#it's something that only makes sense in her head

[vampmira]

open up what you got in your mind to me. [pt.2 – saja boys.]

they've never met someone like you — a mortal who almost knew them .. better than they knew themselves. for the boys, it's annoyingly intriguing. for the girls, it's comforting.

paring(s): huntrix & saja boys x demon expert!gn!reader

warning(s:) EVERYTHING IN HERE IS A PART TWO TO THIS !! some movie changes, probably effected lore that makes no sense for the sake of the narrative, a little angst at the beginning

request | tags: @blueberrysquire @akariis4snowball @j0ykill

a/n: this is part 2 !! i had sooo many ideas for huntrix that i had to make another part for the saja boys so that it wasn't so long . this part isn't as good but i liked it so ☆☆☆

that night huntrix defeated gwima was a blur. all you remember was the zombie mob of fans, half of the fight, and the use of your aura vision to raise the saja boys above the honmoon before it glimmered in gold. jinu, who gave his newly found soul for rumi, was practically reincarnated through her sword – standing in front of her post-concert, arms open for her to fall into with tears from the both of them. everyone else? well, they felt lost.

the saja boys weren't sure what to do anymore. jinu was overjoyed, of course, but the boys knew nothing more beyond gwima and their mission. they didn't care much about music, nor their fans – which huntrix still couldn't wrap their minds around – and it's not like they had secret human hobbies. they never had time for that. until now.

post-gwima, they stayed in an apartment near the huntrix penthouse, trying to figure out their new lives. for the most part, they spent most of their time under your watch – to make sure they didn't go cause chaos – but also .. under your study.

you were weird to them

they weren't used to someone other than them.. knowing them

their capabilities, their knowledge, their origins.

actually jinu found your extensive understanding of what he is to be kind of comforting

he noticed how you never really drooled over them

you'd stare, sure, but in the same way an art critic would stare at a painted blue canvas with a smeared red dot in the middle

he felt like that red dot – unexplained but you somehow understood

when he told you about his past, it was a lot for him – talking about his cruel choice

but you.. didn't judge him.

in fact, you wrote it down in your notebook immediately, the one you never let the boys get too close to

he accepted you into his life when he entertained your interest in his history

unlike him, however, the other boys were uninterested

at first anyway

thank jinu for getting them to talk to you btw

it took a little bit of convincing – telling them that you wanted to give them something more than just gwima

even though they didn't want it ...

REGARDLESS they hang out around the penthouse

because they're no longer saja boys (uninterested and unsupported by any demon staff anymore)

they really had nothing to do but mildly annoy your personal space

including being the center of your attention when the girls are out

mira gave you one rule, "living room and bathroom. only." and you've succeeded so far. abby and romance were talking by the large scale windows, mystery was playing some game with baby (and obviously winning), and jinu sat in the middle of the couch, watching whatever movie rumi put on for him. you sat beside him, sketching in your one and only personal researcher book. your pencil drew out what you felt like was the final line in mystery's hair ... before you huffed, erasing it, and trying again.

that was... until the littlest demon startled you.

"mystery, they're drawing you." bored of his game, baby peered over your shoulder, only passively curious and really wanting to mess with you. heads turned at your exposure to the room, especially jinu, who looked over your other shoulder at the sketch you did of him earlier.

"you're.. sketching us?" the direct ask made you a bit nervous, especially being under so many eyes. (kind of. mystery was more just.. generally facing your direction.) "'weakness.. chest?' are you taking notes on us?" you stood up, nearly defensive, turning around to face the couch trio.

"if it weren't for your old friends, i wouldn't have to write it all down again." the boys went quiet, remembering the origin of your knowledge and powers. "i'm just.. tired of keeping it all inside. i need to get it out somewhere."

romance, true to his name, leaned over your shoulder, putting you both in a proximity much closer than you've ever had to experience before.

"then why don't we do something.. a little more fun .. to help you get it all out?"

normally sentences like that from him sound way more suggestive than he means them to be

but this time he came up with an actual solution to release your closed up, ready-to-pop-out-of-your-skin knowledge

they gave you a one way trip to infodump station ! an interview !

they wanted to learn more about you anyways

their fellow demons down below were the ones to wipe out your ancestors

not them

and they make sure you know it too

but they can't help but feel .. a little, tiny bit bad that you're now just a living library

a time capsule, holding onto so much information that you're about to burst 24/7

they had never met a researcher honestly

you intrigued them as much as they did for you

how much did you really know ?? did you know anything or is all this antsy behavior a ploy to make it look like you knew everything when you really knew nothing ??

their disguises were perfectly created to make every little fan fall for their attractiveness the second they looked at the boys

but you never drooled at them or had your eyes pop out of your head

you just always... stared. processing. tracing mindfully.

they didn't know what you were really abut. but they were about to find out. and really test your persona.

romance sat relaced in a chair as you circled him, pencil taking note of everything you noticed. how his markings were sharp, not rounded like rivers, how his skin was cooled, not burning hot. all things you already knew, but you found small comfort in knowing not much changed. you took a deep breath around his hair, nose scrunching up. he smiled, taking your cheek in his hand.

"new cologne." his voice was smooth, gentle. traditionally alluring. "just for you. do you like it?" he turned up his flirtatiousness, pulling you in closely, testing the waters of your focus.. before you turned away to start writing, completely uneffected.

"so many generations and you guys still smell like flames.." you mumbled to yourself.

"would you rather we smell like bubblegum?" baby tried to sass you, but you were too focused on the sharpness of his teeth to care. you stepped towards him, eyes widened.

"can demons still tear apart brick with the force of their canines?" you asked, rather close to his face. for a moment, he almost felt like the flustered one.

"yes..? no? i-i don't know." he crossed his arms, childishly. "i don't go around biting bricks." you jot it down still as you move towards abby. he's deeply relaxed, leaning back on the couch, comfortable shirt riding up to expose his famously toned abs. your eyes trail off of your notebook and they think.. they've got you.

"like what you see?" he teases. "you can touch them, you know." a bold move that brings you closer, nails tracing his skin. they're almost disappointed that abby is the one who stole your attention.. before they realize you're attention isn't stolen at all. you're drawing his markings with careful detail.

"where did yours come from? rumi's started forming on her arm when she was a kid, but they haven't reached her stomach yet. they grow with time, right? how old would that make you then..?" you dissolve into mutters they can barely decipher. "oh!! mystery!" he almost jumps behind the couch when you race over to him, making jinu laugh from the sidelines of their attempts to flirt with you. "i've never seen a demon sparkle! that's new.. is that just you? or is there a whole subspecies of sparkling demons? or is it your human disguise..?" your questions nearly overwhelm him, enough to make him forget how he's supposed to flirt with you, but romance pulls you away, whispering in your ear.

"it's not just him." he smiles, hand on your shoulder. "you're sparkling, too, sweetheart." if anyone could fluster anyone, it'd be him, even if it takes two rounds. his thumb runs against your chin. "you look so cute in this lighting, like a rose."

"speaking of which, what's the flora like down there? are there any? do they eat demons or are they like.. regular flowers? we knew more of demons than of gwima's realm. did they smell? i bet they might have.. would it be nostalgic or torturing?"

the boys share a look, and sigh. you went off into high speed muttering again.

you really were everything you said

uninterested in their flirts and more in knowledge

that almost made them like you more..

in the following times after the interview, they greeted you a bit more casually – sometimes cheerfully, asking if you had any new drawings or trivia you wanted to get off your chest

how did you . tame them !? does the whole hard to get thing actually work !?

it confused the girls wildly

but to see them adjusting to being here through someone who actually understood them instead of lying around, empty and lost, was a pick-me-up in the mornings

one morning, after being delivered a coffee, handsigned by the boys, you felt something click in your head, a sensation you had never felt before, and reached to put it in your notebook immediately

"demons, when properly befriended, like to be understood. they brought me coffee. do demons like coffee??"

[amrluv]

THE KATS FIGHTING FOR READER LIKE THEY WERE FIGHTING FOR THAT DAMN PROMOTION IN THE GABRIELLA MVVVV PLEASESSSS

( #! ) oo the plot was too good i had to write a lot

there wasn't a clear indicator on when this all started, on when their madness began. but to you, this was truly never-ending.

from your earliest memory, it all started on new years eve. music blasted from the speakers, a random song only popular in the 2010s filling the house. the inside was crowded—a sea of tipsy, carefree individuals no longer caring if they stand in anyone's way. the smell of sweat, somehow, and weed hit you immediately; overwhelming your already alert senses. it was a nightmare in there, but you kept pushing.

pushing your way into the kitchen, a hand grasped at your wrist. it was gentle, but firm enough to make you pause. “you're here!”

the cheery voice of manon filled your ears—a stark contrast to the chaos around you. “come with me, i wanna show you something.”

as soon as she started to pull you away another hand pulled you in the opposite direction. sophia appeared by your side, a hand resting on your shoulder. “actually, i was thinking she should come with me. i've been dying to get to talk to her more.”

manon's smile cracks. it's small, but doesn't go unnoticed by sophia. “well i had her first.” she tugged at your wrist, earning a scowl from the raven haired girl. “this isn't some ‘finders keepers’ bullshit.” sophia spat back, her hand leaving you to instead shove the other girl.

manon glared at sophia intensely, her grip on you loosening before she finally let go. “the fuck is your problem?” the tension was thick, a few bystanders watching their interaction. shit, this wasn't something you wanted to get involved in.

while the girls were distracted, you slipped away from them, weaving your way through the packed crowd.

it was good for a while. you managed to lose the fighting girls—finally enjoying the party rather than worrying. you'd managed to settle down on a somehow not packed couch in the living room; downing a drink of whatever concoction you were given. before you could fully enjoy your peace, megan came around to break it.

"hey, you enjoying the party?" she sat down next to you without asking. she was close, too close for it to be friendly—her thigh touching yours, knees knocking together. "it's alright." you took another sip of your drink, hoping the liquor will ease your nerves of what was to come.

megan was silent, too silent that it teetered on being unnerving. the usually bubbly, loud girl was now watching you like a hawk. her gaze moved from your lips to your throat, watching as you swallowed the liquid. she let out a quiet hum, moving closer to you. "you know what would make this party even better?" she began, voice husky.

"mind if i join you?"

your eyes snapped up as soon as you heard a new voice. lara. of course.

without another word she sat down on the other side of you, sitting just as close to you as megan. now, you were sandwiched between two girls vying for your attention—their gazes sharp as they glared at each other from either side.

"it's almost midnight, you got a kiss?" lara suddenly asked you. though, her eyes remained on megan whose narrowed once she heard the question. "actually, lara," megan made sure to accentuate her name, "i was hoping she'd be my new years kiss."

lara's jaw noticeably clenched at her reply, cocking her head to the side to look at you once more. "well, why don't we ask her instead?"

suddenly, all eyes were on you. their desperate, yet irritated, eyes fell upon yours. it was uncomfortable. if you chose lara, megan would get upset. if you chose megan, lara would get upset. if you left, both of them would get upset. it was a lose-lose situation—and you didn't know what to do.

"i.. um.." you hesitated, glancing between the two girls who watched expectantly.

"what about me?"

fuck, another one.

daniela's voice broke the silence, eyes moving towards her standing figure. she watched with folded arms, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her lip. "you two are just freaking her out. she should just be my kiss. i'd be better, anyways."

"what the fuck, daniela?" megan's voice rose in pitch, astounded by the accusation she placed upon them. lara was equally shocked, scoffing at the insinuation. "i'm not a bad kisser."

"mhm, sure." daniela nodded, voice dripping in sarcasm. the brunette let out a sigh, extending a hand towards you. "c'mon, there's only a few more minutes until midnight."

lara stood, trying to swat daniela's hand away. "no way! you're not winning this time, dani."

megan mirrored lara, placing her hands on her hips as she came eye to eye with daniela. "yeah, no way." she looked back towards you. "just let me be your midnight kiss."

objections came from the other girls immediately, bickering ensuing between the three women. the clocked ticked down, nearing closer and closer to the expected hour. closer to the moment you'd have to choose.

[allthebestscreennamesaregone63]

Blood and Wayward Blood

It's a fantasy coming-of-age story.

The first protagonist is the "rightful heir," spoiled, and never hesitates to put themselves in violent situations. But he never gets hurt because:

The second protagonist is their scarred twin sibling, who was raised to protect them from birth and is hated by nobles, common folk, and their royal parents.

The second twin was always told that she'd never be worth anything, for the sheer crime of being the "second born" and a girl at that. She goes alongside her brother on an epic quest or some rot. The rogue midwife who became a nun has been spreading sedition and has been holding some ancient spell text that magically convinces people to do her bidding.

Turns out, when they finally confront her, she has become a nun out of pennance. The "spell text" is actually an unaltered birth certificate that says the girl twin was the firstborn and that the son was a weakling by comparison. This turns into a "my whole life is a lie" situation for our male protagonist.

In a misguided sense of "making things right" he takes the text and his twin back to confront their parents. He treats his twin much better, acting like she's a princess now. She tells him not to bother, that with her scarred haggard appearance she won't go far in life as a princess. He tells her she deserves nice things and she gets quiet.

They confront their parents. The prince accuses them of treachery and throws the paper down as proof. His parents roll their royal eyes and tell him that it doesn't matter who was born first or who is stronger. They would have put his sister through hell anyway, and that he, a weak male ruler, would always surpass his sister, "the inconvenience."

He has been sheltered his whole life and is completely shocked. His sister is not so shocked and stabs her brother from behind, killing him instantly. Her parents try to shriek up a fuss, but she takes her brother's sword and cuts them on their royal faces, disfiguring them both. When the guards rush in, she claims her brother attacked their parents because he found out he wasn't the firstborn and she had to kill him to save their royal majesties.

Her parents try to speak up, but she very clearly looks from her brother to them as if to say, "You're next if you talk." They confirm her story, but go mad with guilt in a few short years, leaving her to rule as queen.

The story is told as a recounting of the queen's confession before her execution. She held the kingdom together as long as she could, but with the repeated invasions from male-centric foreign kings, she was taken to trial and accused and convicted of patricide and fratricide.

She goes quietly to her execution, but the midwife stops the process and claims that this was a false confession. The Prince, after their conversation in the carriage home, told his sister to kill him, set up what to say, and how to say it to become queen. The midwife overheard them, but the prince swore her to secrecy. The ex-queen says it doesn't matter, that she would be executed anyway. The King says that she is correct, but before the executioner can kill them both, a strange dragon attacks and kills the queen's enemies, leaving only the twin and the midwife standing.

The dragon is the Prince. He had inadvertently awoken an old pact his bloodline made and bested the devil in single combat to steal his dragon form.

There are legends now, of queen and the dragon prince she treats as her equal. Some say she entered a devilish pact of her own. Some say the dragon is a fiendish lover, given a twisted form to terrorize the enemies of the immortal queen.

No one sees the dragon and the queen interact in private. No one sees how they bicker like the children they never got to be. The dragon does make the queen beg for continued life, and often makes the queen say something embarrassing in exchange for her life. Neither are the sexualized depictions some depraved souls get into their head, more so that it is a taller sibling holding their smaller sibling's favorite toy just out of reach. No one sees them laugh about it afterwards, or how the Prince will change to human form to teach his sister the games she could only ever watch him play from a distance. No one sees how the Prince taught his sister to duel with the royal sword, and how proud he looked when she bested him in combat after three months of sparring with the new weapon.

And when the queen feels uncertain, as all humans are want to do, no one sees the dragon Prince curl around his sister in a warm, all-over hug and remind her that she deserves nice things, and she isn't the royal doll soldier anymore.

As it should be.

-Lady Elaine, Former nun, ex-midwife, and current most trusted advisor to two properly spoiled royals.

Spin this wheel first and then this wheel second to generate the title of a YA fantasy novel!

(If the second wheel lands on an option ending with a plus sign, spin it again)

Share what you got!

[crescenthistory]

barty and his polar opposite daughter

synopsis: based on this post, barty raises a sweet girl who winds up being the polar opposite of himself – a polite, emphatic, pink-loving, tea-having little princess – and he adores her for it. while walking in the park, they meet a stranger with a dog that infatuates the both of them.

wc: 3.8k

cw: fem!reader, girl dad!barty, kid fic, single parent, modern muggle au, barty pov, ophelia being a whimsical polite sweetheart, meet-cute in the park, fluff, playing fetch, flirting, physical affection, implied that barty’s mum is dead, wider world building that includes reader working at the valkyries welfare community centre and barty being a mechanic

Barty is incredibly proud of two things – the perfect little girl on his shoulders, and his impeccable trapezius keeping her up.

Ophelia is his sweetheart, both in the sense that he adores her more than anything in the world and that she is a literal sweetheart, kind through and through. More often than not, Barty wondered how the two of them could possibly have been cut from the same cloth, although the physical resemblance is undeniable. Her dark brown curls mix with his own from where she sits, his acid green streaks and her pink bows the only way to determine where hers starts and his ends.

There had been many potential last straws for Barty to finally ditch the Crouch family, but only when his uncle Silas birthed yet another illegitimate child and decided to just “dump this one in foster care”, did Barty throw in the towel. At that point he had only seen Ophelia once, sleeping in a bassinet, but he was already enamoured. There was just something about her that screamed for him to finally do something more than just piss his father off. Maybe it was her chubby cheeks, maybe it was how she reminded him of that picture he always treasured of his mother holding him as a baby, but that was enough for him.

He had a secure enough found family by then that he could up and leave and take the kid. He vowed that Ophelia would not have the childhood he did; she would be herself no matter who that may be. His father called him crazy, and Barty called him all sorts of names in return. His friends had their doubts, he’s sure of it, but Pandora and Evan helped him buy a flat in a safe neighbourhood on the outskirts of London, Regulus helped him get legal custody, and Dorcas taught him everything he needed to know about babies to begin with. The rest he learned along the way.

It worked, even as Ophelia quickly became a fierce personality in her own right. At just three, she was an utter angel and his whole world.

If he could say so himself, he thought he had this parent thing under control, believe it or not.

She sits on top of his shoulders as he walks the two of them through Regent’s Park – her favourite in London – while her small hands are buried in his hair to steer him as she called it, grabbing onto the green strands specifically. She’s wearing her Princess Aurora replica dress, pink and fluffy, the excess fabric spilling down his back, covering his Sex Pistols t-shirt.

They look fabulous together, thank you very much.

“Good morning, loves!” Ophelia calls and waves enthusiastically, voice melodic as it cuts through the fresh breeze. Barty turns his head ever so slightly to see the elderly couple passing them on the path, just barely catching how the man furrows his brows in surprise while the lady smiles brightly and returns the greeting.

Barty squeezes Ophelia’s plush thighs where he holds her securely, ensuring she can dance and wave on his shoulders without falling off. Her glittery blinking trainers shoot directly into his line of sight as she kicks her feet and giggles when a jogger waves at her as they pass.

“D’you want to run too, Ophie?” he asks, turning his head backwards to grin at her. 

“Yes, yes!” Ophelia wastes no time in agreeing, clutching onto Barty even tighter in preparation. “Run, horsey!”

He has never been above making a fool of himself. Barty holds onto Ophelia with his ringed fingers and begins to run along the path by the lake, keeping his back slightly bent to not jostle her as much.

Ophelia cheers, bending her head to rest it beside Barty’s for protection from the increase in wind – it makes it so that her giggles trickle directly into his ear. Barty can’t help but grin, the two of them a flash of black and pink as he gallops for the little girl.

“Dada, look, it’s a doggy!” She abruptly declares, trying to push his head sideways to look.

Barty slows down, straightening up a little to look in the direction Ophelia is trying to gesture him towards. It takes him a second, but then he spots it.

Though, while Ophelia is already squiggling to get off of his shoulders to run to greet the puppy, Barty finds himself a little preoccupied with its owner. On the open field beside the lake, a lovely, lovely woman is smiling so brightly it almost cuts him apart and compels the pieces to run towards her.

And sure, yes, she has a dog with her.

“Hello, Dada?” Ophelia’s voice pulls him out of his momentary stupor, particularly because it sounds a little softer, her earlier excitement replaced with empathy, as if sensing his distraction.

Her sweet kindness is wasted on him, so Barty squeezes her thighs once more and replies, “Yes baby, that’s a little puppy for sure. Want to go say hi?”

She grins, concern immediately forgotten as she lets go of his hair in favour of clapping her tiny hands together. “Yes please, I would very much like that, I want to say hi to the doggy.”

Barty looks back towards the one who caught his attention earlier – only to see that he had caught hers. Or, a better way of phrasing that statement, would be that Ophelia and her cheers had caught her attention.

You straighten up from where you had been scratching your dog’s head, clearly rewarding her with something, and smile warmly, albeit somewhat cautiously, as you watch the two of them approaching. You pull your dog closer to you by the collar and Barty can just barely catch you giving her a “stay” command. 

He is about to open his mouth to announce themselves, but is cut off by his little wingwoman. “Hi, love, good morning!” Ophelia greets happily. “Can I please pet your beautiful doggy?”

Any apprehension he might have scouted in your expression previously melts away as softness appears in your eyes. It feels like you’re looking at him, but he can tell you’re meeting Ophelia’s eyes.

“Of course, angel, so long as your adult agrees.” Your voice is different than he had expected it to be, your accent engulfing him. Barty finds himself disproportionately intrigued by you, but he has never been one to deny himself of interest.

Dutifully, Ophelia leans sideways to look at her father properly, making him tighten his hold on her lest she fall. Already as she begins to politely inquire if she is allowed, he is crouching down, black jeans constricting around his knees, to let her off. 

“There you go, princess,” he says as he eases her off his shoulders and onto the ground, her trainers immediately blinking in the colours of the rainbow. “Make sure to let the dog smell your hand first, ‘kay?”

He looks up to watch as you follow his movements in crouching down, sitting parallel beside your dog so that you’re on Ophelia’s level. “Hiya darling, what’s your name?” you ask sweetly.

“I am Ophelia, I am three years old,” Ophelia recites as she reaches out her hand for the dog to smell. Barty can’t tell what type of dog it is yet, but it has kind brown eyes. 

“Wow! Three is quite big,” you muse, looking over to catch Barty’s eye, sharing a moment of connection before you look back to her. “This right here is Flora, she’s just a little younger than you at 2 years old.”

Ophelia gasps. “She’s a baby!”

Barty looks down with a grin, leaning his elbows on top of his knees as he watches Flora sniff Ophelia’s hand happily before bending her neck to let his little girl scratch her.

“Oh yes, she is,” you agree in a conspiratory voice. “Who’s the adult you’ve brought with you today?”

Ophelia lights up and removes one of the hands that were buried deep in Flora’s fur to turn around slightly and point at Barty who’s sat almost directly behind her. “This is my Dada! His name is BeeBee and I’m baby.” She pronounces baby as bay-bee so that it rhymes with BeeBee.

If Barty wasn’t so damn proud of her, he might have been a bit embarrassed by his soft side being exposed to this stranger so soon. Luckily, these past three years with Ophelia has made him both softer and stronger.

“I’m Barty,” he offered, meeting your gaze with his own steady one, taking in the movement of your lips and the shine in your eyes. “I’m her father. And you are…?”

Your voice was almost breathless when you let out your name. It fit you perfectly and he found himself repeating it in a whisper.

Any time spent lingering in the moment was cut off when Ophelia loudly coos at Flora and steps closer to embrace the dog in a slightly awkward but no less adorable hug. You break out into laughter at the sight and at how Flora looks a bit concerned up at you, though making no attempts to push Ophelia away.

Barty shimmies closer to his daughter without standing back up to his full height to pull Ophelia slightly backwards and hoist her onto his knee. “Let’s give Floralita some space, alright baby, hm?” he asks, looking down at her as he makes sure she’s comfortable and still at petting-distance.

“She’s very patient, it’s alright,” you reassure him.

Ophelia seems nonplussed, smiling wildly at Barty. “Alrighty, Dada, kisses,” she declares, pressing a kiss to his cheek and then another to Flora’s head. ” Then, she gestures towards you. “Would you like a kiss too, Missy?”

Your lips part slightly and Barty prepares to protect Ophelia’s heart, but then you just cock your head sideways and nod. “Oh yes please, how kind of you baby.”

Barty finds the corner of his lips quirk upwards and his heart stutters as you lean closer, almost all the way into his and Ophelia’s embrace, so that Ophelia can stamp a sweet kiss to your cheek, making an exaggerated mwah! sound. 

You look between the both of them, warmth only slightly more reserved towards Barty than towards Ophelia. “Do you two angels have somewhere to be, or would you like to play some with Flora? I was about to have her fetch.” You add while looking at Barty, “We’re still training her, but so far she’s very well-behaved and kind.”

“I can tell,” Barty finds himself agreeing readily. He discreetly kisses Ophelia’s temple before popping her off of his knee and back onto the ground. “This angel,” he says, gesturing to Ophelia, “insisted on a park day, so that’s what her poor old man shall provide. You wanna play fetch, don’t you, Ophie?”

Ophelia nod enthusiastically while you laugh and claimc “You’re not old.”

“I’m not?” Barty raises his brow playfully. “How would you know, stranger?”

You level him with a look. “You’re clearly my age, Barty, so watch it.”

Hearing you say his name did something to him. Ophelia quickly turned the atmosphere into a comedic one when she furrows her brows and says, “No, no, Dada is old. But that’s alright! No shame in aging.”

Before either of you can really say anything, just laugh loudly, she runs forward a bit and does a cartwheel. Barty can’t tell for certain, but Flora seems wholly confused at what his little girl was doing.

You’re still laughing, your brows all scrunched up. “She is such a sweet thing, ain’t she?”

“Oh, you have no idea,” Barty agrees, standing up at last, his carabiner with his keys and Ophelia’s trinkets clinkering with his movement. 

He holds his hand out to you to help you up from where you’re still sitting on your knees, watching Ophelia spin in circles around you. For a beat, you hold his gaze, watching him tower above you. 

Barty’s heart eases when you reach out and clasp onto his hand, letting him pull you up – and if it allows him to show off all his mechanic muscles, then that was just a win-win. Your fingers linger around his wrist for a moment before you let go, colder than they ought to be on a June morning but a pleasant sensation nonetheless.

“Look at this, Ophelia.” You take off your backpack and balance it on a hiked up knee to sort through it while you’re standing. Wordlessly, Barty reaches out to hold the backpack for you so you can rummage more easily; you glance up at him briefly and mumble your thanks before fishing out the chewtoy you were looking for. You hold it up victoriously and Ophelia makes an audible sound of excitement. “C’mere lovely, let me show you.”

Barty zips the bag up for you and rests it over his shoulder as he watches you hand Flora’s toy to Ophelia. It is bright blue and sturdy, looking ridiculously large in his Ophie’s small hands. You gently explain how to throw it and what commands you will give Flora to get her to drop it once she’s come back with it.

“We call this enrichment,” you explain, eyes meeting Ophelia’s with so much patience and kindness that even Barty can feel it. “It’s how Flora relaxes and have fun. Wanna try?”

Ophelia nods, almost gravely, like she has been given a task of utmost importance. Flora sits beside you, tongue hanging out and ears perked up at the sight of her toy. 

Your hand covers Ophelia’s on the toy as you bring it backwards, ready to throw. “Then right before you throw it, you say ‘Flora, go fetch’!”

“Flora, go fetch!” Ophelia’s voice is a bit too soft spoken for the task, but with your help the toy goes flying quite far and Flora gets the gist regardless. The dog goes running at an impressive speed across the open grass and Ophelia loudly cheers and giggles.

You do this a few times, Barty watching with his hip popped sideways and the corners of his mouth perpetually twitching. This sight was more than he expected to be blessed with on their morning walk.

Eventually, Ophelia turns to you and asks, “Missy, can I go fetch as well?”

Barty snorts. You look back at him with a smile, as if asking permission, and he shrugs. “Sure thing darling, but you can’t fetch Flora’s toy or else she’ll be sad. You can go fetch this one, alright?” 

You rummage through your jacket pocket and produce a green squishy heart that looks suspiciously like a stress ball. Ophelia inspects it for less than a second before agreeing.

You get Flora to stay when you throw Ophelia’s ball, so she won’t be confused, and then you issue the same command, this time voice laced with laughter. “Alright, Ophelia, go fetch!” 

The ball goes flying in the opposite direction that Flora was chasing in, and Ophelia immediately goes running after it on her much slower, short legs, giggles flowing through the air as she goes.

Barty moves closer to you then, reaching down to pet Flora consolingly himself – although the dog is as close to smiling as a canine could get, so he’s not very concerned for her.

“Why does she call me Missy?” you ask, almost startling Barty. He turns to find a subdued smile on your face, clearly entertained by the duo you’ve met today.

“Oh, Ophie is very polite,” Barty laughs. “It’s important to her. And she’ll call everyone pet names, I think it’s her auntie’s fault. If you want her to call you something else, you can always just ask. She’s usually happy regardless.”

“She’s definitely a happy kid, yeah,” you agree. “I don’t mind it, I just found it entertaining.”

Barty looks after Ophelia, who’s caught the ball and tucked it into her dress pocket – the ones she had Dorcas sew into all her dresses – and is now cartwheeling her way back. He should get her to stop soon lest she get nauseous, but she looks too cute to intervene just yet.

“Who’s ‘we’?” Barty finds himself asking instead.

“Pardon?”

“When you talk about Flora, you say ‘we’, that ‘we’re training her’. Who’s we?” 

That most certainly was a line of questioning Barty had no business raising, but what are neglected boundaries between a pair of freshly made acquaintances? 

If you thought him inappropriate, you did a good job of concealing it as you looked down at Flora with a smile, no doubt catching sight of Barty’s tattooed knuckles rubbing behind her ear.

“Flora here is an Emotional Support Animal at this community centre I help out at,” you begin to explain, a faraway look entering your eyes, one that is full of pride. “We collaborate with a nearby shelter – you might know it, Kettleburns’? Anyway, we have some puppy love events at the centre every now and again for those who need to destress and use it as an opportunity to find new homes for the pups. And sometimes, when we find very good girls like Flora here, we adopt them ourselves. She’s my colleague Mary’s, actually.”

Barty watches you speak with a rapture that belies him. “I never would have guessed that, that’s bloody beautiful.”

“What, I don’t look like a good contributing citizen to you?” That eyebrow of yours is back up, taunting him in a way he hopes is as humoured as it feels.

“On the contrary, you’re clearly a natural with the little princess,” he says, looking over at Ophelia who stopped to smell the flowers, “I just had no idea the nearby community would mobilise like that. Thought I oughta heard of a centre like yours.”

You cross your arms, looking almost shy. “Yeah, marketing’s not our strong suit, but most of the nearby neighbourhoods know of us at least, which is the most important. You know, local efforts and all of that?”

“Yeah,” Barty breathes out. 

He’s about to ask, but you beat him to it – which makes it all the more promising. “I mean, if you’d like, you and Ophelia would be more than welcome to drop by. Everyone’s welcome. We’re open 8 AM to 8 PM most days.”

A proper smile blooms on his face. “And you?”

“What about me?” you ask, looking almost mischievous.

He turns his body properly towards you. “Are you there most days?”

You shrug, failing at looking noncommittal, what with the wide smile on your face. “Yeah, you’re bound to catch me.”

“That we will,” Barty states, and it’s most certainly a promise. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and holds it out, so that you can write down the address for him.

When he looks at the phone you returned to him, he sees the address written down beneath the name of the community centre.

“Valkyries Welfare, huh?” He looks up at you, relishing in the scrunching up of your cheeks.

“Hey, I didn’t name it,” you defend, holding up your hands. “I’m just the help!”

“No, no, it’s a good name–” He begins to explain through a laugh.

Before he can, he catches sight of Ophelia’s last cartwheel on her way up to the two of you and acts on his dad-instincts to crouch down and catch her now slightly dizzy body. She giggles heartily as she stumbles into him, her whole chest rumbling in a way that warms Barty’s.

“That was so much fun!” she exclaims through heavy breaths. “We simply must play fetch more often.”

He kisses the side of her head while looking up at you. “Gotcha, sweetheart.”

Ophelia straightens up enough to look up at you with a toothy smile. “Here you go, Missy!” She unfurls your stress ball from her pocket, taking a second to rub some dirt off it with the bottom of her dress skirt. Then, from her other pocket – yes, she insisted on two – she procures a handful of small flowers, just barely long enough to constitute a small bouquet. “For you!”

You let out a sweet sound, dropping down to a crouching position beside them once more, mimicking your earlier meeting. Flora lays down in the grass and begins rolling back and forth happily. “Are these for me?” you ask, almost breathless.

“Of course, love,” Ophelia declares kindly, holding them out more aggressively towards you to ensure you get them.

Gently, you pry them from her fingers, pulling a thin hair tie off your wrist to wrap the stems together and pop them in the breast pocket of your jacket so that the flowers poke out. You smile at them and then at her. “Thank you so much, Ophelia, that was very thoughtful and kind of you.”

Barty rarely sees his daughter grow shy – one thing they have in common is their unabashed, sometimes boisterous portrayals of themselves – but he did notice how pink her cheeks grew when she smiled at your compliment. 

“It was so lovely to meet you both,” you say then, putting your hands on your knees. 

That makes Ophelia’s smile drop. “You’re leaving?”

Barty leans his forehead against the top of her head for a few seconds to quench the emotions she always managed to stir up in him. You pout in a way that signals you may understand his struggle.

“Yes baby, I’m sorry. Flora and I have to get back to work.”

“Darn work,” Ophelia mutters, shaking her head like she is intimately aware of the struggle of labour. It brings a loue bark of laughter from Barty, making him throw his head back and crush his little girl closer to his chest.

You giggle as well, reaching out to pinch Ophelia’s chin to brighten her mood. “You be a good girl to your dad alright, and I’ll hopefully see you soon.”

“Yes please, and I will,” Ophelia agrees readily, nodding her head. “May I hug you goodbye, Missy?”

Barty studies the emotion on your face as you open your arms to his girl and give her a kind hug. It was the kind of compassion he would never expect from a stranger. When you pull back, you meet his gaze and smile a little wider.

He hoists Ophelia back up on his shoulders and hand you your backpack.

“Oh wow, I had forgotten you were holding this,” you laugh.

That makes him feel sweller than he had any right being. He nods at you, holding onto Ophelia’s hand with one of his and waving you goodbye with the other.

“Have fun, Miss Valkyrie, we’ll see you around.”

You stand with one hand on top of Flora and the other holding your elbow, seemingly forcing your grin down into a smile. “Bye Bee-Bee and baby,” you tease in return.

As Ophelia’s chatter turns over onto other subjects and her giggles trail behind the two of them as they walk the rest of Regent’s Park, Barty finds himself itching to look back over his shoulder. The second the two of them got home, he found himself googling Valkyries Welfare.

It was just for Ophie’s sake, of course.

[starpeachjelly]

Kindred Spirits ₊˚⊹⋆

prologue part 2

prologue part 1

summary: Your worries about changing the story have started to fade. You've only interacted with her and Caleb so far. As long as you don't bump into anyone else you believe that everything will be alright.

warnings: accidental injury. stab wound. brief mention of blood.

word count: 1.3k

a/n: thank you to everyone who read, liked, reblogged, and commented on part one! i'm so glad you're enjoying this story. the prologue will be split into three parts that focus on reader's childhood with some characters. the official chapters will take place when reader is an adult! but for now enjoy! constructive criticism is always appreciated too since im trying to work on my writing!!

When your family tells you that you're all headed to Josephine's for dinner you don't really think much of it. After all, your family has been invited over countless of times before due to your shared closeness with her. It should be just another regular shared super. But when you walk up to the house, your feet instinctively starting to drag on the pavement, an uneasy feeling washes over you. Nothing seems amiss as you're welcomed inside. The only noticeable difference is the couple who are sitting on the couch. There's a sense of familiarity in their features that you can't quite place your finger on. Josephine introduces them as friends of hers. And you can't help but wonder if they're from EVER. You barely have the time to get introduced to them before you're probed by your parents to go play with the others with an eagerness that reveals how impatient they are to start drinking.

Three pairs of eyes land on you the moment you step foot into her room. There, sitting on the floor is who you immediately recognize as a young Zayne. You suddenly understand why you felt so anxious when coming over, as well as where the familiarity of the couple (who you now know to be his parents) comes from. If you weren't so shocked you'd mentally slap yourself for not being more careful in keeping your distance. You knew Zayne would make her acquaintance at around this time in her life. You're a bit startled when she grabs your hand and sits you down between her and Zayne. His gaze is filled with such seriousness that you wonder if he knows that you don't belong in this moment. Instead, he greets you with a formality that catches you off guard. Even as a child he's stoic and pragmatic. It's impossible to stop an endeared smile from tugging at your lips. You tell him your own name. He only nods, not talking much after that as you all play whatever game she wishes.

Zayne remains silent throughout dinner. You're sitting next to him again, just as quiet as he is. Everyone else at the table is talking enough for the both of you. Your mom and Zayne's mom are chatting about what they do for work. Josephine is discussing with Zayne's dad about something you don't quite understand. And your own father is talking to Caleb and her about his adventures as a pilot, both of them listening intently with wide eyes.

In the corner of your vision you notice the carrots that remain on Zayne's plate. The orange sticks standing out on his otherwise empty dish.

"Can I have your carrots?" you ask, breaking the silence between you both, wanting to save him from being scolded for being a picky eater.

Hazel green eyes widen ever so slightly, a barely noticeable hint of surprise written on his face. He nods and turns his plate to give you easier access to the vegetables.

Silence quickly settles back between the two of you, but you catch him looking in your direction a few times throughout the rest of dinner.

Eventually the night comes to an end, and you pat yourself on the back for handling this unexpected surprise pretty well. For once you don't even feel anxious about impacting the story. A single chance encounter with twelve year old Zayne surely won't change anything.

Unfortunately for you, nothing is ever that simple. Zayne officially becomes part of your group a few days later. He doesn't talk much, and you don't either, wanting to let the three of them enjoy themselves together. However, whenever she notices you being quiet for too long she seems to go out of her way to make sure you're involved in conversation. She even goes as far as to brag about how smart you are to Zayne, telling him that you two should talk about "smart stuff" together. Which leaves you laughing awkwardly because you know that even with your past memories you're not nearly as smart as he is. But to your surprise he starts talking to you a little more often after that. You assume it's because he doesn't want to disappoint her. No one wants to be on the receiving end of her puppy eyes, they're lethal.

Time passes, the last couple months of school come to a finish. Summer break comes and goes. Your days are filled with you four hanging out nearly every day. Unfortunately your fun comes to a halt when the last week of summer rolls around. You know that things are going to change. Based on the events of the story, Zayne will soon lose control of his evol and hurt her. So you start to mentally prepare yourself for what's about to happen. In your mind you know they'll both be okay, but your heart aches knowing that they'll both end up hurt, and that you can't stop it. But that key moment doesn't happen. At least not in the way it's supposed to play out.

She's not even in the room when it happens, having gone to the kitchen to get more snacks. It's just you and Zayne, and a sudden chill that starts to creep across the room. You watch as his usual calm demeanour slowly shifts into one of panic as frost begins to spread across his hands and arms. Everything happens so quickly that you barely have time to process it. One moment you're watching with wide eyes as frost turns to crystals that are now inching up all the way to his neck, the next shards of ice burst and fly across the room. You try to shield yourself, but one manages to pierce into your abdomen. Maybe it's the shock, or the cold, but you don't really feel anything except for a numb tingle. Your eyes are glued to your wound, watching as red starts to dye the bluish ice. The sight should panic you, but for some strange reason you know you'll be okay. When you look back up, Zayne is staring at you in shock. His eyes filled with guilt and fear. You immediately reassure him.

"It's okay," you tell him with a calmness to your voice that surprises even you.

Josephine enters the room. She's quick to call the paramedics. A pair of footsteps can be heard coming back from the kitchen. You immediately ask Josephine to keep her away, not wanting her to witness what's happening.

Zayne is still looking at you with that same heart wrenching expression.

"It's okay," you assure him once again, "It was an accident."

You don't look away from each other. Even when the paramedics arrive. Even when they wheel you to the ambulance. Your eyes are on him until the very last moment.

Zayne is gone by the time you get out of the hospital. You've tried so hard not to impact the original story as best you can, only to end up taking her place in a key moment in their story. Unfortunately there's nothing you can do now since he left without so much as single word. You're left hoping that this hasn't changed too much of their future.

Luckily she remains unaware of what happened, having been told you were simply not feeling well. (Which technically isn't a lie since being stabbed doesn't feel good.) However, despite being oblivious to the incident, every time you two are together you notice that she looks at you with something akin to worry. Thankfully her concerned gazes stop after a few weeks, so do the mentions of Zayne.

Things go back to normal, as if the event never happened. All you're left with is a faint scar from where the icicle had stabbed you. You don't mind it. It's small, and always hidden under your shirt. But you can't help but trace over it whenever you get undressed. A chill runs down your spine every time you see it. A reminder that you're now written into a story that you shouldn't be a part of.

tag list: @moonchildjae00 @elegantdeerlady @hon3yydew @chocochip-gaia @solmanel1 @wooasecret @peachystea @seung185 @mcdepressed290 @whimsiecat @shadowypeachsweets @animegamerfox

a/n: thank you all sm for your comments they mean the world to me!! 🥺💕

[pinkpurplesunrises]

Tides of Tenderness (Holding What Remains)

6000 words – the long story – Alexia Putellas x Reader - Angst and Fluff - Happy ending - Mentions of infertility and depression - Please read with care.

Writer's note: I'm back from a small break. This is still a scheduled upload though. I hope this story makes sense. It was kinda chaotic writing it. Hope I could describe the emotions as good as possible. Was feeling depressed myself when I wrote this, writing about it actually healed me a bit. I put some photos in the header for a change.

The final whistle wasn’t supposed to sound like that.

Not like silence.

Not like an echoing void.

Alexia stood alone in the cavernous locker room of the stadium. The very place that had witnessed her rise. Her glory. Her heartbreaks and triumphs. Now, it felt like a mausoleum of memories. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Cold and indifferent. Casting harsh shadows on the empty benches.

Her cleats clicked softly against the tiled floor as she took a slow, measured step toward the bench. The sound was sharp in the stillness. The ticking of a clock counting down a lifetime she thought would last forever. Her fingers trembled as she untied the laces, the movements automatic, mechanical.

Her jersey clung to her. Soaked through with sweat and the dust of the pitch. The familiar blue and garnet colors faded by the evening’s battle. It hung from her shoulders, heavy like a shrud. She sat down, the weight of years settling deep into her bones. The aches. The pains. The endless training sessions. The sacrifices and the victories.

But there was no victory today.

No cheering crowds chanting her name. No teammates rushing to embrace her. No glorious final bow.

Just silence.

She glanced toward the locker where her daughter’s small Barça jersey rested. Folded neatly inside. A constant reminder of the life she had built beyond the pitch. Martina was only three. A little whirlwind of energy and laughter who had become Alexia’s anchor. Her reason to keep moving forward after all the battles on and off the field.

Her phone buzzed softly in her pocket. She pulled it out and a photo lit up the screen . Martina, fast asleep, her tiny frame curled up in the stands with her grandmother. The colors of the club wrapping her in a protective embrace.

Alexia smiled. The corners of her mouth twitching despite the heaviness in her chest.

“You’re all I’ve got, chiquita,” she whispered to herself. Her voice cracking like brittle glass.

Retirement was supposed to feel like freedom. Like relief. Like the end of a hard-fought chapter with a triumphant final page.

Instead, it felt like an empty room filled with ghosts.

Ghosts of matches won and lost. Of teammates who had become family. Of dreams realized and those quietly buried.

She ran a hand through her hair. Her fingers tangled in strands that no longer bounced with youthful vigor but instead carried the weight of years and worry.

She was thirty-five. A mother. A legend.

But most days... she felt just tired.

Tired of fighting. Tired of proving herself. Tired of waking up to a silence that wasn’t just the absence of noise but the absence of purpose.

And yet, deep inside, beneath the exhaustion... a tiny spark flickered.

Because she had to believe there was something more waiting.

Something beyond the stadium lights. Beyond the roar of the crowd. Beyond the expectations and the history.

Something new.

Something that could heal.

She took a deep breath and stood. The creak of her knees reminding her that this was real. That the game was truly over.

And as she walked out of the locker room... the cool night air embraced her like a long-lost friend.

The next chapter awaited.

You sat alone in your small, dimly lit flat. The shadows of the evening stretching long across the walls. The quiet felt suffocating. Thick with the remnants of a conversation you wished you could unhear.

“You should’ve told me sooner.”

The words echoed inside your head like a broken record. A painful refrain that had become all too familiar.

You had told her. On the second date. With trembling hands and a voice barely above a whisper. You had braced yourself for the fallout. The disappointment. The retreat.

But it was always the same.

“I want kids,” they said, “but I don’t want to carry them. I thought you could… adoption is no option.”

And you had no choice but to watch them leave.

It wasn’t just that you couldn’t have children... it was the way it happened. Like a door closing before you even had a chance to step inside. Like a silent verdict passed on your worth. As if the inability to carry life made you less deserving of love.

You didn’t blame them. Not really. You understood. They wanted something you couldn’t give. But the pain of it never dulled. It carved itself deeper with every goodbye.

You stared out the window. The city lights flickering like distant stars. The hum of life outside felt alien to you. A reminder that everyone else seemed to be moving forward while you stayed stuck in this moment.

Another failed relationship. Another patch of your heart stitched up with scar tissue.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, as if you could hold the pieces together.

Sometimes you wondered if maybe some people were just meant to be alone. Not in a tragic, soul-crushing way. But in a quiet, resigned way. Like a soft rain that never quite turns into a storm.

You had dreams once. Of a family. Of love that wouldn’t ask you to change. Of a future that wasn’t measured by what you could or couldn’t give.

Now, you just wanted peace.

The phone buzzed quietly on the table. A message from a friend checking in, maybe, or a meme to lighten your day. You didn’t have the energy to respond.

You took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The tightness in your chest easing just a little.

Maybe love wasn’t about fitting into someone else’s expectations.

Maybe it was about finding someone who could see all the broken pieces and still want to hold them.

You didn’t know if that person was out there.

But you still had hope.

Because even in the quiet. Even in the darkness. Hope was the thing that kept you breathing.

The world outside didn’t move any slower, but you did.

Sunday mornings had become your sanctuary. You’d wake up late. Wrap yourself in a hoodie that still smelled faintly of lavender detergent and wander through the sleepy rhythm of the neighborhood.

There was a park not far from your apartment. just enough green to make the city noise feel like background static instead of something pressing in on your chest.

You went there more often now.

There was a community event set up today. Some kind of wellness fair for local families. Yoga mats were laid out in crooked lines across the grass and bright handmade posters advertised things like Mindful Motherhood and Healing Through Play. A man in a t-shirt that read Free Hugs (Consent First!) was being avoided by everyone.

You didn’t belong there. Not really.

But you stayed. Sat on the edge of a bench with a takeaway coffee that had gone lukewarm. It was just something to do. A way to not feel the echo of your apartment so loudly in your bones.

And then...

A little girl ran past you. Small and fast. Her sneakers flashing like lightning bolts. She was laughing. That wild kind of toddler laugh that came from somewhere deeper than joy. She looked back over her shoulder. Curly hair bouncing and nearly tripped over her own feet.

“Martina!” a voice called out. Firm. Tired. Gentle.

You looked up.

She was walking quickly. Catching up to the girl with long, practiced strides. Blonde hair in a low braid. Sunglasses pushed up on her head. Dressed plainly. Faded jeans, a soft t-shirt, sneakers that had seen better days. Not glamorous. Not polished. Just… real.

She scooped the girl into her arms and crouched beside her. “Cuidado, mi amor. You almost became one with the pavement.”

The girl giggled and grabbed her mother’s face with sticky hands.

And something in your chest shifted. A softness.

You looked away quickly. You weren’t trying to stare.

But then she turned her head. Saw you watching. And smiled.

Not the kind of smile that demanded anything in return.

Just… recognition. A moment shared between two strangers sitting at the edge of a world neither of them fully belonged to.

“She always runs faster than I think she can,” she said, stepping toward the bench and sitting down on the far side of it. Balancing the child on her lap.

“She’s fast,” you replied. Glancing over with a polite smile. “I almost didn’t see her coming.”

“She likes it that way,” the woman replied, grinning now. “She’s three. The goal is chaos.”

You laughed. Genuinely. It startled you.

The little girl looked at you curiously. Then shyly turned her face into her mother’s shoulder.

“She’s a little suspicious of new people,” the woman added softly, brushing a curl back from the girl’s face.

“I don’t blame her,” you murmured, then sipped your coffee and realized too late how bitter that sounded.

But the woman didn’t flinch. She just nodded. Like she understood more than you meant to say.

“I’m Alexia,” she said after a pause, glancing over at you, then back down at her daughter. “And this is Martina.”

You hesitated. Then: “Nice to meet you both. I’m…” You gave your name, still uncertain why this conversation hadn’t already ended.

Alexia smiled again. Soft. Tired. Genuine.

And for the first time in what felt like months, you didn’t feel the need to run.

You didn’t know who she was. Not really.

And maybe that was a gift.

Because all you saw was a woman with quiet eyes and a sleeping kind of sadness in her smile. A woman who looked like she had been both whole and broken, and was still standing.

And maybe... just maybe... so were you.

The door clicked shut behind you with a sound far louder than it should have been.

You didn’t turn on the lights.

You didn’t take off your shoes.

You just stood there. In the dark hallway of your apartment. Staring at nothing. The silence pressed in immediately. Like it had been waiting all day for you to come home so it could wrap itself around your neck again.

The visit to the park had felt like something. A flicker. A moment where the world tilted just slightly out of routine. That woman... Alexia... and her daughter, their presence still clung to the corners of your mind like static on fabric.

But now?

Now, it was just you again.

You walked to the bedroom without thinking. Shedding your hoodie in the hallway like a skin you didn’t need anymore. The bed didn’t call to you. It absorbed you. You didn’t even pull the covers back. You just dropped face-first onto the mattress. Shoes still on. Your arms limp at your sides.

It wasn’t sadness. Not exactly.

It was… nothing.

That heavy, dragging nothing. The kind that coats your limbs and dulls your thoughts. Like you’re trapped under a wet blanket that no one else can see.

Your phone buzzed once.

You didn’t check it.

Probably someone asking something of you. Time. Energy. A reply. Anything.

You had nothing left to give.

Lying there... your thoughts slowed to a crawl. Not even dramatic. Just tired.

Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix.

The kind of tired that lived in your bones.

You stared at the ceiling. At the way the faint light from the street slanted in through the blinds. Painting pale. Shifting bars across the wall. You counted them without meaning to. Over and over. Just to keep your mind from slipping too far into the fog.

You thought about how people talked about loneliness like it was this sharp, aching thing.

But yours wasn’t sharp.

Yours was dull.

Quiet.

A steady hum beneath your skin that made everything feel too loud and too far away at the same time.

You couldn’t cry. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t think past the next breath.

And even that felt like effort.

This had become familiar. The laying still. The weight. The silence.

The way the world narrowed to a single square of mattress and the hope that maybe... eventually... your body would stop feeling so heavy.

You weren’t broken. Not exactly.

But you were tired of being left behind.

Tired of hope turning into silence.

Tired of showing people the soft, tender parts of you only for them to flinch and step away.

And yet…

In the stillness, one image floated back into your mind.

A little girl with curls and sneakers too bright for the grass.

A woman with kind eyes who didn’t ask anything from you except a name.

It wasn’t enough to move you. Not yet.

But it stayed.

A tiny point of light in the fog.

You closed your eyes.

Not to sleep.

Just to make everything go away for a little while.

The train ride to Elí’s felt longer than usual.

Not in distance. Just in weight.

Martina sat beside Alexia. Her little legs swinging wildly under the seat. Her fingers sticky with the remnants of some juice pouch that had long since been drained. She kept humming a tune with no melody. No rhythm. Just joy.

“Ya vamos a la yaya?” she asked for the third time. Eyes wide with anticipation.

“Sí, chiquita. Ya casi,” Alexia said, smoothing a hand over her daughter’s hair.

It still amazed her. How much love a body could hold for someone so small. How it could coexist with exhaustion. With grief. With a thousand quiet fears she never had the time to name.

When they finally reached the house, Martina bolted up the stone walkway with the excitement of a comet. Elí opened the door before Alexia even knocked. Some maternal sixth sense honed over years. Still sharp as ever.

“Mi niña,” Elí said, bending to catch Martina in her arms. “You’ve grown since yesterday!”

“No he crecido!” Martina giggled. Her voice muffled against her grandmother’s neck.

Alexia watched them with a smile she hadn’t worn all day. She crossed the threshold behind them. Feeling the old floorboards creak in that familiar way. Like they remembered her steps.

Everything smelled like rosemary, lemon, and fresh laundry.

Home.

Later, after dinner... pasta, of course and bread too buttery to be reasonable... Martina grew quiet. Her energy curling in on itself like a cat ready to sleep.

“Venimos a leer, mi amor?” Elí said. Rising from her chair and offering her hand.

Martina nodded solemnly. Her curls a sleepy halo and let herself be led upstairs. Alexia stayed in the kitchen. Elbows resting on the table. The warmth of her tea bleeding into her skin.

She could hear the soft murmur of bedtime from the hallway: a lullaby hummed under Elí’s breath, the rustle of blankets, a whispered goodnight. It made her heart ache. With what, she wasn’t sure.

Ten minutes later, Elí returned, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “Out like a light,” she said gently.

Alexia smiled but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Her mother tilted her head. Watching her for a long moment. “You’re quiet tonight.”

“I’m always quiet these days.”

“Not like this,” Elí replied. Crossing her arms. “Your eyes are full.”

Alexia looked down at her tea.

“I met someone today,” she said softly. Surprising even herself with the confession.

Elí raised an eyebrow but didn’t say a word. She waited.

“In the park,” Alexia continued. “She was sitting on a bench. We talked. Only a little. She didn’t recognize me.”

A small, wry smile tugged at her lips. “Felt… nice, actually.”

Elí’s expression didn’t shift, but something in her eyes softened. “What was she like?”

Alexia paused, looking past her mother. Like the answer was written somewhere on the wall.

“Quiet. Sad, maybe. But kind. Real.” She swallowed. “There was something... familiar in her. I don’t know. We didn’t even talk long.”

“But she stayed in your mind,” Elí said. Voice warm, but laced with a knowing tone.

Alexia nodded once.

“Sometimes that’s all it takes,” her mother added, a little too casually.

Alexia groaned and leaned back in her chair. “Mamá, no.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You’re saying everything with your face.”

Elí laughed. Light and melodic. “I’m saying nothing. But I haven’t seen that look on you in a long time.”

Alexia rubbed her face with both hands. Like she could scrub the fatigue from her bones. “I’m tired, mamá.”

“I know,” her mother said. Her voice turning gentle again. “That’s why I won’t push.”

And she didn’t.

She just walked to the living room. Fluffed the cushions on the old sofa and turned down the lights. When she returned, she placed a soft blanket in Alexia’s lap without a word.

Alexia didn’t argue. She barely made it to the couch before sinking into it like it was the first good thing to happen to her in weeks. Her eyes closed almost immediately.

And as the warmth of the blanket covered her, and the sounds of the house wrapped around her like a lullaby, she thought... just before sleep took her... of a quiet woman on a park bench.

And wondered what she was doing now.

You weren’t planning to go back to the park.

But sometimes your legs moved before your mind made the decision, and before you knew it, you were walking the same path through the trees. Past the same benches and flyers and strollers and dogs that never quite listened to their owners.

You weren’t looking for anyone.

But some small part of you hoped.

And then...

There she was.

Alexia. Standing by the café cart just off the walking path. A hand on Martina’s shoulder while the little girl tried to climb the side of the cart like it was a jungle gym. Her hair was pulled back today. Gold catching in the late afternoon sun. She wore an oversized denim jacket and she looked like she hadn’t slept in days.

Still beautiful, though. In that worn, quiet way people sometimes are. Like an old song you hadn’t heard in years but still knew all the words to.

You slowed without meaning to. She glanced over and saw you.

A smile broke across her face... not big, not showy. Just real.

“Hey,” she said as you approached, voice soft, warm.

“Hey,” you echoed.

Martina looked up at you briefly. Gave a suspicious squint. Then returned to her climbing.

Alexia stepped slightly closer. Keeping one eye on her daughter. “Didn’t expect to see you again.”

“Neither did I.” You hesitated. “But… I guess we’re both creatures of habit.”

That made her laugh. Low and short.

“I’ve only got ten minutes before she melts down from sugar and sunshine,” she said. Gesturing to Martina. “But I’m glad I ran into you.”

You nodded, unsure of what to say next.

Neither of you rushed to fill the silence.

That was something you appreciated about her already.

Finally, she glanced at her watch and sighed. “We’ve got to head out... nap window’s closing fast.”

“Understood,” you said with a small smile. “She seems like she runs the whole operation.”

“She does,” Alexia said. Deadpan. “I’m just the exhausted assistant.”

Another shared laugh. And then she nodded once. Grateful. Familiar. And turned to corral her daughter.

You watched them walk away until they disappeared past the hedge.

You didn’t think it would feel like anything.

But it did.

A quiet kind of empty.

You stopped by the café cart after. Needing something hot to hold. While waiting for your drink, you noticed something just under the edge of the cart bench.

A plush dinosaur.

Bright green. Worn at the edges. With one eye slightly off-center and a bow tied clumsily around its neck. You bent to pick it up.

On the tag, in faded pen:

“If found, please call or text: +34...”

You didn’t need to think twice.

You took a photo of the tag... just in case... and gently tucked the plush into your bag.

Back at your apartment, you stared at your phone for ten minutes before typing.

Then erasing.

Then typing again.

Finally, your message read:

Hi, I believe you left something at the café today. A green dino plush. Found it near the cart bench. If you're comfortable, I live nearby and you’re welcome to pick it up. No pressure at all. :)

You hovered over the send button.

Your thumb trembled just slightly.

And then... you sent it.

No typing bubbles. No immediate reply.

You placed the plush gently on the coffee table.

And waited.

Not with expectation.

But maybe with… possibility.

The day began like all the others.

Gray. Heavy. Like a thick fog had settled inside your chest and wouldn’t let go.

You’d woken up feeling the weight of it immediately. That familiar ache. The quiet ache that no one could see.

It started with your thoughts. Circling relentlessly.

Why am I infertile?

Why won't they love me for who I am?

Why can't a be a normal woman?

Infertility wasn’t just a word. It was a hollow place inside you. A secret grief you’d carried so long it felt like part of your bones.

You tried to push it away. Tried to do the things that were supposed to help. Breathing exercises. Journaling. Scrolling through old photos. But the sadness clung to you. Like wet clothes you couldn’t peel off.

Hours passed in a blur.

You hadn’t even looked at your phone all day.

Until...

A knock. Sharp. Insistent.

You sat frozen on your couch. The room dim except for the muted light sneaking through the blinds.

Knock knock.

Again.

Your heart jumped.

Who could it be?

You shuffled to the door. Fingers trembling as you opened it just a crack.

There she was.

Alexia.

Denim jacket, tired eyes, and a soft smile that didn’t quite reach the exhaustion beneath.

“I’m sorry to just show up,” she said quietly. “But Martina’s still upset… she keeps asking for her dinosaur.”

You blinked.

The plush.

You hadn’t even thought about it all day.

Your apartment behind you looked like a storm had passed. Clothes tossed on the floor. Books piled in odd stacks. Dishes half-cleared from last night.

Heat rose to your cheeks.

“I… I’m sorry,” you said, stepping aside. “It’s kind of a mess.”

She smiled, stepping in anyway.

“It’s okay,” she said gently. “We all have those days.”

You closed the door behind her.

The room was dark. The only light coming from the muted afternoon sun filtered through the curtains.

You gestured toward the couch. Feeling suddenly shy.

“Would you like some tea?” you asked.

She nodded.

You moved slowly. Still aware of the clutter and the weight in your chest. But somehow the presence of this woman felt like a small, fragile balm.

She settled onto the couch. The plush resting in her lap and for a moment the quiet wasn’t empty.

It was waiting.

For something to begin.

Elí's house smelled like oranges and lavender again. Fresh. Calming. Familiar.

Alexia stepped through the door with the plush dinosaur in hand. Still a little squashed from the bottom of your bag. She’d cleaned it as best she could but it still had that faint comforting smell of you. Like coffee and quiet.

"Dónde está mi monstruita?" she called softly.

Her mother appeared in the hallway with a finger to her lips.

“Shh,” Elí whispered. “She’s still napping. Barely went down twenty minutes ago.”

Alexia sighed, smiled. “Figures. I rushed the whole way.”

She handed the plush over and Elí took it with a knowing smile. “The prodigal dinosaur returns.”

Alexia chuckled, slipping off her jacket. “She wouldn't stop asking for it. She even cried during lunch.”

“She loves her little routines,” Elí said, placing the toy gently on the side table. “And she loves feeling safe. That toy’s been with her since she could walk.”

They settled into the kitchen like they always did. Tea already waiting, biscuits on a plate that neither of them would touch but always put out anyway.

Elí watched her daughter over the rim of her mug.

“You’re quieter than usual,” she said finally.

Alexia shrugged, sipping her tea.

“I stopped by the apartment of the woman I met in the park. She found the dinosaur.”

Elí’s eyebrows lifted, just a little. “And?”

“It was…” Alexia shook her head. “Her place was a mess. I could tell she was embarrassed, but... I don’t know. There was something real about it. About her. The room was dark but it didn’t feel... wrong. It felt like someone was just tired. Like someone who needed a little space to breathe.”

Elí leaned back in her chair, one hand cradling her tea.

“So? What’s stopping you?”

Alexia blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You keep talking about her. That’s something. You went to her place to return a plush, and you’re still thinking about the conversation.”

“I barely know her.”

Elí gave her a look. The kind only a mother could give. “You’ve known a lot of people and none of them made you sound like this. Not in a long time.”

Alexia looked away. Out the window. Past the rooftops.

“I’m tired, mamá.”

“I know,” Elí said gently. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t love. Or be loved.”

There was a silence then... soft, unpressured.

Elí placed her mug down, folded her hands over Alexia’s.

“Why don’t you ask her out?” she said softly. “For a coffee. A walk. Anything.”

Alexia opened her mouth, closed it again.

“You don’t have to fall in love today,” Elí added with a smile. “But you deserve to feel something again. And she looked like someone who needs that too.”

Alexia exhaled. Long. Slow.

“I don’t even know if she likes me.”

“Oh please,” Elí smirked. “Even I could feel the tension in your last text.”

They both laughed, quietly.

And then Elí leaned forward, conspiratorially.

“If you want, I can take Martina next weekend. A little abuela adventure.”

Alexia’s brows lifted. “Seriously?”

“She loves the train. We’ll visit that little beach town she liked last year.”

Alexia hesitated, then nodded slowly, a small smile blooming.

“Maybe,” she said.

“Just do it,” Elí whispered, squeezing her hand. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Alexia didn’t answer.

But she was already thinking of what she might say to you. What kind of message would feel natural. Light. Honest.

She didn’t know much yet.

But she knew she wanted to see you again.

It took her an hour to type six words.

Alexia sat on the edge of her bed after putting Martina down, the soft hum of the baby monitor crackling beside her. Her phone rested in her hand, the screen glowing in the dark. Her thumb hovered, retreating every time the words looked too forward. Too hesitant. Too unsure.

She wanted to say something casual. Light. Not like she’d spent the last twenty-four hours thinking about the shadow in your apartment or the way you’d looked at her like she wasn’t a footballer. Or a mother. Or anyone with a legacy to uphold.

Just a woman.

Just Alexia.

That had stuck with her. The quietness of it. The way you hadn’t tried to fill the silence. The way your eyes didn’t flinch at the mess. Not really.

She typed again.

Hey. I was wondering…

Delete.

If you’re free sometime…

Delete.

She dropped the phone on her lap and sighed.

Then, finally, she just wrote what was true.

Hey. Would you maybe like to get coffee sometime? Just us. No plush toys involved. 😊

She stared at it for a long time.

Then pressed send.

And placed the phone face down on the bed.

You were curled up on the couch, an old hoodie wrapped around your frame, a mug of cold tea sitting forgotten on the table beside you. The day had gotten away from you again. One of those quiet slips where time didn’t really move. It just dissolved.

When your phone buzzed, you ignored it at first.

Then you glanced.

And your heart gave the tiniest kick.

Hey. Would you maybe like to get coffee sometime? Just us. No plush toys involved. 😊

You stared.

Read it again.

And again.

Something in your chest shifted. Gently. Hesitantly. Like a flower beginning to bloom after too many cold seasons.

You didn’t rush to reply.

But you smiled. Really smiled.

Then you typed:

I’d like that. Just let me know when. :)

Simple.

But it meant more than anything you’d said in weeks.

You arrived five minutes early.

Then sat in your car for another ten. Trying to calm your heartbeat like it was something you could reason with.

It was just coffee.

She’d even said that. “Just us. No plush toys involved.”

Still, your palms were damp. Your stomach twisted itself into cautious knots.

You hadn’t done this in a while, not really. Not with someone who felt like they might matter.

When you walked into the little café she suggested, Alexia was already there. Sitting at a corner table by the window. No sunglasses. No protective shell. Just a woman with her hair in a loose braid and a ceramic mug in both hands.

She looked up as the bell chimed.

Her smile was small. Familiar.

“Hey,” she said, rising slightly from her seat.

“Hi,” you said, your voice too soft but steady.

You sat across from her.

“I hope this place was okay,” she said, nodding toward the counter. “They do actual tea here too, not just dishwater.”

You chuckled. “That’s already an upgrade.”

A silence settled. Not heavy. Not awkward. Just careful. Like neither of you wanted to move too fast.

You looked at her then. Really looked.

She looked... tired. But not in a fragile way. In a been-carrying-too-much-for-too-long way.

“How’s Martina?” you asked.

“She screamed when I told her the dinosaur was safe,” she said with a wry smile. “Then cried. Then fell asleep mid-tantrum.”

You laughed gently. “Sounds efficient.”

“She’s got my stubbornness,” Alexia said. Then added, “Unfortunately.”

You sipped your drink.

She did the same.

The conversation wandered slowly at first. You asked about her favorite books. She confessed she hadn’t read much lately but loved poetry once. She asked what you did for work. You shrugged and said it paid the bills, but maybe you weren’t sure who you wanted to be yet.

You both admitted you hated dating apps.

She confessed she once let Martina wear a tutu to the supermarket because she didn’t have the energy to argue.

You told her about the time you cried in public after a stranger asked if you had kids.

The air shifted then.

Just slightly.

She looked at you. Not with pity. Not with confusion.

With... understanding.

You looked down at your hands.

“Sorry,” you said. “That’s a weird thing to say on a first... not-a-date.”

“It’s not weird,” Alexia said quietly. “It’s honest.”

You met her eyes again.

There was something there.

Not spark or fireworks or a dramatic swell of music.

Something quieter.

Like safety. Like maybe you weren’t broken for good.

Like maybe someone could hold space for you... and not leave.

“I didn’t expect to like you this much,” she said, almost to herself.

You smiled, heart tripping a little over the words.

“I didn’t expect anyone to come back for a dinosaur.”

That made her laugh. Really laugh. And she leaned back in her chair, the tension in her shoulders loosening.

The rest of the conversation was easier after that.

By the time you left, the sun was dipping behind the rooftops and your heart felt… softer. Less guarded.

Alexia walked you to your car.

She didn’t hug you.

But she lingered.

“I’d like to do this again,” she said.

You nodded. “Me too.”

Then you both stood there. Not moving. Not rushing.

Just breathing in the quiet.

When you finally got in your car and pulled away, she was still standing there.

And for the first time in a long time…

You didn’t feel so alone.

The morning sunlight felt too bright, slicing through your curtains like a spotlight you didn’t want.

You paced your apartment. Heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst free from your chest.

Martina was still with Elí for the day, which meant Alexia had reached out again. This time to say she was free, maybe for a walk or lunch.

You’d agreed, but now the nerves were flooding in.

Because today wasn’t just another coffee.

Today, you planned to tell her the truth.

About the infertility.

About the scars no one saw.

About why your past relationships always ended before they began.

Your phone buzzed.

I’m outside. Ready when you are.

You swallowed hard.

You wanted to run, to hide, to pretend none of this mattered.

But you didn’t.

You opened the door.

Alexia was standing there, a soft smile that made your chest ache.

“Hey,” she said, voice low, warm.

“Hey,” you whispered back.

You walked to the park. The same one where you’d met.

Your steps were uneven, your breath shallow.

When you found a quiet bench, you sat, fingers twisting in your lap.

“I need to tell you something,” you said, voice trembling. “Something important.”

Alexia nodded, waiting without rushing you.

“I… I can’t have children,” you said, the words like a weight falling between you.

“It’s why most of my relationships ended,” you added, eyes fixed on the ground. “Because when I tell people, they leave. They say they want kids but don’t want to carry them. So… they leave me. And it’s lonely. And it hurts.”

You looked up, expecting pity or maybe quiet judgment.

Instead, Alexia reached out and gently covered your hand with hers.

“Thank you for trusting me,” she said softly.

Her eyes were steady. Honest.

“I’m sorry you’ve been so alone in that.”

You exhaled, relief and fear tangled in the same breath.

“I was scared you’d walk away too.”

She shook her head slowly.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Her own voice cracked just a little.

“I’m a mother. I know what it means to love fiercely and to be tired. And to hope, even when it’s hard.”

You squeezed her hand.

“I’m tired too,” she whispered.

“But I want to try.”

You looked at her.

Really looked.

And saw someone who wasn’t perfect.

But was brave.

And kind.

And maybe... just maybe... someone who could hold all your broken pieces without breaking.

You smiled, fragile but real.

“Maybe we can hold each other,” you said.

She smiled back.

And the sun warmed your face like a promise.

A year later, the apartment felt too quiet.

You lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Your thoughts tangled in a knot of fatigue and restlessness.

It had been an off day. One of those days when even the smallest things felt heavy.

You needed space, needed to breathe without pretending everything was okay.

The soft hum of the city outside was distant, like a world you didn’t quite belong to today.

Your phone buzzed a few times, but you didn’t answer.

Alexia was away with her mother and Martina for the weekend, a little getaway to the beach town Elí loved.

You had encouraged it. Knowing how important those moments were for them. But now, left alone in the quiet, you felt the familiar ache of solitude creep in.

Just as you were drifting into that dull, heavy fog of loneliness, the door swung open.

A burst of energy filled the room. Tiny footsteps pounding. Laughter spilling.

Martina.

She sprinted toward you with arms wide open, and before you could react, she was jumping into your arms, giggling.

“Missed you!” she chirped, her warmth washing over you like sunlight.

You hugged her tightly, the weight of her little body grounding you.

Then Alexia appeared in the doorway. Cheeks flushed from the trip. Eyes bright with relief at seeing you.

She walked over and slipped into bed beside you. Pulling you close.

“Had a good time?” you asked quietly.

Alexia nodded, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

“Best. But I missed you.”

Just then, the door creaked open again, and Elí peeked in, a gentle smile spreading across her face.

“I couldn’t resist,” she said, stepping inside.

Without hesitation, she joined the embrace, wrapping her arms around the three of you.

The room felt full. Full of love. Full of belonging.

You closed your eyes and breathed it all in.

Here... in this moment... you were exactly where you needed to be.

Not broken. Not alone.

Whole.

Epilogue

The sun was gentle that afternoon. Casting long golden rays over the grassy field where Martina kcked a ball with unsteady determination.

You stood beside Alexia. Both of you holding hands. Watching your little girl chase her dreams in a tiny Barça jersey. The same one Alexia had worn years ago.

Martina’s laughter rang out. Pure and bright. As she stumbled, caught the ball, and beamed when Alexia cheered her on.

“You’re doing amazing, chiquita,” Alexia whispered, eyes shining with pride.

You squeezed her hand, your heart swelling with a love you hadn’t dared imagine before.

Later that evening, the apartment was quiet and warm, Martina asleep upstairs after a day full of new memories.

You and Alexia curled up on the couch. The soft glow of the lamp casting a peaceful light around you.

You pulled a small, worn book from the shelf. A hidden diary of sorts, pages filled with notes and dates. Marked with needles and hopeful scribbles.

Alexia’s eyes widened as you handed it to her.

“I’ve never shown this to anyone,” you said softly. “All the injections, the hopes, the heartbreaks…”

Her fingers traced the delicate pages. Her expression tender and awed.

“But,” you continued, voice steady despite the lump in your throat, “I have a family now. A real family. One I never dared to dream of.”

You looked at Alexia, love pouring from your eyes.

“And you’re my home.”

Tears welled in Alexia’s eyes, shining like stars in the soft lamplight.

She pulled you close, holding you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

In that quiet moment, past pain and fear dissolved.

All that remained was love. Fierce. Healing. And endless.

-------------------------------------------------------

Writer's note: how was it?

[alinathinkstoomuch]

EX-FACTOR

pairing: aaron hotchner x ex!reader summary: hotch swears he's listening to rossi, except he can’t focus on a single word when you’re at the bar with another guy, based on this request. warnings: hotch is turning greeeeen from jealousy!! pining, hotch just wants his baby back word count: 0.6k

✧ masterlist | ✧ alina's 1k bar

Aaron was trying to listen to Rossi—really, he was. Something about a plot of land and investment potential and tax benefits or… God, he’d lost the thread ages ago. He nodded here and there, tossed out a half-hearted “yeah?” or “makes sense,” but his focus wasn’t anywhere near the conversation. Neither were his eyes.

They were glued to the crowd, more specifically to the gap in it. The spot where you used to be.

You’d disappeared ten minutes ago, and so had the guy who’d been flirting with you. Some twenty-something whose fingers grazed the side of your waist like he had any right to be even within six feet of you.

“And what exactly is your plan for tonight?” Rossi asked, swirling the last bit of his bourbon. 

“What?”

“The staring? Gripping your glass like it can breathe?” Rossi lifted his brows. “What’s next? You going to challenge him to a duel?”

“I’m just watching,” Aaron muttered.

“Mmm,” Rossi said, which was Italian for you’re full of shit but I’m going to let you dig this hole a little deeper.

Aaron didn’t respond, his eyes doing their seventh sweep of the minute. He wasn’t sure what he was hoping for the most, that you’d look back and catch him, or that the guy would spontaneously combust under the weight of his scowl. But for any of that to happen, he had to see where you were.

And he knew that he had no right. That it wasn’t his business anymore, that the only real authority he had over you these days was inside a briefing room with a suspect on the board. Because this? A bar, a night off, your clothes, your smile, a stranger’s hand on your waist? This wasn’t his jurisdiction. This was your playing field now. And Aaron was a benched sub who’d already had his shot and fumbled the pass, reduced to a spectator at best. A ghost, more likely. 

“She’s allowed to dance, you know,” Rossi continued, not unkindly. “Even allowed to enjoy it.”

“I didn’t say she wasn’t.”

“Good,” Rossi said, far too breezily. “Maybe she even left with him. Can’t see her anywhere.”

Aaron’s head whipped towards the exit so fast, it stirred a breeze around him. For a moment his stomach dropped in that cold, involuntary way it did when something went wrong on a case as he considered the possibility that, maybe you did go home with him.

“I’m kidding,” Rossi chuckled. “Relax. She’s by the bar.”

And there you were. Using a stack of napkins to fan yourself, the golden lights catching on your exposed skin, the small specks of glitter scattered across your bare shoulders gracefully. He could still remember the caramel-like scent that came with it, relying on memory alone now, because he no longer had the right to be close enough to smell it again.

The lights shifted, dimming, then bleeding into a soft pink, the kind that made everything—you—look dreamlike. You gasped excitedly, grabbing Penelope’s arm where she stood beside you. She lit up just like you did, and Aaron didn’t even realise he was smiling until you were already pulling her towards the dance floor, placing a hand on the guy’s chest and yelling, “I’ll be back. This is our song!”

He hoped you wouldn’t be back, not to him, anyway. Not really. He hoped you’d stay somewhere close instead, just within reach, orbiting near enough for his eyes to find you and no one else’s.

He was grateful no one around had mind-reading abilities, because if you knew how often he thought about you, you’d probably never speak to him again. Or maybe you would. That was the thing about the two of you, the friendship had held, maybe too well. And maybe that was the problem.

Neither of you could move on. 

“You’re torturing yourself,” Rossi said plainly. 

Aaron didn’t look away. “I know.”

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley @wowitsafemale @cinnamoncunt @keiminds @iyskgd @mystic-rox @insured-by-the-mafia @mggslover @star-crossed-sephie @tearykth @2dloveshp  @lovelystrawberry @imissaaronhotchner @justyourusualash @alexxavicry @storiesofsvu @ehedrick012110 @khxna

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[anonf1writer]

“but please shut up” — ln4

summary: from the SINGLE PARENT UNIVERSE and based on THIS request, I present to you 2k words about the moment Yn first said the three words to Lando, and then told him to shut up (or something like that). (I am reposting this because I didn’t like the first version, so... yeah. no more yn now)

──────────────────

You and Lando had been dating for no longer than six months when the words finally slipped out of your mouth. 

It was a Saturday morning. A sunny one, to be precise. One of those rare occasions that normally meant peeling Olivia away from the TV and getting her ready for a picnic at the park, or for riding a bike, or for doing just any activity that allowed you to soak the sun as much as possible. 

On that particular Saturday morning, though, the clear sky wasn’t the only rare thing happening in London.

For starters, you weren’t at your place, but at Lando’s apartment. Something that had never happened before. Not in the morning, at least. Not as a result of spending the night there. 

Then, of course, because you weren’t at your own place, there was also the fact that Olivia wasn’t there, with you. Instead, your sister had taken her to Bristol so she could spend a fun weekend with her cousins. And so you and Lando could have some time alone. 

So, yeah, of course—things were different that morning. 

And yes, maybe you could have sensed that something else would happen, something you didn’t see coming because it also normally never happened. 

But you didn’t.

All you did was wake up wrapped in Lando’s arms, kiss him good morning, and drag yourself out of bed. On your way across the bedroom, you grabbed one of his hoodies and put it on. Warm, oversized, and smelling like him. Exactly how you liked it. 

Once you made it to the kitchen, the space opened into sunlight and sleek surfaces. Fancy. Clean. Organized. Looking not even one bit like the messy tiny home you owned. With no crayons forgotten on the table, no mermaids and unicorns in the mugs and cups and plates, no colorful drawings stuck to the fridge. And yet just as comfortable and cozy in its own Lando Norris’ way. 

It made you smile, for some reason. A smile that you kept on your face while trying to decide what to make for breakfast, and that only grew bigger when Lando finally joined you in, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder while you cracked four eggs into a small bowl. 

“Hmm,” he murmured, his morning voice sending chills down through your spine. “You look really nice in my kitchen… Wearing my clothes… Smelling like me…”

You tilted your head slightly, leaning into his curls as he kissed your neck and just settled there, keeping up with your movements—with the whisking of the eggs and the soft clink of the fork echoing in that quiet morning. 

You could tell Lando was happy with that setting, with spending the morning together after also having spent the night together. Something you couldn’t really do very often, considering you still weren’t ready to add him into Olivia’s routine like that. Not without making sure—making fully, fully sure—that this wasn’t just a temporary thing for him. That he was staying in for good, and that he was actually willing to have a role not just in your life, but also in your daughter’s life. 

Which, to be honest, was becoming more and more easy to see as time went by. 

Like when he stepped away to grab the milk from the fridge and very casually asked, “Talked to Liv yet?”

“Not yet,” you said, then waited until he had splashed a bit of the milk into the small bowl to keep going. “Told my sister I’d give them a call after breakfast.” 

You sprinkled in a pinch of salt and went back to whisking, meanwhile Lando got himself busy by grabbing a pan and dropping a knob of butter into it. 

“I hope she’s having fun,” he said, distracted as he switched on the hob and placed the pan above the humming heat. “Y’know, I was thinking about what it’d be like to take her to the beach.” 

You paused. 

You paused and stared at the bowl. Right in front of you. 

And Lando laughed. 

And the butter sizzled gently. 

And then the smell of it filled the space. 

Warm. Comforting. 

“Sandcastle chaos, for sure,” he added.

Still chuckling. 

Still nonchalant. 

As if mentioning he had been thinking about your daughter and about how it would be to spend time with her didn’t bring this funny feeling to your chest. As if it wasn’t a big deal. As if it was normal. 

You swallowed.

To be fair, when it came to Lando, it actually wasn’t weird. Because he did that a lot—dropping how much he cared in the most subtle, random ways. In the little things. 

But this morning, for some reason, it seemed to happen more than usual. 

He did it again, for instance, as you were sitting around the small table and having breakfast. As he was telling you about these new clothes he had bought online. Casually, randomly. Just by asking, “Purple’s her favourite, right?” 

To which you furrowed her brows and mumbled a simple, “huh?” 

“Liv’s.” He scraped the fork against his plate, gathering the scrambled eggs, and shrugged. “I saw these really cute tiny trainers that made me think of her.” He scooped up the food and shoved it inside his mouth. But he didn’t stop, he just chewed as he talked, muffling the words. “They were… Mmph… Puh’pul… Yeah?… Puh’pul’s her fav’rite… Innit?”

 “I—Yeah. Purple’s her favourite color, yeah.”

He smiled, swallowed and nodded, all proud of himself. 

“I knew it.” He took a sip of coffee, then focused on the beans still left on his plate. “Didn’t get them though…” He shoved the fork back into his mouth. Words mumbled as he chewed again. “Didn’know’er size, so… Oh!” He swallowed and shuffled on his seat. “Shit.” He coughed, choking a little around the food that had gone down his throat. “Um… Just remembered… Did I tell you about this… About this new idea we had for the next collection? I didn’t, did I?” 

“Um… I don’t think so, no…”

“Right. Yeah. So, listen to this…” 

And so he rambled about something else. 

And you listened. 

Trying to absorb as much as possible. Trying to understand. Trying to make sense. 

But then, as you were putting the dishes in the sink and talking about the next few weekends and how busy his schedule would be, he did it again. 

He brought her up again.

“I’ll try to come home as much as I can,” he said, “but y’know, if you ever want to come to a race one day, I’d love to have you there. Not just you, but Liv, too. Like, not now, of course, but later, when you’re ready. I’d like that.” 

And like a cherry on top, while you had your hands submerged in warm soapy water, he asked, “Hey, is it weird if I frame that little drawing Liv made the other day?”

You stopped.

And blinked at the plate you had in your hands. 

“The one she said was for good luck?” Lando added, pacing in the kitchen. Not in a nervous way, but in that very particular excited version of him. Full of caffeine. Hair sticking up in three different directions. Hands moving along with his words. Babbling. 

Always babbling.

“Or maybe not frame it but put it on the fridge or… I don’t know… Something. Just… Somewhere I can always see it… Y’know? Would that be weird?” 

You blinked again.

“Because I won’t if it’s weird… Don’t want to make it weird…”

“Lando…” you mumbled, eyes still fixed on the dish in your hand. 

“I mean I don’t know what the protocol is here… I know you said you wanted to take things slow when it comes to her, and I totally get it… I mean you know way better than I do, so I trust your judgment… It’s just that she’s so great, y’know? And that drawing is so cute. It’s been back and forth with me for weeks now, but I wanted to check with you because I—”

“For the love of God!” You dropped the sponge and the plate and turned around, water dripping from your fingers as you glared at him. “Lando, I swear I love you so much, but can you just please shut the fuck up for a moment?”

Lando stopped. 

No. Lando froze.

Mid-step. 

Not even looking at you.

Just.. Hand reaching into the cabinet. Eyes fixed ahead. Blinking to the clean tableware. 

And you didn’t even notice, so you just sighed. Loudly. Dropping your shoulders. Grabbing a tea towel to wipe your hands. And then trying again.

“Sorry. I don’t mean like, shut the fuck up, but just… Y’know, give me a minute to think? You’re like… Nonstop right now! Just going on and on and on about Livie and it’s just—”

“What did you just say?”

You looked at him.

He was still facing away, still frozen on the spot.

“That you’re going on and on about—” 

“No. Not that.” He dropped his arms to his sides and turned towards you. “Before.”

You frowned, searching inside your head for whatever you could’ve said that made him look like that right now—pale, shocked, terrified. On the verge of freaking out.

“I don’t know. What did I—”

“Love me,” Lando murmured. “You said you love me.”

“What?”

“You said,” —he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if gathering the strength to say the words— “Lando I love you so much but can you please shut the fuck up.”

“Oh.”

“That’s what you said. You said you love me.”

“Shit. Lan…”

You stepped forward. 

And he stepped backward. 

“Nuh-uh.” He raised one finger, pointing it at you. “Nope. Stay there.”

Your lips tugged up.

“Babe… C’mon.”

“You love me.”

“Mhmm…”

Lando dropped his arm.

Then opened his mouth, then closed it again. 

And then he looked away, dropping his posture like he had just been punched in the stomach.

“Holy shit,” he said. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—wow. Wow. Ok. Okay. Yeah. That’s—That’s just… Ok. I mean, did you—You really meant that?”

At that, you laughed. 

“Lando…” You dropped the tea towel on the counter and took a step forward, a tiny one. Just to make sure you could. That he wouldn’t run off. “Baby. Just breathe, okay?”

“I am breathing.”

“You’re also sweating.”

“I’m not—” He raised one hand, touching the back of his neck. And then he shook his head. “Maybe, who cares. That’s not the point.”

“Right… Then what’s the point?” you tried, softly this time. Stepping just a bit closer.

“That you love me.”

“Okay.” Standing in front of him, you placed your hands on his chest and nodded. “So? You’ll get used to it.”

Lando snorted and looked at you, his own hands instantly finding your waist. Almost involuntarily. As if they belonged there. As if it was the only natural reaction when having you so close to him. 

“You’re just… You think this is funny?”

“A little, yeah.” 

“I’m freaking out here.”

“I know. I know you would. That’s why I’ve been holding myself from saying it out loud.” 

He pulled you closer, and yet also flinched. Chin and head jerking back slightly while he made sure your body was as close as possible to his. “Why would you ever do that?”

“Why?!” You laughed and slid your hands up his chest, then up his shoulders and neck, until you were able to link your fingers through the short curls on the back of his head. “Did you see your reaction just now?”

“So? Just because I’m weird and freak out like this sometimes doesn’t mean that I… Y’know… That I don’t… I mean I just…”

“I know.” You nodded and launched yourself forward, kissing his cheek before landing back on your feet. “I know you do, babe. So whenever you’re ready. That’s okay.”

He sighed and leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours. 

“Bloody hell I do. But now I’m gonna wait until you least expect it. Freak the hell out of you, too.”

You laughed and arched forward, barely lifting off your heels as you reached for a kiss.

Lando reacted quickly, closing his eyes and kissing you back.

And then, around his lips, you murmured, “Bring it on, babe. I dare you.” 

──────────────────

[eeriesilkworm]

There's a real possibility we get a Will Byers centric love triangle in ST5

We know the Duffers love a good love triangle.

So much so, they've given us one (or several) in every season of Stranger Things thus far—and I don’t think they’ll break that streak in Season 5.

One thing I’ve noticed is that while some love triangles stretch across multiple seasons (like Steve/Nancy/Jonathan), the writers also introduce at least one new triangle each season.

Here’s a quick breakdown:

S1: Steve / Nancy / Jonathan S2: Steve / Nancy / Jonathan + Joyce / Hopper / Bob + Lucas / Dustin / Max S3: Robin / Steve / Tammy + Joyce / Hopper / Alexei + Joyce / Hopper / Mr Clarke S4: Steve / Nancy / Jonathan + Mike / El / Will + Robin / Vickie / Vickie's ex-boyfriend S5: Steve / Nancy / Jonathan (likely resolved) + Mike / El / Will (will come to a head) + ???

Sometimes they’re played straight, but the writers also love to openly mock the love triangle trope, too—especially in Season 3:

For example, Hopper gets irrationally jealous over Joyce talking to Mr Clarke and even Alexei—prompting Joyce’s sarcastic line about how every man she talks to must be her boyfriend. And of course, there's Steve wrongly assuming Robin has a crush on him, then confessing to her, only to find out she actually liked Tammy Thompson.

Basically, there’s no one way the writers use this trope. They clearly enjoy it—but more importantly, they enjoy subverting it.

So, call me delusional but I think it's likely that we could be getting another Will Byers love triangle in Season 5:

He's the main character of the season and his arc will (partially), revolve around his "coming of age" and acceptance of his sexuality, after all.

Will has consistently been portrayed as someone who is considered attractive or desirable in-universe. In every season except Season 3, a girl shows interest in him despite his nerdiness and perceived queerness.

And now, it looks like the Duffer Brothers are visually rebranding him as a romantic lead:

His new hair and costume design feels both heroic and boyish. The flannel—once a staple of his wardrobe and a symbol of his innocence—is slowly being phased out, suggesting a gradual loss of that innocence. However, he’s still buttoned up. That tells me Will is stepping into his manhood (and by extension, his sexuality), but he's still holding something back. He's going to need to be pushed out of his comfort zone; both physically and emotionally.

Even narratively, there are established links which hint at a possible non-Mike love interest:

When we look back at Will’s comment about not falling in love, we often read it as foreshadowing his feelings for Mike—or hinting that he already is in love with him. But I also interpret it as something more: Will doesn’t believe he will ever inspire love (or romantic attraction). He sees himself as undesirable.

Think about the four original members of the Party. Yes, they’re all considered uncool nerds to some degree—yet three of them are affirmed through romantic connection: Lucas has Max. Dustin has Suzie. Mike has El. They each receive validation and the feeling of being wanted.

Will does not.

And yet, the writers have made a consistent effort to show us that Will is considered attractive—despite his belief that he isn’t, and despite the lack of romantic validation he receives. That creates a real disconnect. A kind of cognitive dissonance.

Having Will repeatedly receive attention from girls—only to reject them or appear disinterested—was an effective way to subtly hint at his queerness. But it’s happened so many times now, that there needs to be a payoff.

What is the long-term point of making the canonically gay kid, who already believes he’s undesirable, only receive interest from women?

Er, there isn’t one.

It makes sense, then, to give Will the opportunity to experience mutual same-sex attraction with someone who isn't Mike.

Because Will's arc about accepting his sexuality doesn't just have to culminate in the realization that Mike loves him too (as sweet as that is).

It should culminate with the knowledge that queerness is valid, that he is considered desirable and worthy of romantic interest, and that he isn't alone in experiencing queerness.

Additionally, as mentioned above, Will is already perceived as queer—he’s been bullied for it his entire life, despite never explicitly coming out. Hawkins is a small town where word travels fast. So if there is another young gay guy in town, chances are… they’ve already heard of “Zombie Boy” Will Byers.

He'd certainly be on their radar: he’s good-looking, he’s mysterious, and he’s still closeted, which means he’d likely be discreet.

And let’s not forget where Will was emotionally at the end of Season 4, especially regarding his feelings for Mike:

He’s starting from ground zero in Season 5. He has zero hope that Mike feels the same way, and he’s likely going to be making zero moves.

In fact, most Byler theorists agree—it makes sense that Mike will have to be the initiator in Season 5. Will is just too emotionally shut down to make the first move.

But… wait a minute.

If this season is supposed to be about Will coming into his own as a young gay man—about self-acceptance, confidence, and owning his identity—how does that make sense if Mike is the one initiating everything?!

Well… maybe Mike needs to make the first move when it comes to Byler. But that doesn’t mean Will has to stay passive the whole season.

It’s possible that Will could gain some much-needed confidence—maybe even a bit of romantic “practice”—by taking a more active role with someone else first.

Giving Will a (temporary) new love interest would also level-out the playing field between himself and Mike:

There's a real sense of karmic justice and ironic foreshadowing in Stranger Things.

Will's jealousy of Mike and El's relationship has been hinted at for two seasons now—and he even complained that Mike only called a couple times while El had a "book of letters" from him.

What’s interesting is that even after Mike takes accountability for their argument and they make up, that specific comment—about the phone calls and letters—is never addressed. It lingers.

That’s why I think we could see a similar conversation (or even a full-blown argument) between Mike and Will in Season 5. But this time, Will might be the one receiving phone calls or letters—from someone else.

And let’s not forget: it’s possible that the Byers are temporarily staying with the Wheelers in Season 5. If Will has a secret admirer, and he’s trying to keep it quiet, Mike is going to find out. (Excellent way to manufacture drama).

I also feel compelled to reiterate that the Duffers have shown time and time again: they can handle love triangles in many different ways.

They can play it for comedy. They can make it completely one-sided or delusional—like Mike projecting his own jealousy, much like Hopper did with Joyce in Season 3. A love triangle doesn’t have to be serious or long-lasting. It could span multiple episodes, or just one. It could involve a kiss—or zero physical contact at all.

And it doesn’t have to disrupt a Byler endgame—in fact, quite the opposite:

Seeing Will Byers receive romantic attention from another male character would serve as a reminder to the audience that Will is desirable and that he has options—this increases the stakes for Mike.

The GA will start wondering if this is really Will's endgame, and if he is truly ready to get over Mike. The GA, especially those who never shipped Byler before, may find themselves unexpectedly invested. They might even feel disappointed or sad at the thought of Will "moving on."

It also creates space for the writers to show us jealous Mike. Just as we've seen jealous, longing Will, a temporary love triangle allows us to explore Mike’s feelings through that same lens of romantic insecurity.

This brings the possibility of Byler to the forefront of the GA's subconscious. At the same time, it invites them to root for Mike, and therefore Byler.

[mightyoctopus]

Not OP, but the first step to doing better is to not tell your kid that their hair is unkempt and gross for being curly and that their curls need to be flattened every day. Like, (OP please correct me if I’m putting words in your mouth) this post is not primarily a hair care or cosmetics post. This post is about how kids with curly hair are being mistreated and taught to hate themselves. The best thing you can do is to not teach your children that straight hair is superior and that their hair needs to be fixed.

Having kids and taking care of them can be frustrating and a lot of work, but it’s important that kids don’t internalize, “I’m a bad kid and my hair is bad hair. Life would be so much easier for mommy and daddy if it was straight.” All the issues you listed exist for kids with straight hair too. It’s important to treat yourself and your child with patience, and don’t make your child feel bad about their immutable characteristics

That said, if you want some practical tips (everything of course depending on her age and hair texture)

- Regularly washing more than once a week is not necessary even for children with straight hair. Kids don’t grease yet (of course, having juice and mud in the hair is an exception)

- Curly hair needs to be washed less often, depending on hair type. For adults 1 or 2 times a week, or 1 time a month, etc. all depends on the hair

- Give her a washcloth she can put in front of her eyes either for the entirety of the hair washing or tell her she can stop you at any time to take the washcloth and dry off before continuing

- if water keeps getting in her eyes, try different angles and methods. As a small child, my mother would empty cups of water over my head to wash my hair. When I was older, she started using the shower head. (And then of course when I was old enough, I started doing it myself.)

- use sensitive eye baby shampoo

- look up other techniques specifically for toddlers

- Don’t use a fine comb or brush!!! Most important tip, tbh. Depending on curl type, use a wide-pronged comb, afro pick, 🪮, comb with fingers, or for short hair maybe even don’t comb at all

- if you do comb, don’t comb in one large pull from top to bottom. Instead, start somewhere lower down (for example, 1/3rd of the length), and brush down to the tips. Then take the same strand and brush down from 1/2 of the length down to the tips. And so on. This way, you’re not pushing all the tangles on top of each other and only working on a fraction of the tangles at a time

- If you pull your kids hair and it hurts, it completely makes sense that she doesn’t want you doing that anymore. Children are people and they feel pain. Apologize to her and tell her that you’ll try to do better. If a certain procedure or style hurts every time, try a different one

My mother was always gentle and loving, and yet making my hair hurt every time. I had tears in my eyes daily from the way she pulled. I never complained because I was a stoic child, but it’s completely understandable that a less stoic child would speak up and even refuse! (In fact, it’s good if children refuse things that hurt. That’s a good skill for the future)

- try different hair ties and clips to find some that don’t hurt/ pull

- If it’s too much, prioritize what’s important and focus on that even when it’s frustrating not being able to do it all (e.g. removing mud vs stylish look)

As I said, having kids and taking care of them can be frustrating and a lot of work, but it’s important that kids don’t internalize that there is something wrong with them or their hair

somewhere out there right now is a kid with curly hair being raised by people who have wavy hair at best and those people are giving them 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner and telling them to dry brush it. and that kid is gonna spend all of middle school and high school hating their hair and moping over the flat iron. they're being told right now that if they don't dry-brush their curl pattern into oblivion every morning it means they're unkempt and gross even though they naturally have the kind of ringlets that a thousand bridezillas would commit horrible murders for every june. it's happening right now it's an absolute epidemic and a tragedy every time

[wintersarge]

short straw- john walker

summary: after being left behind for a mission, you and john are the only two in the tower. the only problem? you were sick and john was... well, john- completely clueless. what could go wrong?

pairing: john walker x reader

word count: 1.9k

content: mentions of general illness, reader being unwell, john being a little silly and generally just clueless. fluff.

enjoy!!

You had drawn the shortest of short straws. 

Valentina had pulled the team into a meeting a few days ago, informing you all of a recon mission that was taking place at some fancy arms deal. You were initially excited at the prospect of dressing up nice for once, even if it was for intel gathering, and you knew exactly the dress you’d wear at the gala- the silky blue one that hung at the back of your closet, saved for this exact occasion. You’d probably pair it with the nice silver stilettos you had, the ones with the glitter heel, or the-

“Are you listening?” Val’s voice had cut through your train of thought, and you snapped your head up to look at her. “This is a hush-hush mission, so we don’t need the whole team. You and Walker are out.” 

John had protested this, claiming the team needed his ‘brains’ and his ‘brawn’. A protest to which you had, of course, struggled not to laugh at. He had sent you a glare from across the table after, blue eyes narrowed at yours. 

“My orders are final, Walker. You’ll stay here. And maybe you’ll surprise us all and learn how to lower that ego of yours whilst you’re at it.” 

That shut him up, jaw clenched.

That was two days ago, and now it was just you and John in the tower. You had both managed to stay out of each other’s way for the most part, only really seeing each other at breakfast or when you were both working out in the gym. You had tried to bargain with Valentina, begging to go on the trip instead, taking Bucky’s place or even Alexei’s. She wouldn’t budge. 

It wasn’t exactly like you hated John- you actually got along quite well. Not best friends, but not enemies either. However, if you had to be stuck in a building with someone for days on end, Walker would not be your first choice, because:

He never cleaned up after himself

He always made fun of your movie night choices

And, 

He was clueless in every sense of the word

Sure, he was tactful when the job required him to be, and he was definitely smart enough in a military sense, but at everything else? You hadn’t met someone so clued out on everyday life, which was certainly saying something as you also lived with a literal hundred year old man. 

It would be funny, and slightly endearing if it wasn’t so irritating. On Monday, when you were making dinner, you had asked John to pass you the garlic press. 

He gave you the cheese grater. 

And then yesterday, he was out doing a supply run for the tower and you’d mentioned to him that you were all out of your shampoo. You even sent him a damn picture of the bottle. And when he came back, bags in hand, what did he give you?

2-IN-1 BODY WASH. 

You were unimpressed, to say the least. When you asked him about it, he had grumbled something along the lines of ‘they all look the same to me’, and ‘they all do the same thing, anyway’. You had to force yourself to walk away from him before you said something stupid. You honestly couldn’t fathom how this man was, at one point, THE Captain America. 

And now, as if you weren’t being tested enough, it was day three of your week-long cohabitation sentence and to your dismay, you were unwell. You had woken up with a sore throat, blocked nostrils and your head was pounding with an excruciating headache. 

You were miserable. 

It was pretty unusual for you to get sick- you could probably count on one hand how many times you had been so in the last few years, which only increased your suffering. But, by some magic, you had managed to get out of bed, your blanket thrown over your shoulders like a cape as you trudged your way into the kitchen where John was making himself a cup of coffee. When he turned around to see you, pale and sickly, he pulled a face. “You look like hell. I’ve seen corpses with more colour in them”  

You couldn’t find it in yourself to bite back, moving slowly to sit at one of the stools. Everything in you ached, muscles throbbing with a dull burn. John noticed the way your expression was twisted with pain, and he set his coffee mug down on the side. “Since when do you get sick, anyway? You’re like the poster-girl for good health.” You huffed at this, hands moving to swipe at his cup. You took a sip, and John shot you another glare, objecting to the way you thieved his drink. “Hey! Don’t give me your illness. If you feel as bad as you look, then Christ- I definitely don’t want that” You rolled your eyes, downing the last of the coffee. “I’m sick, John, and this is how you treat me? You should be nicer to me, you know. Or I’ll cough in your face when you’re asleep.” You wouldn’t actually, of course, but maybe it would make him take pity. 

For the rest of the day, you had pretty much been bed-bound on the couch. You had a thick blanket hung over your frail body and your sleeping mask covering your eyes as they had become sensitive to the bright lights and the huge windows scattered around the tower didn’t help at all. You suddenly felt regretful at how often you took being well for granted. 

One thing you did appreciate, though, was that John had seemed to leave you alone for most of the day. You hadn’t seen much of him since this morning, when he left in a rush after you had threatened to infect him, and you had assumed that he spent the day in the gym, or going over mission reports. That was until he walked through the door, plastic bags in hand. You could hear his boots as he walked over to the couch, and you felt him standing over you. He nudged your shoulder with his finger. 

“You awake? Still alive under there, aren’t you?”. You let out a small groan and peeled off your eyemask, eyes squinting against the harsh lights. John grimaced when he saw you again, standing back a little to assess the scene. “You really don’t look great.” He said, as if that wasn’t obvious. You looked down at the bags in his hands, and back up at his face. You raised an eyebrow. 

“I got you some stuff. You know, to help, or whatever” He sat down on the seat opposite, pulling open the bag. “Thought I would be a nice teammate for once, since no-one else is here for you. And I also wouldn’t appreciate being coughed on, so, that too.” You cracked a small smile at this, sitting up as far as your body let you to see his haul. When he began to pull things out, though, this faded a little. 

His haul consisted of:

A bottle of painkillers 

A sporty energy drink

A questionable looking can of chicken soup (your least favourite flavour, by the way)

Two packs of gum

An ice pack

And a chocolate orange flavoured protein bar 

You looked back up at him, eyes blinking slowly. Your face morphed into one of disbelief and honestly, concern. How clueless was he, actually? 

“And what is a sick person doing with… a pack of gum and a protein bar?” He looked over at you quizzically, as if the answer was obvious. 

“Mint to clear the sinuses, and a protein bar to… feed you, obviously” You hummed out, trying not to laugh in his face. “Obviously. I do hate chicken soup, though. You couldn’t have picked up something else? Tomato? Vegetable?” 

“Chicken was all they had. I looked.” You nodded slowly. “And the ice-pack? I’ve got the flu, not a bruised knee. This is the stupidest care package ever, Walker” He had the nerve to look offended, eyes rolling slightly. “This is exactly what you need. A balanced recovery system. Now, are you going to eat or not? You should really eat.” You groaned, the thought of food not exactly appetising to you right now. “Maybe later. Just want to sleep right now”. John sighed, but he reluctantly gave in. He left you his ‘care package’ and let you sleep on the couch for a few hours, busying himself with something else. 

You were in the middle of a- frankly amazing- dream when you heard it- the loud, repetitive beeps. 

The fire alarm. 

You jumped up from the couch, pulling off your eyemask. “Walker?” You called out, voice sounding rough and sick as ever. Your eyes adjusted to the light as you looked around the room and that was when you spotted him, towel in hand, swatting at the alarm. “John, what the hell are you doing?” He spun on his heel when he heard your voice, and he looked as if he was a deer caught in headlights. He hesitated for a second, but then his shoulders slumped, mouth opening to speak. “I burnt the soup.” 

You looked confused, walking towards him. “The chicken soup? I thought you put that in the microwave, how on earth did you burn that?” He sighed again, and the fire alarm finally stopped beeping. 

“Not that soup. I made some vegetable soup. For you. Well, it was supposed to be vegetable soup. Now it’s just… a burnt mess.”  

Your face softened slightly, a small smile ghosting over your lips. “You… made me soup?” 

He glowered at you from across the room, shuffling on his feet. “Only because you’re sick. Don’t expect the princess treatment from me all the time”. 

You smiled again, throwing your hands up in defense. “Hey, I never said that anyway, Walker. But thank you. It- it was a nice thought” You walked into the kitchen, sitting back at your usual spot on the leather stools. He gave you a small smile, reaching behind himself. 

“I, uh, also made you this. Heard it was supposed to help soothe a sore throat.” He awkwardly handed over a cup, watching your face for any reaction. You looked down at it. It was mint tea, with a dash of honey- just how you liked it. You brought it up to your lips, sipping at it slowly. It wasn’t perfect, a little too strong, but you didn’t say this. You gave a thankful smile instead, your throat feeling better already. 

“Thank you, John. Always knew you were a big softy, really”. He grumbled a little at this, but you laughed it off anyway. You sat in a comfortable silence for a while until your stomach growled loudly as you hadn’t eaten all day. 

“I told you you should eat” John said, smugness creeping into his voice. “Well, if you hadn’t burned the soup…”, you teased, hopping off the stool and moving over to the kitchen cabinets. Your hand lingered over the chicken soup, ready to give in and eat in anyway, when you saw it- at the front to the left. 

A tin of vegetable soup. 

You smiled, shaking your head a little. John obviously hadn’t looked far, or if he did, he clearly didn’t see it. 

Because, he was clueless. In every sense of the word.  

all work is my own, i do not give permission for this to be reposted elsewhere without credit. you may not copy or claim as your own.

[nekonaps0]

Ok. This is the first time in a long time I asked someone for something on Tumblr.

What if the Housewardens/dorm leaders found out that Female MC is the daughter of the goddess of Love and Beauty. Aphrodite!

I’ll totally understand if you don’t feel like doing this. I’m like so nervous. ;-;

Your little high and mighty

✦fem!reader

✦characters: dorm leaders

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle was already struggling with how effortlessly you turned heads. You were always so graceful, eloquent, heart-stoppingly lovely… and he hated how flustered he got in your presence.

But when Crowley casually mentions your divine heritage during a Housewarden meeting, Riddle nearly drops his teacup.

“A-Aphrodite?! You’re her daughter?! That’s why everyone becomes irrational around you…”

He goes red to the tips of his ears.

He spends the next week rereading Every Magical Law About Deities & Demigods, trying not to look at you too long or think about how good you looked the last time you smiled at him.

Eventually, he admits to himself

“It makes sense. You’re love incarnate… no wonder I couldn’t help falling.”

Leona Kingscholar

He always knew there was something dangerous about you. The way you walked, spoke, smirked at him, everything about you screamed temptation. He told himself you were just annoying.

But when Jack slip your parentage after accidental.

Leona stares. Blinks. Scoffs.

“Makes sense. Aphrodite’s kid, huh? Guess that explains why every guy in this school loses their damn mind around you.”

He acts cool, but the knowledge kills him. Now every time he looks at you, he can't help but imagine you lounging on some cloud in a silk robe, dripping in divine perfume.

He starts avoiding you.

…Only to later press you into a wall with a growl:

“Tell me right now, herbivore—did you use your mom’s powers to mess with my head, or is this just how you are?”

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul always prided himself on control, charm, and strategy.

So why did he fumble words every time you got close? Why did the lounge fill to bursting on days you worked a shift there?

Then one night, Floyd lets it slip:

“Shrimpy’s a demigod~! Her mama’s that hot love lady~!”

Azul spills his drink. His first reaction is panic.

“Does this mean I signed a business contract with a goddess’s daughter?! Oh Seven…”

He spirals. Hard.

But once he calms down, it all clicks—your allure, your emotional intelligence, your strange way of getting even the most stubborn eel to obey. Eventually, he shyly pulls you aside.

“I… I hope you don’t think I treated you differently because of your heritage. It’s just… you’ve always been radiant.”

Idia Shroud

Idia almost short-circuits. He learns about your divine heritage through an obscure, outdated wiki link Ortho finds—and immediately spirals.

“This is a love interest route I’m not leveled for!! She’s literally part of the Olympic pantheon!”

He becomes too afraid to talk to you, convinced you’re out of his league. He avoids eye contact, stammers more than usual.

Eventually, you confront him with a smile and a soft,

“You don’t have to treat me like a goddess, you know.”

He turns neon pink.

“T-Too late! You’ve already unlocked my heart’s hidden event!”

Malleus Draconia

Malleus is intrigued. A goddess’s daughter? A being who understands the weight of lonely legacy?

He’s not threatened, he’s fascinated. Your aura has always glowed in ways beyond the human, and now that he knows why… he feels closer to you.

“Daughter of Aphrodite… I wonder, does your magic rival mine?”

There’s a strange kinship in your connection now, two ancient bloodlines drawn to one another.

“I, too, know what it means to live among mortals, yet never truly be one of them.”

And when he next kisses your hand, it lingers. Reverent.

“Let us walk this strange mortal world together, my radiant deity.”

..............................................................................................................................

[ghwostcult]

Recap

Paring: Lando Norris x reader Summary: Sometimes Lando needs some help understanding larger words luckily you don't mind simplifying it

Lando wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t the smartest person in the world and he knew that, and yes, he struggled to remember certain bigger words, but that didn’t mean he was stupid. He just needed extra help.

That was something he loved about you. If he needed help with something, you were there. You, his girlfriend, the best person he had ever met, would help him with the simple tasks that he struggled to do.

Such as cooking certain foods. Everyone had seen the monstrosity that was Lando’s eating habits. He struggled to remember to eat, and when he did, he was stuck to a diet that had many complicated meals Lando had no interest in cooking. But you had gotten used to his awful dietary requirements and had learned to cook most of the meals his trainer had requested. Some you didn’t touch because you didn’t think you could stomach them.

That was your and Lando’s relationship. You would help him out with things he needed, and in return, he would do... be Lando? Okay, so he didn’t contribute much in that part of the relationship, but in reality, Lando was the clingy one.

He would spend hours with you, acting as if he was attached with super glue, peeking over your shoulder as you worked, questioning the different things that popped up on the screen. He would do all of this with a smile, something you would pay thousands for.

Today wasn’t very different from every other non-race day for the two of you. You were sat on the couch reading through an email you had received regarding your work, and Lando’s head was leaning on your shoulder.

Reading over the same email, from what he understood, something had happened and you needed to go into the office to hold a formal meeting about it. What was the incident, you may be asking Lando? He had no clue. The words mentioned were long, extremely long.

You worked a simple office job, though recently you had moved to working online, which had been the only thing holding you back from moving in with Lando. Unfortunately for the two of you, it still meant that when there were meetings like this one, you had to go into the office, abandoning Lando. His words, not yours.

As your eyes scanned over the email, occasionally nodding along, Lando laid next to you looking at you, then at the screen, then back at you like a dog who didn’t quite understand your remark.

You had failed to notice the look from your boyfriend as you typed a reply to the email, only pausing to reread it to make sure it made sense and everything was correct. You went to hit send, but before you could, you felt a gentle tap on your arm.

Looking over at Lando, who looked up at you with gentle eyes before speaking, “What’s the meeting about?” he asked with a smile. You shook your head before reading over the email out loud, explaining what was going on in greater detail.

“Basically, Jessica needs me to come into work for this meeting being held by the executive advisor about the performance of one of the other employees in hopes we can achieve a high benefit from her.” As you spoke, Lando opened his mouth and shut it again before looking around the room.

His voice was soft and quiet, slightly ashamed of what he had asked. “Can you say that again, but take all the words bigger than two syllables out for me and simplify it?”

You nodded with a smile before repeating your words. “Jessica wants me to meet with her boss about another person’s work habits.” As you explained, you could see it click in Lando’s mind as he nodded along.

“Ahhh that makes so much sense. Thanks, love,” he said, looking down slightly and hiding his head into your shoulder, embarrassed that he didn’t understand the first time.

Noticing his mood, you gently pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Anytime, darling,” your voice was muffled by his curls, but he could hear you clearly. You could feel the smile take over his face as he replied, kissing your shoulder.

[azzinator3000]

Locked Doors

Title: Locked Doors 

Word count (so far): 1.9K 

Content: Friends-to-lovers, secret relationship, intense sexual tension, UConn season 2023/2024

Warnings: Mature Content (Minors DNI)

Pairing: Pazzi

Summary:

Azzi Fudd has one golden rule: don't like this too much. Especially not when "this" involves tangled limbs, whispered reassurances, and the intoxicating heat of Paige Bueckers' lap. They're UConn's star duo, aiming for a national championship, meticulously crafted for public consumption. But behind closed dorm doors, their long-standing "friendship" has morphed into something dangerously undeniable

INTRODUCTION (December, 2023)

Azzi Fudd had decided: she really, really shouldn’t be liking this as much as she did.

She was trying to make sense of it in her head, but, honestly? Not that hard.

Maybe it was the tequila, still drumming hot in her body, like a bassline she couldn’t quite shut off. Maybe it was the pure, sharp joy of being back on the court with the Huskies after so long, slipping into that rhythm that felt like home. Maybe it was just that being near Paige Bueckers always made her lose every shred of common sense

Probably all of the above

That’s how she’d ended up here, sitting on Paige’s lap in her dorm room, like the next morning wouldn’t come and they wouldn’t both go back to that careful, careful dance where they swore it didn’t mean anything

Except, it did

It always did

And truly, there was no place Azzi liked being more than right here—her arms looped around Paige’s shoulders, her fingers tangled in Paige’s impossibly blonde hair, her body pressed against Paige’s chest. There was no place that felt more right than Paige Fucking Bueckers’ lap.

Which meant she was utterly, completely, fucked

She shouldn’t be wanting this so bad. She shouldn’t be wanting her so bad

Because the thing about Paige Bueckers? Everyone wanted her. On the court, off the court, on highlight reels, in sneaker deals. Paige was the girl. Tall, blonde, built like she was carved out of pure focus and sharp edges. She played like a storm and walked like she didn’t owe anyone her time. She was confident, she was controlled, she was… everything

The only problem was: Paige didn’t do this. She didn’t talk about feelings. She didn’t have girlfriends. Paige had been raised in a world where she was supposed to be perfect. Marketable. Carefully built for greatness.

So, when they touched—when they kissed—when they stumbled out of parties together and into the mess of each other—it always came with this quiet, heavy but.

But we can’t.

But it’s just for now.

But it doesn’t mean anything, right?

Azzi had been pretending that was enough.

But she was starting to wonder if pretending was just another way to break her own heart.

Their teammates knew—of course they knew.

KK would just roll her eyes whenever Azzi sat just a little too close to Paige on the team bus. Ice would nudge her ribs like we see you or just grin and say something just on the edge of teasing.

But no one said it out loud. Because Paige and Azzi didn’t say it out loud.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

But Azzi was beginning to think yet was still coming. And when it did, she wasn’t sure either of them would know what to do with it.

But for tonight? For now?

Azzi leaned in, her breath ghosting over Paige’s lips, smiling like she knew exactly what she was about to ruin.

“Tell me to stop,” Azzi whispered.

Paige’s grip on Azzi’s waist didn't just tighten; it became an anchor, pulling Azzi flush against her, no space left to breathe or think. And then Paige kissed her. It wasn’t a kiss, not really. 

It was a declaration, a guttural need pressed against Azzi’s mouth, claiming her. 

Paige’s lips were open, hungry, demanding, and her tongue was already there, sweeping inside, a desperate dance that left Azzi breathless and reeling. 

This was not the gentle exploration of friends; this was a storm, wild and consuming.

Azzi’s body arched, responding instinctively, her own desperate desire mirroring Paige's ferocity. She gasped into the kiss, a soft moan escaping her throat, and Paige devoured the sound.

There was no room for thought, no space for the "buts" that usually haunted them. 

Only sensation: the sharp taste of tequila and the cool whisper of mint on Paige's breath, the subtle scent of Paige’s shampoo, the soft friction of their clothes, the hard, unyielding muscle beneath her hands as Azzi’s fingers dug into Paige’s scalp, pulling her impossibly closer, deepening the kiss, chasing that feeling of blissful oblivion.

Paige shifted, a low sound vibrating in her chest, urging Azzi on. Her leg hooked around Azzi’s hip, a natural move, one they’d done a hundred times, on a hundred different couches, in a hundred different moods. It felt like coming home, even as it felt utterly dangerous. 

Paige’s hand slipped under Azzi’s shirt, cool fingers tracing the curve of her breast, then splaying wide over her lower back, pressing her closer still until Azzi could feel the frantic beat of Paige’s heart against her own.

This was December. The air outside was crisp, winter settling in. The Huskies were deep into their season, every practice, every game, a step closer to the national championship. The stakes were higher than ever, the pressure palpable.

And here they were, two of the best college players in the country, tucked away in a dorm room, risking everything for moments like these.

Azzi knew the narrative: Paige Bueckers, the golden girl, the current face of women’s college basketball, meticulously crafted for superstardom. And Azzi, the quiet powerhouse, the future of the game. Their careers, their public images, were meticulously managed. A whisper of this could unravel it all. 

Paige broke the kiss, just enough for Azzi to gasp for air, her forehead resting against Azzi’s. Her light eyes, usually so sharp and analytical on the court, were soft now, a little dazed, but burning with an unyielding hunger.

“I would never,” Paige breathed, her voice rough, hoarse, her gaze fixed on Azzi’s lips like they were the answer to every question. “I would never tell you to stop.”

“Think they’re still at the bar?” Azzi finally managed to whisper, her voice barely a breath. The words felt ridiculously mundane, but the question was urgent. They’d slipped away, two minutes after Ice had started dancing on a table, feigning exhaustion and an early night. 

“Probably ordering another round, Princess,” she murmured, her thumb tracing the curve of Azzi’s jaw, sending shivers down her neck. The pet name always made Azzi’s stomach flip. 

Princess. It felt possessive, intimate, everything they weren’t supposed to be. “We bought ourselves… maybe ten more minutes before KK decides to come hunt us down and ask why her favorite ‘friend’ is missing.”

Azzi laughed, a low, shaky sound that still felt a little too loud in the quiet room. She imagined KK, all five-foot-nine of her, stomping down the hall.

“Yeah, so we need to be quiet,” Azzi said, her eyes flitting to the door, then back to Paige.

The memory of the bar bathroom flashed through her mind—the sticky floor, the faint smell of disinfectant, the frantic, desperate scramble of their bodies against the cold tile, hands tearing at clothes, mouths devouring mouths.

They’d stumbled out, flushed and disheveled, pretending it was just the heat of the crowd, the effect of too many drinks. No one had looked twice. Or maybe everyone had, and simply chosen not to comment (as usual).

Paige’s gaze followed hers, then returned, darkening with a playful intensity. “Quiet? Is that a challenge, Princess?” Her fingers tightened, pulling Azzi’s hips forward, grinding them subtly against her own. Azzi gasped, a small, choked sound.

“Paige,” Azzi whispered, a warning mixed with a plea. “They’ll be here any minute. We can’t…”

“Can’t we?” Paige cut her off, her eyes holding Azzi captive. She leaned in again, not for another full kiss, but to whisper against Azzi’s mouth, her breath hot and sweet. “Or do you just want them to hear, Azzi Fudd?” 

The sudden, jarring realization that their time was truly finite struck Azzi with a cold force. It wasn’t just the fear of being caught by the team; it was the larger, more existential dread of their expiration date. Paige was a senior. This was her last year at UConn, her final shot at the national title with this team, with Azzi by her side. After this, everything would change. 

Paige would go pro, the WNBA, a world of even harsher spotlights and greater scrutiny. Azzi would still be here, playing another year, leading the Huskies. The distance, the pressure, the inevitable public scrutiny—it would swallow whatever this was whole.

“We really need to be quiet Bueckers,” Azzi insisted again, her voice a little stronger this time, even as her mind still wandered. She pressed her fingers against Paige’s strong shoulder, a silent plea for restraint. It was a self-preservation instinct kicking in, a tiny part of her still fighting for control.

“Fine,” Paige said, but then her eyes narrowed

Azzi knew that look. It was the same look Paige got on the court when she was about to do something audacious, something that shouldn't work but always did. It was the look that said, I dare you.

Her gaze dropped to Paige’s lips, still slightly swollen, still looking utterly kissable. “What?” Azzi asked, her voice barely audible. Her body was still on fire, every nerve ending alive and buzzing, a stark contrast to the silence she was now trying to enforce.

Paige leaned in, her eyes never leaving Azzi’s. “We have to be quiet,” she repeated, her voice a low murmur that seemed to wrap around Azzi. “But we don’t have to stop touching.” Her hand, which had been resting on Azzi’s knee, began to move, slowly, deliberately, up the inside of Azzi’s thigh. The heat of her palm seared through the soft cotton of her underwear, a direct line to Azzi’s core.

Azzi gasped, her breath catching in her throat, her eyes widening. The sudden, intimate touch was a direct assault on her precarious control. Every fiber of her being screamed to pull away, to regain some semblance of composure before the girls came back. 

“Paige,” she breathed, a desperate plea.

Paige’s grin widened, a silent, knowing triumph. “Shhh, Princess,” she whispered, her gaze locked with Azzi’s as her fingers moved higher, her touch light but insistent. “Wouldn’t want anyone to hear us, would we?”

Paige was pushing Azzi to the very edge of her control, demanding a different kind of quiet, a breathless, desperate silence born of raw, unadulterated sensation. Azzi could feel the tremor starting in her legs, the slow, agonizing build of desire that Paige always seemed to orchestrate with such effortless precision.

Each creak of the floorboards outside, each distant murmur from the hallway, was a stark reminder of their impending discovery, but even that fear, potent as it was, couldn't completely drown out the delicious, terrifying pull of Paige's touch.

Azzi closed her eyes, biting down on her lip, a silent battle raging within her, but for tonight, right here, on Paige Bueckers' lap, Azzi was ready to burn

[emilys-bangs]

courage, dear heart | e.p

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

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

Word count: 1.8k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

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

“Hey, bug.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She wants to go back. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Emily nods, a sad smile tugging at her mouth. 

“But you know everything.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not…disappointed?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you too, bug.”

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @storiesofsvu @ashluvscaterina @basicallyvivi @temilyrights @professorsapphic @decadentcatcrusade @piiinco @jareavsheavn @mourningthewicked @heartoreadallthequeerthingz @rustnroll @slutforabbyanderson @maximoffcarter @cns-mari @daddy-heather-dunbar @lcvessapphic @wlwoceaneyes@yoyo-w @upsidedowndanvers

[msmimundo]

Ok I found this part interesting. Besides the whole Mini Kris getting out of the screen and threatening our Kris (also Kris getting... pale?? probably an animator error but worth mentioning still), Susie asks them if they enjoy it. Susie, who has been a symbol of freedom in Kris' caged life. We seemingly got two options given:

More than once we can differenciate our choices from Kris' by the way the others react, but this time it seems to be different. None of them Susie reacts as if Kris was screaming or confused or tried to hide the answer by coughing.

If you chose "Of course. Games are fun"

They sweat. Their head tilts down too, almost regretfully, still "pale". Even if their voice tone wasn't described, we can conclude this was not the option they would chose. It makes sense with the whole "they are forced in A Situation and is not enjoying this".Also its interesting that Berdly is brought up, not only bc weird route but also considering this chapter's secret boss(also Berdly a sweaty nerd confirmed)

Also despite this they joke with her. That's cute

If you chose "No" however

Susie disconnects the game. Susie, the symbol of freedom, kills Mini Kris. Whether she is saving them or not, well I can't really tell what deep meaning this could have. But she is stopping them from playing the game they clearly don't enjoy.

But there's a secret third option

YOU can attack Susie. And KRIS saves her.

This was specially interesting to me, cause if this is some kind of foreshadowing for future events, the way it's put is I think is Genious! Specially considering Just moments before, we were basically forced to kill Mini Susie and Mini Ralsei while Kris looked back at us. This is something Kris did for themselves, and we can tell by their expression, the way they grit their teeth and how violently they pulled her out of danger, even she was surprised by this. They do NOT want to see their friends injured, we knew that, and they are probably scared to the possibility of her exploding like Mini Susie did, but them coming out of their way to protect her AGAINST what we clearly intended, i find that so interesting.

The rest of the scene they don't let got, and at Susie's awkwardness their only reaction seems to be just, calling her a weirdo? Or maybe that's the conclusion Susie got herself after that awkward silence. Also notice how this part makes Susie open up a bit, get more vulnerable as the awkward weird teen she is, in contrast to the pillar she is usually put as.

So in a scene where Kris, a videogame character we as players are controlling, where they have to face Mini Kris, a videogame character we are making them control but that is set free out of it's world's boundaries:

-we make Kris say they love the game. Implied a lie, negative reaction. Berdly gets mentioned

-we make Kris say they don't love the game. Implied true? Susie frees Kris off the game they are forced into//kills Mini Kris

-we attack Susie. Kris saves her by their own, against our wishes. This leaves her a bit more vulnerable

I'm horrible at analisis but I think there's something worth to pick from here