three six six

2

          all of it there and then gone. he was drowning in the harbor. her limbs were a corpse’s limbs. her eyes were dead and staring disgust and longing roiled in his gut.
          he lurched backward, and pain shot through his bad leg. his mouth was on fire. the room swayed. he braced himself against the wall, trying to breathe. inej was on her feet, moving toward him, her face concerned. he held up a hand to stop her.  
          “don’t.” 
↳ crooked kingdom by leigh bardugo, chapter 26

10

You didn’t kill Mary. Mary died saving your life. It was her choice. No one made her do it. No one could ever make her do anything but the point is, you did not kill her.

In saving my life, she conferred a value on it. It is a currency I do not know how to spend.

Rubinette - Italian cockatrice girl. Tomboyish.

:)

You should know, that I always go with the most underappreciated idea, so I can challenge me and my watchers. Cockatrice was the choice few people took, so here is the newest addition. I think I increase the number to 6 girls, since it matches to 666 more. The Six Sixes.

Pretty new to her design I still have to streamline her a bit more.

Character wise all I can say for now is that she is italian and tomboyish.

The Sun in the Houses

The Sun in the first house: It is essential that you affirm your personality. You are active, egocentric, worthy and proud of your accomplishments. Success comes through your personal efforts.

The Sun in the second house: You have the practical sense, you are tenacious, interested in money, and skillful in judging the value of things. Your material goods reflect your deeper values. Financial stability is important to you, and its achievement brings you satisfaction.

The Sun in the third house: Curious and loquacious, you gather information and express yourself with ease, in writing and otherwise. Travel and brothers and sisters play an important role in your life.

The Sun in the fourth house: You are intuitive and introverted, with a strong sense of self and a strong attachment to your ancestors. The home and family play a central role.

The Sun in the fifth house: In search of pleasure, romantic, you find happiness through love, children and activities that give you the opportunity to express your creativity.

The Sun in the sixth house: It is essential for you to find a fulfilling job, because you are fully dedicated to your job and you define yourself by it. Although you are worried about your health, it is usually good. Whatever your solar sign, you tend to be perfectionist.

The Sun in the seventh house: Marriage and other relationships are essential to you, although you may waver between the fear of isolation and the fear of commitment. The balance of forces is a problem in relational life.

The Sun in the eighth house: You are a deeply emotional person whose need for exploration of your own psyche supports liberation and transformation. Sex, money and besquets of all kinds play an important role in your life.

The Sun in the ninth house: You are all your life a researcher who wants to find a meaning and broaden his consciousness through studies, religion, philosophy, and travel.

The Sun in the tenth house: Your determination to succeed and your desire for public recognition make you a natural leader, and these are excellent indicators for a professional success.

The Sun in the eleventh house: You have high ideals and high aspirations, many friends, and the ability to work well in groups.

The Sun in the twelfth house: Intuitive, solitary and secret, you prefer to stay behind the scenes, and you may be in danger of isolation. Spiritual activities attract you. You may be engaging in big institutions such as hospitals or prisons.

Like/reblog if you see your favorite band

Black Veil Brides
Fall Out Boy
My Chemical Romance
Sleeping With Sirens
Asking Alexandria
Mayday Parade
Panic! at the Disco
All Time Low
Imagine Dragons
You Me At Six
Pierce the Veil
Falling In Reverse
Bring Me The Horizon
Green Day
Twenty One Pilots
Blink-182
Linkin Park
Nirvana
Three Days Grace
Thirty Seconds to Mars
Paramore
Knuckle Puck

Draco is definitely not gay, part six.  (Except that he really, really is.)
  • Draco, sneering: Heard about your breakup, Potter. I guess the she-Weasel wasn't quite *man* enough for you.
  • Harry: ...Not really, no.
  • Draco: ...
  • Draco: ...
  • Draco: ...So what are you doing tomorrow night?
Three Words, Eight Letters

Author’s Note: Reid x Reader. When the Reader says “I love you” Reid struggles to return the sentiment. But there’s more than one way to say it. You just have to listen.


He can translate five languages with ease and can read 20,000 words per minute. He can recite Shakespeare and poetry and memorize entire film scripts without batting an eye. And yet, there are three words he just can’t manage to string together.

She thinks it’s a mental block, that something in his mind just won’t let it happen. Or perhaps it’s something in his heart. Something scarred, and something scared. They’d been together for six months before she found the courage to say it to him. They’d been sitting together on a park bench, watching the world go by. He draped an arm over her shoulder, and she’d nestled close to his chest, sighing. It was the most natural thing in the world, to be by his side.

“Spencer?” she’d said, glancing up at him.

“Mm?”

“I, um… I love you.” She had pulled back a bit, gauging his reaction. His eyes widened and red crept into his cheeks as he sat there stammering, looking wholly shell-shocked. “It’s okay,” she added, “You don’t have to say it back! I just thought you should know.”

Spencer had looked down, pulling at his knuckles. “It-it’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just that… I can’t. I’ve tried to tell you so many times, but the words, they won’t come out.” He was quiet for a few moments, before saying, “I think it’s because of Maeve.” His late girlfriend. He had told her their story a few months into their relationship, the night they unearthed the demons of their past together. “She said it to me, but I never had the chance to tell her that, and ever since then I just… I can’t do it. I’m sorry. Because I do… I really do, I just…”

His voice jumped higher and his eyes began to water. Sensing his distress she’d leaned in and silenced him with a kiss. “Shh. I know. It’s okay. You don’t have to say it. I just wanted you to know.” There’s no need to rush it. When he’s ready, he’ll say it.

Months pass, and he still cannot manage it. She’s gotten rather fond of telling him despite the sentiment not being returned. Those words seem to come so easily to her, as though trying to make up for his silence. She can’t stop telling him how much she loves him. When he shows up to her apartment with her favorite takeout food, when they’re the only two sitting in the library, between ragged breaths after he’s kissed her so deeply the world melts away.

He never says it back. And yet, he says it all the time. She just has to listen.

“I love you,” she laughs, as he finishes telling her a funny story on their walk back from dinner. He’s accompanying her back to her apartment, and the air is rapidly cooling off. She shivers, wearing only a dress and light jacket. When the sun went down, the mild fall temperatures went with it. Spencer stops and pulls off his coat, laying it across her shoulders.

“Darling, you don’t have to-”

“Don’t worry. I’m not really cold at all,” he assures her, removing his scarf as well. With care he wraps it in circles around her neck, smiling at her. Instantly the cold in her bones is replaced by warmth, and she buries her nose into the fabric of the scarf. It smells like ivory soap, coffee, and autumn. Just like him.

“Thanks.”

Spencer takes her hand once more, and they start off down the street. “Of course. I don’t want you to get sick. You need it more than I do.” He takes his coat back when they reach her building, but he conveniently forgets about the scarf, a fact which she’s all too happy about to believe it was an accident.

She hears it then.

She hearts it when he comes back after a long case, she throws her arms around him. “God I’ve missed you,” she says. “I love you so much.”

He kisses her forehead, and when he pulls away she notices the bag in his hand. “”I brought you something.”

“Why?” she asks. “It’s not my birthday or anything.”

“Open it,” is all he says. She peers inside, and withdraws a book. Staring at the cover, her mouth falls open.

Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse. An old, worn copy. She opens the front cover and stares at the first page. It can’t be. “But this is… this is a first edition! Spencer, it must’ve cost a fortune!”

He shakes his head. “You’ve always told me it’s your favorite book, and that you’d do anything to get a first edition copy. Well, on the case I helped save the life of a rare bookstore owner, who insisted on giving me a book as a gift. When I saw this one, I knew I had to get it.”

“Why?” she repeats. In her arms she clutches the book tight, not sure whether she wants to hug it or him more.

“Just because,” he says. “I wanted to see your smile when you opened it.” The book is temporarily forgotten on the armchair as she loses herself in kissing him.

She knows it the day he comes over to find her curled up on the couch, crying. It’s been a difficult week and her best friend, Isa, has been in a terrible accident. Things are up in the air. Isa is in the hospital. Spencer doesn’t ask any questions, he simply walks over and sits down beside her. She continues to sob as he pulls her onto his lap and wraps up her in an embrace. His heart beats through his shirt, and he runs his hands up and down her back in slow patterns, whispering gentle reassurances in that low voice he typically reserves for victims and grieving families. In his arms, she is safe. Warm and protected. No matter what the world throws at her, she knows he will be there to lift her up and keep her steady.

The very presence of him soothes her. He wipes her tears with the sleeves of his shirt and pushes her hair back from her face. They sit there in silence, her head on his chest, his fingers tracing circles on her skin until her breathing returns to normal. No words are needed at all. He knows her, knows what she needs. And she knows in her heart exactly how he feels.

She is certain of it when they’re at an event for her job, and one of her colleagues starts ranting about how medication is useless for mental illness. Robert goes on and on, saying that all people need to do is think positively and do things like yoga. Everyone is overdiagnosed, overmedicated, and overly sensitive.

Spencer feigns a sudden interest in the view from the window in the hallway as an excuse to escape the conversation. He glances down at her, quickly looking her over. “Are you okay?” he asks.

She bites her lip and inhales slowly. Anxiety has been a struggle for most of her life, and it was only with therapy and medication that she started to heal. Since college, things have been much better, but she still remembers the darker days, when she wasn’t sure how to keep going. To hear people say such ignorant things about mental health still stings.

“I’m alright,” she says. “I’ve heard worse things. But thank you for getting me out of there. I love you.”

Spencer interlaces his fingers with her own and they stare out at the city together. “I’d do anything for you. And I don’t want anyone to hurt you. What you feel is valid, and nobody should tell you otherwise.” He’s always doing that with her. Her protector, her knight in a vest and cardigan. There is no doubt in her mind that when he says anything he means anything.

They are sitting in his living room and they’ve both had a stressful day at work, and he’s making herbal tea in the kitchen. “I love you,” she says, grinning, when he sets the mug down before her. Spencer frowns and shifts uneasily in the armchair he’s in.

“Doesn’t it bother you, Y/N?” he asks.

“Doesn’t what bother me?”

“The fact that I still haven’t said it.” Oh. That. “We’ve been dating for over a year, and I still can’t manage to do something so simple. I know it must be frustrating, and I don’t want you to think I’m not as committed to you or to our relationship. You’re the most important thing in my life, and I don’t want to lose you. But I can’t say it yet.”

“Spencer,” she says softly, resting a hand on his forearm. The fabric of his sweater is soft between her fingers. “I know it. I know how you feel about me. You don’t have to say anything before you’re ready to. There’s more than one way to say I love you, you know. You tell me all the time. Not in those words, but I get the message.”

He seems unconvinced. “How?”

“You ask me to text you to make sure I get home safely. You call me almost every night when you’re away on a case just because you say you want to hear my voice. You hold me when I’m scared. You take me out to get Thai food even though you’d rather have Indian. You memorized every song in Les Mis because you knew it was my favorite musical. In all those gestures, I can hear it. And I can hear it when you make time for me no matter how busy you are. Sometimes you say it without saying anything at all.”

She leans closer to kiss him, softly at first, then deeper, deeper. In equal fervor he responds, and though the syllables do not fall from his tongue, his lips are perfectly capable of making the message clear. Every part of her tells her it’s true, that he loves her he loves her he loves her. No flower petal plucking needed to divine it.

One day, she’s walking across the sidewalk to hand him a cup of coffee. They’re going to walk to the Smithsonian, but it’s still early and they need caffeine before they’re ready to go anywhere. He holds the paper cup close to his face, breathes in the scent of a warm mocha.

“Ah. What would I do without you?” he says, flashing her a smile. She laughs, a grin that stretches across her whole face, and the morning sunlight hits her eyes just right at that very moment, and she just looks so adorable. Something in him lifts. “I love you.”

The smile falters, and the latte she’s holding tumbles from her hands, contents spilling on the sidewalk. She blinks. “What did you say?”

Bewildered, she stares up at him, and his heart swells. “I love you,” he repeats. He can’t explain why now or how, but the words have finally come and he can’t stop them. Months of sentiments fall from his mouth. “I love every part of you. I love the way your eyes light up when you’re excited and I love the way you laugh and I love how open your heart is. I love your patience and your hair and the way you kiss me when there’s no one else around. I love all of you. I love you. I am in love with you. I’ve never loved anyone this much. I love you, Y/N.”

It feels so good to say it.

It feels so good to hear it. Water springs to her eyes before she can stop the tears. Stepping over the puddle of coffee, she cups his face in her hands. “I know you do,” she murmurs. “You didn’t have to say it. But I’m glad you did. And I love you, too.”

In the middle of the sidewalk, he pulls her closer, pressing his lips to hers. They’re both laughing and crying and something in them has changed. She doesn’t care that people pass by, giving them odd looks as they stand there kissing. Whatever locked doors existed in his heart have finally been opened. He’s healing. He’s ready.

For him, she would wait a thousand years. No demands, no ultimatums. She has heard the sentiment before, listening carefully to his actions and reading between the lines.

But oh, how good it feels to finally hear those words out loud. And oh, how she loves him.

So how many times a week do you think the newsies discuss the places they sell papes and someone says “I need a better spot” and Race says “I have the best Spot” without missing a beat.