#from what i remember this is accurate to the events

[reyhospacebitch]

I may have seen it first on your page. I don't remember srry! I really only wrote this out to wrestle with my personal feelings of what the flip side of this narrative choice that they're saying is the only Accurate reading of andor's ending would mean for Jyn as a character whose arc is mainly about abandonment in r1 and about finding a home, finding belonging with a group of people: Mainly, Cassian. And how this one simple headcanon really fucks with the main message of the film imo. I really just have issue with taking away the only good thing, the only connection she truly made, that canon Jyn had going for her right before she died. Like that girl suffered and then died by like twenty. At least she didn't die alone, at least she finally found someone who saw her and stayed, was how I always looked at the ending.

The good news is actors and even the showrunner's opinions on r1 or what-ifs of futures that will never happen mean nothing. Its personal headcanons because none of them will actually tell that story. The characters are dead lol. fandoms place too much meaning on actor headcanons nowadays as if whatever they Think must be canon, despite it not being in actual canon materials imo.

If we're painting broad strokes on canon subtext to mean cassian wants to get back together with bix (which would mean ignoring accidental? context clues bc it's not shown in Andor that Cassian has interest in getting back with Bix or even that he misses her on Yavin) then great. You can assume he does if you want. You could headcanon that he's hiding it because he's emotionally repressed, that he has a bunch of revnog bottles under his bed on Yavin that we cant see etc etc etc. You can just as easily headcanon that he's moved on because the text doesn't spend the time or visual space to disprove either.

People can interpret events that are explicitly vague however they want, that's the beauty of it, but neither is explicitly stated as the Right character reading. And even if it was, then you can ignore it too idrc either way. I've shipped characters who have never met or are from completely different fictional universes. Idc about canon that much. Hell, in my head DJATS daisy jones and billy dunne had a two decades long affair and then lived happily ever after despite the fact both book and show canons are very much Not That. Lolz

What ifs of dead characters are for fandom and fanfic writers who can do whatever they wish. So unless they write a what-if animated episode (pls no) or books covering Andor's tl that contradicts this we're all free from this discourse and should take it with a grain of sand. Even then, you should take it with a grain of sand because Andor contradicts a bunch of books and comics lol.

That is as long as shippers all stay in our own lanes and not start fights with each other over what is "accurate" or "right" or some shit because there are always different ways to read and interpret characters, subtext and stories in general.

I don't fuck with hating on women, fictional or real, because of their association with men tho. That should be made clear by now, but just incase im stating it now.

read somewhere about how Jyn should have been alone on that beach in r1 since if they survived she would have stayed alone with the context of andor's ending and I just.... yeah.... that's essentially the root of one of my biggest issues with the show now.

the actors and creator etc have made it clear that andor would dump jyn for bix in two seconds and I genuinely hate it. Not because it's a ship of mine, but because Jyn's entireeeeee arc in her own movie was about her isolation and routine continual abandonment of those closest to her. Because of the cause or love. Lyra abandoned her because she essentially chose her husband's love over her daughter. Gererra chose the Partisans over her. Galen chose his work, the Empire. That's how she saw those losses.

So, yes. If you strip away the one character who finally beat that pattern, who routinely FOLLOWED her instead of leaving, then essentially Jyn is alone again. Narratively, it was clear her allegiance is to people, not organizations, even if she also believed in the cause. So Cassian's "welcome home" and everything else loses its meaning for Jyn in this new context. Not because of a ship, but because of Jyn's arc and what we know of her. But what makes it worse is we also know Cassian was *never* actually alone. He has a horde of people who will remember him and tell his story. He has always had people and he also simply has a complex for saving, going back for women in general. Kerri, Maarva, Bix, Kleya etc. So essentially his relationship with Jyn wasn't important in the grand scheme of things? That's just ~how~ he is.

Perhaps this should all give us comfort. Hope. And it would, maybe, if it didn't also further shine a light on the fact that Jyn died with no one who really knew her to tell her story. That Jyn - the second of only three women to be a main character in star wars from almost 50 years of star wars storytelling, and thus the misogynistic af fandom hates her - didn't actually find her home besides a military organization at all. (Which is strikingly familiar with Rey's story actually but I digress lol) And that if they survived, Cassian would leave her like everyone else has left her.

And that's supposedly good.

It undercuts the story in a way I can't reconcile.... So I guess I just... Won't.

[magpigment]

i just remembered something!!

some of the qsmp fans who were around in the dsmp might remember this one stupid bit that some people on the server did, with the posters the Eggpire left around. one of them, when you rotate the middle panel, makes it look like it says ‘GEG’, which people of course found hilarious.

now, the point of this post:

c!slimecicle canonically bore witness to at the very least every major event that happened on the server. he also canonically bore witness to rather insignificant happenings (the building of certain places, for example, that had little to no lore significance). the chances of him seeing that poster saying ‘GEG’ is pretty high.

NOW, i’m not saying that there’s any correlation to that bit and q!slime naming his alter ego, who’s a funky little egg, Gegg, BUT!

i do think it’s a very interesting coincidence that i’m positive was completely on accident since irl charlie slimecicle would’ve had no idea this ever occurred on the dsmp seeing as he logged on like four times XD.

[skitskatdacat63]

Here is a badly drawn comic of my terrible, awkward group project experience from yesterday. I thought it was very absurd so I wanted to share it other people lol :)

Let me know, how do you find their conduct 😭

[goldentigerfestival]

Forgot to post this earlier but I did in fact comb the entire Vesperia script to determine how many times he uses ま/まあ throughout the game, along with a few other phrases he uses repeatedly. This counts all of main story, every single sidequest, and every single skit in the game.

Final counts were:

ま/まあ: 280

Ma/Maa; translates to "well". He uses this at the beginning of a sentence usually, but it's sometimes in the middle. "Ma" is usually more quick and snappy. "Maa" is more thoughtful and/or prolonged. Obviously it can vary based on context, but that's the general breakdown.

���じゃ and any variants: 133

Nja, along with variants such as "ja", "soreja", etc. Variants are counted when they're all used to express "let's get going", when they're about to head off ("ja" could be used in a sentence such as "ja/but then, why is xyz like this", etc). They encompass translations such as "well then" (let's get going implied. includes "so then", "then" "alright then", and so on), "we should be off", "let's get going", "let's go", etc. (not to be confused with 行こう(ikou), 行くぜ, (ikuze), and other similar versions of this phrase. That can also mean "let's go", but any instances of Yuri using that particular phrase was not counted because it wasn't a variant of, specifically, んじゃ, which is also his most common "let's go" ja variant).

おい / おいおい: 66

Oi/Oi oi; translates to "hey"/"hey, hey", though "oi" is more or less an accepted word in English nowadays.

おっと: 12

Otto (not to be confused with "oto", referring to sound); an expression of surprise that can translate roughly to "whoa there" (which is the most common translation I do see for it and what I'd use in most cases too, context of course varying). The reason I included this one despite it being so seemingly low in number is because it's not a particularly common expression, much less one used multiple times by a single character? It's so rare from anyone else, which is just a regular thing relative to Yuri and his dialogue/speech (i.e. most characters sparingly use phrases repeatedly, as compared to Yuri... as you can see lol. Other characters use these words/phrases, but nowhere near as regularly, if regularly at all).

Realized along the way I should've included やれやれ (yare yare, "good grief", "oh dear", "oh boy" etc), but by the time I realized I should have in case it was an interesting count, I was too far into the script to be able to handle going all the way back through it LOL.

No. No, I am not joking that Yuri used ま/まあ 280 times throughout the course of the game. That is to say, it could be more if I missed any, but on the assumption I didn't, that's where it stands.

Why do I love this so much? Because it's a very specific character quirk of a character I adore. I'm very fond of his repetition. Thank you.

[connormoving]

aww its kinda cute finding me complaining abt my dads whole lisa thing from 2017. honestly so overshadowed by everything else and also i was so annoying when i was 12 aw .

[windupaidoneus]

today again i ponder. my beautiful modern au where the events of the game did happen but wayy into the past & theyre both reincarnated or some shit. & hilde gets very vivid dreams of these past life events which he would tell hades all about because hes a chatterbox & likes sharing things with him. right. & its always like, this was really weirdly realistic & they kinda all fit together, such interesting dreams! they dont usually do that i dont think maybe its just another way my brain is weird lol. but then he gets to the shb shit. & past a certain point hes a lot less willing to talk. because if these arent just dreams. he would have to tell hades what he did to him in what might just be their actual past lives. he would never want to hurt him with that kind of information

& i mean hades def notices something is off & probably prods him about it but it doesnt really amount to much until hildes gotten to experience elpis in dream again which. Well.. guy who wakes up crying of course. & they have to talk about it now.

[jewishvitya]

A pro-Palestine Jew on tiktok asked those of us who were raised pro-Israel, what got us to change our minds on Palestine. I made a video to answer (with my voice, not my face), and a few people watched it and found some value in it. I'm putting this here too. I communicate through text better than voice.

So I feel repetitive for saying this at this point, but I grew up in the West Bank settlements. I wrote this post to give an example of the extent to which Palestinians are dehumanized there.

Where I live now, I meet Palestinians in day to day life. Israeli Arab citizens living their lives. In the West Bank, it was nothing like that. Over there, I only saw them through the electric fence, and the hostility between us and Palestinians was tangible.

When you're a child being brought into the situation, you don't experience the context, you don't experience the history, you don't know why they're hostile to you. You just feel "these people hate me, they don't want me to exist." And that bubble was my reality. So when I was taught in school that everything we did was in self defense, that our military is special and uniquely ethical because it's the only defensive military in the world - that made sense to me. It slotted neatly into the reality I knew.

One of the first things to burst the bubble for me was when I spoke to an old Israeli man and he was talking about his trauma from battle. I don't remember what he said, but it hit me wrong. It conflicted with the history as I understood it. So I was a bit desperate to make it make sense again, and I said, "But everything we did was in self defense, right?"

He kinda looked at me, couldn't understand at all why I was upset, and he went, "We destroyed whole villages. Of course we did. It was war, that's what you do."

And that casual "of course" stuck with me. I had to look into it more.

I couldn't look at more accurate history, and not at accounts by Palestinians, I was too primed against these sources to trust them. The community I grew up in had an anti-intellectual element to it where scholars weren't trusted about things like this.

So what really solidified this for me, was seeing Palestinian culture.

Because part of the story that Israel tells us to justify everything, is that Palestinians are not a distinct group of people, they're just Arabs. They belong to the nations around us. They insist on being here because they want to deny us a homeland. The Palestinian identity exists to hurt us. This, because the idea of displacing them and taking over their lands doesn't sound like stealing, if this was never theirs and they're only pretending because they want to deprive us.

But then foods, dances, clothing, embroidery, the Palestinian dialect. These things are history. They don't pop into existence just because you hate Jews and they're trying to move here. How gorgeous is the Palestinian thobe? How stunning is tatreez in general? And when I saw specific patterns belonging to different regions of Palestine?

All of these painted for me a rich shared life of a group of people, and countered the narrative that the Palestininian identity was fabricated to hurt us. It taught me that, whatever we call them, whatever they call themselves, they have a history in this land, they have a right to it, they have a connection to it that we can't override with our own.

I started having conversations with leftist friends. Confronting the fact that the borders of the occupied territories are arbitrary and every Israeli city was taken from them. In one of those conversations, I was encouraged to rethink how I imagine peace.

This also goes back to schooling. Because they drilled into us, we're the ones who want peace, they're the ones who keep fighting, they're just so dedicated to death and killing and they won't leave us alone.

In high school, we had a stadium event with a speaker who was telling us about a person who defected from Hamas, converted to Christianity and became a Shin Bet agent. Pretty sure you can read this in the book "Son of Hamas." A lot of my friends read the book, I didn't read it, I only know what I was told in that lecture. I guess they couldn't risk us missing out on the indoctrination if we chose not to read it.

One of the things they told us was how he thought, we've been fighting with them for so long, Israelis must have a culture around the glorification of violence. And he looked for that in music. He looked for songs about war. And for a while he just couldn't find any, but when he did, he translated it more fully, and he found out the song was about an end to wars. And this, according to the story as I was told it, was one of the things that convinced him. If you know know the current trending Israeli "war anthem," you know this flimsy reasoning doesn't work.

Back then, my friend encouraged me to think more critically about how we as Israelis envision peace, as the absence of resistance. And how self-centered it is. They can be suffering under our occupation, but as long as it doesn't reach us, that's called peace. So of course we want it and they don't.

Unless we're willing to work to change the situation entirely, our calls for peace are just "please stop fighting back against the harm we cause you."

In this video, Shlomo Yitzchak shares how he changed his mind. His story is much more interesting than mine, and he's much more eloquent telling it. He mentions how he was taught to fear Palestinians. An automatic thought, "If I go with you, you'll kill me." I was taught this too. I was taught that, if I'm in a taxi, I should be looking at the driver's name. And if that name is Arab, I should watch the road and the route he's taking, to be prepared in case he wants to take me somewhere to kill me. Just a random person trying to work. For years it stayed a habit, I'd automatically look at the driver's name. Even after knowing that I want to align myself with liberation, justice, and equality. It was a process of unlearning.

On October, not long after the current escalation of violence, I had to take a taxi again. A Jewish driver stopped and told me he'll take me, "so an Arab doesn't get you." Israeli Jews are so comfortable saying things like this to each other. My neighbors discussed a Palestinian employee, with one saying "We should tell him not to come anymore, that we want to hire a Jew." The second answered, "No, he'll say it's discrimination," like it would be so ridiculous of him. And the first just shrugged, "So we don't have to tell him why." They didn't go through with it, but they were so casual about this conversation.

In the Torah, we're told to treat those who are foreign to us well, because we know what it's like to be the foreigner. Fighting back against oppression is the natural human thing to do. We know it because we lived it. And as soon as I looked at things from this angle, it wasn't really a choice of what to support.

[satoblue]

“DIRTY LAUNDRY” — gojo satoru

satoru hates cleaning day, but after being put on laundry duty, he may find that something good will come from it (or rather — himself). | wc: 4.8k+ (oops)

MDNI, f!reader, established relationship (you’re married :D), satoru being forced to do household chores (the horror), your husband is sick in the head...for YOU, panty sniffing, inappropriate use of underwear, masturbation, no p in v, domestic and disgustingly sweet i would say (sorry heh), lowkey selfship coded bc i would so go off on this man to do work around the house LOL, extra of the aftermath at the end (satoru gets in trouble), not much banter + more so yelling (on your part aha), the only person he fears in the world is YOU. | dividers made by me

There are three hundred and sixty five days in a whole year, and of those many there is only one day during which the earth completes its entire revolution around the sun that Gojo Satoru, the Strongest, despises with a passion — Cleaning Day.

No, there is not a designated day around the world in which all people drop whatever they are doing just to deep clean their entire house, but in the Gojo household, unfortunately, there is. And maybe it is because you, his wife, are his world, so the event feels bigger than it actually is. Though, even with this seemingly romantic sentiment, the poor man feels shivers run down his spine just thinking about what was soon to come.

Do not get him wrong — Satoru loves his home, and only because you occupy the space and fill it with your warmth through every smile you grace him with. He loves how you adorn and furnish it, how you make it yours as the rightful Mrs. Gojo. There was not a single area which did not have the trace and essence of you, his darling wife. Your husband takes into account everything you do, and therefore, notices even the smallest things out of place. He is fulfilled and endeared with the knowledge that his woman has been there, and his woman has indeed made the decision that the strange ball decor you are so fond of and chose to put in a designated area on the shelf in the hallway would no longer be in its usual spot, but five inches to the right of it — and simply because you wanted it there.

You were a little weird like that, but it filled him with immense joy that you were weird about the place you share together and call home. And he, in turn, is very weird about you — something he will prove time and time again. You have a certain flair, a touch that lingers around this place that is so uniquely you. This, unfortunately, also applies to cleaning just the same. Most people have normal fears — spiders, heights, the dark. But Gojo Satoru’s is firstly, his wife, and secondly, a little black smiley face drawn in sharpie with the words ‘Cleaning Day!’ written right beside it which you mark on the calendar to remember. In all truth, he thinks the color of the marker you chose is symbolic in representing the terror and trauma that comes with the day.

Okay, maybe he’s being a little dramatic, but your dearest husband could be walking past the wall where the calendar was hung — and then? His body will have a visceral reaction. He’ll become visibly tense and turn pale. He doesn’t even have to look, he can feel its presence like a ghost. It is accurate if he does say so himself, because that is what Cleaning Day is to him — a ghost, a shadow come to torment him, always lurking and lingering before slowly but surely approaching before you even realize it.

Even so, no matter how much distaste your husband holds towards something so inanimate — there is not a single day that goes by where he does not love and adore you to the fullest. Perhaps that is why you put up with him all the time, because you know the extent of his love for you even when he’s being absolutely insufferable (which he knows himself is all the time). But he also knows this — whenever he is with you, anything and everything is somehow bearable. When he’s by your side and heeding your commands, he is the happiest, and Satoru has no problem spending the rest of his life being told what to do by you and you alone... even if it’s chores too, he guesses.

Though, even with that in mind, still, another thing he didn’t look forward to today, to top it all off, is the tensions that came between you two because of all the stress — and not the hot kind!

“Honey,” you peek in, calling out to your husband by the doorway of your shared bedroom, drawing his attention with your saccharinely soft voice.

There it is.

The trap.

Satoru prepares himself, taking a deep breath.

“I don’t wanna!”, he whines back almost immediately, hiding under the cozy covers that smelt like you, hoping the bed would suck him right in and he’d disappear. You hadn’t spoken on your true intentions yet, trying to butter him up first. It wouldn’t work though because he knew, he always knew.

Your smile strains into something unnatural and scary.

“Stop playing around and get up!” You snap, dropping the act, approaching quicker than the speed of light and ripping the blankets off of him, annoyed you had to play this game of cat and mouse every single time.

Satoru flinches at your tone in exaggeration, straightening up and out of bed like a soldier called to duty. You roll your eyes at his antics. Why did he always feel the need to be so dramatic? Actually, never mind — this was your husband you were talking about.

Crossing your arms, you give him a scrutinizing once-over which would usually have his dick up in no time (it still does) before heaving out a sigh, turning on your heel gracefully as you do and padding out of the bedroom and down the hall, expecting him to follow. He does, albeit, like a kicked puppy rather than the powerful sorcerer everyone knows him to be, and all because of his very, very mean wife — who wasn’t mean all the time, just specifically when he was being lazy or leaving his stinky socks around the house.

“Stop looking at me like that.” You tut in disapproval. Satoru can still tell you care, from the way your brows knit together and your eyes soften just a bit at his fitful demeanor. Your voice grows a tad gentler now. “You’re in charge of the laundry, okay? I left the basket over there —”, you point somewhere to the ground, assigning him with his own special task, but he finds himself barely paying attention to anything (except for your ass that was swaying rather temptingly in front of him).

Cerulean blue stares after you, and he opts for hugging himself like the very definition of a pouty child who had gotten a rather harsh scolding from his parents, sliding his way childishly towards the living space, his Cinnamoroll slippers chafing loudly against the floors. White brows furrow, and Satoru’s eyes widen with his classic pitiful look when you turn your attention to the carpets, switching on that dreadfully loud machine which has even the cat running leaps around the house in fear (of your wrath and said machine). He couldn’t help but be on the same page with his sworn enemy more than today.

“Stupid laundry…”, he whispers to himself, peeking at you from the corner of his eye right after the words leave his mouth to make sure you didn’t hear him over the noise. Heh, can’t be too careful — you tend to have selective hearing.

Flopping side to side theatrically, he makes his way over to the full laundry basket on the floor, lifting it up effortlessly. Satoru looks over at you, pout deepening and jutted lip growing more pronounced by the second as he glares half-heartedly at your back, sending you waves telepathically to turn around and watch as you force your distressed lover to perform labor. It melts away rather quickly, however, his blue gaze softening so easily against his will as he watches you fiddle around, completely in the zone, maneuvering the expanse of the living room with the vacuum in hand, paying him no mind.

The basket almost slips out of his hands as he admires the sight of you performing such a menial task. Honestly, Satoru could stand here and watch you for hours and hours and hours, even if you were doing nothing. But that’s also the thing, you are never doing nothing. You are living and breathing, existing as his wife, and you do it beautifully. Hair messy and clothes shabby, even in your rage — you were the definition of perfection. How could someone have such a powerful hold over him, he could never begin to understand. The love you both hold for each other was far from simple, so perhaps it has something to do with that. It’s like every thought flies out of his head when you fall into his sights like an angel, and Satoru, well, Satoru just goes dumb.

He waits there like an idiot for a couple more moments, taking advantage of the seconds until you turn around and likely scream at him for standing around and wasting time, eyes glued to your figure, tracing all over you, from the top of your head to your sock-clad feet (he wonders if you can feel him touching you with only his gaze), before eventually coming back down to earth.

With a serene sigh and acceptance on his face, Satoru relents, coming to terms with the fact you won’t look back at him and change your mind about him doing chores, the very word leaving a bad taste in his mouth, no matter how big his puppy dog eyes are that he throws in your direction (you were always a cat person anyway). He has That Look, the one that says — ‘Even in my impatience, I will listen’. He can never fight with you, because you are always right. If you say it’s his job to do the damn laundry, then it is. And with that, he gives you one last glance for good measure, sights pointedly lingering on your derrière, before turning and heading straight to the laundry room (taking his damn sweet time while at it).

Setting the basket down on the counter, your dutiful husband sifts through the laundry to separate the clothes into two piles like you taught him that one time. Something about the white clothes getting stained and ruined if they get washed with the dyed fabrics. He didn’t really know about that type of stuff, but he didn’t want to be on the receiving end of your scorn by fucking this up, so he just followed your instructions.

Truthfully, Satoru didn’t understand you at times (though, he supposes he never will). Why would you waste your time on tedious things like cleaning when he could hire help to get it done for the both of you? It’s been that way since he was a child, so he was used to the lifestyle until you came along. He is not lacking in money, and you could finally catch a break instead of complaining about your back all the time . . . Or maybe you like playing as his little housewife. The thought brings his infamous cocky grin to his face before it quickly drops, nose scrunched in disgust at a rather unpleasant smell wafting into his nostrils. 

“What the —”

Oh, it was just his socks.

Satoru grumbles to himself, annoyed and muttering under his breath, barely able to hear himself over the vaccuming in the other room, going on his usual spiel about how much he hates today (and how much he hates his stinky socks — and he knows you wouldn’t disagree with that sentiment), which he wouldn’t have the same confidence saying directly to your face as he continues to dig through the vast mountain of clothes. He releases a long, drawn out sigh, deft fingers hooking into soft fabrics until he pauses, spotting something rather interesting in the pile.

“Eh? What do we have here?”

Taking his arm out from the bin, Satoru’s face lights up with curiosity as he pulls out a cute, pink, strawberry-patterned number with a small bow sewn into the front hem, holding it up to the light, a cheeky glint in his eye. First, his sights dart across the room, waiting for you to pop up around the corner and start berating him for being a pervert at a time like this.

When you don’t, he officially deems it safe, turning his attention back to what was important. He pinches the straps and examines them from every possible angle, a sly smile creeping on his face. He shuts one eye, making optimal use out of the other, intently focused. He has never been more serious about anything. In fact, if he had a tiny magnifying glass in his pocket, it’d be used for moments like this — for him to be weird about his wife’s dirty underwear.

“Oops, I think I might have found something that doesn’t belong to me.~”, he chirps.

Cerulean eyes inspect the (adorable) piece of fabric, and out of instinct, Satoru’s gaze falls on the subtle stains on the seat of the panties, and his smile grows even wider into something cheshire and menacing. He can’t help but let out a low, impressed whistle, eyes twinkling mischievously. Thick fingers trace the stains on the tiny gusset, amusement written all over his face. He giggles to himself.

“Hehe, this is so... cute. Why haven’t I seen these before?”, he inquires to himself with pursed lips, voice laced with feigned innocence as he bats his lashes. Why would you hide these from him? It’s the only possible conclusion he could get to. He’s certain he is well informed in every pair of undies you own — lacey, granny, g-string, thong (and you look unbelievably sexy in all of them). Did you know he’d be gross about these too? Well, you were right.

Satoru slingshots them across the room, and they make a little ping! sound as they hit one of the machines. He repeats the action a few more times but grows tired of it after a few minutes. Next, he tries them on for funsies. But his face soon falls, his pouty expression returning as he tries to squeeze his large frame into them.

“Geez, I’m not that big.”

He wiggles his hips, trying to make them fit, but they’re just too small. He looks down at himself, a mixture of disappointment and amusement on his face, before letting out a loud sigh.

“Aw, no fair! These were supposed to be cute on me too...”

Satoru huffs even more, trying to adjust them so they sit more comfortably, but it’s a lost cause. They were too tight on him, and he’s peeved as well as a little offended he can’t fit into his wife’s underwear like you can his. So, he takes them off, almost tripping over his long legs that get stuck in the holes, before holding them up to his face.

“Don’t tell anyone I did that, okay?”, he whispers to the flimsy cloth in sworn secrecy.

Satoru twirls the panties around his finger, the fabric wrapping around it like a ribbon. The man grows bored, forgetting what he’s in there for in the first place, lips puckered in thought. He spins them in circles, whistling to himself as he leans against the shelf before pausing abruptly. He blinks. An idea pops in his head. He stares at the strawberry-pattern, eyes traveling from the little bow to the sheer white stain. Once again, he looks around the laundry room, ensuring he’s still alone, before slowly bringing the pair close to his face, his twitching nose almost grazing the soft fabric. With caution, he takes a deep sniff, his eyes fluttering shut as he inhales the scent, a throaty moan escaping his lips.

Oh. Yeah. That’s the stuff.

He takes another inhale, face buried in the fabric. He lets out a low, guttural groan, cock throbbing in his pants instantaneously, an immediate reaction, his entire body tensing as the aroma overwhelms him. He goes for another whiff, and then another, his nose pressed firmly against the thin cloth, his breathing growing ragged, becoming intoxicated on you.

Satoru hears the vacuum shut off in the distance and his eyes shoot open, face flushed with arousal and adrenaline. He pulls the panties away from his face with a shaky hand, eyes dilated and hazy with uncontrollable desire. Quickly clutching his treasure close to his chest right over where his heart is thumping loudly against his ribs as if trying to hide them from view — he waits, frozen in place, before he hears it rumbling to life again. A sigh of relief leaves his lips.

He looks down at them again, his gaze lingering on the wet spots before he brings them to his mouth, his tongue darting out to lick the discharge off the fabric. His eyes roll back into his head, a loud pornographic moan escaping his lips as the taste explodes on his tongue. He starts licking faster like it’s his favorite popsicle, practically shoving the whole thing into his mouth to get every drop of your dried juices off it.

“Mmm...”, Satoru whines. “O-oh no... This is...” A shaky breath. “— really bad...” He pants, whispering to himself in a strained voice.

Satoru’s grip on the panties tightens possessively. His breath quickens, cock twitching in his pants the more he breathes in your scent. Those blue eyes are half-lidded, dark and clouded with something primal — a hunger he only gets with you. He pulls the little number out of his mouth, his breathing heavy, a thin strand of saliva connecting them to his lips. He wants nothing more than to taste more of you directly from the source.

A hand flies to his crotch, and he rubs, his cock straining against his grey sweatpants, leaking pre-cum like a broken faucet. The taste of you is driving him insane, and he reminisces on the numerous times he’s buried his face between your legs and ate you out like a man starved, wishing so badly he could do it right now.

Satoru’s muffled sounds grow louder, but it is nothing in comparison to the noisy vacuum in the background — his hand moving frantically against his clothed cock. He’s in a complete daze. He wants more, so much more. He wants to feel your warm cunt wrapped around his cock, squeezing him tightly. Wants to hear your cries and screams of pleasure, and most of all — to see your face twisted in ecstasy as he makes you cum over and over again like the mess you are beneath him when he takes you every night.

With that, your husband rips your panties out of his mouth, drool running down his chin, quickly freeing his massive cock, pre weeping from the tip in globs. He takes the measly cloth, wrapping it around his shaft, using it like a makeshift fleshlight. He starts stroking himself, grunting and groaning loudly as he fucks your underwear. His breathing grows heavier, cheeks pink, eyes glassy, his balls tightening up, ready to explode at any moment.

Satoru’s strokes become faster and faster, his hips bucking wildly as he thrusts into your panties like a madman. The small room fills with the lewd schlicking of his cock and his guttural, borderline filthy sounds. Standing there, he imagines how it would feel to have your hot, tight cunt clenching around his cock instead of this flimsy piece of fabric. Your husband could just go over to where you were now, to the real thing, and bend you over and fuck the attitude and temper out of you. He grits his teeth, practicing self control.

Suddenly, your voice rings out, calling for him over the loud vibrations of the machine. He stills, a pounding in his ears as he holds his breath before he starts stroking himself again at a pace. He could get caught, but that knowledge only serves in making the whole situation hotter, his hand moving even faster as he tries to stifle his grunts. The sound of your voice fuels him, and he can feel himself getting closer to the edge, the thrill of you walking in sending a shiver down his spine and straight to his cock, the massive thing twitching and bobbing in his hold.

Another “Satoru!”, and he leaks.

“A-ah! I’m coming, fuck!” 

And just like he said he would, Satoru cums, his cock erupting like a geyser, thick ropes of hot, sticky seed shooting out of him. He shudders violently, the orgasm hitting him hard, mind going completely blank from the sheer intensity of it all. The only thing on his mind is you. Your husband whimpers loudly, your name tumbling heedlessly out of his lips over and over again like a prayer, giving more energy into the hand working his cock than any chore he’s ever done in his life.

“Oh god… oh god!”

“What?!”, you yell back to him in confusion, blissfully unaware as your voice drowns out into background noise.

Satoru continues to ejaculate, coating your underwear in a thick layer of his white fluid. He keeps thrusting into the makeshift fleshlight, milking himself dry, his entire body trembling. He moans your name again, his cock twitching violently as he pumps more and more out and the fabric soaks it up greedily just like your cunt would, legs going weak and numb from right under him due to the sheer intensity of his orgasm. Meanwhile, you continue to vacuum in the living room, none the wiser.

His movements eventually come to a full stop, sighing in satisfaction with a hoot, staring at your now messy pair of panties. The idiot admires his handiwork with a perverted sense of pride, a wide goofy grin on his face, wiping his slicked cock with them, smearing more of his mess onto it as he shivers at the oversensitivity.

You shout again over the vacuum from the other room, causing him to yelp in surprise. “Putting the clothes in the washing machine should not take that long!” He quickly scrambles to clean himself up, making himself presentable by adjusting his pants, hiding your soiled panties beneath the other clothes before he makes his way to you.

Satoru strolls back into the living room, whistling in satisfaction to himself, hands in the pockets of his sweats, trying to act casual and pretend like he wasn’t just doing the nastiest thing imaginable in the laundry room with your underwear. You stop vacuuming and turn to him, throwing him a scathing look.

He gives you a disarming smile, wrapping his arms around you and burying his face in your neck, giving you a kiss, trying to defuse your fuse with affection and his classic charm. You brush him off, vexed. “What the hell was taking you so long?!” He opens his mouth to speak but you don’t let him. “Never mind.” You groan, “Just... go throw out the trash.” You pause. “Please?”, you add to sweeten the deal.

Satoru winces slightly at first, but then he internally groans. Taking out the trash is one of the most boring chores he has to do. Then you just had to tack on the ‘please’ and his resolve crumbles instantly. Damn it, how could he say no when you asked him so nicely? He sighs dramatically, trying to act put-out by the request.

“Ugh, fineee.” He whines.

You glare.

He quickly shuts up, sensing your growing irritation. He knows better than to push your buttons right now, especially when you are already pissed at him. So, he begrudgingly lifts up the trash bag, trying his best to show off his beefy biceps as he does this, and heads for the door, muttering under his breath about how much of a hassle taking out the trash is.

Right before he makes his exit, Satoru glances behind him one last time, only to see you staring intently . . . at his muscles. Your eyes flit up to his rather quickly and suspiciously, noticing the pause in his movements. “What?”

He smirks, smug in a way that screams Satoru.

“There’s no need to be shy.” He starts smoothly and you quirk a brow, pursing your lips. “You can look. It’s okay to want all of this, babe.” The bastard flirts with a wink.

Satoru flexes his biceps and his back as casually as he can one last time for good measure, grunting and groaning excessively as he does so, and those gorgeous eyes of yours roll in exasperation, but he can still pick up on the small telltale hint of a smile gracing your lips.

There it is.

That smile.

You love it, you love him. No matter how much you play hard to get even though you’re already stuck with him forever, there was a reason why you still chose him out of all the men in the world (and it totally has everything to do with how amazing and handsome he is).

“Just go, you big idiot.”, you speak in finality, your tone conveying what your words fail to express, eyes shimmering with an unspoken emotion. But he knows what it is, and he knows you know it too.

Satoru salutes, body tall and rigid, one hand holding the heavy black trash bag while the other comes to rest just at his forehead. His cute brows scrunch together in playful seriousness, eyes full of respect, unwavering like his devotion towards you. In that instant, the world seems to pause, the gesture being both simple and profound, a silent vow from him to you. It spoke volumes even after all the hassle of today, and you need not ever say more.

“Yes, ma’am!”

He would follow you to the ends of the world.

a while later . . .

Walking into the laundry room, you go to check to see if the wash cycle is complete so you can transfer the wet clothes into the dryer — only to find out he didn’t even start it or anything! With loud stomps, you storm out of the room, making your way down the hall, basket in hand, up to where he’s lounging on the sofa, playing Candy Crush on his phone without a care in the world — but the sweetness of the previous moment would soon dissipate.

“Satoru! You didn’t even put the laundry in the machine!”

Shit.

The culprit jolts in his seat on the couch, looking up from his phone to see you standing there with the laundry basket in your hands, looking like you’re about to explode with anger. He immediately feels a pang of guilt, and a little apologetic, but mostly — fear.

How did he forget to put the laundry in? He quickly pockets his phone and tries to play it cool.

“O-oh, I, uh, must have forgotten. My bad sweetie...” he titters.

“Forgotten?”, you repeat in disbelief and he blinks dumbly. “It was the only thing I asked you to do in there!”

You slam the basket down on the coffee table, making him jump. His eyes widen as you surf through the clothes to separate the clothing into two piles, and in a moment of revelation, Satoru suddenly remembers the little surprise he left in there — and he freezes.

He can only watch on in horror as you begin to touch and examine each and every article of clothing with a keen eye, his heart rate spiking. It is inevitable. You are going to stumble upon the mess he made earlier; the cum-soaked, used panties that he left in the dirty laundry with the rest of the clothes — and you were going to chew him up and spit him out before evidently, killing him.

Fuck.

He tries to speak up, to stop you from continuing, but his throat feels dry and his tongue feels heavy in his mouth. All he can do is sit there frozen, face pale and sweat starting to bead on his forehead as you get closer and closer to finding out.

You huff. “Why do you always act like everything is so difficult? All you have to do is —” You pause, and Satoru’s heart sinks to his stomach.

“What is that?”, you pronounce your words slowly, voice low and full of suspicion, hands getting wet with something sticky and white.

Your husband can feel his soul leave his body as soon as you pull out that cute number which is very obviously drenched (he has a big load). The poor man swallows hard, perspiration pouring down the side of his temple, palms growing clammy.

This is it. This is the end. This was how the Strongest would die — at the hands of his wife.

You look down at the soiled fabric in disgust, grossed out by the tacky mess on your hands. Knowing the type of person your husband is (a pervert), it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what the so-called ‘mysterious fluid’ is.

Satoru sits there, looking like he’s about to pass out, cheeks now pink and sockets round in utter embarrassment, the picture perfect definition of someone who has been caught. A pair of cerulean eyes dart around the room, desperately searching for an escape route while another, sharp and terrifying, latch onto his form — and he knows no amount of sweet talking will be able to get him out of this one.

He is absolutely screwed.

p.s. — satoru is banned from doing laundry ever again. he can’t help but be a little disappointed even though he never wanted to do it in the first place :’(

[thesnailtail]

;; I REACHED THE TAG LIMIT DAMN IT

;; hang on and i'll continue this

Ok yknow what here it goes.

Who is your favorite NPC and why? I want at least a 3 lines essay here (/j)

I just want to give some appreciation to NPCs since I don't tend to do that.

(mine will be in a reblog when i think of what to say about yuuki bc she spins around in my head but i want to know what to say)

[melshifting]

EFFORTLESSLY BLESSED ― Ultimate 'Lucky Girl' Pack for your DR ‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧

❝ I swear, the Universe is obsessed with you.❞

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ Doors open when you approach — not just automatic ones. People hold them for you, even from an unnecessary distance, to make life a little easier for you.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ You get free stuff… a lot. Brands send you PR packages even if you’re not an influencer, baristas “accidentally” make an extra drink and give it to you even if it's not your birthday.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ An actual bad day...? — even when everything seems wrong, you always end up in the right place at the right time; the universe orchestrates your schedule so you get even better opportunities.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ Limited-time offers! — you always get the last of anything without even realizing how close you were to missing out.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ Lost & Found — somehow, anything and everything finds their way back into your hands, as if the universe keeps an eye on your belongings.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ Your instincts are eerily accurate — you always pick the fastest-moving line at checkout, the restaurant with the best food. Decisions flow through you.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ You're the priority. — trains, waiting rooms, crowded events; someone always gets up and gestures for you to sit. They don’t even know why.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ Money magnet! — a $10 bill on the ground, change in an old coat pocket, that refund you forgot about suddenly appearing in your account at the perfect time.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ Best luck with clothes — last one in your size? Always yours. Surprise discount at checkout? Of course. That thing you’ve been looking for forever? Magically waiting for you.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ 10/10 memory — whether it’s your notebook for class or the charger for your phone, you manage to remember the essentials just in time.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ 100% acceptance rate! even on a whim — jobs, programs, exclusive clubs... your applications always land on the right desk at the right time.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ VIP list — bodyguards at events, clubs, or exclusive parties don't ever question if you have a pass, you just look like someone important.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ You always get served first — whether in a bar, bakery, or food truck, you barely step up before someone’s already handing you what you wanted.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ Pet's favorite! — you have that unexplainable magic that makes any animal gravitate toward you and trust you instantly.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ You always find the loophole — whether an extra day on a deadline or an easy way around a problem, solutions come to you like second nature.

[moonastro]

Groom persona chart

Asteroid Union in the houses ( 1585)

what is a groom persona chart? this chart exhibits qualities that your husband will have and possible placements that can be seen in their chart. it is simply a chart all about your spouse in a woman's chart. the asteroid groom can be identified using the code 5129.

The union in the groom persona chart represents the meeting between you and your husband. It can identify the environment, place, and symbolic values when meeting them.

reminder: this is my interpretation from observations and first hand experiences, so don't take this to heart.

✨special notes to take in before we get started-

🌼if union is in retrograde the union can be long going, like you and your spouse may take their time to actually start hanging out or start talking even especially if in 3rd house.

🌼if neptune is aspecting union may symbolise the union can have some secrecy or misinformation targeted towards you. depending in the house it's in can tell you why, like if in 2nd house you may misinform yourself into thinking your spouse may have a lot of money.

🌼union conjunct pluto may indicate a cold eery response from your half during the meeting. something may catch your eye about your future spouse but you wont know why. omggg and you may also hide the fact that you are interested in them. like you will keep a poker face or act like you are not interested when meeting them.

🌼union aspecting venus (more accurate if in 8th house) can suggest you secretly having an interest in them after the meeting so to say. union can involve some third party being involved such as a feminine individual.

Union in 1st house: for this placement you may meet your future spouse at a time of reflection and minding your own business. There could be some independence going on that day, you can meet your spouse and be completely by yourself that day also. You can also be the bold one here and approach them first or you may also notice them first. There could be conflict going on that day, whether you fall out with someone or someone around you may be arguing whenever you meet your spouse. Also vehicles can be involved here, you can literally meet them when driving back to your house from work or something.

Union in 2nd house: the meeting of you and your spouse can be very casual. May happen when doing something you find pleasure in such as going to treat yourself for a spa, a nice lunch etc. this meeting may involve some flirtations amongst one another so subtle flirting may happen when you both meet. On the other hand, this placement can bring some familiarity between you two so you may already know your spouse or have encountered them before or you may feel like it.

Union in 3rd house: the union may occur in your childhood neighbourhood. this may be a service occupied area or space so there can be a lot of background technological stuff ging on such as radio being blasted, other people being there as well, a social event with people being in the background. this place can be where travel is needed to get there which i know is literally everywhere because you need to travel everywhere if its outside your house but this is short distance literally like as far as one town to the other town. or this can be considered a bit of travel for you. If Union is in retrograde remember that communication may be very limited and actually non existent whenever you first meet, it’s something that you will have to learn to do when you meet, usually can talk about them to other people first before you actually talk to them.

Union in 4th house: can meet spouse in their home country especially if in the sign of Sagittarius or Pisces. Starting off strong, this meeting between you and your spouse can be somewhat planned or predicted in some ways. Like there may be some very noticeable or predictable approaches that were made whenever you met, like for example, when we you meet them you may already be thinking of moving in with them and thinking of staring a family together that sort of thing. There can be instant attraction and you may already view your soon to be spouse as husband material. With this placement I have also noticed that there is always an age gap, like all the husbands of the charts that have Union in 4H are older than them. Your meeting can involve some type of structural adjustment, you may be very busy when you meet them or vice versa. You may be working like literally in your job, or they can be doing some job as well- it just depends on aspects- like if it’s in exact opposition to mc( although this may cause some problems with meeting oops).

🌻an example would be -my mothers union is in the 4H- my father was doing some labour work and was busy doing something, but he was also AT HIS OWN HOME( 4th house is literally associated with your home) , she just happened to be cycling past him lol. (The degree was 25° which is associated with Aries- and Aries represents fast, actions, vehicles- bicycles).

Union in 5th house: meeting of you and your spouse can involve eyeing them up or vice versa. So love at first sight can be very common for this placement. Being heavily attracted to your spouse can also be very likely whenever you meet for the first time. Once again, this can suggest meeting them at a social event, a bit like the 7th house but this can be more surrounded by young people, or children even. So you may meet wherever there is a fun activity some likely energy going on, anything to do with kids/ children can also be linked with the surroundings whenever you two meet.

🌻for example, I know someone who had their union in 5th house and they met at a place where school kids would go afterschool or you would likely see them there.

Union in 6th house: may meet your future spouse whenever doing daily things/ not thinking about anything just focusing on your day. There may be some unfortunate things that happen in the background such as fights or argument/ hearing bad news/ feeling off that day ( all depend on aspects and sign as well). There could be a moment where you change something you usually would do every day and that’s when you can meet your spouse. Like instead of going to one grocery shop that you would always do every week you may decide to go to a different one to switch it up and may actually meet your future spouse ( more likely if you have Taurus union). Or another example could be whenever you change where you would go to the gym, maybe you decide to go to an outdoor one that day etc etc.

Union in 7th house: you can meet your future spouse when there is a lot of people. He can be part of your social group or extended social group, since this house is all about connections it’s like your friends can be friends with him and you finally meet each other from them. There is also a possibility meeting them at a social media app where people go to socialise and chat. So you may encounter them when you are chatting with friends in an app and they get added to the group chat that sort of thing. Usually what I’ve noticed with this placement usually you’ll meet your spouse after getting out of a relationship also.

Union in 8th house: meeting your spouse can be confusing. You may meet them very randomly or you may meet them but it would be very discreet moment for you as there may not be significant pointers that would indicate you that he is your future spouse. It may take a long time for you to actually open up to each other, may encounter them again, and again and again and… again, until you may think to yourself that you see them way to frequently. This meeting may also suggest that either you can be very attracted to them or not at all, yup you may actually not find them attractive at all whenever you meet them, but what may get you is their soul, their personality and the occurrences that happen by accident??

Union in 9th house: the meeting of your and your future spouse may happen at a time of when you are learning a new experience or experiencing something new that you haven’t before. This can literally mean you learning so a university or an education facility can be somewhere you meet them. But overall this placement can involve some travel or in a foreign environment, a place where you haven’t been before or been longing to explore or visit. Whenever you meet your spouse you can be new at something depending on the sign can tell you how so for example if in Aries may be learning to drive or may be a busier than usual day for you that day.

Union in 10th house: this placement is very professional and distant. This placement can indicate meeting your spouse in a professional matter so this can indicate while he is working or when you are. Usually with the meeting there can be some regulations involved such as effort that needs to be put in order to meet each other. This can simply mean that on the day of meeting there could be extra effort that may happen so for example if in the sign of taurus there could be some additional effort made with your appearance, like you may be more presentable that usual or may wear makeup for the first time because you may not wear it often something like that.

Union in 11th house: first meeting with your spouse can be through friends or online. It is definitely involving some social and interactive progress, I have observed some charts that have had this placement and they met online first THENN met up with them with a friend of their( catch this, she had her union asteroid in Scorpio in 11H and the friend she took with her to meet her spouse was a water sign sun!!!!) anyway, the meeting may be very public, and I mean this meeting can literally be in the middle of whole crowds of people, it will not be private AT ALL. Also this can be a very fun and exciting event for you, you may already know what you are expecting, as you may chatted online beforehand.

Union in 12th house: this placement can emphasise on a fated or unexpected union. What I’ve observed with this placement is that the people with this placement met foreign partners or their partner is from a different country or culture. But both met at a different country where both where born in. However, the meeting of you both may not be known by others very well. It’s not like it is intentionally kept discreet but it just may happen that you won’t be telling anyone about the meeting or how you’ve met them to others if that makes sense.

[medievalharlot]

A gift for the princess 彡 Geta x princess f!reader x Caracalla

Pairing: Geta x princess f!reader x Caracalla

Synopsis: The empire comes to your aid and you are reunited with your childhood friends, they end up having a gift you cannot turn down

Wordcount: 3,1k

Request: ‘I’ve been thinking of this plot for a while, but I’m not a writer and could never write it myself. But what if both of the twins x reader, who was their childhood best friend, she came from a very wealthy family (for some reason I like to think she was royalty in a neighboring country or smth, anyway, she was forced to move away, and the twins and here were devestated (cause they like LIKED each other) years go by, and they are now emperors, they have to go to a place for business, with other royals (like where the reader lives) and they meet again, and like, fall in loveeee’ by anon

Tags: Childhood friends to lovers, reader is a princess, some light groping but no full on smut, period accurate misogyny, implied violence, implied abuse.

A/N: Phew this one is a little longer than I intended it to be. Maybe a little less historically accurate than my last one but I tried sticking to historical facts. I always thought of Caracalla as a shy child that turned mad and Geta being the brave one. This will be the last full on fic I post before I go to Paris, enjoy!

It would be a short seige, your castle walls were never strong enough to withstand the Parthian army. Yet your father, having spiraled into madness, insisted to keep fighting. For years your small kingdom had been an ally to the empire. Even if it was small, it had a strategic and important port. Under Marcus Aurelius it had it added to the list of allies and it had been loyal up. Your father suddenly decided to start a war against Parthia. Voices plagued his mind, advisors gone corrupt filled his mind with delusions. You had been supportive of your father, trying to see the good in his actions as a way to cope. Giving up on the man that had raised you felt like betrayel. Your mother was a noble lady and after giving birth to you ander your brother she moved back to her own home. Their marriage was arranged and quite an unpleasant one. You were his only daughter, his sweet delight. Your brother was aiding the empire in the conquest of Numidia by order of the emperor, leaving you to watch over your father. Every day he slipped further into madness, and everyday it became more painful to watch.

At a certain point his advisors convinced him to go to war. Once you got wind of the idea you had the advisors sent away, unleashing your fury upon him. But your father had already sent out the command. You had prayed to Pax, Fortuna and Minerva for the war to end well and for the Romans to send aid. Emperor Severus had been a good friend to your father. You weren’t aware that he had passed and his sons, Geta and Caracalla, were terrorizing the empire. News travelled slow in the empire and before you knew it there was an entire army knocking on your door with no aid in sight. You had witnissed the Pathian generals slaughter the people on the outskirts of the city being killed. Their screams haunting your mind as you hid.

Once, you knew the twins. It was a long time ago, before your father had become king. He took you and your brother to Rome quite often, in hindsight you understood it was probably to find a suitable match amongst the sons of the senators. Due to the friendship your father and the emperor shared you were often on the Forum. You remember meeting the twins for the first time.

Caracalla was a shy boy, hiding behind his brother. Geta was a bit cocky but curious about you. They were a few years older than you were. You were clinging to your fathers toga, you never played with boys. At home you were either being taught by master or you were playing with the daughters of your fathers advisors. Boys sucked. And yet here you were, alone with these boys in a room.

“Do you wanna play soldiers?” Geta had asked eventually. “You can be the helpless girl and we-” He had shoved his brother from behind him. “We will save you.” There was a proud smirk on his face.

Soldiers? Why would you want to play that, why would you be the helpless girl. “I don’t want to play that.” You reached for the wooden sword. Geta tried to grasp for it.

“You can’t play with that, that isn’t for girls.” He sneered as you pulled away. Caracalla still hadn’t spoken a word.

“Stop it!” You frowned, you weren’t one to let somebody to tell you what to do.

Soon, chaos ensued. Somehow you ended up in a brawl with him, and to your surprise you were winning. All that commotion had alarmed the servants, who had fetched your fathers. Emperor Severus was pissed. He had dragged Geta off you, shouting stuff like ‘this is not how you treat guests’ and ‘you let that little girl beat you up’. Caracalla chased after them while sobbing as the emperor dragged Geta by his collar out of the room.

The banging on the door only got louder, together with the other women of this court you were hiding in the cellar. Soft prayers were whispered, hopes that the devine above might save them. You didn’t pray, you knew there was no stopping an army, your kingdom was way too small to beat Parthia. Your father didn’t have the men, nor did he have much expierence. It would be over soon and all you could hope for is that they wouldn’t slaughter and take every single woman in this room.

Over the years you luckily grew to appreciate each other’s company. Visits to Rome became more frequent. Your father enjoyed the wine, food, feasts and whores in the capital better. Geta was still as boisterous as before as he often liked to remind you of how he would become emperor someday. Caracalla had grown out of his shyness, but he got reckless and often faced his father’s wrath.

You were sitting on Caracalla’s bed, soflty dapping your handkerchief against his busted lip. Geta was leaning agaisnt a pillar as he watched you tend to his brother. “What happened.” You had asked Geta, Caracalla was still visibly upset. He was rambling some words you couldn’t understand, making himself small and leaning out of his touch. Sometimes it felt like you were talking to a child.

“Drank too much wine last night and was found in the horse stables.” Geta replied, keeping it short. You could tell his fathers violence got to him.

“You’re a fool sometimes Caracalla.” You spoke to him, lifting his chin to get a better look.

“He just needs to die then I will be emperor.” He had spouted a bit angrily in return.

You sighed softly and stood up. “We will fetch a doctor.” You spoke, nodding your head to Geta to signal him to come along. Something was up with Caracalla, he was reckless but he had become more unpredictable and forgetful over the last few months. It was eating away at you, you saw them as your closest friends.

“Something is wrong with him, Geta.” You spoke as soon as the two of you turned a corner. “Did the doctors say anything last time?”

“They say his peverse nature has infected his mind.” Geta spoke as he walked with you. “They’re trying to treat him but father says he is fine.”

“He’s not.”

“I know.”

Then the screams came. The walls had been breached. Younger girls started sobbing, with a stern look you tried to make them shut up. You couldn’t blame them, the worse thing that could happen to you is that they would make you a concubine. Soldiers knew better than harming a princess that could be used for blackmail. But those girls, they would have to endure the worst. You held your breath as you could hear them getting closer, your heart beating in your chest. The doors opened, but to your surprise it weren't Parthian soldiers. Their shields carried the Roman chrest. It were Roman Soldiers. Had they come to your aid? You got up, your dress was dirty and your messy. The seige lasted a few hours and you had been stuck in this stuffy room.

“Princess Y/N, you have summoned by imperial decree.” One of the generals entered, you did not recognize him. He looked older, his black hair slowly graying. They took you, dragging you out of the room despite your protests. The didn’t take commands from a woman, they took direct orders from the emperors and the emperors alone.

It was a particularly hot summer that year. This time you had went ahead of your father to Rome, he had some business to take care of back home. It was uncommon for girls your age to travel alone, you had long passed the age to be wed, but you were of age. It was the only reason your father let you go alone. Something had changed this year tho, you weren’t sure about what. The three of you always went swimming in their private pool, it had been a tradition for you of some sort. You never thought of it as strange. Yet, this year you could feel your cheeks heating up as you watched them swim around.

“Are you just going to lay there?” Geta spoke up. You were still laying in the shade and still dressed.

“Don't feel like swimming.” You spoke as you grinned softly.

“Is the princess afraid of getting wet?” He laughed loudly as he swam to the side of the pool.

“I am not!” You got up defensively. In the midst of your conversation you had not noticed Caracalla lurked behind you. With a giggle he flung you into the water.

“There we go.” Geta laughed, watching you struggle to swim in the flowly stola you were wearing. You would have bothered to undress first if you knew they were gonna force you in.

The echoes of Caracalla's laughter rung around the pool. It had gotten worse, you knew that. Both of them got worse in their own way. From what you heard they were drunks with concubines from all over the empire and a lust for blood. It made you sad.

“You should come to the Colosseum soon.” Geta swam closer to you, looking slightly down on you. The water was up to your shoulders but you could still stand. The way he looked at you made your head do summersaults. He lifted your chin. “I think you would enjoy what we have prepared for you.” He got closer, eye contact still remaining as your lips almost touched.

“I am not sure if-” He cut you off with a kiss. Caracalla was behind you now, his hands roamed your hips and his lips were on your neck. He softly bit down on the skin as he whimpered while rutting against you. You were sandwhiched between them. One of Geta's hands was on your breast, the other holding your chin in place.

It was so perfect, until it wasn't. Your father had barged in and saw the scene. He, too, had heard of the twins endeavours. And upon seeing you sandwiched between them he got furious. He ordered you out of the pool and he scolded the both of them. Surely, they would never hear the end of it from their own father. It made you anxious for what would happen when the emperor got word of what had happened here. That didn't matter tho, you would be there to patch up their bruises.

Atleast, that is what you thought. Your father had send you home right away and you never saw the two of them again. The first year was hard but you learned to live with the heartache. With your father illness you had more pressing matters than Rome.

They had dragged you back all the way to Rome. It was early in the morning when you finally arrived, your head ached and your feet were sore. On the way you were informed your father was killed, only worsening your pain. The soldiers had given you a minimum of food and water and kept you dressed in simple rags. You felt like a prisoner and you still weren’t none the wiser about why you were summoned. Atleast you didn’t have to walk all the way.

You arrived in Rome filthy, dehydrated, hungry and confused. At once, you were taken to the throne room. It was nearly the same as you remembered, only there were two thrones. Maybe he put it there as a way to honor his deceased wife. Taking in the surroundings you heard the emperor and the guards come in.

“I hope there is a good reason for my treatment on this journey, your imperial highness.” You turned around, but instead of seeing emperor Severus, you stood eye to eye with them. Geta and Caracalla. Your heart dropped. It been years since you had seen them. They were the emperors now?

“We apologise for your treatment, my lady.” Geta spoke first as he offered his hand. You stood frozen, taking in the both of them. You couldn’t lie, it was good to see them. It was like a weight falling of your shoulders. But something felt off. Geta had a cold look in his eyes and Caralla looked almost insane. His eyes reminded you of your father. Both of them were dressed in gold armour with a gold laurel crown on their heads. They radiated divinity. It didn’t feel the same as it once did.

With a trembling lip you stumbled over to them, falling on your knees infront of them. You had grasped ahold of Geta’s robe. Caracalla grinned as he crouched down to look at you. “We saved your kingdom. You must thank us, your brother will be king now.”

You looked up at him with fat tears rolling down your face as you were reminded of your father’s death. Geta grabbed your face in his hand. “What my brother means to say is that we are very sorry about your father. He may have acted like a fool but no ally of Rome should suffer like you have.” He gave you a hand, you took it and stood. “There will be games in his honour tonight. You will be attending.” It wasn’t a question, it was a demand.

Softly, you nodded. You tried to process what was going on. “Yes, games.”

“Real games, with bloodshed. No mercy.” Caracalla spoke to you as if he tried to comfort you. “We got you a dress.”

“Yes, Cassia will help you get dressed. You must get some rest now.” Geta turned to a young girl, she looked foreign but she had a Roman. She was probably a concubine that they liked so much she got promoded to a handmaid. “Cassia, get her cleaned up.” He snided at the girl.

Cassia led you out of the throne room to the baths. The hot water felt nice against your sore skin, you felt clean atlast. An essence of mint and citrus hanging in the air.

After the bath, Cassia had dressed you in your gown. It was purple with gold trimmings, it must’ve cost a fortune. The fabric felt expensive. Your hair was done in an elaborate hairstyle. Even if you were a princess, the luxeries in Rome was something your father could not afford. You looked like an empress, the empress. “The emperors wish to see you before you leave for the Colosseum.” She eventually spoke after she finished doing your hair.

With heavy feet you made your way to the throne room. It did feel better to be dolled up again, but under these circumstances you doubt you could feel anything at all. You were alone in a city full of people that would probably want you dead, you had no moment of peace as two guards followed you at all costs. They pushed the door open to the throne room, Geta and Caracalla were already waiting for you.

They had changed into new clothes too. Caracalla wore a black gown, Geta opted for a rich red. The twins turned to look at you.

“You look splendid, my lady.” Geta spoke first before Caracalla interrupted him.

“My brother and I have a proposal to make.” He sat in his throne like a giddy child. You carefully watched them.

“Your father has passed, leaving you unmarried and under nobody’s protection.” Geta started, you weren’t sure what he was getting at. “Your brother is too busy being king, so..”

“What is it you want from me.” You cautiously narrowed your eyes.

Caracalla rose to his feet and walked towards you, grabbing your hands. “Marry us. You loved us when we were children, you love us now right?” There was a hint of desperation in his eyes. “Right?” He repeated, now sounding a little more angry.

You were left speechless. If they had asked you this question a few years ago you would’ve agreed without a second thought, but after all these years and all that happened you just couldn’t process what they asked of you.

“Nothing would happen to your kingdom once you are empress.” Geta was suddenly behind you, whispering in your ears. “We will make the man that murdered your father die a painfull death, my lady.” He stroked a ringed finger against your arm, the metal felt cold against your skin.

Geta took a step back. “We will give you some time to think, we have a surprise for you during the games first.” You heard Caracalla giggling, what had they planned?

In the Colosseum you were seated in between them. The two of them clearly enjoyed the bloodshed. Geta watched with a calm gaze and a smile on his face, Caracalla on the other hand was clapping and laughing as soon as blood was spilled. They had plenty of servants filling their cups, while they drank and enjoyed the finest food. You watched silently with your hands folded in your lap. The screams of agony from whoever was being slaughtered only reminded you of home. When you closed your eyes you could see the families being slain, the face of the Parthian general clear as day. You couldn’t have protected them even if you wanted, it made you feel helpless.

“And now! For the main event, our undefeated champion!” The master of ceremonies announced. Geta gave you a shove, making you look up at what was actually going on in the arena. “The Tigris of Gaul!” The crowd roared when he entered. He rode in on a rhino, the heavy beast trotting in.

Caracalla was basically jumping of his chair now, he took your hand and led you to the edge of the balcony. His grin was like a cheshire cat. “This will be our gift to you.” He spoke.

Geta got up as well, gracefully walking to place a hand on your back.

“Our champion will be taking it up against the Parthian Mithridates!” A beat up and confused man entered the ring, you recognized his face immediatly. It was the general that had killed your citizens. You remained silently as you coldheartedly watched the man taking it up against the Tigris of Gaul.

It didn’t take long for the gladiator to have the general on his back, he had only been given a dull sword. He had no chance of winning. The Tigris held his blade against the general’s neck, looking up to the emperor’s balcony for approval to kill him.

Geta had been smiling this entire time, gauging your reaction. “Well? What do you say? What judgement will the gods render.”

“Kill him.” Caracalla almost spat in your ear, his behaviour getting more erratic. “Kill him!”

Your thoughts ran a hundred miles an hour. That was the man that killed your people, he might even have killed your father. He caused so much suffering, so much death. You had him in your clutches now, you were the one deciding his faith. You looked down at him, the tears had fallen down your cheek a while ago. Were you able to say word, have this man killed? You had always been a sweet girl, your father sang praises of your gentle nature whenever he could. But something had changed, something had stirred.

They had given you this chance. This could mean war with Parthia and yet they still did it. They did it because they could, and they wanted you to have revenge. If being of empress of Rome ment you could reign terror down on the ones that hurt your people you had made your decision.

You looked at Geta, giving him a small nod. His grin grew even wider as he grabbed your hand. He lifted it slightly, he held his other fist up. “The gods have rendered their judgement!” The crowd went silent. They all watched the downturned thumb and they cheered once more. It was true what they said about the games, show them blood or else they will want yours.

You watched coolly as general Mithridates got his throat slid, only flinching slightly as the blade his neck and the blood spurted out. Before you could see the rest you had turned around to leave the emperors box.

“Where are you going. You are missing the best part.” Caracalla frowned as he watched you leave.

“There is a wedding to be planned.” You replied calmly. The twins looked at each other, their gift had worked. Rome would have a new empress soon, and she would show no mercy to her enemies.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

i cant really tell if yuu's involvement in ace's character is more for fanservice reasons or because they really did play a part in his character development.

like in nbc we have malleus choosing to focus on finishing the task at hand as quickly as possible so that they can then find the prefect rather than drop everything there at that moment and prioritizing finding yuu. (iirc) and compared to that we have ace who does put a lot of emphasis on finding yuu especially when no one seems to remember it during the halloween event it feels very traditionally fanservice-y ? and i cant really tell where the line is drawn for ace anymore. and you did mention a lot of other points in another post that you made esp with ace's dream recently dropping and the fact that hes the only guy whos dream yuu was actively involved in idk its a little confusing for me i hope im making sense TT no shade to the shippers im just a little slow in comprehending it all bvbvsjdj

your posts are always really neutral and accurate it just helps to clear up a lot of my confusions and questions i have when playing so thank you for your hard work!

[Referencing this post; you might also find this related post useful in the discussion of Ace and Yuu's relationship!]

DISCLAIMER: I do not mean to invalidate or detract from Ace x Yuu or Malleus x Yuu shippers or anyone who may interpret their relationship as romantic. You should ship what you like and have fun doing it. My reply aims to be more objective, but that should NOT impede on your enjoyment or whatever it is you choose to ship.

iufipaerasfeao Thank you for the feedback! I'm glad you find my posts helpful. I try my best to be objective when it comes to analyzing the story and characters, but there's no true way for someone to be completely neutral. There are definitely times when I have an aside to insert my two cents on a situation or I get super heated about a particular topic. Hopefully I still leave enough space for everyone to come to their own conclusions.

I think it's both fanservice and because Yuu actually plays a big part in Ace's character development? Like, it's technically fanservice but it does not feel egregious because it fits Ace’s teasing nature and Ace's bond with Yuu has been established from the start. He was the first student we met at NRC and we spend so much time with him since then; there's no way Yuu wouldn't have had an impact on him, especially when book 7 is now paralleling the two as people with insecurities about being weak/unable to do anything + not contributing enough and Yuu encouraging him when he finally gets his UM.

I commonly see people joking about Malleus having "missed the meeting about Twst not being a dating sim" and holding him up as "the main love interest". (And to be clear, Twst isn't a dating sim, nor do all Twst fans see the characters romantically; I am only speaking about this in a romantic lens in the context of this post.) However, I think there's a very strong case to be made for Ace as well. The thing is, I also feel that Malleus and Ace fundamentally appeal to two different groups of yumejoshi. Malleus is the tall, dark, and mysterious type you can "fix", the type of guy that would burn the world down for you. Ace is the teasing and approachable boy-next-door that has your back and supports you even when the entire world is against you. This is also evident in the ways they're set up in the main story; Malleus is introduced in a way that encourages much more "filling in of the gaps" due to how little he actually shows up in front of Yuu in the main story. It gives the player a lot of space to imagine what their relationship with him is like because there isn't a ton of interactions in canon to go off of. Meanwhile, Ace has many more canonized interactions with Yuu (eating lunch, doing homework, watching movies, playing video games, etc.), so the effort of thinking about what they actually do over the course of their relationship is already done for you. There is an established friendship and connection with Ace, but you barely see Malleus enough to truly have a strong impact on him or to change him. Does that make sense?

IADUPADF9A9FSBdb I do find it sort of funny that Malleus is basically like, "Oh, something unexpected happened (ie Yuu is missing). We'd better solve this." Not really showing much emotion about them being gone in Nightmare. (Malleus only gets annoyed when Leona begins to take charge; he is not mad at the fact that Yuu is gone.) Meanwhile Yuu is missing in Endless Halloween Night and Ace is the FIRST person to excuse himself to check Ramshackle for them.

If you consult the fandom and the fandom alone, you'd think the situation would be reversed. Edit: Malleus does have his moments of intimacy with Yuu (which I won’t be getting into here because then I fear this post would veer into shipping wars), but the English speaking Twst fandom has a VERY strong bias for Malleus x Yuu. Because of that, there is a tendency to misinterpret or misattribute every little thing that Malleus says and does to support the idea that "Yuu is his most important person". (For example, even though Malleus provides no reaction at all when Skully kisses the back of Yuu's hand, many Malleus fans claimed that he would be very jealous or would harm Skully for doing such a thing. In another Halloween event, Glorious Masquerade, people believed he was angry at Rollo for harming Yuu even though this was not the case; the event states that he was mad because the invitation he had been extended was a fake one.)

It is because of thinking like this that a lot of English speakers genuinely believed Malleus would OB in book 7 in a desperate attempt to prevent Yuu from returning to their original world. Misinterpretations, headcanons, misattributions, and personal projections were conflated with canon, leading to many people to believe that Malleus was closer with Yuu than they actually are. Instead, Malleus ended up OBing because he feared Lilia leaving and he barely even considers Yuu after he OBs. And, ironically, Ace is the character whose dream prominently features Yuu and a scenario in which Yuu doesn't have to leave them forever. It was always Ace that we had a strong relationship with, not Malleus.

Ace is often overlooked even though he has far more canon interactions with Yuu in the main story. I think this could maybe to chalked up to a combination of him being "boring" compared to the literal DARK FAE OP CROWN PRINCE M. Draconia over there and the fact that so many of those "gaps" are already filled by the main story. There's less room for imagination because the game has already defined what Ace and Yuu's relationship entails. Malleus is just so much more appealing when it comes to intrigue and mysteriousness. When you look at it objectively though... Yuu only meets Malleus face-to-face like 5-6 times for brief conversations. (Edit: I’m not counting voice lines because those are arguably directed at the player, not Yuu, to endear the character to you and/or all characters get similar voice line fanservice. The canonicity is questionable since the same familiarity in voice lines is not carried over to the main story.) 5-6 times… That's not nearly long enough to make a huge impact or change in his life (unless you as the player extrapolate and imagine more Malleus and Yuu interactions outside of the ones we see in the main story). At best, I think you could say Malleus is glad he can have a special little friend who doesn't know of his name and status? He doesn't really change because of that relationship though. Malleus doesn't even show up until book 2. But Ace has literally been there since the beginning, canonically spends tons of his free time with Yuu, and has been through several near-life experiences with them (several OBs). He has the chance to bond with Yuu. Malleus does not. (He has given Yuu advice once, sent them a card once, and reassembled a stage for them once; all other interactions in the main story are short talks.)

It makes a lot of sense that Ace would be the one "touched" by Yuu's influence, whether you see it as romantic or platonic. Both he and Malleus (and all the other characters, really) get their moments of fanservice--but very few characters' development is directly impacted by Yuu's presence. Yuu might be there for most of the main story, but they actually get only a few moments to engage with the other boys in the cast to the point of actually changing them. It feels like the changes that occur are more often the result of the other boys (Trey standing up to Riddle and holding his hand afterwards, Epel and Deuce bonding on the beach, the twins telling Azul he's lame but also being the first to check up on him following the OB, Idia finalizing his farewells with Ortho, etc.) Ace just so happens to be an exception to that, as Yuu very clearly plays a big role in his development.

[darkmatilda]

𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: the death of your father brings you back to your hometown, straight into the grip of a long conversation with an old friend, during which you both rediscover who you truly were and how differently you remember certain events.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x female!reader, childhood friends, flashbacks to times when they were 12-14, an alcoholic father, the father's death, brain tumor, death of both parents and grief, lots of inner rage, reader has actually a whole backstory so you need to immerse yourself, father is referred as "y/s", an open ending

𝐚/𝐧: my keyboard was burning as i wrote this

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 9k

Spencer had always found a certain comfort in nights spent aboard the jet.

In the dim light, with its warm, amber glow spilling softly into the shadows, there was a kind of serenity. A quiet that didn’t invite troubling thoughts to creep in but was instead punctuated by the gentle reminders of his team’s presence. The low hum of JJ and Elle’s tired but easy conversation, occasionally broken by soft laughter or the sound of cards hitting the table. The faint whisper of music leaking from Derek’s headphones as he drifted in and out of sleep. The rhythmic rustle of papers as Hotch worked methodically through them.

Usually, in this specific moment, Spencer felt relaxed. The case was behind them, and they were heading home. But that day, an unshakable knot lingered in his stomach.

He tore his gaze away from the chessboard. For a while now, he had simply been staring at it, his mind abandoning any effort to determine the next pawn move. He tried to snap himself back into focus, to analyze the game so far, find the weak spots, formulate a strategy... but he just couldn’t.

Leaning over the table, Gideon shifted back a little, propping himself on his elbow as he studied Spencer carefully.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Spencer, after a prolonged moment of silence, shrugged.

“I’m still thinking about your last move. Of course, for obvious reasons, I’m not going to tell you what conclusions I’ve drawn, opponent...”

“No, Reid, I’m asking what’s wrong,” Gideon repeated, nodding slightly in his direction. His voice softened a bit, as if trying to give Spencer space to open up. His eyes held their characteristic mix of curiosity and concern. “With you, kid. You’re acting strange.”

“According to some, I always act strange,” Spencer tried to shrug dismissively, forcing a small joke. He exhaled heavily afterward. 

“But not like this. You’re not hesitating on your move because you don’t know what it should be. You’re hesitating because you’re distracted. You can’t focus, not even on chess,” Gideon stated with certainty. Spencer wanted to shrug again, but he knew repeating the gesture and his disoriented behavior wouldn’t ease the older man’s worry. Instead, he kept staring at the chessboard, avoiding direct eye contact.

“I’m going to ask you one question,” Gideon said, his tone steady yet gentle, “but I don’t want you to feel like you have to answer it. I just want to see your reaction—the rest I’ll figure out myself.”

Spencer couldn’t hold back a genuine chuckle, brief but sincere.

“Are you profiling me, Gideon?”

“That skill isn’t limited to catching serial killers,” Gideon replied evenly. “So, here’s the question—does the way you’re feeling have anything to do with the death of Lieutenant Y/S?”

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. A resigned sigh escaped instead. He abandoned any attempt to deny it, to change the subject, or even to lie—it was too precise a hit. A blow too accurate to defend against.

“How do you know?” he asked, genuinely intrigued.

“You usually read through entire newspapers as if they were single-page pamphlets in a doctor’s waiting room. Today, you stared at it for a good fifteen minutes. Then you slipped one of the pages into your jacket pocket. My eyesight isn’t what it used to be, so I couldn’t make out which one exactly. But considering Y/S was from your hometown…you knew him. That much is clear.”

The curse of being surrounded by profilers: they noticed everything.

But eventually, Spencer gave a small nod, conceding the point. Deep down, he supposed he did want to talk about it—with someone he trusted, someone who knew him well enough to piece together his worries from something as small as lingering too long over a newspaper.

“He was my neighbor,” he began cautiously, unsure where to even start unraveling the story. Slowly, he reached up to remove his glasses, pressing the bridge of his nose in thought. “His whole family, actually. His wife and…and their daughter.”

Gideon raised his eyebrows, as if everything suddenly made sense. And, knowing him, it probably did.

“An old friend, then,” he said, his voice carrying a faint note of melancholy. “How’s she handling her father’s death?”

Spencer shook his head.

“We…we’re not in touch anymore.” The words felt strange on his tongue, as if he hadn’t said them out loud in years. And perhaps he hadn’t. No one had asked about her in a long time. The words didn’t fill him with sadness exactly—maybe too much time had passed for that—but there was still that odd sensation in his chest. A warm ache, tinged with something like regret. He pushed through it and met Gideon’s gaze. “But I’ve been thinking about her. Ever since I found out.”

“Understandable. Especially since you were so close,” Gideon replied.

There was a hint in his words, a suggestion that settled into Spencer's mind. He truly knew everything.

“I’ve been wondering if I should reach out to her,” Spencer suddenly blurted out. The idea had come to him earlier, spontaneously, and hadn’t let go since. “Maybe not meet up, but…maybe just call. Garcia could probably find her number…What do you think?”

“Maybe it’s because I’m from a different generation,” Gideon started slowly, taking on a more serious, almost fatherly tone. “But to me, things like offering condolences shouldn’t be done over the phone. Especially when that person means so much to you.”

“She doesn’t—” Spencer began, but the words died in a sigh. He couldn’t say she meant nothing to him. Still, he sensed that Gideon had formed an image of their relationship that wasn’t quite accurate, and he felt the need to clarify things. “Listen, I had feelings for her, that’s true. I’m not…not ashamed to admit it.” Why, then, did his cheeks begin to warm? “But what I feel now has nothing to do with that. Above all, she was my friend. And her father…I spent a lot of time at their place. Actually, it was because of him that I even started thinking about going this route. You know, the FBI. I just feel…I feel like I should do it. Reach out to her, I mean. Say I’m sorry, listen to how she’s doing. For both of them.”

When he finished speaking, he felt a slight out of breath, like he’d just run a mile. Well, okay, maybe it was more like he’d climbed the stairs faster than usual. He stared at Gideon, waiting for the next words. But Gideon’s face remained unreadable, his posture still.

Spencer blinked, a bit desperate.

“What? You got me to say all that, and you’re not even going to give me any feedback?” he asked. 

Gideon watched him for a moment, then a small smile appeared on his lips.

“Spencer, you’ve already figured it out for yourself. There’s nothing I can add.”

He frowned in confusion. He started to think about it and didn’t even notice when they returned to their chess game. Surprisingly, he managed to move a pawn at last; his mind actually felt clearer. His opponent leaned slightly over the table again, unmoved, pushing the queen despite it being a risky move, one that could change everything.

“Did you tell her how you feel about her?” he suddenly asked, as Spencer remained lost in thought.

Spencer winced slightly, not understanding the question. Before the other man could repeat it, Spencer suddenly understood, and a short sigh escaped his lips. Oh.

He mumbled an unclear confirmation. He had to swallow to clear his throat.

“I did,” he admitted. A deeper breath, as if to wash it off. So much time had passed, he should have done it long ago. He looked more confidently at Gideon, his expression showing some finality, something unquestionable. “But she didn’t feel the same. And that’s…completely okay. Can we get back to the game?”

Gideon agreed, of course. But before doing so, he once again scanned his face. He didn’t smile, didn’t say anything, but despite that, it was clear.

Clear that he truly cared about him.

*

You couldn’t remember the last time something as simple as sending an email felt like such a challenge. You also couldn't remember the last time you'd written so many versions of a single message, all with the same goal in mind—agreeing to meet up. With someone you hadn't seen in years.

You alternated between typing and holding down the caps lock key, deleting everything. In recent days, you’d been replying to a mountain of messages, not even trying to hide the falseness of it all or force a smile of gratitude when someone insisted on hugging you, offering their deepest condolences. You surrendered to it all like some kind of medical procedure, while feeling the weight of eyes on your face, searching for traces of tears and the despair behind them. Searching for proof that it mattered to you. That you were conforming to their image of no one else but your father. The Lieutenant, repeatedly decorated for his service, who passed away shortly after retiring due to unspecified health reasons (such a nice euphemism for the pulmonary embolism caused by years of alcoholism). A daughter, humbly lowering her head at his funeral, eyes filled with tears, accepting all words of comfort with graceful charm. It perfectly fit the romanticized image of the person your father was.

That bitterness toward the entire situation grew stronger within you with each passing day. At the funeral, you’d been too disoriented to notice it. You felt like an empty field where any thought or conclusion simply withered in its infancy, never able to fully blossom. Too disconnected from reality, too preoccupied with logistics to cry.

But putting aside this self-analysis of your grief (you never bought into the whole five stages theory—though you didn’t deny it might work for some people. You just thought it was too complex a process to be summarized into bullet points), you agreed to meet with Spencer. His message pulled you, however briefly, out of that apathetic void, leaving you genuinely surprised. Only later did it occur to you that this was normal—old friends often reach out after years apart. They comment on vacation photos with flame emojis or laugh-reacts. They send generic birthday wishes. They ask how you're doing when your father dies. Normal stuff.

There had been no falling out between you. Sometimes people are simply separated by distance, by different stages of life, of career, and contact becomes more sporadic until, eventually, it fades. The moment it happens is easy to miss, and you’d missed it entirely. The last time you’d spoken face-to-face was right before you left for a college far from your hometown. Six years ago. By then, Spencer had already accumulated a staggering number of academic accolades, advancing at a pace that matched his brilliance. During your first year apart, you exchanged a few messages—it seemed like the right thing to do. But you’d never been good at maintaining long-distance friendships, and soon enough, his presence was relegated to that most worn-out folder in the archive of your life, simply labeled as childhood.

You had no real reason to turn down the meeting. You were curious about the kind of person Spencer had become. Still, you couldn’t deny, even to yourself, that your primary motivation was to escape spending any more time in that desolate house. A house that bore visible signs of use yet stood conspicuously empty of owners.

You couldn’t shake the feeling that it didn’t much like you. The house, that is. As though it harbored a grudge against you for deciding to leave, and now, upon your return, it had no intention of welcoming you back.

Any excuse to get away from it was a good one.

Your area didn’t offer many options for meeting places, so you suggested the first one that came to mind—a bar. As you walked inside, your eyes scanned only for a familiar face, paying no attention to the mahogany nooks and crannies of the place you knew all too well.

You exchanged a touchless greeting—two polite smiles, nothing more.

And then, the silence settled in, thick with awkwardness.

"I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the funeral," he said finally. The words tumbled out, and he winced the moment they did, likely realizing that opening the conversation this way was steering it down a less-than-pleasant path. He sighed but pressed on, determined to explain. "I only found out about it, well, through the paper. By the time I knew, it was already too late to even think about it. Plus, work…"

"You’ve changed," you cut him off mid-explanation with a simple observation that seemed to spill out of your mouth unbidden. "Maybe that’s where we should start. It’s good to see you, Spence."

The use of his old nickname seemed to throw him off balance.

"Sorry," you added quickly, breaking into a small laugh. "I forgot how much you hate small talk."

"No, it’s fine," he assured quickly. At the sound of your laugh, he shifted in his seat, almost distracted. Even though you weren’t exactly an expert at reading people, it was clear that something about that moment had triggered a wave of warmth in him, the sharp and tender grip of nostalgia. You could almost see the memories flickering across his mind—the two of you racing your bikes to the library, abandoning them haphazardly near the entrance, and bursting through the doors with a triumphant shout of first! Or maybe one of the countless other small moments, fragments of your shared past that sometimes surfaced in your own mind like snippets of a forgotten commercial.

He shook his head, pulling himself out of the haze, a faint smile curving his lips. "I mean, I’ve come to realize small talk isn’t always the enemy. Sometimes it’s just…part of connecting with people. It doesn’t have to feel like this desperate attempt to keep a conversation from flatlining."

You ordered a beer—not because you wanted to drink it, but to have something to fidget with. Still, at his words, you raised it to your lips in an overly dramatic gesture.

"Wow. Words like that coming from Spencer Reid. Who would’ve thought?”

He spread his arms as if wanting to join in on your question. The initial awkwardness between you both seemed to be fading, and it felt like you were both becoming more relaxed.

"You said it yourself, I’ve changed," he reminded you, then raised an eyebrow. "Well, I just don’t know if you meant for the better or for the worse."

You adjusted your posture, like some professional judge preparing to deliver their verdict. The chance to scrutinize him had presented itself, and you were ready to take it.

You'd known each other since you and your family had moved to the house on the outskirts. You weren't exactly a little kid by then, but in hindsight, you weren’t sure you even had memories before that event. If you did, they were insignificant. Anyway, you had always been fascinated by how friendships were formed when you were kids. As an adult, it’s incredibly difficult and usually based on shared interests. You meet at work, a manga club, or a Pilates class. You have to have something to talk about. It’s best when your sense of humor aligns, or at least doesn’t offend each other. Shared views are nice, though some people claim to enjoy a bit of difference for expanding their horizons. But it’s always just a bit.

Well, that’s how it was with you two. You were the little, mischievous adventurer, and he was the know-it-all shadow behind your back. Somehow, he always agreed to your silly ideas, the ones that later got you both into trouble. But despite the differences, every summer morning one of you would show up at the other’s door. It’s hard to compare him to his childhood version when the last time you saw each other, you were both eighteen. But even compared to that, the man sitting in front of you was different. Still young, but with more mature features. His hair was neatly styled, instead of the shapeless mess of long strands. He wore a side parting now. His dressing style, once a bit granddad-ish, was still polished, but it now had the feel of someone who might, at any moment, be heading to the garden to transplant a fern.

That much hadn't changed, you thought, noting his navy cardigan and the collar of his shirt peeking out with a tie. You glanced at his shoes—no Converse or any kind of sneakers, but proper dress shoes.

Then, the last thing—his eyes. The most striking feature of his face, drawing attention like two slightly melted pieces of chocolate. They were penetrating, yet once upon a time, they allowed you to peer into his inner world and his feelings. At least, that’s how it was back then. Now, there was more calculation and seriousness in them. Only after a moment did you realize that the coolness in his gaze was likely a result of the years spent working around the horrors of violent crimes.

You cleared your throat, realizing that your staring had gone on longer than necessary.

"I don't think I can really judge," you finally said, trying to stay diplomatic. "But I'm glad you didn’t give in to the contact lens trend. You've always looked good in glasses."

Spencer gave you a doubtful look.

"When I started wearing them as a kid, you laughed and said it sealed my nerdy reputation," he pointed out.

"I don't remember that," you replied innocently.

"I do. And I think that's enough evidence," he snorted. "I have to admit, though, I did give contacts a try for a while. Just out of curiosity, to see if they were more comfortable and how I'd look in them."

You pointed a finger at him.

"Poser."

He rolled his eyes, amused. This word in combination with someone like him was so absurd that he wouldn’t have been offended even if you’d said it with the utmost seriousness.

"Classic me," he sighed. His gaze had been drifting toward you for a while now, darting away whenever you caught him. Eventually, though, it settled fully on you. "You've changed a lot too. Which, I guess, is obvious considering how much time has passed. Still, it surprises me more than it should. You’ve finished school by now, right?"

"Right. Though I feel like I should be asking you which degree you’re on now."

That sent the two of you down the path of catching up—old-fashioned life updates that somehow didn’t feel tedious or like either of you wanted to change the subject. It turns out, when you’re interested in someone enough, even hearing about their Thursday trips to the farmer’s market for fresh eggplants to make some fancy casserole can feel fascinating.

With genuine curiosity, you caught up on everything that had happened over the years, growing more relaxed as the evening stretched on. Question, answer, sarcastic jab, playful comment. Anecdote, opinion. Gratitude that you’d chosen to come out for this meeting instead of barricading yourself at home, surrounded by the thoughts you still hadn’t confronted and the walls steeped in the lingering presence of your father. A desire to capture your shared laughter, to trap it in time. A tightening in your stomach—though maybe that was just you.

Nostalgia was a dangerous pursuit. It stretched like a rubber band, reaching deeper and deeper into the past, plucking out the good parts. But at some point, it always had the potential to snap back, hitting you square in the face.

“You know,” Spencer started suddenly, his tone quieter, more thoughtful. “I really hate that it took something like this for us to meet again. And that it’s been so long.”

You shrugged, letting out a soft sigh.

“Well, it’s not like you made much of an effort to stay in touch.”

The words landed like a pebble dropped into still water, rippling outward. Both of you stiffened in your seats, and you both noticed it. A part of you regretted saying it, but another part—heart pounding in an inner applause—did not.

Even though you hadn’t delivered it with sharpness or cutting sarcasm, you could see from the way his expression tightened that the atmosphere around you had shifted.

“You didn’t, either,” he pointed out. His tone was calm, almost detached, but above all, honest.

You shifted in your seat, trying to shake off the weight of your own hypocrisy. For a moment, the two of you just stared at each other in silence.

Spencer opened his mouth as if to say something, then shut it again. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, almost a whisper, carrying an undertone of apology.

“I just want you to know…it’s not like I stopped thinking about you. It wasn’t the news about your dad that reminded me you exist.”

"Spencer, please… don’t lie," you blurted out almost involuntarily. You squeezed your eyes shut tightly for a moment, your temples tensing. Of course, you couldn’t just enjoy a pleasant evening—you had to let your inner frustration spill out. You wouldn’t be yourself otherwise. Biting the inside of your cheek, you pressed on despite that or the expression on his face.

"I mean, I know that’s exactly how it was, because it was the same for me. You crossed my mind a few times, sure, but let’s not kid ourselves. If we had really meant that much to each other, we’d have met up long, long before now."

He shook his head as he listened to your words, simultaneously rejecting them and admitting their truth, as his tense jaw suggested.

"I went to see your parents," he confessed suddenly, hesitating as he wet his bottom lip with his tongue, a faint, somber smile touching his face. "It was actually the only time I came back here, after my mom… after I placed her in a sanitarium. I was hoping to run into you, but your dad said you hardly ever came home."

"Was he sober when you talked to him?"

"It was lunchtime."

You couldn’t hold back and let out a short laugh.

"Oh, boy, you missed a lot."

His eyes softened yet stiffened at the same time in a paradoxical way. You saw how he straightened slightly in his seat, as the saliva that had long been gathering in your mouth threatened to spill. You weren’t sure what you hoped to achieve by bringing up your father. Maybe you were trying to make some twisted, clumsy argument, or perhaps, after everything that had revolved around him in the past few days, your mind instantly turned to his figure every time you were too exhausted to pull up anything else. It was easy. Silence, awkwardness, pain. The memory of your father, the immediate understanding directed toward you. Almost pity, but dressed up in a more pleasant package.

"Do you have any idea what was going on with him in the last few years?" you asked, empty.

 "He had a problem? You know, with drinking?"

You tried not to snort in contempt at the question.

"He’s always had a problem," you stated, your hands tightening slightly on your chest under the table. You'd never spoken to anyone about this aloud. Any grievances you had with him were always kept in your head, knowing you wouldn’t find understanding from people who hadn’t lived with your father every day. Who knew him as a cop with an iron fist, but with a big heart for suffering, innocent people. "Well, I don’t know if you remember. Beer as an inseparable part of the day. Or maybe more of the evening. But he had a stressful job, right? It’s normal to have a drink or two in front of the TV, isn’t it?"

Spencer’s lips pressed together tightly.

“He saw a lot of crap every day, so of course, he’d take it out by yelling at his wife,” you continued, not stopping the bitterness building up inside you. It had been there for so long, but never formed into one angry thought. It surfaced every time someone spoke of him in glowing terms, patting you on the shoulder and pitying your loss with a tear in their eye. “Or at his daughter. He had to control everything, right? After all, he worked hard. He deserved to come home to a perfect family, in a perfect house, with no complaints.”

You stopped, closely watching his reaction. Maybe you'd said too much, unloaded too much all at once, putting too much pressure on him.

“I remember when we were thirteen,” he suddenly spoke, in a strangely detached tone. It was as if he was talking about something that had unexpectedly lodged itself in his mind and couldn't wait. “And he let us try beer.”

Well, that wasn't the response you'd expected. But really, what did you expect? You'd told yourself countless times that someone's sympathy wouldn't change anything about your situation. But still, you felt a sting, as if he was changing the subject and brushing off your words.

“He let you try the beer,” you corrected him automatically. Yet, despite your grim mood, the corner of your mouth quivered involuntarily. “But you gave it to me because you didn’t like it.”

The memory flooded you, bringing a wave of others with it.

Another summer evening filled with shouting.

You waited until the two arguing figures disappeared into the kitchen walls before quietly slipping through the terrace doors. You’d started doing this a while ago. Your father had always been strict, making sure your mother sent you to bed at the designated time—unchanged since you were seven. And that year, you were twelve. Anyway, one evening, you lay trembling under your blanket. Even the smallest argument seemed like a horror story in a child’s eyes. You saw the light on at your neighbor’s house—Spencer’s and his mom’s. Knowing that after drinking, your father’s vigilance and control weakened, you decided to take the risk.

You managed to sneak out unnoticed once, then again. Soon, it became normal. You’d return about an hour later when the situation calmed down, and his drunken anger had finally shifted to drunken sleepiness, and he wouldn’t notice your return. You never asked about it directly, but your mom probably knew.

“Can we watch something normal, just this one time?” you whimpered at the sight of another nature documentary on the TV in the Reid’s living room.

Spencer, lying on his stomach on the carpet, jumped slightly, startled when you slipped in through the glass terrace doors. However, he was starting to get used to your evening visits and quickly shook off the shock.

“There’s nothing more normal on earth than the processes that happen on its surface,” he said, turning his gaze back to the TV.

You raised your finger, sticking out your front teeth.

“There’s nothing more normal on earth than the processes that happen on its surface,” you repeated, mimicking his pretentious tone in an exaggerated way.

“Go away.”

“Then give me the remote.”

You chased each other around the living room, trying to wrest the remote from each other’s hands. Your squeals, arguments, and laughter never seemed to disturb Spencer’s mom, which always puzzled you. She didn’t even come out when you accidentally knocked over the bookshelf, sending several shelves of books crashing to the floor, which you both scrambled to pick up in a panic.

You often wondered that every day, Spencer watched those science programs, alone in the living room, with the terrace doors open. The darker thought would occasionally cross your mind: What if, just that one time, someone else had barged in? What would have to happen to pull Diane Reid out of one of those strange states she sometimes slipped into, when nothing around her mattered, not even her own son? But, as you said, those were very rare thoughts. After all, you were just a kid.

“Why can’t you watch TV at your place?” Spencer asked, pouting his lips.

He lost the fight for the remote, and you were now watching cartoons. His eyes absorbed them with interest, even though he denied it.

“Evenings, the TV belongs to my dad.”

“Couldn’t you ask him to let you watch something sometimes?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because no.”

“That’s not an answer!”

But even though he pretended to be unhappy, the terrace doors remained open every evening.

You confessed to Spencer that your father had always been like that. He pretended to be fine, then would crack, and afterward deny everything. You saw hesitation on his face as he listened, especially when you described how things were during your childhood. Spencer Reid liked to be right, and he absolutely trusted his own judgment. He hadn’t been a direct witness to those events, unlike you. Your father had always adored him—the small, smart neighbor kid who skipped grades and always asked so many questions about his work in the police. Of course, he had always been the best version of himself around Spencer. You also suspected that he probably always wished for a son.

His assessment, therefore, might not have been objective. He hadn’t seen what went on behind closed doors. For a moment, fear crept up on you. Did he even believe your words? Or did he think you were just fabricating a tragic story to explain a real problem that, in reality, hadn’t started until after you moved out?

Spencer just gave a barely noticeable nod, his forehead tense.

"You spent so much time at our house," he said quietly, uncertainly. "Why...why didn’t you ever tell me what was really going on? Back then and later on?"

You shrugged. Inside, you could have easily mocked your father’s addiction, but in reality, you were still deeply ashamed of it. Like any family of an alcoholic, hiding his bottles, lying that he was sick when unexpected guests came over, never calling the problem by its name.

"I don’t know. You liked him so much." A moment of silence, swallowing hard. "And he liked you."

"I respected him. Like I think everyone did."

One of Spencer's most painful yet beautiful childhood memories was that one specific moment during the holidays. He always spent them only with his mom, who wasn’t always feeling the best, but that one moment stayed with him as something special. When they stepped out onto the terrace, where they had the perfect view of the terrace of the neighboring house. The family that lived there—mom, dad, and their daughter—would also lean out, and they would all sincerely wish each other a Merry Christmas.

Their house was always decorated with colorful lights and those slightly eerie garden gnomes in the night light. They stood on their doorstep, the three of them. Neatly dressed, their daughter in a red dress with a large bow in her hair, clinging to her mother's side. They always seemed so happy, so perfect to him. A strange feeling would arise in his chest, and he’d move closer to his mother’s side, but that only intensified the sensation of something missing inside him.

"You looked up to him."

"Because I was a kid. Look, just because he had an impact on me, on my future…it doesn’t mean I’m diminishing what you or your mom went through," he finally explained, his voice tinged with a slight crack. His gaze was both confused and sad, still processing everything he’d just heard. "It’s really awful, and no one should go through that. I can’t believe I didn’t see it. Or maybe I did, but I didn’t want to? Anyway…I’m sorry for being so clueless."

"You weren’t clueless," you assured him, a weak smile forming on your lips. His words echoed in your mind. “You were just a kid. And I didn’t bring this up to make you feel bad. I’m sorry if that’s how it came across. I just...I wanted at least one person, besides me, to have the full picture”

He nodded, but not in the mindless way that merely signals someone is paying attention. This was different—a deep, understanding gesture, replacing the words that had been growing more difficult to say. You both sat there in silence for a moment, your fingers mechanically tapping out a slow rhythm on the dark wood of the table, while his rested motionless on his knees. It was hard to return to that relaxed, pleasant conversation you’d started with.

“I’m glad we could meet,” you said simply, but honestly.

Usually, saying something like that signals the speaker is preparing to leave. You had already spent a lot of time in the small bar, and with the evening progressing, the crowd hadn’t really changed—only a few more people had trickled in. The thought of going home wasn’t so bad anymore, but still, you hesitated before getting up and grabbing the coat hanging on the back of his chair.

“I am too,” Spencer admitted, briefly rubbing his forehead above his glasses. “But before you go, please, tell me—how’s your mom handling it? Maybe you should give her my regards. I hope she’s...”

He stopped mid-sentence, reading the expression on your face, and immediately understood.

"When...when?"

There was something unbearably unsettling about the plastic chairs in the hospital waiting room. At the same time, you could feel your legs completely numb from sitting in them, yet you also felt you didn’t have the strength to get up. You were effectively stuck, like a prisoner awaiting their sentence. In some ways, that’s exactly what it was.

When you were fourteen, your mom started acting strangely. She got sick—started with mild symptoms like headaches and nausea. Then, she lost consciousness at work, and that’s when they found the brain tumor.

When people hear such news about their loved ones, they often completely change their lives. They pull themselves together to be a support for them, they face the painful reality, and they find the strength to fight their own demons, like quitting alcohol. But your father, he took an entirely different route. It seemed like he was sinking deeper into it. No one really reacted. After all, he was a man facing tragedy; surely, it was okay for him to have one too many drinks. Previously strict with his parenting, he no longer seemed to care much about you.

This threw you into a state of confusion. At that moment, more than ever, you needed an adult, a parent, even if they were the most controlling person in the world. Actually, rules might have even helped keep your family in check, maintaining the appearance of normality.

For the first time, you felt the urge to confide in someone, but you had no one. Spencer had started college, which still seemed absurd to you, considering you were the same age. Your contact with him had dwindled, just when you started thinking of him as a true friend—not the ironic, childish kind. You met from time to time, of course, but it was always hard to open up, especially about what was happening at home. Maybe, if he’d been around, he’d have noticed your dad’s decline. But he wasn’t, and it felt silly to even entertain alternative theories, as if they could change the past.

Your knees shook involuntarily, your fingers almost breaking through them. In the room next door, they were performing the surgery to remove the tumor, which was located in a difficult spot, as the doctor, with a gentle yet experienced face, explained to you in a tone that almost sounded apologetic—as though it was his fault. Your dad had been there with you earlier, but you had no idea where he went with the passing of time. Did you even want to know? No. You wanted to be with your other parent—your mom. You didn’t want to leave that room for a second; you wanted to be the first to hear any news, whatever it might be.

The empty chair beside you was suddenly occupied by someone. You kept your gaze fixed on the floor, staring at your shoes, trying not to suffocate on your own breath. You didn’t notice who it was.

"Two years ago," you informed him. After those words, there was always silence—people calculating in their heads whether two years was enough time for you to have pulled yourself together, or if they should treat you like a fragile porcelain figurine at risk of cracking. You always helped them, softening the tension that followed with something disarming. "But don’t worry. We weren’t really in touch by then, so you don’t have to feel bad about not knowing."

Okay, that was one of the stranger things you could have said. Spencer must have thought the same; his mouth literally fell open in disbelief.

"Of course I feel bad," he managed, his voice a mix of a sigh and an incredulous scoff, shaken yet laced with growing pain. He quickly shook his head, as if trying to snap himself out of it. "Of course I feel bad. I—I don’t know why you’d think I wouldn’t. She’s your mom."

Someone’s hand awkwardly reached out to take yours.

You glanced to the side, realizing with disbelief that the person who had sat down next to you was Spencer.

The boy who would get goosebumps at the mere thought of germs. Who openly mocked the idea of drinking from the same bottle, sometimes blurting out that kissing was safer than shaking hands—only to blush furiously when he realized how that sounded.

And yet, he did it. Hesitant, of course, but he reached for your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze to disguise the trembling. You barely noticed it. Your hand was shaking too.

Modern-day Spencer rested his forearms on the table, leaning forward. The return of your mother’s tumor had been a blow, and her passing, another. Time, however, had marched on, and you had learned to move through life with that weight. Thoughts of her hadn’t brought tears to your eyes in quite some time. But at the sight of his reaction, the familiar sting returned.

To him, she hadn’t just been your mom. She was the woman in whose house he had spent a significant part of his childhood. The one who always stopped herself at the last moment from enthusiastically hugging him on his birthday, remembering his aversion to touch. The one who listened to him with fascination, praising his brilliance while gently, softly asking how his own mother was doing. The one who loved to sit wrapped in a blanket on the porch with a book, watching as the two of you played a self-invented version of chess that involved running laps around the yard before each move.

You leaned back from him, blinking rapidly to dispel the swell of emotion.

Your mom was to stay in the hospital for a while longer. Night had fallen, and though you couldn't remain until morning, your dad was still nowhere to be found. Instead of fruitlessly searching for him, you and Spencer decided to walk home. The empty streets of the suburbs seemed to meditate in the stillness between you, adjusting to the rhythm of your silence.

Your feet, however, led you both to the playground—a place you hadn't visited in years, having convinced yourselves that you were too old for such things. Even though it was summer, a strange chill settled over your shoulders as you sat in silence on the two solitary swings. Each motion forward felt like it brought you closer to the stars.

It wasn’t that night, specifically, but sometime shortly after, you began to realize that you were starting to feel something more. Lightly, in that innocent, teenage way, you found yourself falling for your best friend. At first, you would have rather died than admit it, but the feeling lingered.

Over the next four years, you saw each other regularly but rarely due to his studies. But you awaited each of these meetings with the greatest impatience, while simultaneously becoming more and more terrified of your own feelings.

"I'm so very sorry I wasn't here then," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. You wanted to shake your head in understanding, to reassure him, but he cut you off. "Not even just at the funeral itself. Just...with you."

"Stop," you pleaded weakly. "You didn’t know. I didn’t tell you. I probably missed a lot of things that happened in your life along the way too." You swallowed to wet your dry throat. The words came out with difficulty, your voice trembling slightly. "At some point, we stopped talking to each other—not the first childhood friends to drift apart and definitely not the last. It just.. happens."

"That doesn’t mean it was right," he replied without hesitation, tilting his head, clearly convinced of the truth in his statement. You weren’t so sure, given your hidden feelings, ones you had no intention of revisiting. Not then, not in that moment, not in that bar. During a meeting that was about to end.

"I’ve known you forever. Well, okay, not literally, but I’ve known you since my brain was forming the most—frontal lobes developing and…what I mean is, you’re really important to me. And I wasn’t there for you when both your parents…"

You let the completion of that sentence fade into the space around you. In the bar, which seemed to exist only in the space you occupied. Breathing more heavily, you recalled all the moments over the past six years when you missed him, wondering what he was up to and how he was doing. Which usually went hand in hand. Sometimes he would cross your mind when you saw kids playing chess in the park, other times you simply thought of him, unable to attribute the guilt to any particular association.

"You’re here now," you said gently, unable to say anything else.

He was still slightly leaning over the table, towards you. Suddenly, as if he realized his position, he slowly leaned back into his chair, exhaling more heavily after a long moment of silence.

You were unable to move, the growing sense of guilt shaping on his face. And when he felt guilty, so did you.

Your goal was to rise from the chair, but your body, against your will, made a different move. To both your surprise, it reached for both of his hands resting on the table, clasping them gently. You tried not to focus on their texture, not to compare them to how they had been before, not to search for that familiar feeling, not to flow with the current of any memories.

Simply to keep him in place for a moment.

“Thank you for being here today,” you whispered, gently squeezing his hands. His fingers, initially limp in yours, were slowly beginning to reconnect, though there was a certain confusion in them. The same confusion was in his eyes. “Thank you for coming as soon as you found out. It really means a lot, Spencer. It really does to me.”

For a moment, you both stayed silent, looking at each other. You both thought you would say something more. You would expand on the thought, maybe call him the best friend you've ever had. Perhaps, without thinking, you'd mention that once you had loved him in a way that might have seemed unexpected. Well, both those options passed through your mind like shadows.

“It’s late.” The third option won. If you had a watch, you would have glanced at it dramatically. That was all that was missing to complete this scene. “I really should be going.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but no sound came out. In the end, he just nodded with silent understanding when he noticed what time it was. Though, it wasn't the time that was the problem. After all, you were both adults who didn’t have a curfew. You could have stayed there until morning. But would that really be good for you?

Slowly, you pulled your coat over your shoulders.

Spencer didn’t move. You wondered if he planned on staying there.

"Do you... do you want me to walk you home?" he asked suddenly, hesitating.

You looked at him, unsure, slipping your hands into your pockets.

"I’m heading the same way," he added quickly, slowly getting up from his seat, even though you hadn’t agreed yet.

You raised an eyebrow in surprise, then remembered that the Reid house hadn't been put up for sale and had been sitting empty for years. You waited until he had put on his coat, and then both of you were exposed to the crisp night air. As you crossed the street, an occasional car passed by with its headlights on, making you both squint. You couldn’t help but think how you never expected that if you ever found yourselves together, side by side in your hometown, it would feel like this. Perhaps you hadn’t even thought that you’d never see each other again. After all, it was quite possible you’d run into each other a few more times. People often bumped into their neighbors from the same apartment block on the other side of the world during vacations, fate had a wicked sense of humor. What you didn’t expect, however, was how present the ghost of your childhood, and the memories it carried, would be during this encounter.

Your steps were oddly small, as though your feet had shrunk. Unconsciously, you extended the walk, turning into a wrong street, just like when you had returned from the hospital after visiting your mother.

 “Are you stopping here?” you asked, your gaze absently drifting to the empty swings on the playground you passed.

Spencer’s eyes followed yours in that direction, and his steps even slowed a little. He probably would’ve stopped if you hadn’t kept moving confidently ahead.

“Just for one night,” he replied, adjusting his glasses on his nose. There wasn’t much enthusiasm in his voice. Sometimes, returning to the family home didn’t bring joy to grown-up children, especially when the house had been empty for a long time—or unbearably loud, depending on the family. “I’m actually flying out tomorrow. I just...really wanted to talk to you.”

You nodded, briefly asking about his mom, then about work, though not in a probing way—just the steady rhythm of a lazy conversation. Slowly, the familiar neighborhood began to shift into the one etched deeply in your subconscious, the one you had both memorized long ago.

Eventually, you both found yourselves forced to stop, mainly due to the sight of your family homes. Standing steadfastly side by side, just like you both had during that entire walk.

“Maybe we should meet up,” he suggested quietly, stopping in front of you. “You know, tomorrow. Just for a moment.”

Staring at his face, bathed in the orange glow of the streetlight, you gently nodded.

“And...maybe sometime after that,” he added.

You were a little short of words, but not because you didn’t want to see him again. It was simply that you didn’t like making promises driven by the moment. For now, you both drowned in nostalgia, unwilling to part ways and disrupt it. But who knew? Maybe once you disappeared from each other’s sight, you’d forget each other’s phone numbers again. Your hesitation seemed to stir something on his face. Perhaps he took it as a refusal.

You sighed deeper and rose onto your toes, wrapping your arms around his neck. It was a very slow, lazy embrace, gradually melding into his body as the scent of his clothes began to tickle your nostrils, and your chin sank deeper into his shoulder, like it was a pillow.

Spencer remained stiff for a moment. You’d only hugged before once, when you were packing your suitcase into the car before leaving for college, as far from your hometown as possible. That hug had been difficult for you. This one, although it too was a form of farewell, felt pleasant and hard to break. Especially when he pulled you closer, wrapping his arms tightly around your back, almost lifting the tips of your fingers off the ground. You heard a soft sigh escape his lips before you pulled away to arm’s length.

"So...see you," you muttered, slowly stepping back, heel to heel. You felt like a magnet being forcibly pulled away from a fridge, shaking your head to get rid of the pull.

Two more small steps back, you should have already turned towards home, but his expression stopped you. Full of hesitation, with a clenched jaw, as if he really wanted to add something, but wasn't sure if he should. You were already half-turned with your back to him.

"Would...would things have been different between us if I hadn't given you that letter back then?" he asked finally, pushing his hands deep into his pockets.

The words seemed to bounce off your ears but didn’t fully reach you. At least not completely. Your posture straightened, freezing in place, facing him once again.

"Well, you know," he tried to explain, forcing a small smile. "We would have stayed in touch more over the years."

"What...what letter, Spencer?"

His brows furrowed, his lips parted, but no sound came from them. Suddenly, he froze, expressionless.

"Did you send me a letter?" you tried, completely not understanding what he meant.

Maybe he had written down your address wrong, and it ended up going to someone else who threw it away. Maybe you had actually received it, but tossed it somewhere in your dorm room, too busy to read it. Then, while dressing, you accidentally knocked it behind your dresser, where it gathered dust through all your years of studying, never meant to reach you again. The cobwebs covering its words, whatever they might have been.

"I left you a letter," he finally said, his voice so fragile that you could almost feel it in your chest. "I knew I wouldn't be able to say it to you. And, well...you were leaving, and I had no idea when we'd see each other again. I just...I didn't want to keep it to myself anymore."

A lingering moment of silence.

"I left it on your terrace," he finally added, barely opening his mouth as he spoke.

You pressed your fist to your chest, closing your eyes for a moment.

"I never got it," you confessed hoarsely, still not looking at him, trying to process what you’d just heard. "On the terrace...God, Spencer. It should've been obvious that someone would throw it out. My mom or dad. Especially him."

He suddenly chuckled, but there was no trace of amusement in it. A bit of absurdity, yes. But mostly, the realization, after all these years, that he had messed up and had no idea about it. On the contrary, he had been under the impression that you knew.

"What was in that letter?"

You felt like you wouldn't go back home until you knew. Spencer, however, shook his head in disbelief, his eyes wide with shock.

"You have to tell me," you insisted firmly. "Whatever it was, please. Even if it's no longer relevant. I just want to know...what you wanted to say to me back then."

His temples tensed as he squeezed his eyes shut. A few breaths later, his muscles loosened. Meanwhile, your body remained still, waiting for what you'd hear.

"I liked you," he finally managed to say. A rush of sound filled your ears. Spencer suddenly let out a bitter chuckle. "It was a love letter. As deep as an eighteen-year-old can get. Maybe...maybe it's better you never got it. I’d be so, so embarrassed by it now…"

"You liked me?" you interrupted him.

You had been enchanted by him for years, not even realizing it for most of that time. Spencer, however, was a complicated teenager, both close and distant at the same time. He was reserved when it came to emotions, impenetrable. Sometimes he’d blush, but never once made a move, never.

He shrugged.

"Well, I guess it doesn't really matter now," he replied. He tried to smile, attempting to wipe away a certain sorrow that still lingered beneath the surface of his expression. "Back then, it didn't really matter much either. But...maybe it's good that you know now. You have...the full picture."

You laughed in a way that was almost tearful, surprising him. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to figure out what he had done wrong to provoke such a reaction from you.

"I think we should talk," you finally said, nervously nodding toward your house. "Maybe...maybe you could come in?"

With held breath, you waited for his response. You felt the suggestion was a bit silly. No conversation could change the course of the last few years, force its direction or undo what had already been set in motion. But you no longer cared about changing anything that had happened between you two. What was in the past was probably already irrelevant. What you wanted now was honesty. The full picture, as he had said. You wanted both of you to have it.

"I don't think so," he replied, taking an unsure step back. A nervous laugh escaped him, probably to loosen himself up. "I mean... I don’t even remember what was in that letter anymore, if you're still curious. It doesn't matter at all... we don’t have to talk about it. You don’t have to feel like you should…”

"I liked you too" 

Spencer stopped in his tracks, his hands slipping out of his pockets where he had been nervously hiding them.

"I really think we should talk a little more," you added.

It turned out that those hours spent talking in the bar, just the two of you, hadn’t been enough.

You watched as his chest rose and fell, his head nodding slowly. He agreed.

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[cherry-pop-elf]

Kiss it Better Pt:2

Curly x Reader

AN: Holy shit I did NOT expect all the love and support from the original like god damn! People begging for a part 2 and everything (I’ll make sure to tag those who asked for one at the bottom) Like oh my god thank you guys so much! This means the WORLD to me! As a disabled person trying to make his medical issues more accurate it means so much that yall love it and how I write in general! Thank you!

SUM: You and Anya were busy dealing with changing Curly’s wrappings together. Sharing stories, and just trying to stay positive. That’s when you just had to ask. What’s going on between her and Jimmy?

Warnings: Jimmy, sexual assault, Anya sharing her trauma so pls take care of yourself, medical gore, medical situations, light violence,

“Thank you again for handling Curly’s medication. I’m sorry I just-“ Anya would try to explain again how sorry she was that she was struggling to do her job. A job you could never blame her for. She’s been through a traumatic event of the ship crashing, and already had to try and save a near corpse. She deserves to breathe.

“Anya it’s fine, really. I’m his romantic partner as well. It be weird if I didn’t pick up some responsibility and tried to take care of him. You also deserve time to rest. You’ve done so much for him, and saved his life. Give yourself more credit. It’s not a sin to ask for help.” You would try and comfort her, as you would grab the fresh bandages for Curly.

He needed a lot of them, and they had to be changed out relatively often. He’s basically just exposed meat after all. The risk of infection was high, which you were wondering how he didn’t even catch any yet, so he needed alot of attention and care.

If only Pony Express had packed more, because the med bay was running out of them fast. Very very fast. Might be only able to maybe re wrap him a few more times now. Had you terrified because as much as you wanted to take care of him you had to leave some bandages for the rest of the crew. In case of another emergency.

You wish you could be doing more.

“We’re going to undress you. Is that alright?” Anya would ask Curly, who in return would give two blinks to indicate that he consented to being stripped. Was gonna have to be done but it was still so kind of Anya to still ask before hand.

The two of you would soon get to work on changing out his bandages. A very slow, careful, tedious job. One that normally took over a hour to do properly. So it’s time to kill some of that empty space.

“Ya know, this isn’t the first time over had to wrap up a certain someone because they got hurt. I remember a time when we were at a Ski resort with his family. Someone wanted to try a path that was meant for experts and before you know it someone’s returning to the lodge with his leg bone sticking out of his pants.”

Anya gave a little ‘oh my’ as you just laughed at the memory. Curly just adored sports. Especially the winter variety. You felt so blessed that he had a job that paid so well. Well enough that the two of you, and his own family sometimes, could go and enjoy vacations like that.

You wonder if the two of you will ever see the snow again.

“That sounds rather nice, minus the whole breaking his leg. To share a cabin together with someone. Cuddle for warmth together by the fire place. Sounds really nice.” She would speak dreamily. As if she knew it was simply that. A dream. Something that will never happen again. No matter how hard she tried.

Like something was wrong with her.

“I bet you’ll get that moment. When we escape here you’ll have a flooding of men and women coming your way. The brilliant woman who managed to fight death and win. Again and again. The most brilliant woman to ever live.” You would praise her, as you were very mindful of Curly’s catheter. As if that needed to be messed with.

“Yeah…..Maybe……” Anya didn’t really seem to actually respond. Was like she was just saying words for the sake of words. Had you wondering.

Even before the crash she had just started acting off one day. From being a cheerful woman who was gentle and full of smiles, to being so quiet and scared by the littlest of sounds. Like she expected someone to jump from around the corner and attack her. Any feeling of safety and comfort vanished.

You were worried.

“Say, Anya-“ You began to speak, while disposing the bandages safely into the bio hazard bag. “-Is everything ok? I mean duh we’re not doing to hot with being, ya know, crashed and all. But besides that. You just seem…..different.”

Anya seemed to not hear you. She simply worked on checking over Curly’s body. Hunting down any infections, looking for possible bed sores, monitoring his healing, and getting ready to do the ever so gentlest of sponge baths.

Anya did always get in the zone whenever someone was hurt. You figured she didn’t catch what you said because of it.

So repeated yourself, as you stood next to her. Impossible to miss what you were asking, as you would help Curly sit up and just move his joints to better reach with the sponge.

The only sounds in that room were Curly’s whines of discomfort. Whines to indicate truly how much pain he was in when even the pain killers can numb it.

“Anya….I know you can hear me. Is everything alright? Not to be rude but I’m kinda asking you a question.” You would be gentle, but she still couldn’t help but looked distressed.

“Anya what’s-“ You would reach a hand out, to comfort her, but the second it was raised towards her she would immediately flinch. Her startled reaction ended up even making her drop Curly’s leg on the table.

Oh that’s gotta hurt.

For a fleeting moment you put Anya on the back burner, and just focused your attention on comforting Curly. How he gave a weak sob from the intense pain.

“Shhhh I know Curly Fry. I know. It’s gonna be ok. It was an accident. You know she didn’t mean it. Shhh.” You would kiss his forehead, as Curly had a muscle spasm through his body from the intense shock to his system. So exhausted and in so much pain.

“It’s gonna be ok. I promise. I love you so much. Just think about our future. How we will get off this ship, and have that family. Have our own baby-“

The moment you said baby, that’s when Anya finally cracked.

Her hands were now covering her face, as she just broke down into sobs. Sobs that sounded so hoarse. Like she’s done it so many times that her body was just abused from it. Left you so worried and confused.

What the hell is going on here?

“Anya, what’s wrong? What did I say?” You would gently guide her to a chair, and worked on stroking her hair. Giving her as much comfort as you would to Curly. The same gentle love as he would get. Love she deserved.

It took a while for her to catch her breathe, and you didn’t rush it because it really seemed she needed it, but her own trembling body was finally able to quite down.

“I need to tell you something. I need to tell you something about Jimmy-“

You were quick to kneel down infront of her, and was ready to take in every last word she was going to say. Maybe what secrets she held could finally explain why the hell you all were crashed here. Why Jimmy crashed you all.

“Jimmy ra-“

That’s when the door opened.

As if that bastard had a sixth sense for whenever people were talking about him. That same annoyed expression, same sneer, same empty eyes.

All three of you kinda froze in time now. Looking at him, as he looked back at you all. Scanning you. As if judging to figure out what was being said before entering.

“Hey….Captain….” You swallowed, as you would return to standing. Anya herself remained in her chair, with her head down. Didn’t seem she trusted herself in showing any expressions right now.

“What were you guys talking about?” He asked, as he seemed slightly on edge. Like he hasn’t been sleeping well or had too much caffeine. Just this tension of paranoia was in the air. Like he was worried about something.

“Just about the bandages. We’re starting to run low, and Anya is just getting worried about having enough.” Wasn’t a complete lie. The best lies were the ones with truth sprinkled in.

“Of course he’s wasting our supplies.” He scoffed, before walking over to the table. You were trying to give Curly some respect with grabbing something to cover him up with, but it was like Jimmy wouldn’t let you. The stare he gave you, when you grabbed the clean hospital gown, made you just freeze in place.

It was just so full of hate.

It was just so full of disgust.

It was just cruelty in dark eyes.

It was just focused on you. As if Anya didn’t even exist right now. Like she meant nothing to him. Nothing but the wind in the air. Something you don’t even bother in registering every day. Like how you breathe in air in your lungs.

You don’t notice until it’s gone.

“Has he been given his medication?” He would ask you, as his hands would be firm on the bed side. Just seeming to assert his dominance with standing over the man. Like some got over the little people.

“Yes Jimmy. He’s been medicated. We are actually in the middle of washing him. It would be nice if there was some privacy-“ You tried to gently hint at, only for it yo fall on deaf ears.

"The crash really did do a number on you. You don’t even have a dick anymore. Just holes huh-?” Jimmy would scoff, as that was your final straw. You would give Jimmy a hard hip bump, and quickly covered Curly up. To give him dignity and respect.

“Hey-! Watch it! Don’t think because you are Curly’s little eye candy doesn’t mean you can go pushing people around-“ Jimmy would bark at you.

You didn’t feel fear.

Jimmy was messing with YOUR man now. Curly deserved dignity and respect. He doesn’t deserve to be called a ‘set of holes’ no way in hell. No one deserved that and ESPECIALLY not Curly.

“Will you just shut up?! What the hell are you even doing here?! Aren’t you the Captain now? Captains are suppose to be doing whatever it takes to help the crew. All you’ve been doing is walking around and insulting everyone! It’s like you don’t want us to be saved. Be a Captain and take some responsibility already-!”

The anger that he had for you was terrifying. You swore it was like a switch. He suddenly seemed taller, bigger, angrier, more intense. You felt like you were shrinking more and more. Like you would melt into a puddle under that heated stare.

But you refused to.

For Curly.

“Listen here you-“

SLAP

You smacked him across the face. Was like the world went mute. No one was so much as breathing. Just the stares of shock from Anya and Curly.

“Get. Back. To. WORK.”

You ordered, and he listened.

He would hold his red cheek, and walked away like a dog with its tail between its legs. As if he was all talk and no bite. That he couldn’t bring himself to be more than an angry voice.

Someone needed to keep him in his place.

“Can this damn ship get any more hectic?” You sighed with your fingers to the bridge of your nose. Just trying to think clearly.

That’s when Anya found her voice.

“I’m pregnant.”

You opened your eyes wide, and was frozen in place.

Did you hear that right? No no. No way. Why would she be pregnant? How would she get pregnant? Who would get her…

“Oh my god.”

You slowly turned around to Anya with the puzzle pieces falling into place. You finally realized what had happened.

Jimmy never was a responsible man.

@meheheasasa @letmebedelutional @trashcansally @balanahala562

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[inafieldofstarflowers]

Obviously the first chapter of The Foxhole Court lays the groundwork/provides background for a lot of parts of the series (Exy, the Foxes, who Andrew is, hints at Neil’s past, etc.), but I think one of the most important (& honestly masterful) things Nora does in it is establish the relationship between Neil, Exy, and Kevin.

When we meet Neil, he’s literally on the bleachers in pain from watching the Exy court be turned back into a soccer field, because that’s basically a crime to him. While yes, this is a funny comment because it’s so deeply dramatic, the following explanation that it’s the one thing Neil has never been able to let go of through all of the identities he’s held makes it clear that Exy is something more to Neil than just a game; rather, it’s a symbol of his lost childhood, of the way things might have been if he and his mother hadn’t run. Still, Neil is torn about the idea of pursuing Exy, because his love for it is warring with his mom’s instructions not to play again in order to remain safe and under the radar.

Enter David Wymack with a contract—or, really, Kevin Day with a contract.

Even Wymack says that Kevin is the one signing Neil. Kevin, who Neil met once as a child, when they played a game of Exy together. Kevin, who has spent the years Neil has been on the run building his skills to become a star Exy player. Kevin, who has a career it is obvious Neil has followed closely.

At this point, Neil reaches two important conclusions:

He would be in danger of losing everything if Kevin remembered him, but he doesn’t seem to

The offer of a contract doesn’t matter, because Neil Josten isn’t real—no matter “how much he liked being Neil Josten”

And this is where (in my opinion) things get very interesting: as Neil thinks about the offer to play for the Foxes—& therefore with Kevin—he thinks that he doesn’t want to give up Exy because “It was the only thing that made him feel real,” and then follows this up with the thought that “[His] past was locked in Kevin’s memories. It was proof he existed, same as this game they both played. Kevin was proof Neil was real.”

Since Kevin was first mentioned, it has been in relation to his Exy career—his partnership with Riko, the broken hand that halted his career briefly, signing to the Foxes, the speculation about Andrew’s impact on that choice—because that is the thing about him that matters to Neil—or, perhaps more accurately, it’s the only thing Neil really knows about him. Neil’s concerns about Kevin remembering him are so loud that they can make it easy to overlook the fact that Kevin and Neil aren’t reunited childhood friends, they’re just people who essentially had a really fucked up playdate once.

The thing is, that day is the one with the biggest what-ifs for Neil, and as a result, Kevin is wrapped up in those what-ifs: for Neil, it’s become a question of if I had stayed, would I have reached stardom like Kevin has? Exy and Kevin, while not fully interchangeable, are certainly inextricably linked in Neil’s mind, and they are also both tied up in Neil’s dreams and regrets.

Why does this matter? Two main reasons: first, having this background shows us why Kevin is so important to Neil: no matter how much Neil doesn’t want to be Nathaniel anymore, Nathaniel was the one who was real. The only things at the start of the series that give Neil Josten that same feeling are playing Exy and Kevin Day.

Second, we are immediately shown that Neil’s perception of Kevin is not entirely trustworthy, because its foundation is one traumatic childhood event followed by a years-long parasocial relationship. And, while Neil certainly gets to know Kevin better as the series goes on and they actually start spending time together, there are many moments where Neil views Kevin through a lens that is too close to being “Kevin=star Exy player,” which results in him misinterpreting Kevin’s meaning (ie after Kevin learns who he is and Neil thinks he’s just concerned about their season even though Kevin’s telling him to run) or simply brushing over other parts of his personality (ie when he buys into the “Kevin only cares about Exy” idea some of the others have said). By making us aware of this early, Nora is preparing us to examine what Neil’s saying for bias by showing that he isn’t an entirely reliable narrator, and it’s done so well in just a few pages.