#growing onto him again after years of detachment

[simptea]

new brush render test . wip

[ohwowimlonley]

The Monster’s Gone (He’s on the Run) - Spencer Reid

Summary - a night in with your boyfriend of four months leads to some disturbing secrets being spilled

Word Count - 3862

Warnings - angst angst angst, kind of graphic depictions of trauma, past non-con, supportive spencer, so much crying, making out, the beginning of smut, nudity, self-sabotage, blowjobs (kinda)

A small note - the backstory for this is based on my own personal experience so pls be kind when commenting/reblogging

Your boyfriend is perceptive by nature, not by training. He knows what he does not because he spent years studying (though it did help), but because it is impossible for him to walk into a room without noticing everything, and drawing to his own conclusions. Some might call this tedious, or difficult to live with, but this is your Spencer, and there isn’t anything you find tedious about him.

It is because of his perceptive nature that you’re forced to tell him the truth about yourself.

It’s a Thursday afternoon, just past four o’clock, but you’re already curled up in bed with Spencer because he’s just come home after a week away on a case and neither of you have a clue when he’ll be called away again. One of his old French movies is droning on in the corner of the room, but you’re not looking at it. You’re looking at your Spencer; at his barely stubbly jaw, his hair that's just beginning to curl at the ends, the way his lips move in sync with the words the actors speak on the screen.

“Did you know that in the original script-” you cut off his attempt at speaking by landing a rather forceful kiss on his chapped lips as he drew a deep breath in. It takes him by surprise, but it isn’t more than a few seconds before both of his hands are coming up to cup at your jaw and his tongue is pushing against your lips. You graciously let him in, manoeuvring one of your hands to tangle through your boyfriend’s unbrushed locks, pulling ever so gently and coaxing a whine out of his mouth.

The two of you remain like that for a few blissful minutes, breathing in each other’s air and tasting each other’s tongues. Eventually, you give in to your body’s desires and begin rolling your hips against his. Spencer stifles a gasp against your exposed neck and moves one of his hands down to grip at your waist, not harsh enough to bruise but enough to know that he’s there through the haze of your mind.

Again, these small ministrations carry on for the next few minutes, just the two of you in your own little bubble, safe from everything else in the world.

Eventually, Spencer grows more frantic, and so do you, chasing the friction his plaid pyjama bottoms give you, rubbing up against your cotton shorts and pressing against you just right. Your lips detach from one another, and you’re left panting into one another’s open mouths, grinning madly. What changes the whole ordeal for you is when Spencer begins pushing you by the shoulders, just gently, but you still find yourself sliding down, down the mattress until you’re surrounded by the long kicked away duvet between his knees and you’re face to face with a very obvious bulge. In the heat of the moment, Spencer must mistake your wide eyes for surprise at his size (which, in all honesty, is fairly impressive) and your quickened breathing in response to the intense make out from not seconds before. But neither of those things are true. You’re trapped in a whole other world.

“Down,” it’s gruff, and the hand shoving at your shoulder feels almost identical to Spencer’s. This time, however, you voice your concerns as soon as they arise.

“Gentle,” you remind him. It doesn’t work.

“Oh calm down, it’s not that bad,” and then he’s quiet, just the sound of his fly unzipping and then a choked gasp coming from your lips as he shoves his cock between them.

“Honey?” Spencer clocks onto something this time, but you’re already pushing it from the forefront of your mind. It’s not that bad, you remind yourself. You just shake your head with what you hope looks like a genuine smile, and busy your fingers by working on pulling his trousers down. Maybe, maybe if you do it this once, with Spencer, then it will all get better. You can trust your spencer.

And again, it’s okay for the first few minutes. You go through the motions, not entirely present but not completely gone. You find yourself wishing you could stop, but in that very same moment, Spencer is gripping at your hair and tugging you further down onto himself and all of a sudden, you’re right back there.

You try to pull back, desperate to relieve the sudden pressure against the back of your throat, but his hands keep you in place. In a bid to get his attention, you cover one of his hands with yours, but he doesn’t budge, not even when you dig your nails in. He just chases his high faster and faster, bucking up into the back of your throat. Maybe he just didn’t hear you, or maybe that’s just what you tell yourself to stay sane. But there’s no way he didn’t notice the tears dripping from your cheeks onto his body.

You’re pulled back to the present by a particularly harsh pull on your hair and a brushing of his tip against the back of your throat that has you gagging harshly and pulling away with as much strength as you can muster. Tears, the same tears as that night, fall in rivulets down your cheeks, welling your neck and falling all the way down to the hair at the base of your neck and the dips of your collar bones.

Distantly, you can hear Spencer calling your name, but you’ve gone numb. Everything is numb. Your ears are buzzing. Your fingers feel like strange entities attached to you. A pair of soft hands wrap around your wrists, and it’s only now that you realise you’ve been tugging on the roots of your hair. You squeeze your eyes closed as tight as you can, saving yourself from the disappointed gaze you just know Spencer is casting in your direction. Please don’t say anything, please don’t say anything, please don’t say anything.

“Honey?” Fuck. You keep your eyes closed, praying that he might just leave you alone. No such luck, “honey, I think you’re having a panic attack, is there any way that I can help you?”

Help you? You expect him to shout at you, maybe storm off into the next room as a punishment for ruining his orgasm, not to be so gentle. You take in a deep shuddering breath and blink your eyes open cautiously, immediately averting your eyeline from your boyfriend’s, shrinking away from his grip on your wrists, and he lets you do so without complaint.

“Okay, no touching,” out of the corner of your eye, you can see him nodding to himself, pulling himself further from you, but not so far that you can’t reach for him if you want to. He lets you breathe for a moment, reminding you gently every time it’s needed to stop pulling at your hair with a quiet but reassuring quip of ‘hands, sweetheart’.

“Clean,” you need to feel clean again. You don’t realise you’d said it out loud until Spencer stands up and offers a hand to you. It lingers in the air between you, and it’s clear he isn’t forcing you to take it. Still, you just avert your eyes again, tears falling faster than a waterfall and your ribs begin aching with the effort to keep breathing.

“That’s okay, honey,” he drops his arm without complaint, but you still flinch at the sound of his arm slapping back against his chest, “do you think you can follow me to the bathroom?”

You nod, and keep nodding even as you stand up because the repetitive motion is comforting even if it’s making your head throb and your vision unusable. You follow Spencer's feet as you trudge to the bathroom, only just registering the fact he’s gone soft again and is hidden back away in his pyjamas.

He pulls on the string to click the bathroom, and suddenly you’re both bathed in fluorescent yellow light, and you’re pinching back a wince at the sudden brightness. Spencer seats himself on the side of the bath, looking up at you without expecting you to look back.

“Do you want me to turn the shower on, or would you like to use the sink?” He points to each of them, speaking slowly so you can understand through your heaving breaths. You raise a shaking, tentative hand and point in the direction of the shower, to which Spencer beams with pride, “well done, honey. Do you want me to make it how you like it?”

You think for a moment, before shaking your head with closed eyes, “cold,”

“Cold? You’re cold, sweetheart?” A gentle sob lets him know that he isn’t correct, “you want the shower cold?”

You neither nod nor shake your head, but your crying decreases in volume just enough so that Spencer knows he’s correct. You take the next few minutes to try your hardest to bring your breathing back to normal, inhaling the pleasant scent of one of your shower melts dissolving as your boyfriend fiddled about with the temperature.

“Okay, honey, this is all ready for you. Do you need my help in there or would you like to be alone,” you indicate the latter, and he nods, “that’s okay, I’ll be just outside that door if you need me, do you want me to help you get undressed before I go?”

You contemplate your shaking hands. Would they be strong enough to pull the suddenly very heavy fabric of his hoodie over your head? Before you work yourself up too much, you give him a shaky, somewhat aggressive nod and hold your arms up in the air. It takes him a few minutes to completely undress you, pausing after removing each article to ensure you’re okay. When you’re eventually nude in front of him, his gaze doesn’t drop from your eyes. Logically, you should know that he’s doing it to ensure you feel safe in his presence, but all your panic-warped brain can comprehend is that you can’t suck your boyfriend’s dick without crying and now he won’t even look at you naked.

“Do you want me to leave you alone?” His soft, somewhat unsure voice brings you back to semi-lucidity. You’re not quite able to choke back the chest bursting sub that rips from your throat at the thought of him leaving you. You squeeze your eyes shut and clamp a hand over your mouth in the hopes of quelling your embarrassment even by just the smallest bit.

Your knees buckle under the weight of your anxiety and you have to grip onto the porcelain of the bathtub next to Spencer’s thigh to keep from falling over.

It’s clear to you he doesn’t know what to do; his hands splaying across the lip of the bathtub, as if he’s about to stand, but he doesn’t, and his mouth gapes as if he’s about to whisper reassurances in your ear, but his voice fails him. He’s stuck, waiting for you to give him the smallest indication of what to do, what to say.

His prayers are answered seconds later with a bruising grip on his bicep, your eyes wide and shining with tears as you finally, finally make eye contact with him, and Spencer can physically feel his heart shatter with your next words.

“P- please don’t leave me, I can- I can do it better I promise, just let me try it again, I won’t- won’t mess up this time, just don’t leave me,” you wail up at him desperately, forcing your way down onto your knees and taking advantage of Spencer’s momentary shock to push his pyjama pants down to his knees and grasp at his now soft cock, “please, I can do it,”

“Oh,” he doesn’t quite manage to blink away his tears this time, and a droplet of his sadness lands on your cheek. You look up at him, and he crouches down to your level tucking himself away again despite your protests. His knees hit the floor just in front of yours and he reaches up gently to cup your chin in his hands, “honey I want you to listen to me, really listen to me, okay?”

You hiccup your way through a nod.

“You don’t- you don’t ever, ever have to do that again, okay?” His eyes bore into yours, nodding along to his own words, “whoever made you think that way was wrong, and I will tell you everyday for the rest of my life if I have to. I will never let anyone hurt you like that again, okay? You’re safe with me, and you can always tell me no,”

“But- but what if-“ you choke down a sob, but Spencer brushes a calloused thumb over your cheekbone, shushing you ever so gently.

“No, baby, no what ifs,” he says it with a finality that has you biting down on your bottom lip and jerking your head up and down, but your boyfriend must tell from your face that you’re not totally absorbing the words coming out of his mouth, “okay sweetness, let’s talk about this later, you wanna get in the shower now?”

“Hmph,” is your only reply, and you’re glad Spencer’s so good at reading your face because he helps you stand up and hook your legs over the lip of the bath.

“Okay, I’ll wait right out here and you can take a minute to yourself,” he seats himself on the closed lid of the toilet, and keeps his eyes a polite distance away from your body as you step under the cold spray of the shower.

The shock of the cold spray forces you to draw in a deep breath, not quite stopping your hyperventilation but drawing it out enough so that your head stops spinning. You try not to think about it before sticking your head underneath the waterfall of ice cold water.

You close your eyes and press the heel of your hand to your sternum, hearing your heart rate gradually slow its pulsating in your ears. You’re face-first in the spray, but you make no effort to angle your head upwards, allowing the hair at the crown of your head drip frigid droplets of water down your nose and onto your chin.

Over the roar of the rushing water, you are only just able to hear the soft sounds of Spencer sniffling. You can’t bring yourself to look over, knowing that he’s crying over you, all because you can’t buck up and be a good girlfriend.

The next few minutes pass in relative silence, with you trying to ignore the concealed sounds of Spencer crying for the sake of your own sanity and him keeping a dillengent eye on you as you scrub your entire body clean of any evidence from the night's activities. When the time finally comes to turn off the water and step out, you find yourself keeping eye contact with your feet.

Before you’re even able to think of getting the towel off the hook next to you, it’s already been wrapped around you and you’re being lifted from the tub by Spencer. Wordlessly, he guides you back into his bedroom, hands hovering awkwardly around your waist, still unsure as to if you’d react badly to him touching you. He gets you sat down and sets about finding you some clothes. He holds up a pair of boxers to himself, then shakes his head and snatches up a set of grey sweatpants and one of his silly little casual shirts with a slogan akin to one you’d see in a Spiderman movie.

“Arms up for me, sweetness,” he gives the lightest tap to your elbow, prompting you to hold your arms aloft so he can cover you up, then allow your arms to drop down, dead from their lack of blood, “that’s it, can you budge your hips for me?”

You try your absolute hardest to lift your bum from the fitted sheet, but you only have so much strength left, and it’s only half a second before you slump back down again, but in that time he had managed to wrench the fabric properly onto you. You let out another sob; Spencer had to do everything for you. When would he realise that it isn’t worth his time?

“There we go,” he smiles, but his eyes are rimmed with fire, so you simply can't remove the trembling frown ingrained on your face. Spencer looks up at you, and his own frown takes over, “do you wanna tell me about it?”

You take a sharp breath in, and Spencer backtracks quickly, “y-you don’t have to, why don’t you go to sleep? I’ll go on the couch tonight, if you want. Whatever you want, I-I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to,”

“Will you lay with me?” You slump down on his bed as you say it, paying no mind to the fact that you’re on his side of the bed. You’ve gone numb. No longer are you sobbing or choking on tears. Still, though, hot streams of liquid sadness stream down your cheeks as you rest your face on your boyfriend’s memory foam pillow.

Spencer shuffles across the room, swiping at his face to clear it of its fog as you kick at the duvet until you’re able to wriggle under. He joins you, and a dull throb of sadness aches in your heart when you realise he’s nervous to get into his own bed. He’s facing you, but not touching you, letting you keep as much distance as you want but not expressly requesting it.

“Are we going to sleep, or are we just going to calm down?” It’s a fair question, in all honesty; he’s been on a case the last few days so he’s had even less sleep than usual, he fears that if he allows himself to relax too much, he’ll fall asleep while you’re working up the courage to speak. He’s never had an issue with waiting for you to gather your words; he loves being a person you feel safe enough to really speak your mind to.

You don’t answer verbally yet again, just reach a hand back and open your palm towards Spencer as an invitation for him to hold it. He does, and waits patiently. Minutes pass, then maybe half an hour, all the while Spencer is smoothing his thumb across the back of your hand, never attempting to do anything more.

Another ten or so minutes pass before you turn in his direction and slip into his arms, silently, slowly. He allows you to settle in before wrapping his arms around you, loosely so as not to restrict you. Still, he doesn’t push you into talking.

“It wasn’t,” your throat is hoarse, and you have to clear it before continuing, “it wasn’t what you’re thinking. I wasn’t, like, raped,”

Just the word has Spencer gripping you tighter, but still he just lets you speak.

“I mean- I could’ve said no, and, and it was just my mouth, so it’s not that bad,” you reason, “like, he was my boyfriend, and he was nice to me, so it was kinda my job to do it. I just, I think maybe I didn’t like it when he was rough with me, maybe that’s why I freaked out. I’m sorry, I’ll do better next time,”

He waits for a moment, to be sure you’re finished talking before he responds, “oh, honey,”

It isn’t condescending, the way he speaks to you; it’s as if it physically hurts him to hear your perspective. His voice is thick with something a more talented profiler than you would call grief. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself before he continues, “I can go the rest of my life without ever needing you to do that for me,”

You eye him sceptically, but he continues without acknowledging it, “as far as I’m concerned, we never have to have sex. Not ever. Not if it makes you think of that, not if you think it’s something you should do,”

“But Spence-“

“No, no buts,” he asserts, followed by an apologetic, “sorry for interrupting, sweetheart, but I just don’t want to ever put you in that position again. That was scary,”

“I’m sorry Spence,” you can’t look at him directly in the eye, so you squeeze his bicep to let him know you’re being genuine, “I thought I would be okay, cos I was with you ‘n all, but then all of a sudden I couldn’t breathe and- and,”

You’re starting to get worked up again, so Spencer strokes between your shoulder blades, tracing along your spine as you recuperate.

“It’s not- I’m not afraid of you, Spencer, I don’t actually think you’d hurt me, I just couldn’t get that to stick in my stupid brain,” you bury your nose in his armpit, curling your arms around him and sighing as you finish speaking.

“Your brain isn’t being stupid,” he points out, in such a very Spencer way that you simply can’t stop yourself from smiling, “your brain is trying to protect you from suffering another traumatic event. Your brain just can’t tell the difference between someone you trust and someone you don’t, so it has the same base reaction and floods your system with adrenaline and cortisol, forcing you into a panic attack,”

You don’t really have the energy to respond to him any more, your panic attack combined with your boyfriend's soft-toned explanation has you yawning into his bare skin and moulding your body into his.

Spencer, noticing this, smiles to himself and presses a kiss to your head, “go to sleep, honey. We can talk more in the morning, if you want,”

You press your lips lazily to whatever patch of Spencer’s skin is closest to you and resign yourself to sleep, lulled into unconsciousness by the steady rhythm of your boyfriend's heart, and the never ending stroke of his three middle fingers between your shoulder blades.

Cm taglist - @mellozhi @aar-0n @spencereidapologist @halamet-chalamet @lubunnii

[luvhughes43]

the first day blues | dad!quinn hughes

luvhughes43 masterlist🌙

request: can you do a dad quinn about his baby going to like preschool for the first time and they’re both sad and scared 

word count: 0.9k

“quinn dont cry! you’ll make me cry!” your voice comes out high-pitched as you tearfully watch your baby put on her little book bag for the first time. 

quinn sniffles quietly as he adjusts the bag's straps to fit his baby girl. he looks up at you after he’s done, and he makes no attempts to hide his teary eyes as he knew you were feeling the same.

“she's growing up so fast,” quinns voice is soft in contrast to the enthusiastic tone of your 4 year old. 

“i go to school now!” the girl was excited, definitely getting her love of school from her mother. quinns eyes immediately find yours before putting a brave face on for his daughter. 

“yes baby, mommy and i are going to take you to school” he kneels down in front of his daughter again, who immediately jumps into his arms. 

the drive to the school was way too short, and soon enough you and quinn were dropping your first baby off at school. 

the two of you walked your daughter to the classroom, who was immediately getting acquainted with all of her new school friends. 

“well at least we know she’ll have fun?” you try to lighten the mood but quinn wasn’t feeling it. 

“it's just so…” quinn wipes a stray tear away with his thumb. “she's my little girl.. i don't want her to grow up yet..” 

you place your hand on your husband's back, rubbing up and down to try and soothe him. you weren’t thrilled for your daughter to start school either, but you knew that once everything settled everything would be okay. 

after another few minutes of observing the classroom and making small talk with the other parents, you started preparing to go home. 

“DADDY!” your daughter screamed as soon as she spotted your retreating figures leaving the classroom. quinn turned back, kneeling down so he could talk to his daughter properly. 

she ran up to him, giving him a huge hug. “where are you going?” she whines, grabbing hold of her fathers hand and tugging on it. 

“mommy and i are going home,” quinn explains softly to the teary eyed pre-schooler. 

“no!” your daughter whined loudly, tugging on both yours and quinns heartstrings. “whos going to play with me?” her eyes were teary as she tugged on her fathers hands. 

“all of your new friends!” you coo, kneeling down next to quinn as his eyes started getting watery as well. 

“but i wanna play with daddy!” the girl cries. “Its daddy day! he's home!” your daughter sniffled, referring to the days quinn had off from work. 

“i’ll be home when you get back from school,” quinn tries to reassure his daughter despite also feeling upset about her having to stay at school. 

your daughter swiftly shakes her head as she starts climbing up quinn. she wrapped her tiny arms around his neck and buried her face into his shoulder. quinns arms immediately encircled his daughter. “i dont want you to go” the little girl whispers to quinn who tries his hardest not to break down then and there. 

“i don't want to go either princess,” quinn starts. he looks to you for reassurance and you nod for him to continue. “but, you're going to have so much fun at school! you're going to make friends and..”

“but i already have friends!” 

“you're going to make more friends, and guess what!” quinn pulls slightly away from his daughter so she could see the excitement plastered onto his face.

“..what” she responds wearily. 

“you're going to do crafts! and remember outside? there's a park and you'll get to play on it!” quinn starts listing off things that he remembered your daughter was excited about. 

your daughter slowly detaches herself from quinn and moves to give you a hug as well. “mommy..”

“yes baby?” you give your daughter a hug while quinn collects himself. 

“you're gonna pick me up from school?”

you tuck a strand of your daughter's hair behind her ear and hum. “mhm, daddy and i will be waiting here for you as soon as schools over!” your daughter looks apprehensive but nods nonetheless. 

“and we get ice cream?” you had to stifle your laugh at your daughter's words. of course she would ask for ice cream less than a minute after crying about not wanting to go to school.

“we can get ice cream” quinn says as he stands up from his position on the ground. your daughter smiles, rushing over to quinn and hugging his legs. 

“hello my friend! are you ready for school?” a polite looking woman steps out of the classroom to greet your daughter. your daughter looks at both you and quinn, before nodding shyly. 

“do you want to see the colouring station!” the teacher's voice is cheerful as she tries to transition your baby's sadness into excitement for school. once again, your daughter nods. 

the teacher walks your girl into the classroom and points her to the colouring tables. you and quinn watch for a moment in the doorway similar to a lot of first time parents who were also lingering in case their child needed them. 

“bye mommy! bye daddy!” your daughter waves happily as she grabs hold of a colouring book and some crayons. you and quinn wave back with smiles on your faces, happy to know that your daughter would have a good time at school. 

[gloomwitchwrites]

Burnt Bread

Éomer x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: fluff, physical & emotional hurt/comfort, family issues, established relationship, alcohol

Word Count: 2.4k

After being left to fend for yourself in your father's bakery, you end up making a massive mistake that earns his ire. Fleeing, you find comfort with the one person who you're utterly safe with.

A/N: Dedicated to @firelightinferno

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist

“I’m leaving. Watch the shop.”

You glance up from the sticky dough beneath your hands and find your father near the door. He sways on his feet slightly as he attempts to tug on his coat. “I’m leaving” is just another way of telling you that he’s off to drink, and by the look and smell of him, he’s already started for the day.

It wasn’t always like this, and it’s only become worse over the years. Following your mother’s death, your father’s reliance on mead has become a crutch, a vessel for his loneliness. It doesn’t matter that you are alive and here for him.

While you don’t entirely resent him for falling into this state, the frequency of it does worry you. Worse, it’s driving a wedge in your relationship with him. He’s becoming distant and detached. His frequent disappearances leave you alone to take care of the shop and everything that goes along with it. It’s not difficult, and you enjoy the work, but when the shop is busy, you can’t always keep an eye on things.

You’re starting to grow tired of this, and you don’t want to feel resentful of your father. You’ve always loved him, even on the days when he comes home stumbling.

“For how long?” you ask flatly, trying not to sound upset that he’s departing yet again. This is the fifth day in a row your father has left the shop in the morning to drink. You fail, a little indignation creeping into your tone.

Your father hears it because he scowls in your direction. “Don’t know,” he mutters, as he teeters toward the door.

There is no final goodbye or backward glance. The shop door slams shut, and tears begin to form in the lower lids of your eyes. Brushing them away with the back of your hand only dusts your cheeks with floor.

This constant distance is tiring.

Putting all your frustration into kneading the dough on the table, a little bit of that steam begins to cool. Once you’ve had enough, and your arms ache, you cut and shape the dough, setting it aside to rise.

The bell above the door rings as the first customer of the day steps inside. And then it begins.

This is why you miss your father in the mornings. Everyone loves seeing your face. They appreciate your kind smile and helpful attitude. Most days, your father is nursing a hangover and keeps to himself, leaving you to take care of everyone that walks in. But without him, you’ll need to do both.

The front of the shop quickly packs with people. You’re so busy taking orders and wrapping bundles of freshly baked bread, that at first you don’t smell the slight hint of char in the air. It’s only when you finish helping a customer that you catch a whiff of it.

The older woman’s nose crinkles in confusion, and while she says nothing, her reaction gives you pause. Inhaling, you consider the scents in the shop, grouping them into different categories. There’s sugar, butter, and—

Your eyes widen, and then you’re rushing to the large stone oven at the back of the shop. “Oh no. No no no no.” Grabbing the large, wood paddle off the wall, you hurriedly scoop up and toss the bread onto the nearby table.

Some are perfectly toasted but others, like the ones closest to the fire, are charcoal. You slide the paddle in and retrieve a loaf that is entirely on fire. In your surprise, the paddle and bread fall to the floor.

They both clatter loudly and you drop to your knees, using your apron to smother the burning bread. The tears fall easily, and the heat from the apron is hot and irritating, but you put it out. You’re so absorbed in trying to salvage what you can, that you don’t realize where the wide part of the paddle is.

Your hand goes out and connects with it. You jump back with a light cry, cradling your palm. The paddle is wood and not metal, which is some comfort, but your left hand is throbbing.

The bell above the door rings, and you glance up, eyes wide and frightened like a deer.

“What is this?” comes the sneering voice.

Your father is back, and you can smell the sourness from here. He half-sways, half-limps around the counter to where you’re kneeling. His pupils are wide, and he has to lean on the countertop for support. That yellow gaze roams over you, to the burnt bread on the floor, and then back to you again.

“You stupid girl,” he whispers. Then, much louder. “You stupid stupid girl!”

This is the part of him you dislike the most. When he’s deep in his cups, all kindness is gone.

“I’m so sorry, father. We were busy and I didn’t realize—”

“Do you know how much you’ve cost us? This is two dozen loaves.” He picks one up and throws it at your face. His aim is terrible and completely off. All you have to do is bend a bit and it sails right over your head.

“Father—”

“Do you do this to me on purpose?”

“Father. Please—”

“Every day I have to look upon your face and see your mother. A daily reminder that she is gone!”

“Please,” you beg softly, staring down at your hands.

“Get out!”

You bolt up and rush out the door, nearly knocking over an elderly woman about to walk inside. You run and run until you pass through the gates of Edoras, stopping only when you make it to the burial mounds of the kings. You fall to your knees and then onto your back, staring up into the sky.

It’s morning, but overcast, the clouds a stormy gray like they’re ready to cry and join you in your sorrow.

There is only one person who could give you comfort, but he is not here. He is gone, expected back today but you’re not sure when. Even if you were to wait for him, you’re in no state to greet him. Éomer should see you happy when he returns, not tear-stained.

No one holds vigil at the burial mounds. This will be your respite. This will be your chance to slow your racing heart and dry your eyes. Once you’re calm, once you’re no longer wishing to flee from this place, you’ll hold vigil at the gates until Éomer arrives. Going back to the shop to face your father is out of the question.

The grass is a soft bed beneath you. Closing your eyes, you press your hands against the earth, splaying your fingers wide, focusing on the individual blades of grass under your palms. This will be your anchor until you can find a bit of peace.

“What are you doing on the ground?”

Your eyes snap open and you turn your head to the right, meeting the amused smile of the man you love.

“Éomer,” you breathe, sitting up to grab at the front of his leather armor. It doesn’t matter that your hands sting, you pull him down onto you wanting his closeness.

His gentle laugh is perfect, and when your mouths meet, everything slips away. Éomer settles between your legs, his forearm resting by your head while his other hand reaches back to grab. He meets bare thigh, and the contact is exactly what you need.

Éomer is real and whole and with you.

The kisses that start with soft excitement quickly become deep and heated. There is a slight harsh bite to his breathing as the two of you presses closer. Your hands slide up to wrap around the back of his neck, but as they crest over the lip of his armor, the tender flesh on your palm screams out.

Hissing, you draw back, clutching at your hand.

Éomer stills and then pulls away from your lips. His head tips downward, glimpsing the burn before you can hide it from view.

“What happened?” he asks, his tone tipping toward concern.

“It’s nothing,” you murmur, as the memory of your father comes roaring back.

“It’s not nothing,” he replies firmly, his brow creasing. “Show me.”

Slowly, you unfurl your fingers, revealing your palm. Of everyone in your life, Éomer is the safest.

Éomer’s mouth forms into a deep frown as he clutches your wrist, drawing your hand closer to his face as he inspects the burn. “Did someone do this to you?”

You shake your head. “No. Just grabbed some hot bread. That’s all.”

Éomer sees right through you. “You’ve been crying.”

“It hurts.”

Éomer sighs, gently guiding your hand down to your chest. When he releases your wrist, Éomer reaches out to trace the backs of his knuckles against your cheekbone. “You can tell me if it was your father.”

When the tears start to accumulate in your eyes again, Éomer leans in and lowers his voice. “Did he hurt you?”

You shake your head. “Not with his fists.”

Éomer’s exhalation is shaky, like he’s trying to calm his own anger. “You’re coming with me.”

“Éomer—”

“You are coming with me,” he repeats. “We will talk, and I will tend to these burns.” When you open your mouth to argue, Éomer shakes his head. “Don’t be stubborn.”

He slowly sits back on his heels and helps you come to sitting. Then he’s on his feet, bringing you with him. Éomer;s horse, Firefoot, grazes nearby.

Éomer’s hands lightly brush away the blades of grass that cling to your skirts. “Would you like to walk or ride back?”

You love Firefoot dearly, but you’d rather take your time arriving to Edoras’ gates. You’re still not calm, and a slow walk with Éomer at your side might just help you find some peace.

“Could we walk?”

He nods. “If that is what you wish.”

Éomer leads Firefoot by the bridle with one hand, and with the other, he clasps yours. He does not push or dig around, but instead moves at the pace you set. Éomer knows your signals without you having to say anything. Instead of inquiring about your father or what happened, he talks about his time away. It gives you a chance to shift mindsets, to focus on him and nothing else.

When the two of you are in his private room, Éomer guides you over to the hearth. He lays out a small nest of furs and gently helps you down on them, taking care not to accidentally brush against the burn. Once you’re seated, Éomer moves to a far corner of the room to remove his weapons and a few heavy pieces of armor. Then he comes back to you, sitting beside you in front of the fire.

“Show me your hands.” Reluctantly, you present them. Éomer frowns down at them. “Tell me again your father didn’t do this to you.”

“He didn’t. I promise.”

Éomer sighs heavily and his hands wrap around your wrists. He gently guides your hands closer, inspecting the burn. It’s only on your left hand, and Éomer slowly releases the one that’s fine. “I’ll have someone fetch some ointment for this and bandages.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“It is. I’ll take care of it.”

You snort and Éomer’s mouth quirks up into a smile. “Think I’m incapable?”

“A strong warrior like you capable of such tenderness?” you tease.

His smile softens. “What about all the times I’ve been tender with you?”

Your cheeks heat with the memory. “Not in that way,” you mutter, trying to hide your embarrassment.

“Would you prefer that as well?”

“Perhaps later,” you breathe, heart quickening in your chest.

Éomer lifts your wrist to his mouth, placing a kiss on the pulse point. “I’ll return shortly.”

When Éomer acquires the correct ointment and bandages, he sets to work. He cleanses his hands, scrubbing his nails and between his fingers before he begins. Then, with purposeful slowness, Éomer lifts the injured hand and begins rubbing the ointment into the surface-level burns. They likely won’t blister but they’ll sting for a week or more.

Once the ointment is applied, he unwraps the bandages, guiding it over and around your hand to keep the ointment in place. He ties off the extra and cuts it off with a clean blade, tucking the little bit left into the wrappings. Éomer is overly cautious but it’s sweet.

He is always so gentle with you.

“You spoil me,” you murmur.

“I enjoy it,” he replies, turning your hand over to double-check his work.

A soft sadness creeps in. “One day you won’t.”

Éomer glances up. “How so?”

You shrug as if the words don’t mean anything. “You’ll marry a princess. She’ll beautiful and fair. The people will love her.”

Éomer shakes his head. “Why would I ever want such a thing when I have one right here.”

“Don’t tease.”

“I’m not.” Éomer kisses your fingers and gently guides your hand to your lap. In a move so delicate it momentarily steals your breath, Éomer cups your cheek and leans in close. “All I ever want. All I ever need. Is right here.”

Éomer stands before the back door of the shop your father owns. He’s still fuming, but not nearly as much as when he saw your hand. For some time, Éomer has wanted to give this man a piece of his mind. You are precious, and more importantly, you don’t deserve his ire.

The man is a drunk, and everyone knows it. Most show him pity because it all started with the death of his wife—your mother. But that was many years ago, and any pity Éomer felt for the man has long since evaporated.

Squaring his shoulders, Éomer pounds on the door like he’s trying to splinter the wood.

You are still in Éomer’s chambers, curled up in the pile of furs he created in front of the fire. You are sacred to him, the woman he wants above all things. One day, you will be his, and will no longer have to answer to your father.

The drunkard swings open the door. “What?” he growls before he realizes who stands before him.

His eyes widen, and he straightens up, smoothing out the rumbled apron. He fumbles over his words and Éomer holds up a single hand, silencing the man.

“I’m not interested in excuses.” Éomer takes a step into the shop, towering over the man. “If I ever see her in tears again because of you, understand that my next visit will be much less pleasant. Is that understood?”

“Perfectly.”

Éomer wants to stay more, but he draws back his rage. He nods curtly, and exits, only wanting to return to you.

taglist:

@foxxy-126 @glassgulls @km-ffluv @firelightinferno @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @protosslady @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado

[green-eyedfirework]

Dick thought he was imagining the hoofbeats at first.

He was alone on the dusty road, no one around to watch as he took limping, hobbling step after limping, hobbling step, his feet swollen and bloody.  No one to see the tears he couldn’t suppress any longer, stinging against the itchy, dried remains of the filth he’d been unable to wipe off.  No one to shout vile accusations at him, to hiss that he was a harlot, a traitor, a good-for-nothing omega whore.

Someone had snarled that he should’ve died with his parents, and that had cut worse than all the rest.

He didn’t show it.  Not to Sionis when the sadistic alpha read out his sentence, not to his leering guards as they escorted him naked through the city, not through the throngs of people Dick had spent years protecting as they spat at him.  And he wouldn’t show it now, when both crowds and guards had abandoned him to the stretch of empty forest road till the convent.

Just a little bit longer.  It was the prayer Dick repeated to himself, over and over, the only thing he could hold onto in the loss of everything else.  Just a little bit longer.

He could reach the convent.  He could.  He would deliver his baby—safely, it would be safely, even if Dick could feel the strain of walking settle deep into his spine, the desperate effort it took to draw breath under the glowering sun—and he would send them to their father.  They would be safe.  Dick would be safe—not happy, but safe, and maybe when Bruce’s temper had cooled, Dick could—Dick could—

Fresh tears pricked at his eyes at the thought of reconciling with the man Dick had treated like a father.  Fathers didn’t do this.  As angry as Bruce was, as disappointed, as betrayed—Dick had expected him to still hear him out.

Bruce had made his decision.  Dick was the only one fool enough not to heed it.

Just a little bit longer.

Dick scrubbed at his face again, brushing away the tears, and kept walking.  He had to keep walking.  He couldn’t stop.

Those hoofbeats were getting louder.  Closer.

Dick jerked his head up—still forcing one step in front of another, because if he stopped, he’d never keep going—and glanced warily around him.  There shouldn’t be bandits, not this close to the city, but Dick had clearly been excluded from information about city matters.

And Sionis, that self-serving piece of shit, wanted Dick dead and not just gone.

Just a little bit longer.

Dick’s hand grasped for a blade he no longer had as he forced himself to hobble forward.  The woods were right there, he could disappear inside—except there was no way he was climbing a tree in his state.  He was barely able to stay upright.  If he could—if he just—if he—

There was a massive dust cloud in the distance, growing bigger as hoofbeats thundered down the road.  That was no group of bandits, that was mounted cavalry, sun glinting off polished armor and neighing horses and a banner of black-and-orange.

Dick stopped walking.

He hardly noticed, gaze fixed on the heraldry, mouth dry as his thoughts fled, but he did notice when his knees gave out, leading to a stinging collision with the dry, packed earth.  By the time he lifted his gaze up again, the knights were close enough to make out the shining silver hair of the one in lead.

Just a little bit longer.

Dick stared at the ground.  He felt curiously detached from his body, everything—the sun beating down on him, the throbbing pain in his feet, his legs, his spine, the pounding headache and parched throat, the knot of pain winding tighter and harder around his heart—both too close and far away.  He was distantly aware of a shouted, “Halt!” as the hoofbeats slowed, and then stopped entirely, and the snorting breaths of a horse ridden hard as footsteps neared.

“Richard?” came the low, disgusted voice.

Dick hunched his shoulders tighter.  Just a little bit longer.  His heart was cracking underneath the strain.  Just a little bit longer.  He never should’ve stopped walking, because now he couldn’t get back up.  Just a little bit longer.  If Slade would even let him up.

He raised his head, squinting against the sun.  He could see nothing of Slade’s face, the man cast in shadow, but he could see his fists, clenched so tight they were vibrating.

In a flash, his vision was entirely obscured.  Dick thought he was blacking out for a half second before his vision returned and he realized he was wrapped in a cloak.  Slade’s cloak, smelling deeply of him and his absolutely incandescent fury.

Dick couldn’t breathe.  Part of him wanted to bury himself in the cloak and cry, and part wanted to get as far away from his mate as possible, and he couldn’t do both at the same time.  Couldn’t do either, actually, because strong arms bound his arms to his sides as they yanked him up, lifting him like he was nothing more than a sack of potatoes.

He felt like a sack of potatoes, his legs protesting virulently at the idea of being forced to bear his weight, but Dick wasn’t set on his feet.  Dick was passed to another set of arms with low, furious murmurs, before he was hoisted up—on the horse.  Dick blinked at the black stallion tossing its head impatiently.  Slade’s horse.

The arms around him tightened, his mate’s scent strong and smoky with rage.  Dick tried to speak—what was happening?  where were they going?  why did Slade return?—but nothing came out but an empty croak.

“Your Majesty,” one of the knights riding alongside them ventured as Slade snapped his reins.  “Perhaps it would be best to—”

Slade growled, so deep and vicious that Dick had to battle the urge to jump off the horse, and the knight flinched back and fell silent.  The fury was thick enough to choke on and Dick closed his eyes and struggled to breathe.

His mate was furious.  And no wonder, when Dick had promised him a kingdom and a crown that were never his to give.  With Bruce returned and the council defecting, Slade’s position in Gotham was tenuous.  Everything he’d won with a marriage had to be reconquered by war, lest the humiliation of loss damage his reputation.

Just a little bit longer.

Dick bit back the sob and gave up on the lie.

[babyblue711]

Redemption

Will (Salad Days) x Reader - Part 1/Part 2 Summary: You and Will reconnect after spending some time apart and learn that each of you has gone through their own difficult circumstances in those years. Your friendship develops into something more as you help each other heal from the past.  Words: 5.3K

Warnings: NSFW, language, sexual content (18+), mild BDSM (part 2), miscarriage, prison, divorce, infidelity, alcohol, mention of death A/N: This is my first attempt at fan-fiction ever, so please be kind. Thank you to my incredible beta readers for their expertise @megatardisbaby and @arcielee; your enthusiasm kept pushing me to continue writing this. And thank you to @myfandomprompts for encouraging me to start writing in the first place and for your amazing gifs.  Dividers by @firefly-graphics

Gravel crunches beneath your feet as you walk through the parking lot and a warm summer breeze blows through your hair. The air shimmers with a sense of unreality, a blur of colors and images that swirl around you. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you spot a familiar sight. You turn and realize you are looking at the back of your old black Jeep Wrangler. You know it’s yours because of the custom California license plate MRS M 97.  You want to scoff just looking at the plate, a wave of unease floods you, and confusion tugs at the back of your mind. How did it get here? You had left it behind as you had left everything else behind when you broke free from your cheating ex-husband. Your gaze lingers on the car for a moment. 

“Well, ‘elo, love,” a soft voice teases in your ear. You whirl to see an old friend standing before you. Your brain feels like quicksand as you try to make sense of his mirage-like presence; you aren’t even sure he is real. You hadn’t seen him in years, but when you look at him, it feels like yesterday. You puzzle at him, bemused by his attire. He’s wearing a grey hoodie under a black bomber jacket, joggers, and his typical black Adidas trainers. Very warm clothes for such a hot summer’s day. He’s tall, lean, and angular just as you remembered.  

His lips curve into a cocky smirk, while simultaneously exuding a sort of shy, quiet confidence. The merriment in his eyes slowly fading only to be replaced by something else. He suddenly grows serious, a haunted look in his deep blue eyes. 

“Y/N, I don’t want you to go,” he says unexpectedly. 

Your eyebrows knit together, not understanding what he means. Go? You think to yourself. Colors swirl, the glare from the sun seems to become blindingly bright but he’s the only thing that remains a sharp, clear image. You start to open your mouth to ask how he got there, when he suddenly steps towards you, crowding into your space. Your sense of reality is almost detached, like you are watching yourself from the sidelines. He looks down at you intensely as if making a decision. 

His eyes snap to yours. He presses his lips together as he raises his hands and lightly gives your shoulders a slight shove. Off balance, you fall backwards onto your Jeep. Your back hits the hard surface of the spare tire, bruising your spine but you don’t feel any pain. You huff out a breath and his lips are suddenly on yours, you tangle your hands into this hair as if it's the most natural thing to do, his body presses you firmly against the back of your car. You aren’t sure how things have escalated so quickly but realize you don’t care. You wanted more. 

 “Oh.…Will,” you sigh into his mouth.

The sound of your alarm suddenly jolts you awake. 

You shut it off with a groan and close your eyes again, hoping for more sleep. As your subconscious starts to drift off, you see Will’s face drift through your mind and your eyes snap open again, your heart jumps. Did you really just dream about making out with a childhood friend, let alone someone you hadn’t seen in years?  What the hell? 

You curse your brain for bringing up the past, mentally shaking your head as the memories flood you. Perhaps it was the familiarity of being back home that had conjured him up in your dreams. The last you had heard of Will was him being sent to prison. You didn’t know what became of him and you doubted you’d ever see him again.

You continue to lay in bed as your heartbeat returns to normal. The image of your old car, a gift from your ex-husband for your birthday one year, floats in your mind and gives you another jolt. You cringe inwardly at the bad memories it brought back of the life you used to have...before everything fell apart.

With a sigh, you swing your legs over the edge of the bed and gaze out the window. The view from your childhood bedroom felt so familiar, yet so suffocating. It had been years since you left this place, seeking adventure and a sense of independence. After uni, you spent some time traveling and living abroad. While you were in America, you met, fell in love, and married the perfect man. You loved how easy your relationship was - memories of laying in bed together, giggling over silly TikTok videos or sharing stories of your childhood; he was your best friend, your confidante. He was warm, caring, and compassionate...until he wasn't.

For a few years, you were happy; you both had great jobs, you bought a home and settled in California where his tech company was located. Then, as is the natural progression of any married couple, you tried for a family and quickly learned the hard way that it wasn’t as easy as it looked. Each miscarriage that you suffered began to take its toll on you mentally, emotionally and physically. You became a shell of the person you once were, haunted by the immeasurable grief of your losses. 

Your perfect marriage took a nosedive. He tried to be supportive but you just felt as if he blamed you. The final nail in the coffin was when you caught him cheating with his secretary. You knew at that moment that your marriage was broken beyond repair.

Unbearably heartbroken, you left him and everything behind in California. You fled back home to the UK and wished with every fiber of your being that you could just leave your old life behind in America. That the ocean between the two countries would swallow up your pain so that you couldn’t bring it with you.

Your parents were loving and supportive and had welcomed you back home with open arms, but you sunk into a deep depression. Your anxiety was so bad that anything that reminded you of your ex would make your heart race in fear; you couldn’t look at anything related to babies or children without wanting to vomit. Every breath you took felt like it cost you everything just to inflate your lungs, the weight of your grief felt like it was crushing you. You longed to escape the suffocating grip of your emotions but felt trapped, caught between the life you had lost and the uncertainty of the future.

Eventually though, you slowly began to heal. Every day, you put energy into rebuilding the life you had before you met him. You still couldn't recognize who you had become whenever you looked into the mirror, hating the feeling that you were back at square one, that you had made no actual progress with your life. You would forever be scarred by the events of the past, but you finally started putting one foot in front of the other again.

You got a job you mostly enjoy and your day now begins with a sigh as you start to get ready for work. You were traveling into Nottingham to run a small errand for the company you worked for and was glad for a change of scenery beyond the four walls of your dreary office cubicle. You change into a royal blue sundress, attempt to fix your hair and apply a little bit of makeup. You take a deep breath as you look at your reflection in the mirror and promise yourself that today was going to be a better day. After saying a hasty goodbye to your parents, you leave to catch the train into the city.

Finishing up work early, you step out from the office building. For once, the rays of warm sunshine seem to lift your mood. Feeling lighter, you decide you are not ready to return to the monotony of home life just yet. Retracing your steps, as you had done many times in your youth, you venture up the cobbled path of Stoney Street, the bustle and charm of the city making you feel a little more alive. Nostalgia swirls through you in waves as you realize so much had remained the same since you’d been gone, yet it felt like everything had changed. 

To your left and right was a colorful array of independent shops that lined the street, their inviting storefronts displaying an assortment of wares. The sunshine seems to brighten everyone’s mood as laughter and animated conversations spill out from cozy pubs and lively cafes, creating an ambiance of warmth and camaraderie. As you walk down the street, you admire the cute coffee shops, stylish boutiques, and quaint bookshops passed along the way. 

Although you considered yourself “well-traveled” by now, you can’t help but smile at how charming Nottingham truly was. Centuries-old architecture, with its intricate detailing and timeless beauty, stood side by side with modern storefronts, old and new melting together harmoniously.

You didn’t intend to stop anywhere, but your eye catches sight of an old favourite haunt of yours during your school days. You reach for the door handle of The Lace Market Fish Bar, deciding you were hungry for a snack. The door swings open and you almost run headlong into a familiar face. A bolt of electricity courses through you as you realize your dream has spilled into reality. 

“Oh, sorry,” Will mutters absentmindedly as you instinctively retreat a few paces. His gaze sweeps over you and it’s evident he doesn’t immediately recognize you. You hold your breath, unsure if you should say anything. 

Suddenly, recognition flickers in his eyes. “Wow, hey, Y/N,” he blinks rapidly, completely caught off guard. “Never expected to see you ‘round here again. Thought you moved away a long time ago.” 

“Will!” you exclaim, just as startled and caught off guard as he is. “I…. I did move away, I’m back now,” you try to contain a grimace. Uncomfortable silence hangs in the air for a beat as you both try to process seeing each other again after such a long time apart. 

A sense of surrealism washes over you, just like in your dream. You can’t help yourself from checking him out. Tall and lean, just as he was in high school, perhaps a little more filled out now. His light brown hair is tousled and shaggy, framing his face. While you always considered him good-looking, age only enhanced his beauty as a grown man now. His face has become a touch more angular, his cheeks slightly hollowed, his jaw defined; his nose, as ever, is sharp and straight. And his lips still curve seductively into the most perfect cupid’s bow that you had to remind yourself not to stare. He swapped his usual black joggers for dark jeans today, with a black t-shirt exposing his toned arms. He looks good, better than you remembered.

“Back?” he asks curiously, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “As in…for good?”

“For the time being,” you say, not wanting to get into the nitty gritty details. “It’s good to see you though,” and you mean it. “How’s your Nan?”

“She’s good, gettin’ on a bit now but she’s doing fine,” his tone is light but his smile is a little stiff. “I gotta bring her this now, actually,” he gestures at the takeaway in his hand. “It’s good seeing you...” he trails off, a little awkward. 

“You too, Will,” you reply, unsure where to go from here. He gives you a small smile, then turns and heads up the street. 

You venture into the shop and take a deep breath, trying to ground yourself in the present moment. You had not been expecting to run into anybody you used to know and you felt like your heartbeat was racing more than it should. Or perhaps it was the strange coincidence that you had just dreamed of him last night? You approach the counter and order your food, your thoughts drifting to memories of Will and his friends… 

You and Will were a part of the same group of friends in your youth. You took turns hanging out at the chip shop, smoking and chatting at the park, or going to the cinema. You smirk a little to yourself, remembering the crush you had on him throughout most of high school. But, at that age, you were the painfully shy type, both introverted and quiet. You wouldn’t really gain confidence and find your own voice until you went away to university. 

But as you were crushing on him, he was crushing on your best friend, Leah. She, on the other hand, was like a shining star, the object of desire for most boys in school; popular, bubbly and sweet, it was easy to see why Will preferred her to you, her quiet wallflower of a friend. You settled for just being his friend, figuring it was better than nothing. The two of you would text almost every day, and hang out together after school sometimes, but it never crossed over into anything other than “friendly”.

In high school, a tragedy struck Will’s life. The loss of his parents in a fatal car accident cast a dark shadow over his soul, forever altering the person he once was. He had a coolness to him now, like he was trying to become untouchable; still cocky and confident, but never loud or boisterous. There were times you would catch him silently brooding when he thought no one was looking, and it was then that you saw the pain behind his eyes. You never wanted to approach him about it, afraid bringing up the topic would only make it worse. Thus, you kept your concerns at bay, choosing silence over potential harm, all the while wishing for a way to ease his burden without risking further damage. When most of your mutual friends were getting ready to leave for school after graduation, essentially leaving him behind, that’s when the trouble worsened. 

Lost in your memories, you think back to the last time you saw him….

Flashback

It was the day before you left for uni. Your friend group had one last “going away” party but Will, Tom, and Matt were mysteriously absent. No one could reach them.

He had never not answered your text messages. Concerned, you decided to stop by Will’s house where he lived with his Nan the next morning before you left; one look of his face was enough to know something terrible had happened.

“Let’s take a walk,” you remember him saying. You walked together for a long time in silence, ending up alone with him in a grassy field, away from the town.

“Look, Y/N, I did something terrible,” his lower lip trembled as he stared out into space, his eyes so lost. You had never seen Will cry, not even when his parents died. Alarm bells rung in your head, your heart pounded in your chest at seeing this side of him. 

You grabbed his arm, turning him to face you. He wouldn’t meet your gaze, only staring down at his shoes. 

“Will, please tell me what has happened. Maybe I can help you!” you begged. 

“I don’t want to implicate you,” and your blood chilled with fear. Implicate? Could he be in trouble with the law? You didn’t know what else to do. You hugged him, wrapped your arms around his middle as he sobbed quietly in your ear, his tears terrifying you even further. You felt like crying yourself.

After a moment, he regained his composure, still holding onto you and whispered in your ear “I gotta get back to Nan, but, Y/N, if you hear anything…that something’s happened…just know I never meant for it to go that far.”

He refused to say more. You looked up into his face and saw his haunted, sad eyes pleading into yours. You nod, unsure of what else you could do to help him at this point. 

While at uni a few weeks later, you were chatting with your mum one evening when she broke the news to you. Will, Tom, and Matt had been caught stealing from the post office with a stolen firearm. You were shocked. Although they were always a mischievous and slightly troublesome trio, nobody had known that the boys had started breaking into homes and stealing for extra cash. Your heart broke upon hearing the news. The Will you knew was a good person, he had just traveled down a dark path and lost his way. Your mum explained that Will was most likely headed to prison for theft and possession of a firearm... 

Your order is ready, snapping you back to reality for a moment. You take your food and approach an empty booth, your mind still on Will. You wondered what had happened to him in the time that you had been apart. He obviously was out of prison now and he looked well cared for. You were glad to hear his Nan was doing ok, since she was all the family he had left now. You hadn’t heard about Matt, Tom, or Leah, as you had lost contact when you went away to school. Memories of the past consume you as you sit in the booth and attempt to enjoy your fish and chips, not nearly as excited about it as you had been before your chance encounter. 

Late that night, you were mindlessly scrolling on your phone, waiting for sleep to take you. You see a Facebook notification indicating a new message. You click it and see Will’s face. 

[Will]: Hey 

You stare at it for a minute until curiosity gets the better of you and you reply back. 

[Y/N]: Hey? 

You can’t help but be a bit surprised. The Will you used to know never had Facebook and hated all forms of social media. You tap on his profile to stalk him, but, aside from his photo, nothing else jumps out at you. His profile is quite blank. 

[Will]: I’m sorry about earlier when we bumped into each other. I was so short with you. 

Intrigued, you hadn’t expected an apology. You can see he is still typing so you wait. 

[Will]: You know... if you ever wanted to meet up sometime for a drink, I’ll always be about. Catch up for old time’s sake? 

You stare at his message. You reason that it would be good for you to get out of the house for once and you were curious to discover what had become of him. You type a reply, and you both agree to meet up after work on Friday. 

[Will]: Brilliant. See you then.

[Will]: Oh and just so you know, I created this profile just to find you. I still fuckin’ hate social media. What’s your number? I want to delete this already.

You press your lips together to try to contain a smile, that’s the Will you used to know. Impressed by the effort he went through to find you, you give him your phone number and he returns his. You go to sleep that night, your thoughts on him, again wondering how in the hell you had just dreamt of him and then he materializes like some sort of fucking premonition. For the first time in a while, you fall asleep easily, hoping to see him again in your dreams.

A few days later, you sit across from Will at the pub, enjoying a pint and each other’s company. Everything about him seems familiar yet different at the same time. He’s back in dark jeans again but has swapped his black t-shirt for a white one. Because of the heat, you have opted for a light summer dress, your favorite color, blue, with sandals. As usual, he’s a little quiet at first, but eventually warms up, telling you about his life since you had left. For the first time in a long time, you forget about your own painful past as you focus on him.

He looks down as if ashamed to meet your gaze, his knee bouncing up and down, slightly agitated as he recalls the bad memories. “I did a few years in the pen after Tom, Matt and I were busted for stealin’ from the post,” he said. “But after that, I knew I needed to turn my life around and be better, ‘specially for Nan,” he pauses and takes a deep breath through his nose. “After everything that had happened, I just wanted to make her proud,” he adds quietly.  

You nod sympathetically, “I'm sorry you had to go through that. It must have been tough but I’m glad to hear things are better now, Will. And what about your mates? What happened to them?" 

He frowns, “Haven’t seen any of ‘em since we were busted. Last I heard, Leah had Matt’s baby but they aren’t together anymore. Tom went off to school. I know nothin’ else. It’s no loss, really.” 

He shrugs like he doesn’t care but you know better than to believe his nonchalant attitude. His first defense mechanism was always to pretend to be tough and unbothered. You can see through his facade more easily now than when you were younger, the lingering hurt evident by the way he delivered the words. You remembered how tight-knit their group used to be, facing the world together with a sense of invincibility. It was a shame that his friendships didn’t withstand the trials and test of time.  

“Wha’ about you, though? Thought you married some fancy lad and moved across the pond, eh?” Will asks, raising his eyebrows, taking a sip of his beer and you suddenly feel like you’re sitting under a bright light. The memories you’ve tried so hard to bury resurface, anxiety blooming in your chest, attempting to claw its way up your throat. 

It must have shown in your face, for Will leans forward and places his hand on yours, looking concerned. “Hey, it’s ok, I’m sorry I asked. Just curious was all. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, “ he says softly, his thumb tracing small circles on the back of your hand.

You feel your breath hitch a little at the unexpected touch, but something about it calms you slightly, keeping you grounded. You decide to keep your sob story short, just as he did. 

“He cheated on me with his secretary so I divorced him. I told him I didn’t want anything from him. He kept everything, including our savings account. I….I  just wanted to be done with him. So I came back home to stay with mum and dad for a bit while I get back on my feet,” you ramble quickly as if saying it fast wouldn’t hurt as bad, but you knew you kept the worst part of your pain to yourself. You couldn’t find the strength to tell him about your miscarriages; the pain that you carried with you everywhere, thrumming underneath, was still too deep and too raw to talk about so casually over beers. Even though you hated your ex-husband, your babies would still always be yours.

You take a deep breath through your mouth and raise your eyes to meet Will’s gaze. He’s studying you as if he knows there’s something you’ve left out. His blue eyes seem to burn into yours, like he can sense the storm beneath your surface. Or maybe that was just your paranoia? You blink and look away, fearing that if you maintained eye contact, you’d start crying. 

You sit like that for a minute, focusing on your breathing as you try to control your anguish. You hate the way the memories still traumatize you after all this time. You squeeze his fingers, thankful for his calming reassurance. He squeezes yours back and you can feel the tightness in your chest dissipate slowly. 

“He didn’t deserve you anyway,” Will says quietly. Then, “Besides, you were obviously in America too long. You’ve barely got an accent anymore. Doubt you even remember how to make a decent cuppa.” He teases you, trying to lighten the mood. “I bet they don’t even have proper tea over there.”  

You can’t help but manage a small smile. “No, they really don’t”. 

“How did you survive?” he asks in mock horror.

You roll your eyes, enjoying his teasing, “I managed,” you chuckle and swat at his arm; he grins back at you, pleased to see you smile.

“You’ve changed too, you know,” you say after a beat. “You’re not the boy I used to know.”

“Yeah? How’s that?” a mischievous grin spreads across his face as he leans back in his chair, assuming a relaxed posture. He intertwines his fingers behind his head, as if inviting you to take a closer look. His confident demeanor seems almost intentional, like he’s on display for you. 

So you observe him, a small smile tugging at your lips. You shake your head, suddenly feeling shy just by looking at him. “I just think you’ve grown up, Will. You seem confident, happier now. Like...you’ve finally found yourself and know who you are.” 

He shrugs nonchalantly, maintaining his smirk, but there's a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes. "And you," he counters, his voice laced with his playful banter, "you've finally outgrown Leah's shadow. You were so shy and quiet when we were younger,” he pauses as he studies you a bit, his eyes flicking over you. “I see that you’re not that same girl anymore. Life has dealt you a shitty hand, but it’s nothin’ you can’t overcome.”

You look down, trying not to blush or look too pleased. It had been ages since you felt “seen” by someone. Silence envelopes the conversation, but it’s not uncomfortable. 

You debate with yourself for a minute as a memory from the past nags at you and decide you have nothing to lose by asking. 

“Why didn’t you tell me, Will? The last time I saw you…” you trail off, looking up at him. You know that he knows exactly what you’re referring to.

His face falls a little as he grows serious again. “What could you have done for me? I would have had to admit to your face what I had done, how stupid I was. I was a coward and afraid. I couldn’t stand to see your disappointment,” he grimaces. “And I didn’t want to bring any trouble upon you either, with you headed to school and all.”

You nod, already expecting an explanation of this sort. 

“We’ve really been through some shit, haven’t we?” you remark with a small smile trying to make light of the past. You take a sip of your beer, realizing that by sharing each other’s pain and hardships, you feel less alone. 

“No kidding,” he huffs, then “C’mere,” he stands and pulls you to your feet. You are hesitant to stand, unsure of what he was doing. Will steps closer, lifting your arms slightly to indicate that you should wrap them around his neck, bending forward and embracing you into a tight hug, his own arms around your waist. 

You aren’t even sure when the last time somebody who wasn’t your mum hugged you like this. You want to scream and cry and crumble into his arms, the pain and memories of the past threatening to overwhelm you. Instead, you take a few deep breaths while Will whispers encouraging words into your ear. You aren’t even sure how long the hug lasts, but when you break free, you inexplicably feel a little lighter, as if the weight of your grief was crushing you a little less. 

Will was the last person you thought you’d reconnect with when you moved back home. Both of you were essentially rebuilding your lives from scratch. Will, having gone through the turmoil of being in prison, understood the weight of redemption and second chances. And you, having endured the pain and upheaval of divorce and multiple miscarriages, were struggling to pick up the broken pieces while navigating the grief that accompanies such profound loss.

You continue to see each other semi-regularly over the next few weeks. Over time, you start waking up feeling hopeful again. Anytime you see he has texted you, your heart skips a beat. You love hearing the sound of his voice: soft and low, it always brings you a sense of comfort. You fought to admit it for a long time, but you realize deep down that he has given you something to look forward to, and you haven’t felt that in such a long time. 

You didn’t necessarily know how to define your relationship as you were very much only looking for friendship. But there was something different about Will. You realize he had already secured a small piece of you, although you didn’t remember giving your heart permission to grant him any space. Your shared past pain of broken circumstances bonded you together and you were more than happy to take things slow while your broken heart mended. 

A few weeks after seeing him at the pub, he invites you to go to the cinema with him. He bought the tickets, you bought the drinks and popcorn, enjoying being able to treat him too. 

After the movie, as you head out of the theatre, you discover a rainstorm is pouring torrentially. You both hover underneath the awning of the cinema, not wanting to be completely soaked from the storm. 

After a few minutes, the rain shows no signs of letting up; Will turns to you and smiles.

“A little bit of rain never hurt anyone, right?” he asks, grinning as he holds out his hand. “I say we make a run for it.” 

So you take his hand and, together, you sprint towards the car, becoming completely drenched along the way. You shriek with laughter as you feel like you're getting hit by a waterfall, not just simple rain. Upon finally reaching the car, you wrench the door open and throw yourself inside the dry interior. 

Once safely inside the car, you turn and look at each other, giggling at the other’s soaked appearance, exhilarated from your sprint and from the chill of the rain. Will’s t-shirt is completely wet, his hair plastered to his forehead. You are quite certain you probably look just as bad, if not a little worse as you wipe mascara from under your eyes. You shiver a little in the passenger seat and Will places a warm hand on your knee as he starts the car to drive off and you can’t help but notice the way his eyes linger on your wet shirt, now clinging to your body. 

The rain has let up by the time he pulls up to your home. He stops in front of your house and, like a gentleman, walks you to the door. 

Turning towards him, you thank him again for the movie and lean up on tiptoe to give him a kiss on the cheek, expressing your gratitude. 

You can hear him hold his breath at your closeness, you see the way his eyes watch you as you lower yourself back down. Wordlessly, he grabs both sides of your face in his warm hands, holding you there. You stare up at each other for a beat; you had felt this coming in your gut and you wait for him to make the next move.

He leans down and kisses you, softly, sweetly, his lips molding into yours. You breathe in, inhaling his breath into your lungs, suddenly feeling your head spin, your heart race. 

He breaks the kiss after a moment. “I hope that wasn't too bold,” he says quietly, hands still cupping your face.

“Not at all,” you breathe back, sincerely meaning the words. 

It was at that moment you knew he had the potential to be more than just your friend.

>>>Part 2

[theemporium]

click 'here' to unlock the other boyfriends!

.

Steve Harrington didn’t show it easily, but he was a pretty lonely guy.

Not that anybody would’ve ever expected as much. He was Steve Harrington, one of the most—if not the most—popular boy of Hawkins High. He had parties almost every weekend, had people always following him, had people fawning over him. 

There was no one in the world that seemed more admired than him. 

But the smiles and laughs and large crowd of admirers didn’t mean much when he returned home to a large, empty house. 

It felt quite stupid to complain about, and he was very aware of that. There were bigger problems in the world, in other people’s lives. It felt a bit privileged to whine about the fact his parents were never around and he grew up in a mansion that felt like a ghost town most of his life. It felt like such a miniscule objection in the grand scheme of things but it was so fucking lonely. 

Even the nannies he had growing up were detached, barely even acknowledging him as a child. He was just a paycheque in their eyes. And even they stopped after his parents thought he was old enough to keep himself alive at the big age of twelve years old. 

Steve couldn’t help it. He was a people’s person. He craved to have people around him. The loneliness was suffocating and he sometimes felt like he was scrambling to hold onto the people in his life—his friends, his girlfriends, his teammates. He felt like he was pushing and pushing and not really receiving much in return. 

A lot of people assumed that meant Steve came off quite clingy but, truthfully, you just found it endearing. 

“Back again, Harrington?” 

“Couldn’t leave my favourite girl to bore to death.”

You snorted, the sound only making Steve’s grin widen as he rounded the counter and jumped up on a spot right next to where you were situated. You glanced over his attire, taking in the bright blue shorts that stretched across his thighs before your eyes snapped back up to him. 

“Come to die with me then?” You questioned, eyeing the empty store (the one that had been empty since you started your shift) before looking back at the boy. 

“Oh yeah,” he nodded his head. “Like Romeo and Julia.” 

“Juliet,” you corrected. 

His grin widened. “Book nerd.” 

“Comes with the job,” you retorted as you halfheartedly waved at the store around you. 

It was funny, really. Never in a million years would you have ever considered yourself and Steve Harrington to be friends in school. And yet, all it took was a summer full of minimum wage jobs and and sympathy on neither of you having a fucking clue what to do with your lives after school.  

All it took was one broken car and an offer to carpool for the two weeks yours was in the garage for you and Steve to become friends. 

Him working in Scoops Ahoy and yourself working in Willy’s Bookstore—you were quite a pair. 

And without fail, whether he was working or not, Steve always showed up to entertain you at work. Whether it was during his own breaks or on his day off, you didn’t think a day had passed where you hadn’t seen the boy this summer. 

“You don’t have to come here,” you said eventually as Steve began to thumb through a random book beside him. “It’s boring but I’ll survive a shift.” 

“I know,” he answered with a shrug of his shoulders, his gaze focused on the words on the page. “But I like chilling here with you.” 

You tried to bite back your grin. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” he lifted his head, a light tint to his cheeks. “Plus, I was thinking…” 

“Never a good sign,” you teased. 

He rolled his eyes, but the nerves were still there as he tapped them against his thigh. “I was thinking we could do something after your shift ends.” 

You raised your brows at the boy. It wasn’t unusual for you and Steve to do something after both your days were done. Though, more often that not, it resulted in the two of you grabbing something from the food court and eating it in his car, or him coming back to your apartment to crash on the couch. 

You never went to his place. You never really questioned it. You had asked once, casually one night when you were sitting on the couch watching some movie he had brought with him, and he had just said his place wasn’t as ‘homey’ as yours. You didn’t push the topic after that, you quite enjoyed having him in your space. 

“You got another movie for us?” You asked. 

“No, I mean—” He paused, letting out a long breath before continuing. “I thought we could do something different.” 

You raised your brows. “Like what?” 

“I—” He faltered for a second. “I didn’t think that far ahead.” 

You stared at him with an odd expression. 

“God, right, fuck. I didn’t do this right,” he muttered, mostly to himself. He cleared his throat as he slid off the counter, turning to look at you as he tried again. “I want to go on a date with you.” 

You blinked in surprise. 

“That sounded demanding,” he winced a little. “I mean, will you go on a date with me?” 

You opened your mouth to say something, but no words came out. 

“We can do whatever you want!” Steve continued, seeming lost in his own rambles and slight fear that you’ll reject him. “I don’t mind, really! I just…I wanna hang out with you. I mean, I know we already hang out. But I wanna do more than hang out with you. I wanna be more than friends—if you want to. Shit, I didn’t even give you a chance to say—“

You didn’t give him a chance to continue before you grabbed his shirt, hands fisted in the material of the stupid sailor costume before you yanked him down to kiss him. 

Steve stood frozen for one, two, three seconds before he finally reacted. His hands dropped to your waist, pulling you closer and tilting his head to the side as he deepened the kiss. 

There was a voice in the back of your head reminding you that you were at work, that anyone could come and see you, that your manager could walk in and see you both. But you didn’t care. You really, really didn’t care. 

“I want that date, Harrington,” you murmured against his lips when you finally pulled away, when you finally needed to breathe. “I don’t care whatever we do either, as long as it’s with you.” 

His face brightened, in a smile so wide that you swore you had never seen him that happy before. “Yeah…yeah, brilliant. I’ll, uh, plan something and meet you after your shift, yeah?”

“You gonna keep the sailor suit on?”

He raised his brows. “You want me to?” 

“The shorts can stay,” you decided, a cheeky smile on your lips. “The shorts can definitely stay.” 

He snorted. “Noted, baby, noted.”

.

[subwaysurf45]

Falling in Love

Summary: fall time was always your favourite, but being pregnant can take away some of the activities.

Words: 749 (little drabble)

Warnings: pregnacy, literally nothing

A/N: shout out to @jadedvibes and their amazing fall writing challenge! check out their rules and ideas as well as the challenge's masterlist. again, amazing ideas and so happy I could be a part of this!

Being pregnant during the fall had been the worst so far of all the seasons you had endured. seven months along and you would still choose the blazing hot sun over your particular situation right now. Fall was your favourite season and not getting to enjoy it like you did all the years before hurt in a way that was close to indescribable. 

But now you sat on a lawn chair, bundled up to the nines, thermos in your hands, simply watching Bucky, your husband, rake the leaves. 

Your favourite fall activity. 

The show was great, seeing him work a little line of sweat on his brow. Part of you couldn’t believe you could see the faintest ripple of his back muscles through his waffle-knit long-sleeve, sweater, and jacket. While he was making it interesting you couldn't help but feel envious of Bucky, getting to do one of the simple pleasures in life. 

“I mean, they’re just going to keep falling,” he sighed and restest against his rake, after finding out about the news you moved into a semi-detached home instead of staying in the apartment. This was the first time either of you had dealt with a lawn, “why are we even doing this?” his hand brushed back his hair. 

A twinge of sadness grew, “cause it’s my favourite thing,” you offered with a sad smile, “I love raking the leaves,” your hand found its way to your bump, soothing yourself. 

“I know but why couldn’t your favourite activity be baking cookies or watching movies? Why labour?” He walked over to you and fixed the toque that sat crooked on your head, smiling widely when you barely fought back because of how often he did it. 

“I don’t know,” you shrugged, “it made me feel like this…mysterious girl next door growing up like I was different because I wanted to rake leaves instead of baking cookies,” you stood up and bucky placed his hand on your stomach, “I got to listen to my own music, organize a place, and feel cool while doing it.” 

Bucky giggled and pulled you into a hug, “well, we can do this another time but I think we deserve a break,” he pulled back, “all that watching must have worked you up an appetite,” Bucky threw his arm around you and walked you up the few steps to get to your house, you were so close to saying it but Bucky cut you off, “once you’re napping I’ll clean up the lawn.” 

You had been directed by your doctor to rest more, that’s why you couldn’t rake the leaves. Bucky brought you straight to the couch and laid a blanket on you, walking into the kitchen after. Your eyes closed as you listened to him bang a few pots together, talking to himself as he cooked. 

You must have fallen asleep because when the banging stopped you heard a little coo from Bucky, feeling him push your hair out of your face and begin to take off your bulky jacket, scarf, and mittens. 

“I hope you know you’re not that mysterious girl next door anymore,” his voice was rumbling as he kept quiet, “you’re my wife and you’re gonna be that mother of our kid so I’m sorry I didn’t let you rake the leave because I’ve known you long enough to know you were upset about it,” his finger carefully pulled down your zipper, “but I hope you know in a years time we’re gonna have a little you running around and wanting to rake as well, making it go a little faster, I hope,” he pressed a kiss to your forehead. 

Still holding onto consciousness you gravitate towards him, “we’re gonna have a baby,” you whispered and pulled him onto the couch, “I love you, honey,” saying the words and realizing how your family was going to change soon was a lot to take in, if you weren’t so tired you would have been freaking out by now. 

Bucky was quick to make you fall back asleep, “look at you,” you were curled in his chest, one hand protectively around your bump like always, even in the dead of sleep you were still protecting your baby, “you’re so cute, sometimes I look at you and realize how hard I've fallen in love with you; I love it.” 

“If it’s a girl, can we name her Becca?” you mumbled, not meaning to say that out loud, that was supposed to be a conversation for tomorrow. 

He laughed, “I’d love that.”

Main Masterlist

Taglist: tag list:  @imtherain @jackiehollanderr @redneckstrash @tylard-blog1 @readingbooksdrinkingtea @linzc-reader @hotleaf-juice @honeybunchesofbucky @sky0401 @striving4averagegirl @seybox @yaszx @happyt0exist @honeybunchesofbucky @munsonettee @searchf0rtheskyline @aya-fay @emi11ie  if you would like to be added to the taglist please send an ask, I won’t reply but know I’ve seen it!

[sequinsmile-x]

I physically cannot stop thinking about Emily’s reaction if Jack asked her to officially adopt him and be his mom. I think she’d turn into a puddle of tears omgggg

hiii friend <3

I know this is likely a little different to what you were thinking, but I really hope you like it!

I decided to write it like this because Jack Hotchner turns 18 this month!! Which is insane. So it felt like a nice way to kind of acknowledge that <3

Please do let me know what you think! -x-

Building Blocks

A few months before his 18th birthday, Jack has an important question for Emily.

-x-

Words: 2.4k

Warnings: none!

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

Emily sighs contentedly as she steps onto the porch of her home, the thought of an evening with her Hotchner boys, after she’d been away for almost a week, was just the balm her weary soul needed. She digs through her purse for her keys, but the door opens just as she grabs them, her fingers wrapping around the worn and faded keyring that was a photo of her, Aaron and Jack that had been taken shortly after they got together. 

She smiles as her eyes meet her husbands, the sight of him casually dressed in jeans and a polo shirt enough to undo her even after all these years. She was more in love with him today than she had been when they got married. Something about the salt and pepper flecks in his hair, in the deeper laugh lines on his face, evidence of the joy of their lives etched into his handsome face, enough to make her fall for him again and again. 

“Hi sweetheart,” he says, stepping forward to stamp a kiss against her lips as he removes her go-bag from her grasp, slinging it over his own shoulder as he pulls back. 

“Hi,” she replies as she lets him guide her into their house, his hand on her lower back, pressing into the curve of it that had seemingly been made for him, “I missed you.” 

“I missed you too,” he says, stamping a kiss against her forehead. He puts her go-bag down, idly thinking that he’d take it to the laundry room later as he does so, “Jack did too.” 

Her smile gets softer as she thinks of the teenager, the boy who was only a few months off from being a man. It was hard sometimes to think of how many years had passed by, slipping through her fingers like sand as she watched him, her son, grow up in front of her. He’d started calling her mom years ago. A slow transition from calling her Emily into the moniker that meant more to her than she’d ever care to admit. Even now it still warmed her from the inside out, made her feel happy in a way she thought she was never destined to experience. 

They’d tried to add to their family, tried to give Jack a little brother or sister, but it had never happened for them. It still made her sad sometimes, the slightly out-of-focus image of a child that was half her and half Aaron always just out of her grasp. It made her relationship with Jack, the little boy who she knows she couldn’t love more even if she had carried him herself, all the more precious to her. 

“He actually wants to talk to you about something,” Aaron says, a knowing smile on his face that makes her stomach flip. It was how he’d looked at her before he proposed, a nervous edge to it as if he’d thought she’d ever say anything other than yes. She frowns in confusion as he tucks some of her grey hair behind her ear, and it only makes his smile wider, “Come on, he’s in the living room.” 

She lets him lead her there and she leans into his side, content to let the scent of him and his endless warmth overwhelm her senses, slowly drawing her back into the comfort of their home and away from the work that left her feeling weary more than it didn’t these days. Jack jumps up from where he’s sitting on the couch when they walk in, he looks nervous, anxious in a way that makes concern start to simmer low in her gut, a shake to his smile as he walks over and hugs her as she detaches herself from her husband to hug her son.

“Hi honey,” she says, hugging him a little tighter, “I missed you.”

“Missed you too, Mom,” he replies as he pulls back, his eyes flicking to Aaron’s as they exchange a look she can’t entirely read, as if they were privy to a secret she wasn’t, “I got you a gift.”

He leans down and picks up a gift bag that had been on the ground near the couch and he passes it to her. She smiles as she takes it from him, her eyebrows furrowing as she does so.

“Thanks, sweetie,” she says as she sits down, her smile turning curious as she sees Aaron smile and nod at their son encouragingly as Jack sits down next to her and Aaron takes a seat in the nearby armchair, “What’s this for?” 

It wasn’t her birthday for a few months, and even then Jack’s was the week before hers, and their anniversary had been and gone. Aaron, and Jack to an extent, had always been big into gift-giving. Her desk both at home and in the office were covered in things Jack had made her when he was young. A pen pot that was rudely painted, a mug that leaked from the moment he handed it to her, a proud smile on his face, and countless paintings he now claimed were embarrassing when he saw them. 

“Just open it, sweetheart,” Aaron says, clearing his throat to smother a laugh when she turns to look at him, her eyes narrowed slightly. She looks back at Jack and sees the matching expression on his face and she rolls her eyes lovingly at them. 

“You two are ridiculous,” she says, shaking her head as she pulls out a double picture frame from the bag, and she smiles widely at the two photos in it. They were both of her and Jack, the first from when she’d just started dating Aaron. It was one he’d taken of the two of them on one of their many weekends at the aquarium. She’d hauled Jack onto her hip as he spoke at her about the sharks they were looking at, one of his small hands tangled in her hair and the other pointing at the tank. She was listening intently as she held him in her arms, unaware that Aaron was capturing the moment she was now looking at, frozen in time and shining up at her from behind glass. 

The other picture is much more recent. It was taken just a few weeks ago at Dave’s house, at a summer barbeque he’d thrown for everyone from the BAU’s past and present an annual event they all enjoyed. Again, Aaron had taken the picture, forcing his wife and son to stand there, their arms around each other, as he got the perfect picture. The juxtaposition of the two moments next to each other makes her ache, the passage of time far too fast for her as she looks back and forth between the two versions of her son. The little boy who had once insisted she carried him around the aquarium and the teenager who was now taller than her. 

“Oh, Jack,” she says, looking back up at him, “I love it. I’ll put it on my desk at work.” 

“Maybe you could replace one of those paintings I did in the 4th grade,” he quips, smiling when she raises an eyebrow at him. He clears his throat, his smile turning slightly nervous again, “There’s something else in the bag.”

She looks back in the bag and sees a manila envelope, she pulls it out and opens it, gentle as she removes the paperwork that was in there. She freezes as she spots the title of the form, her heart seizing in her chest as she struggles to breathe for a moment.

Petition for Adoption of Minor

Superior Court of the District of Columbia 

She was his legal guardian, she had been since she’d married Aaron, but she’d always been careful to not overstep, desperate to make sure Haley wasn’t erased, that she was still part of their lives. It was enough for Emily, and she didn’t need a piece of paper to determine whether or not Jack was her son. 

She looks up at Jack and she lets out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob, her emotions overwhelming as they hit her all at once, “Jack…”

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” he says, swallowing thickly, “I spoke to Aunt Jess and Dad about it and they said it was up to me,” he explains, and she looks over at her husband, unsurprised to see the wistful look on his face, the tears shining in his eyes, “And I just kept thinking about how you’ve always been there as long as I can remember. I love my Mom, I really do, but I barely remember her,” he says, his voice cracking as he talks about Haley, about the mother he never got to really know. Her love for him clear in her sacrifice, “I remember you. You’re my Mom too,” he wipes a tear away from his cheek and she feels her own fall from her lashline, “I want to do it. I’m only a minor for another few months,” he says, shrugging one of his shoulders nonchalantly, “And I want you to be my Mom legally.”

His words hang in the air around them, laying over them like a comforting blanket, stitched together with their love for each other.

“Sweetheart?” Aaron says, his voice soft as he reaches over and places his hand on her arm. The touch brings her back to herself, her chest feeling hollowed out, nothing but love for the family she’d found in the most unlikely of places spreading through her. 

“Yes,” she chokes out, nodding as she clutches the paperwork fiercely in her hand, crumpling it together, as if she couldn’t quite believe it was real unless the paper was all but cutting into her skin, “Of course, I’d love to as long as you’re sure-”

She’s cut off as Jack throws himself at her, his arms tight around her as he hugs her fiercely, “I love you, Mom.” 

She hugs him back and turns her head to kiss his temple, something she hadn’t done since he was smaller, “I love you too.”

Jack pulls away and smiles widely at her, tears still shining in her eyes, “I’m going to go tell, Aunt Jess.” 

He’s out of the room in seconds, all of the previous nerves gone and replaced with excitement, helping him bound out of the room. Emily gives herself a moment to blow out a steady breath, her chin trembling with the force of the emotions she was feeling.

“You ok, baby?” 

She turns to look at her husband and slaps playfully at his shoulder, “You couldn’t have prepared me?” 

He chuckles, and she’s sure it should make her mad at him but it doesn’t, and he stands from the armchair to resettle next to her on the couch. He wraps his arm around her and pulls her into his side. He kisses the top of her head, his smile so wide she can feel it.

“He swore me to secrecy,” he says, kissing her again before looking down at her, “He was nervous.” 

She hums and leans in to kiss him, a quick thing stamped against his lips, “I…never expected…” 

She couldn’t put it into words, couldn’t express how she felt. Totally floored by the request from her son, and how it felt like a piece of the puzzle she hadn’t realised was missing. The answer to a question she’d never dared to ask.

“I know, sweetheart,” Aaron says, stamping a kiss to her lips again, as aware of her feelings as he always was, “I know.”

___

The adoption goes through two weeks before Jack’s 18th birthday. 

The courtroom was bustling with members of the BAU, both current and from the past, and Jess, all excited to watch as the judge declared the adoption was official. They all cheered, sharing hugs and handkerchiefs when there were inevitable tears from Penelope and JJ, and Emily thinks the last time she’d felt so intensely happy was on her wedding day, another polarising moment from her life that had happened in a different judge's chambers just down the hall. 

Dave insists on hosting a party afterwards, always happy to have an excuse to have everyone over. As the evening ticks on Emily feels herself getting slightly overwhelmed, the emotions from the day catching up with her, snapping at her heels as the party being thrown in her honour only really gets started. 

She seeks out solace in Dave’s home office, looking for a moment of peace, but her solitude doesn’t last long. There’s a soft knock on the door followed by it opening and her husband peeking around it. 

“Are you ok?” He asks, his concern clear as he steps into the room and closes the door behind him. 

“Yeah,” she replies, smiling tightly at him as she blows out a breath, “Just…I just needed a minute.”

“Do you want me to leave you alone?” He asks, and she shakes her head, reaching out a hand to him, inviting him to join her on the couch Dave kept in his office.

“Never,” she replies, smiling softly when he joins her. She immediately leans into his side, seeking out the comfort he always gave her. They sit in silence for a while, the only sound the rasp of the material of her dress as he runs his hand up and down her arm. She wipes a stray tear from her cheek and swallows thickly, making him look down at her. He hooks a finger under her chin and makes her look at him

“What’s wrong sweetheart?” He asks, wiping a stray tear from her cheek, “Today is a good day.” 

She nods, chuckling humourlessly, “I know, it’s the best day,” she says, clearing her throat in a fruitless attempt to get rid of the shake to her voice. “It’s just…I’m someone’s Mom.” 

It was something she couldn’t get her head around, something she had once told herself she’d never get. She was someone’s mother, a title that now went beyond the confines of their home, something that would be recognised by everyone. 

“Sweetheart,” Aaron says as he smiles at her and kisses her forehead before he pulls back, love for her, for their family, making tears press at the back of his eyes, “You’ve been his mom for a long time.” 

-x-

Tag list:

@ssa-sparks, @lukeclvez, @lyds102, @glockleveledatyourcrotch, @hotchnissenthusiast, @danadeservesadrink, @ssamorganhotchner, @emilyprentissisgod, @notagentprentiss, @freesiasandfics, @emilyshotchniss, @thecharmingart, @paulitalblond, @hancydrewfan, @camille093, @whitecrossgirl, @moonlight-2-6, @rawr-jess, @florenceremingtonthethird, @jareauswife, @ms-black-a, @beebeelank, @aubreyprc, @zipzapboingg, @psychopath-at-heart, @criminalmindsgonewrong, @fionaloover, @kinqslcys, @prentissinred, @ccmattis-22, @denvivale317, @thrindis, @hotchsguccitie, @cmfouatslota77, @alexblakegf, @aliensaurusrex, @prentissxhotch, @emobabeyy, @victoiregranger, @stormyweatherth, @wanderingdreamer009, @ssablackbird, @luhwithah, @lex13cm, @prentiss-theorem, @dont-emily-me, @mrs-ssa-hotch, @jocyycreation, @itsmytimetoodream, @hotchnissgroupie, @controversialpooh, @capsshinyshield, @canuck-eh

Join my tag list here!

[everlastiingiimmortals]

@reversescale asked: (What would it be like if Ratio got the acknowledgment of Nous? Would anything change? Furthermore, what if he was invited into the Genius Society? Would he accept it?)

Sleepless nights had grown more frequent as of late, with the addition of the Divergent Universe to Ratio's workload. None of it had been obligatory, none of it at all. But, not for the first time, he finds himself strung up in a strange sense of restlessness -- almost anxiousness -- as he parses through the compendium he compiled, again and again and again.

...Why?

Not even Screwllum, with his far superior ability to take in information on a page, would read through this entire document, and he'd told the Trailblazer this himself. Realistically, the likelihood of even half of the data within making it into the Divergent Universe was slim at best. It would take an entire Amber Era to even get through all of the pages. So why did he?

...Not for the first time, the thought crosses Ratio's mind about how disproportionate his visible effort is to his declaration of involvement. Yet how could he settle for anything less? Screwllum, surely, knew he would receive more than he asked for by enlisting Ratio's aid. The doctor was never known for half-assing anything, after all. And still, it was not enough. He hadn't done enough, compiled enough, found enough of the evidence Screwllum he needed.

It is not his project.

He sighs, rubs his temple (his headaches seem as though they're growing worse with the sheer amount of data he'd been sifting through lately), and rolls the tension out of his neck as best he can. There is no need to get worked up. Thankfully, the sky is clear tonight; he'd already taken a bath recently, so laying on the grass to trace the constellations would surely be enough to quell his mind.

But the red glow outside indicates otherwise. A glance upwards is more than enough to rob all the breath from Ratio's lungs, leaving him choking on nothing. All at once his head expands, compressed by the confines of his skull -- it shrinks to nothingness then expands once more, splitting and breaking down his skull to encompass the planet, the galaxy, reaching to the outer stretches of the universe -- who he was and what he is no longer matter, Veritas is as much an ephemeral, minute, pitifully small concept as Andreas -- he knows so much. He knows too much. And as that thought concludes a new one is born, a new path stretching outwards -- everything and every life that will ever come to be and has come to pass is known to him, but not by him, far more than he could ever fill a book with, or ten books, or a thousand books -- lives and people and worlds flash past his mind, too fast for him to take hold of and look at any single one -- there is simply no storage system in the known universe large enough to record it all -- he is ignorant in the wake of the mind and might of THEM, and he feels so strangely detached from the muted despair he vaguely acknowledges is his own and suddenly he is slingshotted back into his body, gasping for air and gripping onto his windowsill so hard his knuckles turn white.

"You..." Andreas' knees threaten to buckle as another pulse of pain lances through his skull. Something hard and cold clinks against his palm as he clenches his hands into fists. A divine, shimmering key lays nestled between his fingers, only tangible in the barest definition of the word. Should he look away, should he let it wane from his mind, the key would fade, too. It takes all his effort to keep his hold on it. "You," he repeats, mouth dry, mustering up all the willpower and strength he has to glare at the impossibly massive entity that had manifested in the sky. He is shaking, trembling from head to foot. "After all these years... after all this time, now you show yourself?" He can feel the absence of that sudden pressure of knowledge like an abyss separating his brain from his head, and his heart beats too quickly, too loudly, too softly in his own ears. Every second is a fight to remain in his own mind, and it feels like mockery of his own insignifance, or perhaps a test -- but the Aeon does not respond to him. THEY do not do anything but simply wait, and stare back at him.

It becomes unbearable to hold Nous' gaze, and as Andreas looks away the key slips from his grasp. He realizes, then, Nous did not come for the boy who spent his nights looking to the sky. Nous came for Veritas. THEY will only respond to Veritas.

"Keep your key," Andreas spits around a closing throat. Veritas will not speak. "I want nothing to do with your Temple. I have no place with the likes of Kuwabara or the Lord of Silence."

Nous holds THEIR silence, and THEIR gaze, for a moment longer, then fades. The oppressive noise lifts and Andreas feels himself fill the space his body takes up and only that and he can breathe, finally, and his lungs expand and contract with every breath as a human's should. He feels all ten fingers and toes and the wind on his skin and he is, once more, unremarkably and inconsequentially human. Except...

An invitation to the Genius Society is not something that can be refused. It is not a request, nor an inquiry, nor some offer that can be turned down.

It is a claim.

So No. 85 of the Genius Society requests a temporary leave of absence from the Intelligentsia Guild. He visits his hometown. He tells his parents the news. His father, quiet as ever, beams with pride. His mother weeps, not only with joy, but for the sudden shock of sheer white that has woven itself into his hair. (How strange -- he is only 38, but this fails to bother him in the slightest.) He visits Herta's Space Station once more, and the eyes on him are different; numerous as always, yes, full of awe, certainly, but full of ignorant admiration, worse than he'd ever experienced before. He feels those eyes even through his headpiece. He is to be the newest member of the Simulated Universe project. Screwllum introduces him properly to Herta, Ruan Mei, and Stephen, and he can't help feeling slightly sick as they look into his eyes with recognition. Stephen isn't there in person, but he shakes the puppet's hand, then Ruan Mei's. They're both cold. The sensation doesn't leave for hours. Screwllum's hand on his back, meant to be reassuring, makes him want to remove his skin instead.

He lays in his bathtub for hours upon his return home, half-drowned in steam and bubbles until his skin prunes and his bathwater cools to a temperature he can scarcely feel. He should get out; he will get cold.

He doesn't know what to say to Aventurine. If he should say something to Aventurine. Given the speed of the IPC's news network, Aventurine probably already knows. The next time he meets Aventurine, he will no longer be a Mundanite. He, realistically, has no need for Aventurine any longer. But Aventurine -- the IPC -- has all the more need for him. His value has fundamentally increased. The unfairness of it makes him sick. Eventually, he resigns from his job as a professor. There is no point in a genius teaching that intelligence does not belong only to the elite. The irony behind it is nothing but cruel.

Occasionally, the Key of Wisdom surfaces in his mind; it appears on his desk, under his pillow, beside his chisel.

He refuses to touch it.

He is unable to let it go.

[justagingerwithredhair]

The Blue Moon Ball: Feast

Oh food glorious food, how I've missed you so. My mind tells me to try and maintain my composure, but my body has already taken off to the nearest spread. It looks like cheese, grapes, crackers, veggies, pinwheels, dip, all the typical light snacks one would find at a party. I begin to realize the severity of my starvation when I completely disregard the silverware, electing to take matters into my own hands by skewering the snacks with magically made icicles. Absolutely barbaric, I know. I end up crafting a chilled charcuterie kebab and scarfing it down. Did I look refined? Probably not, but at this point I'm too hungry to care much for manners. Ivory must also be starving because he detaches from my staff and starts picking at the vibrant berries. Where we live, our diets typically consist seafood, root vegetables, grains, and magical flora adapted to the climate of a frozen coast, so this dinner will be a welcome change of pace. After satiating ours stomachs on a base level, I can begin to truly appreciate the spread. The variety is astounding! I start to search for a real meal. I look at the dining table and see it stretched the length of the hall to an almost imperceptible length. At glance, it looks to be an enchantment that causes the room to loop on itself to accommodate every guest. How clever! I walk past the chairs and benches until I can find a spot that is open and somewhat close to Lurien. I let him get away once, not again. After walking for a bit, I finally spot him. He is surrounded by friends, all laughing while eating away merrily. It doesn't seem a seat is open in that particular circle, but one is available close enough to get in his sight. Moving quickly, I slide onto the bench next to a stranger.

My my mouth waters as I take in the options: chicken, pork, beef, lamb, fish, vegetables of all kinds, exotic fruit slices that look perfectly ripe, bread rolls of every variety and, oh be still my heart, CALAMARI! Ivory and I notice at the same time and immediately snatch the plate. Such golden crispy chewy goodness paired with thick zesty sauces. As we bite down, that oh so satisfying first crunch is enough to make the whole night worth it. Forget the waltz music, this is the real symphony we needed. The squid's flesh gives way to our teeth and we munch away blissfully. Calamari has always been our favorite. I'm not much of a chef, so making it ourselves has been... difficult, thus we typically depend on restaurants to get our fix. However tonight has increased my standards tenfold. No calamari will ever top this, not in a million years.

After I scarf down the last piece, I scan the table for something more novel but catch the gaze of the woman to my right (@these-detestable-hands) . She wears some brilliant combination of pirate apparel and ball clothes with a red and white polka dot sash. Though that isn't what stood out to me first. As I locked eyes with her, a horrified visage burned into my memory.

"You monster!" she shuddered in a low and tense tone, "That was my sister you just ate!"

Confounded my eyes finish observing her and spot her hair. Well, it isn't so much hair, but red octopus tentacles growing from her scalp. I immediately put the pieces together, and throw myself into a coughing fit out of shock.

"I'M SO SORRY-- I DIDN'T KNOW--"

As profuse apologies tumble out of me, her shell shocked grimace turns into a delighted grin as she begins to laugh unyielding. She pats my back saying,

"Oh calm down red-head, it was just a joke."

My horror subsides and I begin to chuckle a little which then grows into a contagious laughter I must have gotten from her. We both revel in the absurdity of the moment. As we calm down, she introduces herself,

"The name's Haley."

"Ah! A pleasure to meet you, Haley! My name is Seros. I apologize for the whole 'eating your sister' debacle. Think you can forgive me?"

She expels another hearty laugh. We have a delightful conversation over our meals and the time flies. It's not until we say our momentary goodbyes when I realize I have yet to meet with Lurien. I think I still have time. He seems to be up and mingling now! Ok, time to get some answers.

[talkfastromance4]

for the title game: kiss me like a stranger

It’s with (one of) our favorite Cancer guy: Ashton😌

This is longer than a few paragraphs….🤭

•••

You’re a singer and we’re swept off your feet by a certain Aussie drummer. It was a whirlwind romance that blossomed before your own feet were planted firmly in the ground of stardom. He shared your songs, went to your shows, and you met on a carpet at a charity event.

You were seated a few rows behind him but he unashamedly craned his neck to look at you because you were so pretty. He stood and cheered when you performed your single that has been on the billboards top ten for a month.

At the after party he walked up to you with an air of confidence that immediately piqued your interest. Small talk turned into a whole evening of talking which transcended to a moonlit beach stroll. Your heels in your hand as you walked along the shoreline, not even minding the end of your dress was getting saltwater and sand embedded onto it.

After that you were inseparable. Coffee dates. Day trips. Music writing sessions. Art museum dates. Road trips.

But like all great, fantastical romances, it has an expiration date. Distance made you grow fonder but made your hearts break a bit more with each mile apart. You both agreed to take a break for a while until things slowed down or you were both on the same continents.

A month turned into three then turned into eight. By the fifteenth month, while you remained single and watched him be tied to other women, you wrote a song.

A song about a last time, a last chance, a do over. It was simple and melodic but full of such emotion and longing it brought tears to your eyes. Every word and note sang Ashton. Little tidbits of him were hidden inside and you knew he’d know it was about him. You fought with yourself not to release it but after you shared it with your team—and they all cried—the begged you to share it.

Because that’s what we all want, right? A do over with the one great love we lost?

It wasn’t long until you had another top hit, it was used as a trend on tiktok of people sharing their own lost love stories. You loved seeing the reaction but you were guilty of only being concerned by one specific person’s opinion.

Nearly a year and a half after your breakup, you were at an awards show again. You’d be singing your song. He was there and you were there and you felt his presence in the room as soon as you sat down. It was the first time you’d be performing the song and you had butterflies because: had he listened to it beforehand? Are you totally blindsiding him by performing a song written about him, for him?

You took the stage, closed your eyes and sang until your heart bled. Memories of him and you replayed in your mind. When you were finished, there was silence then an abrupt applause that made your body shake onstage.

When you were gathering yourself in the dressing room, there was a knock. You told your assistant you’d be out in a moment but then the door opened. I’m the mirror behind you, stood Ashton. His hair was longer but he looked handsome as ever in his suit.

“Is that what it felt like for you too at the end? Our last kiss?” He asked referencing a line in the song.

“Yes. It felt detached,” you admitted.

“Me too. It really was like kissing a stranger…” he rubbed at his chin in thought. “What if…we tried again?”

“Tried what?”

“Us. You. Me. But don’t kiss me like a stranger.” He shook his head and stepped closer to you. His familiar aftershave tickled your nose and made your mouth water.

“How should I kiss you?”

“Like you love me,” he cups your cheek and rubs his thumb over a tear, “cause I never stopped loving you.”

You meet in the middle; sparks and fireworks go off and then is calmed by the familiarity, the home you’ve been missing.

[msmattea]

23 and single. i've been single for 23 years of my life, and the circumstances around the swirl of being a 23 year old who has never been in love, it is something that i have just started to sink my teeth into. 

now, bell hooks says that romanic love and platonic love are no different from eachother, obsolving each from outshining eachother. if i was writing a research paper i would be inserting a quotation right now. rather, it makes me think of the time were i was bathing my woes of being a single 22 year old onto my wise beyond her years friend. she coldly told me that love is surronding me right now, and i choose to focus on the love i don't have. i felt like someone had just shoved a cold thumb up my ass.

does romanitic love grow from something distinctly platonic? what about love at first sight? what about the inclining of a liking being sparked simply by a casual smile or impressiveness of someones shoes - something that i think is romantic. very deep into the very very far future. when my daughter Nina asks how it came to be someone fell in love with me, i would want to him to tell her about the whites of my smile. or lackthereof. 

when i was in middle school, i had an deep obession with kissing. specifially kissing girls on the mouth. platonic kisses of course, as the idea of me kissing girls in any other way just didn't exist with my being. before each middle school production of hairspray, into the woods, or shrek jr., i would go around and kiss a special select few girlfriends, ignighting a tradition before every show. that mixed with my OCD, i was kissing everyone almost 16 times a night. the thought of missing a kiss was death, and the number of kisses needed to remain consistant. if tracey got an extra kiss than so did penny and then so did wilbr (played by a girl). shortly after, the gamble would show a fast trail of colds from the girls in the cast. 

anyways, im 23 and single. i quoestion if im ready to talk about the complexity of being a woman of a different. so much now, falls on sex, on my body and how she functions. or is it my allowance for it so. im 23 and single and i have fucked more people than years ive been alive. all i know is fucking. fucking is the thing i resort to when the butterflies try and fly out of my stomach, remaining stuck in my gullet.

when i moved back home, i met a man. he was a nocturnal man; as our relationship seemed to only esist between the hours of 8pm - 2am. we would sneak around, which made it feel more real. there was this time where we went to a liquor store to get mix to make margaritas. we had just parked, and as i took away my seat belt, he said deeply ”Mattea.” my attention was out the passanger princess window, i was took focused on how i was gonna act in the liquor store. but to my suprise just as i turn my head to answer his command he kissed me. he kissed me long and hard. its strange to reflect on because now, in hindsight vision, i think about the rarety of that experience. the second that buckel came undone my brain was filled with the commands given to myself to remain presentable. my brain is a broken damn, gushing with insecurity. the instant he took a breath and went in for another kiss, my brain was calm. like a hard factory reset. glassy lake water. nothing was going to fuck up this moment. 

later, after we made margaritas, we had sex. it was the most detached sex i have ever had in my life. sex with him was like i was locked out of own body. i could feel myself pounding on the lock begging to be present, to be let in. i kept thinking maybe it was the drink and weed. but two nights later, i was locked out again. and then it kept happening. i could feel the opportunity of personable Mattea slowly drying up. 

i think it was the first time i really wanted the sex to mean something more than just sex. it was the fact that WE were having sex. the choice of eachother, of that kiss, of sneaking around. i don't know why i locked myself out. i think maybe it was fear.

im 23 and single and i don’t want to fuck anymore. i crave the challenge of opening myself up to someone.

[wildwoof]

I truly cannot stop thinking about how the lyrics are so fitting. Like

This fits into Koga feeling so lonely with no one there for him. It's not a matter of the fact that his parents didn't feel anything for him, they clearly "love" him, but there's a strong detachment from them at this point in his life as he's hitting his young teen years & growing up from the little boy they were raising. Thus, why he was out trying to find someone or something to add to his lonely life. Sure, he had Leon who his parents adopted, who showed him love he was lacking, but it wasn't that human emotional attachment he wished for.

This is when he finds the Underground Livehouse & meets Rei from a distance as a fan. He falls for Rei, as someone who can grip a hold of & take him somewhere entirely away from this life that he cannot understand. Everything feels so distance as it crumbles around him. It's something he's begun to cling onto as a means of escaping. It helps him to cope with what he's trying to go through. He feels like he's somewhere accepting by sneaking into the Livehouse to listen to Rei. He didn't actually KNOW who Rei was, but he was THERE with Rei. He felt at peace.

This is him first coming across the Underground Livehouse. It's somewhere new & exciting. He doesn't know anyone there, but he searches to come across Rei at that moment. Someone he's drawn into by listening to his music. He's never going to forget. An explanation to his life changing so drastically around him when as an emotionally driven person, it's hard for him to cope with. He doesn't want to see himself as alone. Lonely. So drawn into himself when he's a very extroverted person who thrives on the energy than with no one around him.

Him trying to understand what's going on around him. It's all so confusing. Koga's very uncertain about things, but he's found that one thing to hold onto. It once more comes back around to the chorus. After all, this is a place where he feels fulfilled once again. Rei's music has reached out to him significantly. It's pulled into him, & feels a release he hasn't felt when at school. When at home.

Thus, why he feels as if he's fallen in love with Rei. Why he feels as if Rei has saved him. Even though he never once spoke to Rei prior to the one point when Rei takes his tomato juice from him. Otherwise he was sneaking into the Underground Livehouse. He was finding ways to practice guitar, to learn from what he'd hear & witness. He wanted to be a PART OF that life that saved him. Why he ultimately took the entrance exam to get into Yumenosaki when it was time. Why he wished so hard to show off exactly what he came to learn from those times in the back rooms. What going through the back door brought to him.

Koga was so HOPEFUL to finally be part of that life than continuing to stand in the crowd. He was taken somewhere new & exciting, somewhere he wished to hold onto. It holds such an impact on Koga that he could not simply let go. It was exciting & new. He felt more alive. He no longer felt lonely. No longer alone. Everything was no longer confusing to him, he knew exactly what he wished to achieve at that point.

Eventually he gets it, thanks to Rei. Rei seeing something in Koga from all those times. He truly did grab a hold of Koga's hand & take him somewhere new. He reached for the hand of that lonely child, brought him there. Sure, they went through some extreme rough patches, due to bringing Koga along, but ultimately it was what they both needed. A child who initially Rei wanted nothing to do with, to someone now he cannot part from. They've truly gone through so much together.

[httpsjeonglvr]

Newbie

As Hana strolled onto the grounds of Atlas Academy, she completely dismissed the looks of the students around her wondering about the mysterious boy following close behind her. She despised attention especially when it was on her. She noticed a blonde girl taking a picture and a purple-haired girl passing out flyers as she looked around. She rolled her eyes and cranked up the volume on her phone when she saw brunette with a group of girls whispering and pointing at her

She couldn't care less if hearing would be damaged from how loud she's blasting the music right now.It was distracting her from the embarrassment she was feeling. 'I knew transferring here was a mistake.' Almost a year after Amy Minoru's death, she was adopted by the Minoru's to their home because they felt guilty for what Jonah did to her adoptive brothers. She was forced to evacuate from her home when it mysteriously collapsed but she had no recollection of what happened. It only comes to her in bits and pieces which makes her wonder if it is real or not. Nico, Amy's younger sister, kept her distance from Hana. She could understand her because her parents' adoption of the girl seemed to be a replacement for Amy. She wasn't enrolled at Atlas Academy; thus she didn't know any of Nico's former friends. Until now of course.

Robert proposed that she be transferred to Atlas Academy so that both she and Nico might form a bond and grow closer, as the two are sisters after all. Nico was a year older than her, which meant she is responsible for anything that happened to Hana even though she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself . She closed her eyes shut to avoid everyone around and clutched the handle of her backpack while a lump formed in her throat. 'Get it together, . You can do this.' Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted when she crashed into someone so hard she tumbled to the ground. She dropped her backpack and her headset were detached from her phone. She groaned in pain from the sudden impact and opened her eyes to see a tall, dark-skinned young man with his eyes wide open in shock. "Shit." He gasped before assisting you up. "I am really sorry."

"It's my fault. I should be the one saying sorry." She mumbled as she allowed him to help her up. She started collecting her things while the boy behind her grabbed her phone and avoided eye contact with the teenager who started at Hana. "Hey, you're that new kid right? she heard him ask

"I'm Alex." She heard him introduce himself as she stood up and wiped the dust off her clothes. She stared at him for a moment and noticed his smile didn't reach his eyes. 'He looks upset.' She gave him a small smile. "Nice to meet you, Alex." She gave him a small smile before walking away and grabbing her phone from Seojun who was ordered to watch over her by the Minoru's, she connected her headset once again to her phone. Alex scratched the back of his head as he glanced at her and the curly-haired boy behind her. "I didn't even get your name." He whispered before shaking his head and walking away.

She turned to a corner and completely halted before she could even bump into another person. The young girl gasped in surprise. "Oh, didn't see you there." The girl chuckled nervously before wincing in pain and clutching her abdomen. She tilted her head as she recognized who was talking to her. "Molly?"

Molly blinked twice before widening her eyes. "Hana!” She immediately engulfed her in a warm hug, and the brunette returned the gesture. "You're here!"

Molly Hernandez was her only best friend once she moved to Los Angeles because the two shared some common interests and similarities in life. Molly understood what it was like to be adopted and orphaned. Despite being older than Molly, it doesn't stop Hana from being friends with her.

"Are you okay?” She asked worriedly as she cupped her cheeks firmly. "You look like you're in pain. I can get you something if you like—"

"No, no, it's fine," Molly reassured. "I think I can handle it. I have a tryout session later, so..."

She  gave her a look for a moment before understanding what was happening. "You're on your period?"

Molly weakly nodded and whimpered. "Why does it have to happen now?”

She sighed. "Maybe you can go to the nurse's office to give you some hot compression." She looked down at her phone to see the time. "Look, I gotta go I'll see you later, okay?"

Molly watched as she walked away with a boy she's seen once or twice. "Hey! Do you even have someone to show you around the Academy yet?"

Nico was meant to be there, but she spotted her reading a Wiccan-related notebook and chose not to disturb her. Molly couldn't give her a tour because she's busy and has menstrual cramps. When she got to the second floor, she saw the same boy from before, staring longingly at her adoptive older sister.

Her eyebrows slightly raised in surprise. 'Huh...' she shrugged it off and opened the door to her classroom, completely missing a glance from Alex.

She just so happened to be in the same class as Nico and her former friends, and she could feel the awkward tension around them. She was busy chewing her bottom lip and started doodling some people from a cartoon she watched this morning. She’d always found comfort in cartoons and had grown to enjoy them. She knew someone had introduced them to her, which was why she like watching old cartoons, but she didn't know who.

"My point is that the system needs to be dismantled, which is why I'm starting a new club on campus, undermining the patriarchy." As the teenage girl, whose name's Gert Yorkes, continued talking about her plans for a club she wanted to create, she froze when she spotted her drawing was now different from what she had in mind. "What the..." she whispered.

"Taehyun get her out of here!”

Screams were heard from every direction, and people were lying on the ground or running out of the building.

"We'll be alright, okay?"

Two boys were seen looking up at something, one had hair at the shoulder and looked younger than the boy covering him while the other had blood coming from his head a frightened expression frozen on his face

“I'm sorry for your loss...”

Fire

“Run!”

"I'm scared..."

She snapped out from her thoughts when she noticed the class had their eyes on her. She didn't notice she was sitting beside Alex, so she jumped when she felt his fingers tapping her arm. "Hey, are you okay?" He asked worriedly. "Your nose is...”

She wiped her nose and looked down at her hand and found blood smeared on the back of her hand. "Yeah..."

People started fixing their things, and since Alex was convinced she was okay, he walked away to approach his former friend, Chase Stein. He noticed him sketching on his tablet. "Woah, are those the, uh, God, what did you call them? Handblasters?" He asked nervously to his old friend, who was still not breaking his attention on his tablet. "It's so cool you're still working on it."

She glanced at the two boys before looking at her hand again to see the dried blood on her palm. She sighed heavily and took out a tissue to wipe her hand.

"Handblasters?" Chase lightly scoffed with a smile while Alex crossed his arms and listened intently. "No, these would be bionic prosthetics using myoelectric sensors. I'm calling them Fist—"

Chase stopped his sentence and looked to his side to see Alex, who fixed his glasses up. Chase slightly moved away. "Wait, why am I even talking to you?"

"Actually, I was talking to you." Alex corrected before clearing his throat. "I was thinking that maybe you might want to get together tonight, just all of us like we used to."

Hana glanced at Nico, who was listening quietly to Chase and Alex. "Seriously, Wilder?" Chase questioned. "You think I'll come over to hang out like we're still friends?"

"Just keep your voice down."

"Wait, you're joking." She spotted Gert approaching the two boys. "He's joking, right?"

"That is what I expected you to say, Gert, which is why I was hoping that if I could get Chase on board first and maybe..."

"Oh, right, because I totally make all my decisions based on what some roided-out jockstrap has to say."

Chase snapped his head to Gert. "Hey! I've got opinions."

"Right, about what flavored protein powder to use, right?" Gert questioned. "And we really admire you for it."

Alex chuckled nervously. "Classic Gert, you see?" Hana adjusted on her seat as she placed her chin on the palm of her hand, continuing to eavesdrop on their conversation. Seojun quietly chuckled at her actions and opened his phone texting Mrs.Minoru "This kind of delightful banter is why I think we should all get together and hang out at my place tonight."

"You're having people over tonight?" Karolina Dean asked after she overheard what Alex said.

Chase suddenly fixed his posture as he turned his attention to Karolina. "Why, are you interested?"

Karolina shook her head. "Oh, no, I'm sorry, I can't. I have a church thing."

"Or you could just come by after that," Alex suggested. "It doesn't have to interfere with your religion."

'Man, I've missed some drama.' She hid her quiet laugh as she got interested in their small talk.

"Religion, is that what we're calling it now?" Gert asked as she looked up at Alex.

Karolina turned to Gert. "What I believe in is positive and life-affirming, and it doesn't allow me to be cut down by some miserable loser."

She frowned at Karolina's statement while Chase glanced at Alex. "Oh, think she was referring to you, Wilder!" He whispered loudly.

"But you do realize that no institution has been as oppressive to women as organized religion," Gert argued.

"Except my mother runs my church," Karolina argued back. "You call yourself a feminist, Gert, yet no one cuts down other women more than you do."

"Not all of them, no, just the ones who walk around with fake smiles pretending to be happy all the time."

"Okay, guys..." Alex tried to stop the two girls from fighting, but Karolina spoke again. "At least I'm trying. When was the last time you took a shower?"

And to her relief, the bell rang out loud. She began fixing her things as the Gert, and the others continued to talk. Chase glanced at Hana who was messing around on her phone now bored with their argument getting ready to go and furrowed his eyebrows. "Were you listening to us this whole time?"

She froze and looked around to see Nico looking at her. Chase scoffed as he glanced at Nico. "Looks like your little sister is a little eavesdropper, huh?"

Alex's eyes widened, and he looked at Nico before looking back at the brunette. "Wait... what?" Karolina sighed as she walked away from Gert while Nico gathered her things, preparing to leave. Chase turned to Alex. "I thought you were the nerd ? You should know that by now."

Chase left Alex to join his new friends while Alex watched Evangeline leave hurriedly dropping a small white bag and leave the classroom. Gert glanced at Alex. "And you wanted us all to hang out?"

Gert grabbed her bag and left the classroom as Alex shook his head. "Not for me..." Alex sighed. "...for her." He grabbed his stuff and walked out of the class noticing the new kids hurrying out seeming to be arguing.

Decided to rewrite it

tags: @nekoannie-chan

[camelliacats]

The Weight of a Name

More on the Weasley fam bloodline, since Septimus needs to fill Cedrella in on some things. ;3

Fic: "The Weight of a Name" [FFN] [AO3]

Pairings/Characters: established!Septimus Weasley/Cedrella Weasley, Arthur's brothers, & an Arthur cameo in a way XD

Rating: K

Words: ~1,870

Additional info: romance, family, fluff, Maydayverse, pre-Marauder era, 3rd person POV

Summary: As their family continues to grow, Septimus enlightens Cedrella of the ups and downs of the Weasley bloodline.

      When Septimus arrives outside his home with a POP!, the tension from a long day of haggling with customers who know better than to fall for sales tricks vanishes from his shoulders, and he eases into a smile. When he steps onto the path and takes the final step onto the welcome mat (a handmade wedding gift from Aunt Pea, well-worn beyond readability now but well-loved) in front of the door and hears children's thunderous footsteps on the other side, his smile stretches from ear to ear.

      But, when he catches his wife's shushing the boys, Septimus can't help but stifle a laugh, even when the door swings open and his family catches him red-handed—er, red-faced, that is. "Er, hullo there."

      "Welcome home," Cedrella says, though she purses her lips and raises one blond eyebrow, meaning she can see how entertained he is. "Rough day at work?"

      "Easier I reckon than what you fared, luv," Septimus says, leaning across the threshold to peck that bemused smile.

      And good thing he leans, too. He's not about to go anywhere with the two weights that anchor themselves to either of his legs in that moment, ignorant of their parents' stern looks.

      "Ah, boys? Might I come in?"

      The eldest, Cyril, has the Black family smirk down at the precocious age of six…plus he's getting to be a wee bit large for this show of affection, reedy though he might be. "Maybe," he says.

      Bilius, four years old, mimics his brother, right down to the way he says, "Maybe," but the chubby-cheeked lad is too happy to keep the bit going. He bursts into a fit of giggles right after, which Cyril catches when their father walks into the house with them attached this way.

      Cedrella rolls her eyes and shuts the door behind them. "Oh, good grief! It's been a ruckus in here all day long, Sep. You'd think Christmas was tomorrow, not weeks behind us."

      Septimus just manages to shrug off his outer cloak with Cedrella's help. Then he gives each of his sons a long look. "Boys, is this true? You didn't let Mum have her peace and quiet?"

      Cyril switches from rambunctious to guilty in a flash, his cheeks faintly colored red just like his hair (their firstborn is so equal parts them, Septimus thinks, from looks down to personality). He detaches himself from Septimus' left leg, clasps his hands behind his back, and bows his head to Cedrella. "…sorry, Mum."

      Cedrella purses her lips again, but it's to stifle a chuckle, Septimus knows, especially when she locks eyes with her husband. She draws their oddly meek child to her middle and hugs him tight. "Oh, Cy… Thank you, dear. I appreciate it."

      Partly to mimic Cyril, partly to behave, partly for the reward of Cedrella's warm hug, Bilius follows suit, springing up with an "I'm sorry, too!"

      Now the parents do laugh, and Septimus tousles his boys' hair. "All right, all right… Why don't you two head upstairs and tidy up then? Give Mum some of that quiet time for a bit now."

      "But supper—"

      "Supper will be done shortly," Cedrella assures their growing boys. Her eyes follow them upstairs, but then she turns to Septimus with a haggard sigh, half collapsing in his arms. "…it will, but. Sep, I dunno how I can make it another month or so."

      At that, Septimus steadies her with one arm and drops his free hand to her round belly. His touch doesn't linger long before he feels the kick. Internally, he heaves a sigh of relief as he leads Cedrella to the nearby armchair.

      He doesn't doubt that they'll greet a new baby next month, when February brings new chills and the promises of spring around the corner. But he also wonders…

      As if sensing his hesitation, Cedrella lifts her lolling head from the back of the chair and reaches for his hand, their fingertips brushing in her tiredness. "Septimus?"

      He musters a smile for her. "Cedrella?"

      She shoots him a look. All this time, and it'll never change, him replying with her name when she simply beckons with his. "Something on your mind?" She tugs on his ring finger and taps his wedding band for emphasis.

      "Oh, not that worry again," he insists as he pulls up the ottoman to sit in front of her.

      Cedrella lowers her voice. "I know it's not ideal, but. So my parents don't see me as their own anymore. And…Callidora and Charis stopped answering my owls years ago." She tries so desperately to feign strength, but her dark eyes drop to her lap (…well, to her belly) at talk of her immediate family. "But not everyone in the house of Black has the same opinion. There have been others before me who've gone against the family's unappealing 'ideals,' and I certainly won't be the last. So, if we're stumbling a bit right now, Sep, I know I can find some sort of support. True family helps true family."

      He winces. He doesn't disagree, and it's a value she shares with his own father, funnily enough. But Septimus has done…all right to support them, on his own ability. A fifth mouth to feed will make things extra tight, yes, but they will manage, and without the charity of the family who excised his wife from their family tree. Still… "Cedrella…," Septimus starts with a sigh in his voice, "I…never told you the origin of my name, did I?"

      The non sequitur takes Cedrella by surprise. "Sorry?"

      Septimus smiles and pauses to let his eyes rove over her, tracing the subtle wave of her dark blond locks before the knot in her hair and sinking into the depth of her stone brown eyes ("Gray eyes run in the Black blood," she told him back in fifth year after their first kiss, "but mine don't quite want to be gray"). He muses on how she used to be sallow, too, like her sisters, their first few years in Hogwarts before she started rebelling and flying during her breaks and eventually befriending "that Weasley boy." But now? Now she spends time with her family outside and radiates warmth around the clock, as evidenced by her rosy cheeks, upon which his gaze rests now.

      "…Sep…?"

      "Ah, right. Sorry." Plucked from his appraisal, he cups her cheek in his hand and runs his thumb along her cheekbone, and the feel of her calms him. So, starting again, Septimus clears his throat. "My name normally would've gone to a seventh son."

      Cedrella furrows her brow. Of course she's confused; they both know he's an only child.

      "My parents never had or lost any before me… And I'm not the seventh Weasley generation."

      "No, your family's older than mine, even."

      "Yeah, color me surprised by that one." Septimus takes another breath and slides both of his hands into Cedrella's. "You…met my parents and all the assorted uncles and aunts and cousins at our wedding. My grandparents, too."

      Cedrella chuckles here. "The Weasleys are a big but warm and welcoming bunch," she remarks.

      "Cedrella, we weren't always that way. Actually—we aren't always that way. The big bit, not the warm and welcoming."

      Once more, she furrows her brow, over his correction of tense, but it sinks so low over her dark eyes that it borders on glare (in this, she's almost the spitting image of her elder sister, who never lost a chance to scoff whenever Septimus passed them in the school's corridors). "Septimus," she warns.

      He squeezes her fingers lightly but doesn't let go. "Look, it's. Sort of superstition, one might say?"

      "'Superstition'? Was there magic involved?"

      "Well, I know how you feel about Divination…"

      Cedrella sighs. "If ever they nix a subject from the curriculum—" She squeezes her husband's hands in response. "Nevertheless, continue."

      Septimus bites his bottom lip and offers her a consoling smile. "…it began generations ago, y'know. And they thought it was a fluke, at first. It wasn't until Great-Great-Granddad Trick that they believed in it for real."

      "Believed in what, Sep?"

      "Well…that, through a combination of Arithmancy, Divination, and moderately sound business advice…the Weasley family could, would be fruitful. Just. Never all at once."

      "How?"

      He sighs. "We've reserved numerical names for ages, and they've been the ones with large families."

      Cedrella blinks in the quiet of the house. Off in the distance upstairs, they hear the boys shuffling about in their room.

      Septimus knows his wife, though, because they've been together since their school days, so he knows when she needs just a little more information before she reacts. He swallows a lump in his throat and cautiously proceeds: "So Old Trick…er, Triconius, that is…had a handful of sons. They didn't all have families, but one of his sons had a single son of his own, Grandpa Quincy. Grandpa Quincy was an only child like Trick but had many sons, the second of which was my dad, who had…only me." He stops there and raises his eyebrows.

      Some days she feigns ignorance on account of the hormones, and Septimus happily takes care of this and that around the house, because a first or third pregnancy can't be easy on Cedrella. But her eyes are sharp and clear right now as she pieces things together. "You mentioned Arithmancy."

      He nods.

      "So—these names aren't just a quirk of your family, like star names in mine?"

      "Quirk? Somewhat. Done entirely on purpose with full intent? Yes."

      Finally, her mouth pops open in a small "o." "Then…Cyril and Bilius and our new baby…"

      "I want whatever size family you want, Ced. But the magic's in the family's favor, just so you know." His shoulders sag, unsure of what to expect next.

      Cedrella frowns. But, after a beat, she ventures, "Well, you've told me before that it's been ages since a Weasley witch was born into the family, right?"

      He perks up at that. "Yes. Loads of wizards for generations."

      "Perhaps it's time to wish for a witch, then," Cedrella states with a small pat of her belly. "Although, I have a feeling it's a boy," she admits a second later.

      Septimus quirks an eyebrow at her. "Then what now?"

      Cedrella pecks his cheek and leans back in the armchair with a content sigh. "Then we do what we do best: We raise another healthy, happy boy. But, this time, Septimus, we'll warn him and his brothers about the family tradition…and perhaps we'll let them decide their own fates and families and names when the times come." She tugs his left hand and his ring finger once more, cracking one eye open and sharing some of her confidence with him with a secret smile.

      …and, honestly? It works. Her expression and gesture convey what she won't say, that perhaps family tradition is something not quite keeping the Weasley family alive but bogging them down. And, if there's an expert on flying free of their family's musts, it's Cedrella (formerly Black) Weasley.

      So Septimus shares in her smile. Because he's never been very good at flying, but he's always been prepared for something brand-new or terrifying so long as Cedrella's at his side.

Done for the If You Dare Challenge (for prompt #806: deep roots) in the HPFC forum on FFN. THESE. THESE ARE THE HCS I thought I could squeeze into "The Future of the Bloodline" and was so woefully wrong, *lol*. I long ago decided that Bilius was one of Arthur's two brothers, and I only recently gave a name to his other one; here, too, I wrote for the second time (first was ynusly ch79) that Arthur's their youngest, so that was fun. But just…egads. The idea of the Weasleys being a long, established, big family but how marinated in my brain for a long time and didn't properly form until my recent Septdrella (and some Prewett) hcs took shape. Now, me being a maths major, I enjoyed naming some Weasley forebears, since "Septimus" has the root for "seven," so does "Quincy" have the one for "five" and "Triconius" for "three" (all prime numbers, btw, altho "Triconius" is of my own making and mixes Greek and Latin, but we're gonna breeze over that XP). Whether the fam members in btwn are named for "four" and for "six," respectively…eh, couldn't decide. XD Anywho! Cedrella has been warned: They rly could've had a larger fam…but I like how her rebel streak gave Septimus some confidence that things don't have to be that way. The Black family has traditions that ought to be retired, so perhaps the Weasley family did, too! Final thoughts: The hc of the Weasleys being older than the Blacks is derived from the etymology of the surnames, and it's implied that the Weasley disdain for Divination is inherent (Ron got it from Grandma Cedrella XD).

Thanks for reading, and feel free to leave an anon/unsigned review via the FFN link or comment via the AO3 link at the top of the post, especially if you enjoyed this!

~mew