#problem children are coming from another world aren’t they?

[miryum]

A Green and Silver Ring (Mattheo Riddle x Reader)

An arranged marriage between you and Mattheo, one that might lead to something beautiful

Word Count: 10.3k

I know I haven't posted in a long time but I have a plan trust the process. Also, this is me coming out and saying that I love Mattheo Riddle and he's amazing

Warnings: Swearing, bad and manipulative parenting from both Mattheo and reader’s parents, a lot of misogyny (a bit from Mattheo but he gets better by a lot and it’s not that bad), arguments, Tom isn’t Mattheo’s brother and Tom is a creep, arranged marriage, one bed trope, enemies to lovers, greek mythology reference, talk of kids, needing kids to carry on family lines, and kids. Mistress is the feminine term for master (so reader isn’t Mattheo’s side piece when I refer to her as mistress), old timey talk a bit, reader is a bookworm

From the desk of Ginevra

My dearest friend,

My parents have informed me of your engagement. I was ecstatic, yet surprised, when I heard the news. I was of the assumption that your parents were allowing you to choose your husband as your family line is secure in your brother and his wife. Yet, once I learned who your husband-to-be is, I was trepidatious. 

My thoughts are with you, my darling friend, and I pray for you to write to me the moment you get my letter. 

I hate to break the news, but you and your fiancé are the talk of high society. Never before have two such families been intertwined. Even I have had to scold my brothers for their gossip. They seem to forget that our families are close friends. 

I do not ask why your parents have made such a decision. I know they are intelligent adults and surely must have a motive, but I admit that I am blind in that regard. Your engagement seems sudden and unwarranted to me. When questioned, my mother sighed and said I would understand when I grew older. My mother continues to baffle me. I have borne two children and a third on the way! If I am not mature now, I better gain some knowledge quickly. 

Always remember that I am by your side. If you ever need anything, my door is always open to you. I am sure Harry will agree. 

I love you, my friend.

Ginny

From the office of Lorenzo

Miss. L/n,

I believe we’ve never been formally introduced. I’m saddened to say that this letter is as formal as we’ll get - at least until your wedding. I am sure you must be taciturn and mercurial as of now. My father has told me much about you and I believe we’ll make excellent friends and confidants in our hectic world. 

You’re to be my new half-sister, aren’t you? My relatives and friends are petulant to meet you. 

Before any rumours (either about myself or your fiancé) hit your ears, I’ll put a rest to them. Bellatrix, your fiancé’s mother, had an affair with my father. They produced me and in return, I have the privilege of being your fiancé’s half-brother. 

Being a bastard child, I’m no stranger to being ostracised and ridiculed. To be blunt, I’m sure that you will be ostracised alongside me and I believe that is one reason we can connect. 

For rumours of my half-brother, I simply say this: do not fear him. He relishes in the consternation he places in other people, yet when he heard he was to marry you, I saw panic in his eyes like no other. It seems the tables have turned. He is hesitant to be wed, but you are not the problem. He simply doesn’t want to have the responsibility of another’s life on his. Your fiancé is used to belittling people - not supporting them as a husband should.

Any questions you have about your fiancé and my half-brother (whom in case I didn’t make clear, are one and the same), refer to me without any qualms. I am eager to meet you and hopefully make your transition into the Riddle family smoother.

I am well aware you have also lived your life in the upper echelons of society. But, as I’m sure you know, there are multiple circles in our complicated community. The L/ns, the Weasleys, and the Potters, for example, have grown their fortunes truthfully and innocently. They have earned the respect of their people and those whom they employ. The Riddles, Blacks, and Berkshires, on the other hand, have climbed the ranks in unconventional means and by skipping a few rungs on the ladder. They thrive and make their living on the terror and duress they cause those under them.

I’m looking forward to making your acquaintance.

Lorenzo Berkshire

P.S. I hope I haven’t scared you off.

From the office of L/n

Daughter,

You’ll be pleased to hear the engagement has gone through. Your mother and I met your fiancé last night. He seems like a nice man. He will be able to provide for you. His family is influential.

We will return home late tomorrow evening. You will depart for Riddle Estate in a week. Begin packing. 

Your father

From the desk of Ginevra

Y/n,

You worry me with your lack of communication. Usually, you can’t wait to gossip with me. We have such fun at dinners and balls, yet with the most important aspect of yourself, you don’t respond. I’m simply worried, my friend. Are you alright? I can envision you curled in your bed, not letting anyone, even your nursemaid, into your room. Please do not let your impending marriage affect your state of health. It will turn out alright. Everyone I know (even me!) had apprehensions about their marriage. And with everyone I know, it turned out alright. 

Misters Sirius and Remus visited Harry and I the day before last. They came to see James and Albus, but I know there was a hidden reason as well. They know of our friendship and came to ask if the rumours are true. As much as my husband adores them, Sirius in particular can be prone to gossip. The pair tittered and tsked when I told them of your fiancé. Sirius wishes to distance himself from his family, and I know he has pre-existing thoughts of the Black family, and by extension, the Riddles.

Sometimes I take a moment to gaze at the family tree upon my drawing room wall. It is full of interconnected lines and squiggles that sometimes, it makes my head hurt! The web of family ties is complicated and if we’re not somehow related already, I know that we will be once your marriage takes place. It seems the Black family spreads its roots into the Weasley family and the Riddle family- the latter of which you’ll soon be synonymous with.

Give yourself some grace. Your fiancé falls far from the tree; I am sure of it.

Please write to me. I need to make sure my closest friend is doing well. 

Best wishes, 

Ginny

P.S. Hermione wishes to inform you that, from what she’s heard, your Mr. Riddle is quite attractive. I have yet to hear any of the rumours  myself, but at least your husband will be pleasing to the eye. Perhaps it will make the marriage more bearable. 

***

Mattheo strode leisurely through Riddle Manor. It was one of the many estates his family owned, and it was soon to be officially his. Just as soon as he married the L/n girl.

The manor was spacious, which Mattheo couldn’t help but detest. How was he and a wife supposed to fill this void of empty rooms and dark halls? He knew servants and cooks would move in, but they wouldn’t occupy the dozens of upper rooms that were vacated. 

For a brief moment, Mattheo couldn’t help but envision a set of children running around the halls. One of the children would run up to him, shouting, “Papa! Papa!” Mattheo would scoop the child up, grinning, and would carry them to their room. The room would be bright and cheerful, and maybe, just maybe, you would be sitting on a settee, cradling a newborn or helping an older child with their school work.

But for now, the room was dark and uninviting and he had yet to meet his future wife. He had seen a portrait of the L/n family and while they were in lavish, colourful clothing, Mr. and Mrs. L/n seemed cold and stoic - just like his parents. The children, an older son and younger daughter (whom he presumed to be you), seemed kinder and by their body language, Mattheo could tell that the two siblings were close. 

Mattheo slowly made his way down the hall. There were three wings of the manor; two were residential and the other was designed for taking guests. The East Wing - in which he and Miss. L/n would stay - was also fit with an office for him. He was expected to take over half of the family business once he got married. The West Wing would remain empty for now, sans for a large library and the furniture in the bedrooms. 

The boy knew that his bride was to arrive later that day. She would stay at Riddle Estate until the end of the week. Just three short days before they were to be wed in name. Mattheo would move into Riddle Manor tonight, giving servants time to wipe the dust off of tables, shine the silverware, and fluff the pillows. 

Mattheo walked the halls of his new home. His mind was devoid of any thoughts. Perhaps it was simply because he was always numb. Even when he heard of his engagement, Mattheo didn’t make a fuss. He didn’t remember thinking anything. Nothing such as ‘Oh, I can’t wait to meet her!’ or even, ‘I can’t believe mother and father are arranging my marriage! She better be obedient.’ 

No, Mattheo had thought nothing of the sort. He had spent his childhood quietly observing his father and mother, noticing the amount of fear they could inflict on people just by silence. You didn’t have to be loud and dramatic to be powerful. You simply couldn’t be afraid to follow up on your promises - however deadly they were. 

The only question Mattheo had asked when Bellatrix informed him of his engagement was, “and what do we gain from the L/n’s?”

Bellatrix had shot him an callous and apathetic look. “Do not ask questions you needn’t the answers to, boy.” 

Mattheo had glowered, but shut his mouth. 

As he neared the foyer, Mattheo couldn’t help but think how marriage was a component in all aspects of his life. When he got married to the L/n girl, he would inherit a portion of his father’s estates, company, and wealth. Mattheo chucked to himself. Maybe he should’ve gotten married sooner.

***

“Pray tell, why weren’t you here when she arrived?” Bellatrix snarled as she gripped Mattheo’s arm. Her nails dug into his suit as she dragged him towards the drawing room.

“I was busy,” Mattheo replied harshly. Love was not a thing that came instinctively to his family. 

“Doing what? Planning your suidide?” Bellatrix scoffed. “I would march to the Underworld and choke Hades to bring you back.” Mattheo glanced down at his mother, hesitantly surprised. But he knew better than to raise his hopes and dreams. “We need this contract with the L/n’s,” Bellatrix continued and Mattheo’s jaw ticked. Of course. She didn’t love him; she never had. Her son was purely business. He should’ve known better.

“Maybe if you would tell me what the L/n’s provide for us,” Mattheo pulled Bellatrix back before she threw open the door to where you were. “Then I would be more complacent.”

Bellatrix sneered. “You think you’re smart, boy. You think you have everything figured out in that pretty little head of yours. But remember: you’re nothing without the Riddle family name backing you up.” She paused and licked her lips. “But if you must know,” Bellatrix sighed, giving into Mattheo. “The L/n’s just came into some very… lucrative land that we could gain from if you marry Miss. Y/n L/n.”

Mattheo’s eyes flickered to the drawing room door. After a moment, he asked, “is that her name? Y/n?” 

Bellatrix stared at him, aghast. “You didn’t bother to learn her name?!” She scoffed. “With a son like you…” 

She pushed open the drawing room doors and Mattheo trudged after her, muttering, “at least I know her name now.”

You had been waiting for seven minutes and thirty nine seconds in the drawing room of Riddle Estate, the trackage of time dependent on the old grandfather clock standing ominously in the corner. Its pendulum swung back and forth continuously as its second hand ticked by. Mrs. Riddle had left seven minutes and thirty nine seconds ago to fetch her son. 

While the room was perfectly clean, not a speck of dust on even the highest chandelier, it was still a cold and morose room, yet oddly epochal. The wood was the darkest mahogany you had ever seen and the lights cast odd shadows on the dark green wallpaper that had inlays of gold.

Your teacup that you were trying to hold steady was filled with a sad excuse for tea. There was a ring of gold around the mouth of the teacup. On the table beside you, a notch that looked as if someone dug a knife into the surface caught your attention. It was the little things like this that you noticed when you had nothing else to do. Your mind was trying to distract you.

The door then swung open and there stood your fiancé, his stare daring you to oppose him.

“Uh,” you stood, your teacup and saucer still in hand. You quickly placed them on the table, right over the knife nick. “Y/n L/n,” you introduced yourself. You bowed your head in an informal curtsy. 

Mattheo’s eyes flickered over your face. “Mattheo Riddle,” he said coldly. His voice was practically velvet. You didn’t mean to look him up and down, but you couldn’t help it. He was to be your husband, after all.

Mattheo’s hair coiled at the end and his eyes were just as dark as his curls. His nose had a scarred cut on it that looked as if it was just beginning to heal. Your fiancés cheekbones were practically sculpted from marble and for a moment, you believed that the gods had simply breathed life into a statue. Did this make you Pygmalion and Mattheo Galatea?

If it weren’t for their lethal eyes and stern posture, perhaps more would be friendly to the Riddles.

Mattheo spoke, “you’re to be my fiancée.” It wasn’t a question. 

“Yes.” You had the urge to add ‘sir’ at the end, but you bit your tongue. 

Bellatrix hissed something to Mattheo and thrust a small object into his hands. Mattheo rolled his eyes and stalked towards you. “My family ring,” he grumbled. He held out an intricate silver ring with three bands interweaving. A green jewel cut into a thin diamond shape sat steadily in the middle. “It has been in the Riddle family for generations. It’s tradition to pass it down to the wife of the firstborn son. And now that is you…” 

He trailed off and handed the ring to you, it laying flat on his palm. You took it from him, trying to minimise contact with Mattheo. You nodded in thanks and slid it into your ring finger. 

It seemed too concrete to fathom.

Mattheo stared at the ring on your finger. A muscle jumped in his jaw. “My… wife,” he murmured halfheartedly.

***

Three weeks had passed since the wedding and it was as if you had never gotten married in the first place. Yes, it was unsettling to wake up in a bed that wasn’t your own next to a man that you were supposed to call your own. But other than necessary, Mattheo had hardly uttered a word to you.

In the three weeks you had stayed there, you had seen Mattheo a total of twenty eight times, including mornings and nights when you were forced to sleep in the same bed. 

Your mornings, afternoons, and nights were all incredibly boring. You took long meals, pushing your food around. Sometimes you just sat by the window and watched the wind blow bits of grass and dirt past the window. The servants were still extracting the dust between the couch cushions and you tried to stay out of the way, but it only made you feel more isolated.

Mattheo was holed up in his office day in and day out. He had now inherited a large portion of his father’s company and Mattheo was determined to uphold the honour bestowed upon him. He had drafted contracts, sold and bought land, and even hosted a few dinner parties for his associates. 

You detested the dinner parties. Thankfully, Mattheo had yet to invite you to one - hell, he had yet to speak to you about the dinner parties. You had learned of the first dinner party when you had wandered downstairs one late evening because you were thirsty. You had stared at the group of strangers, all dressed in elegance, as they stared back at you in your night clothes. Not saying a word, you had sighed and returned upstairs.

You hadn’t been eager for the marriage, but wouldn't it befit Mattheo to show some affection? Or at least acknowledge your presence?

While you had continuously tried to get your husband to open up to you, his answers had been short and venomous.

It had been a long, monotonous day for you. You had returned to the master bedroom about two hours earlier than you normally would have if you were at home.

With the wealth that you came from, the opulence was sure to be evident, but you had underestimated the Riddle family’s prestige. When Mattheo had first shown you your shared bedroom, you had to allow a flicker of surprise break through your facade. The bedroom was larger than any room in your old home and had a large bed in the middle. The lamps on the bedside table were always dimly lit and the design of the room was the same as the rest of the house - dark and bereft of love and care. 

Your hair had been brushed enough, but you kept brushing simply for something to do while Mattheo finished up in the bathroom. Mattheo walked out of the ensuite with a towel wrapped around his waist. His curls were plastered to his forehead and a bead of water ran down his sternum.

Your eyes flickered to his figure through the mirror, taking in the dips and curves of Mattheo’s muscles as he silently got ready for bed. You tore your gaze away, berating yourself.

You built up your courage and tried to think of a conversation starter. You commented, “my parents wrote to me today.” After no reply from Mattheo, you continued, “they asked me when we would give them grandchildren.” You set your hairbrush down and stared at Mattheo through the mirror, looking for some sort of reaction.

Mattheo hummed noncommittally and put on some sleep pants. He used his towel to begin drying his hair. “It would be behoove us to produce some heirs,” he spoke. His tone was dismissive, as if children were nothing more than an obligation or duty to fulfil.

“Right,” you muttered, knowing that an uninterested reaction was all you were going to get out of him. 

You stood and moved towards the bed. “Goodnight,” you whispered, turning off the bedside lamp and tucking yourself into bed. Mattheo was still putting on his nightclothes and had yet to get into bed.

As you turned off the light and got into bed, Mattheo finished drying himself off and slid into his own pyjamas. He sat down beside you, but didn't bother turning off his own lamp. Instead, he laid against the headboard, reading a book. "Goodnight," he finally mumbled, not even looking at you.

You curled into your blanket. After a moment, you asked quietly, “what book are you reading?”

He looked at you over the top of his book. "None of your business," he replied curtly.

You simply uttered, “okay.” 

Mattheo felt an unwanted and unusual feeling root itself deep in his stomach. He scoffed and said sarcastically, "fine. Go ahead and keep asking questions all night long if it amuses you so." He opened his book again and pretended to read.

A longing and lonely pang resonated in your chest at his harsh words. You didn’t respond and instead turned your face into your pillow. You had known that your marriage was to be loveless, but it still hurt at every unspoken word. Perhaps, if you had been five years younger when you married Mattheo, your spirit would still be alive with the juvenile belief that you could stand up to him.

Mattheo huffed and his gaze turned up to stare at the wall ahead of him. “If you’re so miserable, then why don’t you just leave?” he snapped, not even bothering to hide his bitterness. “I am sure your family would simply love to have you back.” He flipped another page in his book, not even bothering to look at the printed words.

“I never said I was miserable,” you answered quietly, even though Mattheo knew it wasn’t true. Perhaps, though, you believed it to be true. You took a steadying breath, closing your eyes.

Your husband smirked and leaned against the headboard. “What do you call your attitude, then? Why are you so downtrodden and defeated? Surely, you can’t blame me for being frustrated by it.” He knew that he should be taking account of making you feel this way, but he still tried to justify his behaviour. 

“Goodnight,” you reiterated. 

Mattheo sighed dramatically. “Whatever,” he grunted. He closed his book, threw it on the nightstand, and turned off his lamp. The room was encased in darkness except for the dim moonlight coming through the window. He shifted towards the edge of the bed, making sure a noticeable gap was between the two of you. 

He thought back to your conversation. “Why don’t you just leave?” 

It was too late now to apologise.

***

Mattheo let the door swing shut behind him, returning to Riddle Manor after an outing with friends. He glanced around, waiting for a servant to take his coat, but no one answered. An eyebrow cocked, Mattheo slowly walked up the stairs, hearing you instruct the servants on something, every other sentence of yours either containing, ‘please’ or ‘thank you’. Up on the landing, he found you directing a servant who was pulling a rack of your clothing. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded. “Have you lost your damn mind? Are you trying to send a message or something?” 

“You’ve made it perfectly clear that you have no interest in me, so I’m trying to make this marriage as civilised as possible,” you said diplomatically. “I believe that if I move to the West Wing and leave you in the East Wing, it will benefit our marriage.”

“What exactly do you hope to accomplish with this piteous attempt at attention?” he asked rhetorically. “Do you think it’ll make me want you more?” He stuck his tongue in his cheek, grinning incredulously. “You’re delusional if you think that’s even remotely possible.” He stepped closer to you, towering over you with anger in his eyes. “This is not some game, L/n. This is marriage. You’re stuck with me whether you like it or not.” 

“I’m aware that we’re married, Riddle,” you retorted. “And don’t refer to me by L/n anymore. I am now a Riddle - just like you. However, I am not going to live in a state of constant sorrow and dejection. Having a wing of the mansion to myself may help.” 

Mattheo’s jaw tightened as he stared at you, irritated by your resistance. “Fine,” he growled. “But don’t expect me to come running after you when you decide you want attention. You’re on your own now.” He turned away from you and walked into his now solo bedroom. “Just remember - this is your choice.” 

You felt your anger inflate. “I thought you would like this!” Your voice rose and you tugged a hand through your hair. It was the first time in your marriage that you had fought back. “I have done everything I can to please you, yet nothing is enough for you!” Your voice turned desperate. “What do you want from me?”

He stopped in his tracks, turning around with surprise and disgust on his face. “Dammit, Y/n! Don’t yell at me like that!” His voice thundered, stepping towards you. “I never asked for any of this! I didn’t ask for a wife or for you to try so hard to please me! All of this is ridiculous.” His hand slashed through the air to make a point. “All I want is some space. Space to figure out what the hell I want. But let’s make one thing clear: I don’t care about you.”

“Am I not giving you space?” Your fists clenched at your sides. “I am moving out of the bedroom and out of your way. Yet, you erupt at me and get angry over nothing! You send me mixed messages and I don’t know what to do.”

Mattheo took a breath, trying to regain control over his emotions. “I am not erupting! Lord, you are so sensitive!” he snapped, running a hand over his face. “Can’t you listen for once? I am not sending you mixed signals. I am trying to figure out my place in this unorthodox situation we’re in.”

After a beat of silence, you asked firmly, “did you talk about me?” After seeing a flicker of confusion on his face, you clarified, “when you were out with your friends, did you talk about me? Did you rant about how annoying I was? Did you complain about marriage?”

His lips parted before taking a breath. “Yes, I talked about you,” he admitted begrudgingly. “I complained about how frustrating I find you and how frustrated I am with my parents for arranging this senseless marriage.”

“What did they say?” you insisted. “Did they sympathise? Did they laugh at me? Did they add fuel to your fire by commenting about how… how ‘needy’ and ‘sensitive’ I am?”

Mattheo made a low sound in his chest and rubbed his temples, frustrated by your persistence. “They agreed with me, yes. A few believed that you are too emotionally attached and sentimental. Others chalked it up to the pains of an average marriage.”

Your anger flared up and you said, “Let me tell you this: I never wanted marriage either. But I at least tried. I tried to be a nice and loving wife and a kind human.” You turned on your heel, marching out of the bedroom and towards the West Wing.

Mattheo watched you go, an unwanted feeling of guilt washing over him. He sighed and walked over to the window. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. “Why is everything so damn complicated?”

For the next couple of weeks, you stayed true to your word. You avoided Mattheo and his office and stayed in your wing of the mansion. After a week or two, you decided to explore the mansion, stumbling upon a magnificent library. You inhaled in veneration when someone cleared their throat. Mattheo stood behind you, raising an brow. After a silence, you said recalcitrantly, “you never told me that Riddle Manor had a library.”

He smirked at your thinly veiled hatred, amused despite himself. “Well, now you know,” he said dryly. “It’s a perk of living in a Riddle household.” He walked over to a bookshelf and began browsing for a book he required for a contract that was being drafting. He showed no sign of embarrassment or discomfort at your presence. “You may use it whenever you want. But don’t expect me to join a book club or anything juvenile.”

“I would never dream of it,” you said sarcastically. You step further into the library and can’t help but gape at the vastness. You trailed your fingers over the book spines, breathing in the smell of old books. You crouched down to examine a series of poetry titles. “I can read any of these?” you asked hesitantly.

He nodded and leaned against the shelf behind him, crossing his arms over his chest. “Feel free to read whatever you would like. They’re here for the entire household. Well, the servants don’t have time to read books, so in a Riddle household, the parents and children use the library the most.” Your hand faltered over the titles. “If you find something that catches your eye, go ahead and take it. I won’t stop you.” There was a hint of curiosity in his voice, as if he wished to know what topics and books piqued your interest. You hummed quietly, not fully acknowledging his words. You were already picking up a book and leafing through it. Mattheo watched you for a moment, his eyes softening briefly.

Everyday, you returned to the library. It was an escape from the walls of your room and the walls that Mattheo had put up around his heart.

Eventually, the servants recognised your routine and began to start a fire in the fireplace to keep you warm. They moved a loveseat in front of the fire that you gratefully used. You devoured the poetry collection, including Shakespeare and Edgar Allen Poe, and started on the classics. Every once in a while, Mattheo would come into the library, but he wouldn’t talk. He simply took a book and returned to his study. Sometimes, you wondered if he remembered you lived in the mansion with him. 

Mattheo found himself frequenting the library more often, looking for books he had never needed before. A swell of pride filled him whenever he saw you by the fire, knowing that something in his home brought you such comfort. He still refused to speak to you, maintaining distance and ignoring your existence, but he found himself increasingly drawn to your presence. 

One day, on a whim, he decided to take a risk and left a stack of his favourite books on the table next to your chair. That afternoon, you found the stack of books. You smiled despite yourself, though you didn't make any comment to Mattheo. You picked up the first book, sat down in the chair, and began to read.

A week later, Mattheo was hosting a dinner party for his associates. He didn’t say a word about it to you, though you heard the servants preparing for it. You decided not to go, opting to stay in your safe haven of the library. 

After an hour or so of faint music, you heard the door to the library squeak open and your head whipped up. You saw one of Mattheo’s friends, Tom, enter and look around. He spotted you and his lips curled up into a smirk. “So you’re the wife we’ve heard so much about?” 

Your stomach clenched and you replied, “I guess so.”

Tom’s smirk grew wider as he took in your terse response, enjoying your obvious discomfort. He approached you with a lecherous gaze in his eyes before asking, “and how do you find life as Mrs. Riddle? Are you enjoying your… arrangement?” His words dripped with sarcasm, not believing for a moment that you and Mattheo were married for love.

You stared at him. “It has its perks,” you said simply.

Tom laughed derisively at your response, not convinced by your nonchalance. “And what are those perks?” he asked, moving closer to you. “Extravagant gifts? Luxurious vacations? Or simply the privilege of being married to such a powerful man?”

You squared your shoulders. “I am powerful without a man,” you said sharply. “I do not need a man to determine my worth and prowess.”

Tom scoffed. “Really? How exactly did you become powerful on your own?” he asked, challenging you. “I find it hard to believe that you could ever achieve anything significant without the backing of a powerful husband behind you.” He leaned in closer, grinning.

You closed your book with a snap. “The L/n family,” you said, talking of your maiden lineage, “has had control over many estates and affairs for decades. Without Mattheo Riddle, I would’ve inherited half of it, second only to my brother. I would’ve had four auspicious companies at my ready disposal, capable of doing most anything. So, yes, sir, I would have been momentous without him.”

Tom’s smirk faded as he recognised your family name. He remained undeterred, however, stating, “that explains why your husband was so eager to marry you. He must see you as a valuable asset to his business empire.”

As you opened your mouth to retort, the door banged open and Mattheo strode into the library.

Mattheo had noticed Tom’s absence from his party, but when it became too long to be excused as a restroom break, Mattheo had asked his brother, Enzo, if he had seen where he had gone. Enzo had smiled a small smile and whispered, “Tom went to the library. Where your darling wife stays hidden.”

Mattheo saw red. 

He barged into the library, a deadly, lethal, and borderline possessive look deep in his eyes. When he saw Tom flanking you, Mattheo’s expression darkened and his hands clenched into a ready fist. “What the hell are you doing here?” Mattheo demanded, his voice low and dangerous. “This is a private wing of my home - not some place for you to bother my wife.” 

Mattheo moved closer to you, placing himself between you and Tom as if to protect you from further harm. 

Tom quickly stepped back and placed a confident demeanour on his face. “I was simply having a conversation with your lovely wife here,” Tom gritted his teeth.

You scoffed and rolled your eyes, showing clearly that Tom was lying and intruding. You saw Mattheo’s eyes flicker down to you, his eyes softening reassuringly before snapping back to Tom, malice in his gaze. 

“Don’t lie to me,” Mattheo snapped at Tom. “There’s no need for any sort of interaction or conversation with my wife unless I am present.” Mattheo placed a hand on the top of your chair, his fingers gripping it and his bicep flexing slightly to warn Tom.

Tom’s eyes flicked with something you hadn’t seen before: fear. Fear commonly associated with the Riddle name. He adjusted his collar and straightened his posture. “Of course, Mr. Riddle,” he said bitterly.

You raised a brow. “I think it’s time for you to go now,” you said, your face stoic. Tom bowed his head slightly before exiting the library. You didn’t look up to meet Mattheo’s eye. You murmured, “you didn’t have to do that. I had it covered.”

Mattheo watched Tom until he completely left the room before turning to look down on you. His voice was threatening, “you may have been able to handle Tom, but I won’t tolerate anyone disrespecting or harassing you while you’re under my roof. Consider this a warning - if anyone tries to cross you again, they will regret it.” 

“Perhaps you should tell your coworkers that. Not me,” you replied. 

Mattheo’s expression was cold. “Fine. I will,” he growled. “I will not sit idly by and allow anyone to disrespect my wife.” He let go of your chair and adjusted the cuffs of his suit. As if in a business meeting, he said, “And consider this another warning: if you continue to act so stubbornly, I won’t hesitate to remind you of your place in this marriage.”

“My place in this marriage is your wife!” you cried out, finally standing up. “Your equal! Something you seem to forget until it’s convenient for you. Or until another man threatens your… your property! I doubt you see me any differently than this house or your assets.”

Mattheo grabbed onto your arm tightly, pulling you close and leaning down so his face was inches from yours. “Do not ever speak to me like that. You are not my equal - you are my wife and I decide what is best for both of us. If you cannot accept that, then you should reconsider your place in this marriage.” He released your arm and turned away from you, striding towards the door. “I suggest you reflect on your behaviour,” he added icily, leaving the room without looking back.

After he left the library, you let out a scream of frustration. You shoved the pile of books that Mattheo had carefully curated to the floor. They tumbled down, book after book, covers opening and pages bending. Tears pricked at your eyes as you examined the scene. 

You slumped into your chair, the fire in front of your crackling softly, emitting a calming warmth.

Eventually, you fell asleep in the chair, tear stains on your cheeks. In the morning, you woke to the serene morning light filtering into the room - a vast contrast to your mood. The fire had dissolved into crackling embers. Tucked on top of you was a thick blanket and the stack of books that you had pushed over had been re-piled and stood majestically atop the table.

You sighed, knowing you should thank the servants for taking care of you and cleaning up. 

After you walked to the kitchen, your footfalls heavy, you thanked the servants, who were finishing preparing breakfast. They exchanged glances and one piped up, “Ma’am, while we appreciate the sentiment, we didn’t do that. We weren’t aware that you were still in the library. We believed you had retired to bed before the social last night.” They paused and then added, “however, Mr. Riddle didn’t go to bed. He was in his study until morning light.”

“Oh,” was all you could say. You bid them an awkward goodbye before entering the dining hall. 

Mattheo was already seated at the head of the table, his expression exhausted and distant. He didn’t acknowledge you when you approached, focusing instead on the uneaten plate of food in front of him. 

You sat down opposite him and muttered, “the servants informed me that you blanketed me last night and cleaned up the books.” You hesitated and finally said, “thank you.”

Mattheo looked up briefly, his expression unreadable, but he didn’t respond directly. “It was necessary,” he said simply. “You should not be cold and uncomfortable in your own home.” He doesn’t make any effort to engage in conversation beyond that. Something was weighing heavily on his mind and he seemed preoccupied by it.

You hummed in response. Eventually, you stood and whispered to your husband before walking out, “you are not as cold as you want to seem. You needn’t keep the facade up with me.”

Mattheo looked up briefly before returning to his food. His expression relaxed, but he didn’t respond.

***

Later that day, Mattheo sat in his study as he always did. A knock came from the door and he glanced at the clock. It was a bit early for lunch to be delivered, but he announced, “come in.”

The door creaked open and your head peeked into the room. Mattheo’s brows furrowed - not with malice, but with scrutiny. You entered and sat in one of the two seats next to his fireplace. Silently, you cracked open a book you had brought and began to read. 

Mattheo watched you intently, his gaze never wavering as he took in every detail of your face. He tried to find any acrimonious intent behind your actions, but you looked so peaceful. He found himself noticing the details of your face and your beauty as the fire cast warm highlights on your eyes. “What are you doing?” he asked eventually, his voice holding an armour of needed suspicion.

“Reading,” you said simply. 

Mattheo frowned, not convinced by your answer. Why would you read in his study after the way he had been treating you? He leaned back in his chair, his work forgotten. “Isn’t there something more important that you could be occupying your time with?” he challenged.

“Not particularly,” you responded. “You’re in charge of the companies and estates. I have nothing to do. I thought I would accompany you. You must get lonely in a study by yourself.”

Mattheo narrowed his eyes, but ultimately nodded slowly. “Alright,” he agreed after a moment. “But don’t think I will stop working simply because my wife is here.” His posture grew taut as he began looking over documents again. “This is still my office and I expect you to behave accordingly.”

“I’m simply reading,” you murmured, a smile inching its way up your lips.

Henceforth, a routine was established. Every morning, you would knock on Mattheo’s study door, usually an hour or so after he began working. There was rarely conversation, the silence being broken by Mattheo’s scratch of a quill or you turning pages, occasionally being disrupted by the loud crack of a log in the fire.

One day, you had finished your book (it was an excellent book, one from the pile Mattheo had recommended) and stood to go retrieve another one. At the sound of your footsteps leaving his office, Mattheo’s head darted up and he suddenly asked, “where are you going?” 

You paused and turned back to him. “I’m to get a new book. Unfortunately, as wonderful as this one was, it had an ending like all books do.”

Mattheo frowned and a hint of vulnerability broke through his exterior. “Get a servant to do it,” he offered. 

“Well, I don’t know which one I want,” you counted, raising a brow in a smirk.

He huffed and shook his head, returning his eyes to his documents. He grumbled, “I will commission the servants to build you a small bookshelf for my office. You can keep your books there.” You stood, watching him for a moment, admiring him until his gaze snapped up. “Well, go get your book,” he said sharply. “… but hurry back,” he added in a mumble. 

You finally smiled at him before exiting and Mattheo gazed at the place you once stood, trying to memorise how your lips curled up and your eyes crinkled when you smiled.

He rather liked it when you smiled.

***

“Are you alright?”

You sniffed and laughed. “Yes, yes. I’m being foolish.” You wiped some tears from your eyes. “My book is very good.”

Mattheo chuckled lowly. “And what made you cry, hm?”

“A daughter and father interaction,” you replied quietly. 

“Was the father cruel to the daughter?” Mattheo laughed tersely, shaking his head at his documents. “Are your feelings not strong enough to withstand their wrath?”

You frowned at Mattheo, setting the book down. “No,” you corrected slowly. “The father was being kind to his daughter. He was supporting her and loving her; as a father should.” There was a pause as Mattheo looked up at you. “I know that the Riddles are a harsher family - I’ve known ever since I knew I was to marry you. But… but are you alright?” 

You felt absurd asking the question. Yet, when Mattheo couldn’t meet your eye, a wistful sadness blanketing the room, you felt as if you should’ve asked the simple question weeks earlier.

For a moment, he said nothing. Then Mattheo turned in his chair so his back was facing you. "I'm fine," he finally answered, his voice rough and strained. "I am used to dealing with it, I suppose." Despite his insistence that he didn't need anyone's pity or concern, your words seem to have affected him more deeply than he wanted to admit. 

“May I ask a question?” you asked softly.

Mattheo hesitated for a moment before nodding, his eyes never leaving the window as he spoke. "Ask away," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. He then cleared his throat and said, "but I won’t give a warm and fuzzy answer." 

There was a pregnant pause in the air as you gathered your courage up and suddenly thrust your fears upon your husband. “If we ever have children, which we’re somewhat expected to,” you added hurriedly. “I don’t want them to grow up in a household where they feel as if they have to vie for love or attention. And I don’t want me to be the only one giving them attention.” Mattheo turned his head so his face was angled toward you, but his eyes could still stray to the window if need be. “If we have kids, can you promise that you’ll love them? Even if you don’t love me?” 

Even though your voice was steady, Mattheo knew of the vulnerability deeply rooted within you.

He nodded cautiously, his expression serious. "I promise," he said firmly. "I may not love you, but I will love our children unconditionally. They will never have to compete for my affection or feel neglected. I may not be a fond father, but I will provide for them and protect them as best I can." A protectiveness filled his veins just at the thought of something happening to his future children. 

You nodded once, a sad smile on your face. “Perhaps we’ll have a big family. Enough children to start a sports team.” You smiled at the thought, laughing lightly.

Mattheo smiled, despite himself, imagining a large brood of children running around the manor. It was an oddly appealing idea, even if he wouldn't admit it out loud. "We'll see," he said noncommittally. "I'd rather have lots of sons; they'll carry on the family name and ensure my legacy continues." He turned back around and attempted to focus on his work.

“And daughters too.” You frowned, staring at your husband, even if he wouldn’t spare you a glance. “Daughters can carry on the family name just as well as sons.” A muscle in your jaw ticked.

Mattheo scowled at your defiance, his eyes narrowing slightly. Why hadn’t you just fallen into line? "Fine, daughters too," he reluctantly agrees. "But make no mistake, they will be raised to be strong and capable like their brothers. The Riddle name demands nothing less." 

“And the sons can be soft and caring and sensitive,” you said firmly, crossing your arms. “I thought we agreed that they wouldn’t have to vie for affection. I thought we agreed that they wouldn’t have needless competition in their life. I don’t want them to grow up… like, well… you.” You finally uttered the words that had been hanging off your tongue dangerously. 

Mattheo’s expression hardened as he clenched his fist tightly. "Fine!" he snapped. "They can be whatever the hell you want them to be! But don't expect me to sit back and watch while they become weaklings and failures. We need to teach them to be strong and ruthless like I am." He stood up abruptly, knocking over his chair in the process.

You jump up after him, crossing towards him. You whirled to a stop in front of him, jabbing a finger towards his chest. “Listen here, Riddle. Just because someone is kind and vulnerable doesn’t mean they’re weak!” You growled, “and just because you grew up like that, does not mean that’s the type of household I am going to have.”

Mattheo stepped forward and his hand flew up to grip your wrist. His eyes blazed with anger, but then something changed in his expression and he took a step back, looking surprised at his own reaction. "You're right," he admitted begrudgingly. "I shouldn't have assumed that being vulnerable meant being weak." He ran a hand through his hair, looking embarrassed, yet resolute in his decision. "But don't expect me to be a pushover either. I'll still teach them to be strong and independent."

“Strong and independent are good qualities,” you conceded. “Both for the boys and girls.”

"Agreed," he said. Mattheo straightened his cuffs and cleared his throat. "Our children will be taught to be strong and independent, regardless of gender. They will know that they are loved and valued by both of us, equally." He held out his hand to you, indicating that the argument was over - for now at least. "Deal?" 

“Deal.” You shook his hand defiantly. It was a business deal, but a good deal at least.

Mattheo exhaled and brushed past you. “I’m to a meeting,” he informed you. It was a simple comment , one that was an offhand remark, but to you, Mattheo had just let you into his life. It was something he had never done before. Even if it was just a response to where he was off to, it was a window into his life. A life that now may have enough room to hold you. 

Mattheo paused when he reached the door. “I never knew the way I grew up was wrong until I saw other families. I saw the parents bending down to listen to their children instead of hushing them. I saw parents comforting their children after scraped knees, not pushing them to the kitchen for some rubbing alcohol. I saw parents beaming when their child could plunk out the simplest of tunes on the piano. No one else got berated for being out of rhythm or playing a D instead of an E. I never saw another child get slapped by their parents or scolded as harshly as I was. It was around then I realised that something was wrong. But what was I to do about it?”

Words dried in your throat. You wanted to cry at his words, but you felt dried out. How could someone treat their child like that? It explained so much… 

Your husband was a fragile man, you were just realising. And he was trying to pick up the pieces and present them to you in the only way he knew how. 

"The stars remind me of you,” he said quietly, the change in conversation sudden. “I mean that in the best possible way.” His voice was the softest and most tender as you had ever heard it. You hoped he would keep speaking the melodies that made your heart sing in tune. 

“How so?” you asked, afraid to break the plane of existence that you and Mattheo were carefully standing on.

"They are so beautiful, yet so far away. I may see them, but I can never touch them."

***

The servants didn’t know what to do. The master and mistress, Mr. and Mrs. Riddle, seemed to be at a ceasefire. The cooks lamented at how they had seemed to be doing so well. The maids thought they were destined to doom from the start. The butlers gossiped about Mr. Riddle’s letters to a Mr. Tom, terminating their long-term partnership. The scullery maid still had hope that the husband and wife would come to their senses and live a happy life.

It perplexed the servants when the mistress requested to move her belongings back into the master bedroom and the master looked on, a soft smile on his lips. It confused the servants when the Mr and Mrs began taking meals together and talking in hushed tones late into the night. And it bamboozled the servants when, one summer afternoon, the Lord of the household stood from his desk, cautiously moved to his Lady that was reading by the open window, and asked her to accompany him on a walk. She had accepted. 

There was to be a dinner party, this time hosted at Mr. Draco Malfoy’s manor, that Mr. Riddle was expected to attend. Per usual, the master didn’t invite the mistress, but she was content to stay home. A maid briefly heard the madam whisper to her husband, “hurry home, please? I don’t like it when you’re away.” The maid had scurried away before she could hear the reply.

Mattheo returned home that night, just before the sun was setting. He climbed the steps, unbuttoning his cuffs and loosening his tie. The soft glow of light was still shining under your shared bedroom - something he still hadn’t gotten used to - and Mattheo couldn’t help but smile.

“Why are you still up?” he asked quietly when he entered the room.

“You promised to be home early and I wanted to see you before I go to bed,” you reminded him, a small book in your hands.

“Right, right.” Mattheo chuckled and shook his head, slinging off his tie and jacket.

“How was the dinner?”

Mattheo hummed noncommittally. “Not the worst. A couple of my good friends, Theo and Pansy, were there to help alleviate the pain of socialising. But… I found something odd happening.”

“And what was that, husband?” Mattheo took a moment to relish in the way that word curled off your tongue effortlessly.

“I found myself wishing you were there. Nay,” he quickly corrected himself. “I wished I was here with you.”

“Oh?” Your eyes flickered up towards Mattheo, a slight blush coming to your cheeks. “Why… what do you mean by that?”

Mattheo began to unbutton his shirt and moved towards his closet. “Well,” he admitted, mumbling to himself. “I simply mean that instead of having to socialise with people who are too tightly wound and whose only intent is to take my money,” he chucked his belt into his closet and rolled up his sleeves, “I would rather be at home with my darling wife.”

A smile inched up your lips. “Really? Tell me more about this darling wife of yours.”

Mattheo hummed, stepping towards the bed. He crawled down on the bed, leaning on his forearms to lean up towards you. “My wife… I’ve come to care deeply about her. She is a beautiful, elegant woman, one who has a fiery tongue about her and an intelligent brain that even I cannot rival. She always seems to get her way, even when I try to fight back. It’s as if my wife has a command over me that I have willingly submitted to. And I am not ashamed to say so.” He lightly caressed your arm, sending a trail of goosebumps up your skin. 

“You must be careful, Mattheo,” you uttered. “That sounds an awful lot like love.” 

Mattheo brought his eyes up to meet yours, the sting of tears building up behind them. His voice cracked as he said, “that’s the first time you’ve called me by my name, Y/n.”

Your lips parted in shock. “I- I didn’t realise. I’m sorry-”

“Don’t you dare apologise,” Mattheo demanded before reaching up to pull you into a kiss. 

His lips were soft and meaningful against yours, hungrily trying to gather every ounce of love from you. His kisses were feverish at first, his strong hand coming up to cup your jawline, his fingers just teasing behind your ear, before his lips slowed. Mattheo was a starved man and he wouldn’t let anyone take away his only solace. He shifted so he could be closer to you, gently taking the book from your hands as you surrendered yourself to him. Your hands found his silk shirt, gripping it in your fists. He placed the book on the nightstand and moved so he was hovering over you, never once letting a second go by without feeling your skin against his. 

Mattheo slowly, achingly pulled away from you and his eyes fluttered open to meet yours. “My darling, my love, my life,” he murmured, dragging a knuckle down your cheek. “I apologise for everything I have ever done or said that made you feel inferior. I would be happy to kneel for you in front of my associates and family members - just to show them how much power you have over me.” He took a breath before persisting, “I was foolish. I was incompetent. I didn’t realise how much love I held for you. It is, and always will be, only you. I will promise you this: you will be the only woman I ever touch, the only voice I ever want to hear, the only skin I will ever caress, and the only eyes I ever want to see. I will wake and fall, every morning and night, thinking of you. You are the other half of my heart, for it is you who I love. I will place the galaxies and stars in the night sky for you. If you are ever unhappy, my love, I will not rest until I see you smile again. If you are ever mad, my love, I shall smite whatever upsets you, even if it is I. And I would die a happy man if you could give me only an ounce of what I give you.”

Your breath shook and you swore Mattheo had injected ambrosia into your veins for you were sure your blood was singing with the love that was filling your soul. “I wrote a letter to your mother today,” you offered quietly, as if your mere words could ever compare to the love poem Mattheo had just gifted to you. “And I thanked her.” Mattheo’s eyes flashed with confusion. You continued, “I thanked her for birthing such a wonderful husband and for raising him. I know you u wish to renounce your family, but as of now, I want to thank them with all my heart. Mattheo, I love you.”

“And I you,” Mattheo whispered, bringing his forehead down to rest on yours. His nose bumped against your cheek and he couldn’t contain his grin anymore. “How did I ever get so lucky?” he mumbled.

You laughed lightly. “Luck? Fate?”

Mattheo shook his head and his nose brushed light curves over your skin. “No, my wife. Simply love. Pure, unconditional love.”

***

The house was bright, the curtains pulled as far open as they could be. Some servants scuttled around, holding laundry or preparing for dinner. Meanwhile, Mattheo strode leisurely through the halls, smiling lovingly as his nephews chased each other through the halls. “What do I say, boys?” he called after them.

“Have fun, be safe, and don’t get caught!” they yelled back before running around a corner.

Enzo jogged after them and grumbled to Mattheo, “it’s not your duty to rule them up.”

“As their favourite uncle, yes, it is.”

“Your wife is in Andromeda’s room,” Enzo told his brother before sprinting off after his sons. Enzo wasn’t usually at Riddle Manor, but today was a special day. It was Orion’s birthday.

Mattheo chuckled to himself before Orion raced up the steps, panting. “Papa! Papa!” 

Mattheo grinned widely and scooped Orion up. “Are you alright, hm? What’ve you been up to?”

“Aunt Pansy’s carriage just pulled up!” Orion bounced in Mattheo’s arms, beaming.

“And you’re not even dressed,” Mattheo stared at Orion, pretending to be stunned. “Where’s your mother, Ori?”

“She’s helping Andy get dressed,” Orion announced. Mattheo nodded and carried his son to his daughter’s room. “Mum!” Orion cried out, seeing Y/n standing behind Andromeda, knotting her hair into a braid. 

“Oh, my darling,” Y/n tied Andy’s hair up before crossing to Mattheo and taking Orion from his arms. “Are you excited for your birthday?”

Orion hummed excitedly and wiggled down from Y/n’s arms. He darted to Andromeda and wrapped himself around her in a tight hug. Andromeda grumbled, but allowed him to cling to her as she finished her hair and rouge.

Mattheo took Y/n’s hand and pulled her back toward him, nudging his nose against hers. “Look at that,” he murmured, reaching down to play with the silver and green ring on your finger. “Mine.” He pressed a kiss to your temple. Slowly, as to not arouse suspicion from your children, he backed you up and caged you against the wall in his arms. “Seven years with you and two beautiful children to show for it.”

“Hey, mum? Where’s my- eugh!” Andromeda turned around and reeled back from the scene in front of her. “For the love of Salazar, please get a room!”

“We are in a room.” Mattheo smirked, glancing up from the crook of your neck. 

“Aren’t you two, if I'm doing my calculations correctly, nearing thirty years old?” Andromeda tsked and rolled her eyes. 

“You believe that simply because we’re getting older, I’m going to stop loving your mother?”  Mattheo chuckled before pressing a light kiss to your jawline. 

You shivered and tucked your face into your husband’s chest. “Matty, spare the poor children,” you chastised lightly. “What do you need, darling?” you turned towards Andromeda.

“You used to call me that,” Mattheo whined. He stepped back from you, letting you out of his embrace.

Andromeda sighed and asked, “where is my white shawl? It’ll go well with the dress I’m planning to wear to Orion’s party.”

“Why does it matter what you wear to Orion’s party?” Mattheo asked, puzzled. 

“Because Albus Potter is going to be here,” you said as if it were obvious.

“Harry Potter’s son?” Mattheo asked incredulously. “That scumbag?”

Both you and Andromeda ignored Mattheo and Orion left the room at the sound of Aunt Pansy entering the foyer and shouting out for her favourite nephew.

“Your shawl should be in the library,” you answered. “Ori was using it as a blanket yesterday.”

Andromeda sighed and turned towards the door. “He needs to stop taking my things. Just last week he stole my candelabra so he could read in the dark. Perhaps you should accelerate his schooling. He’s getting bored, you know.”

“We’ll raise our own son, thank you, Andromeda,” Mattheo raised a brow. Andy huffed and and flicked her dress out behind her dramatically, exiting the room. Mattheo turned to you and said, “they get that from you. The love of reading.”

“Yes, but they get their flair for the dramatics from you. And lest us not forget, you keep fuelling our love of literature by buying more books and expanding our library,” you countered.

Mattheo hummed. “‘Tis true. But how could I live without spoiling my wife and children?” He whirled you around in his arms and pressed a long kiss to your lips. “Speaking of children, what would you think of expanding our family?”

You let out a laugh. “You simply like the act of making a bigger family.”

“I love my children too,” Mattheo defended.

You reached up and brushed some of his hair away from his face. “Yes you do,” you smiled up at him. “You love your family very much.”

“Always.”

[souliebird]

[[and then I met you || ch 22]]

Series: Daredevil || Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader || Rating: Explicit

Summary:

A one-night stand years ago gave you a daughter and you are now able to put a name to her father – Matthew Murdock. Everything is about to change again as you navigate trying to integrate your life with that of the handsome and charming blind lawyer’s and Matt realizes he needs to not only protect his new family from Hell's Kitchen, but from the world.

chapter masterlist

Words: 4.3k

ao3 link

It takes you a little over an hour to get Minnie to go down for bed. Tomorrow is her birthday party and to say she is excited is an understatement. She was practically jumping off the walls and it took three different books, a bottle, and two lullabies to finally get her to drift off. You are thankful when she doesn’t sit up again and call for you after five minutes, because you have a lot to do. 

You need to clean up the apartment and decorate, you need to prepare pancake batter for a princess style breakfast, you need to finish wrapping presents, and you need to set up the couch for Matt. He will be coming by after his Patrol so he can stay the night and Minnie can wake up to the surprise of him being there, which is the perfect way to start her celebratory weekend.

But before any of that, you need to go take a shower so you can have a proper breakdown. 

When you were younger, you believed crying was a sign of weakness. Your parents had treated it as such, always dismissive if you cried. The reason had never mattered - shedding tears was pointless and for children, so you had learned to bottle everything up and push it all down until the act of crying physically hurt you. Only very recently did you accept that crying is healthy. 

You still hate doing it, though, and the only way you have found to balance your shame and your need for that emotional release is to treat it like another task you need to accomplish. 

You triple check your daughter is truly asleep before you close the door to the bathroom and start the water. You keep yourself composed as you strip and only once you are under the spray do you let the tears start to fall. 

So much has happened in such a short time and your anxiety has been through the roof. 

The first bill for your hospital stay arrived today and you have been too scared to open it. You are terrified to go back into medical debt - giving birth in the United States had drained a lot of your savings and you have built it back up. You know there are all sorts of hidden fees, and you are going to need to do so much work contacting the various billing offices to try to get prices down. 

It isn’t even like you are fully recovered from being in the hospital in the first place. You only just finished your antibiotics last week and your ear still randomly throbs or rings. 

But honestly, you don’t know if that is from being sick or almost having your head bashed in. 

You thought you would be okay after the attack. You thought Minnie would be the one with problems - having nightmares and jumping at shadows - but after the first day of making sure you were okay, she’s been fine. You haven’t been. 

You’ve been plagued with nightmares about hands around your neck. You’ve been jumping at shadows when you leave the apartment. 

You keep constantly checking your locks and you debate ordering pepper spray. 

You don’t know what to do.

You aren’t okay. 

You don’t feel safe. 

The only time you have felt secure is when Matt was there to hold you and remembering such only signals your brain to send a new wave of tears. 

He confuses you in a way no one else ever has. 

You have never met anyone who cares so much before. It is overwhelming how much he loves Hell’s Kitchen - enough so to become a vigilante to protect it - and it is overwhelming how much he loves Minnie. You thought only you could love her that much.

Seeing them together does things to your heart you don’t understand. You just want to watch them play and bond until the end of time. They smile and laugh, and it is the only time you ever feel Whole. You feel like everything is perfect when the three of you are together. 

You don’t know what to make of that. You don’t trust yourself with it - you’ve never felt like that before and you are scared that if you think too hard about it, you’ll find a flaw and the feeling will be ruined. 

You just want Matt to hold you while the two of you watch Minnie play and that isn’t an okay fantasy for you to have. You don’t have that type of relationship with him. 

He is a naturally touchy person with a huge heart. You’ve seen him hug Karen and Foggy before and you know he has only ever wrapped his arms around you to comfort you. 

And he wants to comfort you because you are the mother of his child. He wouldn’t be around if it weren’t for Minnie and that is something you need to remind yourself of. 

Matt loves Minnie. Family is extremely important to him, and he has told you time and time again that he strives to be the best dad possible for her - so of course that means he needs to take care of you and make sure you have a positive relationship.

If you and Matt butt heads, that wouldn’t be what was best for Minnie.

You need to do what is best for Minnie.

Which means you need to stop crying and get to work. 

You wipe at your tears until they start to slow, then wash your face while still under the spray. It takes a minute or two for you to fully calm down, but once you do, it is like the tap is turned off. Crying time is over, so you stop your shower and quickly dry off so you can get dressed.

You feel better, but in a kind of dull way. It is like all the pressures in your life have been turned down to something more manageable and you know you will be able to focus on your tasks without slipping into a panic attack. 

The apartment is not nearly as dirty as you believed it to be. You have to straighten some things up and you take the time to wipe down all the flat surfaces, but after that, you start putting things up. There’s a pink and yellow Happy Birthday banner and you blow up a few inflatables you found shaped like flowers and stick them to the walls. You twirl streamers together to decorate the back of the couch and the dining chairs, and your favorite piece is the pink sparkle fringe to hang over the hallway entrance. It isn’t the most elaborate of set ups, but you know Minnie will love it and that is all that matters to you. 

Once your living space is Birthday themed, you turn to the kitchen. You went shopping today to make sure you had everything needed for a spectacular breakfast. You found a recipe for extra fluffy pancakes, and it seems easy enough - it calls for letting the batter rest overnight and you particularly like that as it is one less thing to do in the morning while trying to handle a rowdy toddler. 

It doesn’t take long to get everything prepped and before you know it, it has been close to two hours since you put Minnie down to sleep and you feel it is finally safe to bring her presents out of their hidey holes to be wrapped. 

She has grown a bit since you last bought her clothes, so you got her a nice little haul, including a new princess dress for her to wear to the zoo. It has sparkles and tulle and the dress comes with a matching crown you just know she won’t want to take off. You are extremely proud of the find. 

You didn’t just get her clothes, though. Minnie has been more and more interested in helping you cook, so you got her a little kitchen play set. It comes with pots and pans, knives, utensils, bowls, plates, and some fake food. You thought it would be fun to have her practice her skills - she’s a pro at helping you stir and mix, and she knows how to use a butter knife to cut up fruit. You hope she enjoys pretending to wash her dishes, so you lure you into helping into that part of cooking, but you don’t think anyone finds that chore fun. 

Before you can start wrapping, you need to go through everything and remove all the tags and stickers. It is a boring activity that takes far too long, so you decide you are going to multitask while doing so. You grab your laptop and notebook and settle down among your pile of bags.

Since your talk with Matt about Daredevil, you have been in research mode. The first few nights, you read every article you could find about the Devil. You started with the reputable sources - purely focusing on news reports - and once you had a timeline of events down, you switched to opinion pieces. You quickly ended up sorting those into three categories - positive outlooks, negative outlooks, and outlooks written by Karen Page. 

You took notes on everything - making pro and con lists on each major event and circling back to jot down questions you had. You felt insane - and frankly a little invasive - but it was how you processed things. You wanted it all laid out nicely in front of you so you could come to your own conclusions. 

But to get to that final conclusion, you still have a lot of internet sleuthing to do, so you open up a new internet tab.

One of the most important things you want to know about Daredevil is how real people feel about him. Published articles are always biased - it is in their nature to be based purely on who produces them - but social media lets the mass in on the conversation. You learned that well after the Attack on New York. 

You remember the majority of the news singing praise for the Avengers and how they saved the Earth - which you truly did appreciate - but no one came and spoke to the people whose lives had been ruined. Sure, they talked about how much destruction had happened and how much it would cost to rebuild, but no one had mentioned how Hell’s Kitchen and Chelsea had been almost flattened. No one cared about the low-cost homes that had been destroyed or the poor people crushed in debris - not when they could talk about the Big Bank buildings the Hulk had run through. Why talk about those genuinely affected when you could bring in a mouthpiece who was halfway across the world?

Iron Man didn’t give two shits about the people whose lives he saved. If he did, he’d help them in the aftermath, and he didn’t. None of the Heroes did - they started going around the world while an uncaring government was left to clean up the mess. Repairs went to the lowest bidder and many things were deemed too expensive and just left to crumble.

But only internet forums and ten second social media videos talked about that.

Matt talks so passionately about helping people in Hell’s Kitchen, so you need to know if it is real, or just all a puff piece. 

You look first into the forums and to your surprise, there is a whole section for New York vigilantes. You resist the urge to dive into the threads about Spider-Man and the Hero of Harlem and you have to scroll to the bottom of the front page to find something about Daredevil. 

It is CCTV footage of Daredevil chasing off what looks to be some teenagers trying to rob a pawn shop and there are a few dozen comments under it. You smile as you start to read them - the majority of it is praise for Matt, with the few negative comments being about the quality of footage.

And each thread you find about Daredevil is like that. You expected to see issues with excessive force like you saw in the opinion pieces, but there is nothing. People who you can tell are locals all comment about how he doesn’t hurt kids, and his punishments reflect the severity of the crime. Muggers get a few good swats while those who commit domestic violence are given as good as they gave. It is gang members and real dangers who end up in the hospital. There are about a handful of posts giving firsthand accounts of how the Devil helped them - ranging from them being in serious danger to Matt helping a drunk woman safely get a cab.

From what you can see, the people who post in this forum like the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen and genuinely feel safer with him around. The site is a little niche, though, so you switch to a more popular platform to see if you can find different opinions and different opinions you find.

Just not the ones you expected.

There is a new picture of the Devil that has gained traction in his tag that is rather good quality - Matt is squatting on a roof, seemingly observing a street, and is framed in such a way to show off his lower half. His thighs, which you know are all muscle, are highlighted wonderfully and the angle of the photo only emphasizes his backside. His upper back and shoulders are all in shadow, but you can tell just how broad they are. 

Twitter absolutely loves the image, and you think you have to agree with them. You can feel your cheeks heating up and you can’t seem to tear your eyes away from the screen.

Matt is beyond physically attractive, and it is no wonder the internet is lusting after him. There is a litany of lewd comments from multiple people and one made by a user with a cartoon frog as their profile picture has your core twitching and you quickly hide your face in your hands. 

“imagine him bending you over a rooftop and fucking you until all you can do is drool ♥”

You don’t want to think dirty thoughts about Matt. It makes you feel awkward and guilty but mostly they make you Want, and you desperately want to bat that away.

You very obviously have slept with him before and know what a good lover he is. You know what his skin feels like against yours and your mouth goes dry at the memory of how loudly he moaned while between your legs. His stamina is no joke, and you can only imagine it has improved since he’s started being a vigilante. 

You have no doubt he could easily fuck someone stupid.

You tell yourself you can’t think like this - you are supposed to be researching Daredevil to figure out how you feel about Matt being a vigilante - not ogling pictures of his ass and remembering your night together. 

You gently smack your cheeks a few times and tell yourself to focus. 

That only serves to make you more flush, so you make the executive decision that you have had enough screen time for the night and slam shut your laptop.

You have removed all the tags from the clothes, and you only have a few UPC stickers to pull off fake food, so you hurry through those so you can get to actually wrapping presents and not thinking about what you saw.

It is easy for you to get quickly lost in this new activity. Your perfectionist nature has you needing to make sure every crease is even and crisp and that each present looks picturesque, and you can't do that while distracted. Your thoughts shift from the way Matt’s breath felt against your skin to how many gifts Minnie has and how each one needs to look unique.

You know Minnie is going to tear through them like a wildfire, but it is important to you to make sure love is poured into everything. 

You never got that as a child. Your birthdays were practical affairs and more often than not your present was to go clothes shopping, so you didn’t get to unwrap things or have that grand surprise. You don’t want that for Minnie. You want her to feel like an absolute princess on her special day and if that means rewrapping the same present four times to make it perfect, then that is what you will do. 

You are finalizing bow placements on the gift bags you had to use for odd shaped items when your phone vibrates with an alert. 

For a split second you are confused - it is rather late, and you’ve muted most app notifications - but then you remember Matt is meant to be coming over. 

You don’t know how it could have slipped your mind and embarrassment burns through you. 

How are you going to face him after staring at a picture of his ass until your brain broke?

You hesitate to check your phone, but when you do, you obviously have a text from him saying he is on his way. You groan to yourself, wondering how you can save yourself from this awkward situation? 

Maybe you can go to bed early. You aren’t at all tired - you usually are up for another few hours - but you have a long weekend ahead of you. You will need rest.

In your bed.

Where Matt will not be. 

Because, for the first time in a while, he will be sleeping on the couch. 

Which you still need to prepare.

You finish fussing with Minnie’s bounty of presents and set about arranging them up the Happy Birthday banner like it is a Christmas tree. You have to resist your urge to nitpick and instead turn your focus to cleaning up your mess. You hurriedly shove the pile of trash you made into a bag so you can toss it and your wrapping supplies are tucked into the back of the closet, where they will live until you need them again. 

You do a quick once over to make sure everything is neat and birthday ready before you fetch your spare pillow and blanket. 

You try to not feel guilty as you start making up the couch. You know it isn’t the most comfortable and Matt will probably be sore after doing God knows what all night, but you can’t offer him your bed again. There is no reason for him to be in your bed. As frantic as you are, you don’t need any comforting. 

You just need to stop thinking. 

But not in that way. 

“Stop,” you hiss at yourself. “Stop being a slut. Pure thoughts. Have pure thoughts.”

Scolding yourself does not work as well as you mean it to and all you can do is pour your concentration into folding and refolding the blanket. You roll it up tight first like it is a sleeping bag, then you think that is stupid, so you fold it into a triangle. You realize that is trying way too hard, so into a square it goes. 

The knock at the door startles you and to your credit, you don’t scream. 

You do, however, bury your face into your hands again and take a deep breath. You are panicking over nothing. Everything is just fine. You are overthinking.

You mentally chant that mantra as you go to the door. You hesitate to open it, needing the extra moment to center yourself, and you are surprised you don’t automatically close it again at the sight of Matt. 

His normal daytime attire is a suit, and he wears them like a model, but you much prefer him dressed down as he is now. He’s in a t-shirt and joggers, with a five o’clock shadow and fluffed up hair, and he looks devastatingly handsome. He looks friendly and soft, but everything is just tight enough to show off how toned he is. 

Your body reacts exactly like it did to the picture, but this time you can’t hide. 

So, you run instead.

“Come on in,” you practically squeak out before hurrying to get out of his way. He’s got a gym bag with him - probably to carry his clothes for tomorrow - and your entryway isn’t the largest. It makes sense for you to go back to the living room. 

“Busy night?” He asks as he closes and locks the door, and you are completely thrown by the question. You must make a confused noise, because he follows up with, “You are out of breath, is everything okay?”

Your heart starts to beat hard in your chest and you can feel your entire body getting hot. Of course, he can tell what is going on with your body and you are nearly in full panic mode. 

You need to get to bed and away from him.

You fail at keeping your composure by gesturing around the living room, “Yeah - um - just been busy. Decorating and stuff - it’s a big day tomorrow.” 

“It is,” Matt agrees, a charming and boyish smile creeping onto his lips. You tell yourself he must be excited for Minnie’s birthday and that is why he is in such a nice mood.

“How was..how was your night?” 

He hums at the question, moving to set his bag down by the couch, “It was relatively quiet. With school starting up again and the heat, the younger crowd isn’t out. I made a few laps but didn’t find anything worth going after.” 

“So, there isn’t like…crime every night?” You ask, trying to wrap your head around it all. You haven’t actually asked what a Patrol consists of, so you don’t know what the average one is like.

“Despite what everyone thinks, no. There’s a good number of nights where I just keep things tidy, but being out helps to deter people as well. Not every night is drug busts and gang wars.”

“That is good to know.” And it is - it helps to ease your anxiety that he is out there constantly boxing people. People say New York is crime ridden, but it is not nearly as bad as it is made out to be. It is all scare tactics and sensational news - like the Satanic Panic.

Matt hums again, then tilts his head back towards where you hung the birthday banner, “That is a lot of presents.”

His smile is still bright, and you have to duck your head and bite your lip to keep your mind in check. Your mouth, as always, is quick to quip, “I’m not telling you what is in them. It’s a surprise.”

“A surprise, huh?” He teases, before kneeling down by his bag and unzipping it. You can see colorful wrapping paper peeking through, and you instantly wonder what sort of gift is inside.

“A surprise,” you repeat. “It isn’t any fun if everyone knows what is inside before it is opened.”

“I’ll concede to that, even if it is tempting to peek.” As he says this he stands up, holding three different sized packages in his hands. They aren’t as pristinely wrapped as yours, but you can tell great care went into it and you wonder if Matt did it himself. 

“Foggy said they will come over around noon,” he says like you aren’t on the verge of a crisis. “And Maggie was hoping we could stop by on the way to the park. I told her it would be up to you, but I know she has a few things for Minnie. We’re probably going to need to bring that wagon you got.”

The idea of so many people coming to your apartment for a party - especially a toddler’s birthday party - boggles your mind but your heart soars that so many people want to celebrate your daughter. You watch as he goes to add the gift pile and that confusing feeling swirls in your chest again, reminding you this is everything you ever wanted for Minnie. Matt being in your life means more people to love your daughter like she deserves.

“Okay,” you say because that is all your mind can produce. When Matt begins to stand again, you go into a panic thinking he might say something to start a conversation and blurt out, “I should get ready for bed.”

He turns to you, and you don’t know what to expect, but it is not for him to look bemused. He raises his eyebrows over his glasses and lets out a huff of a laugh, “It’s a big day tomorrow. You should get your rest.” He isn’t condescending or rude about it, but you can definitely hear the hint of teasing.

Your face burns as you nod and stupidly repeat, “It’s a big day.” You clear your throat to try and regain some composure and point towards the couch, “I, uh, left you out pillows and a blanket. The..uh..remote for the fan is on the coffee table. I readded the labels after Minnie tore them off.”

“Thank you,” he says with full sincerity, and you cannot take any more of his charm and muscular biceps. 

“I’m going to go to bed now,” you tell him as you start to back up towards the bedroom. You know you should tell him about the fringe covering the hallway, but you just want to flee and hide under your covers until your brain stops all of its nonsense.

“Okay.”

As you finally let yourself turn away from Matt, he says your name just loud enough for you to barely hear it. You freeze in place, but it is like your blood is boiling inside you. You breathe out his name in response.

“Good night.”

((“I love you.”))

--

a/n: orz please take this offering of a chapter - my brain is not working up to standard.

Also - Tomorrow is a Big Day

--

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[meraki-sunset]

i have a question about hiveswap as im just getting into it, considering that the events of hiveswap and hauntswitch both take place in the late 1900s, whats the point exactly?

we already know whats going to happen and that all of the characters are doomed fail on their goals and then die no matter the outcome. the caste system is never abolished, HIC stays in power, both earth and Alterna get destroyed, and doc scratch continues his plan without a hitch

none of it seems to really matter or serve any purpose other than worldbuilding for 2 already doomed worlds (3 if you count the cherub portal implying a lost society of cherubs)

Well, it is. It is worldbuilding, that’s what precuels are. They add extra context to events you already know will happen, they add to how they happened, how we got there. That doesn’t make them pointless.

It may seem irrelevant at first glance, but Hiveswap actually has a very important role.

It sets the stage for the arrival of the players on both Alternia and Earth-A

The events of Hiveswap are happening with an equivalent distance in years between both Alternia and earth

Which means the Beta children are about to arrive in their meteors (1995 - 1996) a little after the time when Joey and Jude are having this adventure (1994), which means the Alpha trolls will get to Alternia soon too.

Both timelines are mirrored in time, they both have the same exact amount of time before the end.

We know the Beta kids hadn’t arrived yet to earth during Hiveswap because it’s 1994, and that the Alpha trolls hadn’t arrived either because Trizza is the heiress, and there can only be one at a time, so Feferi isn't there yet.

This series of events are necessary for Doc scratch’s plan, otherwise he wouldn’t have intervened, giving Xefros a surveillance free communication channel, so Joey and him aren’t detected by the authorities.

He needs them under the radar so they can (while trying to send Joey back home) connect people with each other, cause necessary problems, kick start important events.

All which will set the stage for the 12 troll player’s arrival.

What do I think it’s the most important event Doc Scratch needs Joey and Xefros to make happen?

Trizza has to die. There can only be one heiress at a time, and if Feferi is about to arrive, then Trizza has to go.

The events of Hiveswap/HauntSwitch will cause the death of the heiress, either fighting against the Condesce, at the hands of the revolted trolls Joey and Xefros will influence, crushed to death by Feferi’s own meteor, who knows. But if this is the "equivalent to 1994 on Alternia" and all that is happening it’s really happening as a mirrored version of Earth’s timeline, then the 12 trolls should be to arriving at different dates during the following year. Which means she doesn’t have much time left, as we know Feferi was the only heiress on Alternia during Homestuck. And we’re 13 years away from the end of the world. It needs to happen now.

It's the same tactic Doc used with Rose, Vriska and Terezi

The only reason he ever “helps” anybody it's because he needs them to make things happen.

He needs Joey and Xefros alive, he needs the rebellion to go through (even if it fails, it'll fail in a way that it's usefull for him), he needs Trizza gone so Feferi can come to Alternia and so the final stage of this plan of millions of years connecting dots and manipulating people to create a hostile planet for the new players to grow stronger that their predecessors, can begin. The rise of the new players.

I personaly think Tyzias might be the one to intercept Karkat or at least be involved in it.

It could be her, Joey or maybe someone else, but whoever intercepts him will have to know about the signless and according to Tyzias’s password (69) she already knows about him and she knows his symbol, and seems to be a follower in the down low. Tyzias also must knows how the singless promised that there would be another troll like him, and according to Doc scratch's explanation:

The followers of the summoner decreased enormously, but the Doc said himself that there were still some of them hidden and I think he was talking about Tyzias and her alies.

Sometimes we forget that there was intervention from the suferer's followers to ensure Karkat's survival

That’s why he has the sufferer’s symbol, someone who knew it gave it to him. And we know Tyzias knows.

The ectobiologist and team leader also seems to always be the last one to turn 13, (as well as the last to wake up as their dream self) so Karkat should be the last one to arrive, ending that chain of events.

Of course this all means that, by the time the end of the world happens, and asuming they’re all still alive, all Hiveswap trolls would be adults carrying duties off planet and would die the day of the apocalypse during the Vast Glub along with all troll Civilization.

The same would happen to Joey and Jude, assuming Joey is successful and returns to Earth. They would die on the 13th of April 2009 with the rest of humanity, not knowing they had a part in it or that their lost brother was the detonator of the end of the world.

It’s tragic in the end, but it’s necessary. Someone has to play that role.

They are the stagehands who prepared the stage for the first act of the play they were never meant to see.

And who knows, it may not be the end of them, maybe we’re too quick to assume they didn’t get saved somehow. By some random paradoxical event or deus ex machine that teleported them away from danger. We’ll have to wait and see how it plays out.

It's been a while since i wrote an analysis, i really missed that ^u^

[the-guilty-writer]

Young (Tennis) Love

Request from anon: So reader(female teenager it's not a problem if she's adopted or not) plays tennis since childhood(ok tennis rules and it's self indulgent)and now there's a big championship in DC and ofc the whole team is there to cheer for her. So she wins and while everyone congratulate her with derek being so proud of his babygirl, her crush comes up to her to congratulate her. They are giggling and slightly flirting with each other while the team watches this interaction stifling their laugh at Derek's shocked reaction. And she explains to them later on and derek makes a mental note to have a "talk" with her.

Derek Morgan x daughter!reader

Summary: After winning a tennis match, your dad, Derek, and his team aren’t the only ones there to congratulate you.

A/N: First, I apologize for this being so overdue. Life has been kicking my ass. Second, I know nothing about tennis, so I hope this is okay. I changed the plot a tiny bit because I didn’t want to keep you waiting any longer.

CW: alcohol consumption (it’s Hotch and Rossi. Still sober), the BAU women are the best adoptive aunts, Derek is a protective dad, I think that’s it.

---

Derek Morgan had been shocked when you were five years old and chose tennis out of all the sports in the world. Seriously… why couldn't you have picked basketball (though he would have quit his job and coached you all the way to the WNBA himself) or baseball (he knew enough to get you through high school) or soccer (at least then he could have been a little league coach)? Instead, you picked a sport he, himself, had never cared for.

Truly he only had himself to blame. While in line at the store, he had spent a second too long ogling at Serena Williams on the cover of a sports magazine. He was enchanted. You were enchanted. And the next thing he knew, Derek Morgan was adding a pink children's tennis racket to the cart.

It all payed off though- the classes you took as a kid where all your dad could do was sit on the sidelines, the weekends spent on the court where he tried his best to help but kept messing up, the late-night pick ups after you’d spent hours practicing, the even longer weekends filled with tournaments watching the sport that he eventually learned to appreciate for you - because you were playing in the finals of the east coast championship.

It took every ounce of control your dad had, not to be cheering as loudly for you as possible. He watched you, his baby girl, the same one who had carried around that little pink racket like a teddy bear, prepare to do the most important serve of your life thus far. Penelope sat next to him, holding his arm to keep him from springing forward. JJ and Emily were sitting on either side of Spencer, who was very quietly explaining to them the physics of the game, though neither one of the women were paying attention to him. Hotch and Rossi were sitting back in their seats. They were sipping on some very expensive whiskey that Rossi had snuck in, looking a little too much like they were trying to recreate Wimbledon.

You swung with speed and your opponent couldn’t catch it in time. A double bounce meant another point for you. Derek held his breath, waiting for the umpire to call the score. He was too nervous and excited to remember it himself.

“40-30.” To you. One more point and you’d win the whole thing.

He saw you take in a deep breath before serving, and the game began. You and your opponent wasted no time, getting into the nitty-gritty fast. At one point, you almost missed and Penelope let out a muffled gasp. Still, you went on without getting flustered and came back faster and stronger. All those early morning workouts you had done with your dad were paying off. When your opponent began to tire, you were still light on your feet. The ball came at you at a perfect angle, and you took your chance - sending the ball back at a speed your opponent could no longer handle after going too hard at the beginning. She swung back desperately and it landed out of bounds.

The umpire called the game, with you as the clear winner, and the entire BAU team erupted. Hotch and Rossi got to their feet to clap. Spencer bounced on the balls of his feet with a simple “wooo” as Emily and JJ jumped up more excitedly beside him, cheering with delight. Penelope squealed with joy. And Derek, well… he was cheering too, with happy tears streaming down his smiling face.

You beamed up at him, taking in the biggest moment of your life so far. Every late night and early morning, every party you missed to get in extra practice time, the horrible cardio workouts, and the long days spent training in the summer heat or bone-chilling winters were worth it. Your opponent came over to congratulate you, and you shook her hand politely. Your coach, who was standing by the locker room, ran over to wrap you in a hug and escorted you into the locker room.

“She’s growing up,” Hotch sighed. The rest of the team nodded in agreement, but Derek was still watching where you had disappeared behind the locker room door, his eyes filled with pride.

“Let’s go see your baby girl,” Garcia said, putting a gentle hand on his arm. Derek turned to her with a smile, and a happy tear. She hugged him tight, before they followed the rest of the team out of the stadium.

---

The team stood outside the players’ entrance with the rest of the gathering families. With such a huge event, they were having difficulty tracking you down and in their line of work, they couldn’t help but think of the worst.

“I’m sure she’s fine, Derek,” JJ said, trying to comfort him.

“Yeah yeah… I know…” But Derek could still feel the tension in his chest and hear the panic in his tone. But he wouldn’t relax until he saw you emerge from the crowd. You were looking around for them, trophy in hand and bag slung over your shoulder, scanning the mass amounts of parents talking with their kids in search of your own unconventional little family.

It was Rossi who spotted you first. “Hey! There she is!” He sounded like a proud grandpa.

Your dad smiled brightly and called to you. “Baby girl!”

The sound of your nickname caught your attention and you turned to see the entire team standing there with open arms. A beaming smile spread across your face as you ran over to them. Derek caught you in his arms, spinning you around while the rest of the team clapped and shared their congratulations with you.

“I’m so proud of you,” your dad whispered, on the verge of happy tears.

“Thank you,” you whispered back.

“My turn to hug the little champion!” Garcia squealed with excitement. You received hugs from everyone on the team (including Reid, surprisingly), thanking them for coming to cheer you on.

You’d just finished giving out the last of your thank you embraces when someone called your name. The entire team turned to see a boy standing a little ways away, waving shyly in your direction. Your face heated and you turned to your dad. “I’ll be right back.”

He nodded, taking your bag and trophy from you before watching you walk away.

“What’s that about?” Emily asked.

Derek didn’t bother to answer. He was too busy watching the doe-eyed expression, shy smile, and rather ditzy giggle you had as you talked to the young man. All the signs of young first love.

JJ sighed. “Oh, I remember those days,” she said in a teasing manner. “And if he’s coming to her sports games you know it’s serious.”

Penelope joined them just in time to watch the young man hand you a flower, making your smile brighter.

“Oh!” she cooed. “That is so sweet!”

Emily smirked. “Looks like someone’s in lov-”

“Prentiss,” Derek cut her off. “Don’t.”

The women of the BAU giggled at your dad’s reaction, giving one another knowing looks. In their heads they were already planning a girls night out to ask you about everything. Derek, on the other hand, made a mental note to give you a different kind of talk later.

[xoxobuckybarnes]

August 2024 Reading List

Complete

War & Peace and the Redemption of Bucky Barnes (Rated: E, Words: 51K) by ThePirateStorm / @fsbc-librarian

Summary: Bucky Barnes is running from his problems. He’s housesitting for his best friend while she’s on her honeymoon - the almost a year prior that he’s been staying in her house doesn’t count - when he’s woken in the middle of the night by an angel and a demon. Okay, maybe they’re not a literal angel and demon, but Steve Rogers *looks* like an angel, and his daughter Charli certainly *acts* like a demon. The father/daughter duo are running from their own problems, but that doesn’t mean that they can’t crash headlong into one another’s lives. Throw in a cursed book for good measure, and it’s about to get a whole lot more interesting.

Sleep, Baby (Rated: E, Words: 4K) by buckybarnesdeservestobehappy (hutchabelle)

Summary: Have a baby, they said. It’ll be fun, they said. And it is, but it’s also the most bone-crushingly tiring thing in the world. Bucky needs a nap, coffee, and sex, but his baby WILL NOT SLEEP! He should have known his husband always has a plan, especially on Valentine's Day. Written for the Hell Yeah Bottom Bucky Valentines Exchange.

Winter's Children (Rated: E, Words: 66K) by Neery

Summary: When their attempts to recreate the super soldier serum failed, Hydra started trying to breed Captain America clones from his genetic samples. Unfortunately, the serum's effects aren't passed down genetically, so instead of an army of tiny Captain Americas, they get a bunch of tow-headed, asthmatic, allergic, immuno-compromised little Steves. And then the Winter Soldier stumbles across Hydra's failed experiment...

tin cans with string (Rated: T, Words: 22K) by Somanywords / @somanywords

Summary: Bucky’s mother was looking at him knowingly, and she pulled out a chair for him, which he climbed into gratefully. “You’re an only child, aren’t you, Steve?” “Yes Ma’am.” “It ever gets to be too much for you, you just excuse yourself and come sit in the kitchen a minute. It’s a little noisy with the baby at times, but other than that you can catch a breath.” Steve looked up at her gratefully. She understood, and having someone understand was the best thing in the world. --an exploration of mothers, and of one that isn’t yours.

Where You Lead, I Will Follow (Rated: T, Words: 11K) by attackofthezee (noxlunate)

Summary: When Steve was sixteen years old Peggy Carter had placed a tiny, blonde six pound, three ounce bundle into Steve’s arms. She’d kissed the top of Carter’s head, kissed Steve’s cheek and said “I can’t do this.” with such strength and conviction that Steve hadn’t even questioned her. “I know.” Steve had said, shifting Carter to rest against his chest, a hand on her bottom and the other cupping her tiny, soft head. “But I can.” AKA it's a Gilmore Girls AU and Steve loves his kid, Bucky, Stars Hollow, and coffee. In that order.

Seahorses (Rated: E, Words: 31K) by poppyfields13 & tinzelda

Summary: Now that Bucky’s taken over the role of Captain America, Steve feels like it’s finally the time to start a family. Bucky doesn’t know what to feel when Steve breaks the news he’s going to adopt a baby. He wants Steve to be happy, but he’s worried it will affect their friendship. Once Steve becomes a dad though, Bucky can’t help falling in love with the baby. And maybe Steve will finally see Bucky in a different light.

Loves Me Like A Rock (Rated: T, Words: 4K) by musette22 / @musette22

Summary: “You’re not that bad, Steve,” Sarah reassures him, though she can’t be entirely sure. “I’m sure you must’ve gotten a little better at flirting since your high school days?” Steve makes a face. “What on earth would give you that idea?” “Well,” Sarah says, reaching over to give Steve's hand a consoling pat, “you have other qualities, my darling.” “Such as?” “You could out-stubborn a donkey,” she answers, without missing a beat. “You’ve got a decent singing voice, too. Dogs love you.” Steve huffs. “Gee, thanks, ma. That's really helpful.”

A Wedding to Remember (Rated: E, Words: 19K) by SucculentHyena

Summary: It’s Becca’s wedding, her happiest day. Bucky just wants it to go as planned. And it does! Repeatedly.

Five Times Bucky Modelled For Steve (Rated: T, Words: 8K) by Selenay

Summary: The first time Steve drew Bucky, he had purple hair like something out of a cartoon. "I don't have a brown," Steve said when he got to Bucky's hair. "Sorry. It got broken."

sharing beds like little kids (Rated: M, Words: 17K) by tesselated

Summary: Steve and Bucky are childhood best friends who get separated when they're thirteen and Steve moves away. Five years later, they see each other at a party. ++ It seemed to Bucky that there had to be a certain all-encompassing awkwardness in going up to the guy you loved best when you were twelve and saying “Hey buddy, remember me?”

Love Thy Neighbor (Rated: M, Words: 7K) by hermionesmydawg / @anthonystan

Summary: Bucky Barnes has a few problems with his new neighbor: 1. He's hot 2. He's loud 3. He might be a secret superhero

if your heart's still open (Rated: E, Words: 8K) by steveandbucky

Summary: “What’s wrong, Buck?” “You really gotta ask that?” “Yeah, I do.” Steve clenches his jaw. “You were the one who ended things.”

WIP

Gold Must Be Tried By Fire (Rated: M, Current Words: 28K) by lavenderpanic / @lavenderpanic

Summary: The pamphlets about escaping abuse always glossed over this part, and Bucky finally understands why. Nobody would fucking leave if they knew how hard recovery would be. In the midst of a trial that questions every hard-won truth out of Bucky’s mouth, can he possibly allow himself to heal- physically and mentally? **Sequel to I Am Ash From Your Fire**

The Life of Jamie Barnes (Rated: M, Current Words: 9K) by deadto27 / @deadto27

Summary: The continuing adventures of Steve, Bucky and baby James from the Heart of Mine series through the years.

Rereads

Nothing Good Ever Happens on a Tuesday (Rated: T, Words: 28K) by megs_bee

Summary: Recently discharged soldier James Barnes is back in Brooklyn, down an arm and missing five years of memories, but he’s got his PTSD mostly under control, a fancy metal prosthetic, and what’s starting to feel like it could be a half-decent life. What he doesn’t have is any memory of the kid looking at James and asking him, “Are you my daddy?” -- or the gorgeous blond guy standing next to her. Steve Rogers lost his best friend Bucky five years ago, with no warning and no answers when he tried to find out what happened. So it was one hell of a surprise to walk into the grocery store one afternoon and come face to face with the man he thought was dead.

Prince Charming (Rated: E, Words: 55K) by Brenda / @brendaonao3

Summary: Bucky Barnes leads quite the charmed life. He has a thriving tattoo shop, a son he adores, the world’s best dogs, and a great group of friends — almost all of whom are in relationships. And maybe he'd been the one nudging them towards each other, but there's nothing wrong with a little match-making. The world could use more romance. As for him personally, well, he doesn’t need anyone for the long haul. Not when every girl he meets is someone who he thinks would be perfect for someone else. But then Steve Rogers comes into his shop looking for some ink, and maybe that’s the problem right there. Maybe what he's looking for in a relationship isn't a girl at all.

[radioactivewisdom]

The village cannot coexist alongside the nuclear family. Women often talk about how lonely being a wife and mother is, but that’s exactly the point. Isolation IS the purpose. Seclude two emotionally disturbed adults who will then groom their own children into being just like them. Parents are the first to snap at you “don’t tell me how to raise my kids!” Okay, then don’t expect me to help because all you really want is a free babysitter, and not just for the kids.

Single and childfree women face the most pressure to “help” families. In other words, be the heterosexually inspired breeding programs clean up crew. When mommy and daddy need to blow off steam they get to berate you. Legitimate involvement from villagers begins before children get here. They’d get to say “you’re in an unhealthy relationship and have no business bringing children into it” or “you’re already overwhelmed with one, don’t get pregnant again.” How well do you think that will go over? Even more so, you need to contribute more than having offspring. When was the last time a complaining set of parents cooked dinner for their aging neighbor? What about driving a sick coworker to a doctor’s appointment?

People, especially women are known for abandoning all others the moment they catch feelings. Once it’s legally binding and babies are born, you hardly see them again. This is yet another ploy to extract emotional labor from women. Which apparently is a major problem due to patriarchy, except when women do it to each other. The way coupled women feel as if they’re unappreciated and taken advantage of, is a single woman’s reality on all fronts. This world is already set up to benefit the nuclear family. Tax brakes and social validation aren’t enough. They should be able to have as many children as they want, regardless of the circumstances, and never struggle a day in their lives.

Raising children is hard when doing so on a planet filled to capacity with dumb degenerates, but whose fault is that? Generation after generation have done the same, have sex and reproduce without abandon, then scream about the consequences. The world is a scary place for children because of the families they’re born into. I’m not going to pitch in so a spineless mother can sign her daughter up for the same fate.

Family life is going exactly as planned, your happiness is supposed to come from filling a quota. Any other expectations came from your imagination. Marriage and reproduction have never been about romance and love. It’s about keeping up the flow of new bodies for political purposes, aka, natalism. If mommy and daddy need help, they can go to those just like themselves. Too bad the mythos of selflessness after parenthood is inaccurate, and they’d rather pop out another kid than help one that isn’t theirs.

All family units are out for themselves first, they admit this. They’re all after our planets limited resources and don’t seem to keen on sharing. Otherwise they’d already be attempting communal living and offering their help to each other free of cost. Why not split up the domestic duties equally instead of wasting time chastising women who freed themselves? If you want my help it’s going to come in the form of honesty. Until then, keep holding each other hostage under the guise of “family.” We all know what happened to women in the past who didn’t comply. The village serves one purpose, control.

[one-idea]

Horrible idea, but:

Marineford au, in which everyone survived. (At least on whitebeards side. Something Something Marco awakening his devil fruit after seeing his family die around him)

Happy end, right?

Exept that Ace is going through major Angst because A) realization that the family he loves would (and could) have died because of him and B) the uprise of people trying to assassinate him.

No matter where he goes, everyone knows who and (more importantly) whose son he is.

He is seen as the son of the devil, a demon that shouldn't have been born

There isn't a place in the world where he is safe, no matter how much his family tries .

This!

So here’s the thing. I have always seen Ace survives Marineford as having this problem. Everyone now knows who he is.

The government wants him dead. His bounty is going to sky rocket and while we normally see that as a good thing it’s not because of any feat he has done. He hasn’t earned his bounty. And that would hurt. He’s tried his whole life to separate himself from his father and now all of his accomplishments are forever over shadowed by his blood.

It’s also dangerous because his abilities are now over stated (to the general public and other crews) we see in the show how people react to Luffy and the crews different bounties and how much they are treated like a threat or a joke. If Ace’s bounty sky rockets because of his connection to Roger and not his skill the people coming after him are planning to take down someone of let’s say Kaido’s strength and Ace isn’t there. (We are seeing this with Buggy and Cross Guild in the cannon where Buggy’s strength doesn’t match his bounty. And while we are making memes out of it the man has to be stressed)

The Whitebeard’s can try to shield him but they aren’t what they used to be. Even if Whitebeard survives they got out by the skin of their teeth and the arrival of Shanks. While Marineford is them fighting on enemy territory with a mass disadvantage it’s still going to effect the reputation. And even if Whitebeard loved he’s not fighting fit and the world knows that. Marcos and the crew can probably repeal some people but can they full shield Ace the way they could before the war? No.

In fact it would probably be a constant struggle for the next two years. Maybe at some point Ace disappears for a while but in reality he’s met up with Rayleigh and Luffy and joined in on training up his Haki. (And spending time with his little brother)

By the time Luffy and crew are ready to hit the sea again, Ace’s life is in constant danger. And remains so until Wano. Wano where his baby brother beats the pants off of Kaido and becomes the new emperor of the sea. The new emperor of the sea who has a very public tigh to Ace and has already destroyed Enies Lobby to get back one crew member, successfully broke into and out of Impel Down leading a large prison break to Marineford where he publicly declared Ace his brother and fought to save him once already.

Now it’s not the Whitebeard name shielding Ace but Luffy’s. It’s not being the son of the King of the Pirates that gives him infamy but being the brother of the future king of the pirates Monkey D. Luffy. Even if Luffy doesn’t publicly declare Ace as under his protection you would have to be stupid not to understand that these two would go to war for one another.

Honestly Whitebeard’s statues probably got downgraded depending on how badly they got their butts handed to them in the first place. They might join up as part of the Strawhat grand fleet. Whitebeard just wants to protect his kids and at this point he’s old, injured and not what he used to be. It Strawhat has already shown his loyalty to those that are his and Ace is already his.

Of Whitebeard can’t make a run for King of the Pirates anymore. Can’t protect his children and territories he might as well through his hat in with the person he knows is going to take care of them. Someone so much like Roger’s who believes in freedom above all else. (Shanks would be his second choice but the man has to many of his own plans. And it’s kind of obvious that Shanks has through his hat (or his arm) into Luffy’s ring long ago)

Now that’s idea one but idea 2

But this is where we get to have some fun with abilities, timelines, and shenanigans. Because let’s say Marcos’s phenixes ability when awakened is not just to heal but to burn away trauma for the point he can revive someone. When did the revival happen? Because if this happened at Marineford the Whitebeard’s get a second wind and can probably pull out a win in the fight. But everyone knows they survived and who Ace is.

If he does it after the fight. After Ace dies in front of Luffy and Luffy is whisked away. After the Whitebeards retreat. Looking over the bodies and grieving the loss, Marco unlocks his ability. Receiving Ace, Whitebeard, and the others, now we have some shenanigans.

Because Luffy doesn’t know that Ace is alive and Ace doesn’t know Luffy is alive. Maybe Ace lost his fruit maybe home didn’t but we can tackle that later.

The Whitebeards are hanging low until they get their strength back. No one in the government knows they survived and that’s the way it needs to stay. Until Luffy shows back up at Marineford to honor Ace.

Ace sees the news paper and he thought Luffy had died. He knew Jinbei had taken him away from the battle but no one could tell him where Luffy went or if he had survived his injuries. He wants to rush to Luffy and make sure his brother is okay. Marco has to tell him to slow down. If he races out and the world realizes he survived before he’s back at full strength he will just get captured again. But Ace is stubborn about seeing Luffy and making sure he’s okay.

They know he went to Marineford with Rayleigh so they use some connections to find the old man. He’s not about to tell them where Luffy is until Ace reveals himself. He agrees to take just Ace to see Luffy. After a reunion filled with tears Ace decides that the best way to build back up his strength is to stay and train with Luffy.

Now fruit? Did they keep their abilities? They technically died. So either yes they kept them, they lost them, or Marco restored their body and powers but the fruit also exist outside of them so two people can now have that ability. (Meaning Sabo can still get the Mera Mera and Blackbeard still gets Whitebeard’s fruit.) this is helpful to keep the story moving but also reinforcing the lie that the Whitebeards died.

If this is the case Ace and Luffy train their Haki and abilities together for two years. When Luffy is finally ready to burst back o to the scene so is Ace. Stronger than ever.

Again maybe the Whitebeard’s eventually join the grand fleet. If the world thought they were dead they don’t have their statues as emperor crew anymore but they would be a lot stronger in this version.

In both versions they Whitebeard’s help out with Wano and Ace and Sabo get to reunite.

[skzcollision]

churchboy!felix x afab!reader (4/7)

| 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 |

genre: fluff, smut, teen angst

synopsis: certain expectations come with being a pastor’s daughter. in everyone’s eyes you are a properly behaved girl, albeit rather timid. according to your parents, you aren’t as devoted to the church as you should be. they entrust you to an old family friend’s son, deeming him to be a good influence. these circumstances bring you two closer together and stir up all kinds of emotions.

MINORS DNI

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

It turns out that you and Felix hadn't been the only ones in that restroom you locked yourselves in.

A classmate had witnessed the entire thing and the little snake didn't hesitate to tell everyone that the school's beloved golden boy has been banging the daughter of a pastor—you. The most salacious piece of gossip since junior year when someone got pregnant and had to drop out.

Your goody two shoes image had crumbled in less than an hour.

If you were to be honest, there was something freeing about it. Putting up a front all these years had begun to chip away at you. No one got anywhere by rebelling against their parents. They would have only sent you away to some religious boot camp for troubled teens or whatever they thought effective—so you pretended to put up with their shit for eighteen years.

After you leave for university, that’s when your life begins. They have been pushing for you to attend Bible college but what they don’t know is that you have officially chosen to study at a secular school. Money is not a problem; you managed to receive a scholarship and saved up enough from past part-time jobs to cover living expenses. You’ll live away from your parents, and ultimately, have a life of your own.

Hopefully with Felix by your side.

Your parents aren’t the biggest fan of him at the moment. You have told your mother that while you are seeing each other, you have never slept together—which is technically not a lie. But the fact that he never asked your father for permission to court you, left a bad taste in their mouths. They never foresaw that these innocent bible readings would progress your relationship in this way.

“I just don’t know what we were thinking.” Your mother huffs. She takes her anger out on a head of cabbage this time, knife coming down forcefully and rapidly against the wooden board. It impresses you that she has never had one accident. “Leaving you unchaperoned all day with a boy.”

You’re rinsing produce at the sink, fighting the urge to roll your eyes or make a face because she somehow always catches you. “I’m eighteen, mom.”

Her knife comes to a halt. “You are still a child.”

You don’t say any more on the subject. It’s futile arguing with her. No matter what you say, she is always going to see you as a naive little girl with no knowledge of the world.

Your parents think this entire situation is still better than you running off with a non-Christian, so they have invited Felix and his parents over for dinner at your house.

It’s a little scary, how your mother can switch her demeanour in a drop of a hat. One moment she’s yelling at you for peeling the fruits wrong and the next she’s answering the door with the pearliest smile.

Felix brings his famous brownies and suddenly it seems like all is forgiven. His dad joins your father in the living room while he and his mom help out in the kitchen. You realize how similar both of your mothers are, only you feel that his is genuinely kind while yours poses.

It goes just like any other dinner has. The adults talk, and the children stay quiet, only speaking when spoken to and when the occasional question pops up. Your mother loves answering for you so you just about have your brain shut off the entire time.

They leave after dessert, well, your mothers chitchat by the door for another hour or so, and then they leave.

Besides playing footsie underneath the table, you and Felix didn’t really get the chance to interact much with each other all night, so he calls as soon as you slide into bed.

“When can I see you?” You ask, lying on your back.

“You’re not going to church?”

“I am. I mean when can I see you alone,” you emphasize.

“After the service, I guess. They’re asking me to set up a new computer so I have to hang back, but we can go somewhere once I’m done with that.”

“Okay.”

You don’t talk for very long, nor do you hang up. Your phone stays next to your head and you let his breathing lull you to sleep.

“Has everyone gone home?”

You sit on the futon behind Felix as he works on the desktop. The small back room that they have designated as the church office always has an unpleasant dank smell and feel. Something like rotting wood. You really don’t want to stay here for any longer.

“Yeah I think so,” his response is delayed, focused solely on whatever he is doing.

You smile, pulling up a foldable chair next to his and hugging him round the stomach. Your face buries into his neck.

His hand comes up to stroke your hair briefly before going back on the mouse. “Let’s do this later okay? Just wanna finish as quickly as possible.”

Your lips purse into an exaggerated pout. It takes a while for him to look but once he does, he only chuckles and lays a chaste kiss on you before quickly getting back to it.

You finally decide to just leave him alone and diddle around with the pipe organ to pass the time.

Hymns are all you know so that’s what you play. Although your parents made you play for church when you were little and you typically hate everything they force you to do, playing the pipe organ is not one of them. You have always enjoyed how grand the notes sound—filling up the entire room, buzzing through you. You like that you are responsible for making it happen.

Halfway through a piece, your fingers move to play a song that Felix sang for you over the phone a few nights ago, when he thought you were asleep. Relying completely on your memory, you miss a few keys so you go back to rectify them until you can play it cohesively.

“You were awake.”

You jump, glancing over your shoulder in surprise to see Felix standing there, fingers lingering on a note.

“I’m glad I was.” You grin up at him, eyes raking over his freckles, cheeks tinged with pink. “How come I’ve never heard you sing before?”

“I’m a little shy when it comes to my voice.” He plops down next to you, head hanging low.

“Why?” You ask, baffled. “I love your voice.”

Felix shifts closer to you. “Yeah?”

You nod, hands flowing across the keys to play a simple melody. “One of the many things I love about you.“

He jabs at your sides and you yelp, glaring at him for messing up your rhythm. “What else do you love about me?” He smiles playfully, wrapping his arms around you.

You match his smile and your fingers come up to brush against his lips. “This smile for one…” You peck him on the corner of his mouth. “These… beautiful freckles.” You murmur, peppering kisses across his cheeks. “Those sounds you make when I…” Your mouth moves down to nibble at his jaw, then the soft skin around his Adam’s apple, drawing out low moans from him.

That feeling builds up within you again—that burning innate need to be closer to him.

Searching for approval, you pull away for a moment to look up into those soft, doe eyes, swirling with admiration.

His gaze darkens, and he nods permissively. A grunt leaves him as he greedily attaches his lips to yours, hand cradling the back of your head.

WARNING: GRAPHIC CONTENT

Your fingers fly into his hair, pushing, pulling. It doesn’t take long for you to end up on his lap again. Your head lolls back as his mouth latches onto your neck, hands desperately pawing everywhere he can reach. Sounds of pleasure echo within the walls of the chapel as your hips work in tandem, heat generating where you two connect.

He’s hard again. You never actually got the chance to touch him last time.

“Can…” You whimper, eyes squeezing shut when he grinds up into you again. “Can you let me take care of you?”

Breathing erratically against your neck, Felix snaps his gaze up, showing his pretty, flushed face to you. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and he nods.

The bench creaks as you untangle your legs from his waist, moving to sit beside him. You swallow apprehensively as you undo the button of his trousers, eyes glued to his bulge.

You begin palming him over his boxers, fingers grasping around and feeling the shape of his shaft. His head tips back, face twisting up adorably.

He looks to you in confusion when you suddenly withdraw your hand. You grin sweetly. “Show me how you do it.”

You laugh when he only stares at you, looking more puzzled than before. “You do, don’t you?”

Tearing his gaze away, he mumbles almost inaudibly, “s- sometimes… when I’m in the shower.”

You have learned quite a bit about how to pleasure a man from the books you used to secretly read at the public library, but the thought of Felix touching himself in front of you is more exciting.

“Well?” You urge him on, a teasing glint in your eyes.

“That’s not something you should see,” he scoffs bashfully, the tips of his ears now the same shade as the flowers on your dress.

Laughter bubbles up from your chest. You are amazed that he still has it in him to act like a gentleman around you. The same guy who had his fingers inside of you earlier this week. The same guy who couldn’t stop groping you in the kitchen behind the backs of your mothers under the guise of reaching into a cabinet. He is way beyond the point of modesty.

”What?” He glances at you with his eyes narrowed in slits, mildly annoyed.

You shake your head and press your lips together, a poor attempt to conceal your hilarity. “Nothing, I just kind of thought we were past that.”

Determination settles on his features. “Fine.”

He shoves his hand inside his boxers, pausing in a moment of irresolution. Then he’s taking himself out for you to see. You stare in awe at the glistening head. Of course it’s pretty; you believe every part of Felix is.

Deep groans leave him as he fucks into his fist, fingers deliberately tugging up and down his length. This whole time he does not look at you, rather keeps his eyes shut. You notice how his thumb often comes up to caress the tip.

You’ve read about that part being the most sensitive. He’s had to have touched himself several times now.

Gravitating towards him, you push back the strands of hair on his forehead and his eyes flutter open slightly. “Do you think about me?”

He nods, gulping. “I always think about you.”

You lean over so that your breath is fanning over his neck. “You finish to the thought of me?”

“Y- Yes…”

Your lips curve into a saccharine smile, eyes hardened with lust. “Good.”

You cover his hand, the one on his cock, with yours and he stares at you in alarm. He unfurls his fingers, letting you take over and allowing you to finally touch him. He’s soft, so soft, but rigid at the same time.

His pretty mouth drops open and his eyes are closed again as you mimic his own movements. Snapping your wrist with each motion, remembering to pay special attention to the leaking tip.

Felix has surrendered himself completely, his shame from earlier long gone. His unrestrained groans fill up the large, empty space, just like the pipe organ had, knuckles turning white as he grips onto the edges of the bench.

You feel his cock suddenly get stiffer, like the quills on a porcupine, and you slow your hands before stopping completely, realizing what that meant.

He whines at the loss of contact, practically sobbing out your name.

“Let’s try something else,” you get up from your seat, his eyes following you in a daze.

Leaning yourself over the keys, you place one hand on the panelling while the other hikes up your sundress. Your eyes meet his over your shoulder.

“What…” He stands up, directly behind you. “Um, y- you want me to put it in? I don’t have anything to... and that’s– we shouldn’t–” He gulps nervously, eyes flitting around.

A soft smile graces your features and you shake your head. “Not inside, just…” You gesture to your thighs, unsure of how to explain things exactly.

“Oh,” realization dawns on him. He is more intuitive than you thought.

Felix positions himself up against you, holding your waist with one hand and himself up with the other. “Are you sure?”

You nod, driving your ass back into him with need. “Please.”

He slips in between your plushy thighs, his length pressing right up against your covered cunt. You moan in bliss, clamping your thighs around him as tightly as possible.

“Uh, i- is… Mmph…” He rasps out against the nape of your neck, grabbing onto your hips to better stabilize himself. “Is it okay if I s- start moving?”

Your hand comes up to stifle your giggles, imagining how well he would react once he’s actually inside of you. “Mhm,” you hum in a velvety voice, jutting your ass out further.

Low growls escape him as he starts pounding into your thighs, his sloppy, shallow thrusts drawing out your own sobs of pleasure. Eventually he gets a better grip and his rhythm becomes more controlled.

“Ahh!” He changes his angle and you stumble forward, causing your hands to land on the keys. The tune almost mimics the lewd noises coming out of your mouths.

He holds onto you tighter, his thick shaft relentlessly sliding through your wet cunt and in turn making you a babbling, incoherent mess. “F- Felix… y- your… it feels… s- s’good…”

Grunting with exertion, he pulls you to his chest.“Yeah?” He licks along your jaw, one hand splayed across your stomach, the other on your breast. He’s gone completely feral, lost in the way you feel around him.

You gaze down in stupefaction as the head of his cock appears from your thighs. You lift a hand to play with it, teasingly rubbing your palm against the flushed tip every time it pops back out.

“O- Oh… oh my go–“ He makes a harsh, grating sound from behind you, hips slamming into your ass.

Your panties have started shifting to the side, allowing his cock to finally rub against your bare pussy. It’s a delicious friction when his tip collides with your clit, and you feel yourselves tumbling closer to the edge.

“C- Close… s’close!” You cry out, hips moving back to meet his forceful thrusts.

His cock is dangerously close to your entrance but neither of you think about it as you fall apart together, white-hot pleasure ripping through your bodies. His release shoots into your hand, some of it smearing in between your thighs.

You clutch onto each other for a moment, catching your breaths, regaining composure.

Then he’s turning you around and you share a gentle kiss.

He feels you shaking against him so he takes your face in his hands. “Are you okay? I’m sorry– was it too much?”

“No, no it wasn’t… I’m okay,” you smile reassuringly. Seeing him so concerned about you makes your stomach do flips. He presses kisses to your shoulder, rubbing soothing circles on your back. “It’s hot. Wanna go get some gelato?”

He lifts his head and looks at you like you’re crazy, then laughs. “Let’s clean you up first.”

⭒

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| taglist: @moasworld @beautifulixr @vixensss @yeetfellx @g00dtimenotlongtim3 @letrasalvientoblog |

[misc-obeyme]

Hey! Could I ask for a breaking-4th-wall kind of drabble with Solomon? In my heart I refuse to believe the boys aren’t real; they’re just in another world 💔 idk if thats denial or what but yeah lmao

something comfort or fluff would be nice ^^ even though just seeing Sol always makes me smile it’s a double edged sword and I then think back to how he ‘isn’t real’

(It’s kinda sad I can’t marry that man though…? It was love at first sight in OG game and people think Solomon’s down bad, I’m hella clingy when it comes to close relationships though ☠️ )

(Also random but as kind of a vent the kind of person best for Solomon would be someone who can heal his inner child, yeah? Problem is my inner child is also broken from emotional abuse lol, my issues would not help. I’m not good for him fr)

Hi there, anon!

Let me begin by saying that you are definitely good for Solomon. In fact, I would argue that you would understand him better because of your own issues. You know how it feels, you can relate to him in a way that someone else wouldn't be able to. And I think there's something extremely healing about having someone else to figure it out with. Why can't you and Solomon heal your inner children together?

As for the request, I hope this is what you're looking for! I definitely took the fourth wall breaking idea and ran with that!

You're sitting in your house on your phone, looking at Solomon on the home screen of your Obey Me account. You tap on his sprite and he smiles at you.

"Hm? What is it?" the dialogue says.

"I want you to be real," you say, knowing he can't hear you. "I want to touch you for real."

You sigh, turning off your phone and going about your evening. An hour or so passes and you're now focused on something else entirely when the doorbell rings.

It's odd. You weren't expecting company.

You answer the door and nearly faint from shock.

Solomon laughs gently at the look on your face. "Hi, MC. You wanted to see me?"

You stare at him with your mouth open. "What- I don't- How are you…? How are you here?"

"I'm a sorcerer, MC," he says. "With the right spell, I can make anything happen."

You're a little confused, but is it really worth asking any more questions? He's here and he looks solid. He looks real.

Solomon seems to understand your uncertainty. He reaches out a hand toward you. "I promise it's really me," he says. "Won't you let me show you?"

You couldn't have refused even if you wanted to. You didn't take the time to think about it, just immediately put your hand in his.

Solomon tugs on your hand and pulls you close, wrapping an arm around your waist. The world spins and you're being teleported to a new location.

You gasp when you find yourself looking out at a familiar view. The Devildom stretches out below you, RAD's great structure in the distance, the sparkling city lights next to an elaborately detailed fence. You're standing on a cobblestone street with Solomon's arms around you. The sky is dark, but it always is, here in the Devildom.

"Did you think it wasn't real?" Solomon asks. "Did you think I haven't already fallen for you?"

You clutch at him because this is all so unexpected. "Yes," you admit. How could you have possibly thought otherwise?

Solomon laughs, but it's soft, like he can't help it because you're so cute. "I'm sorry," he says. "I should have come for you sooner. Do you want to stay? For a little while?"

You throw your arms around his neck. "Yes!" you cry. And there are tears on your face because you're somehow here, with him.

Solomon kisses away your tears. You melt in his arms as he does. He gives you a questioning look, as if he's not sure how far he can go.

You let him know by kissing him. Solomon's embrace tightens around you. You can feel his heart beating against yours - rapid, like he's also overwhelmed by this impossible moment.

masterlist | Thank you for reading!

[bullet-prooflove]

"It’s time to say the things he truly feels" with Scola? I'm scared but we'll have to face it one day or another

Tagging: @kmc1989 @trublu2u @burningpeachpuppy @district447 @stelacole

Companion piece to:

Little Changes - Stuart notices when you start to make little changes.

The Last Time - You and Stuart face a problem regarding your wish to start a family.

Fresh - You decide you need to start fresh.

Seduction (NSFW) - You decide to seduce Stuart.

Jack - Stuart discovers that he fathered a child with Nina.

Stuart’s marriage ends not with a shouting match or raised voices but with a simple declaration.

“I can’t do this.”

The words roll off your lips as you stare down at a picture of your husband’s son, the one he didn’t father with you. You don’t understand in that moment how fate can be so cruel, how it can take away your ability to have children and then give him one of his own.

“I have to.” Stuart tells you, his voice raising just a little. “Sasha, he’s my son. I can’t just leave him out there to fend for himself.”

“I know.” You say as you push the photograph back towards him. “I don’t expect you to.”

He understands then in that moment that it’s over. You can’t cope with this upheaval in your life, not after everything you’ve already been through.

“I’ll pack a bag.” You say despondently as you raise to your feet. “I’ll have my stuff out by the time you come back from L.A with Jack.”

He understands what you’re giving him in that moment, a fresh start with his son. A life with just the two of them. He doesn’t follow you out the room or try to stop you. He doesn’t see the point. You buried your dreams of having a family, for you there is no going back.

You don’t say goodbye when you walk about the door, you simply leave, closing it softly behind you.

You stay true to your word, when he gets back from L.A with Jack, there isn’t a trace of you in the house. It’s as if you never existed. The only difference is the room you had planned to use as a nursery. You’d repainted it after you discovered you couldn’t have children, planned to use it as a home office. Instead there’s now a child’s bed in it, along with furnishings, some clothes, toys and books. It’s your final gift to him he realises. The thing he was worried about the most was Jack not having his own room for the first few weeks but you’ve already taken care of that.

He tries to call you that night when he gets Jack squared away but your phone goes straight to voicemail.

It’s  a week later that he decides to call you at work, you aren’t picking up the phone, you’re not answering his texts. He’s worried about what this has done to you, that you’ll be drowning your sorrows in some shitty bar in a different borough.

“I’m sorry Stuart.” He’s told when he gets through to your supervisor. “They offered her a assignment in Europe over the next year, she left for Budapest this morning.”

He doesn’t hear from you at all after that, not until the divorce papers turn up in the mail six months later, already etched with your signature.

You want to be free of the burden of it all, he thinks.

He signs them and sends them back to your lawyer the next day.

His life changes as it does when you have a child. He makes the move to White Collar, a safer job with regular hours so he can spend his evenings with Jack. He’s loving, attentive, a good father. His son becomes his entire world and there isn’t much space for anything else.

It’s two years later that he lays eyes on you for the first time. He’s attending a law enforcement conference in the exhibition centre, when you step out onto the stage to cover a talk for a speaker whose taken ill. For a moment he’s stunned, he doesn’t know what to do, but then the session starts and it’s impossible for him to leave without causing a fuss so he sits back to watch instead.  

You’re captivating. Engaging, funny, dynamic, everything he remembers and more. This is what it’s like, he recalls, to get swept away in you. You make it so God damn easy. He heads to the bar when the talks over because he needs something to take the edge off and that’s where finds you, sitting alone, sipping from a wineglass, your gaze focused on the TV fixed into the wall.

“Sasha.” He says softly as you tilt your head towards him and those eyes, they have Stuart falling in love all over again. “Will you let me buy you a drink?”

Stuart? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[avocado-writing]

notes: this turned into a much longer, story-based fic lol. cw for depression. not mentioned: you & aziraphale building a little sandcastle while crowley drinks a margarita. also crowley switches to fem presenting in this fic

pairing: crowley x gn!reader x aziraphale

words: 2.1k

rating: E (smut at the end, minors dni)

Crowley, there’s a problem. Come over as soon as you can. - Aziraphale

Angel, you don’t need to sign your texts off. I know it’s you. 

Usually when he gets these messages it’s because Aziraphale has run out of milk, or there’s a spider in the bookshop. So Crowley doesn’t worry. That’s until he actually turns up and finds Aziraphale staring at the CD rack you put up in the back room, arms crossed and brow furrowed. 

“The Tracy Chapman album is gone,” Aziraphale sighs. Crowley glances over to the calendar hung up on the wall. It’s got pictures of kittens on it. But that’s not what makes him groan, no; it’s when he realises the date. 

“Ah.”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t realise that had sneaked up on us.”

It happens once a year, inevitably. Even when you try to forget it the bloody thing is seared in your mind. It’s almost the anniversary of the day you didn’t die. 

You insist you aren’t sad about it. You insist. But, once when you were very drunk, they got it out of you that for a little while you always feel like you’re mourning. You’re happy with your life how it is now, overjoyed even; and you wouldn’t trade your marriage for anything… but you’re still reminded of the human you couldn’t be. The natural life you never got to live. The children you never had. The family you had to abandon when your death didn’t take. 

Because when it boils down to it you’re not quite human. You’re different. And though Crowley and Aziraphale may not be aligned with their sides any more there are other angels and demons. But there is only one of you. 

And it can get very lonely to think that way. 

So every year you sequester yourself off in your bedroom at your house — since 1988 it’s been with that bloody Chapman CD — and the person they love disappears into a little mist of sadness until you’re ready to be with the world again. 

Crowley slams his hand onto the table, making his husband jump. No. Not this time. They won’t stand to see you like this for another year. 

“I have an idea,” he says, and Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. 

Your house is in quite a nice area of London, plenty of room for three people, but right now you’re sitting in the bedroom all alone. (Of course you have a house. You love your other halves dearly but personal space is a requirement, not a request. Besides you’ve picked up a load of tat over the years you’ve been alive and it’s not fair to make one of them keep it for you). You’ve not seen them for a few days, and that’s fine. You like to marinate in your own misery. Crowley once said people must enjoy feeling sad or bands like the Smiths wouldn’t exist. You couldn’t fault him. 

There’s a knock at your door. Figuring it’s the postie, you drag yourself from your spot in the middle of the bed and wipe the tears from your eyes with your sleeve. You’re a little surprised to find Crowley and Aziraphale standing there, but open the door for them anyway. 

“I’ll stick the kettle on,” you mutter as a greeting. They exchange a look as you shuffle into the kitchen. Before you can even begin to get the mugs out, you’re manoeuvred into a chair and your husbands plonk down in front of you. 

“What—”

“Nightingale, we know you’ve been struggling.”

You deflate under their dual looks of concern, and bury your face in your hands. 

“Sorry.”

You suddenly feel very, very small; but you realise they’re taking your arms and pulling your hands away. 

“There’s nothing to apologise for, my dear. We understand. It’s just that we were thinking, we should all go on a little holiday.”

Cautiously you look up. 

“A little holiday?”

Aziraphale doesn’t do ‘little’. That word simply disguises self-indulgence. “Do you fancy a little treat?” (I saw a whole wedding cake in a bakery shop window and immediately bought it, fancy going halves with me?) or “I’m going to take a little nap…” (time to curl up on the sofa in front of Bake-Off reruns and fall asleep for four days straight) are the examples that spring to mind. 

So a ‘little’ holiday might not be so little at all. 

“Look, we wrote down all of your favourite places and put them into a hat. You just reach in, pick one, and we’ll go.”

They’d spent a solid two hours deciding what made the cut. Edinburgh, obviously. Stockholm. Verona. (You might have had a problem with the Roman Empire, but you can appreciate that nowadays Italy has some of the best food in the world). 

Aziraphale holds out a reporter’s trilby full of tiny white strips of paper, shaking it enthusiastically. Their eyes are wide and full of love. Gingerly you reach out, rustle around in the hat, and pull a single slip. They watch you intently as you unfold it, read it, and widen your eyes. 

You hold it up, and excitement crosses your face for the first time that day. 

“Isle of Wight.”

“Isle of Wight?” Crowley repeats. He doesn’t remember putting that one in there and, from the look on his face, neither does Aziraphale. But no, of course - you love that place. The three of you had spent a summer there back in the nineteen-twenties, when you had gone through your fossil phase. You’d spent hours on the beach searching through rocks for ammonites and genuinely enjoying every moment. 

Plus, with that look on your face, they can hardly say no.

“Isle of Wight then,” Aziraphale says, smiling. 

They help you pack and book the ferry that evening, Crowley making short work of the drive down to the docks. On the journey you’re still a little bit quiet, but when you ask, “can I put on Tracy Ch—” Crowley shouts “No!”, reaches into the glove box to pull out the CD the Bentley manifested to try and please you, and flings it out of the window on the motorway. 

It’s so ridiculous you can’t help but laugh. As a compromise Crowley stuffs Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours into the system so roughly he threatens to break it in half. 

Apart from that the drive is filled with happy chatter. And so is the whole holiday, really. They’ve booked a little seaside cottage to stay in, very sheltered and alone so there are no prying eyes on the three of you. That first night you’re too knackered to do much but curl up and fall asleep, but the next day you go into full tourist mode. Shorts, shirt, big hat and glasses. Aziraphale rubs sunblock on your back in the areas you can’t reach — as luckily the three of you have planned your excursion for the four and a half days that constitute British summertime — and you set out. 

And, really, it’s lovely. You go to the little attractions, play mini golf, pretend not to be annoyed when they miracle their shots to hit better (though you still win, their divine magic isn’t a patch on talent). You get a huge ice cream which drips down your hand in the heat. You watch Crowley spend twenty-seven pounds on a claw machine trying to win you and Aziraphale a teddy each “the old fashioned way”, but finally get irritated enough to click his fingers to make it malfunction. Soft toys are spat out of it like bullets to the glee of the gathered children.  

When you arrive back at the cottage they insist they cook, and even though you offer to help you’re told to go and spend the time looking for fossils. It’s quite miraculous that the beach laid out before your front door is suddenly full of them. It’s equal parts sandy and stony and you busy yourself for the next hour, every now and then a cry of “look what I’ve found!” being shouted over the sound of the waves. 

Aziraphale and Crowley exchange a look and silently agree what they’ve never worded: they’ve married a history nerd. 

It’s still hot as the sun sets and they lay out a little picnic on the soft part of the beach. You’ve changed into swimwear and so have they, and it’s one of those moments when you realise just how different your spouses are. Crowley has her long and hair down, slim body feminine so she can wear a tiny black bikini that leaves very little to the imagination. Aziraphale is wearing a full striped bathing suit that you last saw popularised when Queen Victoria was still on the throne. 

You love them both so much. 

Crowley pours the wine and you spend the evening getting a rosy sort of tipsy. You eat the little smorgasbord they’ve laid out in front of you, and as midnight turns to one in the morning, you totally forget the fact that it’s your would-be-death day at all. 

You stand up on unsteady legs and look at the ocean. It’s still unbearably warm. 

“Nightingale?” Crowley asks. You turn to your spouses and make a show of stripping off, leaving your swimsuit on the sand. 

“I’m going for a swim. Are you coming?”

Crowley needs no convincing, her tiny bikini quickly joining the pile of clothes. You take her hand and rush into the waves, laughing wildly as the water sprays your skin. 

“Angel!” Crowley shouts over her shoulder. Aziraphale hesitates for the tiniest moment. 

“Come on angel, nobody can see us.”

Aziraphale loses a battle against himself, finishes his slice of cake and starts to undress too. Soon he’s joined you and your wife in the water. The two of you pull him close. 

“See? Isn’t it nice?” you hum into his ear. His hand skips your bare waist, his breath hitches. You giggle and float backwards on the water, skyclad to the stars above. Crowley keeps a hold of your hand to make sure you don’t drift away, and you listen to the sound of the ocean in your ears while your spouses kiss behind you. You link your fingers through theirs and close your eyes, warm from the wine, and happy. 

Then you splash them childishly. The noise of surprise they make is fantastic. You cackle like mad and begin to run through the water - albeit very slowly - poking your tongue out. 

“Can’t catch me!” you giggle, which is a silly taunt really because Crowley is able to do so immediately with her long legs, and then she sweeps you up in a kiss. 

The three of you find yourselves laying on the beach, Crowley kissing your chest and neck, Aziraphale the soft area of your upper thighs. You melt against their mouths and drag them each to your lips to kiss them properly in turn. 

“Please fuck me,” you whisper, voice strung out on happiness and a little desperate. They don’t need telling twice. Crowley puts one of her beautiful legs either side of your face and you reach to taste her cunt, a heady mix of salt from the water and her own slick. She throws her head back and lets her flaming hair cascade down her back, moaning in pleasure. 

“Fuck, nightingale, your mouth…”

As your tongue presses firmly against her clit you feel Aziraphale manoeuvre you into his lap, spreading your legs to find your entrance. His hands press against you as his fingers slide inside, getting you ready for his impressive girth. You moan against Crowley’s pussy as he sheathes himself slowly inside you and then giggle as the waves lap up against your body. 

“Ahh,” Aziraphale breathes in pleasure, gripping your hips tightly as he begins to move. With every thrust he gives you mimic the motion onto your wife. 

You know their bodies intimately. You have done for centuries. But each time you make love it still feels like your senses are being lit on fire, the best kind of fire, passion burning hot. 

You love them. You love them so much it hurts, and you let this tumble from your lips as you feel them come, and topple over the edge with them. 

That night they hold you close, sandwiched, one of your favourite ways to sleep. Aziraphale tucks his face into your shoulder and Crowley buries his mouth into your hair, giving you a permanent kiss while you drift off. 

You’ve not felt so light in ages. 

When you get home, you decide, you’re smashing that CD with a hammer. You’ve got everything you need to feel better right here in your arms. 

-

Taglist: @angiestopit @dazed-soul  @foolishprincipalitee@smile-eywa @staygoldsquatchling02 @underratedboogeyman @specter-soltare @candlewitch-cryptic @cool-ontherun-world @emilynissangtr @willbedecided @bdffkierenwalker @cool-iguana @ilyatan @civil-groupie

[lenavonschweetz]

Grace For Sale

Sam Winchester x Reader

Synopsis: Your town could definitely handle themselves, but a little help isn’t something you’d willingly turn down.  When the Winchesters show up - do things get better, or worse?

Warnings: language, anti-religious sentiments, slight religious inner conflict, angst? If you squint?, smut, Under 18 keep faaaar away.

A/N: Takes place during s5:e17 - 99 Problems.  So funny story, I actually AM a preacher’s kid so this episode kinda made me laugh then gave me the idea for this.  Title comes from The Devil’s Carnival.  Also, this has been sitting in my drafts for literal years, guess it’s about time I post it. As always, I don’t have a beta so please excuse any typos. I’ll fix any that are pointed out to me.

Enjoy!

Sam and Dean aren’t exactly sure what to make of your little town.

The welcome wagon was a little more off the wall than they were used to - what with a firetruck full of holy water, a portable exorcism, and a group of civilians that actually knew about the things that go bump in the night.  Still, it wasn’t…the strangest introduction they’d encountered.

“So, are we gonna talk about that?”  Sam asks as Dean steers impala into town - right on the tail of the Sacrament Lutheran Militia’s truck.  What kind of a name was that anyway?

A church looms overhead, answering Sam’s unspoken question, and he wishes he hadn’t even asked.

It’s definitely the apocalypse, what with the devil’s trap brandishing the walkway up to the church door.

Sam’s eyes are heavy - spending the wee hours of the night fighting hellspawn will do that to you.  Especially when you’re bleeding out.  At least the militia had some quick fix first aid handy.

The first thing the brothers notice upon entering the sacred building is the couples standing at the alter, all facing the priest who prattles on about finding something special amidst the impending doom.  The second thing they notice is all of the townsfolk holding shotguns.

Sam scoffs.

“A wedding?  Seriously?”  How in God’s name - no, y’know what, scratch that - how in the Hell were they hosting a wedding at a time like this?

“Yup.  We’ve had 8 so far this week.”  The man to his right, Paul, says and it’s obvious Sam isn’t the only one who’s less than impressed.  At least they’re in good company.

It’s definitely the first time the brothers can be completely transparent in their introductions.  Sure, sometimes they’re found out, or sometimes they’re among other hunters.  But to tell an entire town - and a priest, no less - that they are demon hunters?  Yeah, that may take a little getting used to.

So is the priest toting a gun and the children packing salt rounds in the basement of the church.  Dean makes a quip about running scared or sticking around and making a home out of the place and Sam thinks he’d be leaning toward the later if the end of the world wasn’t resting on their shoulders.

But none of that explained how a whole town had taken up hunting.

Well, until the mystery prophet is introduced in the form of the “Packing Preacher’s” daughter - Leah.

Well…he’d been through stranger.

Dean makes a pass at her - right in front of her father.  The father.  Sam just rolls his eyes, gaze landing on the corner where another figure lurks.

Oh.

This one…he thinks…this one is much more his speed.

“Ah, my other daughter.”  Pastor Gideon says, holding a hand out to beckon you forward.  Sam watches as you push off the wall and approach the group.  There’s little family resemblance, he notes, but definitely isn’t complaining.  While your sister is clad in muted colors, baggy sweater, and tennis shoes - you opt for something a little form-fitting under your dark leather jacket with the combat boots to match.  You scream ‘hunter’, ‘capable’, and ‘danger’ more than anyone else in this town and he has trouble tearing his eyes off of you.  Now, you’re not complaining.  In fact, your eyes linger on Sam just as much as he does on you.  And when he realizes this, the mountain of a man becomes a flustered mess.   It brings a smirk to your face and a blush to his.  “Y/N, this is Dean and Sam Winchester.”

“So I’ve heard.”  You chuckle, arms crossing in front of the very cleavage Sam’s staring at beneath your open flannel.  You cock a brow, baiting him, though he seems too nervous with your father present to answer the challenge.  “Shame Leah never mentioned you.  Though,”  you cast an appreciative glance over their strong frames and Sam very nearly shivers.  Beside him, Dean practically preens.  “I can see why.  If I knew fine specimens such as yourself were going to be crashing in our little town, I’d keep it to myself too.”

The Father is none too amused when you wink at your sister and the two of you share a giggle.  Again, Sam notes the distinct lack of resemblance but brushes it off.

“Y/N,”  Your father says in warning, which you completely ignore and grant the taller Winchester another ravenous once over before turning on your heel.  If anyone asked, you would deny that you were overemphasizing the swing of your hips.

“If you need me,”  you tell him without so much as a glance, calling over your shoulder as you saunter up the basement stairs.  “I’ll be at Paul’s!”

—————

The next time you see the brothers, it’s at the house Leah’s vision lead you to.  Well, actually, that’s a lie.  You saw them the night before at Paul’s bar, but they seemed to be wrapped up in a very important conversation - if the concentration on their brows had anything to say about it. 

Still, that hadn’t stopped you from ordering the brothers a couple of beers.  To his credit, Paul doesn’t judge you - which is a lot more than you can say for your family as of late - and even brought the boys their drinks so that you could do the ever so clique cheers across the bar.

Sam merely nodded in his head in thanks, raised his own beer with a silent ‘cheers’, then went back over to his brother.

So you couldn’t get a better read on them that night.  That’s ok.  It gave you the perfect opportunity to ogle to your heart’s content.

They were some fine specimens, that’s for sure.  The perfect hunters.  Sharp eyes, strong statures.  Hell, Sam looked like he could take out multiple demons all on his own - I mean, come on.  Those arms!

God, you had gotten such a perfect look at them while they brooded and planned what with the way Sam’s sleeves had been rolled and pushed up to his elbows.  Had you ever found forearms as attractive as you did at that moment?  Probably not.

And that jawline?  Christ, you could cut glass on that thing.

The sideburns may have been a little much, but hell, if that was all you could pin as off, you’d take it! 

Your ogling session had been cut short by the bell tolling - another of your sister’s visions - and after arguing with your father in front of the whole church that ‘yes, I am going with them’ - your hunting group was on the doorstep of the abandoned home.  Most of the townspeople are toting guns full of salt or sprayers of holy water, all armed with the ridiculous incantation your sister had told you to use to exorcise them.

But not Sam.  No, Sam was only wielding a knife, and God did he make it look easy.  If you weren’t too busy kicking ass and getting your ass kicked, you’d be drooling over that too.

Only when the dust settles do you take the opportunity to approach the brothers.

“You really are the hunters my sister made you out to be.”  Sam’s perfect eyebrow arches at that, gaze flickering to the way your chest rises and falls with your heavy panting.

“You didn’t think we would be?”  You mirror his smirk and shrug, ignoring the way Dean is eyeing the two of you like he knows exactly what’s going on in your head.  Honestly, he probably did.  Dude seemed about as horny as you did.

 “So,” Sam pants, following the group out of the house.  You miss the way he’s eyeing your ass as you’re just steps ahead of him.  “That’s what it’s like.”  There’s no shortage of sexual innuendo in his voice and you decide to poke the bear a little more.  Whether your father was in earshot or not.

“What what’s like?”  You’re turned to him now, handing in your pockets and treading carefully backward.  He meets your hungry look with one of his own and shivers absolutely rattle your body.  Again he smirks, making sure the coast is clear of your father before saddling up right next to you.

“Having back up.”  He all but whispers in your ear, large hand grazing just inches above your bottom and god, how did he make such an innocent statement sound so filthy.  There’s no way he misses the way you tremble and sigh, not with the way he smirks at you while walking away.

You’re not sure what’s going to kill you first.  The Demons or your insatiable need for Sam fucking Winchester.

—————

Neither.

Neither of those things is gonna kill you first.

Because it’ll be your father that kills you.

Because you’re going to fucking murder your sister.

After the Winchesters brought back a murdered Dylan…well, things were tense. People started to resent them and the warm welcome they had initially received turned cold. Only you and Paul would speak to them without adding to the guilt you knew they already felt.

You knew it wasn’t their fault.  Hell, half of you had been through it before - coming off a hunt all together too cocky and not aware of the demon that still lurked around until it was too late.  Dylan was a good hunter.  Dean and Sam were good hunters.  It had happened to the best of you.  And so you do what you always did - you held a funeral and vowed to be more vigilant next time.

But that wasn’t enough for the townspeople.

Or for your sister.

No, she had to go and suck the fun out of everything.

No drinking, no gambling, no pre-marital sex.

All per the angels’ command, of course.

“What a crock of shit.”  The empty glass thunks against the wood of the bar - as hollow as you feel right about now.  Paul only echoes your sentiments and pours you another glass.  The only thing that pulls you from your ire is the bell signifying a newcomer.  For the first time since Leah’s proclamation, your scowl softens as the person you wanted to see most walks right through that door.

“So, what happened to, uh,” he makes a grand gesture to the empty bar - earning a snort from the two of you,  “’the apocalypse is good for business’?”

“Yeah, right up until Leah’s angel pals banned the good stuff.”  Paul says, earning a groan from you as you pinch the bridge of your nose at your damn sister’s name.  “Y/N’s here helping me kill some inventory.”  Sam chuckles at the glass you raise, tipping it toward him and saying ‘I’m only doing the good work.’  “Want to help?”

With a drink in hand, Paul pours a shot for each of you.  He doesn’t hold back on his opinion of the ‘holy rollers’ nor their hypocrisy, to which Sam calls him out for his noticeable lack of faith.  Paul shrugs it off, defending his honorable lack of prayer.

“Look, there’s sure as hell demons.  and maybe there is a god, I don’t know.  Fine.  But I’m not a hypocrite.  I never prayed before and I ain’t starting now.  If I go to Hell, I’m going honest.  Besides,”  Paul nods to you just as you put your shot glass - empty again - back on the bar.  “I figure if this one can get away with it, so can I.”  Sam’s eyebrows raise at that, eyes finding you.

“You either?”

“I grew up in the church,” you explain.  “I’ve seen how the…holiest of us all can be far worse than the ‘hooligans’ of the world.”  You wink at Paul, air quotes bouncing as you mimic your father’s ‘preacher’ voice.  The two of you share a laugh and you miss how Sam’s fingers tighten around his glass along with his jaw at the intimacy you two seem to share.  “Yeah, I believe in some kind of higher power.”  You continue, focus shifting to the Adonis beside you.  He doesn’t miss the bitter tone your voice takes on. “But I don’t believe in the church.  The organized religion crap.  Never been too big on it.  But then, neither had Leah.  And now, out of nowhere, she’s some chosen prophet?”  You scoff.  “I dunno.  I just can’t trust it.  And like Paul said, I’m no hypocrite.  I know I’m messed up.  Won’t pretend otherwise.”

This time when you regard Paul, patting his hand as one would a brother, Sam’s shoulders relax.

“Yeah, I, uh…I know what you mean.”  A moment of heavy, thick silence passes between the two of you before you’re pressing him for his thoughts with nothing more than a look.  “I believe.”  But he doesn’t sound so sure.  More convincing himself than he is you, maybe, so you stay quiet and let him work through his thoughts.  “Yeah, I do.”  He says, more assured this time.  “I’m just pretty sure God stopped caring a long time ago.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”  A big sigh breaks from your chest, one of those sighs that comes when you feel like you’ve forgotten how to breathe, and suddenly this conversation is too heavy for how drunk you are not and for how drunk you want to be.

After a few moments, a morbid, hindsight joke blooms in your head and you can’t help but laugh, noting the questioning look on your drinking buddies’ faces.

“Guess those newlyweds knew something we didn’t.”  You chuckle, taking a pull of your drink.  “Tied the knot before Leah could restrict ‘em.  Betcha they’re bangin’ like rabbits right about now.”  The liquor burns, smothering your humorless chuckle as you knock it back.  “Lucky bastards.”  

Behind the bar Paul chuckles, noting the tension in the air, the sudden shift of mood, and takes his exit - mumbling something about grabbing more from the back. Neither you or Sam really hear him, though - too wrapped up in the other’s stare you share at what you’re implying.  

Helluva wingman, that Paul.

Once the two of you are alone, Sam swivels in his chair until his long legs drape open and you have to force yourself not to look down.  A bushy, perfectly masculine brow arches.  Then he speaks - voice low and sweet and pure sin.

“Really?  You, uh, don’t seem to have much issue with breaking the no-drinking rule.”  And it isn’t a question.  He flicks the back of his fingers against your glass, warm eyes staring right at you as the faint tinkling tickles your ears.  Your heart shutters in time with the tinkling of skin on glass and you don’t realize you’re chewing on your bottom lip until his eyes flicker to it.  “You gonna draw the line at pre-marital sex?”

“Now, Sam Winchester...who said I would do that?”  The look you fix him with has him adjusting his suddenly too-tight pants.

“Not afraid of being damned?  Of not being one of the ‘chosen’?”

“I’m no ‘chosen’.”  You scoff, bouncing air quotes once more.  “That’s my sister.  Me?  I’m just the poor little preacher’s kid who lost her faith a long time ago.”   It isn’t seductive talk - in fact, it’s dark as hell.  But he asked, and like you’d said before - you were no liar, and you were no hypocrite.  You turn to your companion, renewed .  “But you know…there is a curfew.”

The tonal shift isn’t subtle, but that doesn’t keep the space between you from growing ever smaller, Sam’s large hand sliding up your thigh and again you must fight off the urge to shiver.  Especially when he lowers his voice once more, those big hazel eyes glancing at you from under his full, coal black lashes.

“Is that so?”  A squeeze to your thigh, and you jolt just the tiniest bit, to Sam’s great amusement.

“My place is right around the corner.”  You explain with a shrug, that damn lip caught between your teeth again. And suddenly in the dark, empty bar, you don’t care if you are damning yourself to hell.  As long as it’s at the hands of Sam Winchester, you’ll go willingly.

—————

The wall of your entryway meets your back sharply, a hiss of pain escaping you momentarily before it’s silenced by Sam’s eager lips.

Hurried hands rid you of your clothes, his own falling like breadcrumbs alongside yours until the two of you are falling on to the bed.  Fingers skilled at far more than knife-wielding ghost up your thighs, featherlight touches leaving a fire under your skin.  He’s slow in his undoing of you.  Reverent even.  Watches the way you keen beneath him, begging for his fingers.  Holds your eyes as he drags those fingers through his lips before trailing the wet tips down your front. When he finally gives them to you, one long digit sliding right up to the knuckle, your teeth break the skin of your lip just enough to hurt and you’re gasping - begging for more - which he gives to you, gladly. Working you until you’re ready for him and at the precipice of falling over the edge.

He had looked good in his clothes, sure, but god damn he’s ten times more beautiful out of them.  Infinite smooth, golden skin lays beneath your greedy fingers, a dusting of fine hair contouring the plane of his chest and down below his waistband.  Your mouth waters and you tug impatiently at his jeans.

“Someone’s eager.”  He chuckles, low and husky, standing to drop both pants and boxers.  Oh.  Good God.

“Oh, you have no idea.”  You only break your eyes away to grab a condom before you shove him on his back and straddle those strong thighs.  "I've been wanting to get your clothes off since the second I laid eyes on you."

"Trust me," he breathes - no, borderline growls - and you shutter, walls fluttering at how fucking empty you are and just how fucking bad you need him inside of you right now.  "The feeling's mutual."

He’s big all over, just like you expected, and even rolling the latex over his thick shaft has you shivering in anticipation.  The action doesn’t go unnoticed by the gigantic man beneath you and before you can react, he’s rolling his hips with a moan that takes your breath away.  It takes immense focus to speak through your gasp.

“Don’t finish this before it’s even started, Winchester.”  He laughs at your warning, fingers digging into your thighs and ass.  Oh, this man is going to wreck you, you just know it.

“You have so little faith in me?”  A quip lies on your tongue, something about having no faith at all, but that melts into a strangled moan the second his fat head presses past your opening.  “Oh, Christ.”  He hisses, teeth clenched and head thrown back in unadulterated pleasure at the feel of you, your hips rolling slowly as you try your best to take the overwhelming size of him.  Your fingers digging into supple pecs does nothing to ebb the overwhelming feeling of Sam spearing you open.

“Leave him outta this.”  You quip, sinking down the rest of the way - finally.  You both shiver at the feeling of him fully seated in you before you start rocking against him.

Not much else is said - not much else needed to be said - as the two of you chase relief and distraction in each other.

The stretch burns in the best way and you realize you're going to be feeling this for days.  Every step, every shift is going to take you right back here - your hands splayed out on sculpted pecs, Sam's angelic and angular face contorted in ecstasy as he does his best to keep his eyes open and watch you ride him for everything he's worth.  Those big hazel eyes blink up at you, fluttering and rolling at a particularly deep stroke before they're suddenly open - fiery and determined.  There's no time to even tease or question before he's pistoning up into you, his marble body rubbing yours in such a way that has you gasping for air, his massive hands splayed over your ass to keep you exactly where he wants you. Sloppy thrusts turn to rocking hips and the new angle has your toes curling.

His cock grazes just the right spot with every rock of his hips, both of you whispering moans and groans of the other’s name.  You do your best to keep up, rolling your tired hips when you can, nails biting into his skin when you have to focus solely on not imploding right where you are.

Your orgasm crests, and you beg him to go faster - to take control - and he does, practically throwing you onto your back to angle you the exact way he wants to.  The height difference is dizzying - even with you on your back and him on his haunches - all you can see while he hammers into you is the brand on his chest.  You itch to bite into the ink, to make him mewl against your skin once more but all rational thought flies out the window when his thumb reaches between your splayed legs, presses in tight, dizzying circles, and sends you spiraling into oblivion as aftershock after aftershock rocks your nerves.

In the aftermath of it all - after you’ve seen white from the intense pleasure he milked out of you - you lie in a daze.  Memorizing the way his hands feel as he wipes some of his spend off your chest.  Jesus, the sounds that man had made when he came...you have half a mind to tie him down and never let him leave - your sister's 'orders' be damned.

“It’s past curfew, y'know?”  You remind him, fingers tracing the divots and curves of his abdomen.  God, he’s perfect.  You could spend hours memorizing every inch of skin.   Pity said skin disappears behind thick flannel once more.  You bite back a disappointed groan, casting your eyes over his massive stature.  You don't think you'll ever get over just how small he makes you feel - in the best possible way, of course.  Especially when he flashes that perfect fucking smile at you, dimples and all.

“Yeah?  What about it?”  He urges, a shit-eating grin playing at his lips as he dares you to ask him to stay.  You sit up on your knees then, leveling yourself with his chest and drag your fingers down once more.  "Something you want to say, Y/N?"  If possible, his grin grows wider when you crook an eyebrow at him, beckoning him to your level with a come hither finger to match.

“If you’re waiting for me to ask you to stay, Sam Winchester,"  you whisper, lips ghosting over his own and you take great pride in the way his sinfully long lashes flutter against the tops of his sharp cheeks.   "You can keep waiting.”  The low groan that escapes his throat when you cup him once more makes you ache in the absolute best way.  You're seconds away from throwing your pride to the wind and pulling him back into bed with you.  But this is the end of the world after all.  No doubt he has other pressing matters to attend to.

“Yeah, well, as much as I would love to…I should get back before Dean gets worried.”  Disappointment laces his words, but you’re both too grown-up for any fairytale crap.  Your life felt like more a horror lately than a fantasy, anyway.  So, with incredibly gentle fingers, he pulls your hand toward his lips, grazing them over your knuckles as his eyes bore into yours.  Hmm, he plays dirty.

“Yeah…my dad’s probably expecting me at the church.”  You offer lamely, though there's probably some truth to it.  Not one night goes by without a demon attack or a vision from the chosen sister.  You're surprised you haven't been interrupted by a frantic call from your father already, as a matter a fact.  He smiles at you again, your heart running rampant as he's tossing the towel down to wrap his arms around your waist once more.  The look in his eyes and the hardness pressing into your belly are tempting enough, but you manage to grit out a warning "Sam..."

“And here you are, sinning with the outsider.”  He rumbles, smirking as his eyes drink in your face for - most likely - the last time.  You return his smile, reeling him in for one last kiss...or twelve.

“Yeah, well, if I’m going to hell anyway, may as well make the road there fun.”

If only you knew the literal hell that awaited you in the next few hours…

FIN

[fayoftheforest]

vampire kyle & historic antisemitism

DISCLAIMER: this post is not intended to incite drama or discourse, I simply want to share my thoughts on a complex topic. Just because I’m Jewish does not mean I speak for the entire community. We’re not a monolith, there is great diversity of opinion among us, discussion and debate is a beloved part of our culture, etc etc :) ok on with the post!

But wait, Fay, I hear you interject. Vampires aren’t even real! How can they be sayin’ stuff about Jews? Well, my dear friends, I have some rather grave news for you: much of pop culture is Sayin’ Stuff About The Jews. And very little of it is positive :/

I’ll quote Jewish author Deke Moulton to establish the basic links between vampires and antisemitism:

The problem is tied to the conspiracy called the blood libel. If you’re not familiar with it, the blood libel started in Medieval Europe in the 12th century and claimed that Jewish people needed the blood of Christian children to make our Passover matzoh. For context, Jewish people are prohibited from consuming blood at all – we will salt kosher meat to draw out blood. Despite being very old and very wrong, the blood libel idea still persists today (albeit usually with slightly less obvious framing).

There is also a common trope of vampires operating through a secret, worldwide council that often governs ‘vampire affairs’ but also may dabble in controlling other aspects of the world’s governments. While some people can see a similarity to the Catholic Church, often times this calls upon the antisemitic trope of the ‘cabal’—that Jews secretly run the entire world (which is another strange antisemitic trope, as Judaism doesn’t have any central religious figure like the Pope). The word ‘cabal’ itself is a bastardization of the word kabbalah, a form of Jewish mysticism. If you combine this with a trope of vampires hoarding large amounts of money (especially gold?), you’re using yet another antisemitic trope that says Jewish people control the world’s banks.

Even things like being adverse to the sunlight can have antisemitic implications – the early Church claimed that, because in Judaism days start at sundown and thus our time of worship happens at night, that gathering at night to worship was proof of us being evil and satanic.

So, all vampires are bad and wrong, and vampire Kyle AUs are a hatecrime, and everyone who’s ever done one should go straight to jail, right?

Well. No.

Because really, it should be noted that this extract is from an interview on Moulton’s novel “Don’t Want To Be Your Monster,” a book which not only features blood-sucking vampires, but a blood-sucking Jewish vampire. Interesting, interesting... it's almost as if this topic is nuanced or something 🤔

Many iconic vampires are based on antisemitic stereotypes. Perhaps most famous is Dracula, with curly hair and a hooked nose, is an Eastern European immigrant who has the intentions of “infecting” British society. Another example is Nosferatu, who also has an exaggerated hooked nose, is thin, pale and hunched, and is topped by a skull cap. There are modern exceptions to this trend, though! Twilight comes to mind. Edward Cullen is far more inspired by Stephanie Meyer’s Mormonism than Judaism as a whole. Explained so aptly by The Quietus, “As vampiric portrayals become more positive, they tend to also become less connected to Jewish representation.” Come on, you guys >:( Jewishness can be hot and sexy too, I swear!!

From what I’ve seen of Vamp!Kyle AUs, portrayals tend to lean more towards the mysterious and alluring Cullen-type than the bad-to-the-bone Dracula. Ultimately, I think this is what redeems our fandom’s vampire Kyle. Because crucially, whilst vampires can be antisemitic, they are not innately antisemitic. When you show Kyle brooding behind his high-collars and flashing toothy grins at his love interest, it’s not typically symbolic of the ultimate evil that we are expected to fear and ridicule. It's intended to be cute, or cool, or hot, or whatever.

My advice is thus: if you want to make something deeper or complex with the AU, just have a think about what you’re using his vampiric traits to represent. Are you drawing from unfortunate stereotypes or feeding into antisemitic fears? Are you validating or justifying the “othering” or ostracisation of Jewish people from wider society? You could consider finding a Jewish beta/sensitivity reader, if that’s accessible to you. But generally speaking, so long as you’re not presenting Kyle as an all-powerful predator to pure, innocent Christian society, I reckon you’re probably alright :)

[igotanidea]

Glimmer: Jason Todd x reader

request: Jason Todd x fem!reader who is optimistic, sees good in people and gives him hugs and kisses when he comes from patrol.

****

She never knew it, and even if she did she would totally refuse to believe it, but there was something in her eyes that always made Jason feel better about world and about himself. A bit.

He met Y/N on one of his night patrols and not-so-surprisingly rescued her from a mugger. Typical Gotham occurrence, but unlike any other citizen of this god-forsaken city she did not seem shaken or terrified or even sad.

“How are you so fine with what happened?” instead of taking off the second the robber was dealt with Jason found himself captured by her unusual behavior

“I’m not” she sighed deeply and her e/c orbs focused on him, making him shake inside due to the intensity of the gaze “I’m not all right with how Gotham affects people. That the poor had to go to the great lengths to survive on the streets while crime lords have everything. I’m not fine with the fact that kids here suffer because their parents abandoned them. I hate that GCPD seem helpless when it comes to dealing with all this shit and vigilantes have to take matters in their own hands.”

“So, pretty much you hate Batman?” Jason scoffed, trying to act casually, not showing how touched he was by the mention of kids on the streets. After all, he was one of them many years ago and the memory of what he went through was still hunting him sometimes.

“I never said that!” she laughed. She laughed a few seconds after a traumatic events. “I admire everything he does. But unlike our fierce protector, I’d rather focus on seeing good in people.”

“Good?” Jason scoffed, his helmet muffling the sound a bit “There’s nothing good in this shithole.”

‘Maybe that is your problem, Red. Your aim is to get rid of the crime lords. Arguably by killing them all off….”

“I don’t do that anymore.” He chimed in

“Then hurting them. Injuring them. Making them remember the pain. I’d rather spread the good emotions. Like in the homeless shelter where I volunteer after work. Or at the child center. You should see the smile on those people faces just because you gave them ten minutes of your time. To talk, to actually ask them how they feel, if there’s anything they would like to do. Elders have so many to say, yet no one ever listens. And children, those poor little souls, who did nothing wrong in their life, except for what’s necessary to survive. A hug or a joke is enough to make them cry happy tears.”

“You’re being awfully optimistic, aren’t you?”

“Can’t help being who I am” she smiled so bright, Jason could swear that it lighted up the whole alley “you should try that sometimes, Red Hood. Anyway, sorry for keeping you this long, bet you have another parts of the city to patrol.” Once again her beaming, hopeful, sincere eyes landed on his face (or rather helmet) “thank you for helping me. I know you do not see yourself this way, but what you do matters. The method may be a bit extreme, but still, I appreciate what you did. What you do.”

“I……” Jason stuttered. It was the first time someone actually said something like that to him. Was he really good in her eyes?

“I gotta go.” She shook he head, hair falling all over her face and Jason had to use all his strength to fight the urge to brush those strands of. There was something about this girl…. ”Stay safe, Hood, will you?” she turned around and started walking away, but he called after her, making her stop.

“Can I get your name?!”

“Wonder why that matters to you.” she laughed, but decided in favor of answering “It’s Y/N. My name’s Y/N.”  with a single wave of the hand she was gone, leaving Jason wondering and muttering that single word over and over again.

***

“Hey, Drake. I got a favor to ask.”

“And out of all the people in the world you came to me?” Tim raised an eyebrow “You must be truly desperate, Todd.”

“I can always go and ask Barbara. Bet she’ll deal with the search I need much faster than you. She’s an expert after all.” Jason smirked knowing well enough how the reverse psychology affected Tim.

“Better!? No way!! What do you need?” the younger boy spun around on the chair, now facing the bat computer, fingers hanging over the keyboard, twitching in anticipation.

“I want to find a person. I only got a name, Y/N, possible living location and I know she works at the homeless shelter and kid center. Can you target her?”

“don’t know.” Tim tapped his chin, wondering “Is he a Red Hood’s object of interest or Jason Todd’s one?”

Fuck. There was no good answer to that question and Jason found himself falling right into Tim’s trap. 

“Let’s say a little bit of both.”

“Whatever you say……”

***

Tim was faster than Jason anticipated and with just a few clicks and searches he managed to locate the girl. And just a few minutes later, after breaking some speed limits (Bruce would pay for the tickets obviously) Todd was in front of the building she was spending her evening at.

It’s been a while since Jason seen so many hurt and scared people in one place and that reminded him how much crime actually was in Gotham. He was fighting some part of it, but the rest…. Damn it. The view was just painful. Starting from a few-years old, ending up on the elders, every age group has a representation in this place. And amongst all those citizens he saw Y/N. With messy hair and a smudge of something that seemed like a paint, but was awfully similar to blood she was telling a story to a bunch of kids, one of them placed on her knees. That little dirt on her cheek made Jason shudder. In the depths of his mind he already saw her injured, bleeding in some alley, after being attacked or raped, her optimistic attitude not serving as a shield.  But apparently her positive attitude was not a result of obliviousness and being raised in separation from the bad aspects of life, but rather the opposite. She experienced the sadness and pain everyday while working with those people and yet, remained cheerful. That was….. strangely alluring.

“Hey there.” She put the kid down, noticing him standing in the aisle, looking confused “Are you lost? Are you hurt? Do you need help?” she was so tiny in comparison with a tank Jason was and she wanted to help him. Not even expecting anything in return.  

“No…. I ……”

“Hey, it’s ok.” she reassured, putting a hand on his shoulder and he immediately felt the warmth coming all over his body. “You’re safe here. We can give you any aid you need.”

“I don’t need help. “ Jason shook his head.

“You sure?” she tilted her head “Cause it seems to me like you got a strained muscles, a bruise on the jaw and some cuts on the forearms.”

“You are quite observant, aren’t you?”

“Did my time as a doctor assistant.” She shrugged “never get to finish though”

“Why?”

“Um… you know, typical Gotham stuff. Parents getting shot. No one to help me pay for college…. I had to tend for myself and that required a full time job, not just studying. So I dropped. Became an assistant nurse instead. Shitty job, shitty pay, shitty work hours, but  get to make ends meet.”

“And you still find time to volunteer?”

“Like I said to someone before, I’d rather help people by spreading good. Seriously, can I help you with anything…..?”her voice hanged a bit and it took him a while before realizing she was waiting for hi name.

“I’m Jason. And I …. I think I want to be a volunteer as well.”

***

It’s been three years since then.

Three years in which she was constantly surprising him with her attitude, her smile, her uptake on things.

Three years of her being his rock, getting him through the shittiest, lowest day, never letting him give up or his darkness and shadow consume him. She was his ray of sun on those days when he had no power to push through.

Jason was not the first person to trust people, but somehow she managed to gain it quite quickly. After a few months of acquaintance, shaking because of the emotions (mostly fear) he told her about his alter ego, awaiting abandonment, terrified, judgmental gaze and her leaving him for good.

There was a moment of silence after his confession, two young adults just sitting on the couch opposite of each other. Jason looking down, silent begging for her to not leave him, missing the fact that Y/N’s signature honest gaze were focused on him.

“Jason….” she said quietly, careful not to startle him “Jace, please look at me.” The boy hesitantly raised his head, scared what he might see on the girl’s face “did you think I would leave you?”

“Yes.” He blurted not able to control himself anymore.

“You silly boy.” She leaned forward slightly, reaching for his cheek, not touching yet, since she learned how hard physical contact was for him “Can I?”

“Please….” He mumbled, and once she cupped his face, immediately leaned into the touch. So touch starved, so desperate for her, without even realizing this.

“Listen to me, Jason Todd. I am not going anywhere.”

“You’re not?”

“Of course not.” she whispered “I’m honestly a bit offended you could even think something like that. Do you even know me?”

“I know you see good in place where there is none. And I’m no good. I’m bad news, always have been and….”

“Oh, for crying out loud.” She hissed and not giving a shit about being gentle put her lips on his, the urge being just too strong to hold it anymore. “Sorry….” Just a few seconds later she realized what she did and pulled back, her face turning apologetic. “I didn’t mean to push….”

“Come back here” Jason breathed out, wrapping an arm around her waist and claiming her lips again, this time fully. God, he never knew how much he craved her and how much fear of rejection on her part he had.  “I need you.” he whispered pulling her flush to him “God, I shouldn’t  but I need you so bad.”

“Good thing it’s mutual.” She smiled, brushing a curl from his face and connecting their foreheads

“But….” He tried to say.

“if you start talking about that shit about darkness and everything else I won’t kiss you for a week.”

“Are you threatening the Red Hood, princess?”

“Guess, I am” she laughed, realizing that little fact “is it working?”

“Sure as hell it is.” Jason gasped before closing the gap between them.

***

Y/N was quickly accepted into the Wayne family, turning into a valuable member of the team. And damn, she was good at working with Oracle from the cave. But the most important part of her job (in her own words) was still giving the good vibes. Keeping the batboys (and batgirls) up and running, showing them how much good they were doing and how grateful people were for that.

Jason needed it more than anyone else, still doubting himself and dealing with past trauma, not that anyone blamed him for that. If nothing else, dying and resurrecting definitely have an effect on one’s mentality. And that was precisely why, Y/N would always stay up in the night, waiting for Jay to come back from the patrol to welcome him in the most caring and loving way she could.

“Jace!” she jumped off the couch as soon as she heard him walk thought the door, his helmet and jacket already discarded on the floor. She practically jumped into his arms, wrapping legs and arms around him, tugging her boyfriend tightly, feeling his muscles relax under her touches and caresses.

“Hi, baby….” He sighed deeply feeling her in his arms. The only person that made everything he did worth the effort.

“My hero.” She tugged him even tighter, hands tangling in his hair massaging gently.

“Hero? That’s funny princess. Are you sure you’re not mistaking me for Grayson? Do you wish that it was someone else in your arms?”

“What are you…..?” she pulled back from him slightly, but his arms kept her in place, familiar smirk forming on his face. “You are incorrigible Todd! Why are you constantly playing with me?”

“Cause you look cute with that surprised Pikachu face” he kissed the top of her nose and she pouted.

“Stop it! It’s my job to kiss you and hug you. You’re tired and hurt. Let me take care of you.” her hand travelled down from his neck and rested on his heart “Please, love. I just want to take all the pain from you. Let me, Jason.” she was practically begging him now, and the fact that he truly had someone who was willing to do that for him was making him melt. Since the words failed him, he just nodded, closing his eyes not to show any vulnerability. Almost three years of being together and it was still hard for him to show her his emotional side. “Open those eyes” she commanded, once he put her back on the floor and they just stood in place. “I love you, Jason.” Y/N said with fully convinced voice “whatever you think about yourself, you are a hero to me.” a little kiss on his forehead “A protector.” Kiss on his nose “a fighter” one on each of his cheeks “I can never see you differently” a peck on his lips, too short, leaving him wanting more and chasing her lips “but it’s me. You don’t need to act strong with me when you are tired. You don’t need to hide your emotions. You could never be too vulnerable for me. I accept and somewhat understand Red hood, but it’s Jason Todd I fell in love with. My Jason. The emotional one. All right, baby?’ she caressed his cheek, grabbing his hand and leading him backwards towards the bed “will you rest with me?”

“Yes.” He whispered “Please……”

“All right.” She helped him lay down and once he rested head on her chest, feeling her fingers play with his hair, the other hand caressing her back, Jason slowly let the tension and the burden of opinion, judgments and expectations go.

She was making him feel better about himself.

She was making him feel better about world.

And maybe it was wrong and selfish and careless, but he loved her.

And he was going to tell her that.

Soon.  

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

One thing that still gets my blood boiling is some people telling the traumatised students to just 'get over it', leave their abusers, or to hurt/kill their tormentors as if it's a walk in the park. Um, hello? That's not how trauma works.

Yeeeah, I find that kinda iffy as well 😬 I don’t feel that it’s quite “right” (for lack of a better term) to judge/compare people’s (/character’s) pain resulting from trauma, or to tell them how they should “fix” said trauma or whatever bad situation they may be in.

**Please note: the rest of this discussion will include mentions of victim blaming and gaslighting; please proceed with caution.***

The problem with doing any of that (even if it is done out of concern or a desire to help people) is that it comes off as like… belittling the victim or downplaying the problem at times?? Like, if you compare traumatic experiences, it can imply that one is “lesser than” or isn’t as serious as the other when the circumstances are just as serious to each victim. (I see this happen most commonly with Vil and Azul; they both experienced bullying in their youth, but for whatever reason people tend to think Vil somehow had it "easy" compared to Azul.) That’s so disheartening and invalidating for any victim to hear. It makes them feel isolated and alone, because the people around them are implying their circumstances aren’t that bad. In reality, it’s not up to onlookers to decide how distressing or disturbing an experience is to someone else.

Telling them what to do is just as unhelpful because it takes away the autonomy of the victim, and the advice given is often unrealistic and unable to actually be carried out. (As another example, the advice I see most often is "Jamil should have just told Kalim he was unhappy with his position and Kalim would have helped him; rarely do fans consider that the Viper family's livelihood would be in jeopardy and Jamil would live in perpetual shame and guilt if he dared to speak out.) How can Jamil and Leona just “get over” a whole life of being put down? How can Riddle just walk out on his mother when he doesn’t have any means to support himself and struggles to even talk back to her? How can it be said that Vil has it better than Azul when both of them were clearly hurt by the bullying they received as children? How can one rush Idia’s grieving process or Malleus’s struggle to accept change and mortality? And if any of them are encouraged to act out in violence, what are the repercussions of that?

We oftentimes forget that, despite Twisted Wonderland taking place in a world with nonsensical elements like magic, the way it chooses to address problems is actually very much grounded in reality. For example, the end of every main story episode isn't really "the end" or a "resolution". Those terms imply that the problem is over when the episode is when it's really not. We proceed in the story with an awareness that the characters we saw last time are still struggling with the trauma they had before. They aren't "fixed" just because they were given good advice or they were beaten in battle until they came to their senses. Their problems didn't magically poof away, the victims are still working on overcoming their horrific experiences and not letting it have power over them. This is a very realistic depiction of trauma and how victims live and have to cope with it in their everyday lives.

A lot of the things the OB boys experiences are things that people irl have as well. This is, in part, what makes them such memorable and relatable characters, and why people may look to them for comfort or to help cope with their own trauma--so they don't feel alone. At the same time, it is because of this closeness and relatability that it can be hurtful when others make comments that talk down to the OB boys and their trauma. It's not always discussed in a mindful manner. Sometimes it's spoken about in a way that sounds like victim-blaming or gaslighting. It's almost as if to imply, "look, it's actually SO easy to fix your problem, so the fact that it has gone on for as long as it has is actually your fault", or, “you're in a much better situation than Person B is, so be grateful!” Unfortunately, it's reflective of behavior demonstrated in real life, with people either doubting or not believing victims,or acting like they know better than the person who has actually gone through something traumatic.

Whether you find yourself relating to the OB boys or not... Whether you have experienced something you deem traumatic for yourself or not... I think it would be nice if we were just a bit more respectful when it comes to talking about these matters 🥲 It shouldn't be a competition where we're sitting around ranking whose trauma is "the worst" (I have literally been sent an ask like this before and it made me extremely uncomfortable💦) or giving unsolicited, unrealistic advice the characters couldn't actually take. We can realize how damaging their individual experiences have been for them and wish them all the best without putting down others' experiences or talking down to them in the process.

[writtenonreceipts]

Rowaelin Month Day Twenty Two: Magic/Shifting Lessons with the Kids @rowaelinscourt

Month Masterlist

~1k words, another day of poor editing

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Father and Son

The screams were what drew Rowan’s attention first.

He couldn’t scent any blood so he knew it wasn’t terribly urgent.  Nor could he scent any pain either.  But when his children were involved, it was best to put an end to screaming as soon as possible.  The last time he and Aelin had tried to let them scream it out the entire west wing of the palace had nearly been destroyed.

So, Rowan picked up his pace as he rounded the corner down to the practice yard where he knew his two oldest should have been working on their sword formations.  He came face to face with a young soldier instead, likely on his way to find him or Aelin.

“Ah, your highness,” the young fae said.  He bowed shortly, refusing to meet Rowan’s gaze. “The children--”

“Are causing problems again, aren’t they?” Rowan finished.  The soldier’s eyes only widened to a comical size. “I’ll see to them.”

Without saying anything else, he swept past the soldier and out to the yard.  It indeed was chaos.

Two of the practice dummies had been obliterated.  Hay streaked in every direction, barrels overturned, and Meiri stood center of it all.  Her blonde hair was, as always, in disarray, and her tunic mussed up.  She pointed her wooden practice sword at a crate where Rowan could just make out Finlay hiding behind.

Oh good.  They were getting along swimmingly.

“Come out, Finlay!” Meiri shouted. She was sixteen and well on her way to taking over the world. “You can’t hide behind that.”

“You’re cheating.”  Finlay, nearly fifteen, kept his position with his own practice sword clutched in his hands.  

Rowan could at least pride himself on the fact he insisted they not use real weapons on each other unless he, Lorcan, or Aedion were present.

“I’m not cheating!”

“Are too!”

“You can use magic too, if you actually tried!”

Meiri’s words were not meant to be cruel exactly, but she was young and confident and could be rather arrogant in her own abilities.  Exactly like her mother.  And Rowan knew how Finlay would take the words all the same.

He waited until Meiri finally noticed him.

“Da!” she exclaimed. “Would you please tell Fin this isn’t how you fight.  He’s embarrassing himself, really.”

“Stand down, Meir,” Rowan said.  He dipped his chin at his daughter who frowned, but lowered the wooden sword all the same.

Rowan nodded in approval before going to the crate where Fin was still hiding behind.  It wasn’t often that the lad acted like this.  He was indeed proud and hated displaying weakness of any sort.  But he was also still young and barely coming into maturity.  Rowan could only guess what was going on in his son’s head.  So he eased himself onto the ground right beside Fin, crossing his arms over his knees in a relaxed position.

Finlay groaned. “Oh, would you just leave me alone?”

He squeezed his eyes shut and banged his head against the crate.

“I’m the only one equipped to handle the two of you when you get like this,” Rowan reminded his son.

“Meiri’s insane,” Fin hissed.

“I heard that!” Meiri shouted from behind them.

Rowan rolled his eyes. “Not now, Meiri.”

His words were followed by a huff and stomping feet.  Rowan waited a bit longer until he knew Meiri had fully retreated to the weapons room.  He looked at his son.

Finlay was a near replica of Rowan himself.  Silver hair, tan skin, and green eyes.  Though…Rowan would swear Fin’s eyes changed on occasion.  No matter.  It was still a bit disconcerting at times to remember the fact that he, Rowan Whitethorn, had a son.  Even if he’d had over a decade to get used to the fact.  

“What happened?” Rowan asked. “Couldn’t summon ice or couldn’t aim?”

Fin said nothing as she stretched his long legs out before him.

“By the looks of it, you got a bit out of control?” Rowan pressed.

Fin banged his head against the crate again.

“It’s hard to control early on,” Rowan said, he tried to channel the way his own father trained him and not what he had learned trapped in Maeve’s oath. “Even harder when you’re still growing into yourself, maturing--”

“Stop talking da,” Fin said, finally looking at him.  It was more like a glare but Rowan would take it.

He smothered a grin and knocked his shoulder with Fin’s. “It’s alright to struggle with your magic.  But you can’t let your temper control you.”

Fin scowled. “I don’t let it control me.”

“Then why will we need to have the servants make new practice dummies?” Rowan asked.  He didn’t want to embarrass his son or make this situation worse than it could potentially be.  But sometimes you had to press and dig to get the answers you wanted. “Seems like something happened.”

Fin kept his eyes trained forward to an alcove across the practice yard.  It was left in afternoon shadows but was as innocuous a place as any to train your attention when avoiding confrontation.

For a moment, Rowan wondered if he should call Aelin here.  She’d struggled with controlling her magic and it hadn’t been centuries since that happened.  Unlike with Rowan.  He could still remember the vague sense of frustration, but it truly had been an age since he’d struggled so much.

“Finlay,” Rowan began as she stretched his legs out before him.  “Sometimes, getting better at something takes longer than we think it will, but that doesn’t mean we give up on it.”

Fin continued scowling. “Meiri teases me for losing control.  I’m trying, I’m trying really hard, da.”

It was true that Meiri’s magic had always come easily to her, that she didn’t struggle with it, that it was simply a natural extension of her being.  And even though Fin had displayed his magic early on--he’d always had a difficult time reigning it in.

“That’s just Meiri,” Rowan sighed.  “But she is your sister, and you do actually have to talk to her about things.  Or we can have one big family dinner and talk about what it’s like to grow up and change.”

“No!” Fin shouted, grabbing the front of Rowan’s shirt. “That’ll just make it worse.”

Rowan chuckled, unable to help it.  He stood and offered a hand to Fin.

“C’mon then,” he said. “I helped train your mother.  I can help train you too.”

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not ready to try tagging again... but as always, thanks for reading friends