#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 ♡

[purplereina11]

You're a highly successful basketball player who has just been transferred to Barcelona's women's team. The number 11 holds deep personal significance for you. Among the spectators is none other than football superstar Alexia Putellas, synonymous with the number 11 in Barça history, watching from the sidelines.

What starts as mutual admiration quickly turns into something more, fuelled by weeks of playful yet intense online flirting. The chemistry between you and Alexia becomes undeniable.

You weren’t sure if Alexia was actually going to follow through. She talked a big game, sure. But this? This was different. This was her stepping past the safety of online flirting. Still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that she meant it this time. So when training wrapped up and you were cooling down with a few teammates, you weren’t entirely surprised when your phone buzzed.

Alexia: Where are you?

No pleasantries. No hesitation. Straight to the point. You grinned, wiping sweat from your forehead as you typed back.

You: Facility gym. Why? You looking for me?

Read at 2:13 PM. A long pause.

Alexia: Maybe.

Your smirk deepened.

You: You lost or something?

Alexia: No. But you’re about to be.

You frowned at your screen, confused until you heard a voice behind you.

"¿Qué tal, estrella?"

You turned, pulse kicking up a notch. Alexia stood just inside the entrance of the gym, arms crossed, a small smirk playing on her lips.

She was actually here.

And she looked way too confident about it. "Didn’t think you’d actually show up," you said, tossing your towel aside as you took a slow step toward her.

She tilted her head slightly, her eyes glinting. "Why? Because you think I only talk and don’t act?"

You shrugged, mirroring her stance. "Haven’t exactly seen you prove me wrong yet."

A flicker of something crossed her face, challenge, maybe. Or irritation. Then, in one smooth movement, she stepped closer, invading your space just enough to make your breath hitch. "You like pushing me, don’t you?" she murmured.

You swallowed, your fingers twitching at your sides. "Maybe."

Alexia hummed, her gaze flickering over your face like she was studying every reaction. Then, her voice dropped lower. "Careful what you wish for."

Déjà vu.

She had texted you those words just hours ago. But hearing them in person? That was different. That was Alexia daring you to finally stop playing games.

You held Alexia’s gaze, your breath steady despite the heat creeping up your spine. She was testing you. Pushing you. Fine. Two could play that game.

You shifted your stance, standing taller, letting a slow smirk curl your lips. “You keep saying that, but I’m still waiting for you to prove it.”

Alexia’s eyes flickered with something dark, determined. “Oh?” she mused, taking another step forward.

You refused to move back. You were locked in now, a silent stand-off, neither willing to be the first to break. A few of your teammates were still lingering nearby, pretending very poorly not to watch. You caught one of them nudging another, both whispering behind their hands. Great. An audience.

Alexia must have noticed too because her smirk widened. “Your team seems interested in this.”

You let out a short laugh. “Can’t blame them. You’ve been running your mouth online for weeks.”

She tilted her head. “And yet, you’re still here. Entertaining it.”

Your jaw clenched for half a second. She had a point. But you weren’t about to give her the satisfaction of admitting it. Instead, you shrugged. “Maybe I just like the attention.”

Alexia’s gaze dropped to your lips, just for a flicker of a second before snapping back up. “That makes two of us.”

Damn.

That shouldn’t have hit you like it did. But it did. You were about to respond when one of your teammates loudly cleared their throat.

“So… should we leave you two alone or—?”

You rolled your eyes, finally stepping back from Alexia with an exasperated sigh. “Mind your business.”

Your teammate just laughed, raising their hands in surrender before walking off. Alexia, though, stayed exactly where she was, watching you with that same knowing look. Eventually, she glanced down at her phone. “I should go.”

You arched a brow. “Already?”

She smirked. “I just needed to see something.”

You folded your arms. “And?”

She leaned in slightly, voice teasing. “I got my answer.” Then, before you could react, she turned on her heel and walked away, leaving you standing there heart racing, mind spinning, and absolutely not ready to let her have the last word.

If anyone thought the online back-and-forth between you and Alexia was slowing down, they were sorely mistaken. Because after your little run-in at the training facility, things only escalated. It started with a subtle like on one of your gym photos—one where your arms and shoulders were looking particularly good. No comment, just the quiet acknowledgment that she had seen it.

Then, a few days later, you posted a clip from training—hitting a deep three-pointer with ease. The caption?

Some things just come naturally. ☄️

The fans hyped it up immediately, and you didn’t think much of it—until Alexia replied.

Alexiaputellas: That so?

Short. Simple. Almost dismissive. But you knew what she was doing. So, you baited her right back.

Yourusername: Something you wanna say, 11?

She liked the comment but didn’t reply. Left you hanging. And if there was one thing you were learning about Alexia, it was that she loved to leave you guessing.

Then, the next day, she posted a picture from her own training session sharp focus, locked in. The caption,

Alexia: Nothing worth having comes easy.

No mention of you, no direct callout. But the timing was too perfect to be a coincidence.

The fans noticed.

— She’s talking about YOU, bestie — Oh, she’s so smooth with it — Just date already

Then, to your surprise, Alexia’s teammates got involved.

Irene Paredes commented first.

Irene: Is this flirting? Or are you two actually beefing? I can’t tell.

Then Mapi León.

Mapi: At this point, I think they don’t even know either.

And finally, Patri Guijarro.

Patri: Either kiss or fight because this needs to get a lot more interesting

That was it. The fans were losing their minds.

— EVEN PATRI SEES IT— MAPI BE SO REAL FOR THIS— SOMEONE PLEASE JUST CONFESS ALREADY

And then just as you were about to call it a night Alexia finally responded.

Alexia: Some games take patience.

Your heart kicked. Because now, she wasn’t just playing along. She was doubling down.

You knew Alexia was watching. From the moment your basketball team stepped onto the Barcelona training pitch for a fitness test, you could feel her eyes on you. She wasn’t even trying to be subtle about it. The gym overlooked the field, glass windows giving a perfect view of everything happening outside. And sure enough, through the reflection of your sunglasses, you could see her standing there—arms crossed, watching intently. So, if she wanted to watch? You’d give her something to look at.

The fitness test was brutal. Sprint drills, agility work, endurance runs under the unforgiving Barcelona sun. Sweat dripped down your temple, muscles burning as you pushed through each set. And still, you made sure to keep your movements sharp. Effortless. Letting your strength and control show in every stride, every pivot, every flex of muscle as you drove forward with precision.

And when the heat finally got too much you grabbed the hem of your training top and peeled it off in one smooth motion, letting the sun warm your bare skin. You didn’t need to look up to know Alexia had seen it. The shift in energy was instant. A pause in her usual movement, just for half a second. The way she adjusted her stance, fingers twitching slightly at her sides. You bit back a smirk.

One of your teammates jogged past, nudging you with an amused look. “You do realise she’s staring, right?”

“Oh, I know.”

You could feel it.

Even as you finished the final sprint, chest rising and falling with deep breaths, you knew Alexia’s eyes hadn’t left you. And when you finally allowed yourself a glance toward the gym window, you met her gaze directly. She didn’t look away. Didn’t try to hide it. Instead, she arched a brow—almost like she was challenging you.

Your smirk deepened. This game you were playing? It was far from over. 

The fitness test was over however, but you and a few of your teammates weren’t in a rush to leave. The sun was warm against your skin, and after pushing yourselves through relentless sprints and agility drills, a little downtime on the grass felt well-earned. You stretched out, leaning back on your hands, legs extended in front of you as you let the sun soak into your muscles.  

That was when you noticed them. Barcelona’s women’s team, stepping onto the field for their own training session.  

And leading the way, of course, Alexia.  

You felt her presence before you even looked up properly, but when you did—oh, she was already watching.  

Her gaze swept over you, slow and deliberate, taking in every inch of you stretched out in the sun. You were still shirtless from training, skin glistening slightly from exertion, and you didn’t miss the way her eyes lingered just for a second longer than necessary.  

She caught herself quickly, but not quickly enough. Because now, you knew. And she knew you knew. Still, she didn’t back down. Instead, she smirked.  

“You tired already?” she called out, voice loud and teasing enough to grab the attention of both her teammates and yours. “Didn’t think basketball players ran out of energy so fast.”  

Some of her teammates snickered. One of your own muttered beside you, “Oh, she’s feeling herself today.”  

You tilted your head lazily in her direction, feigning boredom even as amusement tugged at your lips. “Didn’t realise footballers were so idle they had the time to watch other athletes train.”

The laughter from both teams was instant.  

Alexia arched a brow, and for the briefest moment, you swore she hesitated like she hadn’t expected you to throw it right back at her.  

Then she kept walking, slowing just slightly as she passed where you were sitting. And in a voice meant only for you, she murmured, “Well, you put on quite the show.”  

Her tone was smooth, confident like she wasn’t affected at all. But her eyes betrayed her.  Because just as she started to jog toward her teammates, her gaze dipped one last time trailing down the length of you, lingering at your abs before snapping back up to meet yours.  

You caught it.  

And judging by the sharp inhale she took before looking away, she knew you did too. You grinned, leaning back on your hands again, completely at ease. “Let’s see if you can do better, then.”  

She glanced over her shoulder, still smirking. “Oh, don’t worry,” she shot back. “I always do.”  

And with that, she was gone joining her team, acting like that whole exchange hadn’t just happened.  

One of your teammates let out a low whistle. “Yeah, you’re so in trouble.”  

Maybe. But judging by the way Alexia had just looked at you?  She was too.

As Barcelona’s women’s team started their drills, your teammates were still chuckling beside you, sending each other knowing looks. One of them nudged your side.  

“You’re playing with fire, you know that?”  

You just smirked, stretching your arms behind your head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  

Another scoffed. “Right. And Alexia wasn’t just eye-fucking you five minutes ago.”  

You laughed, shaking your head, but you didn’t deny it. Because, yeah, Alexia hadn’t been subtle. And neither had you.  

You stayed on the sidelines, still catching some sun, but now your focus was elsewhere. You weren’t watching the entire Barcelona squad train, you were watching her. And she knew it.  

Because every time she had the ball at her feet, she was sharper. Every pass, every turn, every effortless control of the ball was dialed up, like she wanted to make sure you saw just how good she was.  

Then came the finishing drills.  

Alexia stepped up first. The ball was played into her stride, and without hesitation, she struck it cleanly top corner, unstoppable.  

You let out a small whistle, just loud enough for her to hear. She turned her head slightly, her smirk barely contained.  The next one? She took it first-time, a volley that rocketed into the net.  

Your teammates started laughing beside you. “Oh, she’s showing off now.”  

You just grinned. “Let her.”  

And Alexia just kept going.  

Goal after goal. Every movement precise, controlled, effortless. It wasn’t just about skill—it was about making sure you saw exactly what she could do.  

Then came the final drill, a one-on-one situation with the keeper. Alexia received the ball, dribbled smoothly into the box, then stopped—just for a second—before coolly slotting it past the keeper.  

And when she turned around she didn’t look at her teammates. She looked straight at you.

Like she was daring you to say something. You leaned forward slightly, resting your arms on your knees, letting her have her moment before tilting your head. “Not bad.”  

Her brow arched, her smirk growing. She scoffed, shaking her head as she jogged back to her team.  

One of her teammates, elbowed her and said something that made Alexia roll her eyes. But she was still smirking, still stealing glances your way when she thought you weren’t looking.  

Oh, you were definitely looking. And this game between you? It was far from over. It was heating up.

You could feel her eyes on you.  Even from across the field, where she stood with her teammates, pretending to be focused on training you knew exactly who Alexia was watching.  

So, naturally, you decided to have a little fun with it.  

Ona Batlle had come over to chat, casual and easygoing, but you knew what this really was. An opportunity. A chance to push Alexia just a little further, to see how much she could take before she cracked.  

So, you turned on the charm. “You ever consider switching sports?” you asked, smirking at Ona. “I think you’d do well in basketball.”  

Ona grinned, playing along. “Oh yeah? What makes you say that?”  

You leaned in slightly, just enough to make it look like something. “You’ve got speed. Good reflexes. I think you could handle yourself on the court.”  

From the corner of your eye, you caught the subtle shift in Alexia’s stance. The way her jaw clenched, the way she stood a little straighter, like she was resisting the urge to storm over.  

Perfect.  

Ona tilted her head, pretending to consider it. “Hmm. But would you actually teach me? Or just use it as an excuse to show off?”  

You chuckled, shaking your head. “I’d definitely show off. But I’d make sure you learned something in the process.”  

Ona laughed, nudging your arm playfully. “Sounds like a fair deal.”  

You made a show of grinning back, knowing exactly what you were doing. Alexia knew it too.  

When you flicked your gaze in her direction, you didn’t even try to hide your amusement. And for the first time since this whole thing started, Alexia didn’t smirk back.  

She just stared and when training resumed, she didn’t hold back. Every touch, every pass, every shot—there was extra venom behind it, extra bite. She was playing with a sharpness, a level of intensity that screamed one thing.  

You’d gotten to her. And that was exactly what you wanted.

You weren’t staying.  

You had done what you came to do, run your fitness tests, pushing Alexia’s buttons, and maybe drive her just a little crazy in the process. Was an unexpected bonus.

You were leaving. Just like she had at your practice.  Fair was fair.   You grabbed your bag, slinging it over your shoulder as you walked around the edge to leave, your teammates still lounging behind you, soaking in the sun.  

But you barely made it a few steps off the pitch before you heard hurried footsteps behind you.  

You knew who it was before even turning around.  

“Leaving already?”  

Alexia’s voice was smooth, but there was something beneath it. Something tight. You exhaled a quiet laugh, not slowing down. “Didn’t realise I had to check out with you first.”  

Alexia scoffed, catching up to walk beside you, her pace casual but her presence anything but. “You don’t. Just surprised, that’s all.”  

You hummed, letting the silence stretch, watching as she very obviously tried to keep her eyes on your face. She failed. Her gaze dipped—once, twice—dragging down over your torso, where your shirt was still slung over your shoulder. The heat of the sun had been the perfect excuse to take it off earlier, and you hadn’t bothered putting it back on.  

Now, it was paying off. Because Alexia wasn’t subtle. Her eyes lingered just a second too long, her tongue darting out to wet her lips before she forced her gaze back up.  

You smirked. “Something catch your eye?”  

Her jaw tightened. “You wish.”  

“Oh, I know.”  

You stopped walking, turning fully to face her now, and she mirrored the movement without hesitation. For a second, neither of you spoke. But the tension. It was palpable.  

A slow burn in the space between you, stretching, thickening. Her eyes searched yours, like she was looking for a sign, a challenge, an opening, something.  

And you weren’t about to back down.  

So, you tilted your head, letting your smirk deepen. “I didn’t think you followed people when they were the ones leaving early.”  

Alexia exhaled sharply, her lips pressing together. “I wasn’t following you.”  

You chuckled. “No?”  

“No.” She squared her shoulders. “I had things to do.”  

You stepped a little closer—just enough that you swore you saw her breath hitch. “Right. And those things just happened to be in the same direction as me?”  

She didn’t answer right away. And in that silence, you swore you felt it shift. The teasing, the games—it was still there, but underneath it, something heavier. Something you weren’t sure either of you was ready to name.  

Alexia’s gaze flickered, just for a second, to your lips before she caught herself.  Then, as quickly as she had followed you she was stepping back.  

Regaining her composure. “You should put a shirt on,” she muttered.  

You grinned, reaching for your bag. “Why? Distracting?”  

She didn’t dignify that with a response. She just turned on her heel, walking away without another word. But she didn’t have to say anything. Because you knew. And next time you weren’t going to let her walk away so easily.

You weren’t one to back down from a challenge—especially not one unspoken.  

So, after training, standing in front of the mirror in the locker room, still shirtless, sweat clinging to your skin, you did what had to be done.  

You snapped the picture.  

The lighting was good, your abs looked sharp, and the smirk you wore? Just cocky enough to be annoying.  

Perfect.  

You opened Instagram, fingers hovering over the caption for only a second before typing exactly what you knew would send the world—and Alexia—into a frenzy.  

"Should I do as I’m told and put a shirt on? 🤔"

You hit post.  

And within minutes, the internet erupted.  

@barcaworldwide: WE NEED TO KNOW WHO TOLD YOU THIS. 👀  

@baskethoopsdaily: No. Don’t do it. For the culture.  

@alexiapfans: Someone check on Alexia! Is she ok? I AM NOT OKAY.  

@yourteammatename: I vote no. But if you get fined for this, I was never here.  

@AlbaPutellas: I feel like you’re enjoying this way too much.  

@alexiaputellas: You already know the answer.  

That last comment. Yeah. That’s the one that really got everyone talking.  

Because unlike the others—unlike all the laughing emojis and thirsty replies and teammates stirring the pot—Alexia’s response was… different.  

She wasn’t playing along, not exactly. She was reminding you that she had told you to put a shirt on. That she’d been there, watching, reacting.  

And that was enough to send her fans into a meltdown.  

@alexiaupdates: WE NEED AN INTERPRETATION IMMEDIATELY.  

@spainwntdaily: “You already know the answer” ??????? EXCUSE ME.  

@barcelona_fc_fan: This is the most obvious “I was watching you and you know it” message I’ve ever seen.  

@yournamefanclub: IS THIS OUR ROMANTIC ERA.  

You leaned back in your bath, staring at the screen, the likes skyrocketing, the comments piling up by the second.  

And then, before you could even think of a response, your phone buzzed with a private message.  

Alexia should have let it go.  

She should have ignored your post, pretended it didn’t get to her, pretended she didn’t see it.  

But she didn’t.  

She liked it. She commented on it. And then, hours later, when you were relaxing in the bath, she went a step further.  

Alexia: You’re a menace.

You grinned, typing back.  

You: And yet, you keep engaging.

She left you on read.  But she liked the text. And that said everything.

Your phone buzzed yet again.  

Alexia: You still haven’t answered the question.

You smirked

You: Which one?

Her reply came almost immediately.  

Alexia: Should you do as you’re told?

You chuckled under your breath, shaking your head. She was playing now, pushing this back into your hands, daring you to make a move.  

So you did.  

You took your time with your response, letting your fingers hover over the keyboard before typing.  

You: You tell me, Capitana. You seem to like giving orders.

Read at 9:46 PM.  

No reply.  

For a while, you let it sit, let her stew in it, let her decide whether she wanted to keep going or tap out. And then, when you were sure she couldn’t handle the heat. Your phone buzzed.

Alexia: I like being in control.

Your breath caught just slightly. Oh, she was good. But so were you.  

You could have left it there, let the tension build, let it simmer in the background. But where was the fun in that?  

Instead, you opened Instagram again, snapped another picture—this time, just a teasing hint of your legs and the glass of wine in your hand in the bath—and posted it to your story with a caption that would definitely get a reaction.  

".. whilst waiting on my orders. 👀"

And you knew she saw it.  Because not even five seconds later, you got another message.  

Alexia: Eres insoportable. (You’re unbearable.)

You: And yet, you’re still here.

She left you on read again. But something told you this wasn’t over. Not even close.

Part 8

[aestas---estas]

Working hands

MDNI 18+ | Series Masterlist | Previous | Next | Read on AO3 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 | divider by @cafekitsune

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.

--- CoD Masterlist

[special-agent-fiction]

The Cost of Silence

Full disclosure, I haven't written anything in literal years and I've never written for this fandom. And then this just...happened? I don't know what the plot is but I had to get it down.

The Cost of Silence - Thomas Shelby x Reader

For a man who bought silence with little thought to its cost, morally or financially, Thomas Shelby appeared increasingly concerned with how much it was going to cost him to hear your voice again.

Gifts had been arriving at Arrow House almost daily for a few weeks and each was met with the same disregard; a blank expression as you passed the newest Bentley parked on the drive, cold indifference to the clothes hanging in your wardrobe and an almost comical eyebrow quirk at an apparent sudden interest in art.

Today’s expensive gift was met with the same lack of interest as you closed the lid of the long red box that had become synonymous with a Shelby apology with a single finger and pushed it away from the pristine plate setting awaiting you in the dining room.

You cared little for the rows of diamonds that sat within the case. Cared less for the obvious displays of wealth that surrounded you. You were not born to be oblivious to the luxury that was your current life, years ago you would have ached for a mere glimpse inside the house you now resided in, but life in this increasingly gilded cage had numbed you.

You often longed to feel the soft notches of the table in Watery Lane as you ran your hand along the impressive mahogany piece you now ate at. Dreamt of the cobblestones under foot as you wandered the gravel driveway in twilight, longed for the ache of a day’s work in your bones.

Poverty was a strange thing to want, but with simplicity came an honesty that your life was currently lacking. You could not bring yourself to look him in the eye anymore, let alone share a smile.

You couldn’t pinpoint the moment you decided to silence yourself; couldn’t remember what atrocity had been the final straw. If anything, it had happened gradually, your voice ignored in family meetings, opinions disregarded as plans were formed, and so you began to hold back, bite your tongue and fade into the background of the life he had carefully curated in this countryside pile.

You knew it was irritating him. The thought brought a rare smile to your lips as he huffed softly from the doorway behind you, watching as your fingers skimmed past the new first editions in the library and landed on a well-worn, market-stolen title that you had brought to Arrow House when it was still new to you.

Words were not something you were able to find solace in in your life before here, your days were too busy to have the time to curl up and appreciate a book. Recently though they were you only companion in this cold house. He had noticed of course, he always notices. A newer, softer chair appeared in the parlour, a glistening tea set waited for you, the fire was stoked more frequently, and yet you remained on the hard, deep-set windowsill that offered you a glimpse at the outside world when your eyes tired of the page. Obstinance felt almost exhilarating these days.

The gifts changed from generically expensive to a more tailored selection; a new saddle, your favourite flowers planted under the bedroom window. And still you denied him. You kept your voice a murmur when talking to the staff, only laughed when he was away and refused to elaborate when questioned by visiting family.

It was noticeable now to anyone who visited the house. Family quirked an eyebrow when you walked away from meetings, their eyes flitting between you and Thomas as you sat silently through dinner, a low chuckle at their leader’s frustration. Thomas was a man who always won a battle of wills, and he was losing spectacularly.

And then he piqued your curiosity.

The office door left ajar when he had an important telephone call. Papers for the foundation you’d long planned to set up. Ledgers left open on the coffee table.

As much as you knew about how to irritate him, he knew about you. The bastard.

You stopped yourself many times; forced your hand down when reaching for a pen to jot a note in the margins of a memo, stopped yourself from adjusting a purposefully wrong number. It took everything in you not to help with the business you’d helped birth.

And then came the storm.

Gunmetal clouds filled the sky, the birds quietened, and thunder rolled in the distance. The drizzle of morning rain had dampened the estate, the heaviness in the air muffling all sound of life. When the first crack of lightening hit just outside the stable block you were already inside trying to soothe the enormous stallion that was an expensive new addition to the block.

You’d anticipated his jitters, had spent most of the afternoon gently grooming him, humming softly as he calmed. You thought you’d pre-empted the worst of it but even you jumped at the proximity of the bolt. You barely had time to register the piercing whinny or notice the beginnings of a rear-up before one leather clad hand was on the bridle the other sweeping you behind Thomas before he reached out to calm the steed. Your breaths were laboured as the horse calmed, your eyes wide as you watched Thomas whisper softly to the animal, its chest rising and falling in time with your own as you calmed simultaneously, Thomas’ soothing voice washing over both of you. It wasn’t the first time a horse had reared on you and wouldn’t be the last, it wasn’t the animal that spooked you it was the speed at which Thomas appeared. How long had he been loitering in the shadows of the stable block? Had he watched you lavish love on the beast he had bought as part of his apology accumulation?

You reached out to rub gently at the neck of your almost-trampler, eyes avoiding Thomas as you mirrored his actions, managing a brief nod at his question on your wellbeing. But for the first time in a while it wasn’t defiance that silenced you.

Gifts and gestures gave way to peaceful companionship. Where he had previously watched from the shadows and tried to elicit a response with baiting, he now stepped forward and joined your silence.

You walked together never sharing a word, rode side-by-side without comment, sat opposite each other with only fireplace crackles filling your evenings. You watched his eyes crinkle slightly as his nieces and nephews ran circles around the ground, watched his tight breath as he fought to keep composure on the telephone, smiled behind your book as he endured another ticking off from Polly. The office door stayed open, the flowers under your window bloomed and you remembered what made you want to share this life in the first place.

Throughout your silence, your morning routine had gone unchanged. Breakfast was often the only meal you and Thomas shared; the plate settings always formal in this grand room, letters gently set on a silver tray next to you and a newspaper ironed and folded next to his. This room had seen many a silent war between you both as you rejected gift after gift, unsaid words hanging heavily between you both, the house always gloomy in anticipation of the clash.

Yet this morning there was sunshine washing the dark floors as you descended the staircase. You could see blue skies in every window and hear the gentle movements of the staff as they worked. You entered the dining room to a familiar sight; Thomas reclined slightly, newspaper in hand, breakfast untouched. Your eyes landed on your assigned seat, danced over the freshly cut bloom sat in a silver bud vase and the absence of any other bribe at your place.

The jolt of surprise would be worth it, you decided. You would allow him the win. Afterall, you needed to rectify those ledger mistakes.

You fingered the soft petals as his usual greeting reached you, eyed the smudge of dirt on his shoe-tip for confirmation and took a breath.

“Good morning.”

In the end, it cost him nothing to break your silence. And that was the point.

[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

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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."

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[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.)

[vidavalor]

hi! back with (yet another) word nerdy question. (I’ve brought cookies this time!) in the 1941 episodes, Crowley refers to the church as “consecrated ground” but furfur calls it “hallowed ground”, i was wondering what your thoughts on that were? always love reading your metas!

Hi there, @the-ineffable-parker 💕 Thank you muchly & what a very fun topic! Alright, throw on some Hozier 😂 so we can talk about what the story's ongoing discussion about how the show's discussion of what constitutes consecrated ground, including this consecrated vs. hallowed contrast, might have to say about themes around autonomy and authority.

I have also had more than one anon send me a request for stuff on consecrated ground so *radio voice* this one also goes out to all you lovelies who were not only nice enough to ask but who gave me an excuse to look at Aziraphale-as-Crowley in the bathtub during an otherwise kind of irritating week. 😂

TW: Mentions of Heaven & Hell violating bodily autonomy.

Consecrated vs. hallowed is an example of offering the audience a pair of near-synonyms for the purpose of having a conversation about the themes that come up when looking at the differences between these words. There are others like this in Good Omens, too:

Welfare vs. quality of life. Magician vs. conjurer. Job vs. profession. Seller vs. purveyor. Father vs. dad. Master vs. boss. The historical mister vs. doctor debate. Lift vs. elevator, etc..

So, what of consecrated vs. hallowed?

Technically, both of these words mean that which is considered to have been made holy through some sort of rite or ceremony. You wouldn't use them interchangeably, though, because one of the words-- hallowed-- has evolved to also have a secular meaning, whereas consecrated has remained a word that-- unless you're writing something blasphemously sexy 😉-- would still just be used exclusively to describe something faith-based.

Hallowed ground can be theatres and libraries and historic buildings and the like but, when we're talking about physical locations, consecrated ground is still considered just places of worship and burial sites and other religious places.

Hallowed is an example of a secular evolution of a word in a direction away from its original, religious meaning. There are many that have gone that route and also many that have been stolen by religious groups. Good Omens focuses attention on quite a few words in these crosshairs, like passion, profession, joy, and halo. Contrasting hallowed with consecrated allows the story to have a discussion about how linguistic evolution away from religion reflects many, if not all, humans also evolving away from it.

The word hallow is a pretty-much-obsolete-unless-you're-writing-a-press-release-for-The-Vatican word for a saint, which is how it came to mean that which is holy. This is also the etymology of why we call the holiday at the end of October 'Halloween', from its earlier name of All Saints' Eve.

Halloween is pretty much the most perfect evolution away from anything once at least somewhat related to Christianity that has ever existed 😂 and the evolution of hallowed is much the same so it doesn't surprise me that a demon like Furfur would prefer to use the word hallowed over the word consecrated. The demons were all ex-communicated from Heaven so they're all for humans blasphemously evolving religious words away from those types of meaning.

This is where we have to get into the big question that bringing up these words in the first place asks of the audience, though, which is:

Who gets to say what is holy?

Good Omens' theme of autonomy is freedom is, unsurprisingly, interwoven with its theme of recognizing your own authority to author your own life.

We sometimes might think that there is a higher authority who can answer things for us-- someone more powerful than ourselves. We might be prone to thinking that fallible human beings who are seen by some as holy should be granted authority by us when it comes to influencing our thoughts and actions. In thinking this, we're selling ourselves short and allowing others control over us. It impacts our ability to self-determine and impedes our freedom and our health. The effects of this are so dangerous that it puts our lives at risk.

There are people, often some men, who will say that there is a God who has granted them the power to speak for them. That their word is God and that if you aren't following their word, you aren't following the word of God, and that means you are evil. You are a demon. You are a heretic. You are anathema. You are a sinner and will be forever damned. And they will use this power they claim comes from God to maintain their own power and while controlling and abusing others.

They will try to poison your mind with self-loathing and try to convince you to harm yourself by repressing yourself and denying your own needs. They will try to tell you what to consume with the body that is, at once, both supposed to be seen as a celestial temple but also repugnant and unholy with impure needs for which you should repent. They will, if you let them, cause you to starve yourself in every possible way there is to do so.

They will try to tell you that you're sinful if you desire or love another consenting adult of whom they don't approve. They will try to tell you what to wear, what to eat, how to behave, to most exemplify what they consider to be pure, and not accept that you might think differently. They see your body as belonging to them and do not recognize your autonomy.

These are just people. They have no authority that you don't give them. They do not care about you-- they want to own you. They will harm you to maintain their own power. You do not need to listen to them. You are the judge of you. Autonomy is freedom and freedom cannot be had by listening to people who try to do you harm. You are the higher authority you're looking for.

The question of who gets to decide what is holy? is, really, also the question of why should anyone recognize as a holy authority anyone who does not respect the sanctity of a person's right to autonomy?

If you notice, Furfur isn't really shocked that Crowley was able to get into a church and remain unharmed. He isn't all omg how did he not go up in flames upon crossing the threshold?! He's just surprised that Crowley elected to go into a church at all, since the whole thing about all the original demons is that they were all thrown out of Heaven. This goes along with other scenes about consecrated ground that we've seen in both seasons.

It seems that the insides of churches are considered the domain of Heaven by the demons, who, as the metaphorically dead, prefer to haunt their territory of churchyards. This would make sense since we've already seen many other scenes showing demons walking across what would be considered consecrated ground without issue, like Crowley, Hastur, & Ligur in the churchyard in 1.01, and Beez in the Edinburgh graveyard in 2.06.

This is where we can also see that there's a question of whether or not there's even such thing as consecrated ground in the 'will burn a demon' sense in Good Omens.

If four demons have been seen walking around churchyards and if Crowley has been drinking Chateauneuf-du-Pape from vineyards in Avignon-- the former site of the papacy where every square inch of it was long ago consecrated by the Catholic Church-- then it's pretty clear that human beings, at least, do not have any authority to consecrate in the religious sense any bit of land or water or the like.

That would go along with the themes we're discussing here, as it effectively says that there is no human being on Earth with any divine power beyond the fact that every human being is a divine star child because being human itself is what is supernatural. The Earth itself is all consecrated ground and should be treated as such but, say, parish priests blessing water and land and all that is not really doing anything.

This would mean that all genuine holy water in the series-- like the stuff that killed Ligur-- would need to be made from or blessed by a literal angel. The "holy water" in the church in 1941 was just water, which is what Crowley was joking about, but he'd later apparently felt that he found some actual holy water in some church by 1967 that he had been planning to rob. Considering that Aziraphale knew about it, it's likely that Aziraphale was even the one who had blessed the water in that church.

This is even if holy water blessed by literal angels in Good Omens is real and, yeah, I say that even after Ligur, because you could argue that it's possible that Ligur believed it was real and that's really how he died. In a story where Crowley willed himself alive through the M25 fire and with the whole make it happen, make it real theme... I'm still not really convinced that holy water and hellfire are things unless you actually believe that they are. They well might be but I think that it's at least a bit open to interpretation.

Additionally, you'd think that the most consecrated place anywhere for a demon ever would be Heaven, right? That they should never be able to step foot back in there ever again, if any of this consecration stuff is real? Except, we've seen that's not the case...

Yes, you could argue that maybe Heaven and Hell did some magical exception thing to trade Michael down and Eric up in the holy water/hellfire part of S1 but Crowley strolling into Heaven in S2 would seem to negate that idea. It's more that angels can get into Hell and demons into Heaven but they mostly usually just don't because those places are considered enemy territory by one another, even if it's all the same terrifying office building.

Crowley explaining angels as bees to Muriel also showed that he already thought it was more a matter of blending in than getting into Heaven. And what did he do when he followed Muriel to their office?

That silly little hop dance, poking fun at the idea of consecrated ground, as he undoubtedly also was thinking about the church in 1941. Heaven, ugh, it's like being on a beach in bare feet! Let's hop to it, Inspector Constable, and get outta here... 😂 As we saw, he was fine to walk in Heaven, which makes it then pretty unlikely that he wasn't also fine to walk in a human church in 1941.

People are going to burn me at the stake for this lol but... I've always thought that things like this make it more than likely that Crowley was just joking about his feet burning when he entered the church in 1941. *ducks* Let's put it this way-- it's interpretable...

So, regardless of whether or not Crowley's feet were actually burning in the church in 1941, he's being flippant about consecrated ground and, as you asked, why might he use that word in this scene, when Furfur used hallowed and Crowley, honestly, probably often would, too, in other scenarios?

Because physical places, as we've mentioned above, are not the only things that people might consider holy.

Crowley has a very understandable distaste for how Heaven-- and Earthly churches like it-- say you are supposed to starve yourself of consumption and pleasure and keep "pure" the celestial temple of your body. Not only are these ideas just very unhealthy, Crowley is not about to let Heaven's ideas of bodily sanctity be his own when Heaven does not acknowledge and respect anyone's bodily autonomy, including his own.

Heaven abused him. They took his memories, burned him, gave him an unwanted snake side to his corporation. They called him evil and kicked him out and, as he put it when projecting his fall all over those poor goats in the Job minisode, had "given him up to be destroyed," which is a word that was once also used to refer to rape. He's talking about how Heaven declared him a demon, ex-communicated him, and said that, in their view, he and his celestial temple belonged to his rapist for eternity.

Crowley has religious trauma still as much as the next demon, sure, but, after all he's seen and that has happened to him, he is, ya know, going to generally be a hard pass on buying into Heaven's opinion on what healthy and holy is.

As it is, everything Crowley and Aziraphale believe are truly sanctified are all things with which The Metatron would disagree anyway.

So, in 1941, Crowley is walking into a Christian church, fully aware that he is literally the epitome of everything that church would say is a sin-- a queer, gender-everything, heathen of a demon. Just as Satan and The Metatron forbid relationships like Crowley and Aziraphale's, so did-- and still do-- many human churches like this one... and there was Crowley dryly aware that he was getting to the Nazi-laden church on time to roll up the aisle like he was soon to be Aziraphale's wife.

Whatever a wife is, as Jim so aptly questioned in S2, since that word has a long, patriarchal history implying an obedience that does not reinforce ideas of women being autonomous beings. This church Crowley's entered in 1941 would say that a wife should be subservient to her husband and that would be what would make her holy. Crowley and Aziraphale and their partnership of equals couldn't be any further from any of that.

Within the church, marriage is a sacrament, which is a type of consecration. It's the church sanctifying an union between people. It's an example of an exercise of authority that is supported by getting people to buy into the idea of their church being the only, true authority.

A marriage not sanctified by the church is, in the church's eyes, not a marriage. They define sin and a love that is seen as a sin can never be holy, in their view. This only matters if you recognize the church's authority.

Just as Heaven and Hell don't recognize Crowley and Aziraphale's love as holy, neither did this church. Neither did the country they were in, either, as it was 1941. Forget about it being illegal to marry Aziraphale at that time, it was still illegal in England just to be queer then, as it also was pretty much everywhere else.

Crowley entered the church knowing that the entire known universe at that time would never recognize his right to marry Aziraphale because it didn't even recognize their right to be themselves, live their own lives, claim their bodies as their own and make their own decisions about them. All of that was-- and still is-- pretty ironic to Crowley because there are things that he considers holy and his and Aziraphale's love is at the top of that list.

As Crowley entered the church, he was more than aware of how matrimonial all of this was. He was going up the aisle to Aziraphale at the altar in a place that preached that everything about them and their love was a sin. Regardless of whether or not you believe his feet were truly burning, Crowley was making fun of the idea that many people believe places like this church are the epitome of holy when, really, what is truly holy is much of what they call sinful.

He was being every snarky, traumatized queer whom the universe had dragged back to mass for a funeral or whatever, bitchily joking to his partner about how it was amazing that they didn't spontaneously combust upon crossing the threshold, evil, sinful heretics that they are. 😂 Argh, angel, I can't believe you're making me go to *church* to rescue you... oh, the consecrated ground-- how it burns my evil toes!

He knew he could get away with being thoroughly obnoxious about it because Aziraphale doesn't really disagree with him about any of this. Crowley's lover got humor. She's the giggle at a funeral. Crowley compares the non-existent physical pain to "like being on a beach in bare feet" and we've seen that he and Aziraphale use the sea to refer to sex so it's saying that this is all just the worst, having to romance Aziraphale by going into a church, but he's naturally there anyway because of course he is. 💘

Walking on a beach in bare feet is also basically the same thing, from a physics standpoint, as firewalking, which people have done as a religious rite/test of faith for ages. People of these faiths believe that being able to walk across hot stones and the like shows that one is holy because it must take divinity to do so. It doesn't. It's science.

It's literally just that the act of continued walking is what keeps your feet from being scalded. Your body is cooler than the stones and, since you're walking quickly over them, no part of your foot ever touches the hot stone long enough to absorb enough of the heat to burn the way that they would if you were to stand still over them. See above link, if interested, for how that connects to the theme of "walking the Earth"-- "professional cobbler"; "Demon's Guide to Angelic Beings Who Walk the Earth", etc..

There is something very dry about Crowley essentially riffing on things like consecrated ground burning demons and humans thinking firewalking sanctifies them because Crowley is literally a scientist who essentially was ex-communicated for suggesting that maybe there's more going on with the universe than it being there for people to be all "wow, God is amazing!" over.

On this theme, as we see Crowley's autonomy violated by Satan in 1.01, "Bohemian Rhapsody" is practically narrating it and Crowley grabbing the wheel to avoid the truck with🎵 Galileo, Galileo, Galileo, Galileo🎵 blaring through the speakers was connecting Crowley to another polymath who suffered a similar fate.

In the church in 1941, Crowley is on consecrated ground to him-- but not because he's in a church. Because he's there for Aziraphale, to whom he's utterly devoted, and their relationship is sanctified to Crowley. Their love is holy to them. Crowley keeps his little dance going mostly for the whole scene and you can see Aziraphale look at Crowley and smile at his shenanigans in the bit below.

Joking about consecrated ground and Crowley's humor about it in 1941 is also what I think might be behind Aziraphale initially keeping Crowley's feet out of the holy water during the body swap.

As we saw with Aziraphale's delight over telling Crowley about asking for the rubber duck, he was saying and doing a bunch of things he thought would not only help him to pass as Crowley but which would amuse Crowley when he told him later on. Being able to tell him that he was sure to keep his feet out of the holy water as much as possible would be something that Aziraphale knew was likely to earn him a laugh.

So, Furfur helps to illustrate that the demons are allowed in hallowed places like churches because places of worship truly are, technically, open to anyone there in peace. There are just plenty of people for whom the doors to the church are supposedly open but the hatred there is enough to make them feel less than welcome.

Furfur suspected that Crowley was up to something treasonous when he heard Crowley was in a church with someone because it made more sense to him for Crowley to be there with an angel committing treason than it would be for a demon to want to go to church.

While Crowley, on the other hand, called a church consecrated ground to use the purely holy connotation of the word to make fun of people who felt they could define holiness while not respecting bodily autonomy and personhood, including failing to recognize as sanctified love like that of him and Aziraphale.

In truth, what Crowley and Aziraphale are when they are together is also really the word that Furfur used-- they're hallowed. From the root kailo, meaning: whole, uninjured, and of good omen.

[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.

[kurapikaspookie]

⋆˚࿔ ryusae as your dads | platonic 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

⋆꙳•❅°⋆❆.ೃ࿔:･*❆ ₊⋆

Sitting in front of the mirror, you touched your newly bleached hair. You dad sat behind you, smoothing over your hair, holding an unexplainably smug look on his face. The smell of bleach and strong perfume filled the hair, as he planted his chin on the top of your head. He wore a smart-looking suit, his pink-tipped hair slicked down for once in preparation for the press conference you all were going to.

“What do you think?” He smiled, scrunching up your hair as you nodded in appreciation.

“Wow… it looks so pretty!” You gasped, resting your head on your palms, your eyes sparkling with awe. Ryusei gave a satisfied smirk, as he finally stood back up, walking around and crouching beside you. He picked up the many hair clips and pieces of jewellery that adorned the table in front of you. He immediately started lining them up, a concentrated look on his face as he tried to find a fitting position.

“Huh… can’t decide where this should go. What do you think?” He nodded towards you, and you simply pointed towards a large bang that covered your face, trying not to burst of excitement as you balled your hands into fists and rested them on your lap. He clipped the hairclip in, leaning back and smiling.

“Fuck, it does look cool! You have good taste.” Ryusei says, sticking two thumbs up, before his head raises as a voice calls out to him.

“I thought I told you not to curse in front of our daughter already.” Sae walked through the door, as you turned to him. Immediately when he saw you, his eyes immediately widened, his brows furrowing. But Ryusei simply smirked back at him.

“…What.” He started, resting his arm on the doorframe.

“You like?”

“What did you do to her hair…” Sae sighed, slowly walking forward, irritation slipping through. “Right before the press conference as well, PR’s going to go mad.”

“Doesn’t she look cute?” Ryusei put his hands around your face like he was displaying a product. “She looks just like me now! She’s like my evil twin.”

You smiled innocently, as Sae paused, his eyelids drooping.

“I really like it, Sae-kun!” You say, grinning wider.

“I told you not to call me by my first name.” Sae deadpans, earning a laugh from you, as he sighs. He doesn’t give in immediately, walking closer and taking a good look at the hair, before finally saying, “But I guess I can get used to it.”

You and Ryusei pumped your hands in the air synonymously, before clapping them together like you had just earnt an award.

“Oh yeah! We got Daddy’s approval!” Ryusei gave you a wide smile, making Sae frown further.

“Don’t call me that.”

Ryusei’s eyelids fell. “Sorry, Mommy.”

Sae shot you a worried glance, glad that you seemed oblivious to all of this. He rolled up his sleeve and checked his watch, before clicking his tongue. “Just get in the car, it’s here already.”

𓊆ྀི❤︎𓊇ྀི

Admiring the millions of stars in the dark sky, from the comfort of Sae’s private taxi, you watched as the large building of the conference pulled into view. It was tall and modern, with a fancy red carpet running down a set of stairs. You watched various recognisable people walk in and out – footballers, singers, dancers, actors, the whole lot. It excited you to be able to go into such a place, and as the driver opened the door for you, you practically jumped outside. Your dads stood either side of you, holding your hands as you made it into the conference.

You looked over at the many faces in the crowd, your eyes darting around in awe as you recalled seeing many of these people on television. Whispers followed you as you slowly manoeuvred through, people parting to create space for you and your dads. That was before your dads suddenly stopped in front of a group of boys, tall and towering like them, who also wore sleek suits accompanied with rich perfume.

But there was only one you recognised.

“Uncle!” You exclaimed, as the boys all looked at you. Rin rose his eyebrows slightly as you ran up to him and hugged him tightly. He tensed, his arms going up, before sighing and patting your head.

“Don’t surprise me like that…” He muttered, but there was no real heat behind his words. He picked you up with one arm, adjusting and letting you get to the same level as the rest of the boys, who stared at you. Until –

“What an adorable kid.” A boy with spiky, purple hair smiled warmly. You remember him – you were trying not to laugh at his hair when you went to watch one of Rin’s matches. Carasoo, was it?

You pointed at him, an achieving grin on your face. “His name is Carasoo, right?”

Carasoo laughed softly, shaking his head. “Seriously? Do I look like soup to you? You wound me.”

That was until a boy with yellow highlights suddenly walked up in front of you, waving his hands over your face. “Hey, kid, do you remember me? I met you when you were like 2!”

The boy was pointing to himself with a wide grin, before Rin held you closer. “She’s not going to remember from that long ago, idiot.”

That was until you heard another voice from your left, as a long-haired boy with red eyes came into view. “Balance her better, you donkey, what kind of grip is that!? You’re scaring me.”

The boy frowned, but his anger was mostly aimed at Rin, who glared back but adjusted his grip all the same. Before –

“You know what, give my daughter back, I can’t trust you!” Ryusei stormed up to Rin and suddenly snatched you back, earning a strangled grunt from you, making Mr Red Eyes and another guy (you decided to name him Mr Ginger), a worried look.

“You’re even worse, you damn prick!” Mr Red Eyes said, crossing his arms as Mr Ginger nodded.

“He’s right. That’s not how you’re meant to hold a child, you know.” Mr Ginger said, frowning slightly.

“Shut it, you don’t get to tell me how to hold my own kid!” Ryusei said back, before suddenly holding you out, his hands around your waist as he smiled devilishly. “Have faith in me, I’m not about to drop her!”

That gesture earned a lot of giggles, and a boy with white hair and a green highlight even started recording, letting off a laid back chuckle, while a girl with long, cherry red hair frowned next to him.

“I’m about to take her from you, Shidou, watch it.” She said, her voice surprisingly deep as she crossed her arms over her chest.

“Relax, Chigiri.” Ryusei said, before pulling you close. “He’s a real nagger, isn’t he?”

You rose your eyebrows when you found out the ‘Chigiri’ girl was actually a guy.

“You’re so pretty.” You said, pointing to Chigiri as he rose his eyebrows.

“Well… thank you.” He said, smiling warmly as a purple-haired boy next to him gasped.

“Dude, getting compliments from kids has to be the biggest flex!” He said, laughing as he threw his head back. “I would put that in my resume if I were you.”

Chigiri simply laughed softly back, before someone suddenly called out to Ryusei, making him snap his head in the direction of the call. He sighed, leaning in to face you.

“Sorry, ‘lil kid, I have to go for my QnA. Who would you like to stay with, eh? You choose.” Ryusei whispered into your ear, spinning you around so you had a view of everyone. “Not him though. Or him. Or him either…”

You felt your options quickly narrow, so you decided to simply point to someone random person before they all went. You decided to simply point as Ryusei spun you around, watching as your finger landed on Mr Red Eyes.

“Eh? Barou? Well, if that’s what you choose.” Ryusei walked up to Barou, who sighed like it was a pain to carry you. He reluctantly held his arms out, frowning. “Well, Barou, well done! You’re the chosen one.”

You heard Barou huff above you, “Right, at least she chose someone that can actually hold a child properly.”

Ryusei laughed, and simply waved him off, going back to meet Sae, who was idly watching the entire commotion with an uninterested look, “You can’t stay out of drama for 5 minutes, can you?”

But as Ryusei linked arms with him, he looked back at you, waving you off with a small smile on his face.

Immediately when Ryusei and Sae walked off, Rin started.

“Give her back.”

“Not a chance.” Barou rebutted. “You hold her like she’s poisonous.”

“No I-“

That was when a blonde haired boy with blue tips of his hair wearing a red suit suddenly interrupted, followed by brunette with pink tips and a turtle smile.

“Well, who’s that up there?” He said, pointing towards you. Rin stepped forward, frowning.

“Who invited you?” He said. “Don’t remember you being in Blue Lock.”

“Oh? You don’t want me here? Shame.” Mr Blonde throwing his hands up and chuckling slightly. “I only wanted to talk to my fellow teammates, didn’t know you guys were so shy.”

You idly played with Barou’s hair as you watched the entire thing, watching as some other guys started to berate him. He didn’t seem very popular.

“We don’t want you here, Kaiser, so why don’t you pick up your things and leave?” A seemingly innocent-looking, dark blue haired boy walked over, as Mr Blonde rose an eyebrow and continued smirking.

“That so, Isagi? Unfortunately I don’t take advice from clowns.” He responded, adjusting his tie as he turned back to you. “Can I hold her?”

“Over my dead body.” Barou said, stepping back as he clutched your legs tighter.

“Is that your sister? That’s odd, you don’t seem to have blonde genes.” Kaiser looked back at Barou.

“That’s because it’s not.” Mr Ginger interrupted, “It’s Sae and Shidou’s kid, so you’ll probably get sued dry if anything happens.”

“You all are awfully rude.” The brunette boy spoke up from behind Kaiser, “Why are you assuming Kaiser has bad intentions?”

“Because he does most of the time…” Chigiri muttered.

“You better back off before I get my monster at you!” The boy with yellow highlights spoke up again, crossing his arms in defence. But the talk of a ‘monster’ unnerved you slightly.

Mr Blonde was about to fight back, but then you saw a familiar duo walk through. You dads. They were back.

“What’s going on here?” Sae asked, shoving Kaiser with his shoulder as he walked over. “Doesn’t matter anyway. I’d like her back.”

Barou immediately pulled you off his shoulders, passing you to Sae who held you with one arm in a similar fashion to Rin. However, he holds you more comfortably and stably, as the gazes of the other Blue Lock boys follow you. You hear them muttering behind you, but as for now, none of it matters. You’re back with your dads now, about to go on live television! Sae walks up to Ryusei’s side, who simply smiles as you manoeuvre through the crowd yet again.

“Remember what I taught you about live television?” Sae says, as he walks you there. “Try not to say anything out of pocket.”

“What does ‘out of pocket’ mean?” You ponder.

“It means not to say anything that I won’t want you to.” He answers. “Like last time when you told them that I accidentally fed you burnt food.”

Ryusei laughs. “Hah, I remember that! Good thing you have a private cook, neither of us can make food for shit.”

“Language.”

“My bad, my bad…”

As the two of you walked through a wide door into a white room, with several cameras dotted around the place and a background behind 4 chairs. An interviewer sat on the 4th one, giving you a kind smile as she waved.

Another camera man came up to you three, replicating the kind, practiced smile as he walked up in front.

“Right, so we’ll be live in about 30 seconds! We’d like you to hold her as you come in, to give a family impression!” He said, as Sae gave a curt nod. The timer counted down, making you practically burst of excitement. When it counted all the way, Sae and Ryusei walked into the room, Ryusei looking over at Sae who kept his gaze forwards. The interviewer waved them over, as Sae placed you down on the chair next to the interviewer, sitting on the chair to your left.

“Welcome, Sae, Ryusei, and our special guest, [Y/N]!” She said, leaning in towards you. You gave a wide smile, watching at the side of your eye as the staff gestured some ‘Awe’’s. “How adorable! Now, tell us about your dads, and don’t be afraid to expose them a little.”

She said light-heartedly, shooting a look over at Sae and Ryusei, as you heard Ryusei laugh behind you.

“Well, they’re really nice. Actually, Daddy number two dyed my hair before coming here.” You bobbed your newly blonde hair for effect, as the interviewer nodded and smiled.

“Aw, how adorable! It looks amazing, just so you know!” She said, to which you nodded.

“I know.”

That earned a few stifled laughs from the camera crew, and a louder one from Ryusei. “See that, Daddy number one? She takes after me.”

You decide to continue, adding other things. “Yeah, but they both can’t cook – oops. Daddy number one told me not to say anything about his cooking.”

You covered your mouth mischievously, as you turned back to Sae, who simply sighs and shook his head.

“Sorry Daddy number one.”

“It’s… fine, Daughter number one.”

You gasp, “I have siblings!?”

“No, you-“

Ryusei is bursting into laughter behind Sae, who simply runs a hand through his hair like this was the most tiring thing in the world.

“Well, they buy me everything I look at. Look, they even got me this cute hairclip!” You pointed to the hairclip in your hair, as the interviewer smiled even wider.

“Aww, so cute! What else do they buy you?”

“Everything. Everything except a dog, Daddy number one doesn’t like dogs.” You say, earning another sigh from Sae, and a laugh from Ryusei.

“Trust me, he loves dogs! He just doesn’t want to take care of one, isn’t that right?” You turn back to your dads, and Ryusei is leaning forward in his chair, his chin on his fist, his elbow on the arm of the chair. Sae simply looks back sighing and shaking his head.

“It’s annoying how you know me so well.”

“I’m glad you feel that way.”

“Oh, oh, but I have a unicorn! Daddy number one tells me I can get claim it when I’m an adult.” That earns a laugh from all of them (albeit Sae’s is stifled and soft) for reasons you don’t know.

“That’s lovely honey! Promise you’ll show me your unicorn what you’re an adult?” The interviewer held her pinky out, smiling as you intertwined your pinkies.

“Don’t worry, I’ll convince them to get it for me tomorrow instead.”

⋆꙳•❅°⋆❆.ೃ࿔:･*❆ ₊⋆

[lowtaperfeyd]

Larva (2/5)

Lady Jessica x Daughter!Reader, Dune x Reader

(not beta-read, we die like feyd-rautha)

author's note: if you enjoyed, this dont be afraid to like and reblog!

warnings: dune spoilers, self doubt, descriptions that could be interrupted as a panic attack

wc: 2791

Larva, (synonym: caterpillar): to describe someone who preys on others or an extortioner. 

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“Brother,” (Y/N) said as Paul walked into the sparring room. It was like any other morning on Caladan, the sun streaming in through crystal clear windows. The thing that made this sunrise special was the fact that it was her last day on Caladan. They would leave the next day, in the early hours of the morning, when the moon was still up and only the owl sang. The moon and archaic stars would see her family leave the planet they’ve been for centuries. It was her last sunrise that was accompanied with songbirds’ song and the slow, easy sway of trees. 

���Sister,” Paul said, walking through the room barefoot and eyes half filled with sleep. His feet made a soft padding noise throughout the room. 

It had been a recurring thing for Paul and (Y/N) to spar, so they would be able to keep their abilities sharp, without fear of hurting the other. But it had been months since they had the chance.

“How long have you been up?” Paul asked with a yawn. 

She turned back to face her brother. It was quite comical, even though they were twins, they were completely different. Paul was destined to become something the history books couldn’t comprehend, as their mother would say. (Y/N) was to fall into the background, to make sure she didn’t upstage her brother. He was to be duke. She was to be a wife. He wanted to be a dreamer. She dreamt of leading. He wanted to continue undergoing mentat training. She wanted to do more than pick place mats. 

The only thing they had in common was Bene Gesserit training, and only for her it was allowed to pursue it more than her brother. 

“Not long,” she said, “a little while, maybe an hour, hour and a half.” 

“And you?” she questioned, “it looks as if you just rolled out of bed and put on whatever was available.” 

Paul’s lips quirked slightly at the side. He strolled over to the table at the opposite end of the beige room where the shields and weapons were splayed out. 

“Have you heard anything about Duncan?” she asked her brother, knowing his fondness of the swordsman. 

Even though the question was innocent enough, Paul’s whole demeanor changed. He stiffened and froze in place like he had heard something or been reminded of something awful and terrible pertaining to Duncan Idaho. 

“He's fine,” he bit out quickly. 

(Y/N) was taken aback by this. Even though for the past couple of weeks Paul has been quieter than normal, never in her life had she heard Paul speak this way. A way which was so snapped and tight, so short, so irritated, maybe irritated by her. Paul seemed to have changed since the night she heard his wails. Paul continued what he was doing and snapped on the shield. 

(Y/N) carefully walked over to the ornate table that was covered with different kinds of weapons. She took a spot near Paul and put her own shield on as well. The atmosphere around them was as thick as molasses. 

“Are you alright?” she asked, attempting to make some sort of amendments. She knew that he didn’t feel well. But her brother was not in the mood for trying to have any sort of reconciliation. 

“Can we just spar?” he said coldly, grabbing a knife. He walked back to the center of the room. He tapped the button on his shield and the murmurs began as the shield washed over him in a blue haze.

(Y/N) sighed and tapped her own shield button, the cover enveloping her from head to toe. She grabbed her own weapon and stood opposite from her brother. 

They both took fighting stances and looked at eachother. (Y/N) took in her brother’s face, no longer full of childlike wonder and youth, some of that seemed to fall away into something darker, some not all. After a quick nod from her brother, they began fighting. 

They took turns taking slashes and hits against each other. The sound of clinking metal filled the echoey room. 

“What happened all those nights ago?” she asked her brother breathlessly as she took refuge in the far corner of the expansive mat, trying to catch her breath. 

“What do you mean?” he responded, lunging forward to get her.

Quickly, she jumped and turned around to the opposite side of Paul, now in the corner. 

“With you,” she took a step forward to slash him, “in the library”

Paul’s shield flashed blue as he put his sword against her weapon. The two were eye to eye with one another. 

“Nothing happened,” he bit, in her face. He pushed all his weight against her, to make her unsteady. (Y/N) haphazardly stumbled to the side, Paul falling forward onto the floor, miscalculating the amount of force needed. 

“Even if something did happen, it would be none of your business.” he growled. 

“If something happened with mother than you should say something”

“Why does it always come back to mom for you?” he probed. 

“You make her out to be some sort of villain!” he raised his voice at her, getting off of the floor. 

(Y/N) scoffed at this. 

“You only say that because you’re her favorite.” she retorted back, “having everything handed to you! You’re painfully entitled!” 

Paul let out a groan and tackled her to the floor. Both uselessly struggling and throwing punches against each other. (Y/N) back was against the mat, Paul’s hands were rough around her shoulders, pushing her down further. Her shield flashed that blood red color. She put all her might into kicking him off, but her attempts were futile. Her lips were pressed together and breathed even more labored than before. Something deep inside of her stirred and commanded her actions. 

“I’m entitled! I’m not the one who left for months to go off and study some ancient agenda!” 

“Get off of me!” 

Paul seemed to be pushed by some other worldly force off (Y/N). Quickly he scurried to his feet. (Y/N) propped herself up on her forearms, panting. 

Paul jabbed a finger in her direction and tried to speak some words to existence, but his fury made it impossible for those words penetrate through the air. He knew she used the voice on him. Out of anger, Paul stormed out of the room, leaving his sister to deal with her actions. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The thoughts of earlier this morning plagued (Y/N)’s head. The beauty of the view from the flight deck couldn’t quell her racing mind. The partly cloudy blue sky added insult to injury, her surroundings were so heavenly and luscious while her actions made her feel like some sort of gnarly, ugly witch. 

You did nothing wrong. You were protecting yourself. 

Her body was slumped in on herself as she stood, her arms crossed with her hands on her upper arm, like she was comforting herself. Her neck was beginning to ache from it being virtually folded to her chest. 

You had shields, why did you need to protect yourself like that?

The self doubt consumed her like pools of bone chilling water. The water slowly rising and hitting at her ankles. How it would seep into her shoes and freeze her feet rendering her immobile. The panic would set in, the fear of not being able to move. When the water has already risen to her knees and it would run like a raging river, like her brother's rage. His rage would knock her over and it seemed like she couldn’t move her arms forward. Her head had gone below the water, rotten and polluted. Her screams couldn’t be heard from below the river she drowned herself in. The water seeping into her mouth, a bitter taste was all she could make out. It would fall down her throat and into her lungs, like she was letting the rage and hatred consume her. 

“(Y/N)!” she jumped, being pulled out of her thoughts at the shouting of her father. 

Frightened, she turned around to see her father in his pilot gear with his arms outstretched wide and a smile equally as wide on his face. The fear melted from her body, like poisoned ice to clean water, and she began to walk toward him. 

“Hi,” she said to him, letting herself be taken in by his warm arms. Her father was like a lighthouse in a deep, dark storm. When the masts and sails seemed to creak and flatter and navigation failed, he was a light that constantly showed up. He pulled away from the hug, but his hands were still on her shoulders.

“Are you ready?” he asked her in an excited, but hushed tone. 

“Yes,” she said with a small smile on her face. 

Her father smiled back at her and placed an arm around her shoulder as they walked to where the ornithopter was. 

“Have you finished all of your packing yet?” Duke Leto questioned.

“Most of it,” she responded, her voice still soft, not fully ready to be expressed.

She cleared her throat, eyes cast to the ground, “I have some papers and other little things to pack up, it shouldn’t take me long.”

Her father looked at her, his eyebrow up in surprise. It wasn’t like his daughter to act so aloof and out of it when they went out. 

“Are you feeling alright?” he probed. 

“Yeah, yeah,” she affirmed, her voice just a little bit unsteady, “just tired. I didn't sleep well.”

The two of them got closer and closer to the royal ornithopter. She saw Lanville in the machine making sure that everything was okay and nothing would fail while they were out. (Y/N) slid from under his arm and hurried up the ramp and into the cockpit, almost forgetting to thank Lanville. 

“Thank you,” she rushed out to say as she plopped down into the chair, quickly buckling her seatbelt. Her father entered seconds behind her. The two of them worked to set up and prepare for the flight. The air was filled with the clicks, taps, beeps, and chimes of buttons and switches. The engine came to life below them and the wings began to flutter up and down. 

“Are you ready?

“Yeah” 

Her father grabbed the cyclic stick and slowly but surely they began to lift off the ground, she pressed a button that raised the feet from the ground and into the thopter. The two left from the hangar and began flying out over the azure sea of Caladan, the last time they would be able to. 

“It’s beautiful today,” he said over the roar of the engine and wings. 

“Yes it is.” she responded, continuing to just look out the window. 

Her father looked over to her with a worried look on his face. 

“Have I ever told you about my time on Ix?” he asked, his eyes straight ahead on the sky in front of him. 

“Briefly”

“When I was your age,” he started, “maybe when I was just a little younger than you, my father sent me to Ix for me to proceed with my education. I didn’t want to go but I had to, it wasn’t my choi-”

“Paul and I fought today,” she interrupted her father. 

“I know, I saw him before he met with you.” he said, matter of factly, slightly confused. 

“Paul and I fought today.” (Y/N) urged, she closed her eyes tightly, like if she opened them she would be greeted with her worst fears that manifested from childish nightmares. 

Her father’s eyes soften at her

“Oh, my dear…” he said lowly, in a tone that would be used to console a small child. 

“I don’t think it was even about anything important,” she sniffled. 

“If it's making you feel this way then you should say something.” 

And it was suddenly like the river that surged through her mind earlier was being drained, all the words came out. 

“I called him entitled and that he had everything handed to him.” she paused for a second, “that he was mom’s favorite and that's why he was those things I said before.” 

Her father let out a long sigh

“Is there anything else?” he inquired.

Yes! Tell him about the night in the library! The voice! The anger, disdain, and fury that courses through your body!

She looked over to her father, his eyes were full of worry when they looked at her. Silently, (Y/N) shook her head and looked back to the window. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The lights in (Y/N)’s bedroom were low and no moon rays came through the window. The walls were bare with no pictures and every table seemed to be cleaned of all life. Bookshelves were so clean you could see your reflection off them and pens as well as other small items didn’t exist in her room anymore. 

Thoroughly, she went through all her drawers, bedside, desk, closet, and searched for any things she may have left and forgotten to pack up. But, almost every crevice was empty, there was nothing in them, only the memories. 

She walked to the second closet in her room, a smaller one, used for nothing more than coats and shoes. She opened the dark, wood grain doors and they creaked like screeching cats. Reminiscing, she ran her hand over the wooden bar that the hangers hung off. The bar was smooth like marble with no chips or cracks, it was as perfect as she first remembered. 

She set her hands down on the top of the chest of drawers beneath the clothes line. The surface was cold and had a laminated feeling under her hands. She looked down at the mahogany and a face looked back at her. Her face, tired and aged, there she realized it would be her last time on Caladan. No more rain showers, no more hearing the playing of bagpipes early in the morning, and no more coats. 

Quickly, she changed her mind to something else, checking the drawers. The first drawer she opened was as empty as the castle walls, nothing was left in there, just a little bit of stray lint. She crouched down and opened the middle drawer. In that drawer she found a singular pen, a basic one with silver details. She sighed out and placed it into her pocket. 

She dropped to her knees and opened the final drawer on the very bottom. The space was much like the other ones, a dark mahogany with minimal imperfections in the wood, perfectly glossy and with silver accents outlining the corner of the drawer. The only thing that made this drawer different was a small, intricate, embossed chest no bigger than a book they had in the library, covered in a thin layer of dust. She used her hand to brush the dust off the top of the chest. Dust bloomed into her face and she coughed slightly. The box had a small sparkling silver latch at the front of it. The latch had space for an equally tiny key. She looked around the drawer looking for the key. 

Surely enough, something dazzling in the corner of her eye caught her attention. She looked over and saw it was the key she was looking for. She took the key, no longer than a paperclip, into her hand. 

Delicately, (Y/N) unlocked and opened the box. The hinges didn’t groan at the sudden movement, even though it had been closed for what seemed like years. Inside the box was a stack of documents, letters, and pictures. Nostalgically, she flipped through the papers. One was a letter from a close friend on Wallach IX that had been lost. Another was a birthday card from her 7th birthday. Even a doodle she had drawn from a decade ago was there lying in the pile. At the end of her scouring through the documents, she found a photograph she thought she had lost ages ago. 

The photo consisted of her and her brother in the field by their home. The two of them had juvenile and wild grins on their faces. They were sitting with their legs crossed in a patch with an abundance of little yellow and white daisies. It had most likely been taken by one of the nanny who used to take care of her and Paul. She looked closer at the photo and saw a small crown on Paul’s head, a crown she had made out of the daisies for him, crowning him Duke of Caladan.

[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

[callizinc]

Not to be a hater, but while I understand why the majority of fans who ship coralena skip into the comfortably settled part of a relationship so they can make cute and fluffy fanart and fic surrounding the ship, I kinda wish more people didn't and just explored the "getting to know each other" phase because that would mean exploring the two fo them more as characters

Something that bothers me especially is that people make Coral too nice? Like when we first meet her she says things such as "am I required to talk to you" and "i guess if you're so desperate to talk to someone I can spit some words at your face", she is clearly uncomfortable and irritated with Ena, and perhaps she is that way with everyone seeing as she is new here and probably a little uncomfortable in her new place of employment, but that doesnt negate that she doesnt seem all that nice. She is, at best, somewhat polite, just enough to remain professional.

This isn't a condemnation of her character. It's a pretty reasonable attitude to have in her position, and it's one of the things I like about her, I just wish more people would take into account that Coral would not be comfortable with Ena right away and that they would have to build some level of professional trust between co-workers before they even become friends let alone romantic partners

But hey I'm aro what do I know

Also I like the themes of motherhood in the game and I do think the idea of Ena metaphorically giving birth as part of her job is fun and fucked up, however she would not be a good mother, if anything the circumstances she is in would prevent her from coming close to being a good mother, she would be baffled, irritated, confused and resentful of her child if the human board took a more conventional child like form

I saw some fanart of her poking a baby human board with a stick and that's the exact energy she would have

Anon this is such a beautiful ask to receive this is like Coming down the stairs on christmas day to look at a tree full of presents or whatever the hell else This was so. beautiful. Now I do not know if i have much to say myself because You truly said it all already, LOL The ask is just too fire, so just know. That this is so beautiful

I will say that sometimes i feel like I can count the amount of times i've seen like. In character Coral fan content on one hand . 😭 NOT LIKE THERE'S MUCH TO GO OFF SHE HAS LIKE 5 LINES BUT IT STILL FEELS REALLYYYYY DIRE OUT THERE LITERALLY ALL THE TIME 💀💀... SO I LOVE THIS ASK, And I think that's also a really true and thoughtful read on her character that i haven't really seen anywhere else :D!!!!

It also seems to me a case of Fandom Ignoring All Of Characters' Actual Personalities Literally At All To Make Ship Content. which in addition is synonymous with Fork Found In Kitchen. But i am also aro. And annoying. So what do i know either. Looks at you and shrugs

ANYWAY 😭. SAAAAY THAT. SAY THAT SHITTTTT!!!!!! YES.... YEEEESSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I just know, no, WE just know That If we ever encountered a world where she did not Abort That Thang She would be drinking beer on the couch while the child is taped to the wall like that one image. She would be going "Can y'all watch him while I go smoke" on an Instagram live.

I'm so tired of making women characters into picket fence mothers in fan content, Where is the fanart of Ena making children cry because she tried to speak to them once and they knew her vibes were so awful they just instantly burst into tears

[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.