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I know that some British people take umbrage at Americans calling the Great British Bake Off relaxing, but it's just because GBBO is such a different kind of stressful from American baking shows.

American baking shows will be called something like "Cupcake Knife Fight", there's horror movie lighting everywhere and dramatic stings every 5 seconds. All of the contestants are shit talking each other and fist fighting over the one single deep fryer provided by production. It will show the judges all whispering to each other at their super villain table overlooking the whole kitchen, and one will be like, "Oh my god. Everyone look at Brenda right now. She's straight tanking it." And it will cut to Brenda, who is running around covered in flour and crying and also bleeding for some reason. Then you get a clip from an interview with one of the contestants, and they're like, "I really need to win this. Without this award money, I'm gonna need to close my restaurant, sell my dad, and live out of my car. AGAIN." Then the giant digital doomsday clock overhead lets out a horrid klaxon, the judges tell half of them that their cupcakes taste disgusting, and one of them gets eliminated and sent to walk down the dramatically-lit shame hallway never to be seen again.

Meanwhile GBBO is in a lovely, brightly colored tent, there are delightful and friendly hosts/jesters there to keep everyone entertained, and all of the B Roll is of like... a bumblebee going into a flower, or a lamb running in a field. And yes, there will be moments where someone will mess up their timing or something, and they'll be looking at their bake through the oven door like, "oh gosh I don't think this will rise in time!" Then they stand up to find Paul Hollywood directly behind them ominously. His creepy whitewalker eyes will glow white, and he'll say something like "the 12th of June. 2035. Drowning." And his eyes will go back to normal and he'll walk away. Then the baker gives a playful grimace to the camera and says "that didnt sound great, did it?". Cut to a sweet looking older woman sipping tea on a stool and she says "oo I do hope that Prue enjoys the taste of my sugary, sticky baps!". Then, at the end, someone gets a gold star for doing good, and the loser of the episode gets in the middle of a giant group hug. You see all of them at the end of the series at a giant carnival with their families and the post credits informs you that all of the contestants have become a Partridge Family-style traveling band and stayed friends forever.

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Derry Girls – 1.06

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when ur an artist ppl love to be like omg u know whay you should do? [cheap and easy marketable slop]... that would be so popular.. omg or like a [completly different medium] or even [overcrowded niche market] did you think of that? those would sell so well and you could make so many so fast.. you should totally try it!! ....oil landscapes? dont be silly people want 10$ pet portrait comissions, paint mixing videos, and clay earrings you stupid fucking moron.

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Scared To Call Them My Friends and Be Broken Again

She’s 54. She shouldn’t care about hearing her friend refer to someone else as her best friend, but it hurts because she isn’t only 54. She’s also 6. And she's 16. And she’s always the new kid with loneliness as her only true companion.

Emily overhears a conversation between JJ and Penelope, and it upsets her more than she thinks it should.

-x-

Hi besties,

This has been living rent free as an idea in my head since I saw the clip of JJ and Penelope in 18x04 where JJ calls her 'the best friend' floating around on tiktok.

Naturally, my brain went straight to 'what if Emily overheard them saying this' and here we are. I hurt my own feelings a little bit with this one.

Also, make sure to check out songs of innocence and of experience by @ssaemilyhotchner, it's an amazing post ep fic for the same episode, and is more proof as to why Hotchniss should have happened xoxo

As always, let me know what you think <3

-x-

Warnings: mentions of grief/loss

Words: 2.4k

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

“You’re the best.”

“I know.”

“No…I mean, you’re the best friend.” 

“I knew what you meant.” 

She wasn’t meant to hear it; she knew that. It was an exchange she wasn’t privy to, but one she’d caught the tail end of when she stood outside Penelope’s office, her hand stuck frozen in mid-air where she’d raised it to knock on the door. She’d left without saying anything, unsure why she had gone in the first place, distracted by the gut punch she hadn’t seen coming and didn’t entirely understand. 

“You’re the best.”

“I know.”

“No…I mean, you’re the best friend.” 

“I knew what you meant.” 

On her drive home, Emily keeps replaying JJ’s words to Penelope in her head. A vicious loop she tortures herself with as sadness and something close to rejection swirls in her gut, feelings she’d locked away decades ago breaking out of the box she’d put them in. She feels nothing short of ridiculous for how upset she feels, or for how she has to blow out a slow breath and tighten her grip on the steering wheel as her vision briefly blurs with tears. 

She’s 54. She shouldn’t care about hearing her friend refer to someone else as her best friend, but it hurts because she isn’t only 54. She’s also 6. And she's 16. And she’s always the new kid with loneliness as her only true companion, flitting from place to place in a way that had often made her wonder if her classmates ever remembered she’d been there at all. It’s a feeling that had never quite faded, no matter how long she was in one place, no matter how long she’d been in DC now, no matter how strong her foundations were, there was always a thought in the back of her mind that it could all slip away. A feeling that something was behind her, ready to reach out and snatch it all away, the phantoms of her past always in her peripheral vision, hiding in the corners of every room until she turned to look at them, always gone as quickly as she had seen them. 

It was something that had only been made worse by Will’s sudden death. A long, lingering fear that always sparked in her gut if Aaron took a little too long to reply to her texts, or if the kids were a little late home from school, suddenly ignited. 

“No…I mean, you’re the best friend.” 

Her relationship with JJ had changed since Will died. She knew it was because she was her boss, because she had to be the one to gently push back on her decision to come back to work so soon. Emily was responsible for her, she was responsible for the whole team, and sometimes that had to come above the friendships with them that she held dear. 

She knew that wasn’t all of it, that the change in dynamic between her and JJ was, in part, because her family was still intact. She had her husband, and her kids had their dad. That was something JJ and the boys would never have again. It made Emily feel guilty in a way she knew she couldn’t do anything about, and whenever she got home - especially with the onslaught of cases recently and Voit being Voit - she’d immediately snuggle up with Aaron, wrapping her arms around him wherever she found him to try and soak in some of the love he always had ready and waiting for her. 

She clenches her jaw as she pulls up onto the driveway, tears burning in her eyes again now that she is home. It’s something that happened more than she’d care to admit, just the sight of her house enough to remind her what she had, what she’d fought so hard for. The thought of the love and safety and warmth that filled their home in abundance enough to make the walls around her heart she’d once prided herself on, the walls that had never been as sturdy as she always allowed people to think, to shake and crack. 

“No…I mean, you’re the best friend.” 

She shakes her head at herself as she turns off the engine, “Get it together, Emily,” she mutters under her breath. She grabs her bag from the passenger seat, wincing as she catches a glance of herself in the rearview mirror, sadness and exhaustion shining in her eyes in a way she knows Aaron will notice immediately.  

She’s still digging around in her purse for her keys when she hears the lock in the front door click, and she sighs in relief when she looks up and finds her husband standing in the doorway waiting for her. 

“Hi, sweetheart.” 

She smiles and she steps words him, stamping her lips against the corner of his, her hand on his waist as she slips past him, “Hi,” she says, turning to look at him as he closes the door behind her, “Were you waiting for me?” 

“Always,” he says, winking at her as she playfully rolls her eyes, “I heard the car,” he says, taking her purse from her before he pulls her into a hug. She leans into him, her arms around him in an instant, her hands on his shoulders as she anchors herself to him. She feels more than hears the way he breathes in, a sharpness to it that settles in her chest as he holds her back just as tightly, “Are you okay?” 

She chokes on a sound she thinks is supposed to be a laugh, and she presses her face against his neck before she pulls back to look at him and shrugs, “I don’t know.” 

“Want to talk about it?”

She nods, but she looks around. “Where are the kids?” 

“Well, Jack is in New Haven,” he quips, and narrows her eyes at him, unable to fight the smile he makes break out across her face just like it did whenever she thought about the fact their eldest had gone to her alma mater, not Aaron's. “Oscar is at Dylan’s birthday party, so he’ll be home in a few hours, hopped up on sugar,” he continues, reminding her about how enthusiastic the 11-year-old had been that morning when he talked about his best friend’s bowling party and the gift they’d got him. “And Alice is reading in her room.” 

She hums, “I’ve never met a 9-year-old who loves reading as much as she does.”

“She’s smart,” he replies, cupping her cheek to make her look at him, his warm palm against her skin the first time she’d noticed that her gaze had drifted to where their daughter’s room is, “Just like her mom,” he adds, pressing a kiss against her lips, “Shall we go talk in the kitchen, dinner is almost ready?” 

“Yeah, that sounds nice,” she says as she links her fingers through his, letting him tug her towards the kitchen. There’s a bottle of her favourite wine already open on the counter, the cork out so it can breathe, and she turns her head to kiss his shoulder, “You’re the best husband I’ve ever had.”

“I’m the only husband you’ve ever had,” he quips, smiling as he pulls out a stool from the kitchen counter for her to sit on. 

“And you’re well on your way to keeping it that way,” she replies, winking at him as he pours her a glass of wine. He sets it in front of her, and she wraps her hand around the stem, letting herself get distracted by the feel of the glass against her skin. He waits her out, makes a point of doing so as he continues to make dinner. He knew her better than she knew herself some days, and this was one of them. “I…” she trails off and blows out a shaky breath, feels it rattle around in her lungs as she laughs humourlessly at herself, “I overheard JJ and Penelope talking and…it made me miss my friendship with them.” 

He tilts his head curiously at her when she looks up at him, his expression neutral as he focuses on her entirely, the sauce he’d made for dinner now on a low simmer, “What do you mean, sweetheart?” 

“Since Will died, I’ve had to be the boss, you know? I’ve had to have hard conversations and make decisions so I can keep us all safe,” she says, her lower lip trembling as she looks down at her hands, twisting her wedding rings around her finger, “It makes being JJ’s friend hard, because on one hand if I lost you…” she swallows thickly at the thought of it, her throat tight as she has to shake her head to rid herself of the image, “If I lost you, I think I’d do the same thing. I’d throw myself into work. You did the same thing after Haley, so I get it, but…as her boss…”

“You know how dangerous it can be,” he finishes for her, and she nods, grateful that he’s closer now, his hand on her knee as he slips onto the stool next to her. “It’s not easy being in charge.” 

She chokes on a sound she can’t name, and she rests her head on his shoulder, “It isn’t. I don’t know how you did it for so long.” 

He kisses her temple, “Well, I had a pretty good view of your desk from my office, so that helped.” 

She laughs, for real this time, and she pulls back to look at him. She runs her fingers through his hair, it was longer now than it ever had been, salt and pepper flecks at his temples, and she loved it, loved that this version of him had only ever belonged to her. 

“I…I heard JJ tell Penelope she’s her best friend,” she says, scrunching her nose up as she says it outloud, her cheeks burning pink with the way it sounds. “It hurt more than I think it should,” she shrugs, “I feel stupid for being upset about it.” 

“It isn’t stupid, Em,” he says, reaching out to catch a tear that falls from her lashline before it can hit her cheek, “You’re allowed to be upset.”

She hums, “I don’t know, it feels selfish and juvenile,” she shakes her head at herself, “But the moment I heard it I felt like a teenager with no friends again, even though I’m in my mid 50s for fuck sake,” she looks down at their hands, embarrassed to say the next part out loud, “I guess I always thought I was their best friend too.” 

“You, Emily Prentiss-Hotchner, are the least selfish person I’ve ever met,” he says, his eyes soft when she smiles at the use of her married name, “And you know they both love you so much. Things are just hard right now, and it will all settle down in time,” he smiles at her in a way that never fails to make her stomach flip, “And in the meantime, if it helps, you’re my best friend.” 

It makes love swell in her chest, the admission somehow more powerful than an I love you would have been in that moment, and she leans forward to kiss him, her forehead against his when she pulls back.

“You’re my best friend, too.” She tries to breathe him in, but is met with the smell of burning instead. “Honey, the sauce-” 

He’s up and on his feet before she’s even finished talking, cursing as he lifts the pan off the burner, and the pure domesticity of it loosens the heaviness that had settled into her chest. She hears a familiar set of footsteps coming into the room, and she turns to look at Alice. 

“Hi sweetie,” she says, opening her arms up for a hug that her little girl immediately returns. “Did you enjoy your book?” 

“I finished it,” Alice replies as she pulls back to look at her, “I need a new one from the library tomorrow.” 

Emily chuckles and pushes Alice’s hair behind her ear, “I’m sure we can arrange that.” 

“Why don’t you two go sit in the living room?” Aaron suggests, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he looks at the ruined sauce, “I’ll try and rescue dinner.” 

Emily looks at Alice, “Does that sound good to you, sweet girl?” 

Alice nods enthusiastically and wraps both of her hands around one of Emily’s as she stands up. As soon as they are in the hallway, she stage whispers, purposely making sure Aaron hears her, “Do you think Daddy will order in pizza because he ruined dinner?” 

Emily laughs and winks at her daughter, “I think he might.”

When they sit on the couch, Alice settles against her side and rests her head on Emily’s shoulder so she can look up at her, “Mommy? Can I tell you a secret?” 

Emily nods, running her fingers through Alice’s hair again, mentally making a note that she and Oscar were likely overdue a haircut, “Anytime, baby. You know that.”

Alice looks over her shoulder to make sure they’re still alone and whispers for real this time, “You’re my best friend.”

It takes everything in her not to burst into tears, because she realises Alice must have heard some of her conversation with Aaron, and her sweet, beautiful, little girl was now doing her best to cheer her up. Emily smiles, desperately trying to hide the shake in it, and she kisses Alice’s forehead. 

“Can you keep a secret?” She says, matching Alice’s whisper, smiling when she looks up to see Aaron standing in the doorway with a pizza menu in his hand, and she winks at him, a silent acknowledgement that he was there, that this was a moment they were all sharing, before she looks back down at their little girl. She feels better than she has in weeks, lighter than she thought was possible in the fog of grief and sadness that had laid over them all since JJ had called about Will. It would take a long time to get back to normal, but this was a start, and a well-needed reminder that she wasn’t alone and that she never would be again.  “You’re my best friend, too.” 

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I miss the world being tactile. I miss pushing buttons. I miss switching over to your favorite radio station in the car without having to look, I miss punching in a customer’s phone number without having to look, I miss sending a sneaky text without having to look, I miss turning on my morning alarms without having to look… I miss pressing physical buttons for cash amounts and knowing that you did it correctly because you felt the correct release under your fingertips. I miss the satisfying clinks of my grandmother's 80's typewriter. I miss the crunching of gear mechanisms beneath the pads of my flesh. I miss the tick-tick-tick sensation. I don't want to touch and retouch a surface covered with the visible smears of thousands of fingerprints. I don't want to talk to my T.V. remote. I don't want a keypad to rise up as a smooth, steely reminder that our tools are losing the human feeling of texture, grit, and raw material. If I have to touch another screen I might die.

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Gwensday x

@theswordmaiden @weemssapphic @janewaykove

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Prentiss montage face 5 of 5

Completed piece Sunday x

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"When I coded in the ambulance, all I felt was cold and darkness. And I would like to think that there’s a different future waiting for me."

Sometimes I wonder if Emily still thinks about that, alone in her apartment, shadows crawling across the walls, silence pressing in.

If the words echo louder now, not in the chaos of the field but in the quiet she can’t outrun.

If she remembers that cold, that darkness, not just as a near death, but as a feeling that never really left.

And maybe she wonders too… if coming back meant survival, or just another kind of slow unraveling.

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🌟The belt🌟

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Emily Prentiss in s02e10. 

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Hey students, here’s a pro tip: do not write an email to your prof while you’re seriously sick.

Signed, a person who somehow came up with “dear hello, I am sick and not sure if I’ll be alive to come tomorrow and I’m sorry, best slutantions, [name]”.

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Witch reader who has the gift of seeing ghosts. Some spirits whoa re particularly stubborn dont pass on like theyre supposed to. Most of the time she ignores them becuse they're still freaking out over dying and... Well dealing with hysterical people all day would be awful. She starts her new job at nevermore (teacher or soemthing idk) and while meeting the new principle in her office she sees the old one. Leant agaisnt the desk rolling her eyes and commenting on everything the new lady is doing wrong. She accidentily laughs a few times and manages to play it off, unfortunatley Larissa is sure that reader can see her and takes it upon herself to annoy her until she acknowlages her.

Oh god hello, bet you don't even remember sending this request 😅 but I really loved it and wanted to write it even if it has been a while so here you go, and I really hope you enjoy it!

Falling Behind

Words: ~2.1k | ao3 link in title Tags/warnings: Larissa is dead/a ghost but it's a silly little fic I promise, also lots of flirting

Knock, knock. 

You rap your hand twice against the smooth oak of the door to the principal’s office. A ball of nerves tangles in your belly but you do your best to ignore it — you got the job, after all, and you’ve already technically ‘met’ the principal a few times via phone call. You’re just here to go over some of the details of the job before your official start date on Monday — standard procedure, nothing to be anxious about. You hear footsteps on the other side of the door and you try, subtly, to wipe the sweat from your palms on the back of your coat, which is already damp from the rain outside.

“Ah, hello, come in, come in. Welcome to Nevermore,” Principal Porter says as she swings the door open, giving you an easy smile and reaching out to shake your hand before stepping back and allowing you to step into the office. “Let me take your coat — it’s pouring outside, I hope the drive up here wasn’t too difficult. Would you like some tea?”

You smile gratefully as you step into the office and shrug off your coat. “Uh, no, thank you though.”

Your attention is momentarily diverted by a tall, blonde woman in a modest, cream-colored dress and kitten heels, perched at the edge of the principal’s desk. Her arms are crossed over her chest and she’s frowning at your feet. “What’s the use in oiling the floors if everyone is just going to track mud throughout the school?” She seems to be talking more to herself than to you, but you glance at your feet and find that, indeed, you’ve got a trail of dirt behind you, likely from walking up Nevermore’s gravelly drive. Your face grows hot with embarrassment.

“I’m so sorry,” you squeak out, glancing pleadingly at the blonde as you subtly shuffle around, as if that will help. 

“Sorry for what, dear?” Principal Porter asks — you frown in confusion. She’s smiling at you kindly, paying absolutely no mind to the woman perched on her desk, as if she hadn’t even heard her at all. 

“For, uh… for tracking all this dirt in.” You glance sheepishly at the blonde, who looks absolutely perplexed as she stares at you.

“Nonsense, dear, it’ll be easy to clean.” Principal Porter waves away your apology. “Please, have a seat at my desk. Excuse the mess, as you might remember from our calls this is my first semester here as well and I’m still getting sorted.”

You nod politely, shooting a furtive glance at the other woman, whose presence is all but ignored by Principal Porter. You remember what you’d read about the school’s former principal — the first one in Nevermore’s long and fascinating history to be murdered on school grounds. Apparently, finding a replacement after that incident had been rather difficult. 

The office is indeed still somewhat bare, the walls lined with half-unpacked boxes of paintings, trinkets, office supplies. The only furniture in the room is a rather modern looking desk with a glass top, a grey, ergonomic office chair on one side and a rather plain chair on the other side, and a somewhat uncomfortable-looking chaise longue in front of the fireplace. There’s a white filing cabinet behind the desk which has definitely seen better days. Principal Porter reaches into the top drawer and pulls out a manila folder, before taking a seat and gesturing for you to do the same.

Rummaging around in your bag, you prepare yourself by pulling out some signed paperwork that you’d been sent. 

“Oh, thank you,” Principal Porter says as you hand her the paperwork, taking a moment to leaf through it. “Now… where was that form regarding staff housing…” she mumbles — the woman perched beside her rolls her eyes and lets out a huff. 

“You’ve flicked past it twice,” she deadpans, clearly annoyed, and you suppress a chuckle. But Principal Porter doesn’t react and your suppressed smile turns into a frown. Who the fuck is this woman and why is Principal Porter acting like she’s not - oh. It finally dawns on you, and you can’t believe it’s taken you this long to piece it together.

The woman perched at the edge of the principal’s desk isn’t ‘real’ in the most accepted sense of the word — she’s a ghost. As a child, you learned early on that your special ability was seeing and communicating with the dearly departed. A week after your grandfather’s funeral, your mother found you, then only five years old, sitting at the kitchen table talking to yourself about something you’d drawn — though you recall your grandfather sitting beside you clear as day. 

It wasn’t until you got older that you were able to tell ghosts apart from their living counterparts more clearly, though on rare occasions you still found it a bit tricky as they appeared to you as solid, corporeal beings. It was usually the more stubborn spirits that got stuck in the mortal world, unable to fully pass on into the afterlife, and (as the mortal world was a sort of hell for most spirits) those who did get stuck here were usually in a full-blown panic. Easy to identify.

Unless you were actively involved in helping a spirit pass on, you tended to ignore them as you went about your day — it was easier that way because, usually, as soon as they realized you could see them, they would not leave you alone. And this one — the tall, statuesque blonde leant over Principal Porter’s head — has clearly realized that not only can you see and hear her, but you also seem to find her a bit funny, and she’s eyeing you with great interest.

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to ignore the way the woman’s eyes burn into your skull.

“Ah, here it is!” Principal Porter exclaims, abruptly bringing your attention back to the meeting as she stuffs your forms into the back of the envelope, pulls out another piece of paper and slides it towards you. “I’ve already sent this to your email last week but just in case, here’s a copy of your class schedule for this semester. You’ve got two planning periods, here,” she points to a space on Wednesday morning, “and here,” she points to a space on Thursday afternoon — the woman perched on her desk interrupts her.

“I’m sure the woman is old enough to read,” she snarks, and you let out a little snort.

“Pardon?” Principal Porter’s brows knit together in confusion. “Is something the matter?”

You frown. Your eyes dart to the other woman, but you quickly look away and shake your head, missing the smirk that forms on her face. “No, I’m sorry, everything’s alright.”

Unfazed, the principal continues with a shrug, explaining to you how office hours work at Nevermore, and you nod along politely. 

You find it hard to keep your eyes off the blonde, especially when she seems to get bored of Principal Porter droning on about your classes and decides to stand up and pace the length of the office, her heels loud against the hardwood floors.

Click. Click. Click. Click. 

“We have a small but reliable pool of substitute teachers, so if you–”

Click. Click. Click. Click. 

It’s damn near impossible to focus on a word that’s being said, almost all of your attention is on the rhythmic clicks of the woman’s kitten heels, and you’re starting to wonder if she’s trying to distract you on purpose. You can feel her presence behind you, the back and forth, the way the air stirs with her every step, all unbeknownst to your new boss.

“I’m afraid we’ve had to up the class sizes for our sorcery class this year, and you’ll have 35 students–”

You don’t catch the rest of the principal’s statement because the other woman has let out a loud sigh and started to complain. “Why don’t you tell her why–”

“... due to a shortage of staff…”

“Due to complete and utter mismanagement by the school board!” The woman rounds the desk again, coming into view.

Something about her irritation is endearing to you and your cheeks twitch as you hold back a smirk — rather unsuccessfully, as you can feel her eyes on you again.

“So you can see me,” she says, and you know without looking at her that she’s talking to you — you open your mouth to answer, then snap it shut again when you remember that, though you can see and hear her, the principal can’t. 

“You should tell Principal Porter,” the woman starts, the title spilling from her lips as though it's poison, “that her administrative skills leave as much to be desired as her taste in interior design.”

You let out a shocked laugh and Principal Porter wrinkles her nose. “Are you sure you’re alright, dear?”

You nod, stutter out another apology, and spend the rest of the meeting trying to tune out the woman’s comments.

After what feels like hours but is probably only about half an hour, you finally leave Principal Porter’s office with the keys to your new quarters in hand, insisting you’re fine to go check them out by yourself. You navigate the halls of the school, following the instructions your new boss had given you to get to the staff wing, and let yourself into your new living space for the school year. 

Your quarters are spacious but homey, and beautifully quiet after the last half hour of splitting your attention between two people, and you lean back against the door after closing it behind you, shutting your eyes and taking a deep breath.

“Welcome to Nevermore,” an oddly familiar voice purrs, and your eyes snap open as your heart leaps into your throat. 

“Jesus! You nearly gave me a heart attack!” You don’t miss the way the blonde’s lips curl into a smirk at your statement. “What the fuck are you doing in my room?”

She ignores your question. “Your application didn’t say that necromancy is your specialty.” Her voice is smooth like velvet and she’s batting her lashes at you, her eyes raking down your form. She’s incredibly alluring — even in death. “I don’t think we’ve ever had a necromancer on staff, it’s a pity, really, such a useful ability, don’t you think?”

“It’s a bit annoying, actually,” you retort with a frown, trying to piece together who the fuck this woman is. ‘We’ve’ never had a necromancer on staff…?

“I’ve been called many things but I think this may be the first time I’ve been called ‘annoying’, my dear.” She doesn’t sound upset about it, her voice is still sweet as honey and she takes a step towards you, towering over you.

“You’re… who are you?”

“Forgive me, it seems I haven’t formally introduced myself.” She stretches a hand out towards you — pale skin, perfectly manicured red fingernails adorning long, slender fingers, a heavy gold bracelet around her delicate wrist. “Larissa Weems.”

Larissa Weems. Weems…

Ah. It finally clicks for you, you’ve read that name before.

“You’re Nevermore’s former principal. The one who…” Your voice trails off, you feel a bit insensitive, but Larissa doesn’t seem bothered. She smirks.

“Died? Yes.”

You shake her hand. It’s cold, but it’s solid.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” You say it because you feel like you should, because you don’t know what else to say.

“The pleasure is all mine.” The way she says pleasure makes your mouth go dry.

“I couldn’t help but look over your resume,” she continues. “Quite an impressive background. I would have hired you, too.” Her voice drops an octave and her gaze travels down your body and your stomach does a backflip.

“Thank you,” you mumble, feeling your face grow warm in spite of yourself.

“I heard your voice during one of your interviews, the phone was on speaker. I thought you’d be beautiful, but it seems my expectations have been exceeded.” 

“Are you flirting with me?”

Larissa chuckles, her smirk widening. “Would that be so bad?” You can’t tell if she’s mocking you or not.

“You’re dead.” 

“And so bored, darling,” she drawls, making her way along the perimeter of your room, trailing her fingertips along the dresser against the wall, perching at the edge of the bed once she reaches it. She crosses her legs, those long legs, her skirt riding up a little, and gives you another once-over that sends a spark up your spine. “I have to admit it’s been a bit lonely these past few months… you’re the first person who’s been able to see me, you know.”

She’s dead. A ghost. She’s not ‘real’. You try to tell yourself that, but the trouble is that to you, she is real. She’s as real as anyone else and she’s sitting on your bed, giving you a look that makes you want to bury your head between her thighs. 

“Am I?” you ask, your heart in your throat as you take a step towards her — you can’t help yourself, she’s magnetic. She nods and blinks slowly, as if she has you right where she wants you, and maybe this is wrong but you don’t quite have it in you to care. 

She’s as real to you as anyone else, dead or alive, it’s all the same to you.

You cross the room to her.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

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courage, dear heart | e.p

Tags: established relationship (although reader isn't really in the fic), mom!emily, college graduate eloise, momily comfort, healthy dash of angst, lots of tears and lots of reassurances, no use of yn

Summary: Eloise comes back from college—adrift, spiraling, and slinking back into the safety of Emily's shadow. Emily helps her get things straight. Inspired by this ask.

Word count: 1.8k

Emily is not quite asleep when the door handle creaks. She expects the intruding figure to be Oliver, probably looking for a phone charger or a snack, but is surprised to see Eloise’s shorter silhouette against the hallway light. Emily perks up, her body half rising off the mattress on instinct.

“Sorry.” Eloise says, cringing as she shuts the door behind her. “Were you asleep? You got in not too long ago, I thought—”

“I was awake.” Her head meets the pillow again, her eyes tracking Eloise as she rounds the other side of the bed, void of your usual presence, and lifts the duvet up. “What’s up? You couldn’t sleep?”

Emily knows the restlessness that comes with moving house. Even if “moving house” is just going back from a college dorm room to the home you grew up in. Something changes, even though—in nearly every sense—nothing has. The puzzle pieces just don’t quite fit anymore; there’s a distinct discomfort lingering even when you come back to your childhood bedroom, squirming in your bed like maybe you’d outgrown it in an inch or two while you were gone. For Emily, there was never comfort at home, even before she left. Coming back after college only confirmed her need to break free, to leave the shackles of the embassy behind and go somewhere, anywhere, else. She knows that now, Eloise feels the same, a new version of her forced back into a house that’s gone virtually untouched by time.

Emily can only hope that, unlike for her, the feeling fades.

Even in the half light, Eloise’s smile is tight. “Didn’t try.” She says, sliding in and making the bed dip, her dark head nestling on your pillow. Emily waits as she situates herself, scooting closer and closer to her own pillow until the brown of Eloise’s eyes shines bitterly in the small lampshade light on her nightstand. 

It’s a color she’s not quite used to. There’s blue shadows pooling in her irises, deepening the brown to a murky black that reflects light all too easily. 

Emily hadn’t noticed it right away; it had taken time, over the course of the few days Eloise has been back, to notice the dullness that blunts her usually sharp edges. Her smile, the corners of her eyes, her wilting posture. It’s all been sanded down.

Emily is reaching for the messy hairs strewn across her face when Eloise slots her head under her jaw, arm wrapping around her, hand curling around her side.

Oh.

Eloise gets comfortable against her, lifting the duvet up to her shoulders, shifting her legs this way and that, movement rustling the bedsheets. Emily lets her wriggle. She’d never grown out of her restlessness, even while stagnant; she barely lets herself settle into a comfortable position before shifting again, curling and unfurling her limbs, turning from one side to the other. 

Finally she stills, a warm weight at Emily’s side. Emily’s lips curl as her own arm loops over to her daughter’s side, her hand smoothing down her back.

“Hey, bug.” 

Eloise huffs softly, a warm breath at Emily’s collarbone. “You used to call me that all the time,” she says, her voice small.

Emily hums, her heart glowing. “’Cause you were my cuddle bug.” She murmurs fondly, kissing Eloise’s forehead. “My cuddly girl. You hardly left me alone. Remember that?”

When she still had baby fat clinging to her limbs, when her cheeks were rounded and full and always turned to her mother’s lips for a kiss. Eloise’s home had, for a too-short while, always been in Emily’s shadow, in her arms. 

Now, back in them again, she’s quiet. Emily frowns. She’s idly playing with her daughter’s hair when she feels something hot slide across her skin. Then Eloise gasps, a choked sound, and Emily realizes they’re tears.

“Eloise,” she says, alarmed. “Honey, what—”

“I wanna go back.” Eloise cries. She fists Emily’s shirt, her sniffles muffled in the crook of her mother’s neck, “I wanna go back, Mom.”

“What, to when you’d followed me around? You can still do that, sweet girl.” It immediately feels like the wrong answer, the first one that presses itself onto her tongue. Twenty one years of parenting, and she still fumbles it sometimes. “I promise you can. Ollie does, and he’s fifteen. He wouldn’t know personal space if it was an inch from his face.” She rambles mindlessly, the words pressing up against her teeth.

Eloise doesn’t reply. Her chest heaves against Emily’s, shaking with barely suppressed sobs that echo in the quiet room, the weight of her gasps heavy in her throat. Emily automatically shushes her, dry-mouthed as she rubs between her shoulder blades.

She wants to go back. 

Go back where? College? The Europe trip she just came back from? Away from home?

Emily swallows thickly. “El, baby, talk to me. Please. What is it? Where do you want to go back to?” She coaxes her up and away from her neck, heart aching as she wipes the hot tears on her cheeks.

Eloise’s face crumples. She leans into Emily’s palm, more tears dripping off her chin before they can be dried away. “To when I didn’t have to know what to do.” Her voice cracks, splintering off in the silence. “I don’t know what to do, Mom. I don’t know what I want or what I should do with my life. I thought I knew,” she sniffles, roughly wiping at her nose, “but I don’t. I don’t know anything. I thought—I thought I’d have it figured out by now, why don’t I?”

The corner of her mouth pinches like yours does when you’re trying to stop it from trembling. Emily’s heart twists—at your absence, at your daughter’s helplessness. She knows firsthand what that helplessness tastes like, how it feels to be tethered in place, cold shackles around her wrists dragging her down.

Her hand dampens as she gently swipes it along Eloise’s cheek, drying her tears. “Baby, you just graduated.” She says quietly. “You’re not supposed to know anything.”

Eloise shakes her head. Her nose is cherry red, lashes glinting with hot salt. “Everyone else does.” She whispers. “A-All of my friends, the people in my classes. Everyone knows except me.” Her voice pitches higher again, trailing into a half sob.

“So what if they do?” Emily persists. “That’s good for them. You’re not in any rush, Eloise.”

She shakes her head again, staunchly. “Why do they know?” The question is so fragile it nearly breaks her. Her eyes are saucer-wide and suddenly she’s five years old again, wondering why it is her mom couldn’t make it to her preschool graduation. “I loved studying and going to class. My professors said”—a sad huff parts her lips and Emily already knows, her professors said she had potential—“they said I was good, Mom. Promising.” 

The word shatters, and so does she. Eloise leans back, letting Emily’s hand fall, her own fists digging into her eyes. She curls in on herself, her normally pushed back shoulders collapsing into her chest. 

“Why don’t I know and everyone else does?” She rasps, the whisper compacting into a bullet that strikes Emily’s heart front and center. It starts to bleed, dark red streams pouring outward, dripping onto her ribcage.

Eloise’s dark hair shields her face. With her head bowed, knuckles poking sharply through her skin, Emily is looking into a mirror. A mirror, thirty something years ago, cracked in all the same places.

“Because you’re like me.” She finally says. “I didn’t know, either.”

Eloise lifts her head. She blinks her bloodshot eyes, pinning some of her hair behind her ear. “Really?” She whispers.

Emily nods, a sad smile tugging at her mouth. 

“But you know everything.”

She laughs softly. “El, honey, I was a kid too, once.” And a major fuckup for that matter. “I was clueless for longer than your grandma would’ve liked. I was good at the studying, and I loved college life. My major was fun.” She shrugs one shoulder. “But the moment I got my degree in hand it’s kind of like…everything stopped. I didn’t know what then.”

Eloise swipes under her eyes. Emily hands her a tissue. “What did you do?” She asks, shuffling back to her side. Her head returns to Emily’s shoulder; the breath somewhat returns to Emily’s lungs.

“I gave myself the time I knew I needed. You can imagine that wasn’t easy.” Eloise laughs wetly. Emily’s lips twitch; she shares her impatience. “But when I did, I realized I wanted to get my masters. I know you’re looking for a straight answer here, but there just isn’t one. It’s different for everyone, and you’re in no rush to figure it out. I know,” she murmurs, leaning back to look at her, “you’re restless, like me. You don’t like to sit still. But you’re gonna have to. You have to sit still and think and try new things and open yourself up to all kinds of different opportunities. But you don’t have to figure it all out by tomorrow.” Emily cups her cheek, her thumb sweeping across tacky skin. “You have so much time, baby.”

Eloise’s lashes flutter. The glaze returns to her eyes, but it stays contained this time; the tears don’t spill out. Emily lets out a breath and brings her into her chest for a lopsided, awkward hug, surrounded by pillows and limbs and foamy mattress. She squeezes and Eloise squeezes right back, exhaling shallowly into her collarbone.

“You’re twenty one.” Emily kisses her daughter’s forehead. “You have your whole life ahead of you.”

Eloise loosens all of a sudden, tension uncoiling like a spring. Her eyes meet Emily’s, once again childlike.

“You’re not…disappointed?”

“That you don’t have your life figured out fresh out of college?” Emily strokes her hair. “No, Eloise, I’m not disappointed. Quite the opposite—I’m so proud of you.” Emotion clogs her throat, a heavy lump settling there and numbing her tongue. Emily kisses her forehead again, again, still not quite able to believe that this is the same little girl who used to never leave her side. 

“You’re just like me, El, but you’re so much better. You’re everything I did right.”

Eloise shakes her head firmly, her mouth pressed in an all too familiar line. “I’m not better than you, Mom. Don’t say that.”

Warmth swells in her chest. She’s made of salt and heat and pride, her mouth twitching equally against both tears and a smile.

“Shh.” Emily stamps a kiss on her forehead. “Don’t argue with me. Mother knows best.”

It clicks after a second and they both laugh, a little damp, a lot shaky. Eloise sniffles after their laughter dies out, her arms tight again around Emily’s back.

“I love you, Mommy.” She whispers, the words breaking cleanly in the middle.

Emily knows her voice will bear the same crack before she even responds. 

“I love you too, bug.”

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Prentiss montage face 4 of 5

Completed piece coming on SUNDAY x

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Tuesday art!