books4eva04 @cookiemonsterwholovesbooks @mariaofdoranelle @dreamer-133 @elentiyawhitethorn @writtenonreceipts @shyvioletcat @aelinchocolatelover @captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship @athena127 @tothestarsandwhateverend @highqueenofelfhame

[unboundprompts]

Hello! i was wondering what tips to use to avoid a story to become just dialogue and not look like a script from a play. The whole he said she said and there's only so many synonyms to use. Like the in between parts the actually story telling from the author is what I've been struggling with. I hope that makes sense. thanks!

What to Do With Too Much Dialogue

Thank you for the ask Anon! Honestly, this is something I struggle with as well. My characters just love to hear themselves talk.

What Does Dialogue Add to the Scene?:

Dialogue is a very easy way to reveal a character's personality. It makes them more fleshed out as an individual and it's a way for the reader to decide if they like the character or not.

Two characters exchanging a conversation can also reveal back story, add conflict to a situation, tell the reader something about themselves or about another character, and it can reveal a characters goals and motivation.

Even though dialogue does all of these useful things, there are other elements that can do the same. By all means, continue using dialogue in your writing, but don't allow it to take over a story.

Summarizing Dialogue:

If you want to show your reader that you have two characters talking to one other, but it doesn't add anything to the story, you can summarize it.

Let's say two characters are exchanging small talk about the weather. You don't need to write out exactly what is being said line for line. Cut it down to something like "They talked about the weather for a few moments."

The same thing applies to a conversation that is important to the story, but knowing exactly what is said is not necessary. You can summarize what they talked about, and even share what the characters thought about it, what they were doing as they talked, etc.

Find What is Missing and Add It:

When you find a scene that has a lot of dialogue, the best thing to do is add information that is missing from the scene.

I read that if a conversation ever exceeds six lines of dialogue back and forth with nothing in between, your reader will get bored.

A few ideas:

Give a description of the setting

Share something relevant about the characters that are talking

Have your characters move around during the conversation

Share what one of the characters is thinking

I'll share a scene from one of my WIPs (This is not a prompt, just an example), so you can get an idea:

Dialogue with no breaks:

"You wouldn't understand!" "You're right, I don't understand. Not yet at least. Will you help me understand?" "I don't want to talk about it. I don't even want to think about it." "I want you to know I want to listen if you need someone to talk to. I won't force it out of you." "Why are you taking care of me? What did I do to deserve your help?" "It's incredibly sad that you feel that you have to ask that, you realize?"

Notice how it just runs on and on? Even if you add "he said," or "she said," it doesn't add anything. There's conflict and lots of emotion, but the reader can't tell what the characters are thinking or what they're doing during this conversation.

Here is the same scene (still not a prompt), but now with added information:

“You wouldn’t understand!” Red stared at her, taking in every miniscule detail of her face. The freckles that dotted her nose, the stray hair that cascaded down her face, no matter how many times she tucked it behind her ear it refused to stay. He examined the bruise that colored her left cheek, dancing up to her eye and down to her jawline. The scar: the faintest white line he had ever seen that traveled her forehead and disappeared beneath her brow. His eyes lingered on the bandage on her neck, the red irritated skin that peeked out from the edges. He saw the devastation in her eyes, an emotion he now saw that she had masked with anger.  “You’re right.” He told her, “I don’t understand. Not yet at least. Will you help me understand?” June was the first to break eye contact, instead fixating on a mark in the wood. “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t even want to think about it.” A sigh from Red. “I want you to know I want to listen if you need someone to talk to. I won’t force it out of you.” “Why are you taking care of me? What did I do to deserve your help?” It was a question Red was not anticipating. His brows furrowed. “It’s incredibly sad that you feel that you have to ask that, you realize?”

The added information to the scene shows how the characters feel about the conversation and how they view each other. The reader is more engaged because they're not overwhelmed by the dialogue, and it gives them insight to the personality of the characters, making them seem more human.

Editing:

When I write, I find it easier to write out the dialogue first. My main goal is to get words on paper. I'll add who is talking and how they said it, but other than that it's just dialogue. When I finish, I go back and look for those dialogue-heavy scenes, and that's when I add the information that is missing.

Other Resources:

Too Much Dialogue - The Editor's Blog

Do You Have Too Much Dialogue? - Fiction University