#tried drawing the picture frames from memory and h

[ghostflowerhotpotch]

Gwen's superhero identity, grief, and what her relationship with Miles means to her

GUESS WHO, ONCE AGAIN, WAS WRITING ABOUT SOMETHING ELSE, AND WROTE SO MUCH IT WARRANTED ITS OWN POST.

How I keep doing this I don't get it.

Regardless, this post will talk about Gwen using her hero identity instead of working on her emotional situation; and how she holds onto that identity until it makes her lose everything.

So, what is her situation at the beginning of the movie?

Pretty depressing.

Okay, I don't think it needs to be said how much losing Peter messed up Gwen. We don't really know the situation in full detail, however, we are aware that they had known each other for 12 years (As stated by George at the beginning of the movie during the interview,) and considering all the memories he has with the family, needless to say, Peter has been a part for most of Gwen's life.

No idea how was her situation before Peter's death, but I don't think is weird to believe she didn't have many friends besides Peter; maybe people she got along (like her bandmates,) were okay to hang out with, but Peter was the closest to her. Maybe this wouldn't be the case, if it wasn't for Spider-woman.

Here is the thing, did Gwen probably decide to put her distance after Peter's death? For sure, do I think Gwen probably leaned too much into the superhero lifestyle? Also yes.

I think the clue to that is in this part, where we see Gwen changing between her Spider-woman suit and her civilian self.

We could believe part of this is because of her grief, she learned more about her identity as a spider-woman, though I still think she may have focused a lot on it already.

I don't have a lot of proof, but I do have how her fear and her protectives of her hero cost her.

(And yes, I see Miles in the reflection, we will mention him later.)

Again, one image with many frames, because we need to make this quick.

All of this shows that Peter tries, in a way, to breach the gap between them. The only proof I have of this is 1) How Peter was getting pictures of Gwen as Spider-Woman, 2) How he was trying to defend her, believing in her despite what the police, news, and Gwen's dad say.

(Hey, is it just me, or do you think how Miles would end up drawing Gwen because he misses her, and Peter being afar from Gwen, taking pictures of both sides of her, just like Miles draws her both as Spider-Woman and her normal self?)

Guys, you don't want to know the number of times I cried during this scene of Gwen and Peter.

And is tragic on multiple levels, but something that really breaks me in this particular scene, is when Peter is calling her name, revealing how all of this was for how much he admires and looks up to her, and in his last moments, he tries to take out the mask, to see her face.

...And Gwen, in panic, trying to protect herself and her identity, refuses to let him take the mask. Meaning the last thing Peter saw, was the superhero version of Gwen, a version I don't doubt he admired and loved, but was a mask her best friend put to protect herself, and refused to let him see her for who she truly was one last time before he passed away.

I am not sure, what type of bond Peter and Gwen had, if they were crushing, just best friends, etc. For me, Peter at least had a crush on Gwen, and for Gwen well, what they were.

Because let me tell you something, what Peter and Gwen were was more than friendship, but doesn't necessarily need to be romantic; I think Gwen could have fallen for Peter, but for now he was him.

Why this is important? Because of all their history; Peter has known her since she was around 4 years (if we assume Gwen is 16 when George said they had known each other for 12 years, thought depending on the timeline Gwen maybe be 15 and know Peter since 3.) They had been close to each other for most of their lives, they had shared a table for what seemed almost daily, I wouldn't be surprised if part of the reason they were close, was because Gwen lost her mom, and Peter lost his parents, and they became friends while living in the same building with George, Ben and May supporting each other with the kids.

(Yes, that last part is a headcanon, until we have proof of the contrary I will roll with that. Feel free to have your own.)

And then Gwen keeps the secret, she tries to act dumb in front of Peter, refusing to let him. She probably is used to defending Peter, and depending on the scenario this can be weighted on him in different ways (aka if Ben died or not, if Peter has seen how much Gwen risks her life and is worried about her, if wants to be strong to help other and stand at her side.)

So this hits even harder because of how much Peter matters to her, and she didn't realize that this was driving a gap between them, a gap Peter try to close by all the means necessary until he died.

This is not to say Gwen is to blame for Peter's death, FUCK NO. Peter risking something like this means some type of doubt or insecurity that is a lot heavier than just a girl, maybe we could talk about how the school system failed Peter by allowing the bullying to continue to happen (After all, Gwen shouldn't need to defend him, this shouldn't need to happen.) Even if this hurt Peter, Gwen cannot be responsible for his well-being, close or not, this shouldn't be her job.

However, do I think Gwen could feel guilty about it, for how this identity drove them to this point? OH YES.

She said so in Into the Spiderverse "I couldn't save my best friend Peter, and I don't do friends anymore." She isolated herself for this.

Except that hey, remember how Miles was the exception? Time to talk about Miles!

I find the wording here important, "before Miles, there was Peter." She is putting Miles at the same level as Peter.

Now, I don't think Gwen means she had a crush on Peter (to be honest, I am not sure if at this point Gwen admitted to herself what Miles meant for her, seriously half of what this girl does is related to hiding her feelings even from herself.) But the role they play in her life.

While Miles didn't know Gwen as much as Peter, I think we need to remember what Miles and those ideas in 1610 could have meant for her.

At this point, Gwen doesn't have any friends, is grieving, and her dad is looking to capture her, her life sucks basically.

Then she ends up traveling to another dimension, while not exactly fun for the most part (or painless.) She had the chance to lay low, reset from her current drama; heck she even got to meet Miles a bit before he was officially bitten, and met him just how he is, and at least find him funny.

And I think while short-lived, she being around Miles as spider-woman helped her, because Miles represents the bridge between those worlds.

She met him when he was starting, and while she has been doing this for 2 years, that means she has been painfully enduring this alone for 2 years.

Miles is someone her age, someone who enjoys being around even if it isn't about being spiders, and also understands the pains of being a hero and the pressure that is on your shoulders, as well as the excitement and the desire to do the right thing.

Peter was a big part of her life, but Miles represents all of her being seen, for someone who likes her for who she is, and who she can be honest with.

For the most part.

Because she still clings to the mantle.

Look, feel free to call me crazy, but I believe this part, is sadly, related to this.

I just established how Gwen had put her identity as spider-woman over other people, including those close to her and those who could have been close to her, allowing Miles as an exception basically because they are both spiders, and being a big reason why Miles is important to her.

One way or another, this cost her, and what she does do when she loses someone? Concentrating on being a Spider-woman, of course!

While I don't doubt Gwen is genuinely excited about being part of the organization, something that I can't stop thinking about is how no Jessica Drew, Peter B, Hobie, or anyone in the organization, could feel the gap Gwen felt. The gap that drove her to spend an afternoon with Miles despite what was at stake.

And Jess's being Gwen's mentor is something that is the reason this post keep coming, (because George's parent skills, Gwen clinging to being a hero, are all connected to that.)

Ultimately, it doesn't matter how much she clings to being a Spider-Woman, it can't replace a bond with someone.

Also, as @ficsinhistory said in a reply to one of my post, you are right! Gwen is definitely Captain Stacy's daughter.

Because while he clings to being a cop, not just as a job, but also as his way of life and moral compass (Which gets in the way of his connection with his daughter,) Gwen also clings to being a hero, instead of dealing with her grief and her fears. She probably did the same because well that's what she learned from him right?

Hey does this mean generational traum- I'll See Myself Out.

This, is the face Gwen makes while Miguel tells Miles he needs to let Jeff die.

A lot of people wonder why so many spiders are doing this, and while that's another massive post I am working on (more investigation, why? Because why I would make things easy for myself.) Let's give the clip notes version here.

The surprise is not that Gwen is going along, is how absolutely heartwrenching is to see this when you put in context everything.

You see, for a while, Gwen cling to being spider-woman because it was a way to avoid her grief, now? She doesn't have anything.

While she puts emphasis on her hero work, let's remember what is probably going on in her universe: Gwen is supposed to be a student, to be in a band, to be a regular teen. Being Gwen Stacy is what she has known most of her life, and what should be her main focus, and now everything she ever knows? As far as she is aware, she lost it, she can't have her life back without risking having her own dad send her to jail.

I cannot call Gwen homeless because she has the organization, but that's not much better. Remember how she believes if she fucks this up, she could get sent back home, meaning going to prison and having her dad try to persecute her?

Forget she using this to not deal with her trauma, she was forced to pick up this life because it was this or still lose everything, but everyone may hate her.

The question is now why Gwen did it, is how anyone can see this situation, and can the question ethical when Gwen is having her risk her life, and not in the life and death kind of way, but the type that is the reason life is worth it.

And she clings to this until the bitter end, until-

She got her own band.

We don't know, what will happen in the third movie; but I don't think would be crazy to believe they would try to keep in contact if that's possible.

Here is the thing, regardless of any previous friendship Gwen had with any of them, the fact is this: Gwen said it herself, she is mostly a solo act, and even with thousands of spiders, she can't bring herself to be vulnerable and open up from the most part. Not having people wasn't the problem anymore, was her being unsure to do the first step.

And she has this band, because she wants to save Miles, because regardless of any mistakes she may had done, he is worth the risk, he is worth fighting for, and if she needs to get help to do right by him, so be it.

So who knows, perhaps Gwen gets to stick with this band, all because she decided to think less about what is the right thing to do and to fight for the people who are worth fighting for.

Because Miles became that first friend after Peter, she had the chance to open up and make more, as well as recover those she thought she lost (like her dad.)

Wouldn't that be a beautiful way to end her arc?

[slushitheicefoxkin]

Expiry Date (Chikn Nuggit Infection AU/End of the World AU Fanfic)

POV : Slushi

(This is a branching AU from Episode 636 which is where Onyn met Fwench Fwy and Iscream, anything that happens after that episode does not take place within this AU)

Read Chapter 1 here

Read Previous Chapter here

Chapter 6 - Getrud - Part 1/2

Read Part 2 here

[Image ID:

Cold.

Still.

Silent.

As if it all has never happened.

I felt myself begin to fade away.

The same purple-pink walls, the same cold, empty lights, it was here now.

I am home.

"S- Sody? I'm back home."

The sofa had been flipped over, scattering paper, cushion pillows torn open, all my plushies battered and killed and ripped open and mutilated, cotton organs spilled and their bodies turned inside out. My desk was crushed, wood chips line the floor in dust and pieces, every drawer was ripped off and tossed. My bed was disected. My paintings all laid bare to the ground, stripped from their frames.

Scattered, all of our drawings together.

Laid bare on the cold, hard ground, shredded. Each one, a memory we shared together, now left to rot.

I wanted to cry.

Opening each door was agony, not knowing if I would see the truth.

Instead I only saw more destruction, every thing that was a part of me violated, killed and destroyed and now I am here to see, the corpses of who I was.

I don't know if I am relieved.

I felt Milkshek's paw on me.

"Slushi.." She wanted to comfort me, but I knew she had no idea how to even begin.

"It's okay." Nobody was fooled. I tried to smile for some reason but all it did was make my tears taste saltier.

It tasted so good.

I saw my body moved towards the floor.

I stared at the drawings we did together. Shovelling through one after another.

They were stained by me. The paper wrinkled from droplet after droplet. Darkened, blanched.

Too much was being ruined by me, it was being washed away.

I felt worse.

There was a drawing I have never seen before.

I stared at it, corrupting it from my tears.

This was not made by me or Sody.

It was of a character.

Gertrud.

One of the main characters of a show I used to watch all the time. They were many poses of her, all crudely drawn. Scribbles of colour overlap the lines. But I knew her from memory.

Gertrud was Fwench Fwy's favourite character.

This was them.

I stared at her hands, their positions and gestures seemed so awkward and random to each pose.

Some repeat.

"..it's.. a code.." I realised. "It's sign language!"

"By who?" Saus blurted.

"..Fwench Fwy." I rose back up.

Hawt Saus looked at me. "It ain't adding up, why would they write a secret code?"

I stared, there are so many different sign languages out there. It could not be BSL, as it usually uses both hands together.

Shugar began murmuring. "Could it be to hide from something.."

I stared at the first two letters. My tears smudged it.

It's a closed hand, but the fingers are blurred.

I did this to myself. I sabotaged Fwench Fwy's message, I ruined everything, because of me.

"If it is, it is NOT from Chikn. I bet it's that creepy clock dude." Hawt blurted.

"Clock dude?" Shugar asked.

I feel my tears swelling up again, the very thing that ruined everything.

"Yeah, there's this guy with the full purple suit and a clock for his face, he says he's a 'doomsday clock', whatever that even means." Hawt replied.

Milkshek sat next to me. "Hey, we can do this together, ok?" She just knew what I was feeling. "We don't have to focus on this one, we can look at the bigger picture to find out what it means." She turned to me. "That's what you told me before."

"Yeah, y'know, you're right. I have said that before." Guilt of my hypocrisy dug into my heart even more. I smiled to seal it.

I turned to the other letters. The last two letters were smudged too.

There was a crudely drawn chicken next to the last Getrud, was it meant to mean Chikn?

I wrote down the letters on paper.

x x V E O N Y N H O x x

I felt trapped.

"Veonynho?" Hawt Saus tilted his head and bent down, his hands on his hips, as puzzled as I was.

I stared at the other smudged letters again.

"All four are closed hands, which means they can only be A, E, M, N, S or T." My thoughts spilled out to words.

Six possible letters in each four missing letters. I tried to not think, my tears would return.

Could it be an anagram.

I have no choice but to brute force it.

AAVEONYNAA

EAVEONYNAA

MAVEONYNAA

NAVEON-

A hole tore open and I wrote on my floor.

I hadn't even realised how hard I was gripping the pen, how hard I was carving into the soft, thin sheet of paper.

I tried to breathe.

Breathe, Slushi.

Fwench Fwy is a wish dragon, aren't they. They would know what happens in the future, if I would get their message.

And they chose to give this.

Fwench Fwy knew we would solve it.

I stared back at the torn sheet of paper.

END ID]

Read Part 2 here

[sammydem0n64]

Part 2

[callipraxia]

The Unexpected Memoirs of Fiddleford H. McGucket: Prologue and Chapter One

I was going through my writing desk and found a notepad I had scrawled about seventy pages, I think, of an attempt at first-person narration on a while back. It was about Fiddleford, attempting to type his way into his own memory in the gap between "Society of the Blind Eye" and his flight from town at the beginning of "Not What He Seems." Figured I might as well type it up in a few installments here if only so I have an excuse to remove the notepad and make some storage space, and to help with wanting to write so bad when I know I have too much work going on to commit to a brand-new project.

For whatever it's worth, Chapter One *probably* isn't as dark as the tags might suggest. It just includes Fiddleford typing up a basic overview of his life before he met Ford, and since that period involved being poor and living in the Deep South in the fifties and sixties...Certain topics are inevitable, at least in passing. Religion gets most of his focus, but there's also brief mentions of racism, classism, homophobia...good ol' days, am I right?!

Prologue

My name is Fiddleford Hadron McGucket, and I wish to remember what I have seen.

Or at least, I want to be able to wish to remember what I have seen.

Or at least, I think I do.

Maybe I just know that I have to, now. I don’t know what I helped create, or why, but I know one thing: from what I saw of myself in those tapes in the museum basement, and from what I read in the Journal, I either went crazy a lot earlier than I thought, helped create something that could end the world, or both. If it’s just that first one, well, that's all right - but what if it's one of the other two?

I want to run, but there’s nowhere left to run. I want to hide, but too many folks know where I am, now. I’ve got no choices left, besides sitting here at this typewriter and letting my fingers lead me back thirty years, into a world I gave up everything to forget about. All I’ve got is a story.

My name is Fiddleford McGucket, and I need to remember what I have seen. Whether I want to or not.

Chapter One

I think I might have tried to forget everything, but if I did, I messed up at least twice. There's two things I've never forgot about. I've always known my name, and I've always known that I’ve got a son. It's from the time after my life starts up again that I also know that if I said I was a bad father to him, I’d owe all the bad fathers of the world an apology for comparing them to the likes of me. Even a bad father is one who’s around to be bad, I think, and I wasn’t. I'd forget that, if I could, but somehow, I ended up without the gun....

My son hates me, and I can’t rightly blame him for that. He’s ashamed to be related to me, too, and as much as I’d like to, I can’t blame him for that, either, not with the fool I’ve acted. He was little when I left. I know that in part from such memories as I already had, and for sure because there was a picture in that Journal-book Dipper showed me. For some reason, the Author drew a picture of a picture that used to sit on my desk – copied it just like it must have been in life. He even bothered drawing the way the light reflected off the frame and hid my wife’s face, so I still don’t know what she looked like. I reckon I ought to be annoyed about that – but all I can think is, oh, you. You would do that, wouldn’t you?

Who are you, you faceless son of a cornshuck? Why did you do this to me? Why did I do that to you? What did we do? What’s this? What’s that?

The boy doesn’t know much about it. He was so young, then, and his mama didn’t like to talk about me later. Or so he says, and I guess I got no choice other than to believe him, because who else can I ask? My wife’s dead – I remember when he told me about that, a few years ago – and there’s nobody else in town that knew me before I lost my mind and remembers it, at least as far as I know. Not that that means much, of course.

More to the point, the boy does remember a few things. I was born in Tennessee, where I lived up to the age of seventeen, and where I’d probably be today if not for two things. One of them things is that I can’t think of many things more boring than plants – I liked machinery before I even knew what it was. The other one, probably more important, is that I caught every virus known to Man, probably, or at least Tennessee Man, as a baby, up until I took the rheumatic fever when I was six. If that hadn’t happened, then I probably would have been expected to quit school – assuming I went at all – and help Papa on the farm until I was old enough to get married and start my own, but instead, I got sick.

Mama and Papa, though – they didn’t know what they were supposed to do with me, but they knew I was theirs and they had an obligation, and that it wasn’t my fault I was feeble for a long time and peculiar even after I got my strength back. They lost their tempers with me all the time, sure, because I was so peculiar, but once they were done yelling, they knew I couldn’t help it, being like that. Mama, who was born a Baptist, used to say it was God’s will and proof of His marvelous constancy from generation to generation – Hannah had prayed for her son, and when she got him, it was with conditions, specifically, that she’d have to return him to God. Mama had also prayed for a son, and she’d got...me, who was clearly not going to be of any use to anyone unless I got me some schooling. Well, that was all right; the best preachers didn’t go to school, of course, everybody knew that, but she’d hauled off and married a Catholic, and they expected their folks to have some book learning even though that didn’t make much sense for men of God. Sense or no sense, though - that was how my mama decided I was going to be a priest.

I can’t remember much about how I felt about this, no matter how hard I try. The one thing I remember is that I did have one sister, name of Gladiolus, and that she used to think it was funny. Fatherford, she’d call me, when she thought Mama couldn’t hear her, especially when she thought I was being stupid on the subject of our mutual religion.

I was scared of God – not possessed of a holy and proper fear of God, just plain scared, like you’d be of a monster under the bed. I’d heard since I was a baby that it was only through His mercy that I was living, and I remembered just enough about being sick to know how bad it had usually hurt. I don’t know how, but I took it into my head that this meant I was bad, somehow – worse than everyone else, that was, a sinner among sinners, mainly because sometimes I asked questions that made Mama tell me that I was questioning God Almighty and that she’d have Papa take a belt to me if I done it again. Every time the priest raised the Host and talked about the transubstantiation, I’d imagine God looking out at me from inside the monstrance and whispering: just you watch yourself, Fiddleford McGucket. You better get your crazy ass right with me, or I’ll send it right on to Hell. And I would have - if I'd had any idea how. How many times did I sit there and pray, crying on my knees to stop thinking wrong and wanting wrong and doing wrong? Pulling out my own hair, because that was the only thing that could calm me down on a real bad day? I’d learned by the time I was ten not to ask my family such questions – that me asking Mama how I was supposed to just not think things that went through my head when I knew it upset her so – but I thought surely, surely, if God cared about me at all, despite knowing all my wrong thoughts….

Well – maybe He will have mercy on me for my doubts and questions and pride. Maybe He will take me in even if I keep an inability to see why it’s supposed to be so wrong to marry someone who doesn't look enough like you, or happens to be another man, or whatever else folks down home would say today. Or maybe He won’t. I don’t know. That was one thing I could never take about Mama’s people – this “I know that I know” attitude. Arrogant, ain’t it, assuming you Know anything about what God’s going to do? The predestination people are mighty peculiar, too, but that doesn’t even seem as arrogant as this idea that you can know you’re right with something as alien as God -

Or that’s the theory, anyway. In practice, the predestinationists aren’t any better, as far as I can recall, but even though thoughts like that kept me from ever considering going Evangelical or Holiness or any of that stuff, I still didn’t become a priest. I never even applied to try to be a priest – heavens to Betsy, I didn’t even apply to no Catholic universities! Admittedly, that was in part because of money – Mama went to work after she decided I was gonna live after all, so we could afford enough shoes for me and Gladiolus both to go to school all year in, and the sewing plant was real generous in giving out scholarships to the best-performing employee kids in the high school. I’d have been the biggest ingrate in the state of Tennessee if I’d started quibbling over which college I was going to go to, even considering that I broke every record my high school and that sewing plant had ever seen. And that’s how I ended up at Backupsmore University.

*********

Had to take me a break from typing – got to going too fast and my hands locked up. But the boy says he always heard I went to Backupsmore University, so I reckon I did. Makes as much sense as anywhere else, though from what I came to understand, the degree to which my crazy ass went really wrong, at least by home standards, while I was there could have happened in any reputable college or university in this country just as well.

I try to think back to it, and I have just a – blur. Strings of colored lights, which I’d never seen before. The taste of beer, and later of stronger stuff – took me two months to work up the nerve to try the beer, of course, and then I reckoned it was nasty, but I was so tired of being the oddball hick by then that I figured it was the lesser of two evils, even knowing what my mama would have said about it. Not like she wouldn’t have said worse about other stuff, such as when I went to required classes and didn’t say a word in protest when they taught that the world was millions of years old, or when I was all right with the idea of the rules changing to allow for blue jeans in classes, or when I discovered my roommate didn’t go to Mass and stayed roommates with him anyway, or when I would occasionally kiss girls and a few times boys, or….

Well. Maybe I went a little wild my first year or two, but I know that I know I didn’t ever risk my scholarship. Partially, of course, this was because of how easy everything was to me, but I did my work, no matter how tedious it was. I knew within a week that I didn’t want to go back to where I come from, and I knew that doing real well in college was my best way out. So I did real well in college, though it probably helped that my roommate was so dang uptight that I was partially obliged to drop the wayward habits of my freshman year, because there was no questioning which of us would have won in a fight.

I was taller than him, though. I remember that. Didn’t seem to bother him much. Not much did, I reckon. He was there to work, not to deal with people no more than he could help. I had to drag him out of the room most every time he left it for anything except for class, after we became friends...because we didn’t do for a while after we moved in together, not right away. I remember that first day - how I introduced myself, trying to be friendly and polite, and how he acted like the idea of shaking hands offended him, even if he did finally do it. I remember, too, that I thought he seemed like he got mad about my name for some reason? Though how that makes any sense, I don’t know. I think he might have just been mad at everything, the whole world, even himself, but definitely most everybody else.

I’m starting to type too fast again. Got to put down everything I can remember – it feels like I might forget it again if I don’t get it down fast enough, and like I need to remember this man. Like he’s got something to do with what happened, though it might be just that I can’t remember his face, either -

That does seem strange, and not only because I lived with him for a right long time. There’s also the other things that come back to me, strange little things. He’d done some kind of athletics in high school, for instance – why do I know that, but not what the feller looked like? That makes about as much sense as this band-aid being on my beard!

I remember that, though. And I remember that time when it snowed a foot, real early in the year that year even for that far north, and even though I'm sure that he was funny about his hands for some reason – fancy-pants musician, maybe? But that don’t explain this – how he let me borrow a pair of gloves upon realizing I’d never had any cause to own such an item before – and by ‘borrow’, I mean ‘threw ‘em at me without comment before leaving the room.’ And the first time he unbent enough for us to have a real conversation, and what it felt like, realizing I was really talking to someone who was a little like me – someone else who worked just fine, but his circuits were just arranged different than most folks’. Never thought it could happen, but....

It all blurs, even now. I can’t see his face, however I try to think on it. But I remember another thing, too. I remember one day when I fell down because I was laughing so hard. I was in Gravity Falls already, then, and I started laughing till I ended up on my knees as I thought to myself – there was a time I’d have said that I would follow that man into Hell - but this ain't what this was supposed to be!

*********

In between them memories, I’ve got what the boy told me I did. He doesn’t know why I did it or when, but at some point, I did go back to Tennessee. That’s where I met his mama. She was a schoolteacher, one of the only other folks my age who’d been anywhere near a college, at least that I could find to talk to. So, for lack of anything better to do, I suppose, she became a Catholic and then we got married.

Emma-May Dixon. Couldn’t get a name more like where we come from than that if you tried, but Emmy wasn’t too much like Gladiolus or my girl cousins or most home folks. Well, if she’d been like most folks, she wouldn’t have got lonely enough to marry the likes of me, would she have? Emma-May. Emmy.‘Emmy’ is what I called her sometimes, I think. Just Em when she was annoying me, though, which she did sometimes, as everyone you ever live with or know especially well must. I’ve remembered that for a while, somehow – that, and how she didn’t like being called Em or Emmy very much. After we left Tennessee, she tried going by Emma, out in California. Like Jane Austen. She had a whole set of books by Jane Austen, and every house we ever lived in, she made sure they were as prominent as they could get in the living room.

They weren’t just for looks, though. She had read them. She read them every year over again, in fact. She had the darkest, curliest hair I’ve ever seen – when it came into fashion, she started putting permanents in it the same as everyone else, of course, but she could have saved herself some time and just left it as it was, because she got close to looking like she had one just in her natural state. She wore perfume – Evening in Paris, I think it was – which was the kind of thing that would have gotten a gal talked about back home even if she hadn’t had the audacity to go buy it for herself, long time before she ever met me. I didn’t mind it, though; I liked that she didn’t need me, because I might not have pulled my hair out over my fear of God as much anymore by then, but someone needing me – that I couldn’t stand. Which did make it mighty inconvenient that she got pregnant not too long after we got married, because you ain’t never known how Necessary you can be until you get stuck being responsible for a baby human.

These days, of course, I doubt that would have happened. For one thing, I’d have been on ten different pills time I left Backupsmore, so I probably never would have gone home in the first place. For another – well, back then, it just didn’t occur to us to do much of anything to not have babies, because that was what you did, wasn’t it? You got married, you had a bunch of kids. That was what the Church said was proper, but it wasn’t even just the Church – my mama was a Baptist and had ten brothers and sisters. You had ‘em to keep up the work on the farm with you; that was why everybody felt so sorry for Mama and Papa, only having two young’uns, and one of them being me.

I don’t know what would have happened had we stayed in Tennessee – but thing was, Tater was still a baby when I realized we was not staying in Tennessee. For one thing, Mama and Emma-May couldn’t get along at all after the baby was born, Mama being intense on the subject of her first and only grandbaby – and for another, we just couldn’t stay there. I would have gone crazy a lot sooner than I did if we had. After Tater was born, all I could think was – my God, I can’t have a young’un of mine grow up here. If this place isn’t dead, it’s definitely dying. What if he’s like me, but he doesn’t get sick enough? Of course, this wasn’t rational of me – by that time, going to school was not only mandatory in the law, but it was something that was actually enforced even for backwoods families – but I couldn’t even think about the likes of ration, not then. I scratched up my head so bad trying not to rip out my hair that I ended up getting some kind of skin infection for a while – and then, once I was over that, we got as far from everybody we knew as we possibly could.

*********

California. On a map, it was easy to say what California was; where I come from, it was a whole different question. To some, it meant everything you could ever want, everything that home wasn’t; to others, it was a neat bit of shorthand just for Hell on Earth, for all the sins of the world (I reckon home folks didn’t all know about Las Vegas?). To my mama and papa, and Em’s mama and daddy, it was the second one; to me and her, it was the first one.

I think we were happy there? It’s another blur – but the edges don’t hurt, wherever an object or an image floats to the surface and gets clear enough to see. I remember shoes in the hallway a lot. Some balls and bats, a lot of books. Tater was reading before he was three, and we made sure he had plenty to read, because as I told my wife – it was pretty clear, from early on, that the boy was indeed like me, so he might as well lean into it and get as smart as he could, so he’d have the best chance to find some way, some place in the world where he could be happy.

You say that like you aren’t happy where you're at, Fids, said she – she was the only one who called me that, I’m assuming as retaliation for the Em thing. What am I supposed to do with that?

But I think I was. That we both were, for a while anyway. In a way, I think we both felt about like young’uns ourselves, because of how odd we could be in California without anybody knowing or caring at all. It was 1975, baby! Every woman in America had a right to her own bank account, whether she was married or whether she was not, and Emma-May got one I reckon just for the hell of it. Or because she was the one with more to put into it, though she never once mentioned it, and she was a saint for that. Who ever heard of a woman with a baby going back to teaching school, and letting some fool of a man look after a baby? Nobody, but we weren’t in Tennessee, we were in California, and it was 1976, 1978 – the world was all on its head and it was going to keep spinning like that forever, up and up, freer and freer, no stops!

I know how wrong we was now – but even today, it makes me smile, when I think of this one picture in my head. It was Emmy, just outside the church – since she took it sort of serious, after having gone to all the trouble of converting, we still did go to church. She was standing on the stair, wearing this dark blue dress with little white polky-dots on it, and one of them big, wide lace collars – this thing was up to her throat, and the ends of it were on her two shoulders – and by standards of the time, she was looking sharp! But she had on these sensible shoes, you know, and little white gloves, because she had a habit of that from her mama, who had not been one bit amused by Jack Kennedy taking his presidential oaths with no hat on and thereby giving everyone permission to run around in their bathing suits in broad daylight. Jack Kennedy was dead, though, and Jackie had betrayed all of America, to my folks’ way of thinking, by marrying some foreigner instead of gracefully playing the queen dowager until John, Jr. could take his daddy’s place, and I had two suits, one for every other Sunday, and a pretty wife with more dresses than there were days in the week standing there with her rosary in one hand and Tate by the other one, and I imagine we looked at each other like – you believe all this? You believe we’re here acting like decent people, without a soul in this church knowing you’ve got your own bank and them new pills, or that I get what money I got by some combination of picking a banjo while I run around in floweredy shirts like a hoodlum and spend my days trying to build the machines of the future? This is the craziest thing I've ever heard of!

Of course, I don’t know that this memory is real. Even if I do remember it right, there ain’t no guarantee that Emma-May was thinking anything of the sort, about how we looked like everybody else and were yet living in ways that would have shocked out parents out of this life. I felt like a young’un lifting candy from the store, though, and I recollect I laughed – from her point of view, for no good reason – and gave her a kiss right there on the stair.

What was that for?

You just looked pretty.

You crazy fool.

She’d call me that again another time, and it wouldn’t sound anything like it did then. Another time, she was screaming at me, shaking me, telling me to snap out of it, to quit what I was doing, to look what I was doing to my own son, to quit it right now and be a man, be a father, for the love of God, Fiddleford! But that day, it wasn’t like that, and I never could have guessed how soon it would be.

*********

I don’t remember much about how it started, that day. Right now, I remember everything about that afternoon and evening – the afternoon that marked the beginning of the end of my life – but not so much about the beginning, not even what I was doing right before the phone started to ring. I assume it was all normal, though: that I’d got up like I most always did, got the kid off to school, got the wife some kind of lunch put together before she went off to school, and then it was out to the garage and another day of trying to scrape together a dream. Just like so many days before. There was no way, no way at all, I could have ever known what was going to happen.

It was getting late, I think, when the phone started to ring, but in July it’s hard to be sure. Only the sounds of Emma-May and the boy in the house gave away that we’d passed the hour where most folks called the day finished. Despite that, I wasn’t working on one of my own projects yet – was still working on something for a client, scraping together the money I needed to keep working on my prototypes. Well, to my way of thinking, I was working on a client project, anyway – to most folks’ eyes, it would have looked like I was just picking on my banjo, but that was what I did when I needed to think about a tricky problem with some wiring. I was chewing on some chewbacca, too, as I was accustomed to do, and I recall I gnawed on it some just about the time the ringing started.

Why do I remember that? Nothing that unusual about that moment. Nothing should have made that specific plug of tobacco brand itself into my neurons, but I remember it right now, as clear as I do anything else – I can taste it as if I was chewing on it this moment, practically feel it between my molars again, though unfortunately, just remembering the feel of getting a hit of nicotine doesn’t do much to sharpen me up and calm me down all at once the way an actual portion of the drug would. It was real that day, though, and hit my system as I picked up the phone, and, without a care in the world, said, “Hello! Fiddleford Computermajigs!”

Another man’s voice came through the other line, and for a few seconds, I didn’t even recognize it. It was the kind of landline connection you got back then, I reckon, along with me having not heard this particular man’s voice in...Lord, how long had it been? Going on five years, maybe. Even during those few seconds, though, before my life changed, I felt a sort of – ripple – go through the world, as though I had gotten a shock, as the voice spoke, getting straight to the point without any salutation or introduction of its owner. Guess he was already too close to the edge to care about such things by then – that is, unless he knew that, just from the sheer audacity of the proposition alone, I’d know exactly who it was by the time he got to the end of his sentence.

“What would you say,” he said in a low, almost conspiratorial tone, “if I told you that I’m building a trans-universal polydimensional meta-vortex?”

By the end of the sentence, I knew who I was talking to – but that was bizarre enough even for him that I had to repeat it back to myself to be sure I’d heard it right. “You...say you’re trying to build a trans-universal polydimensional meta-vortex?”

“Yes.”

And then I did it. Without even knowing I was doing it, I said the words that would near enough to damn us both, and my wife and son along with us, and who knows how many others, before it’s done.

“Well,” said I, and the numbers were running through my head – I hadn’t felt them like that since college, that was how quick I started on the problem, even before I had any confirmation that it was any of my business. “that’s...mathematically feasible, I reckon!” I spat to clear my mouth, just in case the next remark he came up with was somehow even more surprising than the one he’d used to barge back into my life without so much as a howdy-do, and then I added, “Stanford? That really you?”

Click here to proceed to chapter two!

[starryseung]

𝒅𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒌𝒊𝒎 𝒔𝒆𝒖𝒏𝒈𝒎𝒊𝒏 𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒍𝒖𝒅𝒆𝒔!

you are my heaven on earth

awh

awwwhhh

kim seungmin is the sweetest boyfriend!

he’s always looking after you, looks forward to taking you out on dates and trips whenever he can

seungmin loves seeing you happy! he tries his best to win gifts for you at the annual spring carnival, tries to bring you your favourite flowers whenever he can, watching your favourite movies together, and overall just loves caring for you

he’s spent so many sweet memories with you

but he has a few favourite ones that are constantly playing in his head like a broken record

he’ll be lounging in the studio and changbin or felix will have to call him out when he’s just dazing off, a small smile on his lips

“seungmin, you’re daydreaming again...”

“h—huh? no i’m not” >:(

and he proceeds to sit with a small pout on his face, kinda still thinking about you

when at the dorms, he talks to you everyday after his schedule is over, sometimes a video call if you two miss each other more than usual

it’s basically just two groggy and sleepy voices talking about their day, but it couldn’t get any better than that

when seungmin starts humming in response to your chattering, you know he’s about to sleep, so you just tell him to stay on the line for a lil longer, telling him how much you love him and appreciate his hard work, and that he’s doing such a good job!

and when you finally hear little snores through the call, you smile warmly, muttering a small ‘good night, minnie’ before hanging up usually you stay on the line a little longer, because even his snores are beautiful

𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝒎𝒆𝒆𝒕?

you first met seungmin at the bakery café you worked at!

minho found a new café on the other side of town, so him, seungmin and hyunjin were headed there

and when they reached, seungmin thought you were the cutest! person!! alive!!! when he saw you in the apron and jacket you were wearing!

your hair was down, the small name tag reading your name in big bold (which he kept repeating in his head a hundred times so he didn’t forget)

poor baby couldn’t stop smiling whenever your eyes met, and just couldn’t stop thinking about you even after he reached the dorms

it was the ‘living in his head rent free’ coming to life, and seungmin wouldn’t say he hated it👀

anyway, suddenly he loves coming to your bakery café! he visits you so many times, you know his order by-heart, sometimes drawing little cream hearts on the top of his coffee (because you have perfectly functioning eyes to find seungmin an absolute angel)

slowly, you two start learning more about each other, and since you've realized that he loves day6,

you change the cafe playlist with day6 songs on they day he comes! people seem to enjoy it too, so it's technically a win-win

seungmin's heart flutters when he sees you do the little things for him, and always tries returns twice the favours!

𝒔𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑

oh oh!!

when he’s a lil sulky after practice or something

he’ll call you over at his place and you know it’s gonna be a long night from his tone so you order some food too

and at home he's just sprawled out on the bed with a slice of pizza in his hand and head in your lap

while you're listening to whatever he's blabbering to take off the weight from his heart, slowly running your fingers through his soft hair

when he's done with his talk, you'll get back to watch a movie

to make him feel better, you'll move into his lap!! and his hands!!! will automatically wrap around your waist!!!!

seungmin might be the kind to gag looking at two people hugging

but himself, he absolutely loves snuggling you/being snuggled by you

he just hates pda, so when no one's watching him he's all smothered on you

then when his stupid lovesick heart tell him to kiss your shoulder while you're watching tv

he just goes for it

until he's pecking you a little too much lmfao

he just can't keep his hands off you okay >:(

he loves cuddling your lil frame

and loves your hands in his hair

absolutely head over heels when you're wearing his hoodies

there's fireworks in his stomach when he sees you wearing his clothing, the way you're literally drowning in the material

pats your head when you're cooking, turned away from him

then wraps his hand around your waist and rests his head on your shoulder

turning to kiss your neck softly

awwh and when you turn your head to kiss him

he'll smile softly and giggle into the kiss

before you burn your finger and he laughs before telling you to "focus on cooking"

𝒅𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒔

hanging out at aesthetic places so seungmin can click pictures of you: check ✔✔

you two frequently go to the ice cream shop downtown at night

each time ends up with seungmin fussing about how mint-chocolate isn’t toothpaste, while you’re teasing him about it

since seungmin’s doesn’t have a schedule as clear as yours, so you two usually spend time at his house, just lounging around and eating and binge watching movies

now

seungmin has a whole folder in his phone and camera filled with your pictures

he loves swiping through them and getting reminded of the particular time he spent with you

it’s always stuck at the back of his head uwu and he catches himself smiling like a goofball anytime anywhere

also he's probably the best person to take shopping with because he has a proper idea about what you're gonna look like in what kind of clothes

but doesn't pick too revealing clothes because you're no one's except his >:(

(𝒔𝒎𝒖𝒕) 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆…

okay *inhale*

seungmin might seem like the softest, most calm and composed person

keyword : seem

because he definitely knows his shit in the bedroom

seungmin also isn't the kind to show that he’s particularly needy

he’ll just make you want him

never subs.

seungmin doesn’t like submitting, which is also partly why he doesn’t show how much he’s craving you

knows how to put you in your place. he likes experimenting, of course, but doesn’t want you to get ahead of yourself; he likes having the upper hand

usually starts off with you in his laps during the regular movie sessions, but instead of actually watching the movie, you two are just all over each other, his hands roaming along your body while you’re tugging on his hair as he nips at your skin on your neck, tugging it between his teeth

loves when you’re vocal, he likes knowing the effect he has on you

seungmin himself can’t control the bulge growing in his pants as you grind your ass down on him, guttural groans leaving his lips as you whimper in his mouth

likes taking things slow or fast depending on his mood

if he’s all cuddly and soft and sweet, he’ll take things slow with you, admiring each part of you, kissing down your neck and your stomach

squeezing your thighs and waist so you’re feeling at ease

giggles softly when you squirm in his hold when he’s licking and biting the soft flesh of your thighs

seungmin will really take his time with you, his fingers gently squeezing and toying with your nipples while working his lips against your folds

readying you for what’s coming, spreading you out with his fingers and licking you, thumb poking your clit

but when he’s frustrated, you’re his only release

he won’t think for a second before venting out his anger on you

teases you with his fingers and mouth before actually fucking you

you’re not given a second to breathe, so once his fingers leave you, his lips are on you, sucking harshly on your folds before thrusting his tongue in you, licking against your sensitive walls

seungmin also perhaps loves choking (something he discovered, thanks to you)

he’s fucking you relentlessly, while his fingers are wrapped around your throat, squeezing and loosening until your eyes are rolled to the back of your head

but n o

so he’s supposedly a clean freak, right

likes being neat and tidied up, therefore needless to say that’s what you’d expect from him in bed

you are : wrong

he loves watching you break under him, whether it’s from his cock in your mouth or in your cunt

loves the feeling of you clenching around him, and it probably has him cumming harder than ever

comes on your stomach and thighs, but when he’s in the mood, he’ll stuff you full of himself, pulling out to smirk at the way both your juices drip down your hole

extra cocky!seungmin will push it back in with his fingers, telling you to keep it in there for as long as he tells you to

either way, you absolutely love it

because seungmin knows his limits, checking up on you a couple times in the middle if you still wanna go further

at the end of the day:

seungmin best boy!

[kkysolo]

*grovels again* *hopes you have your gin*

i can’t believe i’m posting this highly specific piece that will certainly flop due to its clear self indulgence. please don’t send me to tumblr jail, i already know i need therapy for this lmao. your grovelling paid off, petal. i hope it’s something you marginally enjoy. 

[edit: this is now a series. part two / part three / part four ]

A/N: this...is a friends to lovers smut piece laced heavily with daddy-kink that is not at all related to my own upbringing and exposes my clear daddy issues. as always, our reader has no defining traits, other than that she is female. 

Pairing: Modern Ben Solo/Reader Word count: 1392 Warnings: daddy kink, age gap (three/fourish-ish years?) PIV sex, unprotected sex. Heavy mentions of childhood and referring to reader as ‘little girl’ (I know that’s a squick for some of you). Mentions of feelings that have travelled from childhood to adulthood (not sure if that’s a squick but there you have it). tagged as tw: and cw: daddy kink for anyone’s filtering desires, but it’s below a cut, anyway.  

“H-how l-long?” 

Your words trailed off into a moan as Ben curled his fingers, dragging the calloused pads of them along your sensitive walls. He shifted slightly, moving to circle your clit with his thumb, rubbing tight circles into the bundle of nerves. A tight coil began to wind and wind and wind in your core, and you chased it with abandon, hips bucking into his hands in a deplorable show of desperation. 

“I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, but first, I want to watch you come for me, right here, on your best friend’s fingers.”

Your eyes fell shut as your head tipped back against the pillows, and Ben reached with his free hand to steer your face toward his. 

“Open your eyes,” he murmured. “I want you to see who’s doing this to you. I want to watch every last second of you coming apart.” 

You did as you were told, your eyes flying open, your clouded, hooded gaze meeting his. 

“Good,” he murmured, increasing his pressure on your clit. “That’s my girl.”

 And it was his praise that did it - because it always did, always left you feeling like a wanton mess, even as he’d say it in passing, clueless to its effect. The coil snapped and you choked on your own breath as you felt it, felt yourself gushing onto his fingers, and felt yourself begin to float, landing somewhere between euphoria and heaven itself. 

He watched, so absorbed in your bliss, so captivated by how you completely and utterly pulverised in his hands. He couldn’t find the words, couldn’t even begin to thank you for allowing him such a privilege, to be the one obliged with the chance to take you apart, to wreck you. His eyes never left the plains of your face, even as you began to fall back into coherence. You fought to catch your breath, bringing your attention back to him. 

“How long?” You asked again, and Ben wasn’t even minutely surprised at your persistence. He withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his mouth - because he had to, had to taste you, had to know what he’d been missing all those years. He hummed as his tongue slid across your come.

“Always,” he murmured once he’d sated his hunger. “For as long as I can remember.” 

His lips found your hairline, pressing softly into the skin there. 

“Me too,” you revelled in it, in the tranquility of it, the softness of it. But there was something else, the moment that sparked it, the moment that had spurred you to reach right into the depths of your desires, to dig up the feelings you’d thought you’d long since buried. 

“Ben?”

“Hm?” 

His lips cascaded down your jaw, your neck, teeth grazing across your collar bones. 

“At dinner, I said something,” your words quickly caused Ben’s ministrations to cease, his lips stationary on the column of your throat. “And it...it made you...It’s why, it’s why I wanted to kiss you.” 

Your mind settled on the moment, the recent memory - how you’d tried in vain to get away with shoving your potatoes to the side of your plate, moving them around with your fork in a feeble attempt at making them look eaten. You should have known, though, that a visit home to your mother’s house would make such a task impossible. And not because of your parents, no. No, because your ever-present childhood neighbour would make sure you ate your food. 

You recall how he’d looked at you, the stern gaze, the cocked brow. 

“Eat them,” he’d warned. 

“Sure thing, dad,” you’d chided, half playfully. 

You recall his face, his frame, how his whole body tensed, how his knee came to bang against the underside of the table without warning, sending your cutlery clattering from your plate. 

Ben exhaled roughly, the palms of his hands gripping your sides anxiously. 

“That word-”

“Don’t, don’t say it, I won’t be able to control myself if you do.”

“What if I don’t want you to?”

“Princess,” his tone was stern, a warning.

“I saw what it did to you, when I said it, when I called you ‘dad’.”

He inhaled sharply, quickly moving above you. He was so huge, so broad, that his body completely caged you. He hovered there for a moment, trying to steady his breathing, trying to collect himself. He grabbed your wrists, pinning them to the pillow above your head. 

“I’m warning you. I won’t be able to control myself,” he let out a shaky, bated breath. “Not if I hear you call me that.”

“I don’t want you to control yourself, I want you,” you breathed, completely entranced by the idea of Ben finally fucking you, of your best friend finally being inside of you. “Daddy.” 

And the silence that followed your words, the complete stillness as you watched him - it engulfed you. You watched as his composure crumbled, the cracks in his brick walls creeping up up up until the expanse of his very soul imploded right before your eyes. Ben’s head dropped as he groaned loudly, hips rutting into yours. In one swift movement, he was opening your legs, hiking them up around his waist. He looked at you then, and you knew how far gone he was. His eyes were so blown black you could no longer see the molten honey of his irises. And they were wild, too, just like his breathing, which was just a hair away from hyperventilation. His gaze persists and you knew, then, that this was his hopeless attempt at a question, at asking permission. You nodded, perhaps too eagerly, but God, you’d never wanted anything so much. He slid in to you, stretching you further than you thought possible, his forehead dropping to yours as a guttural moan ripped from his chest. You keened for him, biting your lip hard enough to draw blood as he sheathed himself fully inside of you. He trembled as he held his position, allowing you to become accustomed to his girth. The heat of you, the feeling of being so thoroughly connected to you, had him so on edge he could barely contain himself. You nodded at him, then, allowing him to move at last. He let out the breath he’d been holding, pulling out and then pushing back into you as you gasped, writhed, and moaned beneath him. The sight alone had him almost growling, a feral creature replacing his typically calm facade. He’d been picturing this moment, this very second, every day for so many years now, he’d lost count. Somehow, it managed to exceed every last one of his expectations. The feel of you, the sight of you - it was completely and utterly indescribable. 

“Aren’t I?” He grabbed your face, pounding into you at a force like nothing you’ve ever felt before. “Isn’t that what I’ve always been?” 

His breath heaved as he spoke through gritted teeth, trying to keep any semblance of control that he still had left. 

“When I taught you how to ride a bike, when I walked you home from school, when I carried you to bed when you fell asleep curled around me on the couch?” He thrust into you so hard, then, that you swore you felt him in your throat. Your breath was coming in quick and heavy pants, your eyes were welling up with the sheer pleasure, the sheer realisation of what was happening. 

“Huh? Isn’t that what I was every time I held you when you cried over some other dick, isn’t that what I was every time I fucked my fist raw to the thought of you, isn’t that what I was when I fell in love with you over and over, so many fucking times, I couldn’t stand it?” He growled as his hips continued to piston in and out, so forcefully, so hard, so perfectly. You cried out, eliciting a moan from him. 

“You’ve always been my little girl,” he murmured, his forehead falling forward to meet yours, still clutching your face. “It’s always been you, only ever been you,” his eyes fluttered shut for a moment as he relished in the feel of you, how you fluttered around him every time he praised you. “And now Daddy finally gets to fuck his little girl, perfect little girl.” 

[ghostdrew22]

One Of Those Days || Draco Malfoy

Requested: No

Pairing: post-war Draco Malfoy x fem!reader

Warnings: Some police detective talk(not good but something) and a few mentions of murder and whatnot. But it’s quite fluffy in my opinion.

Summary: Draco and Y/N work as detectives in a muggle police department and she has a really rough day after it looks like one of her cases is about to fall through. Draco can sense that she’s had a bad day and offers to help her get her work done.

WORDS : 2001

~

Draco prided himself in knowing as much about you as possible- it was his hobby in fact. Draco could tell your silhouette through stained glass windows, he could tell your laugh from three storey’s above you, he could sense your footsteps from kilometers away and he could pinpoint whatever emotion you were feeling with just a single sound from you. Some people would find it creepy- the way he focused so intently on every detail of you like he needed to commit your entire existence to memory- but you loved it, relished it in fact, especially on days when it felt like the entire world was against you and all you needed was for him to comfort you.

That’s why when you’d come by his office to get him for dinner that night he’d known that you weren’t up for it. You were trying very hard to hold it together- it was date night with Blaise and Pansy after all- but he just knew that today had been one of those days, and he made quick work of getting you comfortable on the little couch in his office. It was in the heavy steps you took when you came in- like you couldn’t bare to carry the weight of your own body even though your own office was barely a few paces away from his- and the fake smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

“Are you okay?” He asked once he’d finally got you seated comfortably- pulling your feet into his lap so he could start massaging them- and you tried your best to feign stability with a nod.

“Yes, just a long day.”

“There’s no need to lie, love.” He persisted and moved one hand below your chin so he could lift your head to look at him. “I know something’s up.”

And he was right, as usual, something was up and it had been bothering you all day. One of your cases just didn’t make sense, no matter how hard you looked there didn’t seem to be the missing string that would tie it all together. You knew who the murderer was, it was textbook really, but you just couldn’t find any evidence tying him to the murder no matter how hard you tried.

“Is it the case?” He asked- referring to the homicide case you’d been working at relentlessly for three weeks now- and you merely nodded meekly in response, feeling too hopeless and tired to manage more.

Both you and Draco had wanted to pursue law enforcement for as long as you could remember- particularly homicide investigation- but after the war neither of you could bare the idea of being aurors- the trauma deterring you both from wanting anything to do with fighting the dark arts- and so you decided that working as muggle detectives was the next best thing. And you loved your jobs, really, but it was a hard job to do when every other aspect of your lives benefitted from the use of magic. I mean, how would you explain to a jury that magic helped you track down a suspect in record time? It was absolutely outrageous and it made sure that you both stuck by the book. But it could be immeasurably exhausting despite your love for it, and today was one of those days.

“He’s going to walk.” You said before a sob escaped your lips and Draco was quick to grab you by the shoulders gently and pull you into his chest for soothing- knowing that all you really wanted was for him to listen to you complain and hold you tightly. So you began to explain your situation to him and he listened intently- absorbing every single detail that he could and running his hand up and down your arm to keep you at bay.

“Do you want help going over the files?” He asked once you’d finished explaining. The truth was that you did want help- particularly his help because he was the only person in the entire homicide department with an eye better than your own when it came to this kind of stuff- but you didn’t want to ask for it in fear of adding to his workload, and so you bit your lip and shook your head softly.

“It’s okay Drac, don’t worry about it.” You tried to brush it off, but Draco knew you too well to fall for your antics and he shook his head back at you.

“Nonsense love, I’ll help.” You opened your mouth to protest- already feeling guilty at making him help you- but he was quick to interrupt you, already knowing what you were going to say. “You’e not adding onto my workload Y/N, I’ve always got time to help you and you know that.”

You sighed in defeat- knowing that you weren’t going to win- and looked up at him with a pout, “Are you sure?”

“I’m positive.”

“Hey! Who’s ready to get-“ Blaise had barged into the office excitedly but stopped his speech immediately upon the sight of you and your husband on the couch. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t think we can do tonight mate, Y/N’s case has hit a standstill and I’ve offered her to help her go over the case files to find something that’ll help.” Draco answered his best friend with a solemn expression and Blaise nodded in understanding.

“Is it the Yarvis case?” Blaise asked and you nodded faintly with a sigh, “I could help too if you need an extra set of eyes.” Blaise had also decided to join you and Draco in the muggle detective business, but where you and Draco were homicide detectives, Blaise was focused on Narcotics. Ironic for someone who had been the biggest stoner in your year group.

“Blaise, you really don’t have to. I know you and Pansy have been looking forwa-“ You started but Blaise was already shaking his head and dropping his coat onto the hanger by the door before you could finish.

“That’s absolute nonsense Y/N, we’ve been looking forward to spending time with the two of you and this would count. Think about it, we can order Chinese food and crack into those files around the table like one of those cheesy muggle movies you love?” Blaise offered with a soft smile and eyebrow raise and you had to resist the urge to cry on the spot.

“That would actually be great, thank you Blaise.”

“Anything for a friend. Let me go ring Pansy and tell her to bring Chinese on the way.”

“Okay.” Draco replied to his best friend with a thankful smile.

“The usual?”

“Yes please!” You shouted back as Blaise made his way out of the office with a chuckle at your excitement.

And that is how date night turned into the four of you laid out on the floor around a little table in Draco’s office, eating chow mien and going over your case files- trying to find any inkling of evidence that could tie the suspect to the murder.

“Hey Y/N?” Pansy calls from across you as she strains her eyes at an image from one of the folders- although Pansy is an auror, she has a particular knack for muggle crime as well.

“Yes?” You hum as you slowly bring your eyes up to meet hers.

“What’s this in the corner?” She passes the image to you for you to see what she’s referring to.

“It’s just a photograph in a frame, I think it’s the parents and their children.”

“Okay, now look at this.” She passes you a second, almost identical, image of the scene and the photo frame is nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s it gone?” You ask in disbelief.

“I think it disappeared while you were on the scene of the crime, I think it was magic.”

“What?” You furrow your eyebrows at her as you look back down at the images.

“A delayed protection spell perhaps?”

Draco doesn’t say anything but moves closer so that he can also see the two images.


“Why magic? It could’ve been bagged as evidence.”

“No, there are no photo frames in this evidence log.” Blaise pipes up as he passes you the log to inspect yourself.

“Hmm.” You huff and narrow your eyebrows at everything you’ve been handed. “But I’m pretty sure that they’re a muggle family, what could magic have to do with this?”

Pansy shrugs with a thin smile and you sigh- realising that you’ve hit yet another stumbling block- as a silence encapsulates the room.

“Shit.” Draco mumbles as he drops the images onto the ground and quickly jumps off the ground to walk toward his desk his desk.

“Shit?” You ask as you observe his suddenly frantic state as he tries to find something- feeling excitement bubble up inside you at the prospect of him having a lead.

“Yes, shit.” He pulls out two large files from one of his desk drawers and drops them onto the surface, “That- that picture, look at what’s behind the family.”

You narrow your eyes at frame that’s in the evidence shot. “The park?”

“The man that’s on the bench in the park.” Draco responds as he shuffles through papers, “A few months ago I had a case to this where we couldn’t pin the murder to our prime suspect because it all fit so perfectly together but none of the evidence was sufficient enough to withstand trial.”

“Was that the-“ Blaise starts.

“The Hunter Street case? Yes.” Draco answers, “Then right before it looked like she was going to walk, some random evidence perfectly matched up and tied her to the entire thing. It was almost too good to be true.”

“Oh yeah, I remember how confused you were about that.”

“Now I remember why I was so unsettled by it, she wasn’t the culprit.”

“She’s been in jail three months now, a bit too late to be pointing fingers.” Blaise adds with an awkward chuckle and Draco’s lips draw upward slightly at the comment.

“Who did it then?”

“There was a neighbor, a man, who came out as a witness and claimed to have seen her on the night of the crime. I didn’t interview him but I caught a glimpse of him and he is that man in the photograph.”

“How can you be so sure?” Pansy furrows her eyebrows.

“I never forget a face.” Draco utters sternly as he looks Pansy dead in the eyes and you smile proudly.

“So how does he connect to everything?” You ask with furrowed eyebrows.

“He’s the missing puzzle piece, but I think he’s working with someone on the inside.”

“So you think someone discarded the frame for him? On the scene of the crime?”

“Yes! But it definitely wasn’t the photographer, and it means whoever did that arrived after everyone else.” Draco continues and you nod- digesting the information.

“Okay...” You agree with him- feeling a sense of relief wash over you at the fact that finally something is starting to make sense.

Yes, it had been one of those days but everything felt like it was worth it when you could watch your husband in action. You stared at him in awe as he rummaged through the pile of papers in front of him- already connecting the millions of dots that had started forming in his head- and you had to resist the urge to pull him into a kiss of adoration.

“Found it!” Draco explains as he pulls out a small piece of paper and squints to read what’s written on it. Without a second of hesitation he strides toward the door and pulls both of your coats off the hook then stands against the door frame and waits for you.

“Are you coming? We’ve got a murderer to catch.” He asks as he waits for you by the door and you quickly nod and hop off the ground to join him- feeling warmth consume you at the sight of the excited glint in his eyes.

Yes, it had been one of those days… But those days would always be easy to take in stride when you had Draco with you.

<~>

 I feel like I kind of half-assed this toward the end just because I needed to get it done before I lost the love for it, but I still love the general concept either way. I wrote this because I can see Draco wanting to solve crimes and be a detective but I can’t see him wanting to be an auror after the war because he’d be fighting the very same people he ‘worked’ with once and working with the very same people he ‘fought’ against once, and the trauma from the entire situation would be too much to handle and make him hate his job- so muggle detective Draco is born! :)

anyway, love you all,

jean <3

[nothing-but-dreamy]

BROKEN

Pairing: NYX ULRIC x GENDER NEUTRAL!READER

Words: 3.401

Warnings: angst; fluff; mention of sex; raw emotions; kinda dark (?)

A/N: This is the sequel to ‘Reckless’. But ‘Reckless’ got written with a female reader. Because I’m trying to change my writing style to suit more readers, I changed the female reader of ‘Broken’ to a neutral reader. So, basically, ‘Reckless’ was about a Glaive who worked kinda thoughtless during missions. They jumped into every dangerous situation they could find. Nyx wasn’t too fond of their behavior and so, he seeked a conversation with them. Because both held unspoken feelings for each other, the conversation turned into something intimate and heated.

‘Broken’ is the darker sequel to give a bit more background to the reader. But I wrote it so that you can read it as a standalone.

Three weeks had passed since you and Nyx had your little heated 'discussion' in the Glaives' headquarters. As promised, the same day, Nyx had kept his word and visited you to show his arguments again and again why you should be less reckless. This night was the beginning of something great...and undeniably intense. None of you couldn’t keep your hands off each other. Almost nowhere. Even if you tried to keep it secret in front of the others, you found ways to have fun with Nyx wherever you wanted.

Nyx was drawn to your wildness as if danger was your second nature. Quickly, you noticed Nyx’ animalistic side while you were drawn to the way Nyx saw you. He gave you the feeling to be wanted. He gave you closeness where you usually just got rejected.

But like always when it became good, your past was haunting you no matter how far you would run. You had run to the farthest point you could find on the map - to Insomnia - and yet, Ryan had found you.

You hoped to get distracted as you joined the Glaives. On the battlefield, the war sounds and the screams of your dying enemies would be louder than the other voices in your head. Ryan would get silenced.

Nyx was right, you were reckless. Thoughtlessly, you ran into every new fight no matter what size the enemy had because the language of your blades were the only one you could speak fluently. Violence was what you knew the best because then, Ryan disappeared.

When you were with Nyx, the voices also became silent. When you were enjoying the man's satisfying presence, everything in your head died down to the point that Nyx was everything you could think of.

But as something else started to grow inside of you, a little, small thing called 'love', Ryan was back with full force to remind you what you were and what you had done.

"You bring death to everyone around you! You bring bad luck to everyone you love! You're the reason why everyone dies! I wish you would be dead instead of them! I hope you will never be happy!"

"No, I'm not like that! No! No! No! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!", you cried out, pressing your fists against your head to fight against the pain behind your temples.

*

For the twentieth time, Nyx checked the time on his watch and frowned. Slowly, he paced up and down at the meeting spot, becoming more and more impatient the longer he had to wait. It was unusual. For three weeks, he was dating you and every single moment had been amazing. With you, everything was so intense, passionate and lust-filled.

Then, Nyx had tried his luck and had asked you out to have a real date with dinner, maybe a movie. He wanted to show you that he saw more in you than just a sexual partner. In his eyes, you were more than just a fling. You could be more. More like a couple. You had been cautious with your answer and now, as you didn't show up, Nyx thought that he might have been too eager. That it was maybe too early for you. Maybe you felt caged by him…

Five minutes later, Nyx decided he had waited long enough and so, he walked to your place. He wanted to know what your problem was. Why were you acting this frustrating because Nyx really thought you two had worked past it. You had grown a bond. So, why were you trying to destroy it again? Nyx already searched for the problem by himself.

Nyx walked his way up the stairs to your apartment, already kinda angry but stopped as he heard something: "Go away! Why can't you just leave me alone! I'm not what you say! It's not my fault!"

Nyx’ hand froze in front of the door as he was just about to knock. He heard the angry, frantically and muffled cries behind the door as if you were screaming at someone. Without knocking, Nyx opened the door to help you but as he stepped in, the picture in front of him let his blood run cold. There was no one else in the small room except you.

Your place was more spare than Nyx' own if that was even possible. You had a bed and an old, worn wing chair. In one corner hung a used punching bag which was still swinging, obviously you had trained until the moment you had broken down in front of it.

Nyx' eyes were glued at your frame. You were just dressed in shorts and a trainingstop. Your hands were bandaged for the punching bag. You were covered in sweat while you had been slumped down on your knees, holding your head violently between your fists which were pressing against your temples. Your eyes were squeezed shut and so, you hadn't noticed Nyx yet.

Softly, Nyx closed the door. On his way over to you, his eyes fell on a bunch of pictures. He had seen them before. They were like his own: family memories with smiling faces and proud parents and a brother. They were old and the color faded on the edges but he never asked you about them because he wanted to give you the time to do it on your own.

Nyx knelt next to you, not daring to touch you because in fear to scare you. He was even scared on his own to see you, this usual tough person in such a state. You never had been this vulnerable in front of him, or in front of someone else or … at all. Nyx leant forward, searching your closed eyes, "YN? Hey, it's me-"

By the sound of his voice, your head snapped up to meet his glance. Nyx saw your bloody eyes, your lashes were spikey and your face was frozen in an expression of pure agony. Like a blank nerv, pain, hate and loathing were displayed on your features that Nyx became speechless.

"Leave me alone, Nyx!", you hissed.

He had seen you angry before but nothing was compared to what he saw now in your eyes, "No.", Nyx said calmingly, closing up on you slowly, "I won't leave you alone like this.", he said softly. Just to see you in such a state broke his heart.

"I said you shall go!", you cried out angrily, punching against his chest to gain more distance between yourself and his caring, blue eyes that made you angry. As he didn't move, you snatched out one of your blades from a hidden spot to threaten him.

Nyx moved quickly, grabbing the blade from your shaking hand and threw it aside before you broke down in his arms, crying violently against his chest.

Nyx sat down on the ground, leaning against your bed and letting you cry. He tickled your neck and stroked over your hair and back to calm you. Nyx had no idea what had happened and he didn't dare to ask. Whatever had triggered this, it had to be something extreme you barely showed someone, hiding everything like this somewhere deep down inside of you. Caging it to prevent yourself from breaking.

Five minutes later, you slowly calmed down. You felt exhausted and empty, physically and emotionally. You noticed Nyx' arms enclosing you softly but also determined to keep you close, to give you comfort. You felt guilty that he had seen you like this but you couldn't change it now where the damage was done.

You just could explain it, "Everyone of our village died that day as the imperials came.", you said low, your voice barely a whisper and hoarse from all the crying. First you thought Nyx hadn't heard you but his grip became stronger around you and so, you continued with the urge to explain yourself while snuggling closer to his chest, "That day, I lost everything. Everyone I knew died. Except me and my brother. We got rescued by some hunters. But, you know, I ... I should have died there with all the others! I should be dead instead of being alive!", you said desperately, feeling how new tears were crawling to the surface.

"No, YN. No. That's not true. Why do you think that?", he asked concerned, trying to keep his own emotions out of his voice.

"Yes, it is true! My brother was right! I always brought bad luck to everyone around me!", you argued angrily. You clenched your fists, trying to hurt yourself with your nails digging into the palms of your hands to let yourself feel something else than grief.

Nyx was shocked. He couldn't believe what he heard, "Yo-your brother? He said all these things?", he asked in disbelief.

You looked up quickly but as you saw his eyes, you had to draw your glance away again, "Yes. My brother, Ryan. The hunters had helped us. Brought us somewhere safe but after we realized what had happened, Ryan said it was my fault that our parents died. He casted the blame on me and you know what? He's right. Our mother died because she saved me and as she got shot our dad tried the same. Both would be still alive if it weren't for me. So, before I will be the reason for more deaths, I ran away."

"H-how old were you as you ran away?", Nyx whispered. His blood was slowly fueled with anger against your brother who had said all these horrible things.

"I don’t know… I guess, I was thirteen, maybe twelve as I left the hunters. Since then, I've been alone. And I will always be alone. It's the only way for me.", you whispered, determined to stay by your habit.

Nyx leant back to look into your eyes, "You're not alone-", he tried.

"Yes, I am! And that's how it should be!", you hissed and felt bad for snapping at him.

"No. YN, look at me, please.", Nyx asked and as you raised your head, he smiled softly, stroking wet strands of your hair out of your face before he cupped it, "You're not alone. You have friends here. You... Y-you have me.", he said carefully with an insecure smile. For a split second, he saw that he got through to you. Your eyes became clear with hope before the self-loathing was back.

"No. I don't have you. You can't stay with me or otherwise you will be dead like everyone else.", you whispered before you looked away.

Nyx' heart broke all over again. The pain you felt was nothing new to him, it just seemed to be so much worse than what he felt usually. Carefully, he forced you to look at him again, "Listen, as a Glaive, nothing is certain. We both know that. Obviously, our lives aren't made for certainty. But I will stay by your side as long as I can. Trust me."

"I'm bad luck. Why would you want to have someone as broken as me, anyway?"

"Because you're the toughest person I have ever met. You have so many scars and you still keep fighting. You never back down. The fire you're carrying makes me speechless. Everyone around you comes first. I admire you so damn much for everything you stand for. Your handsomeness makes me speechless. You're so damn sexy and sensual that it is addictive.", Nyx said honestly.

"You just say that because the sex is great and you want more of that.", you whispered sadly.

"No! I mean, yeah... Of course, it is great! But I... YN, I tell you that because it's the truth. It's the truth that I see you like this. And ... it's also the truth that I'm falling for you.", Nyx whispered with a pounding heart.

"Y-yo-you do- what? No! You can't do that!", you called out, panic appearing in your eyes. You even tried to leave Nyx' side, to crawl away from him.

Nyx kept you in place and chuckled softly, "You can't forbid people to like you and you can't prohibit me to love you.", he said softly. It was a very long time since he had said these words. He wanted to comfort you, sure, but they weren’t just meaningless words out of niceness. Nyx really meant them.

And to his delight, he saw that you believed him. New tears were building in your eyes. You looked sadly at him but at the same time, your eyes filled themselves with fondness for him. A tear rolled down your cheek and Nyx caught it with his thumb, "Please, don't cry anymore.", Nyx whispered and pressed a soft kiss on your lips which tasted salty after all the tears shed.

As he leant back, you stopped him. You clawed your fingers into his shirt, pulling him back to you to kiss him softly. Just slowly, you increased the pressure of your lips, noticing that he waited for your next moves, for your pace before he adjusted to it. You felt vulnerable. You hated it that he had seen you like this. And yet, that he was there meant the world to you.

Someone was there for you. Someone who seemed to love you even when you were broken like this. You knew that Nyx also had lost so many things. He couldn't save his mother and sister and suddenly, you realized that your recklessness all the time had to be the worst for him. Nyx feared to lose you while he would be helpless to rescue you because you jumped right into danger.

Slowly, you leant backwards, landing on the cold floor with Nyx on top of you. You snaked your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck to keep him close.

Nyx felt that you needed physical contact and yet, it was something completely different than usually when he was with you. You had wanted him before but that was always demanding, aggressive and determined. Almost animalistic. And now, you were so soft, caring and slow with him.

Your kisses were delicious and filled with love that Nyx melted against you. You kissed him longingly that he forgot to breathe. Your hands roamed over his body in admiring moves, savoring him and his flaws because for you, they were non-existent.

You grabbed the rim of his plain shirt, pulling it slowly up and over his head just to touch his hot skin again in the next second. You stroked over his back. Admiring every single scar you could find softly with your fingertips. You traced along them, stroking along Nyx' spine to produce goosebumps on your way.

Nyx shuddered against your frame as he felt your caring touch moving upwards to his neck. You raked your slender fingers through his hair and combed it with them. Carefully, you played with the braids as if you never had touched them before. You stroked along the small beads and enjoyed the feeling of Nyx' extremely soft, feathery hair. Never before, you noticed their softness like in this moment.

Reluctantly, Nyx left your sweet lips but his lungs demanded oxygen. He created a small space to look into your eyes which were sparkling with admiration he had never seen before. You wanted to say something, Nyx saw it but instead, you just gnawed on your lower lip. Slowly, you stroked from his back, over his shoulders down his chest.

Under Nyx' intense glance, you moved your hands down Nyx' upper body. Along his scarred chest, down his abs and to his hips before you opened his pants. Slowly, you raised your eyes to meet his glance. Connected with his blue eyes, you started to roll your hips against him to increase the friction even more.

Nyx knew what you wanted. And there was no way he would deny your request to have him. Slowly, he crawled back, offered you his hand to stand up before he undressed his remaining clothes. You followed immediately and pushed Nyx down on your bed to crawl on top of him.

Fascinated, Nyx watched you taking your time with him. While you made your way up along his body, you kissed every inch you could find: his hips, his ribcage and his collarbones. Before you reached his lips, you bit softly into his neck which caused him to moan deeply with desire. Nyx stroked along your back and clawed into your shoulder blades as he felt your teeth digging into his skin.

With you in his arms, Nyx rolled you around, bringing you into a position to enter you teasingly slow. You moaned low with closed eyes by the pleasurable feeling caused by Nyx. You clawed your hands into your bedsheets, arching your back while Nyx captured your lips with his own for a passionate kiss. He always enjoyed every moment with you but now, this was intimate in a different way. None of you were driven by desire rather by the urgency to show your deepest emotions you held for each other.

***

As the sun rose, you sat in the wing chair to watch Nyx sleeping peacefully. He was tangled with your blanket, arms hugging one of your pillows. His braids and strands were tousled while his chest raised slowly up and down. One single tear slipped from your eyes and rolled down your cheek. You wiped it away violently. You knew what you had to do…

*

As Nyx awoke, he knew the bed was empty. There wasn't much space left and he didn't have you in his arms anymore how he had fallen asleep. He pushed the pillow aside. His quickened heartbeat let him awake completely as he realized what it could mean that you weren’t there.

Nyx sat up and that was the moment where he saw you sitting in your wing chair, staring at him. You were crying again but this time silently and this was far more worse and painful for Nyx to witness than the emotional outbreak the day before, "YN? Since when do you sit there?", he asked carefully, noticing that you were fully dressed with a bag to your feet.

As you heard his voice, you blinked and looked at him, "A few hours. I wanted to leave but I- I... I saw you sleeping and couldn't go...", you whispered.

Nyx hurried out of the bed, kneeling in front of you, "I'm happy you're still here.", he said softly, cupping your face with his hand, "That's what you do, right? Leaving when it gets too much?", he asked but you just nodded as an answer. Nyx searched your eyes, "How many times have you done that before?"

You looked away, shrugging your shoulders, "I don't know. After the tenth time, I stopped counting."

Nyx sighed. He had moments where he felt lost but you were it. He had Libertus, Crowe, Pelna...you had no one. And that for a far too long time.

You looked at him, "I couldn't leave you, Nyx. I should have, but I- I couldn't... I can't give you what you deserve. I can't make you happy...", you whispered.

"Trust me, I don't even think I would deserve happiness-"

"I'm serious. I- I couldn't love you. I mean I can't love you... I don't know how. I'm not able to do that.", you breathed sadly.

"You don't have to. Why can't we just be together? No naming. No label. Just we.", Nyx offered a different way.

With doubts, you looked at him, "You still want that?"

"Oh, yes. I won't give up on you so quickly. Not after I saw so much of you.", Nyx breathed meaningfully and stood up, holding out his hand as a reason for your decision to stay.

You looked at his hand. At this strong hand that had driven you crazy and that gave you comfort at the same time. Without thinking too much, you took it. You placed your hand in his and let him guide you back to the bed. You undressed a few clothes and cuddled next to Nyx' side, curling up into his arms.

With a content smile, he inhaled your scent and pressed a soft kiss on top of your crown. Both of you were broken but at this moment, neither of you were alone because you had found each other.

[t-o-m-hollands]

Locksley Hall - Part II

Summery: Tom doesn’t know quite how it happens, but one moment he’s working as the gardener at Locksley hall, and the next he’s run of to marry the lords daughter, a girl he hates. Set in England, 1920.

Word count: 5500 (sorry...)

Pairing: Tom x OC

A/N: Again, this is heavily inspired by the first part in Atonement – Ian McEwan, but the plot is different.  

Music wise: For Madeleine’s parts I listened to Old Money – Lana del Rey and for Tom’s part I listened to NFWMB and Work Song - Hozier.

R E A D   P A R T    O N E   H E R E

Gideon’s cottage - 1920.

Tom is awakened by yet another expensive automobile driving up the road and past his cottage. His brain works slowly, still half asleep, one foot in a dreamland where he’s chasing someone in a labyrinth made out of peonies. Slowly he wakes his body by moving his toes, and then his fingers too, before stretching his arms over his head, letting out a tired groan. His body feels warm and his limbs lethargic and slow, as they do after a particularly long nap. For a long while he lays there, eyes half-closed, staring at the dust aimlessly drifting in the sunlight.  

Another car passes by outside.  

Downstairs he can hear Mr. Higgins doing the washing up. If he concentrates, he can hear the guests from the ball chatting and laughing up at the manor. If he concentrates further still, he can hear the blood pumping through his system, steady and slow.  

The whole world feels slow. Like the air in the room stands still, despite the wide-open window. It is mid-July, and the heat feels oppressively persistent, there is no escaping it. Only now, as the clock is nearing eight in the evening, does the world seem to cool. All morning he’d worked in the garden, preparing the grounds for the ball under the watchful eyes of old Dowager Locksley. When she was finally satisfied that there wasn’t a dead leaf, not a single weed, nor an unwatered rose in sight she’d sent him off, ready to attack the kitchen staff instead. He’d walked down to Locksley bay. There he’d rid himself of his sweaty, earth-stained rags and he’d swam until his body felt cool again before returning to the cottage for a long and well-deserved nap.  

He stretches again and groans. He desperately wants a smoke, but his pack of cigarettes along with his lighter is all across the room, thrown on the cluttered desk along with countless of books and an old typewriter that the library had given away. The letter M was irreversibly lost and therefor it had been deemed useless. He’d taken it with great gratitude, glad to have something he’d normally wouldn’t be able to afford. It had amused him, typing long passages without using any word containing the 13th letter of the alphabet. In a strange way it thrilled him, that some words in the dictionary simply became forbidden for him. Suddenly out of reach.Words like magic, monarch, melancholy, magnetic, maddening, maiden,  

Madeleine.  

Finally he gets up, walks across the room and sits down by his desk. He lights a cigarette. Staring out the window he watches as yet another car makes it up the driveway to join the ball.  

The sky outside is lilac, and the first evening breeze makes its way through the grass like a wave in the ocean and he prays it’ll make its way through the window to cool his head. He inhales deeply, but the sinking feeling he’s had in his stomach all day stays where it is.  

And half of his mind is still in his dream. 

Had he been better at drawing he’d drawn her hands, soft and small compared to his calloused ones. Maybe if he’d draw them, he’d be able to get the picture of them out of his mind. Those hands, gracefully holding a cigarette as her eyes, dark and deep and framed with long lashes, observed him with great disapproval as they’d discussed poetry. She always looked disapproving when she was observing him. She’d worn a evening gown in the finest silk, and his ratty jacket over her shoulders, her normally perfectly pinned hair falling down in cascades over her shoulders. It had felt strangely intimate, seeing her like that, so undone and wearing his jacket

Swearing, he puts out the cigarette. He’d been distracted, not noticing how it’d burnt down to the butt, burning his fingers. He doesn’t light a new one, but leans back in his chair, runs his hand through his hair and tries to calm his breathing.  

It hadn’t always been this way.  

Once upon a time, they’d been friends, hard as it was to believe now. They’d defied gravity when they’d climbed the great oak three behind the cottage. He’d taught her how to swim in Locksley bay, held her up in the water and told her to fill her lungs with air in order to float. She’d taught him how to read. His teacher in the village school had called him slow, so she’d sneaked out books from the library, and with patience of a saint she’d taught him how to recognise each symbol until he could make sense of the words.  

She’d been his first kiss.  

It had only been a small peck on his lips, lasting not more than a second, but it counted. He counted it. 

She’d find him in the greenhouse, crying over the trashing he’d gotten from Mr. Higgins for attacking Francis Locksley. Silently she’d sat down beside him, her long dark hair in a braid and dressed in her Sunday best, having just been to church. She’d taken his bruised knuckles in her hands and she’d kissed them, before kissing each tear streaked cheek, and then ever so briefly, she’d pressed her lips against his. He had felt like a knight, being awarded by the queen for his brave service. He hadn’t known what to make of it, but she’d held his hand in hers and he’d leaned his head against her shoulder and for the longest time they’d stayed that way until he’d forgotten all about stinging bruises and tears.

He lights another cigarette and another car drives up the driveway.  

The sky is now a dark blue, the last evening light turning the leaves in the trees golden. Earlier that day Mr. Higgins had put out lights all along the drive way to the manor house and they now lit up the summer evening. 

Against the evening sky he sees a bird shoot up, rising to the sky.

Once when they’d been children they’d found an injured songbird in the woods. He’d watched as Madeleine with the gentlest of fingers picked the bird up. He’d watched as she held the wounded creature in her hands, as she observed its broken wing. She’d looked at him then, her dark eyes sad, and she’d told him they’d have to help it heal.  

So they’d gone to Gideon’s cottage and he’d sneaked her in, while Mr. Higgins worked in the garden. She’d placed the songbird on his bed. While she was kneeling in front of it, as if in prayer, he’d taken out bandages. He’d watched as she’d gently wrapped it around the bird’s wing. She’d looked at him, and told him to sing. She’d said that it would make the bird feel safer, that it was what she used to do to baby Beatrix when she was crying.  So, he’d sung a song to the poor harmed thing, while Madeleine patted its head.  

For seven days the nursed it, making sure the wing healed as it should. It had been their secret. She’d snuck out of classes with her governess and he’d faked being ill until Mr. Higgins let him be home from school and they’d sat in his room, and he’d sing for them. They kept the bird in a box, on the lid of which he’d put air holes in, and she’d placed her cardigan in the bottom of it, making sure it was soft to sleep on. They’d feed t worms Tom had dug up in the garden and Tom would sing to it every night.

In the end the songbird had healed, and they’d released it in the woods again and watched as it flew away, awkwardly at first, nearly toppling towards the ground before it found its strength again, slowly rising until it was only a speck of black in the distance. He’d held her hand, biting down hard on his bottom lip to keep himself from weeping, while she had cried openly, pressing his hand in hers. They’d hid in the labyrinth until late that evening, far away from nanny and Mr. Higgins. He’d sung her songs until she’d stopped weeping.  

Tom stands up, puts out his cigarette and stretches out one last time. Then he walks out, leaving his memories in the smoke-filled room, heading towards the pub. 

*

The Wild Boar, the village pub

“You ever think about headin’ out of here?” he asks his friend.  

They’re in the village pub, The Wild Boar, throwing back beers. A Victorian pub with murky green wallpaper, beer-stained velvet booths and worn mahogany wooden floors. The atmosphere is always good and someone is always singing. Harrison, who most days works in the bar but is enjoying a rare day off, calls it his home.  

“What, go somewhere else to drink, you mean?”

“No, no, I mean like leave Milchwood, go to London or something, head somewhere else you know”.

Harrison gives him a puzzled look and Tom can tell he doesn’t feel the same. They’re both comfortably leaned back on each side of the booth. Around them the other patrons are talking loudly, discussing this and that, enjoying their Saturday night and the unusually warm summer weather.  

“No” Harrison answers in the end “no, I mean, it’s home, yeah?” He drowns the last drops of his pint, waving to the bar for another before looking back at Tom, “you feel like leaving?”

“Dunno, maybe, sometimes” he says. “’is just, some days I want nothing more than to head out to Milchwood station and take literally any train away from here.” He takes a long gulp of his own pint.

“Well, why don’t you?”

It takes some time for Tom to answer. He keeps his eyes on the dirty window in front of him. Far away he can just make out the silhouette of Locksley Hall. They are all up there now, the lords and the ladies, having a ball.

“’s just hard to leave you know.” He takes another gulp of beer as the bartender places another pint in front of Harrison. “Spent most of my time in France wishing I was back here and now” he waves his hand in front of him, as if this would explain the strange sinking feeling he’d been walking around with lately. “Now it feels like it all stands still, like I’m just walking around, waiting for something to happen.”  

Harrison gives him a worried look “but what’s keeping you here then?”  

“Dunno, it’s just, it’s hard to leave”.

He doesn’t have ties to this place the way Harrison does. He has no other family part from Mr. Higgins. Mrs. Higgins had taken him in when he’d been nothing more than a baby, but she’d passed away before his fifth birthday. He hardly remembered her. Mr. Higgins had kept him on, and despite his stern ways he’d been kind to the boy, and taught him all he knew of gardening and thus ensuring that Tom would have a future secured. But Tom knows that Mr. Higgins wouldn’t mind if he took off, that maybe he’d even expect it.  

“Yes, we saw ‘em, didn’t we Billy!” Owain Murphy’s loud voice booms from the booth beside theirs.  

“Yeah” Billy concurs, nodding his head and staring down into his glass.  

“Yeah, we saw ‘em, all ‘em gently folks up at Locksley Hall”.

“Yeah” Billy nods again.

“They say the ‘eir is being married off!” Owain bellows.

Billy is too busy drinking now to agree.

“She looked a vision, didn’t she Billy?”

Something twists uncomfortably in Tom’s stomach. He drowns his beer and nods to his friend. It’s time to leave. The night air is cool and he takes deep breaths of it as he steps outside. They walk and chat for a while, before hitting a fork in the road, saying their goodbyes and promising to meet up for another pint the next day they then part ways, Harrison walking to the house he shares with his parents and little sister, and Tom steers his feet to Gideon’s Cottage and Locksley Hall.  

He can see the lights from the building, hear the piano music even from outside. Across the lawn people are taking some fresh air, surely they’ve been dancing for hours. They’re all dressed in their finest clothes, heavily bejeweled. Tom closes in on Gideon’s cottage, and he can’t wait to throw himself on the bed and sleep for a few hours. Tomorrow is Sunday, the day for resting, and he’s free as a bird.  

A flash of white moves in the corner of his eye and he looks over.  

By the enormous rhododendron bush stands Lady Madeleine Locksley, wearing a silky white gown that somehow plays tricks with his brain; for when he first lays his eyes on her, it looks to him as if she’s wearing nothing more than moonlight, the diamonds from her tiara glistening in the night.

For a moment it feels as if he’s actually gotten the breath knocked out of him. Owain Murphy had been right, she did look a vision.  

A man joins her, his hands clasped behind his back. He’s tall and blond and even from this distance he can tell she’s bored with the conversation, but she politely goes along with it.  

Tom walks into the cottage, closing the door behind him.

*

The cliffs of Locksley bay

The Atlantic Ocean spread out in front of her, wide and far and impossibly blue. She’s standing on the cliffs beside Locksley bay. If she were to turn her head to her left, she would see the docks with the boats lined up one after the other, each more impressive than the last. It is summer, and high season for travellers. Would she instead turn her head to her right she would see the bay, and the people playing in the water, lying in the beach and soaking up sun. Enjoying themselves and cooling themselves off in the unusually warm weather.  

But she keeps her eyes far ahead.  

Out on the water she can see sailing boats slowly drifting over the landscape. It’s not a good day for sailing, not even up here on the cliffs can you feel anything more than a gentle breeze. The heavens are almost violently blue, not a cloud as far as the eye can see. In the sky seagulls fly, screeching as they go and she inhales deep breaths of the ocean air. She feels so far removed from them all, the people on the boats and the ones on the beach. 

Her lungs feels tighter, there’s a scream in them that needs to get out.

She takes a step closer to the edge.  

A pair of arms grabs hold of her and pulls her in against something hard. “What are you doing?!” A familiar voice inquires angrily in her ear.

He pulls them both a few steps back, away from the edge, before turning her around to face him. Anger clear on his face. His chest, still close to hers, is heaving.  

“What are you doing?” She asks, not quite managing to match his level of animosity. His hands are still holding a firm grip around her arms. She pulls herself free and takes a step back, trying to create some distance between them, though she swears she still feels the heat radiating of his body, his scent, which she’d briefly inhaled, surrounding her.

“Were you going to jump?” he asks in a serious tone, his warm brown eyes intensely searching her face for something.  

“No” she says, voice firm, and he relaxes somewhat, though he still looks angry. That frown, seemingly permanent on his face whenever she’s around. “But it wouldn’t have killed me if I had, people jump from here all the time”

“Sure, but not young heiresses”.  He sounds almost sarcastic and she can feel her blood nearly boiling. Her diamond heart beats faster in her chest.

“Have you?”

He observers her for a heartbeat, like he’s searching for something in her face. The long days spent working in the garden has given him a nice tan. His brown hair looks windswept and he’s not wearing his usual uniform of muddy trousers, suspenders and a dirty white shirt. Instead his clothes look washed and clean; he’s wearing his Sunday best, linen suit trousers, clean white shirt and suspenders that don’t look quite as worn. His arms, well developed from all the hard work, fills out his shirt in a way that makes something inside her flutter, and she hastily looks away.  

“Yes” he answers in the end. “Yeah, me and Harrison jumped it last year”.  

“Yet you’re so against me doing it?”

He’s silent for a few seconds, and she can tell he’s weighing each word carefully. “I just, I didn’t take you for a thrill-chaser, is all. It surprised me”.

Now he’s avoiding looking at her.  

“So, how was the ball?” he asks eventually, having to fill the stale, strange silence.

“Long” she answers and sighs. “Awfully long, and dreary”.  

“Poor girl” he teases, but she wonders if there isn’t real malice underneath. “And how is your betrothed?”  

She narrows her eyes at him. “James is not my betrothed” she says, trying to keep her voice calm. He’s got his hands in his pockets, an arrogant look on his face and she wants to scream at him.

“Huh” he says, “I heard you were being married off”.  

“Well, I’m not. Not yet”

“So, what’s he’s like, this not betrothed man of yours”

He sounds so nonchalant, and it’s making her skin itch with irritation. “He’s nice, actually”.

He scoffs, “nice?”

“Yes! He’s very nice, unlike certain people! And he gave me a book of Wordsworth poetry”

Tom snorts “you hate Wordsworth, you always have”  

“How do you know?” She asks, annoyance clear in her tone.  

“You told me” he answers, and he sound so certain of himself.  

“Yes, when we were children, I might have changed my mind since!”  

“You haven’t though”.

“Funny isn’t? All the things you remember?” She tries to sound superior, but she’s not sure she accomplishes anything. He’s still standing there, hands in pockets and a devil-may-care smug smile on his face.  

“You find him dull”.

“How do you know if I find James dull or not! You’ve never even met him! Maybe I find it fascinating to talk about dog breeding and horses!” you scream at him. 

But he just smiles wider. “I was talking about Wordsworth. You find Wordsworth dull. But clearly I hit a nerve”.  

She’s so angry she’s speechless. From the village they hear the church bells ring.  

“We should go” he says and nods to the path back.  

“No”

“Lady Madeleine, -”

“Stop calling me that!”

“Well, it is your title”.

“Oh, like you give a toss about people’s titles! I’m Madeleine and we used to be friends, or don’t you remember that part?”

“Alright Madeleine” he says slowly, like he’s talking to a particularly petulant child, “we better head home now, they’ll want you back for dinner”.

“I don’t want to” she says stubbornly. “You head back. I’m staying here to watch the sunset”.

“They’ll just sent me out to look for you if you´re not there for dinner, let’s go”.

She takes a deep breath and a step backwards, towards the edge. “You know, I’m so tired of everyone telling me what to do all the time, were to be and what to think, and how to feel”. She takes another step backwards and the smugness on his face is soon replaced with worry.  

“I’m so tired of people telling me that I can’t do things when they have no issue doing it themselves”. She takes yet another step back and as he reaches out for her, realising what she’s about to do. She turns around and runs toward the edge.  

“No Maddie, don’t!”  

But she’s already taken the leap.

*

Locksley Hall

The next morning she wakes early, though it feels as though she’s hardly slept at all. Memories plays behind her closed eyelids from the day before. The cliffs, Tom’s arms grabbing hold of her, the argument, the jump, the fall, the splash, the sinking, the searching for the surface. And then, a hand grabbing hold of her, pulling her towards the light.  

He’d jumped in after her, had thrown himself of the cliff in his Sunday best without any hesitation.  

He’d always been the better swimmer, he was the one who had taught her after all, and luckily it hadn’t taken him long to find her beneath the surface.  

They’d swam ashore, dragged themselves up in their heavy, wet clothes watched by the bathers who looked at them, some agog and some in chock. (“Is that not lady Madeleine?”)

He’d been furious, practically steaming with anger. It hadn’t mattered how many times she’d tried to talk to him, tried to apologise, he’d only ignored her and kept steering his feet forward to Locksley Hall. Only when she tried to thank him for having saved her did he respond.

“Don’t” he had uttered, his resentment almost palpable.

They had been walking through a path in the woods, sun shining through the canopy, painting the whole world a bright green colour, and she stumbled after him, keeping her eyes on his wet white shirt, his suspenders holding of his soaked beige trousers.  

She too had grown angry then. Had tried to argue with him. Tried telling him that he was overreacting, that no one had forced him to jump in as well, that it would have been better if he hadn’t, that they both knew he wished he hadn’t and suddenly -

She’d been pressed up against a tree, his face just centimetres from hers, both their chest heaving with conflicting emotions, his arms on either side of her face, in the most beautiful trap.

Madeleine untangles herself from her many sheets and blankets and walks to the window to pull apart the curtains and let in the morning light. The grounds outside are empty, no one is yet awake. It must be very early indeed, for even Gideon’s cottage seem peacefully quiet.

She opens the leaded window and drags in deep breaths of fresh air, but her lungs still feel too tight. She fishes up a package of cigarettes from one of the pockets of her silk robe and with trembling hands she lights one. Everything is set now. She is to marry Sir James Hatfield, and settle down at Hatfield house in all its ugly Tudor glory. It didn’t matter if she smoked in the house anymore, she wouldn’t stay here much longer.  

With picture perfect certainty she imagines married life with Sr Hatfield. Endless conversation of the breeding of horses, hunting and dogs. Her life spent doing things the way they have always been done at Hatfield house, keeping up with the traditions of a family she has no interest in. And then, several blonde little children would come along. All boys, all taking after their father in looks and manners.  

Her life would surround around them. She would be Lady Madeline Locksley no more, but instead, Lady Hatfield. She would have to leave Locksley hall, leave Benie,  

leave Tom.

The thought startles her, and she gets up from the window ledge, starts walking aimlessly round the cluttered room.  

Using her empty tea cup from which she’d drank her evening tea the night before as an ashtray she puts out her cigarette, and with hands trembling more than ever she lights another, before throwing herself back on the bed.  

Tom.  

Who surely hated her now. The achingly long moments when he’d trapped her against the tree plays again in her head. She’d seen so many emotions on his face, his chest heaving from all of it. First there had been anger, then confusion and then, unless she wasn’t entirely mistaken; because god knows her experience was non-existing in the area,  

- lust.  

But he’d torn himself free, and marched off, without looking back. And she’d stood leaned against the three, feeling like a planet spinning out of its axis, struggling to remember how to breath again.

When she walked into the great hall she’d been met with her mother, Benie and granny. Upon seeing her, they’d all gone completely silent, the only sound to be heard the water dripping off of her, landing on the newly swapped floors.  

“Oh Madeleine!” her mother had eventually burst out “what’s happened?”

She had told them she’d been at the cliffs, and that Tom had come along, but then her granny had interrupted her. “Are you telling me” she’d asked in her superior voice “that you were ‘hanging about’ the cliffs with the junior gardener?” The disapproval in her voice was evident.  

“No” Madeleine had answered, trying to keep her voice steady and calm. “I’m saying that I was there, and he was there, he annoyed me, and then I jumped off the cliff”.

Dead silence again.  

“You, you did what?”

“I jumped off a cliff. And then he saved me. And now, I really must change, so would you please excuse me”. The wave of emotion that washed over her had surprised her, but suddenly she’d been holding back tears.

““Madeleine, I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately, but you need to go and get changed, right now. Sir Hatfield is invited for dinner, and you will behave yourself and you will conduct yourself accordingly” her mother had told her in her sternest voice. So, Madeleine had nodded and walked up the stairs, choking back on tears, her wet clothes leaving a trace of water in her wake.  

And she’d changed and Alice had done up her hair and she’d joined the others for dinner. And she’d sat beside James at dinner and listened to him lecturing her on various dog breeds and she’d smiled appropriately. Then, after dinner, he’d taken her aside. Professed in a dry tone his admiration for her and asked for her hand in marriage. He’d told her that he’d already settled things with her father. She had smiled and complied and tried to press down the feeling of nausea in her stomach, tried to ignore to scream growing ever larger in her lungs.  

She stands up again, puts out her cigarette, takes one of the many dresses scattering the floor and slides it on. Then she’s out the door. With silent steps, as to not wake anyone, she makes her way down the corridor, and then down the grand staircase and the foyer and out the door. The pressure in her lungs grow tenser and tenser and her feet move faster and faster, until her naked feet are sprinting over the grounds, the dewy grass cold under her soles. When she finally reaches the greenhouse, she’s sobbing.

This had always been her secret place. Not even Tom had known about how she’d used to come here when things became too much, when things would build and build inside of her until she had to let it out. Like it was a living, moving thing in her chest, begging her to set it free. Knowing that the old greenhouse was the only soundproof place in all of Locksley Hall it became her safe place to let it out, she’d always steer her feet here. When she’d been to boarding school, and then in Canada, she’d been forced to try letting the scream free under water, no other place felt safe enough, but it hadn’t felt the same.  

She slams the door shut behind her and then she lets it out. Nearly bending over from the force of it she shrieks, for as long and as loud as she can. Her eyes pressed shut and trembling hands in fists. When she finally stops it still seems to echo in her ears, and she feels exhausted. She’s breathing as if she’s just run for miles and miles. Slowly she stands up straight again, unclasping her fists. Opening her shut eyes.

Tom.  

Standing in front of her, looking shocked and horrified, hands and shirt muddy. He must have been in here for some early work before the heat gets too intense. 

They stand there, for a long time, just staring at one another, her screams still echoing in her mind. And then, like she’s a wild animal, he slowly walks towards her. Taking her hand in his, an arm around her waist, he gently guides them towards the pond, on the side of which he helps her sit down. Bending down in front of her, so that he’s on his knees, he looks up at her, a strand of brown hair falling down, framing his face.

It’s so tender, the way he looks at her. So unbearably tender. His earth-stained hands clasped around hers, placed in her lap, calloused and warm.  

“What happened?” He asks, voice soft and low.

She doesn’t know when it started, too distracted by his gentleness perhaps, but she realises then that she’s crying, two tears falling from her cheek and landing on their hands.   

“I’m just being silly” she responds, but her voice sounds hoarse and dead even to her own ears.

“I doubt it, what’s wrong?”  

“I, I” she begins, her lungs feeling tight again “I have to marry.”

His kind eyes blink up at her, and for a moment she swears he holds on tighter to her hands.  

“But you don’t want to.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement. “Why do you have to?” His thumbs stroke her trembling hands and it feel and it is the gentlest thing that’s ever happened to her.  

“There’s no male hair. So, if papa dies before I marry, we’ll lose everything”. Her voice is hoarse from screaming and she wonders if he finds her pathetic, but in his eyes she only finds sympathy, and maybe a fair share of pain.

“But you don’t have to marry Hatfield?”

She shakes her head, and more tears fall. “No, but he’s the best option. I can’t afford to wait”.  

Silence for a while as he observes you.

Then,  

“What if I’ll marry you?” his voice is steady, but his eyes are fixed their clasped hands.  

“What?”

“I’ll marry you” he states and looks up at her again. She stares at him in disbelief, for surely, he can’t mean it. He continues. “I know it’s not a good option, but the estate will be safe, and you won’t have to marry Hatfield, you won’t have to leave Locksley Hall.”

When she just keeps staring at him in silent disbelief his cheeks turn pink. “I know I haven’t got anything to offer; you know I don’t. But -”

“Alright”. Her answers comes without her thinking about it and it seems to catch him off guard. “But, are you sure?” she asks, worried that he doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into.  

“Yes, Madeleine, I’m sure” he smiles, his hands continuing to gently stroke her hands.  

“But, but” she starts, feeling almost dizzy. “But why would you want to marry me?”

“What?”

“Why would you help me? It would change your life forever.” She keeps her voice serious, knows that it’s of utmost importance that he understands the importance of this.  

He seems struck silent and for a long while his brown eyes stare up at her in disbelief. “Well I, I mean I would, I” he starts, letting go of her hands and standing up, placing them his pockets instead. It is like he’s trying to look as nonchalant as he usually does.  

Turning slightly away from her, eyes fixed on the koi fish in the pond he then continues. “Well, I’d get to live in Locksley Hall, wouldn’t I? I’d be the lord of the manor. No more hard toil in the garden”.  

“So, mostly self-interest then?” She says, not knowing whether she feels more relieved or disappointed. More than anything she feels light headed.  

“Yeah” he agrees, eyes still fixed on the pond. “It’s self-interest".  

Silence spread between them. This is new territory that neither one knows how to tread.  

In the end she stands up and he turns to look at her again, something like worry in his expression. “We, well we’ll have to discuss this. If it’s to happen it needs to happen soon.”

“It is to happen” he says, firmly, but then his cheeks turn pink again. “As long as you want it to”.  

“Well then” she says, a small but genuine smile on her face. “It can’t happen here; Gretna Green is our only option. We have to come up with some excuse so we can leave for Scotland for a few days”.  

He nods, but he too looks more relaxed now. “I’ll think of something”.  

“So much to be fixed” she says, mostly to herself. “Wedding dress for example, though the wedding will be so small only something simple will do.”

“Could you” he begins, and he avoids her eyes again. “You could wear that dress you had on at the ball” he asks awkwardly, fidgeting slightly where he stands.  

“Oh, yes of course” she says, just as awkward. “If that’s what you want”. She smiles at him, and he smiles back. Its embarrassed, but it’s tender too.  

“Meet me at the fountain tonight?” he asks, and that strange fluttering sensation she’d felt when he’d pressed her against the tree makes another appearance. “To discuss how we’ll do this?”

She nods “yes, I’ll see you then. I better get back now, or Alice will notice I’ve left when she brings in breakfast.”  

She turns to leave, but changing her mind mid stride she turns back to him. When she reaches him she stands on the tips of her naked, now muddy, feet. She presses a soft kiss to his cheek. “Thank you” she whispers.  

***

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[little-diable]

Forest Fires - Negan (fluff)

Currently taking requests. 

I’ll start a tag list, message me if you want me to add you

( @iluvneganandjamie​)

Song “forest fires” by Axel Flóvent, enjoy my loves. xxx

I painted you a picture Picture full of light It includes a heavy memory Memory so bright

It was a rainy day, the sky was pitch black, the shadows of the trees were telling their own story as (y/n) grasped Negan's hand tighter. The sound of the rain surrounded them, a content look on his handsome face as he didn’t hear any walkers near by. 

“We probably should head back soon.”, Negan took a hold of her waist, pressed her against a tree and kissed her deeply, her hair was dripping wet, just like her clothing. His hands began to wander towards her ass, Negan pulled (y/n) even closer, a smile on her lips as he slowly let go of her. 

I can’t change your thoughts, my dear I can’t change your fears But if you want I'll travel near To make it disappear

It didn't take them long to find their way back to the sanctuary, Negan followed her towards his bathroom, helped her out of her wet clothes and pulled her under the hot water. His fingers ran through her (y/h/c) hair, her head was leaning against his chest, a sigh leaving her lips as he pulled her in for a kiss.  

After warming up their bodies, Negan wrapped a towel around her naked body, drying off himself before they walked towards his bedroom, two cups of hot tea were waiting for them, she put on a pair of black panties and a black worn out shirt of his. (Y/n) crawled underneath the covers and laid her head on his naked chest, a book was placed in his hands, the great Gatsby, one of her favorites. 

I’ll be there in the summer ‘cause your heart isn’t safe You won’t go, you're not a runner So you won’t run away If you could follow your heart gently There wouldn’t be this mess Maybe someday, just someday you’ll find a way back

His right hand was drawing circles on the exposed skin of her hip, Negan felt her breathing getting slower, she was fast asleep. He pressed a kiss onto her head while his eyes found their way back to the pages of the book. The soft pitter-patter of the rain hallowed through their room, a comfortable silence surrounding them. 

She woke up with a sore throat and a stuffy nose, a groan escaped her mouth as she turned towards her now cold cup of tea. “Are you okay doll?”, Negan asked, his voice was deep, laced with exhaustion. “I think I caught a cold.”, she rasped out, Negan pulled her against his warm chest, “I’ll look for some medicine.” 

Your dreams are incredibly loud tonight You’re creating forest fires You can’t even change your sight It's stuck in you like a virus

Negan enjoyed staying in bed with her, the way her small frame would perfectly mold against his, the way her fingers would interlace themselves with his, the way her hair would be pulled up in a messy bun as her head was placed against his neck. 

“Do you need anything?”, he asked her as she woke from her slumber, a tried look in her eyes as she shook her head “no”. With a sigh he left to find them something to eat, he didn’t like leaving her alone for too long, so he soon returned with a tray full of hot soup and some slices of bread. 

I can’t change your thoughts, my dear I can’t change your fears But if you want I'll travel near To make it disappear

(Y/n) hated being sick, but she loved the way Negan would care for her, he’d be extremely gently with her, would do anything to take away her pain and uncomfortableness. She was grateful for everything her loving husband did, knowing that she was the only one that was able to see this side of him. 

As soon as Negan and (y/n) crossed paths for the first time, he got rid of all his wives, she was clouding his thoughts, he knew that he needed to have her, just as much as she needed him, they were a match made in hell, the ruthless leader fell for the fearless fighter.  

I’ll be there in the summer ‘cause your heart isn’t safe You won’t go, you're not a runner So you won’t run away If you could follow your heart gently There wouldn’t be this mess Maybe someday, just someday you’ll find a way back

[mattzerella-sticks]

🌊What the Water Gave Him 🌊

Destiel-centric finale spec based on a post I made earlier, found here

Can be read on ao3 here

It was over. Chuck lost, Sam and Dean can live their lives how they want them. But their victory wasn't without losses. The biggest upset nearly taking Dean out of the game, happening so close to the final battle. Now he's on the other side, alive against all odds, but Sam knows he isn't happy. Not truly happy since the Empty stole his best friend.

But there's a chance they can save him. A slim chance. A risk that Dean's willing to take despite every logical nerve in Sam's body screaming at him to look for better options. That threading a needle this small is too dangerous. That they don't have to take on another big bad, not anymore. That they don't have to risk their lives anymore. Dean is far past the point of listening. Dead set on this mission, Sam can only watch.

And pray his brother proves him wrong.

           He stands along the water’s edge, gentle waves lapping the rocky shore. Barely licking at his boots while he gazes upon the beautiful, blue stretch of lake. Sun hanging low on the horizon, sky a far deeper color of orange than earlier.

           They’ve been at this for over an hour.

           Sam glances behind him, skin crawling as he sees nothing changed since last he looked. Jack stationed on one edge of the circle, Michael at the other. Dean between them, his eyes closed. Lying deathly still over the sigils scratched into the earth. His skin pale, and both hands tightly clasped around tan fabric folded over Dean’s lap.

           He hates this. What Dean’s doing. That Sam cannot help. And how it’s their only option.

           Jack saw this once before. A variation of it, actually. “When I killed Nick,” he said, handing out copies of photographs he printed out amongst their little group. “I found him in the middle of resurrecting Lucifer –“

           “If he just had a little more patience,” Dean sneered. “Chuck could’ve saved him a whole lot of effort, though I’d doubt it’d end any differently.” Adam nodded at Dean’s side, studying his copy with interest like Sam did. Trying to identify the scene Jack captured. Dean continued, not even addressing the image. “Do you think this can work?”

           “Given who we’re doing this for, no,” he admitted, “the spell Nick found would only open a portal to the Empty, wake Lucifer up. It would then be up to him to cross over, and with his amount of power that wouldn’t be difficult.” Jack then opened the book he brought, pushing it into the middle of the table. Pointing at an illustration. “But I think I can modify it. Although…”

           Sam set the photo down, facing Jack. “What is it Jack?”

           “I… well, it’d be very complicated,” he started, not meeting Sam’s gaze. “For it to work, me and Michael would need to use all of our power.”

           “To wake Cas? Jack, you did it before –“

           “When the Empty was asleep,” Jack said, “when they weren’t expecting it. When Cas hadn’t already ticked them off… they’ve already lost him once.”

           “And they won’t be keen on losing Cas again,” Dean added. A storm darkening his hooded stare. Sam watched him sink into his seat, memories from that awful night weighing on Dean. It haunted him, too. Finding Dean curled around himself the next morning, unresponsive, incoherently mumbling about their friend. Shoulder stained with dried blood. In time, he recovered as he always did. Sometimes though Sam feared he’d turn and there Dean would be. Shattered completely with no chance of putting those pieces together. Stuck in that helpless ball, trembling. Forever praying. That’s not the case now. No sign of careful fragility anymore, the storm passing. Back ramrod straight Dean carelessly flicked the photo away. “What else you need?”

           “Ingredients that we have here at the Bunker, I’m sure,” Jack continued, “a nice open space where we can perform the ritual. Something that belonged to Cas, that will resonate with his unique wavelength. And finally…” he trailed off near the end, faltering.

           “Jack,” Sam said, “What else?”

           “One of us would have to go in,” he told them, “but… there’s a chance they might not come back.” For the first second, there’s silence. The next –

           “Jack, there has to be –“

           “I’ll do it.”

           He whipped his head towards him, scowling at the grim determination of Dean’s face. Lips thinned in a small line. Brows bent aggressively. An expression that appeared whenever Dean grabbed onto the most idiotic, suicidal thought he had and stubbornly refused to surrender. He’d refuse any option other than what he decided. Arguing with him when he’s like that was impossible.

           Sam tried regardless.

           “There has to be another way,” Sam whispered, both men waiting as Jack and Michael recreated Nick’s sigil-work in the dirt. Leaning against Baby’s frame, drinking in silence. “Billie always threatened she’d throw us in there one day, why don’t we ask her –“

           “She’d never agree to it, Sammy. Too messy.” Dean wouldn’t look at Sam. Not since he exploded on Dean back at the Bunker. Called him selfish, that the last thing Cas wants is Dean endangering himself. His tantrum earned Sam a swift right hook he still has the bruise from, cheek mottled blue and green. Dean’s knuckles newly scabbed. “Billie plays by the universe’s rules… and we make our own.”

           “Yes, finally. Rules we fought so hard to make, I…” Sam sighed, “we were finished, Dean. No more big risks. We won. Facing the Empty… there’s no do-over button if you get stuck there.”

           “I’m okay with that.”

           “And yet you’re still doing this?”

           “It’s like I told you Sam,” he said, finally deigning Sam with a frigid glance. Steely resolve sharpening it, cutting through him. “Have been telling you. You don’t have a clue what’s really going on. If you knew… you’d see there’s no risk at all.”

           Sam’s temper flares now, pain edging his vision. “Then let me in, Dean. Tell me. Why are you so afraid of –“

           “I’m not afraid –“

           “You clearly are,” he hissed, “otherwise you wouldn’t be throwing yourself into another near-death experience instead of having a simple conversation with me.” Sam reels his anger back, softening. Pleading. “I want Cas here as much as you do, Dean. But there has to be another way.”

           Dean drained his bottle and then threw it. Far enough so when it exploded the glass wouldn’t touch them. “If it were Eileen stuck in there,” he said, “you’d know there wasn’t.”

           He paused. “Eileen? What’s that have to –“

           Jack called, saying they were ready. Dean stalked off towards them. Sam left behind in his confusion. “Do you have the anchor?”

           “Right here.” He showed Jack the trench coat, grip on it gentle like if he squeezed any tighter Dean might rip it. “Where do you want me?”

           Sam remembered Dean rambled on about its sturdiness. Boasting how he gassed the store clerk with half-truths to not draw suspicion when asking after ‘protective outerwear’. Buying it because he noticed a tear along the seam of Cas’s armpit. “I thought he’d stitch it up,” Dean laughed, whipping his purchase like a cape. Playing with it. Sam chuckled at his brother’s antics. “But he just shrugged and carried on like it was nothing. I asked him why he left it and he tells me that it’d be a waste of his grace.”

           “Then why didn’t you mend it for him?”

           “…What?”

           “Come on, Dean,” Sam said, “you’re a master with the needle. And I’m not talking about sewing gashes… do you recall the Luke Skywalker costume you made me from those stolen motel bed sheets?”

           Dean blushed, “I was just a kid then, Sammy…”

           “Still the best costume, better than any of those store-bought ones at school.”

           “Well… maybe I didn’t want to fix it,” he said, “that’s why. I mean… sure I could’ve. But then he’d rip it again and… it’s not like he can’t have another jacket! Cas needs a little more variety.”

           Sam snorted. “Yeah, because a slightly lighter brown is really crazy for him. What’s he even gonna do with it?”

           “Wear it?” Dean said, “Or… put it away, keep it here. Dude’s been living with us this long and how much stuff does he own? It might not be a huge change but it’s… it’s a start, Sam.”

           Dean was right in buying it. Ransacking Cas’s room, there wasn’t anything they could use for the spell save for the single, untouched trench coat hanging in his closet. As Sam leaves that memory, he realized too late the others began without him. Jack and Michael knelt like statues. His brother had left for the Empty.

           And he’s still there.

           Helpless while Dean pokes the bear in his cave. Sitting on the sidelines as he faces down an extraordinary being with limitless powers, like beating Chuck wasn’t pure luck. Like any of their efforts left a scratch on him. It was a group effort, what little remained of their family pitching in. Sending Chuck onto his next project. But this… it was just Dean. He was alone. And worse… Sam thinks his brother wanted it that way.

           If it were Eileen stuck in there, you’d know it wasn’t.

           When he wasn’t worrying about Dean, Sam mulled over his parting message. Trying to fit together the pieces Dean gave. He suspects it’s a simple picture. A niggling sense at the base of his skull tells Sam that the answer is clear. It always was. Except he looked past it, over and over, again and again. Never seeing the truth of it. Of Dean and Cas. Without either of them here, where he can observe them one more time – careful, in a way Sam hasn’t before – Sam doubts he will uncover much of anything.

           At least it distracts him from Dean. Until it doesn’t.

           Dean gasps, lurching forward. Coughing, spitting up bile and gagging on air. Michael collapses, exhausted. Jack almost follows but overcomes his dizziness. Sam, the only unaffected one, dashes towards. Rubs Dean’s back while he works through his nausea. How Dean lets him either shows he’s too woozy to know it’s him, or the earlier animosity was forgotten. As Dean claws at his shirt, gasping, repeating his name, Sam guesses the latter. “Yes, Dean?” he says, “What is it?”

           “Cas,” he says, voice hoarse and raw, “Where… where is he?”

           There weren’t any portals. Nor did a star shoot downwards from the sky. Their friend had not even blinked into existence with a smile and a familiar rumble.  “Cas,” Sam sighs, “Cas. Dean, I don’t think –“

           “Cas.”

           He scrambles to his feet, knocking Sam onto the ground. Dean runs across the shore and, when he reaches the lake, wades in. Fully dressed, madly waving the trench coat. Sam yells, but Dean ignores him. Hellbent on drowning himself.

           Except Sam misses it, again.

           Someone meets Dean halfway. Breaking through the lake’s surface, swimming to where the water rests above their waists. Drags his brother into a hug, spinning him. With raven hair, tanned skin, and blue eyes crinkled with joy and life and love. “Cas,” Sam says, “it’s… it worked?”

           “Of course it worked,” Jack says, “This is Dean and Cas.”

           Maybe Sam understands because of the off-hand way Jack spoke about the two men. Or, more likely, it’s when Cas – wrapped in the trench coat Dean bought him – sweeps Dean into his arms and kisses him. Dean melts under his touch, responding with an excitement that had been absent when Chuck left them alone for real. It doesn’t matter how. He finally gets it.

           Dean and Cas… they get their happy ending.

[talesmaniac89]

Hiraeth – Home is where the heart is

Pairing: Dean x Reader (Past tense not current relationship)

Summary: Dean’s looking back on the summer he spent with you in his arms. A year has passed, summer is here again. But it’s a summer without you and, even in the sweltering heat of the bunker, he’s freezing to the bone.

Triggers: Heartbreak, Loss, broken childhood, John being a bad dad, ambiguous ending (could be implied as reader death though nothing is described), ANGST.

A/N: Written for @firefly-in-darkness​​’s summer challenge. My prompt was Hiraeth – a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was. Since it’s an uncommon word, it’s not used directly in the fic, but rather just the feelings it encompasses. As well as of course being a part of the title of the fic.

Y/N = Your Name | Y/L/N = Your Last Name | Y/E/C = Your Eye Colour | Y/H/C = Your Hair Colour

Home.

The word had always felt foreign and strange on Dean’s tongue. He had very few memories of the apple pie life others often referred to when they spoke of ‘home sweet home’.

He knew what it was supposed to mean. At least he had once. Back when he was still a kid, when he still held onto the hope of settling down to a new normal after his mother’s death.

There’d been more than one shaky crayon drawing of four walls with a smiling sun and happy stick figures on a green lawn painted onto scrap paper in the back seat of the Impala as his father drove them from hunt to hunt during his early childhood years. A pair of young, naïve eyes catching the picket fences that rushed past on the other side of the window and dreaming of a home to return to.

He’d only had a taste of it, for the first few years of his life, before it went up in flames around him. His young eyes watching everything he loved burn as he held baby Sammy in his arms and his father fell to pieces next to him on the carefully manicured lawn. But for the next few years of his young life he’d always held onto the hope that he’d get it back at some point. Until he grew old enough to know better.

Home had never been his father’s goal. John Winchester had been driving towards revenge, not a better future for his boys.

So, after that, home had always been the Impala, the guest room of a fellow hunter, and hell, even a few longer-term stays in ratty motels. Yet, none of them had fit right. They’d been houses, beds, and roofs over their heads, sure… But they were never a home. Not the way Dean thought a home should feel like at least.

By the time it was only Sammy and him, he’d long since given up the idea of home. It was just the two of them against the world. And the closest they’d ever come to having a place to return to was the safe confines of ebony steel and leather. With their initials carved into rear package tray of the Impala and the army man stuck in the ashtray. It hadn’t been much, but it was theirs. And with the entire world out to get them; it was all Dean had dared dream of.

---

They’d eventually found the bunker. And Dean had done his best to make it feel like a home for Sammy and him. It was as close to a home as anything else they’d ever had. Even if it was borrowed from a group of long-gone men and women in stuffy suits, Dean had made it theirs. For a while he’d even fooled himself into believing he’d finally come home. That the concrete walls of the bunker were all he ever really wanted.

But then she’d walked into his life. Fiery (Y/E/C) eyes had met his across the latest battlefield, and, damn it, he’d realised he’d been fooling himself all along.

The bunker was just concrete and steel… A home needed more than that. A home needed warmth. And, even without anything more than vague memories, Dean had seen it in her eyes. With (Y/N) there, smiling at him from the chair she’d quickly claimed as her own, Dean had finally been home.

Once he’d realised, a strange kind of calm had fallen over the weary hunter. He couldn’t explain it, not really. But whenever he walked into a room and found her there, something ancient and real at the very core of him would speak up and tell him that this, this was it. This was what a home was supposed to be like.

It was supposed to be warm, and safe. Even in the middle of a damned apocalypse. It was a haven of smiles and shared moments. It was supposed to feel right, and slightly nostalgic. Like some long-lost dream that he’d finally found his way back to. Not just a bed to call his own, or a favourite chair in a living room. But family and her. That was home.

---

For the longest time, he’d just revelled in that discovery. Too afraid to shake the foundations of his newfound place in the world to let her know. Just drowning in her bright attentive eyes and pretending he was fine being just a friend, just a hunting buddy.

But then he’d gotten greedy.

He’d found his way home, and he wanted to feel like he belonged there. Properly belonged, not just stuffed into some guest bedroom at the back of her heart. He didn’t want to be just a house guest that simply slipped into her mind from time to time. He’d loved her, and he wanted more.

He wanted to be her home, the one she went looking for after a hard day, just like he always did with her. So, he’d told her… Everything. He’d put his home and heart on the line. Though the words stuck in his throat and his heart beat so fucking hard that he could barely hear himself speak. Dean had told her he loved her, just as the weather was getting warmer and the sun hung in the sky a little longer each day.

His heart in his throat and hands trembling as he waited for her to shut him out in the cold and make him homeless. But instead, she’d smiled at him. Throwing her arms around him and letting him drown in the apple pie sweetness of her lips against his. His arms had hesitantly wrapped around her, crushing her to his chest.

And hell, Dean had been home.

---

He could still feel the ghost of the happy laughter that had filled his chest and heart when she’d finally been his. Buried somewhere deep in his chest, hidden behind a million unshed tears and defeated, angry screams.

Dean had gotten a taste of what picture perfect was supposed to feel like for three short months that summer. But nothing in his life was meant to last. And, exactly a year ago, life had once more proved that anything he touched turned to rubble under his destructive fingers.

He should have seen it coming. Happiness always fled from the Winchesters. It was as certain as gravity. But, he’d fooled himself into believing that the world owed him a little slice of apple pie. That he could protect his home; though his family tree of death and destruction should have been enough proof to show him that he wasn’t meant for happiness. Heartbreak and loss were a part of his legacy, no matter how hard he’d tried to outrun it.

And fuck, Dean had tried. Even if it went against everything he'd ever been taught. He'd been raised as a weapon, a soldier… He was a hunter, not a family man. His father had told him over and over again; to never settle down. A moving target was harder to hit.

He’d been raised knowing to never leave himself open or to stay in one place for too long. When strangers passing through his life had spent their evenings safe at home, he’d practiced how to protect his weak spots. Pulse points, heart, lungs, kidneys... By the time kids his age learned algebra, he was perfecting how to dodge, parry and kill.

Yet, his father had never told him what to do when his biggest weak spot was outside of his reach. When home was a person, not a place.

In all his years of training, Dean had never learned what to do when his heart was outside his chest. Shaped like a stubborn woman whom no number of blocks and parries could ever keep completely out of harm's way. Still, he’d foolishly thought he could protect that part of himself too. That he could keep her safe and protect the home he’d finally found in her arms.

But nothing good was meant to last. Not for Dean Winchester. And reality had finally caught up with him, a year ago, to the day.

He’d already suffered through a full 365 days of missing her. And Dean knew it would never stop hurting. Even if he still clung to the memories of that one perfect summer. Of how she’d finally been his, after years wasted loving her from a distance. Every single second of those flawless three months was branded into his heart, stinging with pastel coloured clarity and bittersweet memories.

(Y/N) (Y/L/N) had been his home and now he was homeless.

---

Stepping into her room; he could still somehow smell the ghost of her perfume lingering in the air as he remembered how she’d bounced up and down, giddy with childish joy. Bare legs barely covered by a pair of lounge shorts and soft (Y/H/C) hair pulled away from her face as she held out the water balloons she’d picked up somewhere to help cool them down in the sweltering heat.

Dean remembered how he’d laughed, arms wrapping around her waist and lifting her out of the way to grab for the pack of balloons as she squealed happily in his arms. It had been one of the hottest days of the summer and he’d been drowning in the heat of the Kansas heatwave. But hell, he’d still not wanted to let go of her. Even as she squirmed in his arms and pouted adorably, pleading with him to join her for a water balloon fight, just to cool down at least for a little while.

It was one of the last happy moments he got with her. Hot heat, cool water and bright laughter that was still somehow etched into his skin, even a year later.

Now however, even the searing warmth of hot air trapped under layers of concrete felt chilly as he took a few shaky steps across her room towards her bed. Eyes downcast as he tried to avoid looking at the million little reminders of her. Dean was frozen, chilled to the bone. Without her, he’d never feel warm again.

Reaching for the picture frame at her bedside table, Dean sighed as his hand fell before even fully reaching the picture of him and her. She was smiling up at him, happy and unaware of the abrupt ending waiting for her. As bitter, angry tears stung in his eyes, he let his hands curl into weak fists at his sides as he sank back against her bed until he was crumpled on the cool floor.

He couldn’t avert his eyes from the reminders. They were everywhere. She was everywhere.

He couldn’t explain what hit the hardest, or what he missed the most. It was a multi-layered longing. He wasn’t just missing (Y/N). That word didn’t cover the depth of his heartbreak. No… He yearned for her, sure. He’d do anything to hold her in his arms and bury his lips against her (Y/H/C) hair as her laughter warmed the bunker. To feel her heartbeat under his fingertips and taste that apple pie happiness on his tongue once more.

But it was more than just that. Without her, nothing was right. The bunker wasn’t home anymore. It was just… Another pitstop. Another bed to sleep in between hunts. A prison cell filled with painful reminders. And even sitting there, in the middle of the room that had been hers, he felt homesick.

The bunker wasn’t his home. Not if she wasn’t there with him.

Nothing felt right without her there. The sweltering summer sun felt cold and artificial, and the days seemed to pass without Dean even noticing. Life wasn’t real anymore. Even the little moments that had him smiling and laughing just one summer ago, now felt wrong, without her there to share them with him.

And she’d never be there again. She was lost…

No… Dean was the lost one. He’d lost his way home when her fingers slipped from his a year ago, and he’d never find his way back. The bunker was just concrete and a roof over his head, without her, nowhere would ever feel like home again.

He longed to be back with her, where his heart belonged. Where the very core of him lived. But she was gone, and he was left weathering a freezing summer in a cardboard box heart. Only returning home, to her, in the sporadic moments of sleep he sometimes managed to get. Whenever exhaustion or alcohol knocked him out.

It had only been one summer, but for that one summer, Dean Winchester had a place to call home. A place where he truly belonged. And it wasn’t picket fences or pies cooling on the windowsill that had been Dean’s place to come home to. It was a woman with bright attentive (Y/E/C) eyes and a laugh that warmed the very air he’d breathe.

For that short while, Dean had finally understood why people said home is where the heart is. And just as quickly as he found his way home; he’d lost it, when he lost her.

 And he’d never be home again.

Tags:

Dean Winchester Tags: @ria132love​​ @woodworthti666​​ @defenderrosetyler​​  @akshi8278​​ @justanotherwinchester​​ @lyarr24​​ @torn-and-frayed​​ @all-will-be-well-love​​ @wearesuchstuff1​​ @thefridgeismybestie​​ @adoptdontshoppets​​ @punof-agun​​ 

Forever Tags: @deanwanddamons​​ @winchest09​​ @hobby27​​  @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce​​​ @sea040561​​ @donnaintx​​ @alwaysdreamingforthebest​​  @thatmotleygirl​​ @chocolateheart​​ @superfanficnatural​​ @flamencodiva​​ @starryeyeseunbyul​​ @waywardbeanie​​ @supernaturalenchanted​​

[witcher-ot3]

Silk and Lace (Aiden/Lambert NSFW)

Summary: When Aiden and Lambert split up on the road to tackle separate contracts before meeting again, Lambert takes the opportunity to spoil himself with pretty clothes and slow, drawn out pleasure.

Read on AO3

Inspired by this lovely picture of Lambert in lingerie by GreenBird

Lambert couldn’t say for certain when the feelings had started. He usually prized himself on being on entirely non-speaking terms with his feelings, but at some point, something had snuck in. Something for Aiden.

It had started small. A modicum of trust when Aiden had kept his word that first contract they’d worked together, and they had set aside competition to tend to the monster for equal shares of the reward. A measure of amusement when Aiden responded to Lambert’s general – well, Geralt and Eskel called it his ‘asshole-ish-ness’ – by sniping right back at him. A hint of affection when they made camp together and shared a meal in companionable silence over the fire.

A twinge of lust when the Cat Witcher stretched, his bare biceps flexing. What sense did it make to wear armor that left your arms exposed, anyway? Lambert didn’t understand, but he certainly didn’t mind it. Cat Witchers didn’t tend to be as broad and muscular as Wolf Witchers, but the defined shape of Aiden’s upper arms made him want to lick at the curves and shadows.

Lambert bit his lip, drawing on his memory for every glimpse of skin he’s ever seen. He had planned this carefully, so as not to get interrupted. Aiden and he had split up in the previous town for two different contracts, and they were due to meet up in two days in Blackbough. That was the only reason he dared let himself entertain his fantasies like this.

He relaxed back against the inn bed and stroked a hand slowly down his chest. He was wearing soft silk lingerie and lace-trimmed stockings and it made him feel pretty and powerful. His cock wasn’t hard yet, but stroking it through the silk panties made his eyes flutter.

Lambert closed his eyes and pretended that it was his friend, his fellow witcher’s hand that traced the hem of his panties teasingly, never quite touching where Lambert wanted him too. He teased Lambert for as long as he could stand, until Lambert was squirming against the sheets, desperate for friction.

Only then did the Aiden in his mind’s eye cup a had around his cock, rubbing the silken panties against the cockhead with a thumb. Lambert moaned lowly, tilting his head back. With the hand that wasn’t teasing his cock, he danced fingertips across ribs until he could pinch the small nub of his nipple through the silk.

That wasn’t enough, so he sucked his fingers into his mouth until they were drenched, then dropped back down to his nipple. The spit soaked into the fabric of his bra and Lambert could pretend that Aiden was teasing that nub between careful teeth.

Lambert arched back this a moan, imagining the sounds Aiden might gift him with, the sound of his name in that liting voice made rough with pleasure.

“Lambert?” Aiden’s voice asked, only instead of flirtatious, it sounded gobsmacked.

Lambert’s eyes flew open and he jerked his head around to see that Aiden must have tried to break into his room through the window.

Only the bed was right under the window. So what really happened was that Aiden crouched in the window frame and stared down at Lambert with a shocked look on his face. Lambert rolled to his feet immediately but he couldn’t hide what he was wearing, what condition he was in.

“What are you looking at!?” Lambert demanded, desperately trying to pretend that he hadn’t just been caught jerking off in his panties. He dearly hoped he hadn’t said anything incriminating.

“You,” Aiden breathed, his voice surprisingly rough.

Lambert swallowed hard, even as his dick twitched visibly in his panties. Aiden’s gaze dropped down his body and then swept back up slowly with hungry eyes.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Aiden said, stepping off the window sill and jumping over the bed to crouch in front of Lambert.

Lambert’s breathing hitched, and his head spun as he tried to process what was happening. Aiden was here. Right here, where Lambert had been entertaining himself.

Aiden wasn’t supposed to be here.

“Thought you were in Heatherton for the harpy contract.”

Aiden frowned in disappointment when Lambert didn’t immediately resume touching himself. “I was. Finished early, wanted to surprise you.”

“I typically greet surprises with a knife to the face, you know.”

Aiden shrugged, unconcerned. “The day your knife is faster than my dodge is the day I retire.” He licked his lips, still crouching at Lambert’s feet. “If – if you aren’t going to touch, can I?”

Lambert blinked, the words not computing. “Touch...me?”

“Yes, idiot, touch you. Please?” Faux innocent eyes gazed up at him. Aiden was at eye-level with his cock and there was no way he missed the way it twitched at that.

“Fuck, like I’m gonna say no?” Lambert snorted. He couldn’t imagine what had possessed Aiden to possibly be interested in him of all people, but he was hardly going to pass by this chance!

“Good,” the smirk stretched slowly across Aiden’s face as he leaned in until Lambert could feel warm breaths against his cock. Lambert shivered and bit his lip to hold back any noises. Aiden dragged his nose along the length of Lambert’s covered dick and breathed deeply, scenting Lambert’s lust. It made him shiver and clench his fists to keep from reaching for Aiden’s head.

Aiden’s next exhale was a rumbling moan and Lambert screwed his eyes shut to pretend it was because the Cat Witcher truly wanted him.

“Open your eyes,” Aiden nipped at his stomach, right above the lace trim. “Watch me take you apart.”

“Fuck,” Lambert swore, staring down to see Aiden’s lips closing around the head of his cock through the silk. Lambert’s hips moved out of his control, chasing that teasing hint of friction.

Aiden’t hands came up to grasp his hips tight, perhaps even tight enough to leave a bruise. A human couldn’t, Lambert knew, but another Witcher…

Aiden’s grip kept him still, and callused thumbs rubbed small circles that ducked just under the waistband of his panties. The Cat Witcher kept his eyes locked with Lambert’s as he sucked and licked at Lambert until the silk was wet and sticking to his cock. Then he pulled back just enough so that his lips brushed over Lambert as he spoke.

“You look so pretty like this, all gussied up and at attention.” Aiden murmured, “Do you do this often? Dress up in pretty clothes and make yourself feel good?”

Lambert bit back a moan, clutching his hands together at the small of his back to keep from giving in to the temptation to touch. “Sh-shut up,” he grit out, face flushing.

“Oh, I’m not teasing you, gorgeous. It’s hot as fuck.” Aiden leaned up to kiss his stomach, biting and sucking marks against the skin.  “Do you tease yourself for hours, never quite touching the way you need?” He nuzzled into the wet spot where Lambert’s cock was leaking. “Do you ruin your pretty little panties? Will I be able to smell your past fun on these lovely clothes?”

Lambert choked on his gasp, coughing to clear his throat, which definitely was not a sexy response. He felt humiliation crawl up his neck at the idea of ruining this dreamlike moment by being, well, him.

But Aiden just opened his mouth against Lambert’s cock again like he couldn’t resist. “I want to feel you come against my mouth,” he said lowly. “I want you to absolutely flood your panties until I can taste you through the silk.”

“Oh,” Lambert’s voice was surprisingly small and breathy and he couldn’t stop the way his hips tried to jerk in Aiden’s grasp. But Aiden’s grip was strong and he held Lambert tightly, keeping him still.

“You’re so close, aren’t you?” Aiden made eye contact with Lambert again and traced his tongue over Lambert’s length.

Lambert moaned, wide-eyed and trying so hard to hold on, to enjoy this moment for as long as he could in case it was all a dream.

“Mmm,” Aiden sighed in pleasure, breath warm against him. “Come for me, Lambert.”

Lambert sucked in a noisy breath and his body followed the command without thought, arching and spasming as cum filled his underwear in pulses. Aiden moaned loudly, lips pressed into the silk around the head of Lambert’s cock.

Only Aiden’s hands on his hips kept him upright when his muscles all turned to liquid from pleasure. He felt like his head was floating for an unknown period of time in which Aiden’s mouth stayed pressed against him.

Then, eventually, that warm pressure pulled away, and Lambert flexed his fingers, sore from clenching each other so tightly to keep from touching. He looked down at the mess he’d made of himself and grimaced.

Aiden was still crouching in front of him, eyes still focused on Lambert’s crotch. "Can - Can I have them?" His voice was surprisingly tentative after the confident way he'd ordered Lambert to come.

“Have–?” Lambert blinked down at him. “You...want my underwear?”

“I,” Aiden licked his lips. “I made you come in them. They smell like you, like the pleasure I gave you.” His voice was rough and gravely and his tongue flicked out to lick at the cum that had beaded up through the silk.

Lambert gasped, oversensitive and overwhelmed at the implications of Aiden’s words, of Aiden asking for – “Yes,” He moaned, squirming against Aiden’s hands and his tongue and he wondered if his orgasm had been so intense as to make him hallucinate this or if Aiden was truly speaking as if he – as if he wanted Lambert, of all people.

Aiden’s hands shifted from his hips to pull the panties down and warm heat closed around Lambert’s soft cock as an agile tongue licked him clean. This time, Lambert couldn’t stop his hands from reaching for Aiden and tangling in his hair. The Cat Witcher seemed to like that, though, closing his eyes and leaning further into Lambert.

The touch so soon after orgasm made tears prick at Lambert’s eyes, but why would he ever stop Aiden’s mouth when it was on him? He still wasn’t sure how this could be real, this world where Aiden wanted Lambert, but even if he was dreaming, he wanted to savor ever moment.

Aiden pulled back once Lambert was completely clean, and then he ducked his head down into Lambert’s dirty panties and started licking at the cum there.

“Aiden!” Lambert’s scandalized voice was higher pitched than he would have preferred, but Aiden just laughed against him.

“You taste so good,” he murmured, and he almost sounded intoxicated. “All for me.” He sucked at the silk to swallow more of Lambert’s cum and fuck, who cared if he could get hard again when the mere thought had fiery pleasure coiling in his gut.

Lambert licked his lips. Did he dare to tell the truth? He’d never been one to cower in fear, so taking a deep breath, Lambert forced himself to say, “it is, you know. All for you.”

His voice was more gruff than the sexy growl he’d been aiming for, but Aiden’s face lit up in a way Lambert had never seen before.

“Yeah?” Aiden breathed, a wide smile stretching his lips. “Did you touch yourself thinking about me?”

“Always,” Lambert answered without thinking and only realized what he said at the renewed shock on Aiden’s face. “Ah, I mean–”

Aiden finally let Lambert’s panties fall down his legs as he lurched to his feet to cup Lambert’s cheeks. “Don’t take it back,” he said, “please.”

Lambert bit his lip, Aiden’s face a hair’s breadth away from him. “Kiss me,” he demanded, nerves rising in his throat, but he didn’t have a chance to panic, because Aiden closed the distance between them.

Considering what they’d just done, the kiss was incredible tentative, soft licks at each others’ mouths. Lambert sucked at Aiden’s lower lip and the Cat Witched moaned against him, stroking his thumbs back and forth over Lambert’s cheeks as if Lambert was something precious.

“If you’re fucking with me–” Aiden began when there was a breath of space between them again.

“That’s my line.” Lambert huffed, diving back in to trace the bow of Aiden’s lip with his tongue. His hands slid from Aiden’s shoulders to his bare upper arms, and finally touching bare skin had Lambert breathing out in a sigh. When the kiss broke off, Lambert found he didn’t quite have the strength in his neck to hold his head up, so he tilted forward to press their foreheads together and let Aiden take his weight.

Aiden smiled at him so very softly, brushing their noses together. “I’ve dreamed of this,” he murmured.

Lambert shivered. “Yeah?”

“Never thought I could have you.” Aiden rolled his forehead against Lambert’s in lieu of shaking his head. “We’re witchers. We don’t get happy endings. But traveling with you…” he trailed off, biting his lip.

Lambert’s hand came up thoughtlessly to thumb Aiden’s bottom lip free. “Fuck endings,” he decided. “If I can have you at all, that’s more than I ever thought I’d get.” His thumb stroked up Aiden’s face, tracing his features. “You’re real,” he whispered, not sure if he was stating a fact or trying to convince himself.

Aiden leaned into Lambert’s touch. “I’m real.”

They stayed like that a moment longer before the mood was utterly ruined by Lambert’s stomach growling loudly.

“Uh.”

Aiden laughed. “Let’s go get some food.” He pulled away and Lambert immediately felt cold everywhere they had bene touching.

“Yeah,” Lambert swallowed and looked down at himself. Aside from the wet panties around his ankles, he was surprisingly clean. Which just made his face flush, remembering the dedicated way Aiden had chased every trace of his cum. “Uh, I should...clothes.” He said half to himself, stepping out of the underwear and making a beeline for his pack.

He pulled on regular, non-lacy underwear and shoved his legs into his trousers, pulling them up with a hopping wiggle. Lambert half-expected Aiden to laugh again, so when he was met with silence, he turned to find Aiden sitting on the bed, holding Lambert’s soiled panties against his face with his eyes closed in bliss.

“Fuck,” Lambert tripped over his boots, completely distracted by the sight. His cock twitched in his trousers and for fuck’s sake, he’d only just had the best orgasm of his life.

Was this what it would always be like with Aiden?

When Lambert drew closer, Aiden opened his eyes and tucked the panties into his pocket before pulling Lambert down into his lap. Lambert bit back a yelp, but settled on Aiden’s knees and looped his arms over Aiden’s shoulders. He desperately hoped that yes, it would always be like this.

[blushnote]

♡ 04. vampire!au | oral sex

okay-- this shouldn’t be happening and you are one-hundred percent cognizant of that, but you aren’t so malleable to succumb to guilt when the full picture is taken into account. he’s beautiful first of all. his facial structure is sharply carved with glorious precision and tireless effort, and it’s evident per every smooth arch, curve, as well as slope of his skin.

speaking of which, he’s a bit pale. junhui is pale like an opal stone. he shimmers like one too. it’s probably due to the lack of circulation in his blood vessels. his heart doesn’t beat either, it hasn’t even stirred since the ages of witchcraft conspiracy and supernatural fabrication and wooden stakes that burn a deadly, foreshadowing orange.

his appearance is youthful, though he’s been around for quite some time now, picking off a human every now and then, whenever his urge to feed is much too overwhelming and the tangy taste of blood is all a mortal represents. again, he’s beautiful. his hair is this thick, jet black mane that curls and elegantly frames his face. it tickles the soft, sensitive skin of your inner thighs.

he’s got you trapped and you both know it. junhui’s eyes are a mesmerizing shade, a deeply flushed garnet that is sinister and malevolent. yet, you see the twinkle behind the perniciousness. you’ve offered yourself to him and now he is taking what he pleases. junhui profoundly appreciates your willingness to become his meal, repaying your kindness with an unfathomable pleasure.

the tip of his tongue swirls against your clit. it’s a teasing movement, and it’s coordinated. you’re squirming in every way possible. junhui had taken it upon himself to bar an arm across your pelvis to keep you pressed firmly to the mattress. it allows him to toy with you endlessly, even with tears glimmering in your eyes, desperate pleas pouring from your mouth, junhui just teases.

his gaze dances up to study your contorting visual as he continues stimulating your clit with the tip of his tongue. when he begins flicking his tongue against the nervous bundle your back is arching and your hips are trying so damn hard to grind against his mouth but his hold is too strong. your fingers weave through his hair. they tug and pull but to no avail.

“junhui,” you’re breathless as you faintly murmur his name, “p-please, i-it’s too much, i need to cum. please, please, please will you let me c-cum?”

your eyes are skewered shut and your head is titling back into the pillow. despite his face being erased from view, you know he’s smirking, you know his garnet gaze is absolutely glowing from contentment as your fingers hopelessly rifle through and ball at his hair. junhui’s tongue suddenly licks at your slit. it tests dipping inside of you but never fully succeeds.

his intentions are truly evil.

“awe, sweetheart,” he lilts just before planting a kiss to your clit, “are you really this desperate? i can hardly keep you down, pretty girl.”

the sensation of his warm breath between your legs nearly makes your body split in half. your desire to orgasm is no longer a desire, it’s a pathetic, vital need that has junhui’s eyes twinkling up at you knowingly. when you attempt to respond to him, he begins placing a series of soft little kitten licks to your clit. junhui is smiling against your slick flesh as he does so.

“y-yes! i am! i’m s-so desperate, junhui, so desperate. i-i-- please just-- i need to cum so b-bad--,”

he uses his free hand to push your thigh over top his shoulder, so that your heel is digging into his broad back and he has better access to lick at the sweetness of your arousal. but then, junhui sneaks that same hand into the mix, his thumb rubbing circles to your clit in order to pleasure you whilst he speaks in his velvet voice,

“a pathetic thing you are.”

yes, it’s demeaning, but junhui is a vampire with little regard for human emotion and really could not care less. you don’t care either. there’s something about the degradation that makes you whinier and more squirmy, especially when it’s spoken in his unbothered tone. junhui rests his head against your thigh, poking his tongue past your slit to taste you for a fleeting moment. he groans.

“but, fuck, you taste so wonderful. a pretty thing like you tasting this lovely? i could look after your sweet little cunt for an eternity, darling.”

you flush hotly at his words. an uncontrollable magma pools into your abdomen and scorches within your veins, leaving you to whimper as his thumb draws very stern circles against your swollen clit. at this moment you feel as though you could melt into a puddle. junhui suddenly licks a deep, wide stroke from the glistening wetness at your slit to your bud. he takes the bundle between his plump, pink lips and suckles roughly.

your entire body tries to lift off the mattress, yet, he’s still holding you tightly, listening to you wail his name as he at long last lends your core the attention you crave. again, your hips long to buck against his face, but you can’t meet the movement and it’s amplifying the pleasure by one-hundred. it isn’t until you’re wriggling all over the damn place and junhui has to barricade you to the bed with both arms that you finally orgasm.

however, his tongue still works against you passionately, swirling and licking, attempting to taste every bit of your arousal until you’re dry. your fingers are laced tighter than a taunt bowstring in his hair, but the stinging pain has no affect on him. junhui continues to lick at you through the passing waves of your climax, his face buried deeply between your thighs whilst you squeak,

“t-too muchmmf, j-junhui, p-please, pl-ease! p-please, h-hurts, it hurts--,”

in a peculiar way, the overstimulation felt somewhat magical. you know you could tough it out too, that you’re willing to because junhui’s touch had put you onto cloud nine and it’s such an electrifying sensation you want it again and again. but, he’s attentive. he listens to your cries and he stops, though when he pulls away from your core, his eyes are gleaming even brighter, more concupiscent, than before.

he pants for a moment, gazing up at your breathlessness, your dewy skin, the way your chest gracefully rises and falls. his fangs are aching.

“are you well, sweetheart?” junhui asks. his voice is deep and sends a shudder down your spine. “have i hurt my pretty little girl?”

you swallow, shake your head whilst your whole body trembles. “it’s j-just a lot,” you mumble, “not u-used t-to it.”

he slides your leg off his shoulder and kisses your sensitive centre gently, appreciatively, as though he were thanking you for allowing him to such fun.

“for a human, you’re divine,” junhui purred, “if i were still half as alive as you, sweetheart, you know i’d marry you, right?”

your heart flutters coyly and you give him a tiny nod. you almost can’t believe it. a malevolent vampire just made your heart warp to cotton and butterflies. junhui presses a constellation of delicate kisses against your stomach. his palms rub adoringly up your sides, to singe each and every crevice of your plush skin into his memory. if he is going to live eternally, he yearns to remember all that you have offered him.

but he must leave something for you to remember him. junhui shuffles down the bed a little ways, until he is left with plentiful access to the tender inside of your thigh. it’s still shaking slightly from your climax, but it’s a marvelous expanse of soft, warm beautiful tissue that his fangs are direly aching to sink straight through. if your arousal is this sweet on his tongue, then your blood must be something unimaginable.

“usually i don’t give humans the generosity of asking,” junhui speaks up whilst tracing circles at your thigh with his fingertip, wondering how the skin would look with the indent of his sharp teeth, “but, sweetheart, may i feed on you? will you allow me to drink your precious blood? i must tell you, it will sting and you will feel pain, it’ll burn and ache, but if you allow me this gift, i promise you, darling, i will be as gentle with you as possible.”

at this point it would be ludicrous not to oblige. you know that once junhui feeds on you, he will take enough blood to drain you of all life essence. it’s a scary thought and your heart is pounding. but it is then you think of an interesting proposition. junhui shifts his gaze to you curiously when you shuffle onto your elbows and gulp dryly.

“you can feed on me,” you say, and junhui’s eyes sparkle like a diamond.

“but only if you will turn me afterward.”

→ omg sorry for not posting very much this week!!! i was really busy!! so im making it up w some vampire junhui, everyone’s fave ^^

[spacewahker]

I promise I will never forget it again.

Summary: "You need to remember, Clarke. You have to stop repressing yourself and your feelings. You can't fight when you're holding yourself back," Harper touched her arm soothingly and Clarke was suddenly thrown by the reminder that she was a mother. "But Clarke," Monty looked worried, "you can't lose yourself in your memories, that's what she wants. You need a tether, a happy memory or something that will anchor you back so you won't get lost; so you won't forget." Clarke needs to break free of Josephine (6x07 spec).

Or read on AO3

"Well this is new." Clarke turned from the locked prison door to find a girl sitting on her previously unoccupied bed. She was pretty, blonde, her hair tied in a way that reminded Clarke of herself, and was observing her with an odd expression that looked almost like curiosity. "I take it you're Clarke then," she said, a small smile playing on her lips as she stood up. She extended a hand, "Josephine Lightbourne." Clarke didn't take it.

"Where am I?" Josephine lowered her hand and began to wander, her eyes wide with fascination. "Interesting," she muttered, gazing around the room of pictures, "I'm impressed." Something felt off about this girl, but Clarke's mind was still fuzzy and the voices still echoed in her head. She closed the space between them, her expression hard, "let me out of here." Josephine continued to look around, seemingly unfazed by Clarke's aggressive stance. "Why would I do that?" Clarke narrowed her eyes, the uneasy feeling the girl gave her only made the voices louder. "Besides," Josephine reached a hand out to touch a picture of Madi, "I might say, I'm intrigued." The moment her hand touched the charcoal, a surge of unreasonable anger pulsated through Clarke and she swung a hand at the other girl. Josephine reacted, but not fast enough, and she slammed into the wall behind her. She gave a small laugh and raised an eyebrow, but something in her tone told Clarke she wasn't joking anymore. "Now that's a bit violent." The voices started to get louder, Clarke's thoughts a fuzzy mess as the cacophony of sounds bounced across the walls. Her head pounded. She wasted no time in pinning Josephine to the wall, "Let. Me. Out." But this time, Josephine was ready and she swiped at Clarke's legs in a desperate attempt to get away. In the struggle, the glimmer of a key on the other girl's pocket caught Clarke's attention. Josephine's eyes flickered to where she was looking. "No don't!" Clarke connected her knee to Josephine's stomach, the other girl keeling over as she swiped the key from her and ran back to the door. Clarke fumbled with the prison key, her breathing sharp and fast as she tried to calm her hand. She glanced back at Josephine's heaving figure on the jail floor, feeling dread creep through her veins. Steadying her hand, she jammed the key in and threw her body at the unlocked door, not taking a second to slam it behind her. Clarke was ready to run when the smell of pine and woodsmoke hit her. The air was cleaner, fresher, the light natural, and as her vision cleared, she realised she stood in a wooden cabin. Long drapes lined the windows, drawings scattered across the walls, a backpack leaned against a wall. Clarke was home; where she and Madi had lived for six years. She walked in further, breath short and eyes threatening tears. There was a figure at the table. She recognised him. "Dad?" It was a whisper, a sound of disbelief. He turned around, eyes crinkling at the sight of his daughter, "Hello, sweetheart." She felt the breath leave her body. It was unmistakably him. Her father. Without skipping a beat, she fell into his arms, small and protected in his embrace. She felt like a kid again and he felt warm and safe and real. Real? She took a step back. "How is this possible," she shook her head, "how are we here?" "What's the last thing you remember," his tone was sombre and Clarke felt her heart sink as she searched for an answer. "I died." - The Commander of Death. Clarke knew death. She'd brought enough souls to him, quenched his thirst with their blood, traded their lives for those of her people. It was only fair that it be her turn. Death was always there, watching, waiting, his thin, tapering fingers wrapped around her neck, slowly pulling her away from her friends, from her life. She'd often wondered how he would take her, and if she would go willingly. Would it be sudden or slow? Would she see it coming? Perhaps she'd sacrifice herself and die like she should have in Praimfaia. Death had had her in his grasps more times than she could count, and yet still she didn't know. Clarke guessed she had her answer now. It was... disappointing. In the end, Death found her paralysed, alone, crying out for help when no one could hear her, where no one would find her. Why had she survived Praimfaia, survived in isolation, slept for two-hundred years to die just like that? Perhaps it was divine justice. Her penance for the lives she had ended. She'd fed death for too long and he had grown bored of her souls. He wanted hers, and now he had it. But nestled in the warmth of her father's embrace, Clarke softened. Maybe this was what she deserved. And didn't she seek Death, hadn't she wanted this, didn't she ask for it, didn't she ask for it? "What are you thinking 'bout, kiddo?" Clarke smiled into his arms, but it faltered as she thought of what to say. She'd never told anyone of her thoughts, of her fears, but perhaps her Dad would see. She stayed silent for a long moment before speaking, and when she did, she found that her voice was small and broken, "If this is what I wanted." For a long time, he didn't speak, only rubbing small circles into her shoulders. Then he stopped, and pulled her back to look into her eyes, "I think you need to figure that out yourself." "How do I do that?" He pulled her closer and smiled down into her hair, "you'll have to decide whether or not you want to fight back." Clarke furrowed her brow. "Dad?" "I think you know what I mean." She took a step back. "You can stay here, stay here with me," he gestured to the drawings, "with whoever you want, or you can fight for your body," he looked to the door at his left, "I think you'll have your answer then." She considered it. The warmth of the cabin, the feeling of sunlight on her skin, the sound of Madi's laughter outside and the echo of another's distant voice. The truth was so dark, so cold... but here, here she belonged. She could do what she wanted, be with who she wanted... Maybe this was how she got to peace. Got to peace? She glanced at the door behind her, at the drawings on the walls, the faces blurry and just out of reach. She looked back at her dad and he smiled, knowing what she was about to do. "It's okay." There was a lump in her throat as she spoke, breaking her voice in a way that sounded unrecognisable. "I love you, Dad," a tear fell down her cheek and her final words caught in her throat. She thought she heard his reply as she stepped through the door, but the sounds and warmth of the cabin immediately vanished past the frame. The room melted from wood to metal, lengthening out into a long corridor which darkened as sunlit windows vanished and were replaced by glass which held the inky nothingness of space. At the end of the hall was a red door, upon which hung leafy wreathes embedded with red berries, and in front of it stood Josephine, now recovered from her injuries. - Josephine smiled, "So we meet again." Clarke didn't waste time on greetings. "Russel really did it, he stole my body?" Josephine nodded slowly, "And clearly made a mess of it. It's been hundreds of years since a mind-wipe failed, but I've got to say," she locked eyes with Clarke, "this isn't bad." She quickly clarified. "Not as organised as my mind-space of course, but," she shrugged, "mildly impressive." "Mind-space?" "The brain creates these constructs when two minds share a body," she explained, walking around the Ring corridor, "like lucid dreaming only, not as fun. It's a self-preservation thing. Trying to keep the minds separate so the body doesn't die." She turned back to Clarke, her tone condescending, "You kinda messed that up when you opened the door so, you know, thanks for the accelerated brain deterioration." "Wait," Clarke shook her head slightly, "you've been through this before?" "Never anything as advanced as this but, yeah, back in the day before Gabriel perfected the mind wipe there were a few mishaps. I got jacked into some people's minds when the lights were still on. They were so average." "What happened?" Clarke asked, although she felt she already knew the answer. "The first was a six-month old; her mind was... unformed, full of chaos and shapes and sounds. Then there was Savannah. I swear I was not that obnoxious at fifteen." Clarke stared blankly at the floor, "Then they died." "Brain haemorrhaging leads to stroke, then we all fall down. It's messy and hurts like a mother," she shook her head as if to shake away the memory, "would not recommend." Her nonchalance made Clarke feel sick. "So I'm going to die. Is that it?" "Only if you don't get back in that box," Josephine shrugged, "It's all the same for me. I'll just be transferred to a new body if you die, but," she watched Clarke carefully, "It'll be easier for both of us if you just go back." Clarke gave a small laugh her heart wasn't in, "I don't go down that easy." "You're already dead, there is no 'going down'. Everyone out here has already accepted it - although it did take a bit of convincing. You keep running around and it's just pointless for all of us." Clarke felt her heart sink. They'd given up on her already. What had it been? A day? A week? She didn't know. But they'd given up. Her mum, Madi, Bellamy... Seeing Clarke's expression, Josephine smiled, "Don't look so glum. They think you're dead, then they'll survive. You can stay in your memories here - or create new ones - I don't care." Her comment made Clarke pause, "Think I'm dead?" Josephine stopped for a split second, before her calm demeanour came back, "Just a figure of speech." But it was enough to alert Clarke. "What's that door behind you?" Josephine stopped her pacing, "Look, you don't want to do this. We'll both just end up dead - well you will anyway - but I'm going to have to go through the pain. Just, go back to your cell and you can sit with your drawings like the rest of them." Clarke took a threatening step forward. "Get out of my way." Josephine sized her up but soon clearly came to the conclusion she wouldn't win. A second passed before she stepped to the side, throwing up her hands in defeat. "Fine. Do what you want. It's not going to work. Actually," she paused a second, "this might be better anyway." Pushing past the other girl, Clarke reached for the door handle. "Don't say I didn't warn you." She pushed the door open and stepped out, only to find herself in an identical corridor. She watched the door snap shut behind her and turned around to meet two familiar faces. - "Hey, Clarke." "Harper?" Clarke looked between them. "Monty?" She ran out to hug them, but when she stepped back she noticed something different. They smiled at her the same but their faces were younger, eyes less weary, Monty's hair was as she remembered it before Praimfaia and the two wore their clothes from the dropship days. Her smile faltered. "You're not real?" Her heart ached painfully as she looked into their eyes, and even as she said it, she didn't want to believe it. But she knew, she knew they were only memories. Figments of her subconscious. Harper shook her head, "No, but Clarke, it doesn't matter, you don't have much time." Clarke vaguely noticed the corners of the Ring's wall begin to blur as the lights dimmed and brightened. She pinched her eyes shut. "Your brain is beginning to deteriorate," Monty explained, "your memories are folding, mixing with one another." "Clarke, you need to tell the others you're alive." "How?" Clarke asked, searching wildly down the hall which stopped at its red-door replica. "The flame organised your mind into files when you went into the City of Light," Monty continued on hurriedly, "that's why you're still conscious, but to overpower Josephine you need a kind of boost to push you to the surface." "What does that mean?" "You need to remember, Clarke. You have to stop repressing yourself and your feelings. You can't fight when you're holding yourself back," Harper touched her arm soothingly and Clarke was suddenly thrown by the reminder that she was a mother. "But Clarke," Monty looked worried, "you can't lose yourself in your memories, that's what she wants. You need a tether, a happy memory or something that will anchor you back so you won't get lost; so you won't forget." Clarke took a breath, "How long do I have?" "Before she wakes up, so, not long." She nodded, "What do I need to do?" "Don't stop," he nodded at the red door at the end of the corridor, "you'll know what to do." Clarke walked with the pair down the corridor. She touched the door handle before looking back at them. "Thank you," she said, and she wasn't sure if her vision blurred because of her head or the tears, "for everything." Harper smiled sadly, "you get back there and take care of our boy." "He's good," Clarke said through tears, "too good. He reminds me of you." The lights at the end of the hall dimmed and she could no longer see where she came from. She hugged the two fiercely, "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. You should've been able to see it - to see him. It's not fair. It's not fair at all." "We got what we wanted," Harper said softly into her shoulder, "there's nothing to be sorry about." Clarke let out a sob for her lost friends as the lights faded one by one and she could no longer make out their faces, before she turned around and stepped through the open door. - Humming. It's the first thing she heard as she walked through the door. The air was clean again, the ground soft, and Clarke knew she was back on Earth. She stumbled for a moment until, through the gaps in the trees, she saw the source of the humming; herself. "I'm going to help you." Clarke heard the moment echo in her head. She knew what she was seeing. For a moment, her eyes flickered to the boy beside her, and Clarke's heart leapt into her throat. That dark curly hair, freckled face... it was Bellamy. And she... she was so young. Clarke watched as she slid the blade into Atom's neck, pushing hair from his face, humming that haunting tune. As the light left the boy's cloudy eyes, Clarke felt the dead hands reach for her skin. This was the first life she'd taken. The first of many. She opened her mouth to say something, but the scene changed, and suddenly she was in the middle of a war-zone. She watched as a boy, who could be no older than fifteen was skewered by a grounder blade, another died beside him. Blood pooled at her feet, but Clarke could only watch as the other her stood at the door to the Dropship, screaming for the others to get inside. She knew how this ended, felt Death's grasp grow tighter, but she was paralysed to the ground, unable to do a thing. She saw herself make eye contact with Bellamy from across the clearing, saw the realisation dawn in her eyes, and watched as she pulled the lever and the ground erupted in flames. They licked at her skin, the grounders around her screaming as their flesh melted in the fire. She was burning, drowning in the flames, but in the immense heat she heard a voice call out to her. "Who we are and who we need to be to survive are very different things." Her vision cleared. She was standing at the edge of a crater, the smell of burning flesh still at her nose as she watched the flames dance across what was left of TonDC. She can't see herself this time, but Clarke doesn't need to to know that this was her. A white horse ran across the horizon, a tail of flame chasing it, and Clarke thought of Death. Did he want this? Or was it all her? "I did it to save Bellamy." Clarke gasped for breath as she woke up, her surroundings clean and white. Finding she could move, Clarke walked down the familiar corridor, taking in its white tiles, fluorescent lights, and circular windows. She's dreamed about this place before. Clarke continues to walk until she comes to a door with a broken window. Through the shard glass, she can see a painting. The starry night. "I've got to give it to you, this is different." Clarke whipped around to see Josephine leaning lazily against the opposite wall. "Most people can't get past the first - but then again," she watched Clarke carefully, "you're not like most people, are you?" "Get out of my head," Clarke muttered loudly, pushing past the other girl to continue down the hall. "So what are you going to do here?" Josephine asked, following Clarke. There was almost a hint of excitement in her voice. "Burn it down again? Oh wait," she rounded on Clarke, "I got it. This is that facility, isn't it? Mount Weather, right?" At Clarke's silence, she made a joyous noise, but she didn't follow the other girl, and as quickly as she had appeared, she was gone. A gunshot sounded from the door to Clarke's left and she froze. She knew which gun it must have sounded from. Blood running cold and Death at her heels, Clarke opened the door and walked through. - "Clarke. We're out of time." The room is dark, lit only by the monitors which the three stare at with glassy eyes. Clarke knows what will happen, knows that this moment will haunt her for the rest of her life, knows that Death will never let go after this, but she doesn't stop herself. In the room, alone with her memories, Clarke stands still and watches. "My sister, my responsibility." The room begins to darken and Clarke feels her memory close in on herself. "I have to save them." As her hand touches the lever, a part of Clarke's soul fractures. She can only see herself and the lever and Clarke feels herself slipping. It's almost like rain. Fuzzy at first, so she can't see it, can't feel it. Then it gets harder, and before she knows it, it falls. She's falling. Slipping like rain, hurtling towards Earth; towards hell. Death waits to embrace her as she falls and Clarke's memories fall with her. Why is she fighting? Why fight when the fall is so easy? Then a hand touches hers and Clarke sees him too. "Together." Her hurtling slows. They pull the lever and although Clarke's soul breaks in two, the darkness stops. It might just be the two of them, but she can see again. She can see. "You need a tether, a happy memory or something that will anchor you back... so you won't forget." So she won't forget. "I promise I will never forget it again." She's falling again, but it's the right kind of fall. A million memories pass by, a million moments, until Clarke finds the one. The one she regrets. The sky is a pale orange as Praimfaia approaches on the horizon. Clarke stands at a distance, the only one without a hazmat suit, and watches as the four begin to part ways. The old her steps forward. "Bellamy!" "Clarke, if this is one of those moment where you tell me to use my head-" "No. I was just going to say..." It hangs in the air for a moment; a moment where she should have said something, where she should have known... she should have known that they'd never see one another again. Of course fate would pair them like this. She should have known. Clarke had replayed this moment a million times over and yet, she still didn't know what she would say. But she knows what she did say. "...hurry." "You too." He makes to leave. "Bellamy." The sound comes out of the real Clarke's mouth, and she surprises herself as the group turns to her, frozen in time. She looks at herself, the heartbreak in her eyes, and back to Bellamy. The boy she'd never see again. In a second she's thrown herself around him, arms clasped tightly around his back. She knows it's only a memory, but it feels so real. She breaths out a ragged sob. "We'll meet again," she whispers into his suit, the tears on her face evaporating in the heat, "I promise." He'd find his way back six years later. Clarke would break free. She had to. She'd promised. - Clarke squints as the lights above her burn into her retina. She's faintly aware of the scream that leaves her mouth as she looks around at the faces above her. Russel is cupping her face whispering, "Josie," and she recoils immediately. Her eyes search the room before they land on one face. His face. He's watching her hesitantly, his eyes red and hesitant at her gaze. "Bellamy?" The sound leaves her mouth involuntarily. Pain and anger flash in his eyes and he glances away. "Stop." But Clarke sits up, choking on tears, refusing to give up, "Bellamy." For a second, he looks at her - really looks at her - and as his eyes change from hesitance to hope, Clarke knows that he knows, but then her vision blackens and she's back in her cell, staring at the pictures on the walls. But she promised. She promised.

[tessimagines]

After All This (Bill Weasley x Reader) - Part Three

Pairing: Bill Weasley x Moody!Reader

Summary: Bill stumbles upon (Y/N) reading something from her father.

Warnings: angst but also a comforting Bill which everyone needs.

Wordcount: 4.45k

A/N: Gif is not mine! Credit to the owner/creator. I couldn’t find one that I liked on Tumblr so just ended up finding one on google.

August 17th, 1997

Bill glanced around the living room of Moody’s house, the familiar smell bringing now old memories to his mind, each one sending a different emotion throughout his body. He could almost picture the rugged and intimidating man in his armchair, giving Bill a death stare as he walked through the front door for the first time. That had been a scary day, one that Bill had never cared to revisit. But now, it only symbolized a happier time, the image of a girl he loves so much pressing a soft kiss to her father’s cheek.

He could almost picture sitting at the old wooden dining table with Moody, his scarred face looking at his own as Bill tried his best to get his words out. Bill supposed now that Moody had already known that he was going to ask for his daughter’s hand in marriage, Moody had always had a way to know what you were going to say before you did. Bill could still hear his response in his head: It’s her hand you’re asking for, so why are you asking me?

Walking into it, you would never expect it to be the home of Mad-eye Moody. On the walls and on every surface Bill could see, there were numerous pictures of a small yet happy family. Everywhere you looked, there was something that was so iconically (Y/N)’s. A drawing of a young girl, her hand’s held by two parents, her father’s face heavily scarred. There even sat a photo of (Y/N) and himself on the cabinet up against the wall, each of them looking at each other with the most amused of faces. He could remember that photo being taken just as well as he could remember the surprise he felt when he found it sitting on Moody’s cabinet. Moody did not show his approval very often, and never in the most forth-coming of ways.

“I’m just going to have a look in the other rooms,” (Y/N) said, her eyes flickering from Bill to the rest of the Weasleys present. Molly, Charlie and Ginny had come along to help with the clearing out and sorting of all of Moody’s things.

“Okay,” Bill said, moving over to stand next to her. His hand picked up hers and held it in the space between them. “Do you want me to come?”

“No,” She said, giving his hand a tight squeeze. “I’ll be fine. You guys can make a start in here if you want.”

“Okay,” Bill nodded, letting her hand slip from his as she turned and walked up the hallway and out of sight. She needed some time alone in here, he got that. In the face of something so terrible and devastating, she had managed to keep the strength that every person around her admired.

As soon as Molly was sure she was out of earshot she turned to her oldest son. “How has she been, dear? I can’t imagine what she’s going through.”

“She’s doing well, considering.” Bill looked over at his Mum and Charlie standing just behind her, giving them a sullen look. “She still has her moments though. She has dreams most nights and they seem to trouble her. Sometimes, they’re just memories of when she was a kid. Happy ones too, you know. With Moody. Other times, they’re that day. Just over and over again. She’ll wake up and not even realise that she’s been crying.”

Charlie looked down at his feet. He and (Y/N) had been close since they met, and Charlie had always known that she was the perfect match for his brother. She steadied him, and he grounded her. There was never a moment where they weren’t standing side-by-side.

“All I can do is hold her until she gets it all out. But, Merlin, she’s so strong.” Bill said, feeling his body fall back on the arm of the old and musty couch. “He was the only family she had ever known. No grandparents or aunts and uncles. Her mother died way too soon, she can only remember a few things about her. They were so close, the two of them. You’ve all seen them together, seen just how close they were. I mean, look at this place. She’s everywhere. Moody never seemed like a loving man but, Merlin, he loved her.”

“And she loved him.” He finished, looking up to see a sombre look on his mother’s face. She had loved (Y/N) since the moment she had met her. There was no denying how perfect she was for her oldest son, and that filled her with the most joy a mother could have. It hurt now to see her daughter-in-law in so much pain.

“She still has a family,” Molly said, matter-of-factly. “We are her family. You might not have married her yet but she’s been a Weasley long before you put that ring on her finger.”

Bill stood up and gave his Mum a small yet meaningful smile. He put an arm around her shoulder and brought her close to place a kiss to her forehead. She was so short compared to him that he had to bend down a little just to do it. Molly patted her son’s back and smiled at the embrace. “Alright,” she said, turning to her other son and daughter in the room. “We better get started on this. Bill and Charlie, you take the living room. Start putting everything into the boxes we brought. Ginny and I will start in the kitchen.”

Bill took his arm off his mother’s shoulder and turned to flash his closest brother a small smile. Charlie smiled back and patted his brother on the back. They began to sort through the individual things scattered around the cluttered living room, each one telling its own individual story.

“Hey Bill,” Charlie said, coming to stand right next to his brother. He stood close enough so that his words could only be heard by those two alone. “You’re doing a great job, you know. You’re helping her more than you realise. I don’t think she would be where she is if it wasn’t for you. I know she still has a long way to go, but you being there just to hold her or listen to her when she needs it is everything she needs right now.”

Bill clapped his hand on his brother's forearm and moved it up to his shoulder, moving in to give his brother a hug. Bill was trying his best to help her, to make this as easy as he could. He knew that the pain was still there and hurting beyond measure. But to know that he was doing at least something right, gave him all the satisfaction he needed.

Deep breaths, (Y/N). Deep breaths.

The click of the door behind you let you know that it was safe to breathe again, letting out the bottled up air you had kept in your lungs. You closed your eyes and leaned against the hard wooden door, your head pointed up at the bare white ceiling. This house had always been so familiar to you, the place where you had learned to walk, talk and run. The place where you had spent so many sick, sleepless nights curled up in the bed just across from you now. The place where you had brought Bill to meet your father for the first time, and the place you had come running in telling him that Bill had proposed. It was the place you would spend dark, stretched-out nights, a tea in both yours and your father's hand and just talk. It didn’t even matter what it was about. You would just sit there for hours, tea after tea and go over whatever you felt you needed to.

But now, without the man that had made this place so special, the man you shared every memory of this place with, it felt empty, cold and distant. It had lost the familiarity that made it seem like home. It was an empty shell of a much loved time and memory, all else dying along with the man who had called it home for so many years.

You opened your eyes again, taking a long glance around the room. There were different picture frames on his bedside table, each one displaying a member of his family. Closest to his bed was a moving photograph of a younger version of yourself, all clad in your brand new Hogwarts robes. Your father liked to pretend that he never got emotional, but you could tell that he was that day. Not for the fact that you were growing up so quickly, but for the fact that his wife and your mother wasn’t able to see it.

Beside it was a photo of your mother, a five-year-old you sitting on her knee. It must have been only a few months before she died, her young face a reminder of her death that came way too soon. Your memory of the time was hazed, you were only able to piece together the events of that awful week through things you had been told by your father or other members of the Order who had known her. You could barely remember things of her character and only knew how she looked through the numerous photographs your father had throughout the house.

You knew she was sweet and kind and always willing to offer friendly words whenever they were needed. Some people could hardly believe that she and your father were together and able to make it work from the time they were seventeen. The relationship had given way to so many amazing, hilarious stories that had been passed onto you. You wish you could have known her, and gotten the chance to see your parents together at least once.

But that’s not the way that wars work. Sometimes, it’s the ones you love the most that you lose without even the chance to say goodbye. You could still picture your father sitting down at the dining table, little lines of moonlight finding their way through the shades and onto his already heavily distorted face. He was only twenty-seven and a widow with a five-year-old daughter. He didn’t cry or make a noise that night as you peaked your head through your bedroom door, your young and clueless eyes stuck on your fathers face. Even through his silence you could see the pain and hurt on his face. He had looked as though all the air and had been knocked out of his chest, as if such a big part of him had died along with your mum. And then, to your inexperienced mind, his tears seemed to come out of nowhere. His breaths had been ragged and sharp as they struggled to find their way out of his chest. It was the only time you had seen your father cry and he hadn’t even known you were there.

You felt your boots cause the pale floorboards beneath you to creak with every step you took, sitting down on the edge of his bed. Your eyes flickered over to the top drawer of his bedside table, the tip of some waxy brown paper poking its way out into the room. You leaned over and pulled the drawer open, revealing a brown envelope inscribed with the messy and sharp handwriting that you had seen so often in your life. There wasn’t a week in Hogwarts where you and your father didn’t send a letter to each other. You had learned to read Moody’s untidy scrawl long ago. It was only inscribed with a single word on the front, tiny blots of long-dried black ink surrounding your name.

(Y/N), it read, the mention of your name sending your heart into a frenzy as you turned the envelope over. You tucked your short fingernail under the lid and untucked it, revealing two pages of yellow paper. Your breath was a lump in your throat as you pulled them out and unfolded them, revealing the message from your father you had never known existed.

Dear (Y/N),

If you’re reading this, I’m likely dead. We both knew I’d be taken out by some bloody Death Eater, didn’t we? I knew the risks when I joined the order the first time around. So did your mother.

You know that I don’t like being all soppy and emotional, so you know that this letter isn’t going to be any of that. But I know that if I end up going out fighting then you would never get the goodbye you deserve. So I suppose that this is what this letter is about. Giving you our last goodbye.

It’s not fair that you will probably have to lose both of your parents to the same bloody war twenty-two years apart. But both your mother and I knew the risks when we took them. And you have to understand that we had to take them. Otherwise, what chance would you have had of growing up in a world free of all this blood purity shit? And though you are grown now and fighting in this battle yourself, I still had to think of you and the possible grandchildren you might give me some day. Those little blighters will deserve it.

You would have noticed that this letter was sitting on a wooden box, that’s for you too. Inside are little things that I want you to have. They all mean something to me, and some of them meant a lot to your mother. I know she would have wanted you to have a lot of the things in there.

You know I love you. Keep fighting this war, (Y/N). Merlin knows you’re one of the best Aurors that have graced that department yet. They need you. Promise me you’ll live a happy life, no matter how long or short it is. That boy of yours loves you, I know that. It’s what gives me a piece of mind that you will be alright if you ever have to read this letter.

Remember, do your best and all else will follow.

Goodbye.

Your father, Alastor.

You let the words sink in, taking the time to read the contents of the letter over and over again. Each word brought a different emotion to the surface, a few salty tears finding their way down your cheek and causing the ink to blotch where they fell. The pieces of paper moved around in your shaking hand, making it hard for your eyes to focus on the words your father had put on the yellow parchment.

Each word sounded so much like him in your head. He took the reserved yet soft tone he would use when with you, letting bits of his loving fatherly nature in when he wanted to. Nobody else was ever able to see that side of your father; it was something that you had only ever been able to see. It told you that he had always cared so deeply for you, despite the harsh and snappy nature he had when he was with anyone else.

You took a deep and shaky breath in, bringing a hand up to your mouth. You leaned forward over the letter in your lap. Oh, Merlin, there wasn’t a moment in the day when you didn’t wish he was still here. You didn’t care if he was embracing you, or telling you of his past adventures as an auror or member of the original order. Hell, you wouldn’t even care if he was screaming at you about a stupid mistake that you had made. At least he would still be here with you, alive and breathing, the only parent you had ever had the chance to know.

You reached across and pulled the wooden box out of your father’s bedside table, pulling it into your lap. It wasn’t overly big or fancy but made out of a nice cherry wood, a vine-like engraved border around every edge of the box. You hesitated before lifting the lid up, your eyes moving to glance over the numerous little things your father had thoughtfully placed inside.

Some of the things you had seen before, like your mother’s golden locket, a photo of your father holding you as a newborn baby locked away inside. There was your mother’s wedding band as well as a pressed rose from her wedding day. You could picture your father now, telling her how silly it would have been to keep a thing like that. But you knew she would have just shaken his words off and pressed it anyway. No matter how stupid your father had thought it was at the time, he never would have been able to get rid of it once she had died.

Both of your mother’s and father’s Auror badges were in there, a symbol of the dangerous line of work they had both dedicated their lives too. Their names were engraved in silver over the black wand, Alastor Moody and Adeline Abbott. Next to them sat an old and slightly discoloured wizarding photograph, the moving figures of a happy, smiling couple, a newborn child wrapped snuggly in a white blanket being held by her father.

Your father was so young in the photograph, his face almost completely unscarred. He was looking down at you, pure amazement in his eyes at the new little person he had just made. He sat down at the dining room table in the house you had grown up in, your mother standing next to him, her arm sitting on his shoulder. You watched as your mother’s eyes flicked up from your tiny, scrunched-up face and to your father’s beside her. Her face softened as she took in the look on her husband’s face, completely engrossed in his brand new daughter in his arms.

“Oh, dad,” you said, your fingers grazing over the moving photograph. Your throat was tight and constricted, your voice coming out hoarse and strained. Your cheeks were wet with silent tears as you watched the look soften on your mother’s face over and over again.

At the bottom was another old piece of faded yellow parchment, the ends curled up with the years it had seen go by. You picked it up, the dry and thin paper so delicate between your fingertips. You carefully unfolded it, your eyes darting over the lines of words written on the page.

It was another letter, but this time it wasn’t your father’s messy scrawl that greeted your eyes. This time the letter was written in a tidy cursive, each letter almost seeming too perfectly set out to be written by a human’s hand. This was your mother’s handwriting.

Dearest Alastor,

I know I said that I would be home today, and believe me, I wish that could have happened. But things happen in this line of work, you of all people know that. Dumbledore stressed that it was important for this job to get done so I’m going to see it through until I finish.

How is (Y/N)? I so wish that I could see the both of you. There isn’t a moment where one of you are not on my mind. Please let me know how both of you are doing. You’ve always been a disaster when I’m not around to make sure you don’t do anything silly. Do make sure not to let (Y/N) play outside with the gnomes again. I think I was cleaning dirt off her for a week straight last time. You know how many times I’ve told you to get rid of them.

Over the last few lonely days, I’ve had a chance to go over the many important moments in my life. I don’t think I ever told you about the moment I realised I loved you. It’s quite funny, actually. I had a good laugh when I thought about it this morning.

It was our seventh year and right in the middle of one of our Potion classes. Slughorn was busy off helping a Hufflepuff girl who I can’t quite remember the name of and you were standing next to me. I can still feel the smile on my lips when I realised your gaze kept flickering towards me every minute or two. Somewhere along the line, you had completely forgotten about the potion you had meant to be making. I remember it boiled over and dripped onto your hand and burned it. But instead of turning red, it turned a vivid shade of blue. You were so embarrassed when it happened, I can still picture the look on your face. Especially when Slughorn came over and you had to explain why his best student had just been so careless. Oh, the look on your face was priceless.

I can’t help but smile whenever I think of it, or the look on Anna’s face when I told her! Of course, I’ve never heard your side of it. Maybe you can tell me when I get back home.

You know I love you and (Y/N) and I’ll do my best to get home to you two soon. I can’t wait to give my two favourite people a kiss again.

Missing you.

Your loving wife, Adeline.

You took a large, shaky breath in, your eyes glossing over the words once again. He loved her so much. Even without seeing them together, that fact had always been as clear as day to you. And in your hands, the old and faded letter you held, was some proof that your mother had loved that man just as much. Alastor and Adeline. You had always heard they were such an uncommon couple, so different yet united over something in common: their love for one another. And, you knew, for you.

“(Y/N)?”

Your head turned to look up at the tall red-headed figure standing in the doorway, Bill’s scarred face looking down at your own. His face softened when he saw the tears on your face, taking a step through the door and closing it behind him.

“Are you alright?” He asked, taking a seat next to you on the old, cast-iron bed. You nodded at him, tucking your hair behind your ear.

“Yeah,” You said. “I just found this – uh. This letter.”

You picked up your father’s letter beside you and handed it to Bill, watching him take it in his hands. His eyes moved from your face to the letter now in his grip. “It’s from Dad. I don’t know when he wrote it but he wrote it for me in case he died. He said he wanted it to be our last goodbye because he thought I deserved one.”

“And I know why. It’s because he never got one from my mother. He gave me this letter, in that wooden box right there. Look at the date: August 16th, 1975. That’s two days before she died. It was the last thing he ever heard from her.”

Bill stayed silent for a second as he took in your words. He had finished reading the letter in his hands, his fingers playing with the rough yellow parchment. He reached over and put an arm around your shoulder, bringing you in to rest your head on his chest. He placed a soft kiss to the top of your head, his nose moving around in the loose strands that sat there.

“You’re so strong, you know that,” Bill said, his breath ruffling around the hairs on your head.

“I’m a mess.” Your voice cracked at the end, causing you to close your eyes against his chest. You wanted to curl up into a ball on your father’s old bed and sink into the very mattress.

“No, you’re not,” Bill said, certainty in his voice. He was so certain of his words that he rushed them out, trying to make you see what you were so clearly getting it wrong in his mind.

“You’re the strongest person I know. Despite everything that has happened, you haven’t backed down. You’re still out there, fighting for the cause that you and your father believed in. Don’t ever think that you’re not strong, (Y/N). Your strength is the thing that reassures me that everything will end up okay in the end.”

You sat up and looked up at the man in front of you. Oh, Merlin. You loved him with everything you had. He was your guiding light through everything that this god-forsaken life and war could throw at you. He was your other half, and you had been assured of that long ago.

You placed a hand on the back of his neck, your fingers finding their place in his long-ginger hair. You pulled him close, wrapping your arms around his body and letting the tears from your eyes fall onto his shirt. Your chest shuddered against him but you didn’t care. You couldn’t care less how disgusting and messy you looked in front of this man. You knew he would smile and hold you just as close anyway.

“I love you, you know that?” You said, leaning back so that you could look at his damaged yet beautiful face. “With everything that I have.”

“I love you too.” 

He leaned forward and placed a kiss to your lips. You fell into it, moving your hand to rest on the side of his face, your fingers sitting on the scars that lay there. The kiss wasn’t overly long, but it still had the power to bring a light and warm feeling to your chest. No matter how many you had shared with Bill over the years, you never failed to grow sick of them.

“You know what I was thinking?” Bill said once the kiss had finished. “I was thinking maybe we should move into Shell Cottage. I know the plan was to do it after we were married but I want to live alone together again.”

You gave him a soft smile, your thumb grazing his cheekbone from its place on the side of his face. “I’d love that.”

Bill smiled once more, leaning in to place another tender kiss to your lips. You fell back on the bed, your arms wrapping snuggly around his neck as ran a hand through your hair.

That boy loves you, I know that. Your father’s words came into your mind, his voice a perfect replica in your ears. It’s what gives me a piece of mind that you will be alright.

Your father was right, like he always seemed to be. Bill Weasley was the reason you knew that gradually by gradually, you would be able to smile again.

What did you guys think?

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