#third eye linguistics | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

satoruhour · 6 months

Note

HIHII hope you are doing well!!!

I have a request but if you're not comfortable writing it's completely fine too!!

Anyways~ can you write something with University professor geto x top student reader??? They have a lot of sexual tension and geto continuously targets the reader in his lectures only for her to storm into his office after a test in which he didn't give her the marks she deserved just so he could piss her off and eventually leading them to blow off some steam together hehe-

HEJSJSH ANYWAYS I HOPE YOU HAVE A GREAT REST OF THE DAY💗💗

-🍒

I GOT THAT DUMB D*CK !

a/n: hi cherry 2! saying 2 because i already have another cherry anon, thank u for waiting for this btw sorry this took so long omggg!!! i wanna make it similar to the short blurb i did here, but ill leave out reader being a camgirl! a lot of lore talk, just a warning

wc: 8k (sigh ....)

warnings: so much lore lol sorry, no beta we die like men, age gap (32 / 24), professor!geto, fem!reader, geto is also a cam worker, masturbation (both f and m), toy use during f! masturbation (vibrator), fantasising, pet names, praise, degradation, use of ‘slut’ and ‘whore’, oral (m receiving, f receives briefly at the end), dumbification (ig?) face-fucking, deep-throating, spitting in mouth, unprotected sex, creampie / breeding kink, cum eating, implied multiple rounds, n*sfw under the cut

no one could really pinpoint the reason why professor geto had picked on you, called you out so much, and why you entertained the incessant questions. it was unbecoming of a prof., he knew, it was never smart to favour one person (negatively, in this case) in a room of bright students who could read between the lines. but he just feels himself so drawn to your furrowed eyebrows and words laced with venom, because at the end of the day, he can see that you aren’t all talk.

you challenge his views and you do it in a way that catches him off-guard. you propose insane arguments that you willingly would die at the grave just to find evidence for; or it could just be because he was staring too much at the way your mouth moved and your eyes expressed everything to pay attention to your words, finding that you were just too beautiful to be chasing a linguistics degree.

this was another thing: geto suguru could possibly have anyone he wanted. he was fine. shoulders pulled back in proper posture, hair either tied up fully or just halfway, and always, always wearing shirts with sleeves that reach his wrist. to that, everyone could see just how bulked the man was, top looking too tight all the time.

geto knew he was fine, too, because on top of (and before) being a professor, he found that he could get a good amount of money by just streaming — camera propped below his neck and obviously tight button-up shirt discarded to reveal his tattooed body, while he has his legs spread and the thirsty, horny comments flooding in on the platform. it’s been a norm by now, started from his uni days where he needed some extra money to support his fees and living necessities.

one year turned into two, two years turned into stagnancy during his third and fourth years (save for a few occasional streams), and up came a little funny graduation stream suggested by his best friend. geto had spent a good half ’n hour talking about his time in university and thanking his viewers, changing up the setting almost immediately by showing hard he was.

[uzum4kisl0ver]: YEAAAH we’re getting to the good stuff, thank u for feeding us so well these few years uzumaki-san!!

[minstash96]: Congrats on graduating Uzumaki-san!! I rmb joining during your third year and found out from everyone u were getting busier </3 but Im glad youre back again!!!

[g_bigdick_s]: fellas is it gay to support your best friend’s graduation jerking off stream

the flood of “yes”’s replying to gojo made the streamer laugh, thankful that his best friend had listened a little and at least changed gojobigdicksatoru to just his “G.S.” initials to avoid people finding his LinkedIn. from there, geto had gotten into the true nature of his stream easily, fishing out his cock to stroke and loving the sounds of tips coming in, the name of his alias Uzumaki continually commented. since then, it’s become a side hustle — finishing his masters, training to become a professor, it’s all natural to him, taking even further steps to make sure he isn’t found out.

exactly, he could have anyone he wanted — a fan from his streaming account, or one of satoru’s regular fwb’s but instead he finds himself drawn to someone else, you, the second year student in his bilingualism and multilingualism module that he has no trouble teaching despite his freshly employed status.

at the start of the week, the gods decided thought it would be funny to delay the campus bus that would take you to the english department for a consultation session with your professor. you couldn’t focus in lectures due to bad cramps, you were behind on your non-major related courses, the bad luck just seemed to seep into one day after another. you had woken up late, putting on a terrible outfit that no one really cared about, except your professor who just had a smirk on his face.

“if you notice, runes were created as they were spoken — spelt as they are said which almost look like ‘pictographs’,” prof. geto switches to the next slide with the runes and their meanings alongside a jumble of symbols that send the whole class into hysterics, “can anyone sound out the phonetics of these runes to me? hint: even though i said they look like pictographs, the first rune is definitely not an E.”

he was known for asking questions during lectures, pleased with anyone that would even try because he knew how quiet lecture theatres could get. he was exactly like that in university, too, letting satoru take all the attention due to the many unknown people in the same room. now, he found that asking the questions was a little entertaining, seeing the way students look back down at their laptops and avoid eye contact. but he doesn’t need to do anything and his body is already turnt towards you. he’s not even pointing physically, which he thinks he’s done a good job of restraining himself.

ᛊᛃᚨᚾᛖᛚ

“the words and names should be as they sound — so ‘s’ or ᛊ should translate into a ‘c’ since they didn’t have a C back then and it’s the closest sound to C. ᛃ can’t be ‘h’ because of the usage of H in hagl . . its pronunciation is different and plus, we’ll spell it how we say it, so maybe it’s ‘j’?” you mutter to yourself, an urge to answer the quickest, always. you aren’t sure where this streak came from, but you’ve been smart always, “sja . . it either can be chanel or channel since there’s a rule you can’t use the same rune twice in succession . .”

professor geto already knows you’d be the first to answer, raising your hand even without looking since you were still calculating the other four letters which you put together fairly quickly.

you take the safest route, “chanel, with one N.”

geto clicks his tongue and sucks in a breathe, “so close, miss (y/n), but it’s because i cheated a little on my part.” you can feel your blood boil and the grimaces of other students when he switches to the next slide and there’s a little grin on his face. it says — ‘there is no distinction between capital and small runes, nor can you use the same rune twice continually.’

“you are right, partially, but i did want to drive home the point,” which he’s sure you already know. “that words with two N’s or L’s or whatever, would only show up in the runic language as only one character.” your face morphs into something of annoyance and the grin on professor geto’s face only widens — that defiant, headstrong nature is something he loved, but the grin drops a little when he imagines something . . out of the classroom. his pants tighten.

you mirror him, clicking your tongue and reluctantly taking down the note in your documents before sinking into your chair — not even chō, you friend, could find the proper words to comfort you. you spend the rest of the lecture, sulking, unwillingly answering his incessant questions with a scowl on your face and a headache forming.

this never stops—

“miss (y/n)?” one-on-one meetings were the bane of your existence, but it was the only way to connect with your professors properly — here, geto calls you to talk about your latest essay where you were the last on the roster. by then, everyone has filed out with nobara waiting for you just outside the classroom.

“don’t have to call my name, i’m the only one here.” you mutter under your breath, and geto feels a little annoying today.

“what was that?”

“nothing—”

he hums, scooting his chair closer once you sit, and while you find the gesture a little weird, you’re overcome with just how good he smells and it only fuels your hatred more. it’s no fair that he’s so . .

“miss (y/n).” you sigh with an apology, frankly not ready to hear how he’d be attacking your essay. it was written on a rushed timeline, you didn’t cite your sources properly, you knew some criticism was warranted as much as you didn’t like to hear it from your professor’s mouth.

“. . you do know you can’t just rely on your brain, right?” geto speaks softly and you feel your heart flutter at his tone. he points to the places where you forget your in-text citations.

“but professor, information about syntax and phonetics just comes like second nature . .” you mumble, ignoring how he closes his eyes and hisses, “and all the sources on the internet say different things.”

“then just find a reliable one.”

you tsk, taking the paper from him and flipping to the next page, “well, i did one here.” the paper makes a sound when you press your finger into it, aware of how close you are. from here you can feel the heat radiating off his body, unconsciously rubbing your thighs together.

“too long ago, needs to be within five years.” geto’s lying through his teeth.

“no, it does not!” you pull back and look at him incredulously. ah, the feeling’s gone, “not in language related papers, at least!”

“but that claim was from the 2000’s, miss (y/n), for all we know it could’ve been resolved by then.”

“then why didn’t you say anything about chō’s scholar article from the 1990’s?” you’re standing up, now, furrowed eyebrows depicting the very thing you feel: confusion, agitation at being treated like this. given you weren’t in the best condition when you wrote this essay, but you still gave it your all.

“her argument was about the interconnectedness between the romance languages — yours,” he punctuates while leaning back in his chair. you don’t like how your eyes flit down to his lap, but you’re forced to look up when he stands up too, “is about the use of ciphers in comparison to an immature language developed on the internet that created in the 2019s. any scholar claim before that would be void.”

your blood boils just like that day. alas, he had a good point, but like always, the gentle slit of his eyes and the all-knowing smile didn’t match the bullying he was laying on you and you despise it.

even! even, as you notice how there’s probably less than a inch between your faces as you puff out your chest to look more intimidating and yet geto suguru towers over you. and even when your heart beats loudly in your ears, feeling his hot breath fan over your own face while you don’t miss how he licks his lips and glances down to yours not-so-secretly.

you swallow at the silence, until there’s the annoying notification of his Outlook cutting the tension and soon you’re snatching the essay from him, walking to where your bag is. although you want to let your anger overflow, all you say is a tame, “noted. thanks, prof” with a glare, eye twitching.

you made sure to slam the classroom door with shaky hands . .

. . but you’re not very good at capping your rage. “i swear to god! he better fucking check his mirror and admire himself because soon i’m going to beat him up so bad that everyone can’t recognise him.” geto’s lips turn up in a small smirk at your flared expression he just witnessed — he just loves your dirty mouth and he finds himself thinking of it more and more often.

chō only can tut, “so you find him attractive?”

“what? how the hell did you infer that from my rant?” you scoff, shoving her to the side, not aware that your whispered outburst is heard as he’s packing up. he simply enjoys looking at you walk away through the glass slit of the door, hips swaying unknowingly.

“bad news, guys,” geto, or rather Uzumaki, sighs on screen, adjusting so the lens of the camera rested just below his collarbones. easily, his chat fills up with a mixture of horny comments and genuine questions, chuckling to himself as he unbuttons his shirt. he feels more like a sinner at this point, suddenly flustered with the confession he’s about to make.

“i think i’ve taken quite a liking to someone,” geto hums, hands going to his trousers to palm his bulge. he had to get home immediately after that, cancelling his meetings for the day. with a single text to gojo, the white-haired man was excited to hear everything about this new person, thankful that his best friend will finally not be alone.

[g_bigdick_s]: TELL US! TELL US!!!! TELL US!

but professor geto is lost instantly, imagining you as he massages his erection. thinking about your anger transforming into pleasure, into obedience for him as he forces your mouth down on his cock. oh . . how’d your mouth and hands feel, how’d your pussy feel.

geto groans, already removing his dick from the constraints, and pumping it to full length. he doesn’t even talk much, only the endless comments and tips reminding him he was still on live. spitting on his hand, he wraps his hand around himself again, thumbing the tip and hoping it’d be your tongue swirling around it.

what would you look like on your knees, taking each inch of his cock down your throat? would he be able to wipe the defiance off your face? would he be able to fuck his smart student, dumb?

“you need a good destress, woman,” chō suggests over the phone, voice a bit uneven due to it being stuck in between her shoulder and ear, “go on camstar or something, i’m sure you’ll find something hot there.”

“chō, i am not going on a porn streaming website! i’ll very much settle for my smut fics, thank you.”

“boo, don’t you get bored? i get that normal adult industry videos are super inaccurate but . . when was the last time you’ve watched an unfiltered, unedited jerk off vid? that’s the hottest.”

you scoff, “yeah, like you would know, miss complain-whenever-you-get-dick-pics.”

“that’s because it’s unsolicited! plus all the men who send me pics have ugly dicks. if anything i’m more open to get unsolicited pussy pics rather than consensual dick pics at this point.” your friend nonchalantly says, spreading her fingers to look at her manicured nails, “but anyway, prof geto is on your ass too much lately. maybe he wants to get in your pants?”

you don’t recoil at the suggestion as much as you expect to and you’re puzzled at that — “please never say that again.” just as you’re saying this, you’re typing in camstar.org even though you told yourself not to but deep down, you know that you’ve been craving more than just twitter links and porn with plot stories. on the front page, you’re seeing a video thumbnail of a guy with a fairly big . . feature, countless tattoos lining his body while you can catch a faint glimpse of his long hair in the dark room — it’s the only one that draws you in, other streams merging into a blur.

chō’s voice fades off when you notice just how popular the stream is, cursor hovering over the title (“just a ramblefap, need to release some tension”) almost tempting you to click.

“okay, will get back to you,” succumbing to your needs, you shamelessly grab your vibrator just as she cheers into the phone. you can hear that’s my girl! on the other side as you stifle a smile, bidding a goodbye before you settle into bed. from there, you do what you always do: relax for a few, slow your breathing, get yourself wet a little—

click.

The stream you have attempted to view has ended a minute ago. We apologise for the inconvenience caused. View more livestreams below:

you shove the vibrator under your pillow and bury your head into it, screaming.

“i mentioned in yesterday’s lecture that Latin evolved from the dialects of the Italic peoples of ancient Italy, or Latium, a region in central western Italy. over time, Latin absorbed elements from other languages, such as Etruscan and Greek, and it became the main language of the western Mediterranean.” professor geto rambled on in classic geto fashion — it was his passion that made him so easy to listen to, as with the many enamoured girls with googly eyes and the guys who wish they could carry themselves the way geto did.

you’d say the same thing: his love for his subject of study made him attractive — charming even — as much as you didn’t want to admit to your friend, but you’d be more open with your attraction like everyone is if he wasn’t—

[9:52am, (y/n) -> chō 💟] so fucking annoying and cocky and picking on me all the time!!!!!! im soooo sick of him im so serious omfg ....

but today, he’s looking less at you and more at other students, or even marvelling at the terrible paint job of the classroom as he goes from slide to slide. he talks about the derivation in which French separates from Latin, borrowing similar spellings and meanings from the old language while separating the way they are spoken.

“French is the most divergent of the romance languages because of strong Gallic and Frankish influences. The Celtic Gauls spoke a language similar to Old Dutch but adopted Latin as the Romans invaded Gaul.” you don’t even have to look at him to get him thinking of lewd things, spiralling into his fantasies ever since last night. geto is a little fatigued, too, having lost sleep over his fucking student which he just can’t help bothering. excitement at having you in class before is now turning into dread with every week that passes, and this week is just one instance.

“uh— i-i know you guys aren’t well-versed in either, but with your knowledge of both languages,” geto pulls at his tie. he feels hot, “discuss with your tutorial groups, the differences between the two and list down examples. just come up with one difference, but preferably name a few instances.”

[10:01am, (y/n) -> chō 💟] wish u were here im so bored 😭😭 profs acting so weird today tho

[10:01am, chō 💟 -> (y/n)] is he looking hot and bothered, nervous ??? like he wants to cry? im tellin you he wants you fr

of course she’d come out of her sickness-induced sleep just to bother you about him having the hots for you.

[10:02am, (y/n) -> chō 💟] you’re so ... i swear pls shut up he may want me but i do NOT want him

[10:03am, chō 💟 -> (y/n)] not even while you were just ranting about how his side profile looked a little too good in lecture yesterday?? anyway i hope you’ll be able to get that nut tn 🙏🏼 that guy on camstar sounded hot asf

[10:04am, (y/n) -> chō 💟] ikr i cant believe i got cockblocked by a fuckin livestream ending 💀 thank you fr i need it atp

“any progress here?” he comes out behind you and you slam the phone so hard you give the both of you a scare while your other friends exchange giggles with each other. what you don’t know, is how his arm is positioned upon the back of your chair and his whole body hovers just beside yours. you’re threatened to look, but you know if you do, you’d be falling deeper into the pit that you promised yourself not to fall into.

“yup, we’re just discussing things about how in terms of grammar, French has conjugation but almost no declension. but— uh, it rather uses word order to express some of the intricacies that Latin expresses through word endings.”

you can see geto nod from your peripheral, “good. good answer, any examples to show me?”

your friends nod towards you since you’re usually the one with all the information about different languages. they aren’t foreign to the way geto keeps calling on you to answer him, too, so you shouldn’t have any problem with this, right?

wrong. you’re stuttering through your answer, turning your head finally and being met with the sight of prof geto looking down on you like a deer caught in headlights. you think that being in lecture theatres, sitting near to the back and your hatred in general has desensitised you to the beauty of your professor, because being under him like this makes your core pulse uncomfortably and your voice shaky.

“. . hm? what was that?”

“i was uhm— saying how— uh,” the way geto nods at you makes you more nervous, painting you as someone who someone who had all bark and no bite, but the other knows very well that you had a nasty bite. you’re smart and witty, pretty, hot as fuck, and if anything, it’s taking everything in geto not to bend you over and show you your place in this very classroom in front of everyone, too.

“little lady got nothin’ for me today?” geto purses his lips and lets his teasing side take over, an easy-going smile taking over his features that you just want to kiss and slap off at the same time. wait.

“i didn’t get enough sleep because i was too busy trying to rewrite the damn essay you said i had outdated and missing sources for,” you speak through gritted teeth, feeling a mixture of arousal and pure rage for the man hovering over you.

geto juts his lip out in a pout, face getting dangerously close to yours and challenging you. he just hopes your two friends won’t say anything, “well, darling, if you picked an easier topic to argue about, you wouldn’t be doing that, would you?”

“well, sorry i’m always trying to outdo myself. are you, professor geto? what with your boring suits and black and white slide designs?”

you click your tongue and turn back to your phone to pull up your chat with chō while geto takes a deep breath, desperately hoping the hard-on wouldn’t show through his slacks. your other two friends only giggle even more at the exchange, because for the rest of the class, professor geto is on edge, unable to teach coherently.

[11:17pm, chō 💟 -> (y/n)] YOU DID WHAAAAATTTTT...???? GIRL YOU SAID THAT???!!!!!!

[11:18pm, (y/n) -> chō 💟] bro what if i get expelled.. i shouldnt have but he was pissing me off so much... i did put an apology in the end tho

by then, you’ve already submitted your rewritten essay, putting in a short note at the end for your behaviour in class. although you don’t take it back, you’re still trying to play it safe especially with how much you paid to get into university. you scroll along camstar, bored out of your mind and hoping to find something as compelling as the inked guy from last week, but nothing really draws you in. until you’re refreshing the page, and just like the previous time, the popularity of that same bulking guy seems to push his video to the top.

and finally, before you’re clicking into the video, you check out his profile: in his early thirties, started this account when he was 24 and in university. you smack your lips at that — he’s been doing this for almost ten years? that’s dedication. in curiosity, you scroll down his account, seeing the progression of which this guy built up his figure and tattoos that litter his body. he’s kept the same format, camera showing his body chest down until you’re lazy to scroll more, a little disappointed in not being able to find any indication of his face.

you think that maybe you saw a glimpse of that wrist tattoo that matched the tattoo on your professor’s wrist, but you could just be imagining things.

“alright guys . .” the man on the screen huffs, clothes already discarded to get straight to the point, and you’re recording a small snippet of the same guy you told chō about. “had a rough day today.”

the onslaught of comments going i can make u feel better!!! Take ur anger out on me Uzumaki-san makes you sputter and laugh, sending that video first before you’re taking another. your attention is stolen for a moment, seeing chō react with emojis to your video message (“let’s see what emails i got today, huh?”), but the structure of sentences that the man speaks soon brings you out of jollity and into shock.

“how cute, an essay sent straight to my email.” geto wants to do anything but look at emails right now, but ever since he’s gotten your rewritten assignment, it’s all he’s wanted to check out if it wasn’t for the many meetings and errands he had to run today. “yadda yadda . . oh?”

“i’m sorry for today’s lesson,” purposely pausing to leave out his name, geto continues on, “i shouldn’t have reacted in that way no matter the situation.” a smirk forms on his face while your body fills with dread. in your panic, you pull up your own document whilst catching all of this on camera, tracking each word as the man on camstar.org continues to say out your apology word by word.

and then bit by bit, you’re making out how the man behind the camera might, just might be your linguistics professor. the broad shoulders, the jawline, the long hair, the manspread . .

but even with your heightened combination of excitement and revelation, you don’t click away, blindly sending the video to your friend and then shamefully digging under your pillow to grab your vibrator.

“teaching people is so difficult sometimes, guys,” he grunts, pulling down his underwear and revealing his already hard cock. he lets out a shaky sigh as he wraps a hand around his shaft, “you usually get the people who won’t do any work, the ones who are absent half the time — usually they go hand in hand.”

professor geto laughs and you twitch at the lovely sound. “but . . there’s this one girl . . in my classes— f-fuck.”

you’re entranced, watching your professor masturbate in front of thousands of people who possibly didn’t know a thing about this man while you try to get your jaw off the floor, “who is entirely different from these categories.”

“she’s smart,” geto groans out and you watch transfixed as he starts to pump himself, hips grinding up into his palm, “she’s so smart that i’d want to get to know her one day and just talk about anything.”

“s-she’s so fucking attractive, too, you guys won’t even— oh goddd . .” you feel like you’re being watched, so you’re careful with how you’re putting your vibrator to your core and once you start it, the moan that leaves you lines up with geto’s deeper groans. it turns you on so damn much.

with his head tilted back, he’s long gone as he moves his hands faster and faster, the slick noises of his pre-cum and spit mixing in together — geto only wishes he could act on his desires once the course was over, but knows you’ll probably be mortified at the prospect. at least here, he can imagine that it’s your mouth or cunt doing all the work.

“s-shitttt . .” the professor sounds out, hissing when he thumbs his tip and even more pre comes spilling out and while you watch, you’re hypnotised by the beautiful moans in its perfect cadence and the thickness of his cock. by now his chest is heaving and he’s holding onto his bedsheets so tight you wish it was your thighs.

“i want to fuck her silly, fuck all of those stupid facts out of her head and get her dumb on my cock,” geto whines, hips fully bucking up now while you press your vibrator deeper into your clit. you’re left wondering how his mouth would feel, to shut him up by pressing him into your cunt until he can’t breathe, soak his stupid fucking suits, “want to hear her moan my name.”

you whimper at all the things professor geto swears he wants to do to you, grinding into your hand while he speeds up as well. he doesn’t speak, simply stroking himself as he thighs tense up and he squeezes his shaft with head full of visions of you in terribly lewd positions, making disgusting sounds, and all for him. it isn’t long before geto cums with a loud drawn out moan, shooting his cum onto his torso with a sigh before taking a sticky hand to his lips, licking it off — “i’d want to see my cum dripping out of her one day.”

that sends a chill down to your core, biting your pillow before you release softly all over your hand and vibrator; you spend the rest of the night watching professor geto’s other videos.

[12:32am, chō 💟 -> (y/n)] oh. OH..........

“i should’ve just taken an off-day today, i do not want to get back our results.” chō rubs at her eyes and temples, wanting anything to do with the return of test marks, but unfortunately it was the week after midterms and it was inevitable, “don’t need to ask you though, you’re probably not worried at all.”

“trust me, i am,” you bite the inside of your cheek. it’s been at least . . two weeks after that whole debacle, and despite your intense vents with your friend and the continuous picking on by prof. geto, nothing out of the blue was happening. except, maybe, your growing physical need for your professor and your simultaneous, increasing hatred for him.

“it’s only midterms — you don’t need to worry too much since it doesn’t contain a high percentage. what you should be focusing on are your finals. we’ll work on your shortcomings and mistakes here so you guys will do the best when the time comes.”

and when professor geto comes around to hand you your test, all you do is glare up through your lids, taking it from him before feeling your whole world crumble.

“a B+?!” your mouth gapes open at the blatant 65/100 mark that glares back at you. you know that you would’ve gotten anything but a 65, willing yourself to study harder and harder just to rub it in his pretty little face that you weren’t falling behind in his class. at this point it’s got to be personal, so soon, you’re packing up your things angrily with the intent to storm his office after your other classes.

it’s late in the afternoon when you finally finish your other tutorials on a short fuse, him clearly getting ready to head home by the darkness of his office when you shove your way through the door.

professor geto is sat in a laid-back position, tie hung on the hooks installed in the office and a few buttons are unbuttoned, revealing the very familiar tattoos you’ve become acquainted with.

“to who do i owe the pleasure?”

“cut the crap, prof.,” you scowl, using your foot to slam the office door close. despite the late nights being buried in your sheets, you won’t let yourself be treated like this, “i deserved anything but a 65 on midterms.”

geto tilts his head, sitting up and gesturing out to you; you realise he wants to see your test paper.

“ah!” with a finger, he makes a show of finding for your obvious mistakes which was minimal — but the way he marks obnoxiously tells you everything you need to know, “here. your comprehension of the similarities between Latin and Ancient Greek was too surface level, you didn’t explain why—”

“i. did!” you press down into the paper like the first time, leaning over his table and reading out the exact answer you wrote just a few days ago, “here, since your blind ass wants to act like i wasn’t answering the question.” you push yourself into his desk more, eyes levelled with his. you dare him to say something smart.

“well, your explanation of the six cases in Latin left out the locative, the last one, and there were some problems in the conjugation that the test asked of you.”

“bullshit. show me, if you’re so confident.”

professor geto knows he’s hit a dead-end. he was telling lies, full of it, but he’s enjoying every second of the anger that translates into your features, of the growl in your voice. he leans back further the more you close in on him.

“nothing, right? so tell me, do you hate me that much?”

geto simply laughs, crossing his arms and reminiscing on the many nights he’s spent doing anything but.

“quite the opposite, sweetheart.” the name catches you off-guard for a moment, but your sour face returns soon enough.

“then what the fuck do you think you’re doing, picking endlessly on a student?”

your professor sits forward, prompting you to cower back. you think it’d be good to bring up whatever he’s got going on on camstar.org but you’ll wait to a good moment before you say anything about your trump card, until geto snaps you out of your stupor by towering over you. the sheer difference makes you swallow.

“because i like seeing you flared up and angry and mad.” professor geto surprises you with each second, the nonchalance in which he said it, the stupid, attractive smirk on his face. now’s the time.

you compose yourself, thinking of the best way to phrase this, “you know you’re not entirely safe, either, you know. i could report you with the frequency in which you’re picking on me.”

you point a finger to his chest, thinking you could get him to lay off immediately with this as much as you were hoping he wouldn’t. the attention was unwarranted but not entirely . . terrible, “that wouldn’t look so good on your record, right, Uzumaki-san?”

you relish in the surprise that seeps into geto’s pretty features but it’s a short-lived victory when he goes back into a relaxed state, expression neutral — “so you know.”

“know . . what?” your professor pulls away and walks around his desk, finally in close proximity to you like he’s always wished.

“how badly i want you.” he whispers, but doesn’t go past that, rather letting you figure everything out for yourself.

“‘. . fuck her silly, fuck all of those stupid facts out of her head’, right?” you mumble softly, not admitting to even chō that you had watched that livestream over and over enough to memorise the few sentences. geto wraps an arm around your waist to tug you closer, faces so close that you could just shut him up.

“go on.”

“you want me to go dumb on your cock,” professor geto mutters a correct which undeniably sends a thrill to your core.

“you want to hear me to moan your name.” “—want to hear her moan my name.”

a small smile spreads across his face (even if you left out the most important thing) as he finishes his own sentence with you, eyes clouded over with lust and your scent and he’s positive he can smell your soaked panties from here if he tries hard enough.

“that’s right.”

“sooo . .” by god, you fucking hated the man, but seeing someone stroke their cock to just the thought of you — how could you pass off such a good opportunity? “do you prefer professor geto, or suguru?”

geto groans at his first name usage, setting you on his desk and presses himself into you at the sound of papers flying to the floor, stationary falling to the ground. he can only hope no one walks in. he’s fully hard, loving how your legs naturally spread for him.

“whatever you want, baby.” and after, it’s all history with the way geto crashes his lips into yours, letting you pull at his jacket and shirt, practically ripping open the buttons to see his tattoos that you’re begging to see. slowly, he lets you trace them while he kisses down your neck, roughly pulling your sweater off of you. you have the cutest tits, packaged nicely in your bra which he has no trouble taking off. there’s a small sound that escapes his mouth when he unclasps your bra and your breasts come falling out.

“didn’t tell me you had such a nice pair . .” you giggle.

“yeah, like i would straight up tell my professor that.” with a hand, your hand follows the ink of his dragon that wraps around his body and torso, right down to his happy trail, “but i mean, you get the honour of seeing it now.”

with a squeeze to his bulge, you whisper, “maybe i’ll let you fuck them next time.”

geto lets out a little moan, “fucking minx,” before he latches his mouth onto your nipple, kneading the other greedily. a soft moan leaves your mouth as you knead his erection, a culmination of your combined groans in the quiet office. soon he’s giving attention to the other, a hand trailing down into your panties where he rubs your clit to test the waters, and he smiles into your skin at the way your hand falters and your head hangs forward.

“p-professor . .” it’s clear geto can’t wait, because he pushes a finger into you easily with how dripping wet you are, panties showing a dark patch of your juices. “s— so thick—”

“i know, baby, gotta stretch you out,” a soft pop! is heard as he comes off your nipple before he meets your lips in a sloppy kiss. he shoves his tongue into your mouth the moment he pushes a second finger in and he swallows your moans, letting you feel around his body to dig your nails in — it was just too damn much.

“so— suguru, your f-fingers, they’re so—” even with your protests, your hips grind up against his thick fingers that are pumping in and out of you, taking every last piece of fire in you as you succumb completely.

“what, miss (y/n)?” geto memorises the exact way all your previous blazing words are reduced to mere mewls and whimpers, alongside your pleas for more, more, more.

“i need something—” you whine when he pushes all the way inside, stretching your cunt so well as you clench around him like a vice and sucking him in, “i wanna make you feel good—”

you get at least a little resolve in the time it took you to say that, drunkenly unbuckling his belt before pulling his cock out. his tip is positively leaking, fingers curling instinctively in your pussy and your moans mingle together again.

“c’mon, prof, please?” geto tuts, reluctantly removing his fingers from your cunt which he wish he could spend more of his time in, but gives in to you as you switch positions, pushing him against his own desk. from there you’re going to your knees, marvelling at the cock you’ve watched on your very own screen.

“better than you imagined?”

you roll your eyes, “shut up or i’m blue-balling you.”

geto exhales forcefully, cut off when you put your mouth gently over his tip. you suckle on it like a pacifier, swirling your tongue around the mushroom head and looking up at him through your lashes; the sight is heavenly. the hair from his bun had fallen out, framing his pleasure-filled face, and the veins on his arms pop out so much from how harshly he’s grabbing the wood.

“f-fuck, baby . .” his words are lost once you start bobbing your head, encasing his shaft deep in your mouth as you suck and lick and slobber over his thick cock, using your hands to stroke the places you can’t reach. a choked moan weasels itself out of geto when one of your hands deviate to play with his balls, squeezing lightly at the sack while you continue to lick the underside of his length.

“take me like a slut, don’t you?” geto says breathlessly, fingers going through your hair to gather the strands into a makeshift ponytail, cradling your head to guide your mouth, but he soon starts to thrust into your waiting mouth.

“want me to fuck your dirty whore mouth?” your professor asks and you hate how much it turns you on as he brings you off to let you breathe for a moment. you stick out your tongue, big doe eyes just pleading to be used as your hands anchor themselves down to his belt loops.

“y—yes, prof., give me everything you got,” geto hums, seemingly satisfied with your answer as he taps your tongue with his tip, cock so heavy and thick it makes you whine a little before he shoves it in without warning. the moan that rumbles deep in your throat sends vibrations up his body and he starts a pace immediately.

“that’s it, that’s it—” you breathe through your nose as geto face fucks you, two hands covering the back of your head as he thrusts into your throat. your mouth’s just so damn warm and tight it has geto groaning non-stop while your eyes start to well up with tears. he uses you like a cocksleeve, abusing your throat each time his tip meets with it.

“fuuuckk— yes, yes, your throat’s so—” geto tilts his head back when he buries his cock in you, the deepest he’s ever been and your nose meets with his pubes, the smell of his musk and sweat making your eyes roll back in pleasure. suguru is all grunts before moving again, the gagging, gawking noises filling the small space.

“mmhm— mmf!” you moan around his length, trying your best to move your tongue along the underside of his cock. a hand goes down to quell the growing need of your cunt, slipping a finger or two in.

“dirty girl just can’t think straight when she has a— s-shit— cock in her, huh?”

you hum in agreement, eyes fluttering when you feel his tip twitch in your mouth and geto spills right into your throat with a long moan. your lids flutter close, taking as much cum as you can before coming off with a deep breath. strings of his cum and your saliva connect you to his cock, the lewdness of it all showing clearly in how sloppily you sucked your professor off.

“open.” and you show your tongue still full of his cum, taking the opportunity to lean down to let a ball of spit fall from his mouth. it drops painfully slow to your tongue, closing it only when you hear the rasp of swallow, “good girl.”

“think i’ve kept you waiting for too long, need to be in you,” geto brings you up by your upper arms, propping you up nicely onto his desk where you already start to leak into the wood, “do you want me to be in you?”

“only if you promise to stop picking on me, prof.,” you pout. really, a changed girl once you get some cock, huh?

“but you’re too cute not to bother, baby.” your pout deepens and geto feels a tug on his heart. oh, you were too adorable, knowing you’d kill him the next time he mentions this. he hopes they’ll be a next time.

“i mean it, suguru,” you murmur as he uses his tip to play with your juices, smearing it around your cunt. “treat me like a proper person.”

“can i at least treat you like a slut behind closed doors?”

you bit your lip, he’s asking for a next time, and who are you to reject him?

“whatever you want, professor,” you wiggle your hips along his cock, hoping for some friction which he grants to you with no problem, “use me. treat me like your cum dump.”

geto hisses at your tightness and your words as he bottoms out in you. he’s had your pussy once and already cannot get enough of you, moaning each time he moves in and out of your cunt. your walls hug him so snugly, sucking his cock in endlessly.

“baby, baby, baaaby . . your pussy’s so fuckin’— good—” he grunts into your ears, hips starting to thrust slowly into you. he swears he can see you in your tummy, asking you to look down, “look at how deep i am in you, sweetheart.”

you moan at just how big he was as you glance down, but you’re more focused on the way your pussy spreads for him, the cute veins on his length as he moves in you. you’re leaking so much that it’s effortlessly, the way he rams into you.

“sugu— suguru . . mmfuck—” geto groans upon feeling you rub your clit, your own hips bucking needily into his own as your juices start to drip down his balls. this was everything that he hoped would happen; your features morphed into pleasure, you descending into stupidity just from some dick, feeling your pussy, finally.

“hear yourself?” your professor proposes the question and you’re confused for a moment until he slows down and you whine at the sudden change, brought to attention just how soaking you were. the soft shlick, shlick, shlick sounds take your breath away, as with the translucent sheen of your juices coating his cock.

there, your professor resumes his pace, “hear how fuckin’ sloppy this pussy is for me. listen to her,” your senses are all overwhelmed: by how he hits all your sweet spots, the sweat on your back, your fast-beating heart and you let out a mangled whimper, “yesss . . that’s what i like to hear.”

geto smirks at how you can’t even answer, picking up his pace into a regular one. with his cock buried deep in you, you have no choice but to let your body move with his thrusts, jerking each time his balls meet your ass noisily.

“is this what the little lady needed? just some professor cock to get her to not be so damn uptight!”

“y—yessss . .” you’re delirious, “yesyesyes, suguru!” you squeal when he holds your legs up and pushes your legs into your chest, tongue lolling out at the deepness that he was in you.

“fucking slut,” geto mumbled, hips turning sloppy with fatigue taking over, but your cunt was just too good to stop, “where d’you want me to cum, baby?” he knows you’ll answer how he wants you to, especially after watching his livestream—

“i-inside— inside, pleaseplease,” the circles on your clit are messy, now, chasing your high more than ever, but your pussy is grasping onto him like a vice, prompting groans deep from his throat. “want your cum dripping out of me, prof—”

those words alone has geto shooting his load with a strangled grunt, switching to shallow, quick thrusts to pump you full of his cum. it comes out in hot, thick spurts, filling your insides more and more until it spills out the sides and you follow soon after, whole body convulsing from the intense orgasm you can’t stop shaking violently.

“take it— that’s it, attagirl,” he whines out, stroking his length to make sure you’re getting every last drop out of him, “take all my cum . .”

geto is sure he’s getting old by the way he feels lightheaded, having had to hold onto the edge of the table for a minute — but in that 60 seconds you’ve stumbled off the table and laid your chest over it, perking your ass up where your pussy continues to leak hot, white cum.

your professor takes one good look at your ass, hands going up to knead at them and spreads your cheeks. with his tongue, he eats his cum out of you, making your jerk at the sensitivity.

“oops, i’ve cleaned you up of my cum — guess i gotta give you a couple more loads,” geto props a leg up, eating you out, “it’s only right since my brightest student has suffered so much at my hands . .”

tagging @arminsumi @shidouryusm @suguruplsr @crysugu @slttygeto @suget @sonarspace @marimogf @hannzai <3 ok gn

1K notes · View notes

zepskies · 9 months

Note

Hey loved your Sam having a crush on Dean's gf! I was wondering if I could request the flipped version where Dean has a crush on Sam's gf 😏😏

Oh my God, hun! 🫢

The way I didn't even contemplate this!! But it's so delicious...

(And thank you for reading that Dean imagine! It was angsty, but oh so fun. 😘)

See this imagine for context: You are Dean's one exception.

Word Count: 1,300

Imagine: Dean gives you an impossible choice.

Dean hates this. He hates it more than anything.

He hates the look of you, all soft curves and smiles that brighten your eyes. Your hair looks even softer.

(He wants to tangle his fingers in it, tight, until your voice echoes in his ear.)

He hates that you bake cookies on Saturdays. (He also hates that you're learning how to make pies, just because he mentioned off-handedly that you should try. If your snickerdoodles are this good, he can only imagine what you could do with some cherry filling.)

He hates that you greet him, every morning, without fail, with a hand on his shoulder and asking how he's slept. (Even better if you'd joined me, he thinks.)

And then his mind gets truly creative, imagining all the ways he could make you lose sleep. All the ways his hands and tongue could get creative, tracing the contours of your body.

He hates all of that too.

But what he hates most of all?

That you're Sammy's girl.

Sam's known you longer, since college. The two of you reconnected after the second apocalypse diverted. Or was it the third one? Dean's lost count at this point.

So you're smart. Sam studied Latin, but you studied Greek and Spanish, and even symbology. You consider yourself a linguist -- a fact that had Dean grinning from the moment he met you...

But as many times as he made you blush and smile with his charm and a well-placed joke, it was Sam who hooked you with one of his dimpled smiles and asking you for help on a case.

You'd agreed, for him. The two of you bonded over your nerddom, with heads bowed over ancient texts and shared personal history, and Dean tried not to feel like an outsider.

And yet, even when you fell for his brother. Even when you moved into the bunker, taking up his counter space with your ridiculous baking appliances. Even when you doted and touched and kissed and promised Sam more with your eyes, Dean couldn't shake the feeling that he'd missed his chance.

So Dean backed off. He made excuses not to be around you and Sam when it got too much for him. Had to ignore the way his stomach churned (and maybe his heart clenched too).

...Until his chance comes. He sees it.

He's also a bit drunk.

"Aw, Dean. You okay?" you ask, picking up a large, empty bottle of whiskey by his hand, which still holds a fifth of a glass.

"Oh, I'm good," he replies, raising his brows with a smile. "I'm real good."

You snort with a laugh. He smirks at the sound; he would never admit it, but a small part inside him always swells with warmth when he makes you laugh.

You bring him a glass of water with just a few cubes of ice. You know he doesn't like it packed to the top. "Drink this."

"What's the magic word?" Dean teases, even as you take the glass tumbler out of his hand.

You then sit next to him at the kitchen table and offer him a wry smile, resting your chin in your hand while your elbow rests on the table. "Please, will you hydrate yourself?"

"Already did," Dean remarks.

"Dean," you say, more seriously gesturing to the water. "Please."

He hesitates. But seeing your face, he finally rolls his eyes and dutifully sips at the tall glass of water.

You reach out for his shoulder. His inebriated gaze is drawn to your hand, the smooth skin of your arm, and back to your face that shows soft concern.

"You don't drink like this unless something's on your mind," you say.

Dean falters. When did you get to know him so well?

"What, a man can't drink alone anymore?" he says wryly.

"He can, but he's gonna have to spill his guts sooner or later," you smirk. Dean grimaces at the image. Suddenly the Jameson sloshing around in his gut doesn't feel all that nice. But the longer he looks at you, the worse he feels.

"Trust me, you don't wanna know," he says. He gestures, with the hand that holds his glass, up at his head. "'S not for newcomers."

"Yeah, but I'm not a newcomer, am I?" you quip.

Dean can't help it. He stares at your face. Your damn perfect face. Perfect for him.

His heart clenches with the pain of guilt. With thoughts he shouldn't have. How he'd rather slit his own wrists than hurt his little brother. Not like this, for fuck's sake.

But Dean's got a problem. It's eating him down to the bone.

He wants you. He really wants you. More than he's wanted anything in so long...

"You really wanna know?" Dean asks. His voice is both a rumble and a coarse whisper. His green-eyed gaze falls to your lips.

For your part, you suck in a subtle breath. Your eyes widen, and your body's frozen, suspended in time.

You stare back at Dean's handsome face, overgrown with stubble, like he’s forgotten to shave. And you finally know what he's been hiding for the past few months. Why he sometimes ducks out when it's supposed to be the three of you, hanging out, watching a movie, sharing a pizza, being friends and family all at once.

You sometimes thought Dean had something against you, no matter how many times Sam has said, "That's not it." With one of those pensive looks on his face.

Like he knows something you don't, and just doesn't want to speak it into existence.

But then, Sam would distract you with his hand stroking your cheek. A kiss to your lips, sweet, but with urgency. You like that about Sam. You even love that about him -- how he can be both kind and considerate, but passionate in his affections.

But now, you stare at the eldest Winchester's face. You don't even know what you're thinking.

Dean sees the blush staining your cheeks.

He leans in, slowly. He’s mere inches away from finding out how sweet you really are.

He hears your shallow breath. His eyes flick up to yours, briefly capturing you again. You smell whiskey on him, but it doesn't completely drown out his cologne. His Deanness.

You can feel your face heating up further, down to your neck. What the fuck is happening right now?

"Tell me no," Dean says. Tell me to stop, or I swear to God...

"Dean, what..." you whisper. But that's not a no.

Still, he can't. He just can't do it. Not to Sam.

Dean just reaches out with a hand to soothe a gentle thumb across your cheek. He realizes then that he loves you. He loves you enough to let you go, if he has to.

"It comes down to this," Dean says. His voice is deep, full of grit and desire. You can see it in his eyes. He sees the conflict in yours.

He swallows. His heart is pounding against his ribcage, but he uses every ounce of self-restraint he has left, forcing his hand to fall away from your cheek.

"You've got two choices, sweetheart," he says. And he pulls away, leaving you there at the table.

Dean doesn't know it, but your heart is about to burst just like his. What the hell! How could he do that? Why...

But you realize then, holding a hand to your wildly beating, guilt-ridden, confused heart.

You never told him no.

AN: I love Sam, don't get me wrong. But because I'm unequivocally a Dean girl, I had to leave it a bit ambiguous. 😏

Read the Sequel!

Here's the requested sequel to this, in which you have to make a choice (contains both Sam and Dean endings):

Imagine: Choosing him.

Dean Winchester Imagines

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

DW Tag List:

@hobby27 @this-is-me19 @kazsrm67 @letheatheodore @agothwithheavysetmakeup @jacklesdeanvessel @foxyjwls007 @wincastifer @ades106 @emily-winchester @deans-baby-momma @melancholictearz @luvs4dria @nic-kolas @katherineann83 @sleepyqueerenergy @wayward-lost-and-never-found @tipthejar @ajjustice @thewritersaddictions @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @deanwanddamons @antisocialcorrupt @adoringanakin

@theonlymaninthesky @teehxk @midnightmadwoman @mrshalverson2021 @iprobablyshipit91 @agalliasi @venicesem @waters-2567 @chriszgirl92 @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @solariklees @xsophianicolex @deansbbyx @mimaria420 @candy-coated-misery0731 @curlycarley @sarahgracej @bagpussjocken @ultrahviolentart @beskarfilms @skyesthebomb @deans-spinster-witch @tmb510 @iamsapphine @fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @chernayawidow @syrma-sensei @fabimaou @simpforbuckyb @vanillawhiskeyflavoredkisses @roseblue373

#ask me stuff #dean winchester #dean winchester imagine #dean gives you an impossible choice #dean in love with sams girlfriend #unrequited love?#sam winchester imagine #sam winchester #sam and dean #angst #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x female reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fic #spn #supernatural #zepskies answers

480 notes · View notes

twistedwonderlandimaginesblog · 2 months

Note

Hello, I hope you two are doing well! May I request “Orange Rose - experiencing constant as well as distracting thoughts of the other person” for Riddle? tysm I’ve been realizing how wonderful he is recently🥰🥰

Riddle Rosehearts:

Orange Rose - experiencing constant as well as distracting thoughts of the other person.

Riddle had never been more mortified in his life.

He felt like the blood had completely drained from his face, the red mark on his paper almost dashing his hopes of having a good day. To achieve a perfect score on his tests was everything; he didn’t believe himself to be the exact perfect being but he had studied for this, countless hours of memorizing to the point he knew the material like the back of his hand. This was a subject he excelled in (most were, but he enjoyed this one the most) and yet he was confronted with cold hard failure, the likes of which he had never seen.

Not just one point from perfection, but two entire points, a whole question with two parts answered incorrectly. He looked over his test countless times, reading through his text books to find where he might’ve strayed, before finally approaching his professor.

“Is everything okay, Riddle? You aren’t pushing yourself, are you?” He always pushed himself, but that wasn’t the point! He could handle pressure, he could handle a metric ton of work being thrown his way as well as countless responsibilities pushed on his shoulders, but this grade – it was a negative mark on his record, his future.

When he saw that question he knew exactly what had distracted him, the reason he had gotten the answer incorrect. You had been his partner for that particular project, spending hours of alone time as you did your research together. You were diligent but you had asked Riddle for guidance, knowing he was a person who was very specific about the way his ideas were presented, and he had been happy to help you figure out the best way to present your own ideas in your project. It hadn’t been all work, with some talk of desserts and his equestrian club mixed in, but Riddle had found himself enjoying that time spent together.

In fact he missed it, since the project had ended and there was no excuse to ask you to spend time with him any longer.

He knew he had gotten caught up in those thoughts, fumbling through the question quickly as he realized the ‘you’ in his head was distracting him. He wrote as fast as he could and in doing so had missed a specific word choice used in the question which entirely changed the meaning of it. He was used to dealing with tricks and being wary of language, his mother had taught him about the little details of linguistics, so he never would’ve missed it if he was in his right mind.

Riddle can’t hide his sour mood but thankfully, most of Heartslabyul stayed out of his way when they sensed something was wrong. He had never been more grateful to have an unapproachable resting face, wanting to simply lock himself away (though he could not, as there were still duties to attend and other students to look out for). When he finally had time to settle himself down he took out the test one last time, working himself up again about the less than perfect grade.

“Whoa!” Cater, who had innocently peered over Riddle’s shoulder to see what he was glaring at, was just as shocked as Riddle had been earlier than evening. “S-Sorry, I was just coming to let you know Trey is looking for you…”

“Hey, Riddle. Trein was asking me about you earlier—” Trey, the third musketeer and the straw that finally broke the camels back, came into the room a few seconds later, pausing when he saw Riddle’s clenched fist. He and Cater locked eyes, with Cater holding his hands up to signal he certainly wasn’t the reason Riddle was upset.

Neither third year knows what to say when they see the grade, and Riddle sighed, wishing to just be done with it. He moved the paper toward Trey who scrutinized it, reading the question, Riddle’s answer, before his eyes slowly drifted back to Riddle himself.

“This question… is quite simple for someone like you.” Cater felt like his lungs had collapsed, wondering how Trey had continued to exist if he was always so honest with Riddle. “Is there something on your mind?”

“I’m…not sure.” The fact he hadn’t exploded in that moment left Cater even more shocked, and he had to lean on a chair to keep his legs from folding underneath him. “I don’t believe I want to talk about it.”

“Maybe you should!” Cater tried to offer up helpfully, “You never know, maybe having a different angle can help clear your thoughts!”

“Exactly.” Trey agreed, pleased that Cater had backed him up. “Talk to us, and we’ll see if we can help.”

Riddle muttered your name once and it took the willpower of a thousand card soldiers to stop both Trey and Cater from laughing in shock at the admission. Trey had really thought Riddle would never spit it out but it seemed his own honest reaction had rubbed off on him, while Cater was still struggling to imagine Riddle with a crush.

Trey had never seen Riddle struggle to find words like he was now, his eyes downcast as he spoke quietly about the time you had spent together. Riddle had fun when you were together, fun, a word that he didn’t often use nor did he generally have the same definition as everyone else. To think that you evoked this kind of reaction from him, to the point he was dwelling on the time spent together and lamenting on how it had ceased was nothing short of a miracle in Trey’s eyes. He doesn’t voice it but he does believe this is the first crush Riddle has ever had, not remembering a single moment from their childhood where Riddle expressed interest like that in anyone.

“There doesn’t have to be a reason to hang, you know, but here we have unbirthday parties all the time! Why not try inviting them to one of those?” Riddle seemed to contemplate this, as it was something within his power. He would have to double check that none of the students had a birthday the following day, but if he played his cards right…

“Understood. Thank you for your advice.” Riddle stood without another word, exiting the room with his test in hand while Trey and Cater shared a look.

“Hopefully everything goes smoothly…”

“We should warn the first years. I have a feeling if anything goes wrong, the punishment might be worse than usual.”

#Twisted Wonderland #TWST #Twisted Wonderland Imagines #Twisted Wonderland x Reader #TWST Imagines #TWST x Reader #Riddle Rosehearts #Riddle Rosehearts x Reader #Scenario #Flower Prompts

205 notes · View notes

xxscarletxrosexx · 5 months

Text

A Linguistic Analysis of the Spelling Names "Ania" and "Anya" (and the chapter and languages of Ostania)

This includes spoilers from Short Mission 11, or Chapter 90.1

It's not a secret that Anya's (Ania) name change was officialized along with Loid (Lloyd) and Yor (Yoru/Yolanda) in July 2019. I do recall that our loveable Forger family had different spellings in the early manga releases. Many believed that it was Endo-san's way to cover up the spelling mistake, but I believe that, whether or not the origin and/or intention was a mistake, it paved a beautiful opportunity for a deep dive into linguistics and character analysis on Anya Forger.

First, I'd like to address my thoughts on "ANIA" as the spelling. Here are a few of my impressions on this:

"ANIA" could be perceived as her original spelling because wherever she came from used this spelling.

"ANIA" could just be her limitation as a child when it came to spelling her name.

"ANIA" could be an acronym from her lab that probably served the purpose of her existence.

"ANIA" could be the name of her mother/creator. And she was subjected to share the same name of her creator for "sourcing" purposes.

"ANIA" when applied to numerology number, reinforced her code name which is 007 (which is super meta to me, but probably is a coincidence because we all know 007 was Endo's way of referencing James Bond). S/O to @momentocollector for sharing this!

Second, I'd like to address "ANIA" as an identity for our precious baby girl.

"Ania" is the chosen spelling. This could possibly mean that this is her real name and how it should be spelled (You, as the owner of your name have every right to decide what your name should be, spelled, or pronounced after all).

"Ania" could possibly be an influence of either her mother-tongue language's spelling.

"Ania" could possibly be due to her limitation of spelling. (I don't think she is aware of how her name should be spelled.)

Recall that Yor carved out Anya's name as "Ania" and didn't question it. This could be a reflection of Yor's own lack of familiarity of Ostanian orthography since she is academically limited, and she would have listened to how Anya would have wanted her name to be spelled. Furthermore, this tells me that Yor's absence of questioning reflects that she accepts her daughter no matter who she is, be it "Ania" or "Anya".

Third, I'd like to address "ANYA" as her name's spelling.

"A-N-Y-A" is the spelling that her papa gave her, which tells her that she can now be on the same playing field as her parents. Their names and titles are all "masks" in this masquerade that they call "Forger". So, to little Anya, it means that she finally belongs with someone. Anya has essentially found "her home".

We also know that Franky did do a lot of paperwork and found that "Anya" is the spelling that was written down on her adoption papers. This reinforces that "Anya" is the standard Ostanian orthography of her name.

I perceive Loid as a person replicating the "average Ostanian" (since this is a deep cover mission after all), so to also tell her that her name is spelled a certain way reinforces that she has a new identity as an "Ostanian child". (I find this quite ironically poetic because it's a "fake man" giving a "fake name" to his "fake daughter").

I also see that when Anya's eyes light up, it could also mean that this new identity in her spelling change meant she was finally liberated from her days as a lab experiment and living in an orphanage.

Fourth, I'd like to address spelling etymology.

Since I'm not a Japanese linguist expert, I found @connoisseursdecomfort post to be quite educational when it came to Japanese spelling.

What we learn from the above post is that "Ania" is an acceptable name spelling in "Old Japanese". But as time progressed, the spelling changed to "Anya" which is the modern-day spelling of this name (this may tie into Anya's character lore).

We can track "i" becomes "y" in the evolution of the alphabet from Phoenician (c. 1000 BC) to Archaeic Greek (c. 750 BC). S/O to @rachellysebrook for this link. (Again, what this reinforces is Anya's background with an unidentified mother country/mother tongue language).

Another thing is that Yor Forger did not react to the spelling of "Ania". It could possibly be that she recognized Anya's limitation, given that her daughter already had poor scores since her admission.

We also learned that Yor, a real Ostanian, seems to be limited with Ostanian orthography which is most likely due to her dropping out of school to take care of Yuri (fake Ostanian /j). From her interaction with Anya, off-screen, it appears that Yor seems indifferent to spelling standards of names (Which is nice! She is subtly against society's norm and I love her for that). Had she been aware of the spelling, she would have been the one to ask instead of Loid. (But again, it must be Loid because it's poetic and has a much more meaningful interaction between "Loid" and "Anya").

Fifth, I'd like to address the name's (possible) impact on character purpose in the story.

"Anya" means mother in Hungarian (S/O to @httplovecraft1890. This inspired my thoughts on "Ania" as a name in the lab). Could this possibly be an inspiration or coincidence? It could be a stretch, but perhaps Anya's purpose in the lab is that she's a "mother weapon" for war.

"Ania" means "gracious" and "merciful" according to Google. Which makes me think that the lab scientists went with this name because it would represent her purpose as a weapon of war. Perhaps Ania becomes the "truth serum" and could be seen as the "angel of death" because she knows the war captor's thoughts and inevitably they are executed (a possible headcanon).

Sixth, I'd like to discuss the factors of the mysterious "unidentified language".

Anya did use "oui" in the anime when Loid had adopted her. This automatically made me think her possible origins could be French, but it could also take another step back in the language family: Romance. What makes this work is that we treat "Classical Language" as a dead language based on what we read/saw in the manga/anime like Latin. Anya has an innate potential to be bi-/multilingual.

Bonus: Seventh, I'd like to talk about the languages in this anime (This is a bit of a ramble but since we're talking about linguistics, I thought why not)...

Based on the dialogues spoken in the anime, we can confirm that English exclamatory (Oh my God, Goddammit, Shit, Wow, Elegant, etc.) and the Japanese language are the main components of the Ostanian language. This is reinforced by many characters who have used English expressions (Loid, Yuri, Yor, Anya, Damian, Henderson, etc.)

What does bug me is whether or not "oui", a French exclamatory, should be categorized as part of the Ostanian language or if that should be categorized for Anya's hidden lore. The reason is that when Loid/Twilight heard Anya say "oui" in front of him, he did not question it. (Perhaps he was too tired to process this, or he excused it as something Anya could have seen on TV and is merely mimicking. I really don't think Twilight would be the type to excuse this realization had he not had the aforementioned state of mind). I'm leaning more towards the latter as this is from Anya's mother tongue language.

In conclusion (or tldr;): "Ania" may be her real name, but "Anya" is her new identity as part of the Forgers.

If you read everything, thank you for your time! The linguist in me is so happy that Endo-san is steeping his foot into linguistic territory. As short as this chapter was, it said A LOT to me linguistically and provided more details to the scraps of lore that we know of Anya but it also tells us a bit more about Yor, Loid/Twilight, and Ostania.

#spy x family #spy x family spoiler #spy x family chapter 90.1 #Anya Forger #Ania #Anya #name analysis #manga chapter analysis #analysis #Spy x family Analysis #linguistics #orthography #loid forger #yor forger #scarlymadeathing #scarlydidathing #scarlywroteathing

249 notes · View notes

talonabraxas · 29 days

Text

“The aura is an extension of a person’s personality and emotional, mental and physical landscape, so it will change from day to day.”

Aura colours and their meaning.

The aura is an extension of a person’s personality and emotional, mental and physical landscape, so it will change from day to day. It can be affected by external factors as well as the general disposition and character of the individual.

There are no hard and fast rules as to what these visual variances ‘mean’, as, with all psychic practices, it depends on the intuition and knowledge of the reader. But there are certainly common themes. For instance, those who practice yoga tend to have a ‘still’ aura or people with serious illness have a fainter aura than someone vital. Moreover, auras tend to have a ‘texture’ to them. They may be sparkly, treacly, in lines, waves or arcs.

Below, I have given a rough guide to how you might interpret auric colours only, but it is no mean a fixed manual:

The Aura Colors Meaning Chart:

Red ~ Pertains to circulation, the heart and the physical body. In its higher aspect, it is an indicator of a healthy ego, stability and being strong-willed. In its lowest aspect, red energy can give way to anger, unforgiving, anxiety or nervousness.

Orange ~ points to the reproductive organs and feelings. It is the colour of vigour, vitality and enthusiasm. In its higher aspect, orange energy shows creativity, confidence and gregariousness. In its lowest aspect, it can give way to stress and addictions.

Yellow ~ represents life energy – qi or prana. The colour of optimism, awakening, inspiration and intelligence. It has no lower aspects.

Green ~ connects to the heart centre and lungs. It is the comfortable and healthy colour of nature, representing growth, balance, healing, and depicting a love for all sentient beings and Mother Earth.

Blue ~ Pertains to the throat and the thyroid and is therefore indicative of communicators. Writers, public speakers and linguists will often have a lot of blue in their auric field. It is also a cool, calm and collected energy.

Indigo ~ Pertains to the third eye and therefore is a colour of deep feelings, intuition and sensitivity.

Violet/Lavender ~ Relating to the crown, pineal gland and the nervous systems. It is the most sensitive colour in the aura. People with a lot of violet in their auras are usually highly artistic, psychic, intuitive, visionary and magical.

“The aura is an extension of a person’s personality and emotional, mental and physical landscape, so it will change from day to day.”

Other Aura Colours:

Turquoise ~ is associated with the immune system and usually found in the auras of healers and therapists. It is a sensitive, compassionate colour.

Silver ~ pertains to spiritual and physical abundance. A lot of bright silver in an aura may indicate a spiritual awakening or financial gain.

Gold ~ typical of divine protection and enlightenment. This colour points towards strong spiritual and universal guidance, intuition, wisdom and inner peace.

Black ~ points towards pulling, capturing and transforming energy. It can indicate unreleased anger, grief or health problems. It also shows an unforgiving nature (to themselves and others) and possible past-life issues that remain unresolved.

White ~ linked to protection and deflecting other energies. Flashes of white within the auric field often signal that angels are nearby. As with most associations with white, it symbolizes purity, truth and a healthy individual.

Earth Tones/Brown ~ Colours of soil, wood, minerals and plants highlights very grounded energy and someone who works with the earth, such as a gardener or farmer. However, a more brownish hue can point to greediness, self-absorption or ignorance in its lowest aspect.

Rainbow ~ auras with stripes of colour emanating as beams of light from the hands, heart, or head indicate someone who is a healer.

Solar Aura Peter Solarz

82 notes · View notes

kairiscorner · 8 months

Note

Throwback to the very first thing i requested from u bc i think it’s been over a month HAHAHA

For ‘i’m stuck with you’ (art student x stem student miggy) EXCEEEPPPTTT make the reader a english/langlit major, or just really good at writing (bc i love my writers)

Okay, we have established that reader is fucking terrible at math (i am them, they are me)

But how about miguel needing help with essays? Because sci students are lowkey kinda bad with essays

Cause yeah, even though i hc that miggy probably has really, really good grammar, when writing essays? Nah, that mf is all over the place.

Like he has the ideas, but he lacks the creativity and writing skill to get them onto paper

(Not a request, but write it if u want to :D)

SHIEEEEEETTTTTT i am forever in love with college miggy <333

(reblogs are greatly appreciated, it helps get my content out there! if you guys like what you see, please reblog it too <:D)

i'm stuck with you. — miguel o'hhara x reader pt. 2 (college dorm mates au)

summary: it should come as no surprise to anybody that miguel o'hara was extremely good at running his mouth off and pretentious when it came to grammar and spelling... but making him write an opinionated essay, or a book report? oh, you're stumping him. luckily for him, he has a super adorable, english-smart dorm mate; unluckily for him, however, you can't put up with his annoying, whiny ass about how "boring" all this writing seems to be.

pairing: college!dorm mate!miguel o'hara x college!dorm mate!reader

genre: fluff <333

word count: 965

author's note: when is it my turn to have a cocky, math and science smarts stem boyfriend that sucks ass at creative writing ,,, i'm alr the writer gf, universe, ano ba 😭😭😭

he stared at the flashing cursor on the document he was supposed to be writing his book report for the english class he had to take. he sighed and folded his arms over his chest in frustration, his eyebrows crinkling as all he could do was sigh again at the lack of ideas swirling in his head. "this is why i took genetics, nobody needs to write reflections on alleles or why DNA is shaped as a double helix... this is idiotic." he muttered under his breath as he forcefully hit the backspace key repeatedly and sighed for the third time.

you soon arrived back to your dorm after attending all your classes for the day and was surprised to witness your so-called "genius" dorm mate slump over his desk, his forehead pressed down against the surface as his laptop remained open and the document remained empty–even emptier than before, actually. you walked over to miguel, half concerned and half unfazed, ironically. you had yearned to see the day when his ego would break, but unfortunately, you weren't there to see the fall–hence you drew barely any enjoyment out of seeing him all stumped.

"hey, genius, what's wrong?" you asked him in a partially sarcastic and partially worried voice, with miguel groaning as he thumped his forehead lightly against the surface of his desk. "words are hard." he muttered. you raised an eyebrow at him and chuckled lightly. "words are hard? wow, and you can piece together a bunch of letters and greek symbols together... either you're speaking an alien language of incomprehensible numbers, or you're just good at everything but linguistics." "the latter." miguel mumbled all muffled and groan again.

you chuckled and moved closer to him, practically hovering over him as you looked at the very blank document before you. "what's this supposed to be?" "an... essay." "an essay has words, you realize that, right?" you asked him sarcastically with a smile. he scowled at you as he sat up a bit from his computer chair. "it's... it's loading." "nah, i know exactly when words are loading, i'm around documents a lot–you've got nothing on it." you pointed out with a snicker as miguel rolled his eyes.

"well, if you're so good at this, why not you do it?" he asked you with narrowed eyes. you rolled your eyes and placed your arms over his shoulders, bringing your fingertips to the keyboard to type for him. you were in such close proximity to miguel that he couldn't focus on anything but the feeling of your forearms brushing against his shoulders and neck occasionally, and the scent of your perfume filling his nose. he felt a bit flustered at the feeling and scents he was picking up from you.

you tilted your head slightly. "what is it, mig? care to tell me what your essay's supposed to be about?" you asked him, snapping him out of his trance as he pushed his glasses back up on his face and cleared his throat. "it's about... my thoughts around my favorite person. i know, pretty rudimentary, it's a question for a first grader. but the problem is... i can't even begin to describe that 'favorite person' of mine. the thoughts are pouring in, the words just... don't come as fluidly." miguel admitted as he shrugged.

that was no problem for you, however–you had the ability to come up with the most effective and creative ways to write feelings, thoughts, and ideas out with ease; you were just the person miguel needed. you articulated his thoughts out on the virtual document for him, listening to him patiently describe his favorite person in such layman terms; and you, with your very eloquent and unique way of delivering his scrambled thoughts, wrote him a 7 page essay in that one sitting. all he did was open and close his mouth, speak in such simple terms to describe his favorite person–stuttering, stammering, repeating words involuntarily due to his limited vocabulary for adjectives that could properly describe that person, expanded by your own broad vocabulary aiding him in drawing a picture of this favorite person of his that... felt familiarly unfamiliar, in an uncanny way.

you two finished the joint work you were doing, and miguel's mouth hung open in surprise at how quickly you could type and how you never repeated a single adjective to describe his favorite person–and especially at how long the work you wrote was. "no... way." he muttered aloud as he rolled the mouse's cursor all the way down to the seventh page, his eyes bulging from their sockets as he took in every word you wrote for him. "my professor's not gonna believe i wrote this." he gushed as you chuckled. "is it that bad?" you asked him with a shy smile as he looked at you in disbelief.

"bad? this is spectacular, beyond everything i ever expected–thank you." he expressed his thanks to you as you smiled wider and shrugged. "dunno, i... think i could've elaborated more on paragraph–" "oh, please, if you elaborate any more, my professor's got fail me on the spot, they'll know i didn't write it by then. it's beautiful, it... really encompasses how i feel about my favorite person. thank you..." he said as he grinned up at you brightly. you had witnessed a side of miguel that no one had ever seen before... a grateful side to the cocky, arrogant genius of this college; and you swore, that from the corner of your eye... a hint of a genuinely happy, adoring miguel was staring back at you through those hazel brown orbs of his that peered into the deep recesses and depths of his soul, of his heart.... have you finally figured out who his favorite person is?

tags !! @miguelswifey04 @binibinileonara @melovetitties @arachnoia @luvstarrstruck @ophanimgold @popeheywardssecretgf @meeom @simsrandomstuff @hisachuu @wreakingmarveloushavok @fictarian @yuridopted0

©kairiscorner (don't steal my work, i'll steal your kneecaps !)

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel o'hara fluff #miguel o'hara fanfiction #atsv #atsv miguel #atsv fluff #atsv fanfiction #atsv x reader #atsv x you #atsv x y/n #atsv imagines #spiderverse #across the spiderverse #spiderman across the spiderverse #spiderman across the spiderverse x reader #spiderman across the spiderverse fluff

166 notes · View notes

oneatlatime · 2 months

Text

The Headband

I don't care how dormant a volcano supposedly is. Living in the maw of one would absolutely freak me out.

Zuko out for his nightly constitutional lurking practice.

I want this snuggy cape.

No better disguise than a cloud 1.2 metres from the ground. That's where all clouds hand out. Cool puffins though.

Enemy puffins approve of new fluffy Sokka.

Did Sokka just dive headfirst into rock?

I do not like this angle. Looks like his head's on backwards.

This episode is three minutes in and already I'm loving the comic tone.

Wow Katara, with the enthusiasm you're showing for stealing those clothes, they must belong to pirates.

These are some top tier nonsense sound effects. Far too few of those in recent episodes.

Beat up Sokka quota fulfilled!

Toph has by far the best outfit. Love the gold accents.

We've had two seasons of blatantly blue Katara not being identified by the Fire Nation as a Water Tribe person. I think the necklace can stay.

His headband is an airbender arrow. So much for disguising himself.

I would love it if linguistic drift meant that Aang was going around tossing out slurs completely unaware.

WHAT is this face

"Just slob is fine." I ADORE characters that are so secure in themselves and in their belief in the decency of others that all attempts at ridicule slide off like water off a duck's back.

He does it again! "Wow. Are you a bully? This is so exciting! I've always wanted to meet a bully!"

Onji - get better taste in men. Why are you even dating this prick? Did you have any say in becoming his girlfriend? Blink twice if you need help.

These Fire Nation kids are all so mild. Contrast them with Zuko and they might as well be a different species.

What is Hide and Explode?

Sokka is showing a mastery of slapstick that I haven't seen since The Fortune Teller. Glad to have it back.

Is this the first time someone has recognised Zuko by his scar? About time.

Was it really necessary to beat up the guard? Seems a bit much. Zuko could have just asked nicely. That usually works for Iroh.

Speaking of: Iroh! Hi Iroh! Didn't think you'd still be alive.

Noodle Ozai. Did Aang get put in preschool by accident?

Those hippies should do a song about Secret Rivers.

Tired of spending three years talking to Zuko without making any progress, Iroh decides to attempt a new technique and deploys the silent treatment. It works just as well as three years of talking.

Colour me completely unsurprised that the Fire Nation has a pledge of Allegiance.

This school must have some gnarly punishments if questioning the teacher garners this reaction.

This man's head is alarming.

This man is also surprisingly nice for a fascist agent of the state bent on suppressing personal expression.

Movements? Aang you were showing her MOVEMENTS! GASP! FILTHY!

I love this fight. It's been a while (maybe back to season 1) since Aang's preferred fighting style was 'Nope'.

They haven't committed to the bit this hard since Bonzu Pippinpadalopsicopoulous, the Third!

It's funny how we spent two whole seasons haunted by nothing but threatening shadows of the Fire Lord, and then an episode after his face is finally revealed they turn him into part of the decor. He even gets a noodle version.

Play Spot the Firelord with this episode. I count four.

Sokka is having way too much fun with this.

Just going to sneak a reference to child labour in there. Gnarly punishments indeed.

Local Emos Experience Happiness for the First Time; Immediately Implode.

I'm sorry but Mai's cloak has such Santa vibes.

That is some serious side eye.

"You get to be normal all the time." Aang is pulling no punches today.

Where did they get this many candles? Actually, where did they get that many matches? They don't even have a Firebender on staff.

Poor kid is objectively correct. I guarantee your parents don't want you dancing in a cave. It will be good for you though! just don't lick the walls.

No wonder the Fire Nation got rid of dancing. Those moves are awful.

Zuko! "I brought you this food that I know you don't like because I need your help." Buddy. Why.

I could do without the heavy-handed Katara and Aang romance. Also, when exactly did Katara learn advanced gymnastics and choreograph a whole routine with Aang?

I hate this twerp so much!

That song the band is playing right as the adults bust in is better than the songs featured earlier in the dance montage.

I love this guy.

i know that the soundtrack probably went from diegetic to non-diegetic as soon as the chase started, but I love the idea that the school band provided theme music for searching for Aang.

Delightfully eerie. and also very Spartacus.

Actually with the guards starting to dance, it WAS the school band providing a soundtrack for the Aang hunt.

Is Momo at the reins?

How is this assassin good at keeping secrets and not being followed? He creaks and clanks.

Final Thoughts

I loved this. This type of episode is when Avatar is at its best: heaps of goof, a side helping of heart, subtle and not-so-subtle critiques organically incorporated, tonally contrasting storylines that combine to form a whole greater than its parts, and even one-note characters who are given depth.

Aang was in his element as a normal kid; Sokka was having a great time being super agent / team dad; poor Katara and Toph got like two lines each but still had fun with what they did get. Even Momo got some sight gags.

Aang is so personable. I think it's the combination of great social skills from a good peripatetic upbringing and being a peacetime child.

I think Zuko experienced every possible human emotion this episode. I loved seeing him snark with Mai (those two are way too good together), but his scenes with/revolving around Iroh were confusing and intense. Which is probably how Zuko would describe them too. Seems he's speedrunning his season 1 bad decisions arc.

I'm not fond of this new silent treatment approach from Iroh, but I have to admit that talking to Zuko didn't work for years, so what else is there to try?

I wasn't expecting a Footloose homage and a Spartacus reference in Avatar of all places. But it works. And it works if you don't catch the references too.

I am severely disappointed in Fire Nation fashion. I was expecting gloriously eye-searing red/gold/yellow outfits. I got black/tan/brown with dull red edging. It's probably a visual commentary on what imperialism does to its own people. And the price of dyes. But I was really looking forward to reds and golds! At least I have Toph's outfit.

I loved the liberal use of sound effects in the Gaang's plot. I love comic sound effects on their own, but they really enhanced the contast between Zuko and the Gaang's plots.

There was lots of heavy stuff under the surface this episode, what with the squashing of the self and the discrimination against colonials and the propaganda and the revisionist history and the assassin. But I feel like being silly today, so I'm not going to dig into it. That's one of the great things about this show. Not all, but many episodes are structured so that you can choose your level of engagement and consequent angst.

This episode was funny, and fun. A much-needed palette cleanser after the drudge of the season opener. The last time there was an episode this unapologetically silly was probably Avatar Day. In other words, it's been far too long. Definitely going on my rewatch list.

I really want Zuko's snuggy cape.

#atla #avatar: the last airbender #avatar the last airbender #the headband #all hail silly #long live silly

123 notes · View notes

l4long-winded · 9 months

Text

ii. consequences and a lead

summary: sherlock doesn't usually regret things, but he's regretting how he spoke to you. it's not out of the goodness of his heart, however (cavill!sherlock x afab!reader)

reflection: this second part may be the shortest of this mini-series, but i do plan for things to pick up after. the third part is already sitting at over 3,000 words and it's unedited and unfinished. i am excited to see interest going up since i've been thinking about this story for months now. watching it come to life has been a fun and challenging endeavor so i hope you enjoy! please feel free to leave feedback to your heart's desire.

warnings: seamstress!reader, condescending!sherlock, mystery brewing, cursing, suggestive language, somewhat slowburn, enemies to lovers, eventual smut, victorian era (please let me know if there are other warnings i need to add)

word count: 1,834

previously: a sleep deprived meeting

The joints in Sherlock’s knuckles crack as he flexes his hand at his side, jaw squaring off the longer he stands and stares at the golden 221A sitting on the door ahead. He’s not one to be apologetic, and he currently isn’t whatsoever. There always come these instances where he comes off as rude because of how blunt he is and how blatant he can be in his dismissing tone. Misunderstandings occur, bitterness emerging as a result since he’s a problem solver, not a linguist meant for socializing and getting along with others. Because of this, sometimes he’ll say the wrong thing and hurt feelings he never meant to in the first place. Though, he doesn’t turn back on the things he says, not unless he finds he’s logically in the wrong. This is hardly ever the case. He may be inept in reading and coddling emotions, but that doesn’t mean he’s off the mark. That doesn’t mean he’s not right.

In his line of work, there are bound to be feathers ruffled. No one likes to be analyzed, much less when it comes to a crime they’ve committed. You, the one sitting behind this door, have not committed any crime (to his knowledge), but you’re connected to the one he’s investigating at this moment. It’s been two days since you rattled the stairs and confronted him at his flat. He made it very clear how he didn’t want to be disturbed through how he talked and how he disregarded you, how he ignored your complaint about his violin because it was the only thing helping him navigate his proactive brain in this puzzle of a mess. Much like you, he hadn’t slept in a while, which could have caused him to be ill-mannered from the stress building in the background (another thing to ignore), so he didn’t want to rid of the one thing keeping his head together. He could have just gone to sleep to avoid being discourteous and refrain from chiming his violin further, but that’s not how it went down. He’s now suffering from the consequences of his actions, having to wait patiently after he knocks, to which then he would have to answer for his actions, all for a chance at a lead.

He went back to reviewing his evidence yesterday, a day after the incident with you, and he realized the piece of fabric etched with dried crimson at his disposal matched the same fabric of the sleeves adorning your forearms. You didn’t utilize the same fabric on your skirts or on your bodice, he would have noticed this. He has a tendency to notice just about everything and with you… with you it was easier than usual. Every detail matters, it’s the mantra that plays every time he observes someone much more than they need to be. It’s the same one that egged him on to note the color of your eyes, the way your hair fell into your face, and how your chest heaved in the anger you tried and failed to hide in order to file your noise complaint. Where he can restrain himself and dwindle down whatever emotions may lie in him, the little that there are, you are the antithesis. You wear your emotions on your sleeve, the sleeve made out of his evidence, even if the occasion calls for a calm demeanor. Perhaps such a demeanor would have worked with someone else who wasn’t Sherlock, who wasn’t as stubborn about their music and their contemplation.

It’s the demeanor he writes on his face at this moment, willing himself to knock onto the door with a cautious fist that doesn’t teeter on too soft or too hard of a pressure. Either one and you may consider him passive or a brute. He thinks about things like this, things others would brush over since they deem them too simple or too trivial. Nuances can make or break perception even if said person’s perception is unaware of them.

“Be right there!” comes through the door and Sherlock unconsciously begins to time your arrival. He shifts his weight to his right and counts the seconds under his breath, 16, 17, 18, you must be in the middle of something. It could be you’re crafting a dress, or he’s caught you in the middle of lunch, or perhaps you’re tending to a customer at this very moment and he’s interrupted your business. You interrupted his, but from how you didn’t seem to care about his appearance and his name, he knows you’re unfamiliar with him and his work. 34, 35, 36, he couldn’t possibly think everyone in the area knew him, but he would think that at least his downstairs neighbor would. This is a place where it’s easy for infamy to travel. Word gets out through the papers, through his visits to various locations nearby, his legend expanding with every case he solves. But, now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t recall when you moved in. You must be new, certainly. He would’ve remembered… oh, he definitely would’ve remembered you.

Sherlock is about to start the 50s in his counting when your door comes open. He watches the scenery come slowly to him from your flat, his head moving until it stops to see you step through in… in a chemise sans any other form of layering. Your hair is up again, but the strands that have fallen out of the pins are wet and darkened. That’s why it took you so long. You weren’t working on anything nor were you eating—you were taking a bath. And a relatively good one since your face immediately falls upon the recognition of Sherlock, a bright, relaxed grin giving way to a grimace. Something about that is amusing to him, but he doesn’t let it show on his face. Antithesis, remember?

“Mr. Holmes… to what do I owe the pleasure?” You’re mocking in your tone, eyes rolling to the ceiling. Oddly enough, you don’t turn away from him. Your shoulder sags into the door frame, arms crossing against your chest. The dainty fabric draws attention there coupled with the action, swells above your breasts that he immediately turns away from. He’s rebellious in refusing to look despite a curiosity filling him. It’s an unfortunate matter that you’re not the worst thing to look at. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. Something about you is pleasing to his eyes, attractive in a way he knows is bound to turn heads had you walked down the length of a pub with suitors tossing waves about for a single glance their way. He’s come across beautiful women in the past, some who have attempted to gain his favor, others who have done so to gain his fortune. You’re a bit different since you’re seeking to do neither and he’s the one who needs something here. The power scales have tipped, and he can feel sweat on his brow thinking of how you can deny him and saunter back into your flat. Back into that bath. Free of the chemise, the gentle steps of your bare feet tracing back to a tub most likely. He smells lavender coming from you and he determines you were trying to relax before he showed up.

“Uh,” he clears his throat, stands straighter and focuses on a spot just above your head. It’s easier than staring since his brain is deducing everything about you without his permission. It has a wreckless habit of doing that, working against him instead of for him. “Excuse me for bothering you, but I’ve discovered something that requires your expertise.” He swallows a knot in his throat when he hears you laugh in what he can only call spite. He stops himself from knitting his eyebrows together, knowing very well how he must be put together if he wants to gain further information. This is one of the routes he saw thinking of how this conversation could go.

“Mr. Holmes, surely you must be joking. My expertise? Really?” Your hand covers your mouth to muffle further laughter so at least you’re trying to be friendlier than days ago, but it’s a futile endeavor. Sherlock can feel the disdain for him radiating off of you and he can’t blame you considering how he acted. He’s still not sorry for it, but it’s understandable. Just like others who were the victims of his observations, you’re scorned and you’re not about to let him forget about it. “After how you treated me the other day, this is the last thing I expected. Not only do you have nerve, but you’re rather tenacious.” You wipe off an imaginary tear from under your eye and then sigh out blissfully once the invasion of the giggles flees. He’s not jovial in the slightest.

“I know how you feel, but this is a crucial endeavor, I can assure you. I’m a detective consultant, you see, and your knowledge may prove valuable in solving the current case I’m working on.” You’re laughing again before he even finishes. The greater good is at stake and you’re laughing. Is this how you felt two days ago? The annoyance surfacing within him is the equivalent of ants crawling in his bloodstream, air he exhales through his nose in the same fashion that a bull about to charge would. This isn’t the time for this, not at all, but it seems your talent is finding a way under his impenetrable skin. He reminds himself to maintain his steady breathing and his impassive expression as you rise taller to evade your disbelieving laughter.

“My apologies, you have a noble profession, but I’m sorry, you’re going to have to find someone else.” Your reply is what he feared would happen. Humans are riddled with emotions and they’re not always positive. He made a bad first impression and now anything he could say would only exacerbate the situation. By your reaction, you’re not taking him seriously and you won’t take him seriously even if he explains the direness of the situation. He already hates disclosing too much to anyone, this was a dud of a visit. If he thought it would get better results, he would have stopped by as soon as he made his discovery yesterday. His options ran too low and he’s reached yet another dead end.

“Fine. I’ll speak to another seamstress, maybe a tailor. Thank you.” He slightly bows at the hip, but it’s barely a motion since he’s aggravated on the inside. The puzzle will be in pieces longer until he can get to his next lead/clue and this just proves he can’t rely on anyone but himself. He pivots away from you before you could respond, before you could say anything else that would inevitably rub him the wrong way. It does little to achieve the desired effect because he hears “Good luck finding one that could think” followed by a shutting door on his way to the staircase.

#henry cavill #enola holmes #sherlock holmes #henry!sherlock #sherlock holmes x reader #enemies to lovers #beyond answers #consequences and a lead #l4l.writes

135 notes · View notes

noosphe-re · 7 months

Text

Linguistic capacity in the acoustic realm is accordingly much further developed than in the visual sphere. Language reflects what our senses supply. The eye yields incomplete information, which is why colour words are imprecise and cannot attain exactitude through additional description. When language has to express something vague, imprecise, or ostensible, it time and again resorts to words from the optical sphere: imagined (from the Latin imago = picture), illusory (from the Latin lux = light), semblance, etc. The ear, on the other hand, supplies data based on measurement, so language can be more exact when it reflects what has been heard.

Joachim-Ernst Berendt, The Third Ear: On Listening to the World

#quote #Joachim-Ernst Berendt #Berendt #listening #seeing #visual #senses #sensory #language #linguistics #acoustics #sound #sounds #ear #biology #The Third Ear

116 notes · View notes

wrencatte · 3 months

Text

mini-fic 3! Cere POV. linguist!Cal, Mantis Crew as Family, Merrin & Cal bonding 1.2k words

“This one?”

Cal squints at it for half a second, says “yes,” then looks back down.

“What about this one?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t even look!”

“Greez, that’s the third time you’ve shown me that one.”

“No, it – oh, wait, haha, yeah it is. Okay. Let me see….”

Cere watches in fond amusement as Greez goes back to the shelves. Merrin comes over with a tome from deeper within the city library and angles it in a way Cal can look at it without straining his neck. His expression brightens and he takes it, running his fingers over the edges and corners.

There’s a slight twist in the Force that Cere’s beginning to learn means he found an echo. She has to focus pretty hard to feel it so she only pays it enough attention to be sure Cal’s not about to fall into anything nasty – not that she can do anything about it if he does, but she likes to be prepared – and tunes back into the softly murmured conversation between Merrin and Cal.

The Nightsister looks absolutely delighted at having found something in a language Cal doesn’t recognize, all quiet pride and subtle preening. Cere hides a smile behind her hand. Adorable. Cal flips the tome open and the two of them duck heads, Cal underlining a few words with his finger and saying something that Merrin repeats. He shakes his head and says it again. Her face twists in thought as she sounds it out before giving it voice and he nods rapidly, grinning. She smiles back, one of those small soft ones that pops up whenever it’s just her and Cal.

Cere is just about to go back to her own readings when Greez arrives, BD-1 whirling on his shoulder, a book held over his head in triumph.

“Ha! Try this on for size!”

Cal takes the book carefully. “I know this one,” he tells Greez, who groans in disappointment. “But, oh wow.” He flips through a few pages, lips moving as he reads the text silently to himself. “I can’t believe they have a book written in pre-Reformation Gwyrdd’tafodi. Do you know how rare that is? When they switched over, they deliberately destroyed all they could! An archivist hid this away for a hundred years in order to get it safely off the planet. It kept getting passed down the family line until one of them got passage on a ship.”

Greez crosses one set of arms, his free hands on his hips. He watches Cal fondly as the young Jedi’s excitement grows with every page flip. “You know, I would’ve never pegged you as such a gigantic nerd.”

“Jedi were scholars and peacekeepers before they were soldiers,” Cere says quietly. A hush falls on the group. Cal ducks down, shoulders hunching, eyes kept resolutely on the page though it’s obvious he’s not reading a single word. She smiles and adds lightly, “We’re all nerds.”

Cal laughs first, tinged with grief and legitimate delight. He tucks the book Greez brought under the one Merrin showed him, which makes Merrin throw Greez a smirk and for the latero to throw his crossed arms up in the air in a huff. Cere rolls her eyes fondly and catches Cal’s gaze. He grins, unrepentant, enjoying whatever contest is going on between their friends. It gets Cal more books without him getting up, so he’s not going to stop them.

Greez’s frustration is amusing to watch, especially when he snatches BD from scanning the book Cal has open so he can co-opt the droid’s database to help find a language Cal doesn’t know. It’s not helping. BD-1’s database might be filled with years and years of history and culture but knowing the intimate details of a language instead of just a simple dictionary is completely different.

Merrin listens to Cal read out loud for a few minutes, humming at all the right moments, but obviously thinking hard about something. Cere gives up on reading her book and focuses on the two of them, curious as to what’s going to happen next.

“How many languages do you know?”

Cal’s teeth click he stops talking so fast. “I don’t know,” he admits with a shrug. “Sometimes I don’t even realize I know a language until I see or hear it again. Sometimes not even then! It doesn’t always register it as a different language. It’s just…words I understand.”

She tilts her head, expression intense. “Could you learn Dathomiri?”

He grins and quips something in the smokey, gritty sounding language of Dathomir. Merrin’s eyes widen, and then, suddenly, they glimmer with a wetness both Cere and Cal pretend they don’t see.

Knuckles pressed to her lips, she breathes a very quiet, “oh,” before clearing her throat and adding roughly, “Your accent is terrible.”

“Is it though?” Cal asks smugly.

Merrin scowls. “I will teach you more…if you want to learn.”

Cal’s expression softens. “I would love to. Thank you for sharing it with me.” He adds something in Dathomiri at the end that has Merrin abruptly turning back to their shared book, expression pained and grieving.

Cere nudges the Nightsister with a tendril of the Force and gets a small smile in response. They don’t share the same bond as Jedi do, but theirs is enough for Cere to believe her. She settles back in her chair, musing on what her life has become, sharing a bond with a Nightsister, before she shrugs it off and fully intends on finally going back to her reading with Merrin and Cal’s back-and-forth as a background noise.

Except Greez comes back again, the book he carries is much thinner than any of the ones stacked around Cal like a barrier. BD-1 clicks excitedly and Greez is grinning smugly as he waves the book in the air.

“Did you know this place has an unknown language section? Guess who found it!” he all but brags. Merrin frowns, nose wrinkling while Cal laughs brightly and holds out a hand for the book.

Greez slaps it in his hand, earning a scandalized look from one of the librarians. Merrin and Cere laugh as he hunches down with quick apologies. Cal inspects the book carefully. If there are any echoes, they’re soft and quick. He grins.

“Congratulations, Greez, I don’t know this one.”

The latero cheers silently, all four arms thrown up in victory.

Merrin rolls her eyes. “You still lost. I found one first.”

Cal hums. “Best two out of three? This place is open for another five hours.”

The two of them exchange looks for a full second before Merrin jumps out of her chair and rushes into the depths of the library. Greez yelps and follows her as fast as he can without running. Cere hides her face, as though that will keep people from realizing they’re with her. Cal laughs, covering his mouth with his book. His eyes peek over, glittering in mirth. He pulls the book away, and holds it to his cheek, leaning in like he has a secret. Cere can’t help but lean in to hear it.

“I already know the language,” he admits.

Cere blinks at him then laughs loudly – nearly getting them kicked out of the library.

#cal kestis #cere junda #nightsister merrin #greez dritus #sw jfo #jfo fic #mantis crew #my writing #there's an alt version of this that's more bittersweet and 200 words more #it brings in the Order of the Dai Bendu and the Dai Bendu language #I just couldn't decide which version I liked more and went with the funny one instead #if anyone wants me to post the other version lemme know #that's if someone reads this far into the tags lol #i need to figure out how to get these onto ao3 #i don't want individual stories but i haven't posted a drabble/ficlet fic in a long long time #and even then the last one i did were full 5k+ oneshot chapters #oh well #imma stop talking now

43 notes · View notes

asma-al-husna · 2 months

Text

Allah calls Himself As-Samad— The Eternal, Satisfier of Needs, the Refuge and Absolute— on one occasion in the Quran. As-Samad is the unchangeable one on whom the entire creation depends. He is the one unaffected by any circumstance and the only one able to fulfil all needs in the most perfect way, without Himself being in need of anything or anyone!

The Eternal, Everlasting Refuge, Satisfier of All Needs

Samad comes from the root saad-meem-daal, which points to two main meanings. The first main meaning is to reach or attain, or to aim toward something. The second main meaning is to turn to and to need, and the third is to remain unchanged and unaffected. The fourth main meaning is to be everlasting and eternal.

This root appears just once in the Quran, as the noun samad. The example is al-samadu (“The Eternal, Absolute”).

Linguistically, samad means something that is not affected by circumstances or something that is solid. Sumood refers to the concept of being firm and steadfast.

As-Samad is the the One who is not changed nor affected by anything in the creation, He is the eternal and absolute refuge to seek and depend on for all needs and desires.

As-Samad Himself says: Say, ‘He is Allah , [who is] One, Allah , the Eternal Refuge. He neither begets nor is born, nor is there to Him any equivalent.’ [Quran, 112:1-4]

A description of Allah

The only place in the Quran Allah ‘azza wa jall calls Himself As-Samad is in Surah Al-Ikhlaas; the virtuous surah mentioned in the authentic hadith in Muslim to equal one-third of the Quran. This short, but amazingly beautiful and profound surah is a description of Allah Himself, His Oneness, His samad’yyah and His incomparability. Allah revealed this surah as a powerful answer to the people of Makkah who asked the Prophet salallahu ‘alayhi wa sallam to describe His Lord and His ‘lineage.’

What is ikhlaas (sincerity)? It is doing deeds purely for Him and to seek His pleasure, because He is Al-Ahad, the One and Unique. It is turning to Him for our needs and desires and desire Him only, because He is As-Samad, The Eternal and Satisfier of Needs, and it is to live by the fact that there is no one equal to Him in any of His attributes!

How can you live by this name?

1. Recite and live by Surah al-Ikhlaas. Recite Surah Al-Ikhlaas often to gain reward, but not only that; learn to understand each word and live by the names of Allah mentioned in it. Love to recite this surah and talk about it to others as you are describing your Lord. Learn how to correctly recite it and convey it to at least one other person and teach your children the history and/or tafseer (explanation) of this virtuoussurah in which As-Samad is mentioned in order to instil love of Allah in their hearts.

2. Realize your dependence on Him.

One of the meanings of As-Samad is the One who is independent and self-sufficient. If you look at a manager, for example, one who has a high position with authority over others, it still takes one note from his superiors to end his career. This person is not samad. Then look at what we need tu survive as human beings; air, water, food, and even love. Why do we often act like as if we are independent? Especially during good times when we are healthy and wealthy we tend to forget we are even dependant on As-Samad for the strap of our shoe. So remind yourself daily that you are dependent on Him.

3. Call upon Him.

Here’s a beautiful supplication the Prophet salallahu ‘alayhi wa sallam used to make as part of the morning: “يَا حَيُّ يَا قَيُّومُ بِرَحْمَتِكَ أَسْتَغِيثُ أَصْلِحْ لِي شَأْنِي كُلَّهُ وَلَا تَكِلْنِي إِلَى نَفْسِي طَرْفَةَ عَيْنٍ”. O Ever Living One, O Eternal One, by Your mercy I call on You to set right all my affairs. Do not place me in charge of my soul even for the blinking of an eye (i.e. a moment). [Al-Haakim, saheeh] Memorize this dua’ and say it with true desire, fully realizing your dependence on As-Samad!

4. Desire As-Samad. Turn to As-Samad in good and bad times and rely on Him, resting assured He is the Eternal Refuge and the One who will satisfy your needs in the way He knows is best for you. If you truly believe in As-Samad, your strongest desire will be to meet Him and your only fear will be that of His displeasure. So strive to be a real servant of Allah. The disbeliever is a slave of his desires, or of fashion, his belly, and his money. So beg Him to decrease the love for this world in your heart, including love of being praised by people, and replace it with a firm desire for His pleasure alone.

Wallahu ta’alaa ‘alem

O Allah, As-Samad, we know that You are the only Eternal Refuge. Make us realize we need you at all times and aid us to be of those who turn to You only for our needs. Adorn us with a strong desire to please You alone, ameen!

39 notes · View notes

neuronary · 2 years

Text

concept: steddie florist/tattoo artist au with a side of no upside down

obviously eddie is the tattoo artist and steve is the florist. he and robin started working at the local florist after family video finally shut down (admittedly it made literally no money the entire time they worked there) and third time lucky, because it finally stuck. when the old lady that owned the florist died with no family to speak of, she left the two of them the shop and the apartment above it.

robin never ended up going to college, despite having the equivelent of a linguistics degree in knowledge anyway, which was always a contentious issue between steve and robin. (she doesn't give a flying fuck how much he believed in her; she was barely scraping 'B's throughout her high school career and college was never in the cards for her.) so they stuck around in hawkins. they watched the kids graduate (and endured a ridiculous amount of teasing from said kids over the whole florist thing), they grew up into proper grown ups who did taxes, and they grew an enormous garden in the mean time.

and then 1993 rolls around and a tattoo parlour opens up down the street. which. huh. sure. not something either of them would have expected, but hawkins has gained a pretty significant goth tourist population given the whole 'cursed' thing ("it's not exploitative if the 'creepy' pressed flower frames are profiting off of our own trauma, dingus") so maybe it'll work out for the guy, who knows. and then steve bumps into said guy while doing the daily sandwich run and robin did not warn him that he was hot. which is because robin is a little bit preoccupied with the fact that her second (and least embarrassing) high school crush, chrissy cunningham, is back in town following the death of her mother, and has somehow become even more of a fucking smokeshow and did steve see that violets pin on her jacket does that mean what robin thinks it means holy shit steve holy shit. and cue them both being gay disasters.

chrissy hightailed it out of hawkins the second she graduated, which everyone assumed was because of the whole creel debacle. whilst she still keeps in contact with the other victims (patrick sends her letters from his apartment in chicago, max calls from california every so often, fred, may he rest in peace, occupies her nightmares), she avoids any mention of hawkins like the plague. people will stare no matter where she is, wondering about what could have happened to leave her looking the way she does. but chrissy has always been a smiler, and that goes a long way to making friends in a big city. new york started out lonely and expensive but she slowly, painstakingly found her people in the greenwich village. in 1993, after seven years of screening her calls and refusing to speak to her mother, the call finally comes. she’s dead. it’s really over. now she just has to plan a funeral and figure out how to feel about that. she always thought she’d have more time but the cards didn’t fall that way.

eddie needed to get out and start his own shop, after finally feeling like he actually knew what he was doing and, well. his uncle wayne is getting on in years, and disgraced queers have to stick together right? so eddie packs up his kit and his guitar and he moves back to hawkins. (he does not think fondly of his three year stint in high school there, fucking off to indy to start a band when he flunked senior year.) he sinks all his savings into a storefront on main street and sleeps in the back office because who’s gonna kick him out, exactly? and then it starts going... better than he expected, actually. there’s this gang of college twerps home for the summer that all want matching fucking demogorgons of all things, and the fiery redhead girl wants the hand and eye of vecna for god knows what reason. there is also, as he predicted, a steady flow of vacationing goths, conspiracy theorists, and true crime enthusiasts that want souvenirs inked into their skin. so eddie makes good money. at least that’s a balm for the undying shame and indignation he has over crushing on steve fucking harrington, king of the douchebags from hawkins high, now a stupid twunk-y florist with an easy smile and a thin, almost unnoticeable scar running across his stupid kissable lips.

it’s fine, eddie and steve both complain to their respective agony aunts. wayne grunts and goes back to sleep. robin invites chrissy up for some homegrown weed to take the edge off of the funeral prep.

#steddie #buckingham #stranger things

351 notes · View notes

raiquen · 8 months

Note

What are you currently reading? :)

I'm reading the third book of Philip K Dick's complete works :)

This one is called "The Father-Thing", I read that one short story already, didn't stand out much, but I really liked "The Hangman" and "Some peculiar things about the eyes" (a funny observation about some linguistic expressions)

#ask #anon ask #my 2023 readings #2023 readings #me

40 notes · View notes

sintowinemily · 1 year

Text

You're Somebody Else

You're Somebody Else: Case One

(Season 3 - 2007)

5.7k words

summary: spencer reid meets dr. katrina edwards while in boston for a case. he knows her, better than he knows herself, and because of this he knows she is hiding her real identity from everyone.

warnings: canon-typical violence, mentions of murder, rape, torture, abuse, child abuse (all involving the case and not the characters). angst. third person.

author's note: i'm so excited for this fic. this case is just setting the scene.

Formal Introductions

“Agent Hotchner, welcome to Boston. I’m Special Agent Madeleine Atwood. I head the violent sex crimes unit here and will be running point on the investigation. Glad to have you here.” Atwood offers her hand to Agent Hotchner, who shakes it and nods.

“No need to thank us. These are Agents Prentiss, Jareau, Morgan, Rossi, and Dr. Reid.” Hotch points to each member of his team, all but Reid shakes Atwood’s hand.

“Ah, another Doctor. My second, Dr. Katrina Edwards will be out here to brief you any moment. She’s wrapping up a meeting with our adjoining human trafficking division. I’m running point, but she’ll be on the ground with you. She’ll show you to the office we’ve reserved for you, please use her as much as you need.” Atwood smiles and looks behind her to an office with floor to ceiling windows, behind which the team spot Dr. Edwards explaining details of the map set up behind her.

“Thanks.” Hotch says shortly but smiles at Atwood none the less. At this, she leaves the team to hover at the forefront of the office.

Boston FBI Field Office’s Violent Sex Crime and Human Trafficking division oversaw all serial rape, extreme sex crime and human trafficking in the United States and were often called to travel across the continental states in the same manner as the BAU. They had all been well acquainted with Atwood’s predecessor, who had worked closely with Jason Gideon, and David Rossi in the decades before. Both teams were an asset to the bureau, so if Boston Sex Crime needed a BAU consultation, they knew the case was serious.

Atwood lights raps her knuckles against the glass of the office in which Dr. Edwards in conducting her meeting, bowing her head back to gesture to the team. Edwards notices and curtly nods to the men in the room, excusing herself.

What the team, nor Atwood noticed, was how Spencer Reid spotted the girl, and positioned himself behind Derek to be obscured from her view.

“I’m Dr. Katrina Edwards. But please, call me Trina, everyone does.” Trina introduces herself to the team, shaking hands with Hotch. The first thought to enter all their minds was her age. She looked at ages with Spencer, twenty-six, and had already made her way up the ranks to be deputy in a division which battled with the BAU as the Bureau’s most important asset.

“Well as I live and breathe, Trina Johnson.” Derek steps forwards and envelopes Trina into a hug. Trina cringes at the use of her maiden name.

“You two know each other?” Hotch asks, raising his eyebrow. Emily and JJ look to each other, there’s only one way Derek could know a girl who looked like that.

“Yeah, worked a case in New York together. Our first years at the Bureau. It’s been a while.” Derek squeezes her shoulder and smiles.

“Derek was the first agent not to be a complete ass about letting me head a stake-out. I was twenty-one.” Trina smiles, her eyes coming back to meet Hotch. “Come with me, I’ll show you where to set up.”

“I bet that’s not all he did in New York.” Emily whispers to JJ, Spencer feels his stomach drop. This would be a long case.

“Agent Atwood said we could use you as we pleased.” Hotch asks inquisitively. “What does she mean by that?”

Trina smiles, she hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting Aaron Hotchner yet, but she knew he was all business. “My specialty is psycho-linguistics. I am essentially a human lie detector.”

“That’s right, Gideon wanted you for a specialist interrogation team. My apologies.” Hotch nods, the name he recognised now catching up to him. “Your resumé was extremely impressive. One to watch out for Reid.”

Spencer ignores this comment and continues to set up the map on the bulletin board to begin the geographical profile. As little interaction with Katrina Edwards as possible.

“It was a hard offer to turn down. But I needed to stay in Boston.”

“You from here?” Emily’s turn to question the young agent.

“My whole life, got my first PhD from Harvard so I didn’t have to move away.” She smiles.

“Not many people would say Harvard was such a burdensome option.”

“No, it definitely wasn’t burdensome.” She quips back.

Derek looks up from his files, “I thought you were from Philly?”

“I was born there, moved here pretty young. Both of my parents are from Massachusetts, it was the right decision I guess.” Trina feels a bead of sweat fall down her face, she’s a bad liar.

“Makes sense. You get married Johnson, I thought I would have a hold on you forever?” Derek smirks, now that Hotch has left the room to call Penelope, he has his chance to ask the more pressing questions.

“Widowed.” She replies curtly.

“I’m sorry.” Emily responds quickly, this makes Spencer look up – their eyes meet for only a second before they both look away.

“We were only married six months. My college sweetheart, he was killed in action.”

“Where was he posted?” Derek asks sympathetically.

“Afghanistan.” It’s now Derek’s turn to apologise for her loss.

“Did he go to Harvard too?” JJ asks, she knows loss and she knows it’s best to talk about the things Trina would want to remember.

“Princeton.”

“Damn girl, where else did you got school?”

“Yale, Dartmouth.” She lists.

“How many PhD’s do you have?

“Four.” She smiles, her greatest accomplishment.

“Hotch is right, you are impressive. Watch out Reid, you’re not the only genius in the room.” Derek laughs, giving Reid a devilish grin.

“I’m not worried.” He replies without turning around.

Spencer knows he’s behaving like an ass. His teammates reactions to his short remarks and lack of interest in the impressive agent makes it clear he is not being subtle. He didn’t realise that he was angry until she mentioned her academic accolades. Because he knows this girl. He knows her better than he knows anyone else in this room, and she did not attend Yale or Dartmouth. And her name is not Katrina Edwards.

The Case

“Okay. Agent Atwood was right; this is going to have to be an all hands-on deck situation.” Hotch runs his hands over his face as he sits at the head of the table. His team, Atwood and Edwards sit around him, elbows deep in paperwork. “We’ll need everyone’s expertise here. There are letters, a messy geo-profile, and an obsessive nature I will need you three to focus all of your efforts on. Work together, if necessary, just get it done.” He gestures towards Trina, Derek and Spencer who sit at the opposite end of the table in that order.

The case was one of the worst the BAU had seen. The bodies of nine women had been found, brutally sexually assaulted and sodomised, each of their limbs had been burned almost to desecration, along with their bodies were letters. Each of the letters seemingly having been written by the victim, with no apparent intended recipient and no logical prose. The manner in which the bodies had been found was obsessive and methodical. Each woman was found in identical clothing, tied to a tree in Culter Park, eye-lids and tongue removed, with a brand behind the left ear.

“JJ, I need you to help Agent Atwood to interview victim’s families. We have a lot of grieving family members waiting out there and any strand of information they can give us will be able to help.”

“Prentiss, Rossi and I will begin to make our way through Cutler Park, at the dump sites.” Hotch stood and JJ, Emily, Dave, and Atwood followed closely behind, leaving Derek, Trina, and Spencer in the office space alone.

Trina felt her stomach fall as she looked at the two men who shared her space. She considers excusing herself to work in her office alone but knows how important this case was to both team’s reputations and her own personal afflictions would have to wait. The three work for about an hour in silence, Derek scores stressfully through the paperwork, writing notes in margins, coming up with anything that could deduce a logical profile. Trina manages through letters, aiming to find any connection between the victim’s vernaculars, while Spencer uses Penelope on the phone to pinpoint each dump site in Cutler Park via coordinates.

Once Derek excuses himself to make a call, the tension in the room is at a high. The two agents can barely stand to be within breathing distance of each other, knowing everything about one another while knowing nothing at the same time. Spencer has taken smaller maps of Cutler Park, and of Boston, to find connections between dump sites and the last-seen locations, and is sitting at the opposite end of the table to Trina. She uses this time to watch him peer at the maps with furious tenacity, she watches the way his fingers move and how he tucks his hair behind his ears to avoid it getting in his eyes while he works. He has changed so much, without changing at all.

“Do you need help?” She offers, she was always the first to break their code of silence after an argument. Maybe this could help now, eight years later. He ignores her, so she tries again. “I know Boston better than you do; I could help you find a link?”

“I’ve lived here too.” She nods, MIT.

“I know, but that was years ago.”

“Eidetic memory.” He doesn’t look up to meet her eyes.

“Spencer, I’m only offering to help you. This is a tough case for everyone, it’s been six years since you lived in Boston, I’m offering insight.” Her frustration is evident in her tone, he jerks his head up and she can immediately spot the anger in his eyes. She may have pushed too far, she should have left him to work alone.

“Katie, I don’t need your help.”

“Wow kid.” Derek walks into the room at exactly the wrong moment. “I know you’re stressed but at least get her name right.” He hands Trina a coffee, which she smiles back at him for gratefully. She is grateful for the drink, but perhaps not as grateful as she is for the bliss of ignorance.

“Right, yeah. Sorry.” Spencer replies, but she knows he could not be further from sorry.

The tension builds throughout the day. Cutler Park is six hundred acres and the team spend hours trekking through to the dump sites. Derek joins JJ in interviewing victims, hoping to gain more insight into victimology before he can attempt to piece together the obsessive nature of the unsubs profile. This leaves Spencer and Trina alone in the office again. Trina, who is now no longer putting up with Spencer’s stubbornness, has set up her own map to work her own geographical profile – the letters would have to wait until family interviews were over, or until Garcia could get them emails and text messages to compare vocabulary. Spencer, who is clearly very stubborn, hasn’t looked in her direction once and so, until this exact moment, hasn’t noticed that she has gone over his head and completely re-done the geographical profile.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Geo-profiling.” She responds curtly, ignoring the angry voice to her left. Two could play at this game, she didn’t look at him.

“It’s not even your specialty.”

“And linguistics isn’t yours, but you read the letters.”

“I know enough about linguistics to do so.”

“And I’m second in command at one of the most important hubs for human trafficking in the western world, I know how to geo-profile.” She snaps her head to look at him, and is surprised that for a split second, all she sees in his eyes are hurt. And all she feels is guilt.

The two explode into a heated argument, both shouting at each other not particularly caring for who hears. What they’re arguing about is not important, but what is, is that both Hotch and Atwood appear in front of the large office windows to witness this. This was not an argument between two professionals disagreeing, albeit in an unprofessional manner, and both the senior agents knew it. Derek looks to Hotch on his left, as if to defend Spencer until he hears it again, the name Katie.

While Hotch and Atwood berate Trina and Spencer for their lack of professionalism, neither mention the nuances of what they witnessed to their team, or to each other. Derek, who watches on at each move they make, doesn’t mention the name he heard to anyone, although he really wants to. In his efforts to scope out the odd feeling he had while watching Trina and Spencer, who had been moved to opposite ends of the room to one another, and ordered to stick to their own task, he noticed something else. There was another agent who watched Trina with a specificity he couldn’t put his finger on, Dave.

“Okay guys. I’m going to need everyone’s undivided attention. This bastard has been out there for weeks and has no hesitation at carrying on. I want you to listen to the profile, take careful notes and don’t be afraid to ask for clarity. I do not want anything messing up this investigation.” Atwood calls to her department, a sea of field agents gather in the bullpen of the office, eagerly looking to the agents from Quantico for answers.

“This is a preliminary profile, but for now it should help everyone to get a better idea of narrowing down the search.” JJ begins, “this is under no circumstances, to be given to the media.”

“The unsub is a white man, in his mid- to late-twenties.” Emily starts, “he is physically fit, perhaps even imposingly so. And he most likely has a physical job which gives him access to industrial equipment that he has used to fashion his own torture devices.”

“After further conversation with the ME, it appears the unsub has used varying torture methods on these victims, such as the rack, but the only one consistent is the burning of the limbs. This is his favourite, and we should expect to find this on any future victims. Our technical analyst is monitoring any possible reports of similar signatures in the tri-state area, and is currently looking to see if there could be any previous victims in the continental US that we may have missed.” Dave continues.

“The victims are all white, brunette, and well-educated. These women are most certainly a surrogate for someone the unsub feels has wronged him in the past. Victimology is fairly consistent, all victims were living in Cambridge and Somerville, or studying in the area.” Hotch adds. “Our technical analyst at Quantico is also narrowing down potential victims in this area who would meet our unsubs requirement.”

“What we do know is that the letters were written by our victims, under an unbelievable amount of duress. However, the words are not theirs. After looking at journals, emails, and text messages it is clear this is not wording the victims would have used, even in their final moments. Not only that, but the only common factor in each letter was the mention of a brother. While these letters are written more like journal entries, reflective and with no clear intended recipient, each mentions a brother. All our victims were only children. When narrowing down our suspect list, we should look at young men with a younger sister, maybe she died, maybe she ran away. Either way, the sister will be increasingly important to his arrest and his interrogation.” Trina finishes. Atwood thanks her team for their time, and the scurry to desktops or to canvas the streets.

Spencer couldn’t come up with a comprehensive geographical profile. The points of abduction didn’t correlate to each other, or to the dump site. He watches as Trina brings out her own map and explains her geo-profile to Hotch and Atwood, who nod and thank her for the extra work.

“Can I see?” He asks meekly.

“Sure.” She responds, handing him the map and walking away. He follows her to an office with Dr. Katrina Edwards on the door. Every wall of the office is covered in bookshelves, at a glance he can see this is where she keeps her prized first editions, the security of an FBI office probably better than her own apartment. He wonders if she still lives in Cambridge.

“Edwards.” He reads the name from the door.

“Spencer don’t-“ She interrupts him, holding a hand out as if to physically silence his words. He walks in and closes the door, continuing anyway.

“That was your grandmother’s maiden name, why did you say you were married?”

“I was.”

“Sure.” He can’t help but be angry, she moved to the other side of the country and just moved on. Just like that, she got married and Spencer can’t even seem to look at another girl.

“You can’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“You know what.”

“Do I?” He had always been difficult. She raised her eyebrow at him, a gesture he knew all too well meant he should not push her. “I worked it out, if that’s what you were wondering.”

“When?”

“When Derek told the story of knowing you in New York. That was years ago.”

“So today?”

“You could have told me.”

“No, that would go against the very fabric of how the system works. I could not tell you.”

“So, I won’t be getting an apology any time soon.”

“What would I possibly need to apologise for?” Spencer storms out at this. Trina sits at her desk, with her head in her hands, wondering how on earth they managed to get here. She just hoped she wouldn’t be having a similar conversation with Agent Rossi.

Harvard Summer Camp

Fourteen years earlier

At twelve years old, Spencer Reid knew he would be no social butterfly. He had graduated high school before he had even had his first kiss and was wading through options for college. It seemed every prestigious school in the country was offering him a full ride, and despite his mother’s condition, he was desperate to get as far away from Las Vegas as possible. His high school counsellor had suggested going to Harvard’s Summer School, even if Harvard wasn’t on his shortlist. It was a rigorous programme, and he was likely to meet other gifted students his age, who understood him and the experience he had had.

Unsurprisingly, the Las Vegas public school guidance counsellor had been wrong. As Spencer walked through the dormitories and looked around at the other freshly graduated high school seniors, he could only see tall seventeen and eighteen year olds who looked at the twelve year old boy-genius as if he had two heads.

That was until he met Katie Miller, a Boston native who had turned twelve that February, and had graduated all the same. They had been introduced on their third day at summer camp (what Spencer’s mom liked to call it to make him view the whole experience as fun), it hadn’t taken Harvard long to notice they should probably ensure the only truly gifted students befriended each other. Katie had an IQ of 186 – one point less than Spencer – and had already been accepted to study a history degree at Harvard after the summer, he was unsure why she was even there in the first place.

“Did your parents make you come too?” She asked him, interrupting the silent lunches they had been having for two days.

“What?” He looked up, awkwardly, kids didn’t speak to him much, much less girls.

“My parent’s made me come. I was home-schooled until senior year, they thought I needed to make some friends. Apparently, your mom being your best friend isn’t as cool as it used to be.” She laughs at her own comment, Spencer knew he talked like a grown-up, but she talked like she had been alive for decades longer than she had.

“My mom is my best friend too.” He admits, smiling weakly at her.

“Hey! I knew they forced us to hang out for a reason. Do you want my pudding?” She offers him the pudding cup, and he nods taking it from her.

After the end of the seven weeks, Spencer felt as if he had known Katie forever. She didn’t stay in the dormitories like everyone else, since her parents lived in Cambridge, so she invited him over for dinner every night. She was the only person he had ever lost at chess to, and he could listen to her babble on about the Salem Witch Trials for hours. Mainly because she never once interrupted him when he babbled on about physics. After the third week of camp, he had called his mom and told her he wanted to go to MIT for his first degree, engineering. Explaining how at home he felt in Boston and how MIT was just the most logical decision to make. He made as many excuses and reasons for wanting to attend that particular college as he could, but really he knew Katie would be in Boston when September rolled around, and he knew he needed to be as near his new friend as he could.

They made a promise to each other on the final night of camp, before Spencer was due to fly back to Las Vegas, that they would always attend college in the same city, or at least the same state, so they could be there for each other. Katie understood everything about Spencer, she understood how hard it was to be the smartest kid in the room, for your peers to ridicule you, or use you to pass a test. Katie understood how lonely he was, and how lucky they were for finding friendship in each other. What Katie didn’t understand was how hard it was for Spencer to see her with her parents, happily married and doting on Katie all day – her mom wasn’t as clever as his mom, he had thought to himself, she was a music teacher. But her mom didn’t have episodes, her mom noticed if she was home even three minutes later than expected. And her mom doted on Spencer the same, even writing to his mother to assure her that Mrs Miller would take him under her wing during his studies, promising Diana that she would take care of him. Spencer had already begun blocking out memories of his father, at night he liked to imagine Mr Miller was his dad – a primary care physician, who was kind and gentle, and didn’t mind losing Scrabble to two genius kids. Mr Miller drove Spencer to and from the dormitories every night for dinner and reminded him every week that it was okay for him to be homesick. Spencer envied Katie, but not more than the niggling feeling he had to always be around her, if not just for her friendship, but to feel like he belonged to a simple family.

The Arrest

“How come she gets to use the big guns?” Spencer exclaimed to JJ as he walked into the bullpen of the Boston office, watching as Derek, Rossi, Hotch and Trina were putting on their vests and loading up their MP4 guns.

“Edwards was a SWAT agent at the New York field office for two years before she transferred here. Apparently, she’s a pretty great shot.” JJ explained, shrugging as the two watched on.

“What is she? Five two?” Spencer pretended like he didn’t already know the answer.

“Come on Spence, don’t be jealous because she gets to be in the field, and you don’t.” He hears Emily walk up behind him.

“I’m not.”

“Sure.” JJ laughs, Spencer still sore from barely making it into the field, exceptions had to be made ultimately.

They had used the profile to narrow down a suspect list to a Jason Richards, a twenty-six year old construction worker who had been separated from his sister when they were entered into the foster care system as children. His sister had committed suicide, but not before pressing charges for historic sexual abuse at the hands of her older brother. These murders, these rapes, were his way of punishing her all over again. The fake journal entries had been his tool to not only psychologically torture his victims, but to play out a fantasy in which his sister forgave him for what he had done, and realised they were meant to be together. His love map had been skewed and it had turned him into a sick, and extremely dangerous man.

Garcia had sleuthed through his records and alerted the team to his mass hoard of very large guns, Hotch had to call in a favour from the brass to get authorisation for more intimidating weapons, however had ordered his team not to use them – they were for show only. Because Trina had the most experience in SWAT and tactical arrests, Atwood had allowed her into the field on this occasion.

“If it makes you feel any better Spencer,” Emily turned to him. “Apparently Atwood doesn’t let her into the field often, she’s more of a logistics manager.”

“Why not? If she was on the SWAT team?” JJ asks. Spencer wonders the same thing, he knew many things about Trina, and despite his complaining he knew she would certainly be able to hold her own in the takedown of an unsub.

“Something must have happened since she came back to Boston.” Emily shrugged, not usually one to invade other people’s business. Spencer watched as the small, innocent girl he once knew heaved a gun almost as big as her over her shoulder and followed Derek Morgan into the elevator.

He came to a realisation. It didn’t matter what had happened eight years ago in California, it didn’t matter that there was a turning feeling in his stomach every time he looked at her, it didn’t matter because she had married a military man, and clearly had history with Derek. She would never look at him in the way she once had, he was not man enough for her, he wasn’t even authorised to use the big guns.

The arrest team had returned victorious, the unsub had been cuffed and taken to holding, no shots were necessary. The case had been closed much sooner than either team had expected, and Madeleine offered to take the BAU out for drinks. Hotch was quick to accept, not itching to return to paperwork or an empty house.

The BAU met Madeleine and Trina at a bar not far from their hotel. It was a classy establishment, much less grinding and much more professionals unwinding for the day, that did not stop Derek Morgan from pulling Katrina onto a makeshift dancefloor and ignoring Spencer’s glum stares as he twirled her around.

After a few drinks and lots of getting to know one another, Hotch pulled Trina aside. “This may seem like an odd request, and I know you’re not interested in transferring out of Boston.” This piqued Trina’s interest. “But I would like to know if you would be willing to be a reserve for an interview team?”

“What would that entail?” She asked, genuinely curious.

“We conduct many interviews with serial killers and other offenders to help broaden our knowledge for future profiles, and for our database. I was hoping you would be willing for me to have your number so I could call you in for interviews or interrogations in which your linguistics expertise would be useful.”

“Doesn’t Dr. Reid have linguistics training?”

“He does, but I’ve read your thesis, I’ve even sat in on one of your academy lectures on psycholinguistics and deception. You are the best. We would only call you in when necessary and they wouldn’t be long trips, no more travelling that you’re already used to.”

“I would like that very much, Agent Hotchner.”

“Hotch, please.” She smile at his request, having heard Derek call him by this nickname and knowing this was a term of endearment for his team. “I’ll have Garcia contact you tomorrow for your information. You can always change your mind.” He reminds Trina, lightly squeezing the top of her arm before returning to Emily’s side at the bar.

Trina stands alone at the side of the room for a moment, she had desperately wanted that BAU position Gideon had offered her years before, but she couldn’t be away from Boston, not after her parents died, not after what her family had to endure here.

“He just got divorced.” Trina turned to see Spencer, swaying slightly from a tequila shot she had seen Derek force him to do.

“I don’t understand.” She was genuinely confused as to why Spencer was informing her of this.

“Just in case you were looking for husband number two.” He shrugged, as if this comment was nonchalant, as if it didn’t mean anything. She had forgotten how cruel he could be when he was angry or upset. Trina looked at him, mouth agape, trying to find any piece of the boy she once knew.

“How dare you.”

“Come on, married? College sweetheart? You didn’t date anyone in college, I know, I was there.”

“I met Ben at Princeton.”

“Oh, I see. So, you leave me in California and immediately get married?”

“I didn’t leave you in California.”

“We agreed to stay in the same state.”

“When we were twelve. I couldn’t turn down Princeton, you know I couldn’t. I met Ben my last semester there, he was a film studies major and he didn’t care about how many PhD’s I had, or he had. Or what my IQ was, or how many books we had read between us. He didn’t care about all the things you only cared about. He cared about everything you didn’t. Spencer. You were my best friend, and that won’t ever change, but don’t you dare talk about him again.” Trina was furious, her ears were burning, and she could feel her face turn red. Spencer was deflated, and she could tell he genuinely had misread the situation. She also felt guilty, she knew this was confusing, and she knew she couldn’t tell him the truth.

“Why can’t you just tell me what happened?”

“You said you guessed.”

“About witness protection, not why you were in it.”

Trina storms out of the bar, the door slams so loudly you can hear it over the music. Madeleine assures Hotch that Trina lives nearby, she could hail a cab or even walk quite safely; plus, she is skilled in hand-to-hand combat. Hotch looks around the bar to find Spencer standing where he had left Trina, looking guilty and bewildered. He sighs and approaches his young team member.

“Why don’t you make sure she gets home safe?”

“Why?”

“Because clearly, you’ve pissed her off. At least see her into a cab.” Spencer reluctantly followed Trina out of the club, knowing there was no point in arguing with Hotch about this.

He jogged down the street to catch up to her, “Hey, wait up.”

“Spencer, I’m not in the mood to have this argument. Please, go back to your hotel. We’ll never have to work together again.”

“We will if you take the interview position.” He replies shrugging, she looks at him questioningly. “I do a lot of the interviews as well. You’re not the only genius in this room.” He tries to make her laugh, he almost succeeds. “Let me walk you home.”

“Why?”

“I told your dad I always would.” She lets their eyes meet when she hears his reply. Her father had loved Spencer and would tease her relentlessly that they would get married one day. When the pair moved to California, he had made Spencer promise to always make sure he walked her home safely, no matter how old they got. “I guess I haven’t really held up my end of the agreement.” He tries to make her laugh again.

“That isn’t your fault.” She sighs, they walk in tandem. It’s warm in Boston this evening, and it reminded her of her childhood walking through Cambridge like this.

“I didn’t say it was. But maybe I should have tried harder, maybe if I had tried harder, we would still be friends.”

“You know that’s not true.” She gives him a weak smile; she figures it wouldn’t take long before he started to make excuses for what she did.

Spencer seemed to accept this answer, and the pair walk in silence back to her apartment, which was only a few blocks away. Spencer gazes up at the building before turning to face Trina, who was looking back at him fondly. This is how she remembered him.

“I’m sorry.” He says quietly.

“What for?”

“The past few days, this case. Seeing you again, and not being able to talk to you like Morgan could. It wasn’t fair. But I shouldn’t have lashed out at you.” She takes his hand in hers.

“You know. When I saw you, I knew it was you immediately, you haven’t changed at all,” she ignores his protests that he had in fact grown 6 six inches and changed his hair since they had last seen each other. “I wanted to hug you; it killed me that I couldn’t.”

“It did?”

“Yes. But you know that Madeleine and your team can’t know we know each other. I’d have to get transferred out of Boston, maybe even have to leave the FBI completely.”

“I know.” He looks down, he knows this was too to be true. “We can’t be friends.”

“No, we can’t.”

#dr spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #Spencer reid #Spencer reid angst #Spencer reid x oc #Spencer reid x female!oc #Spencer reid x reader #Spencer reid x y/n #Spencer reid x you #Spencer reid fanfic #Spencer reid one shot #Spencer reid blurb #criminal minds #bau #matthew gray gubler #mgg

116 notes · View notes