#(realizing all this time she never got to grieve properly.. he tells her to move on. go find goro and all that WHYY)

[thedeadthree]

OC LANGUAGE SURVEY

tagged by my dearies @marivenah, @florbelles and @dihardys to take this cutest survey for my darlings! ty so much beloveds! here is part one as well!

TAGGING: @griffin-wood, @risingsh0t, @queennymeria, @chuckhansen, @leviiackrman, @aartyom, @swordcoasts, @jackiesarch, @blackreaches, @noonfaerie, @arklay, @yennas, @confidentandgood, @celticwoman, @shellibisshe, @aceghosts, @multiverse-of-themind, @jacobseed, @saintsilver, @roofgeese, @pheedraws @rosebarsoap and you!

NO. OF SPOKEN LANGUAGES: 1 / 2 / 3+

TONE OF VOICE: high(-ish) / average / deep

ACCENT: yes (a little faint but its there) / no

DEMEANOR: confident / shy / approachable / hostile / other (INTIMIDATING and often seemingly unapproachable but not necessarily hostile?)

POSTURE: slumped / straight / stiff / relaxed

HABITS - head tilting / swaying / fidgeting / stuttering / gesturing / arm crossing / strokes chin / er, um, or other interjections / plays with hair or clothing / hands at hips / inconsistent eye contact / maintains eye contact / frequent pausing / stands close / stands at a distance

COMPLEXITY

VOCABULARY: ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️

EMOTION: ⚫️⚪️⚪️⚪️⚪️

SENTENCE STRUCTURE: ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️⚪️

PROFANITY

FREQUENCY: ⚫️⚫️⚪️⚪️⚪️

CREATIVITY (in regards to profanity): ⚫️⚫️⚪️⚪️⚪️

BOLD ALL THAT APPLY -arse. ass. asshole. bastard. bitch. bloody. bugger. bollocks. chicken shit. crap. cunt. dick. frick. fuck. horseshit. motherfucker. piss. prick. screw. shit. shitass. son of a bitch. twat. wanker. pussy.

THIS OR THAT -straightforward or cryptic (corpo things babes!) / finding the right word or using the first word that comes to mind? / masculinity neutrality or femininity? / formalities or with abrasiveness? / praise or equivocation? / frankness or lies? / excessive or minimal hand gestures? / name-calling or magnanimity? (neither they’re not worth her time for that jdjajk) / friendly or blunt?

IMPORTANT QUESTIONS:

DO PEOPLE HAVE A HARD TIME HEARING OR UNDERSTANDING YOUR CHARACTER? - almost always / frequently (accent/language barrier, very rarely meaning) / rarely / never.

DOES YOUR CHARACTER’S POINT COME ACROSS EASILY WHEN THEY SPEAK? - almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely / never.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER INITIATE CONVERSATIONS? - almost always / frequently / sometimes / never.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER BE THE ONE TO END CONVERSATIONS? - almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely / never.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER USE ‘WHOM’ IN A SENTENCE? yes / no / only AND ironically

YOUR CHARACTER WANTS TO MAKE A COUNTERPOINT. WHAT WORD DO THEY USE? - but / though / although / however / perhaps / mayhaps.

HOW DOES YOUR CHARACTER END CONVERSATIONS? - walk away / ask if that’s everything / say that’s everything / give a proper goodbye / tell their company they’re done here / remain quiet / they don’t.

WHAT SOCIAL CLASS WOULD OTHERS ASSUME YOUR CHARACTER BELONGS TO, HEARING THEM SPEAK? - upper / middle / lower.

IN WHAT WAYS DOES THE WAY YOUR CHARACTER SPEAK STAND OUT TO OTHERS? - accent / vocabulary / tone / level / politeness / brusqueness / it doesn’t.

NO. OF SPOKEN LANGUAGES: 1 / 2 / 3+

TONE OF VOICE: high(-ish) / average / deep

ACCENT: yes (a little faint but its there) / no

DEMEANOR: confident / shy / approachable / hostile / other (INTIMIDATING and often seemingly unapproachable but not necessarily hostile?)

POSTURE: slumped / straight / stiff / relaxed

HABITS - head tilting / swaying / fidgeting / stuttering / gesturing / arm crossing / strokes chin / er, um, or other interjections / plays with hair or clothing / hands at hips / inconsistent eye contact / maintains eye contact / frequent pausing / stands close / stands at a distance

COMPLEXITY

VOCABULARY: ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️

EMOTION: ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚪️⚪️

SENTENCE STRUCTURE: ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️

PROFANITY

FREQUENCY: ⚫️⚫️⚪️⚪️⚪️

CREATIVITY (in regards to profanity): ⚫️⚫️⚪️⚪️⚪️

BOLD ALL THAT APPLY -arse. ass. asshole. bastard. bitch. bloody. bugger. bollocks. chicken shit. crap. cunt. dick. frick. fuck. horseshit. motherfucker. piss. prick. screw. shit. shitass. son of a bitch. twat. wanker. pussy.

THIS OR THAT -straightforward or cryptic? (shes both! <3) / finding the right word or using the first word that comes to mind? / masculinity neutrality or femininity? / formalities or with abrasiveness? / praise or equivocation? / frankness or lies? / excessive or minimal hand gestures? / name-calling or magnanimity? / friendly or blunt?

IMPORTANT QUESTIONS:

DO PEOPLE HAVE A HARD TIME HEARING OR UNDERSTANDING YOUR CHARACTER? - almost always / frequently (accent/language barrier, very rarely meaning) / rarely / never.

DOES YOUR CHARACTER’S POINT COME ACROSS EASILY WHEN THEY SPEAK? - almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely / never.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER INITIATE CONVERSATIONS? - almost always / frequently / sometimes / never.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER BE THE ONE TO END CONVERSATIONS? - almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely / never.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER USE ‘WHOM’ IN A SENTENCE? yes / no / only ironically

YOUR CHARACTER WANTS TO MAKE A COUNTERPOINT. WHAT WORD DO THEY USE? - but / though / although / however / perhaps / mayhaps.

HOW DOES YOUR CHARACTER END CONVERSATIONS? - walk away / ask if that’s everything / say that’s everything / give a proper goodbye / tell their company they’re done here / remain quiet / they don’t.

WHAT SOCIAL CLASS WOULD OTHERS ASSUME YOUR CHARACTER BELONGS TO, HEARING THEM SPEAK? - upper / middle / lower.

IN WHAT WAYS DOES THE WAY YOUR CHARACTER SPEAK STAND OUT TO OTHERS? - accent / vocabulary / tone / level / politeness / brusqueness / it doesn’t.

NO. OF SPOKEN LANGUAGES: 1 / 2 / 3+

TONE OF VOICE: high(-ish) / average / deep

ACCENT: yes (a little faint but its there) / no

DEMEANOR: confident / shy / approachable / hostile / other (INTIMIDATING and often seemingly unapproachable but not necessarily hostile?)

POSTURE: slumped / straight / stiff / relaxed

HABITS - head tilting / swaying / fidgeting / stuttering / gesturing / arm crossing / strokes chin / er, um, or other interjections / plays with hair or clothing / hands at hips / inconsistent eye contact / maintains eye contact / frequent pausing / stands close / stands at a distance

COMPLEXITY

VOCABULARY: ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️

EMOTION: ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️⚪️

SENTENCE STRUCTURE: ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️⚪️

PROFANITY

FREQUENCY: ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️

CREATIVITY (in regards to profanity): ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️

BOLD ALL THAT APPLY -arse. ass. asshole. bastard. bitch. bloody. bugger. bollocks. chicken shit. crap. cunt. dick. frick. fuck. horseshit. motherfucker. piss. prick. screw. shit. shitass. son of a bitch. twat. wanker. pussy.

THIS OR THAT -straightforward or cryptic (both!) / finding the right word or using the first word that comes to mind? / masculinity neutrality or (AND) femininity? / formalities or with abrasiveness? / praise or equivocation? / frankness or lies? / excessive or minimal hand gestures? / name-calling or magnanimity? / friendly or blunt?

IMPORTANT QUESTIONS:

DO PEOPLE HAVE A HARD TIME HEARING OR UNDERSTANDING YOUR CHARACTER? - almost always / frequently (accent/language barrier, very rarely meaning) / rarely / never.

DOES YOUR CHARACTER’S POINT COME ACROSS EASILY WHEN THEY SPEAK? - almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely (if she feels like messing with u ajnsjkn) / never.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER INITIATE CONVERSATIONS? - almost always / frequently / sometimes / never.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER BE THE ONE TO END CONVERSATIONS? - almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely / never.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER USE ‘WHOM’ IN A SENTENCE? yes / no / only ironically

YOUR CHARACTER WANTS TO MAKE A COUNTERPOINT. WHAT WORD DO THEY USE? - but / though / although / however / perhaps / mayhaps.

HOW DOES YOUR CHARACTER END CONVERSATIONS? - walk away / ask if that’s everything / say that’s everything / give a proper goodbye / tell their company they’re done here / remain quiet / they don’t.

WHAT SOCIAL CLASS WOULD OTHERS ASSUME YOUR CHARACTER BELONGS TO, HEARING THEM SPEAK? - upper / middle / lower.

IN WHAT WAYS DOES THE WAY YOUR CHARACTER SPEAK STAND OUT TO OTHERS? - accent / vocabulary / tone / level / politeness / brusqueness / it doesn’t.

NO. OF SPOKEN LANGUAGES: 1 / 2 / 3+

TONE OF VOICE: high(-raspy) / average / deep

ACCENT: yes / no

DEMEANOR: confident / shy / approachable / hostile / other

POSTURE: slumped / straight / stiff / relaxed

HABITS - head tilting / swaying / fidgeting / stuttering / gesturing / arm crossing / strokes chin / er, um, or other interjections / plays with hair or clothing / hands at hips / inconsistent eye contact / maintains eye contact / frequent pausing / stands close / stands at a distance

COMPLEXITY

VOCABULARY: ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️

EMOTION: ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚪️⚪️

SENTENCE STRUCTURE: ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️⚪️

PROFANITY

FREQUENCY: ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️

CREATIVITY (in regards to profanity): ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚪️⚪️

BOLD ALL THAT APPLY -arse. ass. asshole. bastard. bitch. bloody. bugger. bollocks. chicken shit. crap. cunt. dick. frick. fuck. horseshit. motherfucker. piss. prick. screw. shit. shitass. son of a bitch. twat. wanker. pussy.

THIS OR THAT -straightforward or cryptic / finding the right word or using the first word that comes to mind? / masculinity neutrality or (AND) femininity? / formalities or with abrasiveness? / praise or equivocation? / frankness or lies? / excessive or minimal hand gestures? / name-calling or magnanimity? / friendly (with people she likes) or blunt?

IMPORTANT QUESTIONS:

DO PEOPLE HAVE A HARD TIME HEARING OR UNDERSTANDING YOUR CHARACTER? - almost always / frequently (accent/language barrier, very rarely meaning) / rarely / never.

DOES YOUR CHARACTER’S POINT COME ACROSS EASILY WHEN THEY SPEAK? - almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely (if she feels like messing with u ajnsjkn) / never.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER INITIATE CONVERSATIONS? - almost always / frequently / sometimes / never.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER BE THE ONE TO END CONVERSATIONS? - almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely / never.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER USE ‘WHOM’ IN A SENTENCE? yes / no / only ironically

YOUR CHARACTER WANTS TO MAKE A COUNTERPOINT. WHAT WORD DO THEY USE? - but / though / although / however / perhaps / mayhaps.

HOW DOES YOUR CHARACTER END CONVERSATIONS? - walk away / ask if that’s everything / say that’s everything / give a proper goodbye / tell their company they’re done here / remain quiet / they don’t.

WHAT SOCIAL CLASS WOULD OTHERS ASSUME YOUR CHARACTER BELONGS TO, HEARING THEM SPEAK? - upper / middle / lower.

IN WHAT WAYS DOES THE WAY YOUR CHARACTER SPEAK STAND OUT TO OTHERS? - accent / vocabulary / tone / level / politeness / brusqueness / it doesn’t.

[stuckinthesun]

Rick Grimes x Reader

Warning - angst, blood, mentions of Ricks weird behavior towards Jessie yes that’s a warning cuz wtf was that

The blood covering Ricks face had dried by the time they had finished carrying him inside, placing his unconscious body on the mattress and leaving him to your care.

You just stared at him for a moment, taking in his still features and realizing this is the first time you’ve seen his face relaxed in weeks. Months even.

With a deep sigh you look away and focus on dampening the cloth you have.

As you gently wipe the blood off Ricks face, slowly unearthing little cuts here and there, your mind wanders to earlier.

Rick getting into a fight with Pete, resulting in them flying through a window. Rick almost killing Pete in front of everyone in Alexandria. Rick, covered in blood, waving a gun around and saying how the people of Alexandria shouldn’t be alive, while laughing.

You honestly don’t know what would of happened if Michonne hadn’t knocked him out.

But selfishly, the reason it was bothering you so much, was why he was acting like this.

If Rick was doing all of this just because he was worried for your group and he was genuinely concerned about a woman being abused by her husband, then everything would be fine, but that’s not the case.

The whole group can see the way Ricks behavior has changed regarding Jessie, everyone knows his feelings for her are far from platonic. He softens whenever she’s around, he watches her walk away, and he’s almost desperate for Carl to befriend her son Ron.

Everyone knows Rick likes Jessie.

Thing is, everyone knows you’re in love with Rick.

Except for Rick, apparently.

So watching him grow this obsession with the women has been painful.

You shake your head and finish cleaning the blood from Ricks face, setting the now red stained rag into the bowl of water. Careful you pat his face dry with a clean cloth and pull out the first aid material left for you.

Tweezers, antibacterial cream, and small bandages ready you start to patch the unconscious man up.

You remember the last time you did this for him, back at the prison after him and Tyreese got into a fight. You quickly took over for Hershel after you noticed just how depressed Rick was getting the more the older man scolded him.

Rick had thanked you, flashing you a smaller version of his signature smile, and it was that moment that grew your friendship.

Late night talks, watch duty together, sitting together at meals. He even started showing you how to tend crops. Even after the prison fell, and the two of you got separated, when you reunited he held you in his arms for much longer than necessary.

At some point, you developed feelings, and you had thought that maybe the feelings were mutual. Yet you never made a move, because you saw the way he still fiddled with his wedding band.

So you decided to wait for him to come to you, even in the uncertainty of the apocalypse you wanted to respect the privacy of a man grieving his wife.

Turned out that wasn’t the problem at all, the problem was that Rick didn’t feel the same way as you.

Placing the final bandage on him, you leaned back to examine your work. Everything seemed to be properly placed and there were no cuts missed.

You nodded, telling yourself your work was done and it was time to leave. You couldn’t look away though, even covered in bandages and unconscious he was beautiful.

And… you missed him.

Rick has been pretty distant from you since getting to Alexandria. Even living in the same house with him didn’t guarantee you’d see him. You missed him so much, it hurt.

Suddenly, Rick shifted a little, furrowing his eyebrows and opening his mouth. Your eyes widened and you instinctively leaned away, afraid of being caught staring at him.

“Mmm,” Rick mumbled, trying to say something in his unconscious state. Quickly you look around, as if trying to see if anyone is spying on you, before leaning in to hear him clearly.

“J-Jess…ie,” Rick finally got out, and you immediately regretted listening.

You’re chest felt hollow as you stood up, collecting your materials as you went, and walked out of the room. You stopped at the door, everything in your body wanting to turn back, but you didn’t.

You left.

[rolloollor]

Since Rollo is revealed to have parents do you have any headcanons for them weather looks or how they would feel about Malleus

Yeah, I wrote about them a tiny bit in From the Ashes.

I figure the father is pretty tall and looks really... severe, probably has heavy wrinkles and whatnot. His hair was brown when he was younger, but it went gray within a year of Jehan's death.

Their mother is a lot shorter and also looks intense. I think her hair would've been naturally gray. I guess I saw it as Rollo resembling the father in terms of demeanor, eyes, nose, etc while taking after his mother's coloring. He also has her lips.

The main thing about them is that they couldn't have handled Jehan's death well. I figure they grieved really, really hard and didn't have the presence of mind or the time to comfort Rollo properly. They do seem to care about him, if Rollo's vignette is any indication. They either aren't good with emotional stuff in general or they totally failed to believably reassure Rollo that Jehan's death wasn't his fault. They may have tried when Rollo got a bit older, but by then it was too late. Rollo writes to them out of obligation, but he doesn't share genuine thoughts or feelings with them. They're almost like a chore he has to check off.

I would not at all be surprised if they, thinking they were alone, had held each other, miserable, teary, and cursed Jehan's precocious magical ability without realizing Rollo overheard them.

As far as what they think of Malleus... Well, it's gotta be baffling, right? You lost one son. Your other son is, let's face it, a bit off. You love him, but Jehan's death hit him hard. He doesn't really have friends and it feels like he doesn't let you 'in' so to speak. Have you failed as a parent? Will he grow out of it?

One day, he comes home and tells you (as though under duress) that he has a boyfriend. That's gonna surprise anyone, but great, he's coming out of his shell and getting involved with others. That's a wonderful development.

Then he brings his boyfriend home. He's a fae, a straight up dragon with horns and weird eyes. But not only that....... he's a literal prince. A prince who will inherit the throne of an actual country.

I can only imagine how confusing/shocking that must have been for them.

I figure the father would warm up to it first, though he would never smile or look the least bit welcoming toward Malleus because it's not in his nature. He's mostly just happy his son is moving forward with his life. As long as this weird man with horns treats his son well, great. I imagine he had strict expectations for his sons when they were younger, but Jehan's death made him back off and realize that no career or whatever is more important than his son's happiness. But maybe this backing off wasn't really what Rollo needed.

The mom would be more suspicious. You know, the whole, "Why are you interested in my son?" angle. After all, what could a royal want with someone who isn't anywhere near the same class? What does a fae want with him? There must be negative stereotypes about fae that swirl around, right. A creature that lives so long couldn't possibly be taking a relationship with a human seriously. He must be playing with Rollo's heart before eventually dumping him. She would probably try to dissuade Rollo since she doesn't want to see him get hurt. I think it'd take the combination of a proposal and seeing Rollo and Malleus interact a bit more for her to accept that maybe Malleus genuinely does love Rollo.

I can't really blame her for this line of thinking since, in the end, Malleus is legitimately dangerous. He will be king and Rollo will be, at best, a foreigner the king has taken as a consort. His quality of life would be entirely dependent on Malleus' whims. That's not even getting into how physically and magically powerful Malleus is... She should worry.

[scorched-sunrise]

TIMING: Last week LOCATION: Emilio’s apartment, Worm Row PARTIES: Ophelia (@scorched-sunrise) & Emilio (@mortemoppetere) SUMMARY: Ophelia has some bad news and asks Emilio to meet her and talk. It goes about as well as you’d expect. CONTENT WARNINGS: Child death (mentions), parental death (mentions)

—

This wasn't really something that should have been explained over text, and so instead of using her phone to tell her uncle that something bad had happened to his brother, she instead only said that she needed to see him, needed to talk to him. He told her to meet him at the apartment in Worm Row, which is where she stood now, her hood pulled up and hands stuffed in her pockets. 

She felt sick to her stomach, anxious of what his response might be. Would he care? She wanted him to fucking care. She wanted someone, anyone to care as much as she did that the warden had gone missing, and the thought that she might be the only one left well and truly broke her heart. He wasn't a good person, she knew that, but surely he'd made some kind of positive impact on someone in this damn town, right? His own brother should have been an easy answer, but even that was fraught with contention. 

Heaving a sigh, Ophelia trudged up the front steps and into the unlocked building (how secure!), taking the stairs over that creepy, busted-ass elevator that would probably strand her, knowing her luck. She moved down the familiar hallway to the familiar door that was similarly never locked, giving a quick rap of her knuckles before pushing it open.

“Tío?” she called into the apartment, stepping inside and closing the door with her foot. “You here already?”

—

Something was wrong. Something was wrong, and there was so much dread pooled in the pit of his stomach that he couldn’t breathe around it. He should have seen it coming, really; he’d been starting to feel okay again with Lucio gone, starting to feel less like a monument of grief and more like something resembling himself, and how long could a thing like that last? How long could he expect to feel decent when he knew he didn’t deserve it? 

Ophelia asked him to meet her, and she wouldn’t have done that if there wasn’t something wrong. She’d told him where Rhett was in a text, was probably happy to have that be the last communication that existed between them given Emilio’s inability to react the way she needed him to react. She’d been frustrated with him, with hunters in general, and he understood that. So she wouldn’t have asked to meet him if there weren’t something wrong. 

He got to the apartment early. That old paranoia that lived and breathed in his chest wouldn’t allow anything less. He scoped it out four times, as if he didn’t know it like the back of his hands. He circled the building twice on his motorcycle, walked the entire hall upon his arrival, looked in every room of the empty apartment. Something was wrong. He was just waiting to figure out what. 

Her voice called out through the open door, and Emilio pulled himself from the bare, dirty mattress in the bedroom to trudge out into the living area. “Here,” he confirmed, eyes darting over her carefully. No obvious signs of injury, and that was good. But she seemed… different. Anxious. He didn’t know if he was imagining it. “You okay?”

—

For some reason, she'd expected this conversation to be easy to start. He's gone, she'd say, and then explain what happened. What did happen? Her mother—sun above, her mother. Ophelia’s dark eyes met Emilio's and she felt her throat constrict.

No. Don't. 

He asked if she was okay and her lower lip trembled. She'd been holding it in all this time, since that morning… she hadn't allowed herself to properly grieve the parent that was actually dead, desperate as she was to cling to her hope that the other was still alive somewhere. She wasn't okay. She was so fucking far from okay and she hadn't even realized it. 

Don't break down. Don't do it. She scolded herself into controlling the quiver in her voice and the way her hands shook despite being clenched into fists, staring at Emilio as a suspicious silence stretched out between them. 

“I…” Speaking without bursting into tears felt like an insurmountable summit, forcing her to stop and take a sharp breath. “... I moved… into town.” What the fuck? What the fuck am I saying? That's not what I came here for. She breathed out, hating the way the sigh stuttered without her consent. “My… um. My m-mom, she's… She, um…” Her voice pitched higher as she lost the battle, and her hands unclenched and flew to her face, splaying over her cheeks and eyes. The first sob was silent, wracking her tall frame as her shoulders hunched and she tucked her head down, trying to hide from Emilio. “She's dead?” It sounded like a question more than a statement, like she still couldn't believe it herself.

—

The look on her face was a haunted thing. Her lip trembled, her eyes were big, and Emilio suddenly felt so far out of his depth that even the thought of attempting to tread water was exhausting. Fathers and uncles grew into things with the kids in their lives. He’d gone from understanding babies to understanding toddlers as Flora and Jaime aged, was starting to understand young children before the massacre took him from being a father and an uncle to nothing at all instead. He knew how to soothe meltdowns spun over problems that seemed small to adults and monumental to six-year-olds, knew how to be a passable uncle to a boy who hadn’t yet learned how to tie his shoes. But…

Whatever had Ophelia’s face twisted into this expression of uncertain grief was doubtlessly bigger than the things he’d helped Jaime overcome. He knew how to be the uncle to a six year old; he hadn’t yet figured out how to do the same for a kid in her twenties. He wasn’t particularly good at comforting Nora or Wynne, either. Still, he tried. He approached Ophelia carefully, cautious as one might approach a coiled snake. 

She spoke, claiming she’d moved into town, and that pool of dread grew deeper. She’d seemed happy, when she’d talked about Rhett up on the mountain. Nervous, but happy. She’d had her family in one spot and, for her, it had been good. For her to be here now… 

Emilio’s mouth felt dry. His heart was pounding, and he thought back to that factory, to the moment he’d walked in and been so sure that his brother was dead. The water was rising, filling his lungs, his nose, his ears. Ophelia spoke, and it was muffled. Her mother was dead, and wouldn’t it have been Rhett who’d killed her? Hadn’t that been what he’d always wanted? Ophelia spoke of a promise the first time Emilio went with her to meet her father, and Emilio was no warden, but he knew what that must have meant. Ophelia’s mother was dead, and Rhett had wanted it that way for as long as Emilio had known him. And he’d made a promise, and —

And Ophelia was standing in front of him looking broken, and he couldn’t ask. He couldn’t demand answers from a kid who’d clearly had her fucking world torn apart. Her mother was dead, and maybe his brother was, too. The thought made him nauseous, made him want to pull his hair out and kick at the ground until his bad knee gave out and slam his fist through the fucking wall, but there was a kid in his living room looking shattered and it wasn’t his place to fall apart now just like it hadn’t been his place to fall apart in the car driving Rhett home from the hospital. Emilio could break in private, the way he always had. For now, he needed to be the uncle he should have been for Jaime.

“Come here,” he said, taking her arm and gently guiding her over to the sofa. He sat her on the cushion before trailing into the kitchen, pulling one of the two glasses he owned down from the cabinet and filling it with water from the sink. He brought it over, pressing it carefully into her hands. “Do you… want to tell me what happened? It’s okay if you don’t. It’s okay. But I—” I need to know about Rhett. I need to know what happened to my brother. I need to know if I should go up and try to find his body. He buried my daughter, my wife. I need to know if I have to bury him. His eyes stung, and he looked away, silently berating himself. He had to keep it together here. No outbursts, no getting lost in the depths of his broken mind. He needed to be present, needed to be functional for once in his sorry fucking life.

—

Ophelia was so much like her father in that moment, even if she didn’t know it. Fighting with everything she had to keep the door barred shut, to not let the tidal wave overcome her. She would surely drown if she did. The look on her face was one of miserable fury, as stiff as an iron mask, plastered there with the hope that it would keep everything else from crumbling to pieces. She let herself be led to the couch, let herself be sat down and stared blankly ahead as she heard her uncle rummaging around in the kitchen with glassware and the faucet. Her gaze didn’t leave the floor when he pressed the water into her hands, her brows pinched in the center as she scowled so deeply that it made her face ache.

Emilio asked if she wanted to talk about it. She knew why, really. If he was anything like Rhett, it wasn't because he thought he could make her feel better—who could, anyway? But he wanted to know about his brother. He wanted to know if Ophelia had found him dead beside her mother. If he'd killed her mother. Seeing the way they'd been the night before, it felt impossible. She couldn't believe it, she wouldn't. And besides, he hadn't been there. And the note… and the missing fae… no. Her parents were both the victims in this scenario. Ruminating on it made her start to run hot, her hands gripping the glass of water tightly as her anger rose. 

The water was lightly steaming before she answered, speaking through her teeth, her jaw clenched so tight it hurt. “He's gone. They took him.” She was shaking, letting the news settle over the room for a few seconds before abruptly standing up from the sofa and hurling the glass of water across the room. It shattered loudly against the wall, but the sound was nothing compared to the scream the girl let loose—it was equal parts devastated and incensed, shorter than the wail she'd released at her mother's side but just as jarring. “They took him, tío!” She whipped around to face Emilio, tears streaking her face. “They killed my mother and took my father away and—and left a fucking note! I'd burn that whole place to the ground if I could,” she snarled, rabid in her righteous hatred, not caring if there were fae there that had treated her like family—any who still remained after what had been done deserved death, that much she knew. 

Her gaze snapped down from where it had been fixed on the wall, picturing bodies on fire. It fell upon Emilio, who until this point hadn't been given much of a chance to speak. “I'm still looking for him. I'll find him. I'll save him. And those motherfuckers are going to pay.”

—

There were things that got easier with practice. When he was a kid, his mother had him throw knives until his fingers bled, until blisters formed on his hands and his palms cracked open. He repeated the process every day until calluses grew, until those same fingers were reshaped through repetition of the same actions over and over and over again. The same thing had happened to his feet when she made him stand still for hours at a time, starting the clock over with each fidget. The first time she’d tossed him in the lake, he’d nearly drowned. The second time, he’d been able to swim to shore with less struggling. Life was hard, she told him. Everything in the goddamn world wanted to kill you. But there were things that got easier with practice.

And there were things that didn’t.

He didn’t even remember the first loss he’d suffered. His father was dead before Emilio was old enough to memorize the lines of his face, a ghost haunting the beginning of his story who’d be irrelevant by the end of it. Then he was twelve, and his uncle went into the woods with his brother and came back alone. Then at thirty-two, he had more tombstones in his heart than he did names of living people. But no calluses grew. No blisters burst and hardened with the repetition. He practiced and he practiced and he practiced, and it still felt just as raw. He was still floundering and fighting and gasping for breath like it was the first time he’d ever been tossed in the lake. 

It didn’t feel fair. Hadn’t he just done this? Hadn’t he just found Rhett’s cane on the sidewalk and come to terms with the fact that he’d been taken by people who wanted him dead? Hadn’t he just tracked him down and pulled him out with one less limb to speak of, hadn’t he just gone from accepting that his brother was dead to finding him alive and angry? Was this supposed to give him more practice? Was this supposed to make him feel better? If this was the real thing, then what had that factory been? A trial run, a rehearsal dinner? It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. 

But it was less fair to Ophelia.

There was steam coming from the glass, and then the glass was shattering against the wall, and Emilio was too numb to make a joke about how he only had two glasses. He stared at the broken glass gleaming on the dirty carpet with an expression of dull interest, as if the world wasn’t ending all over again. As if it had ever stopped.

He knew the odds here. Rhett had barely survived being taken by two people, and he was so much weaker now. Had he even had any weapons on him? Emilio doubted the fae in Ophelia’s community had been keen to allow a warden to keep his blades even if he had been allowed to remain temporarily among them. And he’d been out of it, Ophelia had said, slept for days after his trek up the mountain. What chance did he have against a whole group of fae, if they wanted him dead? What was he hoping for here? Was the best case scenario that his brother had been given a quick death, or that he was still alive and suffering torture? He knew which option Rhett would have preferred. Did it make him a terrible person that he thought he’d be happier with the alternative? At least that would give him something to save. 

(Ophelia seemed certain that he was still alive. He could see it in her determined scowl, hear it in the tone of her voice. But Ophelia had less practice than him. When it came to this kind of thing, Emilio thought he might be the closest thing there was to a pro.)

“You shouldn’t do it alone.” His voice sounded hoarse, sounded uncertain, sounded like it was coming from someone else. “He was — He’s my brother. I want to help. Whatever there is to do, I want to help.” If Rhett was alive, wasn’t it Emilio’s job to bring him home? And if he wasn’t… Didn’t Emilio owe it to him to repay the favor he’d given him years ago, when he’d dug two graves in the aftermath of a massacre? “You want to make them pay, I can help with that. I’m good at that. You shouldn’t do it alone.”

—

There was no doubt in Ophelia’s mind that Emilio would be well equipped to deal with the fae once they were found—he was a hunter, after all. Dealing with supernatural threats was his bread and fucking butter, even if fae were more outside his wheelhouse. He’d grown up with Rhett, sure he’d learned a thing or two. Yes, he’d be a useful ally in taking them down, but it was the finding them part that concerned her…

“Home was in the mountains, Emilio. You can’t…” She glanced down at his knee, the one always giving him trouble. “... it won’t be easy to find them. The warm weather is erasing their tracks. I can fly, I can see more, look faster, but…” But I probably can't kill them all on my own. She sighed, wrapping her arms around herself and trying to talk herself down from this elevated emotional state. She was running hot, too hot, and she didn’t want to suddenly become a danger to the one person she had left. “When I figure out where they are, or get any solid leads, I’ll tell you. I know you can… help take care of them.” She wasn’t a stranger to fighting—her mother had taught her how to defend herself, and her mother had learned from Rhett. But that didn’t mean she could handle seven or eight or however many it was all at once, especially when they would be expecting this from her. They’d killed her mother, after all, how could they not expect an attempt at revenge? 

Knowing that she had support did something to quell her fire, though, and she brought a hand to her face as that grief came rushing back, mixing with the anger and diluting it down into something less explosive. Her core temperature was dropping as she moved back to the couch, sitting beside Emilio again and wringing her hands in her lap. “Sorry about the glass,” she offered, leaning against his shoulder. “Sorry… for—” Her voice caught in her throat and she clamped her mouth shut, hating the way the tears said more than she ever could. 

—

It was like a bucket of ice water poured over his head, the way she looked down at his bad leg. Emilio liked to pretend the limb was better off than it was, liked to act as though it didn’t bother him nearly as much as it did. He was still plenty capable, wasn’t he? He could still fight with the best of them, still hold his own against undead monsters and assholes in bar fights even if he couldn’t manage a flight of stairs. But there were things he couldn’t do. A trek in the mountains would be difficult. But it wasn’t impossible, was it? 

“Rhett managed it,” he ground out, and he wasn’t sure if it was his brother’s name or the reminder of his own inadequacy that left that ache in his chest. Rhett had managed a mountain trek with one leg missing, and Emilio was uncertain if he could do it with both still attached. (Maybe it was because Rhett had had damn good motivation. Climbing a mountain in the interest of getting far away from Emilio was probably far easier than sticking around.) “I’m a detective, mija. I know you can find them on your own, but I can help. I can make it quicker.” Because it would need to be, wouldn’t it? If there was any chance at all that Rhett was still alive (and Emilio found himself believing it less and less the more he thought about it, though he wouldn’t say as much to Ophelia), they’d need to uncover his location quickly. 

That ache in his chest only grew as her weight leaned against him. He thought of Rhett, the way he’d found him in the woods after that massacre, the way he’d vowed to help Emilio find his vengeance only for Emilio to abandon him the moment he realized Rhett was one more person he could lose. That was what they’d done, wasn’t it? Emilio and Rhett had abandoned one another over and over again, finding some new excuse to walk away after each disagreement. Sometimes, it was as simple as not wanting to see one another kill themselves for bodies long buried. Other times, it went deeper. Their ideologies shifted over the years, Rhett’s in one direction and Emilio’s in the other. If Rhett had stayed, how long would it have been before they were at each other’s throats again? Before there was another kid locked in Rhett’s van, before Emilio befriended someone Rhett thought he shouldn’t? 

He wondered, absently, if it would be the same with Ophelia. After all, he was still a hunter, wasn’t he? Ophelia was angry, wanted the people who’d killed her mother dead, and Emilio could give her that. But what happened after? She’d expressed distaste for how he referred to himself in the past, for how hunters spoke and acted, and Emilio couldn’t change that. So how long would it be before Ophelia, like her father, took issue with some part of who Emilio was? He shook the thought away. It was better, he figured, to focus on the present issue. They would avenge his niece’s mother. They would avenge his brother, her father. And then, they’d worry about whatever came after. 

“You don’t have to apologize, kid,” he mumbled, wrapping an arm around her. He wasn’t very good at offering comfort, but he liked to think he was learning. This was the kind of thing that was supposed to make people feel better, wasn’t it? “You don’t have to apologize to me. It was an ugly glass, anyway.”

—

“Yeah, well Rhett is an idiot,” she countered, evening her gaze with his, silently calling him an idiot, too, if he decided it was time to start hiking through the Peaks like his brother had. The repeated offer was met with silence this time, Ophelia just sighing and shaking her head, mulling it over as she sat down beside him.

She laughed in spite of herself, bringing a hand to her face. It was a strained, miserable thing, but it was still a laugh. “Yeah… it was,” she agreed. “I’ll get you another. Maybe even more than one, if I’m feeling generous.” The arm around her felt good—god, she hadn’t been hugged in weeks, not since before all of this happened, that night that… I shouldn’t have left. 

“I wish… you could have seen them,” she muttered, pressing a thumbnail hard into her palm. “He seemed happier that day. Not like when I texted you, not… lost somewhere else. He was there, with mom and I, and he was… smiling. Laughing. So was she.” She gave up the painful dig of her fingernail to wipe the tears from her eyes with her sleeve, drawing a long, shaky breath. “I wish you could have seen him like that again.” It sounded like she was speaking as if he was dead, which she still didn’t believe (or wouldn’t let herself), but she knew that when they did find him… if he’d been that bad after the last time, how would he be pulled back from the edge after this one? She wasn’t sure she had the ability to do that for him, not like her mother had. 

—

It was hard to argue with her on that, though it was hard to do much of anything when every inch of him ached this way. She met his gaze with a look Rhett had given him a thousand times over, and that hurt, too. Emilio remembered, without meaning to, the first time he met the warden. He remembered being fourteen and pissed at the world, remembered the way Victor’s death still felt fresh even when everyone told him it shouldn’t, remembered feeling as though he was the only one mourning while everyone else moved on as if his brother’s life ending at eighteen was something they’d all seen coming. It was Victor’s death that had made him latch on to Rhett so tightly, Victor’s death that made Rhett slot so easily into the then-vacant position of brother. Rosa and Edgar had loved Rhett, too, but not like Emilio had. 

So what, then, would Rhett’s death do to him? He wasn’t a kid anymore, though he was still just as angry. He couldn’t imagine shoving someone else into the box Rhett had made a home of after Victor had left it empty, but the idea of leaving it bare ached, too. For years now, Emilio had lived a slippery slope of dealing with loss by replacing it. Victor died, and there was Rhett. Juliana died, and he found someone different to fill his bed night after night after night until Teddy came and offered up something real. Flora died, and he saw her reflected in every kid he came across, tried with everything he had to protect Nora and Wynne and strangers with wide eyes and young features as if it would make up for not protecting his daughter, his fucking kid. But what could he do with this? Nothing else could fit in this empty slot the way Rhett had. To try felt like a betrayal, and hadn’t he betrayed Rhett enough already? Hadn’t that been all he’d ever fucking done? 

Ophelia was talking about the glass, and Emilio was at the bottom of a goddamn lake trying to make sense of distorted language that was only just barely reaching him. She didn’t think Rhett was dead. Emilio couldn’t let himself think anything else. Should he warn her, he wondered? Should he tell her that hope, in this family, was little more than a prelude to endless grief? 

He was stiff, trying to imagine Rhett the way she described him. “I don’t think I ever saw him happy,” he admitted quietly, throat tight. The closest he’d seen to Rhett as Ophelia described him was in Mexico, with Flora on his shoulders and Emilio giving him shit and Juliana chastising them both. Maybe, if Rhett was dead, it wasn’t all bad. Maybe it was better that he’d ended on a high note, at least. Maybe that was all people like them could ever really hope for. 

—

It made her sad to think that. Sad to think that Emilio never had… and it wasn’t fair, really, given how much longer he’d known the man. Had he really been that miserable for that long? She couldn’t help but wonder how their lives might’ve been if she and her mother hadn’t run. If they’d faced him, made him see how wrong he was, just like he had in Hemlock Ridge. That wasn’t just because of the handicap, was it? 

No, it couldn’t be. He was changed. She knew it. Just like she knew that he was still alive somewhere.  

“Then we’ll just have to work extra hard to pick him back up off the ground, won’t we? Then you can see him happy.” It was a stretch by anyone’s measure, but she was nothing if not stubborn and determined. Her resolve was strong, and she wasn’t going to let the matter lie until she found her father, or a corpse. “I’ll tell you what, tío Emilio… you can start asking around town, and I’ll keep looking in the mountains. Fair?”

Getting to her feet again, Ophelia glanced around the place as she went to pick up the shards of glass on the floor piece by piece. She remembered the afternoons she’d spent here, helping her father sew up the leg on his pants, making him presentable for the few outings he went on alone, and generally just spending time with him and her uncle, getting to know them both better.

“Are you… still staying here?” It didn’t look lived in—not that it really had before, either, but there was a light coating of dust on all the surfaces that seemed relatively undisturbed. She bent down, holding out a palm and setting each piece of glass gingerly into it. She hoped he wasn’t staying here. It was depressing here. He deserved better than that.

—

She was hopeful, and he ached with it. The way she seemed so sure that there would be something left to pick up off the ground in spite of all evidence pointing to the contrary, the way she held onto this impossible idea that the world would offer them some kind of kindness. It occurred to Emilio, with an nauseating twist in his stomach, that she wouldn’t have that kind of optimism had she been raised by her father. In some alternative version of events where Rhett had known her since she was a child, where he’d been a father instead of a monster under her bed for the first two decades of her life, she likely would have felt the way Emilio felt now — hopeless and desolate.

(His stomach twisted a little more at the realization that Flora, had she survived, would have been just as much a pessimist as he was. Hunters didn’t tend to find it particularly easy to look on the bright side, after all. His daughter had only been happy because she was young. The world would have taken that from her sooner rather than later.)

“Sure,” he agreed with a nod, trying not to let his voice betray the fact that he thought looking would be a hopeless task. What could he hope to gain by asking people around town if they’d seen a man he knew had left weeks ago with no intention of returning? Even if he’d had any hope that Rhett was alive, Emilio would have found the job Ophelia handed him to be a pointless one. He wondered idly if it was meant to placate him, to keep him docile while she did the real work that she figured his bad leg made him incapable of accomplishing. 

He watched her rise, fiddling with the ring on his finger as she began picking up the glass. “Broom in the closet,” he said, nodding towards it. Like most things in the dusty apartment, it wasn’t something he’d bought for himself. The broom, like the bare mattress in the bedroom and the shelf in the bathroom, had been in the apartment when Emilio moved in a year ago. It was the kind of thing that might make someone question the fate of the apartment’s previous occupant… but only if they cared enough to do so.

Still twisting his ring absently, he shrugged. “Not really,” he admitted. “Started staying with someone when the place got covered with goo a few months back. Then the goo was gone, but… they wanted me to stay, so I stayed. Figure I’ll come back here when they don’t want me to stay anymore.” It was bound to happen sooner or later, wasn’t it? Even Rhett had figured trekking through the mountains on one leg was a better idea than hanging around Emilio long term, and he’d known him twenty years. 

Getting to his feet, Emilio limped into the kitchen to retrieve a garbage can, bringing it over to Ophelia. He set it down at her feet so she could toss the glass in, then hesitated momentarily. “We’re, uh… Together. Me and the person I’m staying with. We weren’t when I moved in, but… Happened a couple months back. Their name’s Teddy.” He paused a moment, uncertainty sitting on his shoulders like a tangible thing. “You could meet them, if you wanted.”

—

Fetching the broom, Ophelia used it to better collect the rest of the pieces of glass, listening as he told her about the place he was staying now. Good. It was good that he wasn't living here, and not just because it was a shitty apartment… It held a lot of memories, ones she figured might be painful for him to recall. She'd only spent a few months coming and going from the apartment and she had memories she didn't really want to visit, at least not until she found her father. 

“Come on, tío… as much as you don't want to admit it, you're actually very likable. I'm sure whoever it is is happy to have you around, and I don't think that's gonna change unless you actively try to sabotage it. So don't fuckin’ do that, all right?” She gave him a nod of thanks as he approached with the trash can, her brows raising when he went on to elaborate on the situation without any kind of prompting from her. “Yeah?” Her face genuinely brightened and she dumped the glass into the container, setting the broom down against the wall and putting her hands on her hips. “Teddy… yeah, I'd like to meet Teddy.” She pushed the bin aside with her foot so she could close the space between them, wrapping her arms easily over his shoulders and pulling him into a soft hug. “That's great to hear. Seriously. You… you deserve to be happy. You deserve to have someone love you like that.” She tightened her grip, burying her face against his shoulder and letting out a ragged sigh. 

She'd thought the same of Rhett. She'd desperately hoped that, even if it wasn't her mother, that someone would love the old thing. It was what he'd needed, she thought. In the end, though, all that love had gotten him was kidnapped. Again. Because of people like her. She'd never really hated hunters, she'd just been afraid. Wished they'd been raised to think for themselves rather than brainwashed to believe whatever they were told. But… there was truth there. And Emilio wasn't cruel like her father. He was lovable. He was redeemable. And Ophelia, she… she didn't know what her own future held. When she found those fae, when she killed them, she didn't know what that would make her. But she couldn't worry about that now. Now she just wanted to be with her uncle, to find comfort in his presence. “... can I show you where I'm living, now?” she asked, pulling away again. In case I ever need you to come help me with something quickly, she thought to herself. “Then maybe we can grab some food? All this crying has made me peckish.” 

—

After the way the conversation had started, the sweeping and cleaning up of the glass felt so painfully mundane. It was domestic, in a way; the kind of thing that, if he were someone else, Emilio could pretend was normal. If his head weren’t what it was, all broken and mixed up, he could tell himself that this was how things were supposed to be, that sweeping glass off the floor of his shitty apartment with his niece and making conversation about his relationship were expected things. But because he was who he was, because he was him, he couldn’t help but feel like he was just waiting for the other shoe to drop. He loved Ophelia, just as he’d loved Rhett. Just as he’d loved Flora and Jaime and Edgar and Rosa, just as he’d loved people who existed only as ghostly memories now. How long would it be, then, before Ophelia was gone, too? Emilio had a bad habit of outliving the people he loved. He wasn’t sure he’d ever learn how to break it.

“Ah, tell that to all the guys who want to kill me,” he joked, though he didn’t think it untrue. He had a lot more people who hated him than he had people who liked him and, if he was being honest, there was something intentional about it. It was easier, he thought, to be hated. Hate was a straightforward thing, something he knew what to do with. He understood how to react when someone wanted him dead. He was less certain when someone wanted to save him. He thought of Lucio, a bitter taste settling on his tongue. He’d rather be hated than saved. It was better for everyone that way. 

But you couldn’t control what other people felt. Teddy loved him, despite his best efforts. He thought Ophelia might, too. And Xóchitl, and Wynne, and Nora, and Jade. It was a dangerous thing, having people to lose again. It wasn’t something he ever would have done intentionally. “Yeah,” he confirmed with a nod, glancing back to Ophelia. He huffed a fond half-laugh as Ophelia wrapped her arms around him. 

(In another world, he thought, Rhett would be here making a joke about how Ophelia was as tall as he was. He’d call Emilio short, and Emilio would toss something at his head, and they’d laugh. In this world, there was little more than an empty crevice in his chest and an ache in this throat. These things got easier with time, he’d been told. He was still trying to get there. And, despite Ophelia’s hope that they’d find her father alive, he felt like he was back at the start line again, back at ground zero. How could he hope for time to heal when the world kept pushing him to start over, to take it from the top? The grief would never leave him if more kept being added to the pile.)

Carefully, he wrapped his arms around Ophelia. He still wasn’t entirely practiced in soft touches, but he was learning. The pat he delivered to her back was a little awkward, but better than the first time he’d attempted to return Nora’s hug or the first time he’d tried to comfort Wynne. Maybe he was learning something. “You’ll like them,” he said, and he was sure of that. Teddy was hard not to get along with, and Ophelia came with less… baggage than Rhett had. A less complicated history between them, less old wounds constantly being reopened.

Offering her his best attempt at a smile, Emilio nodded. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Yeah, I’d like that.” He needed it, really, though he knew better than to admit to that. His head — the paranoia, the unease that never left him, the thing that he didn’t have a name for — tended to demand that he knew where the people he cared about were at all times. “Show me your place, and I’ll buy you lunch after. Sound good?”

[thoughtsfromlove]

These beautiful words aren't mine.

Perhaps I've never disclosed the truth to anyone, opting for silence out of fear that discussing it might do more harm than healing. I've spent my entire life shutting the door, and keeping it in. I've lost track of how many times I've heard the doorbell ring and the faint muffled sounds beyond. I never budged, not an inch, nor did I ever dared to peek through the peephole. What if all along it’s been her, struggling in her confinement, unable to move or escape the cocoon of guilt, for a temporary forever she was trapped. It's a vision akin to a fish caught in a spinner, to no end going in circles. What if she's been standing on the other side of the door all this time, frightened and scared, patiently waiting for someone; perhaps even me, to welcome her in or set her free? Welcome her in, prepare a steaming cup of hot chocolate, ask if she is okay, offer a comforting embrace, and assure her that it's okay to fall apart.

Perhaps, in that moment, it could have been the perfect chance for her to break down, tear down her walls, and cry for a childhood lost, for what might have been, and for the unbearable pain she endured and inflicted, while convinced she deserved to be punished. Regrettably, no one came to the door, no one took notice. They were all likely absorbed in their own sorrow, entangled in their personal pain, no one to spare her a second glance or detect the tear-streaked cheeks. Maybe they did notice but assumed she was grappling with the same anguish everyone else felt, the loss of a loved one. Internally, she was screaming and thrashing. When the agony became overwhelming, she made the decision to endure the pain and bury the guilt. Her tears, like rain, unintentionally nurtured a seed she planted, instead of laying to rest. With each passing year, it grew, bloomed, and flourished into a colossal flower of self-destruction that some labeled a beautiful mess.

One fateful evening, I baked cookies, prepared two mugs of hot chocolate, and made the choice to welcome her in. As I settled her down, I inquired, "What happened to you?" hesitant, she countered with a "When?" I could sense her mind racing, as a multitude of events had unfolded, and everything that could have gone awry indeed did. Despite it all, she managed to muster the broadest smile possible and replied, "Not much. You see, I'm still here, still standing, so I'm okay." Yet, behind that smile, all she truly wished to express was, "Come, take a seat, and let me share with you." How at 10 the so-called relatives stopped coming to visit, after my dad was poisoned and died. Or how, at the age of 14, I started the fire that killed my grandfather and was so overcome with guilt that I was unable to grieve properly. How it slowly consumed me without anyone taking notice. No, don't worry, I'm not an arsonist; it was an accident. I simply forgot to tend to the pots in time.

Or perhaps the prayer that Thursday afternoon took longer than I had anticipated, so I suppose God was too preoccupied with our pleas and praise that he forgot to remember to save the elderly man who was unable to escape a burning house. In the haze of trying to survive, to live and forget I fell pregnant at 16. In my first year of varsity got sexually assaulted by a familiar stranger. Or should I tell you about how I wanted to die at 23 and jumped out of a moving car to save the very life I thought I was tired of, only to realize how bad I wanted to live. However, expressing any of that is beyond me, who am I to lament my pain and sorrow when there are others facing more challenging situations? So, she wears a smile and remains silent. While holding a cup of hot chocolate that's still emitting steam, a realization dawns on her, although It took a moment. It turns out, the cocoon, isn’t as inescapable as it appears.

It provides the perfect setting for her to sit with herself, engage in a heart to heart, and release her pent-up emotions. The fear of being trapped propels her beyond her limitations, and from within, strength emerges. Surprisingly, the once tiny and frightened caterpillar sprouts wings. Like a seed breaking free from its shell. With my newly found wings look at me flying. I am taking it in, I can finally breathe.

-written by a childhood friend.

[haleigh-sloth]

Family Matters

I have been meaning to rant about the focus BNHA puts on families and how they’re so important to the start of a person’s life and development. It’s the way that BNHA puts such a heavy emphasis on family, and the impact it has on you, and how everything could easily go seriously, seriously wrong if your family dynamic is not developed properly or handled with care.

One of the recurring focuses in BNHA is family, and it’s mostly explored through the LOV trio than anyone else. It shows how some broken families can be mended, repaired, and reunited, and how others simply cannot. Both of these are explored through Shigaraki, Touya, and Toga.

Shigaraki reflecting on his family before the war shows us that he never did let go of the attachment he had to them. Not that he would, since they are his family. But he was never able to grieve in any normal way whatsoever:

And as a result, there are a lot of unaddressed feelings that he hasn’t been able to move on from. Which is shown to us when he manifests them in his conscience in the AFO void/dreamscape thing. And through this attempt to give himself closure by reliving the final moments he had with his family, he decides that enough is enough, that he doesn’t want to be rejected for who he is anymore:

This shows that, hey, maybe he’s done dwelling on these feelings? Now he can move forward with his plan of destruction without anything holding him back. Except, it turns out that he isn’t done dwelling:

Even 16 years after they’re long dead, his family is still grabbing him all over his body, pulling him back, keeping him from moving on. Never having gotten that acceptance he needed in his home has resulted in him practically begging for it from the current world they’re in. Even after he’s seemingly rejected the idea of ever being accepted, he’s still there, asking for this acceptance:

So now we’re at a point where, only when he’s given what his family wasn’t able to give him (understanding and acceptance), will he be able to break that hold AFO has on him and move forward to his salvation. Saving Shigaraki isn’t just about breaking the possession, and it’s not about making him forget his family. It’s about making him realize that his dream of destroying everything is not going to bring him any relief, and that there is hope for him to feel good again if he’s given what he needs, given what he never got when he was little Tenko.

Now Touya. Touya reflecting on his family after the war shows us the way he grew up, and the emotional harm inflicted on him before he “died”. But the more telling parts of Touya’s reflection are when he’s brought to tears (of blood) thinking about his family living on without him, for the second time:

But those chapters are split between his and his parents’ POV. We know that Touya loved his family, pretty much up until he left. And, we know that he still does love all of them except Endeavor. For whom Touya’s love grew into a deep hatred and pain that Touya doesn’t want to continue living with.

Touya loves his family, his family that is very much alive. And his family loves him too. But Touya rejected the idea of returning to them 10 years ago, which only resulted in the state that he is in now: burns spreading, emotionally isolated from other people, still living in a state of constant anger, and now being somewhat forced to cooperate under someone he didn’t agree to work for.

Touya being estranged from his siblings for so long only contributed to his spiraling. Unlike Shigaraki, whose family will never be able to give him what he needed as a child, Touya’s family is alive and CAN give him what he needed, and still needs now.

Then we have Toga. We finally saw her reflect on her family and how it brought her to where she is now:

Unlike Touya’s and Shigaraki’s families, Toga’s family rejected her entire existence. There was rejection and ostracization in both the Todoroki and Shimura families, but there was also unconditional love present in both of those homes. But Toga?

It doesn’t look like there was any, at any point.

We don’t know what Toga’s relationships with her (assumed) siblings were like, but we knew about her parents giving up on her at the ripe old age of 3. Which tells us that before their kid could even really form a personality or an identity of any kind, they stopped viewing Himiko as their child and instead as a burden.

Just like with Tenko and Touya, it took a tragic event for Toga to end up separated from her family, just reinforcing that Toga DID spend the vast majority of her life with her family. In fact, Toga’s separation from her family is fairly new. Sure, she adjusted quickly, but we now know that she never fully moved on from it. If she had fully moved on, their words wouldn’t be echoing for her:

I think it’s safe to say that Toga going back to her family is just not in the cards. Her separation from them is still fresh, it didn’t even take a full two years for them to get rid of her stuff, and on top of that–they had given up on her before she could even fully form her own thoughts. The physical separation is new, but the emotional separation had been there for a long time.

So looking at these three families, we have two different endgames set up.

For Shigaraki it’s obvious. His family is gone. They are physically separated by life and death, and nothing will ever change that. For Toga, her family is physically there, alive. But the emotional separation is too deep, and has existed for all but 3 years of Toga’s lifetime. While it is physically possible for them to be reunited, emotionally, it isn’t.

And then we have Touya. Touya has what Shigaraki doesn’t. A living family. Touya has what Toga doesn’t. A family who wants him back, a mother who wants to mend her mistakes, a brother who wants to know him for the first time, siblings who want to make up for lost time.

BNHA doesn’t undermine the importance of family. It shows that certain circumstances truly can separate and break a family for good (Shigaraki and Toga). But it also shows that families can persevere through even the most trying times, even when things seem hopeless and like they’ll never be whole or complete again (Touya).

That’s why it makes the most sense for Touya’s ending to be to return home. Touya has what Shigaraki and Toga don’t have, but do/did want. A living family, a family that wants him back. And the best ending for Shigaraki and Toga is to find the acceptance they needed from their families, in the people around them (heroes and villains alike) since it will never be found in their families.

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

Draw your swords, pt. 5

Summary: A very special dinner brings a very special moment for the Darkling and his wife.

Warnings: angst, sexual innuendoes, swearing, bit of fluff

Part one // Part two // Part three // Part four  

=================================

She felt caught in the riptide, finding it hard to stay upright. As the daughter of a general, Y/N had seen so many evils, so much hurt, yet she never buckled under pressure.

Staring at the empty spot beside her, she laid there while battling shadows in her head. So filled with rage, she wondered who she’s becoming as a part of her longed to feel his touch. Perhaps he was right, she’s a foolish girl who is trying to win a game where the rules are nonexistent.

Having stayed awake most of the previous night, she didn’t expect trouble sleeping. With a heavy sigh, she abandoned the bed they shared – it felt too intimate to remain there now. They’ve only ever kissed and it was never planned nor did it happen in the very bed she felt is so incredibly vast, so lonely and cold when he didn’t stay there with her.

Pacing the room as she saw his shadow do the night before, Y/N couldn’t help but wonder if he had trouble sleeping alone too. It was less than a full week since they married and she already cursed the smallest part of her that seemed to care for him.

Men are easy to love. A woman’s heart was made to care and love those near her. Mistaking love and trust is what a woman should never do. Love and trust are separate entities, one is given, the other must be earned.

Remembering her mother’s words eased her self-loathing. If she dared to love the Darkling, it wasn’t entirely under her control. Trusting him was different. She wasn’t as naïve as to allow the echoes of her heart dictate what her mind long acknowledged – he isn’t trustworthy.

And as the stars rise in the sky, she paced the room tirelessly. Arguing with herself, she paid no mind to the night sky she loved so much. If she had, Y/N might have realized a man with dark skies for eyes had trouble looking away from her shadow.

Exhausted, Y/N rose with the dawn. She had barely scraped up a few hours of decent sleep, tormented by his words even in dreams.

“Enter”, she yawned as Genya readily walked inside. The maids rushed to the bed, willing to change the bed sheets they couldn’t last time as Y/N had sent them away.

“Stop!” She exclaims as they reach Kirigan’s side of the bed, a slightly panicked look on her face relaying uncontrollable desires she had no chance of understanding.

Frowning, Genya licked her lips. While Y/N wasn’t sure what caused her outburst, she believed to know the root. “Leave us. You will be asked to change the sheets when Y/N desires it.”

Swallowing thickly, Y/N turned away. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be”, Genya mussed. “We have a dinner to prepare you for.”

“Yes, of course.” Y/N managed a smile, briefly looking to Genya. “I’ll be alone which gives me a perfect chance to find new allies.”

Blinking fast, Genya’s frown deepened. “I’m not sure who could ally with us in the Palace. Everyone’s charmed by our General. If you’d just work with him, they would all be with you too.”

“He works for the emperor.” Y/N reminded her.

Running her hands through her hair, Y/N didn’t know if she could ever trust him enough to tell him the truth. Her plans, her fight, it’s her life’s work. She came into that palace with intention of burning it down. The emperor must die and anyone else who’d fuel the flames of war must perish along with him. The war had claimed her mother’s life, of thousands of humans and Grisha alike, Y/N aimed to end it. And to end it, she had to destroy those who started it, those who refused to implement equality between species, as Kirigan called them. Humans and Grisha must be seen equally worthy, they must ally or they will be exterminated like vermin by surrounding enemies.

She grieved for her mother every day, even now as a decade had passed. Grief is really just love one cannot give to the other. It’s all the unspent love, gathering in the corners of her eyes, the lump in her throat and inside the hollowed heart that’s trying to beat in her chest. If her sorrow was but snow that could melt with coming spring, she’d shake it off her shoulder and be done with it. It doesn’t just disappear or heal with time, she could not just let it go and forgive. Y/N survived the loss of her mother by making a vow, one she was closer to fulfilling.

“Should I prepare your usual kefta?” Genya asked, holding the blue one over her forearm.

Shaking her head, Y/N turned to her with a smile. If she wants to succeeded, she must use all weapons at hand. Being the General’s wife is one of the weapons at her disposal.

“I was thinking about a different color for tonight.”

“How different are we talking?”

Smirking, Y/N’s eyes flickered to Kirigan’s kefta. “Black.”

“No one wears black but Kirigan”, Genya reminds her.

“Until he married. I believe I’m allowed to wear his color.”

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Genya sighed heavily. “Alright. As long as you allow me to make a few modifications.”

Anticipating the dinner, Y/N felt like a goddess in the kefta Genya had crafted for her. It fit her perfectly, adjusted just above the waist as it properly accentuated her curves. The closed collar wrapped around her neck, fallen stars creating a golden woven blaze as a necklace, while moondust adorned the long, skin tight lacey sleeves. The bottom acted as a floor length dress with a long slit revealing skin up to middle of her thigh.

Entering the room with her head held high and Genya on her hand, Y/N felt even more confident about the eclipsed sun stitched across her heart. It was bound to attract attention if the rest of her makeshift kefta inspired dress didn’t.  

The moment she took a step inside, everybody’s head turned. The chatter died down, replaced by astonished gasps of pure awestruck admiration.

“I believe you’ve created a masterpiece”, Y/N whispers to Genya whose smile widens.

“You are what makes it so spectacular”, Genya winks.

“Don’t be modest. We both know it’s not in your nature.”

Giggling, Genya nods, “You’re right. I’m brilliant and this”, she steps aside to give her a once over again, “You are proof.”

Pursing her lips, Y/N felt her cheeks darken. Her plan was to draw attention so any potential ally she speaks to would be more inclined to accept her request, but she didn’t expect for everyone to stop and stare.

Tugging her by the arm, Genya pulled her closer. “You’ll never guess who is here”, she spoke in a hushed tone, looking to the left as the rest of the guests began speaking again and the music played softly in the background.

Following her line of view, Y/N’s heart came to a near stop as her eyes locked on his.

“Wasn’t he supposed to leave last night?” Genya whispers, but Y/N could hardly speak.

Breath caught in her throat, Y/N stared back at Kirigan who seemed to be just as breathless. She looked like a dream, a golden bird that carried all the happiness of the world on its wings.

“He didn’t”, Y/N looked away, knitting her eyebrows. “Why didn’t he”, she tried to finish her initial thought, but she couldn’t. If she spoke of the sudden ache that settled after the initial shock of his presence dispersed, she’d hate herself more. She’s weak if her feelings are hurt by a single night spent alone in a bed. She was certain now. She is foolish.

“You won’t be able to network tonight”, Genya’s frown made Y/N chuckle.

“You’ve been frowning so often since we met.”

Shrugging, Genya leaned in discreetly. “I can afford a few worry lines. I’ll just erase them later.”

Playfully rolling her eyes, Y/N smiled brightly. She would not allow Kirigan to dampen her mood. He can stay on his side of the room and she won’t spare him a single glance.

“I’ll test the waters”, Genya promised, “If I find anyone that we can work with, we can test their loyalty later.”

Glancing over Y/N’s shoulder, Genya’s eyes widened ever so slightly.

Frowning lightly, Y/N glanced at what has her so perplexed only to huff in frustration.

“Black suits you”, the Darkling compliments her. Holding out a hand for her to take, he glances at his open palm before raising his brow. He’s challenging her.

Looking around, she realizes everyone’s waiting for her reaction. As he told her once before, they may not be a love match, but their arrangement must seem successful to the unsuspecting eye.

“Dance with me and pretend they don’t exist”, his voice softened and she couldn’t believe this is the same man who so cruelly baited her, branding her as foolish earlier. How can he act as if nothing happened when she was still reeling from it? Not that he’d know, she always put care in every move she made around him.

She placed her hand on the palm of his, holding her breath as she chained her gaze to the abyss in his. There’s no going back, she thinks, nearly shuddering as he places his free hand on her hip.

“I thought you were gone by now”, she mussed. Choosing to take control of the conversation, she kept her neck straight as it secured a proper distance between their faces.

“We had a slight delay”, he said, “I’ll be gone tonight.”

Humming, she swallowed thickly. Avoiding looking at others, she remained in a staring match with her husband.

“How did you sleep?” The Darkling smirked, watching her eyes narrow at him.

“Quite well. Did you enjoy sharing your bed with someone else?” While her voice seemed cold and unattached, her words were anything but.

“Do I detect a hint of jealousy there?” Pursing his lips, he nearly laughed as she stepped on his foot. “I’ll take that as yes.”

“I’m merely concerned how it would look if word of you sleeping elsewhere got out. I prefer my pride and honor untouched and if you choose to find a lover, I should assume you’ll be discreet.”

Licking his lips, the great general didn’t laugh at her or sneer. There was no angry squinting or vile words. For once, he had a serious expression on his face that had nothing to do with the army or their arguments.

“I’m not the kind who would seek a lover while married. Even if the marriage is a mere arrangement.”

Scoffing, she clenched her jaw as he pulled her waist closer to him. 

“How many lovers have you taken?”

He raised a brow, “That’s a horrible question.”

“Because you lost count?” She narrows her eyes, the lips he found himself so fascinated with formed a thin, red line.

He doesn’t respond, so she tried again, “Why have you not married before?”

Now he looked amused, “That’s even worse!”

Shrugging, she smirks, “Well, ask me a question then! If all mine are so awful, let me hear yours.”

“Do you think I’m a very good liar or a very unlovable being?” Slowly pulling her body flush against his, Darkling looked deep into her eyes. “I’ve never loved anyone and I’ve manipulated everyone who has fallen in love with me. So?” Inhaling sharply, he watched a disarray of emotions cross her face as he asked again, “Liar or unlovable?”

“A liar. Because you are lying, not just to me but yourself.” Her breathing is shallow, strained even. “You have a heart, General, but you’re cowering like a scared little boy instead of just facing the facts.”

“And what are those?” His voice is darker as are his intentions.

If they were alone, she was certain he’d be kissing her lips now. For some reason, it seemed he enjoyed their arguments. He liked it when she fought him almost like he didn’t know any other form of affection.

“That you care. You care and you hate yourself for it.” Stopping their dance, she managed a faint smile. “But don’t worry, I’m not spending my time waiting for you to accept it.”

Brushing his fingers across the left side of her face, he cocked his head ever so slightly, “Is it possible you’ve got this all wrong? From where I stand, you’re the one who cares – perhaps a bit too much? Let me remind you, this marriage is a sham. You are my wife, but I do not love you, I do not care for you and if you were killed right in this very spot, I would avenge you but solely for the arrangement to remain unsullied.”

Nodding, more to herself than him, she took a step back from him. For the first time ever, she drew back. “For once, we’re on the same page of the same book.”

The music stops. Looking to the man clinking his glass, Y/N’s lips part. She didn’t even realize it, but too often she entirely forgoes breathing in Kirigan’s presence.

Taking a deep breath, she nearly laughs. Kirigan…General…The Darkling. She even called him husband, yet she never even heard his first name. How odd is it to marry a man whose first name is a mystery to you, she thought.

“If you’ll excuse me”, she nods curtly without sparing him a glance. 

Her seat at the dinner table was beside Genya, while Kirigan was placed all the way on the other side of the room. She smirked, satisfied she’ll have some peace during her meal. She never quite liked the table formation in a wide U form before, but she blessed the ones who created it on this evening.

Studying him from afar, she couldn’t deny the attraction she felt for him. It wasn’t some cosmic connection that she hoped she’d share with her husband, rather wishful thinking. Longing for him is out of the question. He may be the most handsome man she had ever seen, but it’s not at all something she’d thank the saints for. If he were less appealing, she’d at least be free of torment his looks bring. The devil is real and he’s not a goat like man as humans believed. There are no horns, no tails – he’s beautiful, a fallen angel, but an angel nonetheless.

“You’re staring at him again”, Genya speaks in a hushed tone, her smile audible.

“I’m not”, Y/N replies, “I simply looked over in a direction and he happened to be seated there.”

“Then why was that look on your face?” Genya raises an eyebrow.

“What?” Y/N asks, incredulous. “What look?”

“You have a certain way of looking at him”, she informs. Letting out an tired huff, Genya explains, “You look at him and it’s like you’re staring at the night sky littered with stars.”

“So?”

Genya looks down before whispering, “You love night skies littered with stars.”

Rolling her eyes, Y/N stared at her food for the rest of the evening. One bite after another and her plate was quickly emptied. Her stomach felt like it would burst, but she didn’t care. Most people claim they can’t eat under stress, but she was the opposite – her appetite only grew.

“He’s standing up”, Genya informed her and despite wishing she remained impassive, Y/N’s eyes shot up to where he was sitting.

With a lump at the back of her throat, she watched him as he headed to the door. A part of her hoped he’d be decent enough to bid his farewell, to acknowledge her at least. That part of her needed to be destroyed, she decided. It’s the part of her that would ruin her mission and for what? If she truly wanted to, she could have him on his back and under her. If she wanted him, he’d be hers – at least his body would. The principle she held onto was more important and so, she swallowed thickly and looked to her empty plate in order to stop her weakness from showing.

As she looked away, the Darkling looked back at her from across the room. He felt a strange tightness in his heart and once he saw she didn’t follow him with her gaze, his heart dropped. Furrowing his eyebrows, he kept his gaze on her for a while longer – her beauty was unmatched by anything he had ever seen. White looked good on her, every color did – but black fabric hugging her curves could bring a dead man back to life.

With a heavy heart and frown etched on his face, the Darkling turned his back and left the room, the Palace, the strangest, most beautiful creature he ever laid eyes on.

He carried her in his thoughts ever since. It aggravates him how quickly she’s gotten under his skin. Most of the month before their marriage was finalized was spent in petty comments about their armies or their distaste for one another. She was insufferable, maddening and entirely different from what he expected.

And yet, even then, the Darkling hoped she’d lose her patience and either leave or tell him she loves him. If she left, he’d be free of her and the shackles of an undesirable marriage, but if she told him she loves him, perhaps he’d believe her. If he knew there was ever a possibility of her loving him, he’d dare assume he might be deserving of love – because she may have dubbed him a liar, but he believes himself to be unlovable too. He never saw the point in allowing himself to feel a thing for her when it would be futile, wasted emotions on a woman sworn to hate him.

Once he was done chasing a rumor of a stag up north, the Darkling had to accept it too was a futile. Going after a legendary animal wasted so much of his time that he couldn’t even believe how foolish he’s become too. The stag must not be real after all.

Approaching Little Palace, he felt almost eager to run up to their shared chambers and see her. Even if she’d likely have a few choice words for him, he hoped he could make her blood boil just to hear her speak. He’d never admit it, but he missed someone he could converse with without dying of boredom.

“General”, Genya rushed to Kirigan who nearly growled at the distraction. However, Genya seemed distraught, panicked enough to draw his attention.

“Yes?”

Swallowing thickly, she wiped a stray tear slipping down her cheek. “It’s Y/N.”

His heart stops at the sound of her shaky voice, his jaw clenching before speaking. “What happened? Is she alright?”

“She went for a ride this morning and she hasn’t been seen since.”

Darkling’s gaze hardens as he grips Genya’s arms and shakes her lightly. “What do you mean?!”

“We sent riders after lunch, because I was worried she missed two meals already”, gasping for air, Genya’s tears made tracks, “The snow covered her tracks.”

She left me, he thought. She deemed me unlovable, unworthy. She left.

“They managed to find her mare”, Genya continues through tears, “It was decapitated and left in the woods.”

“Woods?” He frowns, wondering why she’d stray from the meadow and then he realized. He’s the one she rode into the woods with. She must have thought the woods were safe. They were at the time, only because he was with her and he’d never let any harm come to her.

“There were signs of struggle, but the snow is making it hard for us to track them.”

Releasing a visibly shaken Genya, he grunts. Biting his lower lip, he paced before her as his hand ran through his hair. She never saw him so worried, so mad before. He looked like a man walking a fine line – a line between madness and sanity.

“Call everyone”, he orders, “We must find her.”

Exhaling in relief, Genya smiled as Ivan emerged, having heard everything.

“Why would we do that?”

A pause ensues as the Darkling takes a step toward Ivan. “I haven’t made a promise in so long”, he spoke but in truth, it’s been hundreds of years since he made anyone a promise. “I promised her I’d protect her.” His voice was ragged, but controlled. “So I’m making a new promise right here, if they harm a single hair on her head, I will end them all. I will do it with a smile on face and I will bathe in their blood!”

They took her from him and he had every intention of ripping the world apart with his bare hands and for once, the thought of how far he’d go for that insolent woman didn’t frighten him. He barely knows her, he certainly doesn’t love her, but Saints help those who touched his wife.

=============================

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Part 6

[babyloposts]

MY HERO DAD-CANNONS

Summary: How my favorite boys would react to their child having a nightmare. Some single dad head cannons because my baby fever is back

Includes: Bakugou Katsuki, Midoriya Izuku, Kaminari Denki, Takami Keigo

Warnings: none, fluff, aged up characters, references to GN parent titles

———————————————————————

Bakugou:

He was up and down the hall as quickly as the first wail left his daughter’s mouth. He was desperately hoping that the screams were not from a villain trying to kidnap her.

He was relieved for only a second as he saw her safely tucked into bed as he left her earlier that night, but the worry came back as he saw her broken out in a cold sweat.

Careful not to startle her awake Katsuki rubbed her forehead gingerly removing the sweat and bangs from its place matted on the top of her head.

“Kid. Wake up.” His tone soft. The one he reserved only for her.

“Daddy?” Her brows furrowed and her eyelashes fluttered open to see a stoic yet comforting face.

“You okay? I think you were having a nightmare. Scared the hell out of me.” He chuckled, still soothing her as her breathing slowed.

“M-me too. I was so scared Dad. The monsters were trying to get me.”

“What monsters?” Katsuki feared the worst. What if she had seen a villain and they knew she was his kid. That could mean she was being watched and in danger. He couldn’t let anything happen to her.

“From the movie dad. The one I watched when hanging out with the Midoriya’s.” Bakugou’s face scrunched and his daughter winced in fear of being in trouble for watching a PG-13 movie.

“What’d I tell you about watching scary movies with Deku’s kid. Now look at you all scared with nightmares.” Bakugou scolded, but his expression softened. He was just glad she was safe.

“I’m sorry Dad. I won’t watch scary movies anymore. I don’t want any monsters to get me.”

“It’s okay. I promise I won’t let any monsters get you. They have to go through me first, alright squirt.” She nodded and gave Bakugou a small smile, knowing she was safe and in the most capable hands of the #2 hero.

Bakugou smoothed her hair back and placed a kiss to her forehead. “Love you squirt. Sweet Dreams.”

“I love you too Dad.”

———————————————————————

Midoriya:

Izuku is no stranger to weird dreams, but he had never expected his One for All induced visions to transfer to his daughter as well.

He wouldn’t even know if she hadn’t been weeping by his bedside at one in the morning.

“D-daddy.” A small voice warbled out next to Midoriya. His eyes shot open not expecting to see a teary eyed five year old only a few inches away from his face.

“What’s wrong Bubby?” Izuku quickly sat up in bed and moved to the edge of the bed, scooping the crying child into his arms.

“I had a bad dream.” She whimpered as he wiped the tears from her eyes.

“Aww I’m sorry.” He hugged her tightly to his chest rocking slightly to soothe her. “Do you want to talk about it?”

She nodded slightly before starting. “I was so scared Daddy. You were there and somebody—a bad man—stole your quirk away from you. He was too strong. And nobody would help you. Not even All Might. And I was too little to help you, Daddy and I’m so sorry.” And just like that the tears were flowing from her tear ducts again.

Izuku shushed her and started back trying to soothe her again. “Don’t worry, I’m right here, okay? I’m not going anywhere.” He brought his daughter back to her bedroom and tucked her into her Princess themed bed. “Are you comfy?” She asked and she nodded.

Izuku gave her a kiss to her temple before getting up to move to a bookshelf on the far side of the room. “Would you like to hear a story?” She nodded and Izuku climbed into the side of the bed and wrapped his arm around her.

Midoriya read the story book to her that were more kiddie versions of some of All Might’s best missions (even in fatherhood he was a total fanboy).

His daughter was knocked before he was even halfway through the book, the tales of heroism and safety lulling her into a peaceful sleep. Although she was peaceful and very cute Izuku had realized his grave mistake far too late.

His daughter was the lightest sleeper he knew. It would be almost impossible to remove himself from the bed without waking her up.

He tried several times to stand from the bed without causing her to stir, but ultimately failed and gave in to the reality that he’d be spending the night on the edge of a twin bed.

It wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the world, but Izuku would give up anything for his little girl, even the comforts of his own bed, to make her feel safe.

———————————————————————

Kaminari:

It took a lot to get Denki up, which wasn’t always a good thing having such a young child to look after. He was finally awoken by the third kick to his ribs by a little foot in bed.

“Ouch, what the-?” Denki whipped the blanket down to reveal a small body in the fetal position hunched against his side.

“Wha- hey Little Man. What happened? Why aren’t you sleeping in your big kid bed?”

The small boy was unmoving, pretending to be asleep to prevent being bothered or moved from his comfortable position.

“I know you’re not sleep, Buddy. Tell me what’s wrong. Please?” Finally Denki’s son’s head poked up from his arm shields and showed off his pouty face.

“I don’t want to sleep in my big kid. It’s too dark and scary in there. I don’t want to have bad dreams.” The child’s eyes started to water.

Denki sighed. “Bud, I thought we agreed that when you turned four you’d stop sleeping in Papa’s bed and sleep by yourself.”

“I don’t want to anymore. I’m scared. It’s too dark and you are too far away.” He whined. Denki knew that he was the age where he needed to start being able to self-soothe and sleep by himself, but he couldn’t deny his son. He was a good kid, maybe with a bit of separation anxiety, but all around he was pretty easy.

Denki’s nanny would probably scold him for babying his son, but he didn’t care. It’s not like Denki liked sleeping alone anyway.

“Bud, you can’t sleep down in the covers like that. You’ll get way too hot.” A small smile spread over Denki’s lips as his son shuffled his way up onto Denki’s chest with his arms wrapped around his neck in a death grip.

Denki chuckled once the grip loosened and rubbed his son’s back as he slipped into sleep. “Can we try sleeping in your big kid bed tomorrow night?” Denki whispered.

“I’ll try Papa, but no promises.” Denki chuckled and closed his eyes in content.

“That’s okay Buddy. I love you.”

“Love you too, Papa.”

———————————————————————

Takami Keigo:

Keigo really hoped that an intruder wasn’t in the house right now. He knew it was irrational to think, but stranger things have happened, plus he was already worked up from the last patrol he went on last night where he fought a surprisingly difficult villain.

Stealthily Kei climbed out of bed and sent a feather flying into the kitchen where the noise was coming from to scope out the intruder.

When he heard a high pitched scream and low thud he was actually more relieved than worried.

He rushed from behind his bedroom door out to see his son sat on the ground in front of the open refrigerator.

“The hell are you doing up? It’s 2 AM!” Keigo whisper yelled to ensure he didn’t bother the neighbors.

“Sorry Dad. I was hungry.”

“What are you still hungry for? You basically ate a whole chicken by yourself for dinner. At this rate keeping up with your eating habits cost more than the rent.” Takami chided, but he couldn’t be too mad, his son was a growing boy and they needed their sustenance.

“I’m sorry Dad. I just woke up and wanted a snack that’s all.” That’s what he said, but the glossiness in his son’s eyes gave him away.

Keigo bent over to pick up the food that had fallen out of the fridge and grab a carton of ice cream out of the freezer along with two spoons. His son watched his father intently as he moved to the kitchen island to sit and patted the stool next to him.

“Come sit down and have your snack.” Keigo sighed. Reluctantly his son sat down beside him and grabbed a spoon scooping into the slightly freezer burnt cookies and cream.

“So tell me what’s really going on. You wouldn’t tear up just from me knocking you on your ass earlier.” His son’s eyes grew wide, surprised that his dad had noticed that small detail.

“There’s nothing wrong.”

“I know when you’re lying to me Kid. So just go ahead and tell me.” Kei said wrapping an arm around his son’s shoulders.

He took a deep breath before finally caving. “I... I had a dream about Baba. When they died.” Keigo’s usual cocky demeanor faded away and his eyes softened as he recalled the painful memory.

“Wow.” Keigo said as he cleared his throat. “That uh... hasn’t happened for a while. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault Dad. I just wished... I don’t know. I just miss them a lot.” He began to tear up again. Keigo sighed. It has been almost seven years since his significant other died tragically from cancer. Their son was just a kid then. What Five year old can really comprehend that and grieve a parent properly. Since then Kei’s been doing his best as a single Dad, but maybe he should have talked about them more.

“I know you miss them Kid. I do too. I miss them everyday, but you remind me of them. You’ve got the same face and spirit they had, so it’s like a little piece of ‘em is always with us. They’re in you.” Keigo’s grip tightened around his son’s shoulder and he left a comforting rub up and down his forearm.

“I know sayin all this isn’t going to bring them back, but just know they’re always in your heart and they loved you very much.”

“Thanks Dad.”

“No problem Kid. Just finish your ice cream and get to bed. I don’t want you late for school in the morning.”

His son nodded. Keigo stood from the island and ruffled the hair of his son before depositing his dirty spoon in the sink. Before he made it all the way to his bedroom a voice rang out behind him.

“I love you Dad.”

Keigo smiled softly. “Love you too Kid.”

[jiminrings]

yoongi grills stem koo’s ass <3

cold senior!y/n x stem major!koo masterlist :D

stem koo wants to explain himself and yoongi may not want to listen

"hyeji's never packed you a sandwich before?"

jungkook pales at the mention, mouth drying when he sees yoongi bring up the soft smile that doesn't comfort him at all

“the one that’s all knuckle?”

oh my god

IS THIS A RIDDLE????

yoongi tilts his head in amusement when this pathetic excuse for your past crush is calculating what he just said in his mind

what is a sandwich that’s all knuckle?? but it doesn’t even rhyme!!

aren’t riddles sUPPOSED to rhyme????

jungkook’s more than well-versed in stem-related problems that are just rephrased 237 times over and over so that it wouldn’t be as easy to solve

he can solve that!!!

but this!!! :O his mind is short-circuiting pls do not approach him

“hm?” yoongi’s smile patronizes him further and puts him on the spot, straightening his figure and jungkook’s quick to stop him from coming back inside your dorm

“i want to-“

“i asked you — have you ever had a knuckle sandwich?”

yoongi enunciates with so much clarity that kook finds his mind blanking, tripping over his words he hasn’t even formed yet

“i-is it-...” he stalls, trying to rack his mind for the bread he’s not sure he’s ever even heard of in his life, “i-is it like, a pork thing? uhm, t-the pig’s knuckle? and then you put it between, uhm, bread?”

,,,, laughable

jungkook’s supposed to be smart, isn’t he? or atleast that’s what yoongi thinks he’s supposed to be

lmao he would’ve laughed at the boy’s poor attempts if only he wasn’t furious at him

he’s dumb but not the endearing kind ://

“no,” yoongi drawls out, pretending to fish something out from his pocket

jungkook watches in intrigue, thinking that yoongi’s reaching for his phone to show him a picture of what it looks like

the hypothetical situation in jungkook’s mind is clearly not the one that happens

jungkook SHRIEKS as he stumbles on his heels backward — crystal clear to him that yoongi was not looking for his phone, but instead balling his fist and him being the receiving end

almost the receiving end

yoongi almost sucker-punches jungkook in a blink, fist literally a millimeter away from his nose and the only thing he could see at the moment is red

... red and jungkook’s wide eyes that have never carried this much fear up until now

“that’s a knuckle sandwich, kid. would’ve fed it to you if only y/n isn’t in the room right behind me.”

holy fuck

his heart is beating right against his ribcage and that shouldn’t be possible, fists closing upon themselves nervously as he tries to soothe his thumb so his mind relaxes

spoiler alert: it doesn’t work

jungkook’s mind is all over the place, even more rattled than it was when he takes a text without studying (he was so low he got a 98), but the only thing that’s clear is that you’re behind this door

“yoongi — mister yoongi, please. i-i need to explain myself, and if only you let me try, i can!! i swear. i’m not forcing you but-...”

there he is again

jungkook’s only been in his sight for like two minutes but his eyes are already sore

“why are you even here?” he scowls and even if the younger boy’s taller than him, every bit of his posture and demeanor at the bite of his words scream small, “why go all this length for someone you stomped on today, then have the gall to be a crybaby about it?”

he's speechless and it only serves him right, looking at his mudded-up converse and trying to focus on anything besides the guilt within

"m-my explanation," jungkook mutters, hands behind his back as if he's being scolded, “will you tell y/n?”

yoongi releases an agitated breath at him muttering your name

he dOESN'T get to say your name!! no!!! not after what he did to you

“i’m not concerned about you. what i decide to do or not, has nothing to do with whatever you say right now.”

kook solemnly nods, and even if yoongi's much harsher in your words compared to yours, the gravity of yours with him not being related to you cuts deeper

there's nothing else he could care about, actually

jungkook follows campus curfews to a T and would come home two hours earlier in the rare event that he goes somewhere

but now, he couldn't care less when the dorm master could just be there any second and he'd pass a hall monitor like usual

for the whole day, you were the only one that occupied his mind

"i know hyeji isn’t the one."

god, it was clear as day

he'll be the first one to admit that he can't read people very well, but he knew from the start that it's probably not hyeji who's been packing his lunchboxes

jungkook sometimes takes attendance in behalf of the professor because as much as he's shy, he's also a teacher's pet

the classes she shared with hyeji? she wasn't present everyday for the whole duration of two weeks, and how could it be that she still managed to make him a lunchbox if she wasn't present in the campus at all?

there was a probability that it could've been her, but it was so low that it sat right next to improbable

"i-i entertained the possibility briefly that she was, but then nothing was making sense the more i thought about it."

jungkook sometimes also checks papers because his professors trust him enough and he has perfect scores anyway, so he uses his own as his answer key

"i needed to interview y/n for an assignment, a-and a signature above a name was needed and it was just so familiar."

the moment he racks his head for hyeji's writing, it seemed fAR from the writing on the sticky notes on the lunchboxes

"then she seemed mad at me, but when i went to her on the field to try and confront her-" jungkook pauses and almost whispers the next part, the shame on his skin starting to seep into his bones, "she told me that we weren't related for me to feel hurt about it."

yoongi clenches his jaw, a pressure forming on the center of his eyebrows because he knows where this is leading

"a-and i thought it was hyeji again."

jungkook can't bring himself to be elated that it's been you the whole time because he might be a little too late; a little too late when he's already subjected you to the heartbreak you didn't deserve

"i-i didn’t know what clicked in my mind but i was just so hurt that-"

that's the fiNAL straw for yoongi

this has been him trying to keep his anger at bay the whole time, but this one!! this one he can't just accept

"you are a fucking asshole. honestly."

jungkook slightly winces with the sudden cussing, but it barely scratches the surface

"you think you’re the only one hurt? tell that to me who’s never seen y/n cry so hard before — or even cry at all."

his explanation wasn't an excuse and he knows it, but nonetheless, it tears him apart

"i’m sorry."

his lips quiver and he's trying sO hard not to cry in front of his senior, but yoongi doesn't feel even the slightest remorse for the kid

"i don’t care. you don’t apologize to me; you apologize to y/n. whether she forgives you or not, which for the record i don’t think she should, you cannot take back what you said."

if what jungkook said was eVER said to yoongi, given that he had the same circumstances as you did, he wouldn't know how to bounce back at all

it's a pain he doesn't wish to feel and he could only helplessly look at you who's trying to navigate it

perhaps you don't even plan to navigate it — knowing you, you're just gonna sail through it all to the point you're not giving yourself enough time to even realize that you already are

it was the same cycle of trying to move on without grieving through it properly that it hurts yoongi and seokjin and the tiny amount of people around you

"grovel at her feet. cry her an ocean. commit penitence. whatever you wanna come up with, no matter what, you do not make my y/n feel like she isn’t deserving of love."

you're family and yoongi goes above and beyond for family.

"i don’t care if you make up. i don’t care if you don’t. all i know is that in any other place besides outside the room she sleeps in, i’d hurt you like you hurt her."

jungkook almost wishes that yoongi punches him now and he won't even try to dodge it

"i deserve it."

"you do."

they whole-heartedly agree and it's the only time that yoongi can get behind jungkook's words

"i’m always gonna be on y/n’s side, kid."

there's no other way around it and as much as you know it or not, you've cemented your position in yoongi's heart unknowingly

"the only way that i’m gonna be on yours is when you’ve earned my utmost respect," he can't even see when that happens, crossing his arms across his chest, "and you don’t."

jungkook's tears are falling to the floor but they don't get on his cheeks, the sudden set of footsteps coming from his side making his head straighten and wipe his eyes immediately

he's the only one alarmed and he spares yoongi a glance, then to said person

yeah right that couldn't have been you :((

the guy who's approaching doesn't stop walking and he looks like.... he's uh,,, coming to where he's exactly standing????

he seems oddly familiar though

“oh, taehyung!"

where did he hear that name before??

taehyung stands at the same height as jungkook, maybe a centimeter or two taller, but he just couldn't stop looking at him from the corner of his eyes

yoongi's oblivious to jungkook's ongoing deduction, immediately engulfing taehyung in conversation

"y/n’s already asleep. i could do her part of the project-“

he offers because he recalls that right, you told him that taehyung's coming over to finish your shared project of a business plan late tonight

uhhhhh you're kinda zooted and going through it rOUGH so yoongi doesn't mind doing your contribution for you

“yoongi!! oh no man, it’s not what i came here for," he leans for a side hug, eyes landing on jungkook to drop a polite smile to acknowledge him

jungkook only slightly bows, confused but even more intrigued because he heard your name in the conversation

"i just uh, i just saw y/n crying while i was on my way home awhile ago, and i didn’t get to ask why, but i felt bad, so i came by to drop some cookies.”

oh

taehyung continues talking and it leaves yoongi and jungkook stunned, but he only focuses his attention on the former

“you looked like a hazelnut cookie kind of guy, so i baked some too!! is y/n allergic to peanuts? i put some too in a separate container in case she is.”

yoongi laughs and they go from there

IT'S LIKE JUNGKOOK ISN'T EVEN HERE!!!!

baby he's here he's nOT a hallucination!!!!

despite the fact that he's sticking out like and (unacknowledged) sore thumb, no one makes a move to take the conversation elsewhere

“thanks, tae. damn, you did all this yourself?”

yoongi whistles when he takes the tupperware opening it and almost watering at the sight

he doesn't mind baking cookies for you in case you wake up hungry, but taehyung really just did himself a nice favor without knowing it

he smiles softly, eyes narrowing in intrigue now that he realizes

"taehyung. no offense, but you’ve only interacted with y/n like once and it’s only for a project. why would you bake her uhhh 28 cookies?”

hehe

“35, actually :D”

tae interjects, waving him off when yoongi's jaw drops even further

“yeah, i know. i just felt so sorry for her — i’m not related to y/n but i just felt like i wanted to make her feel better.”

jungkook's jaw locks at this, his breathing becoming shaky all over again, fists balled this time

“it’s like,, economics!! i don’t actually know, maybe??? i’m in visual arts. y/n took over my part for me when i was sick-“

".... so you made her 30 cookies."

taehyung's the personification of a golden retriever and now that he thinks about it, jungkook reckons seeing him more than a handful of times

he laughs deeply at yoongi's rebutt and it may be in unfortunate timing that jungkook realizes he kNOWS him

he's in the same year!! he's the one that takes the portraits for the school paper and it's always his name in the credits

"good night, yoongs. hug y/n for me. tell her i'll take over her part, no questions asked."

taehyung walks away and he's perfectly content even if he didn't get to give you the cookies like jungkook thought he would

"night, taehyung."

yoongi looks at the retreating figure briefly, then looks at jungkook pointedly

he doesn't realize that he's still budging and listened on an entire conversation, dropping his head when yoongi points to the elevator

"bye, jungkook."

"good night, yoongi."

he feels hesitant to leave but it's probably for the better, putting his hands in his pockets still not enough to make his hands stop trembling

kook stops at the middle of his walking, turning his head to look back at yoongi whose mouth already has crumbs

"c-can i see y/n tomorrow?"

"i'm not her dad."

jungkook nods somberly, leaving it at that while his bulk of emotions consume him

he thinks all about the ways he could attempt to make it up to you, a million ideas in his head but his head doesn't hurt

his nose twitches at the lingering scent the cookies left, annoyed at the persistent smell and perhaps the boy that brought them

jungkook's never really liked cookies.

[staticscreenwriting]

Where the heart is // B. B.

Summary: Bucky and (Y/N) are getting a divorce because they are silly and both love the other so damn much. (Happy Ending!)

TW: Talk of divorce. Talk of potential pregnancy and babies.

A/N: Likes, reblogs, comments are all much appreciated. I am German. Sometimes I get the tense wrong or make mistakes. I am useless when it comes to punctuation. Go easy on me, please.] 

TAGLIST: Find the link to join my taglist in my bio. Will reblog this post with the taglist attached seperately. 

Waking up from this nightmare How's your life, what's it like there? Is it all what you want it to be? Does it hurt when you think about me? And how broken my heart is

The apartment is deadly quiet as Bucky steps inside, only the rattling of his keys echoing through the halls that once seemed so warm and inviting are now but a cold reminder of what used to be.

People never really talk about these moments. The after. The wreckage. The ruins of what used to be. Sure there are movies and books and countless songs but they take the feeling and they wrap it up in beautiful words and prose and make something beautiful of it.

There’s nothing beautiful in the way Bucky feels as his feet drag him towards what used to be his bedroom, which is now hers. There’s nothing beautiful in the way he feels as his eyes wander over to the closed door behind which lays an empty room. One that is empty not because of choice but because of the shitty cards life has dealt both him and her.

There is nothing beautiful about the way he feels. Only sadness. Only hurt.

When he turns the corner and steps into the bedroom, his heart drops for a second. He hadn’t expected her to be here, not with how quiet the place is. But sure enough, there she is. Sitting on the fluffy comforter they bought together, legs tucked underneath herself. She said that comforter was the exact same shade of blue as his eyes. Now she doesn’t even lift her head to look at him, focusing only on the box resting on the bed before her.

“Hey uh — I didn’t expect to run into you.”  

“ I live here. Sorry to disappoint.“

“ I know, that’s not what I meant. It’s just so quiet. “

She shrugs but still doesn’t look up. There’s so much resentment there, dripping from every word. He can’t fault her for it. Not even a little. If he was her, he’d hate himself too. Maybe this will make it easier for them. If she hates him, that’s a straight cut. Right? Hating is easy. It’s loving that’s hard.

“ It’s like that now. You here to get some of your stuff?” she asks, looking up at him for the first time. Her eyes are red and tired. Not like they were when he left, filled with tears and sorrow. Now they’re just infinitely sad and exhausted. Like all the life and all the warmth and all the passion that he fell so deeply in love with, has been sucked out of her. He hates knowing it’s partially his fault.

“ If that’s okay with you.”

“ sure. “

The movies and the poems and the books and the songs, they never talk about this. The after. The limbo. The “will you keep this or shall I take it?”

They don’t talk about the fact that you’re supposed to pack 5 years of relationship into a bunch of boxes and figure out what to do with it.

He quietly walks into the closet, as if making any noise would break whatever bubble is currently surrounding the two of them. Sometimes he wonders if things would be different had they been different people. Had they been able to express their feelings differently. Sometimes, in the most secret part of his heart, Bucky wishes there would’ve been screaming. Maybe screaming would’ve been helpful. Sure, it’s not the most eloquent way of communication but at least it is communication. But there was no screaming. Only silence. Only feelings swallowed up to never be spoken about. To suffocate them from the inside out.

Making as little noise as possible, Bucky grabs some of his clothes and stuffs them into the duffle bag Sam gave him. He had that look on his face, the pitiful one. The one that says “sorry, man”. There’s no reason to feel sorry for Bucky. This is his fault after all.

There’s a sound coming from behind him, and for a second he really believes it’s his mind playing tricks on him. But then he hears it again, louder this time, more clearly.

She’s laughing. Maybe not a full-on laugh but a chuckle. It’s been a while since he’s heard that sound.

“ What’s got you laughing like that ? “ Bucky asks as he turns back around only to be greeted by her smiling face. God how much he misses that smile.

She looks back down towards the box in front of her and the picture in her hand.

“ It’s uh — it’s a picture of the first time you stayed over. “

His legs carry him towards the bed as if they work on autopilot. As he sits down next to he can just about make out the scent of her shampoo. The one he bought for himself last week, not because he necessarily likes to use it. He bought it because he misses the scent. Because he misses her. And if he can keep her close like this, even for a small moment, he’ll buy an entire store's worth of shampoo.

Her fingers gently grip the picture so as to not rip or crumble it. He can’t hold back the smile that pulls at the corner of his lips as he recognizes the picture. It’s a slightly less gloomy version of him, in love and asleep. Curled up on her old tiny couch in her old tiny apartment with her dog Yoda sleeping soundly on his chest. He was so nervous to stay over at her place the first time he did. Nervous about so many different things but mostly about doing something to hurt her. Physically but also emotionally. To think that now his biggest fear came true, crushes his heart even further.

“ I miss Yoda. He was a good dog,” she says as she puts the photo back into the box. Truth be told, Bucky misses him too. He was grumpy and lazy and he didn’t ever really listen to them. But he was loyal and cuddly and all in all, he was the perfect dog for the two of them. And he had accepted Bucky into his and her life immediately. As if he knew that Bucky of all people needed nothing more than a chance to prove himself to be something other than a killer.

There are more pictures in the box, alongside other clutter that Bucky can’t quite make out. One of the other pictures he can see clearly, is one of the two of them on their first Halloween. The Halloween that Bucky didn’t want to dress up for. The one he promised himself he would spend curled up on his couch watching a scary movie and not open the door to anyone, Trick or Treaters or otherwise.

He ended up going out anyway. With her. FOR her. And it was one of the best nights of his life even if it meant he had to dress up like a skeleton.

“ What is all this? “ he asks though, by the way his heart starts beating faster, Bucky isn’t sure he even wants to know the answer to that question. “ You getting rid of our pictures? “

He doesn’t want it to sound so accusatory. They’re broken up. Separated. In the early process of a divorce. She has every right to get rid of their pictures. Get rid of him. Bury the memories. Just because he can’t let go doesn’t mean that she’s grieving in the same way.

“ No, “ she scoffs and pulls out a small scrap of paper, “ this is a memory box I started when we first got together. It’s things I didn’t know where to put but that I wanted to hold on to. I had planned to give it to you for our 10 year anniversary but … well “

She doesn’t have to say it. He knows.

“ Then after the — seperation I put some other stuff in there. Memories.” 

“ Can I see what else is in there? “ he asks “ since I won’t get to see it on our 10 year anniversary.”

Bucks isn’t quite sure why he adds that to the end of his sentence. It makes him sound spiteful and mean and he can tell, by the look on her face, that it hurts her. And he’s done enough of that in the past. Isn’t that exactly the reason they are here in the first place?

She considers it for a moment and Buck can only guess the different kinds of emotions running through her then. He feels them too. All of them. They are confusing and most of them are negative. She has no reason to let him see this, relish in sweet nostalgia with him as if everything is okay and they’re not getting a fucking divorce.

“ Sure, I guess. I —  yeah.”

She scoots more to the middle of the bed, making more space for Bucky to sit down properly. He’s perched on the side that was his. The side he fell asleep on and woke up on so many times. And she was there next to him. Always there and warm and soft. And she’d smile at him through sleepy eyes and a hazy mind and she’d rival the sun. And then she’d gently comb her fingers through his hair and say good morning and he knew it would be — a good morning.

He hasn’t had a good morning since he left.

She moves the box to sit between them on the bed and motions for Bucky to start digging in.

There’s a pile of what he realizes are old movie tickets. It's something they used to do when they first started dating. Thursdays were movie days. But while everyone went to see the new blockbusters, the two of them would pick the movies that sounded the weirdest and they’d buy a big bucket of popcorn and blue raspberry slushies and just relish in the grandeur that is bad cinema. Most of the time they were the only ones at the cinema. Sometimes things got — R rated.

“ Why did we stop doing this? “ she asks as Bucky looks up from the tickets “ going to the movies I mean. It was always my favorite day of the week. “

He tries to remember. Tries to pinpoint the moment when life changed and their Thursdays weren’t their Thursdays anymore. He can’t. He comes up empty.

Sometimes life changes in little ways, ones you don’t realize at that moment and they don’t seem significant either. It’s a broken tradition. A missed movie night. It’s slow and creeping but at some point, you stop and look at your life now and it doesn’t resemble your life then anymore. Everything has changed and you didn’t even notice. Not for one single second.

“ I have —  I have no idea. “ he has to confess.

“ Remember that movie with the killer florist ? “ she asks and her voice is laced with laughter. Something sparks up in his heart. A tiny flicker of something he’s missed. Something he hasn’t felt in a while. He can’t help but laugh along.

“ I do! Or the one where the woman fell in love with the Koi in her neighbor's pond? ”

“ Oh god! That was terrible. “

“ It was.”

She looks wistful for a moment as if her thoughts wander off to some long-forgotten memory.

“ What are you thinking about? “

He never usually had to ask her. He’d either know or she’d tell him on her own accord. It’s like there’s an invisible wall between them. One he wants to break down or climb over so badly. But does she want him there? After everything?

“ The day we saw that movie was the first time you said I love you. “

It’s true. Now that she mentions it he remembers it so clearly. It’s like he’s suddenly faced with a scene from a movie he’s forgotten about a long time ago but once someone mentions it, he remembers it in great detail. Knows every word. Every line.

“ I still don’t quite know what it was about that moment that made you say it but — “ she trails off, a smile playing on her lips.

Bucky knows. It wasn’t a groundbreaking realization back then. He’d been feeling it for months. Fell deeper in love with her with every glance, every smile, every silly movie he got to watch with her. They went to some dingy diner after the movie to grab a burger and some fries. The leather seats were old and the filling was spilling out, the air smelled of grease and air freshener, and the laminated menu cards were sticky with undefinable stains. All things considered, it should’ve been a bad date. It wasn’t though. Nothing was ever bad with her. She smiled. All she did was smile and hum along to some song Bucky didn’t know as it spilled from the jukebox. And it occurred to him then, that there was no need for a big gesture or a special moment. Every moment with her was special. Life couldn’t get any better than this. Existing was enough if only she was there.

“ Nothing. “

“ Hm? “

“ There was nothing special about that moment. I just realized that I would be okay with anything if only you are there. You — that’s all I need in life. “

She looks at him then and for a second he thinks that maybe she’ll kiss him. Tell him that they are making a mistake and ask him to come back. Tell him that she doesn’t blame him. That she forgives him. That she wants him anyway. Despite — everything. She doesn’t though. Just sighs and pulls another picture from the box.

It’s a picture of the two of them cuddled up on the couch with a tiny white ball of fluff resting on her chest.

“ Our first picture with Alpine. “

“ That was taken on the day we found him. Look, you can clearly see the scratches on my face from crawling around the dumpsters to rescue him. “ Bucky points out.

He had never thought of himself as a cat person. Really he wasn’t so much an anything-person anymore, after Hydra. But somehow that little cat had wormed his way into his heart and refused to leave.

“ Was worth it though! “

Bucky nods his head in agreement “ it was. “

“ You should — you should take him. He’s really more your cat than mine.”

“ He’s our cat.” he points out.

“ Bucky there won’t be an ours anymore. Soon.”

It breaks his heart. Over and over again. He just got used to being himself. The version he was when he was with her. How is he gonna deal with doing it all over again? He doesn’t want to be a version of himself after her.

“ I don’t have a place yet and Sam’s allergic. “

“ He can stay here until then, of course. I love him. “

There’s a lot of love there that’s being given up on, Bucky realizes. And he hates every part of it.

“ Shit, remember this? “ she chimes up again as her hand holds onto a thin receipt, the black ink bleached away and thinned out from years of being stuck in a box. From years of memories fading.

“ Is that from the —”

“ The tattoo place, yeah. “

The patch of skin on the inside of his arm grows hot as if he is suddenly aware of what is there. Something long forgotten. A small letter forever etched into his skin in black ink like the way she’s forever etched into his heart. Always there. Forever. Just like the delicate lines that write his own name onto her collar bone. James. Not Bucky. Not Winter Soldier. James.

“ Oh god, I can’t believe you kept these,” Buck exclaims as he picks a pair of bright blue knitted socks from the box. They’re made from scratchy wool and there are a million and one holes in them. It’s so her. So quintessentially her. To keep them. With their holes and their scratchy wool and all. Even if they’re a mess. Even if they’re broken. She holds onto things no matter how bad. No matter how lost and sad and broken and useless. She holds on tight and doesn’t let go. Unless you make her. Unless you force her to. Unless you break her heart.

“ Umm … you made them for me. Like you literally learned how to knit to make me a pair of socks to keep my feet warm. That is the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me, Buck. Of course, I kept them. “

Bucky bashfully shrugs his shoulders, a tint of red dusting his cheeks. “ I’m glad you liked them. Even if they’re scratchy. “

“ I like you and Alpine and you guys are the scratchiest,” she points out. She’s not wrong.

“ Was I a good boyfriend? “ Bucky asks and while in the grand scheme of things it really doesn’t matter, he wants to know anyway. Wants to know he did something right.

“ You were the best boyfriend. “

“ I’m sorry I was a shit husband. “

She stays quiet for a moment and with every second that passes by he breaks more and more. He wonders how much of him is left at this point. How much there’s still to lose. Then again, what does it matter? He lost her and that’s all that really matters.

“ You weren’t a shit husband, Bucky. “

It’s like the world suddenly moves in slow motion as they both grab the 2 things left in the box.

Bucky holds onto the blue velvet box knowing exactly what’s inside. The last time he held it, got on his knees in front of her, put the ring on her finger, that was one of the best days of his life. A sign that the Winter Soldier was his past and that he could finally truly move on. They were younger, in love. Happy. Now he hardly remembers what happiness feels like.

“ I was so nervous to give this to you. Not because I thought you’d say no or anything. I just — I just wanted to be enough. The ring and the proposal and — me. “

“ You were always enough. “ she says and he can hear the tears in her voice. It’s thick and heavy and he knows that if he looks at her now, there will be tears in her eyes too.

But he doesn’t look at her then. His eyes fall onto the piece of fabric in her hands. It’s so small. Soft peached colored with a little bunny embroidered on the front. It’s tiny and cute and it belongs to no one. It’s tiny and it should’ve been theirs. But it isn’t.

“ No, I wasn’t. He says and shakes his head. You deserve more than I can give you. “

She throws the baby romper back into the box and gets off the bed as if someone has set it on fire.

“ What’s wrong? “ he asks as if he doesn’t know. Everything. Everything about this situation is wrong. They’re supposed to make love on this bed, not cry over memories long gone. Push away thoughts of their looming divorce.

“ I don’t know, Bucky. Maybe you can tell me. “ She calls out to him as she pulls the rest of his shirts from the closet and throws them into the bedroom. Colors of fabric flying through the air like wings of a bird flapping through the winds. Some of them she lops at him, passion and anger and wrath and sadness filling her eyes. “ Maybe you can tell me why the fuck we’re doing this. Why we’re putting ourselves through all this pain and suffering and this bullshit divorce. Maybe you can tell me why you left me to have a fucking breakdown every time I walk into my closet and see this goddamn dress, “ she cries while holding up the hanger over which her beautiful white wedding dress is draped. God, she looked so beautiful that day. Like a goddess. Like an angel. Like his redemption.

“ We were happy. We were trying to have a family. And then what — it doesn’t work and you leave? You just gave up. “

“ I didn’t give up. “

“ Yes, you fucking did! You gave up and you served me divorce papers and you didn’t even give me a fucking choice. “

“ You agreed! “

“ Because I love you and if you don’t want to be with me, then I am not keeping you. I love you enough to let you be happy even if it’s without me.”

Those words send a shock through his heart. Like an icicle. Cold and sharp and unforgiving.

“ You think I don’t love you? You think YOU are the reason?,” Bucky questions before grabbing the romper from the box and holding it up “ this is the reason. This is my fault and mine alone. It’s my fault that this belongs to no one. It’s my fault that there’s an empty room in this apartment that you can’t walk into because it hurts you too much to see it empty. You deserve to be a mother and clearly, I can’t give that to you. That’s the burden I carry but it’s not one that should be put on you. I can’t give you this but you deserve it and you should have it. So this is me letting you go so you can find someone that can give you a baby. Someone who isn’t broken. Someone who doesn't have a body that doesn’t work anymore. Not in the way it should. “

“ James, “ her words a but a whisper as his name tumbles from her lips and she lets her wedding dress fall to the floor to sit next to him and hold his face in between her hands. “ That wasn’t your fault and you are not broken. I want a family, yes. I want a child. But with you. I want a family with you and it doesn’t matter if it’s my blood or not. It’s our family whichever way we decide to do this. And if we — if we stay just us and Alpine that’s fine too. I just want you and whatever else we decide on. Together. I love you, James. I love you and I miss you and I don’t want a baby if it’s not with you. A family means nothing if it doesn’t include you. Whatever the consequences of the serum are, they are not your fault. You are not broken, James. You are you. You’re a hero. A husband. And maybe one day a father but above all, you are James Buchanan Barnes, a survivor and you are not broken.  “

He knows he should be saying so many things right then but all his thoughts get tangled up and won't find the way to his lips.

Instead, he says the only other thing he can think about right then.

“ You looked so beautiful in your wedding dress. “

She laughs through the flood of tears that leak from her eyes and trail down her face.

“ I mean you always look beautiful but that day. My god. I honestly couldn’t believe you said yes to me — of all people. 106 year old me. Wouldn’t believe it until the moment you walked down the aisle. Then I knew that this was really the start of my new life. Of my forever. “

“ I miss you Bucky. “

“ I miss you too. “

“ I don’t want to divorce you. I want to be your wife and I want you to be my husband.”

“ Even without the babies? “

“ Yes, “ she nods and brushes her fingers through his short hair. “ You are my family James and you are enough for me. Always”

“ I love you. “ he says because really, it’s the only thing he can think of. The thing he wants most. The only thing that matters.

Without another word, he pulls the ring from the box and delicately slips it back onto her finger. Where it belongs. Where it always belonged.

“ I’m sorry I was ever this stupid. I should’ve just talked to you “

“ Yeah you should have but right now can you — can you just kiss me? “

She doesn’t need to ask him twice. He kisses her once, then twice, then once again. It’s been a long long time since the last time he’s kissed her. Too long. Way too long.

He’s not gonna stop anytime soon. Never again. Never ever again.

“ Hey, “ he says “ how about you slip into your wedding dress I think for all my stupid decisions I owe you a dance. “

“ I think you might be right. “

And she’s smiling, so bright and radiant. Like the sun. Like all the stars. Like his own personal light in the darkness.

“ Don’t expect too much though. I just cried, my hair is a mess — I won’t look the way you remember me looking in this dress. “

“ You’ll look gorgeous.”

And he’s right. She looks breathtaking. She looks like a wonderful, wonderful dream. Like love captured in a person. Like a second chance. Like his home.

There are a lot of thoughts racing through Bucky’s mind as he pulls her close and they sway to the melodic tunes of their wedding song as it sounds from the speakers of her cellphone. But above all there’s love. And the knowledge that he is enough. That they are enough. Their tiny little family. Perfect and not broken or missing anything. It’s good as it is.

They don’t have to think about who gets to keep the decorative throw pillows, the records they used to collect together, the plates that were a wedding gift, the cat. Because it’s theirs. Together. Shared.

And forever.

[glowingspence]

hotchreid-90 or 32, or just, anything hotchreid , not established relationship preferred 💜💜

"Hey" Shyly Reid looks at the man standing in front of his door, late in the evening. "What are you doing here?"

"I just- you seemed off today- do you mind if I-" Without waiting for permission Hotch steps into the apartment, pressing himself through the small crack Reid had opened the door to before looking at him properly.

Spencer had already changed out of his suit and into more comfortable clothes, the thick soft socks reaches partly over the end of his sweatpants, the stained hoodie he almost always wears at home covers his hands.

"I am worried" Hotch admits, "We have been- we started spending so much time and we went on those dates and I am worried I overstepped because now you are shielding yourself away. Not only from me. I got Morgan on speed dial- I am- if I made you uncomfortable- he will come over and you can talk to him- or me- it's just- I am- I am really sorry" He brings out pressing his lips together as he looks at Reid who takes a moment and then frowns at him.

"You didn't do anything wrong" Hesitantly he backs away even further from Hotch, "I thought we are- you know- doing pretty good."

"I thought so too but ever since three weeks ago, you have been quiet and when I try to ask you out, you are reclining everything I suggest and that's okay. We don't have to go out. But at least drinking a coffee together would be nice, you know." He explains, "I miss you"

Spencer seems to think about it for a moment, picking at the dry skin around elbows underneath the loose sweater as he does before his facial expressions slightly changed, like it does when Hotch watches him cracking a code on cases and he encrypted a little piece of it. "What is it?"

"Nothing. We can go out, it's not you." He assures him, looking down to the floor. "We can grab coffee tomorrow after work."

"If you don't feel up to it we don't have to."

"I do. I do. Everything is okay" Spencer insists and starts rocking back and forth on his feet.

"Did something happen three weeks ago?"

"No" Spencer quickly answers, a bit to forcefully to make it sound true. "No, nothing happened."

"Why don't we sit down?" Comforting Hotch tries placing a hand on Spencer but he flinches away, "I am sorry. Can we sit down? Is that okay?"

While he has his lips pressed together Spencer nods and walks first towards the couch, sitting down at the end. He crosses his arms in front of his stomach and presses them against his stomach before he leans forward far enough that it makes it comfortable to rock back and forth.

"Do you need anything?" Hotch questions worried. "Do you want your blanket?"

Spencer shakes his head but keeps on rocking back and forth.

"Did something happen with Jack? Did he say something?" Hotch asks trying to figure out what has him so upset but he shakes his head, "Did someone on the team say something about us? Did Morgan not like that we went out?"

He shakes his head again before taking one hand away from his middle and starts tapping his head with his palm in a steady rhythm before he speaks, "Morgan said he will kill you if you hurt me, Morgan likes you, Morgan likes to know I am safe. You can keep me safe. Morgan likes that."

"I am glad he does" Hotch answers and figures he is not the problem. "You can tell me anything"

"Not this thing" Spencer tells him and Hotch raises one eyebrow. "Not this thing. Not this thing."

"Why not?" He interrogates with a soft voice, "Spencer why can't you tell me?" He repeats when Spencer doesn't answer.

"It's a secret"

"It's a secret?"

"Not my secret." He explains and a tear rolls down his cheek, "It's a horrible secret."

"It is?" Hotch questions with sympathy in his voice and Spencer nods and sobs ones, holding himself again but signaling with his position that he doesn't want Hotch to touch him, "Is that why you have been so closed up? Does the secret do that?"

"It hurts."

"It hurts?" Hotch repeats waiting for Spencer to elaborate.

"Makes me feel sick and sorry." He tells him before adding, "It makes me feel really bad, like I did when Emily died. When my chest really hurt like someone is tying it but my stomach feels all empty"

"Do you mean grief? Are you grieving?"

"I don't know." Spencer sobs again, new tears running down his face as his body shakes, "It feels like when Emily died."

"Maybe it's grief we don't need to identify that right now, it's okay." Hotch tries to keep Spencer's frustration low. "Can you tell me who told you that secret?"

"No"

"Okay, that's okay." Hesitant Hotch scoops closer, "Come here" After a moment of hesitation Hotch scoops into the corner of the couch and Spencer follows him, climbing into his lap and curling himself up in a way that can hide his face against Hotch's neck as he cries. His hand gripping his shirt, as muffled sobs fill the apartment. "Okay, okay you are okay."

He waits for him to calm down until only sniffles fill the room, Spencer still leaning against him but being more spread out over the couch as he plays with Hotch's fingers.

"We are gonna try something, okay baby?" The nickname falls so naturally from his tongue, both men don't notice, "Why don't you tell me the secret. But you tell me with the TV-show we watched all day at my apartment? You remember the one Jack wanted to watch?"

"The one with the friend group?"

"Yeah that one"

"I am no allowed to tell you."

"If it makes you this upset you can tell me. It's okay. Nothing is gonna happen to you." Protectively Hotch places a hand on Spencer's cheek, making him feel shield away from the world around him.

"I am Jess." Spencer starts, "And the person who told me that secret is Cece."

"Cece who is together with Schmidt? With the little daughter?"

"Yes"

"Alright, I can follow." He assures him.

"And Cece had been sad and hurting. Like something really terrible happened. So Jess waited for her in front of the bathroom for a really long time. Because Cece also had a injury on her hand, like she had been punching something, but there is no one she should be fighting with." He stops and presses himself closer against Hotch, "So Jess waited and when Cece finally came out, she asked if they could talk and Cece eventually agreed and they went into an empty room and Jess asked what is going on. But Cece wouldn't tell her and told her- and told her that she should stop being so worried and stop being so her." He presses himself against Hotch again while he rubs his feet over the couch.

"It's okay, it's okay, you are doing good." Hotch tries calming him and slowly he stops moving im his arms again, "go on when you are ready"

"Jess told her that she can't help it. You know, because Jess was really worried and Jess sometimes doesn't know where personal boundaries are. Jess just wants to help and people think she is being nosy."

"Well Nick loved that about her"

"Not important" Spencer states, "Cece told her that not even she could come up with the word for what she feels. Because Cece has PTSD because she was in a terrible accident."

"She was?"

"Mmm Jess knew that and so Jess kept pushing and didn't read the signs and then Cece told her that she was pregnant when the accident happened-" Again Spencer breaks into a sob and moves in Hotch's arms again,

"You are okay, it's okay, it's okay, you did so good by telling me." He assures him and grabs both of his arms slightly leaning down on him, "Keep talking, you are almost done. You did such a good job."

Spencer by now lays with his back on Hotch's thighs, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, as he tries hitting his hands together and Hotch realizes what he tries to do, let's go and let's him hit his knuckles together.

"What happened then? What did Jess do?"

"Jess had to keep the secret. Nobody knows."

"Does Schmidt know?"

"No, Cece was working abroad when she found out and when she lost the baby. Cece was all alone." He tells him and hits his knuckles together harder.

"How does Jess feel now?"

"Jess would have been godmother to a second child. Jess doesn't know what to feel because she never even met the child and didn't know about it but now feels like something is gone from her heart. Jess is sad."

"Did Jess ever talk to Cece again about it?"

"Jess found a way for Cece to say goodbye to the man who did this but she is worried she won't be able to heal." They stay quiet for a long moment, Spencer hitting his knuckles together, until Hotch holds his hand between Spencer's two fists who can't stop.

"I think JJ loves you so so much, and I think JJ is the strongest woman this earth has ever seen and I know this must be terrifying, to see her like this but she is going to survive it and she knows that she has you to lean on when times get hard and she has Henry and Will and I know that when she is home she has all the love and understanding around her she always wished for." Gently he moves his other hand up to Spencer's head, "And as in for you, it's okay to feel whatever you feel right now and I am so so proud of you for taking care of her. She maybe said those things but she probably felt a little bit crowded by you. You know that feeling too. You sometimes say those things too and then mean it. But in the end, I think she is gonna feel a lot better knowing someone knows. And knowing someone is watching out for her."

[Prompt list]

[thorin-is-a-cuddler]

Archive of laughter

A/N: Natasha realizes that Clint’s motivation is at a new low and tries to shift his mind away from the present. When he accidentally offers her the perfect method for doing so, she does not hesitate. Set in the What if… episode 1x08 with post-apocalyptic Clintasha vibes. I missed them.

2766 words

„Ughhhh.“

„…“

„Hngggh.“

„…“

„Aw man aw man aw man.“

Natasha looked up from the sheets in her hands with a reprimanding look in her eyes. „Clint!“

„What?“ With a sour expression he sent her a glare over his metal shoulder from where he stood in front of a gigantic shelf, stacked with boxes full of documents. „If I don’t get to bitch about this, I doubt I’ll live through it.“

Natasha’s annoyed countenance made room for worry when she saw how large the shadows under Clint’s eyes were. How dark and hopeless they looked over the left-over shelves of the Archive. Hundreds of them, holding God knew how many files they had to look through to find answers.

It wasn’t like Clint was being dramatic. He was at the limit of his strength, at the far corner of his already fragile mental stability after years of running, hiding, bleeding and grieving. After years of trying to endure the fact that him and Natasha were, as far as they were informed, the last two living beings not only of their planet, but of the entire universe. After Ultron had destroyed everything and everyone else.

Natasha knew what he felt like, knew how hard it could get to keep it together, to not succumb to madness. Especially when faced with an enormous Russian Archive stacked with billion sheets of paper that may or may not offer them a solution in a single printed line or a minimal percentage of about 0,0001 percent of the files at hand.

She could see the horror Clint was experiencing in connection to the possibly hopeless workload that lay ahead of them and she was scared of the thoughts that were currently running through his mind, unseen, pondering dark questions and possibilities she did not dare to even consider.

She had to do something.

Slowly she lowered the files she held in her hands and stared at Clint’s back while he was already busy flipping through boxes again, his head hanging almost as low as his shoulders.

„Hey,“ she gently addressed him, making him stop and look over his shoulder again. Such tired blue eyes. She’d never seen them look this tired before. „Clint, I promise, this will be worth the effort. We will find something that will make all this go away again. Something that will defeat Ultron. I know it.“

His eyes lingered on her for a few moments longer, sadness reflected inside them. Then he turned around again, his shoulders as heavy as before. „Yeah. Sure.“

Now Natasha’s shoulders slumped down as well.

No, no, no, she could not leave him be this way, she could not let this slip and act as if everything was a-okay. She was acting cheerful for the sake of the both of them. But she knew it wouldn’t be good for anything if Clint continued faking smiles and showcasing his I-have-no-hope-left-but-I’ll-do-this-for-you expression.

He didn’t want to worry her. Which was the exact reason why she was so worried.

„Clint?“ She tried again, smiling, despite his loud sigh as he put his box away and turned around another time to face her. With one hand resting on the shelf to support himself he looked at her, softly, despite his obvious frustration. „Yes?“

„Can you imagine that we once thought being caught in an airvent for two days was basically the worst?“

Something in Clint’s posture changed at that. He opened his eyes a bit more and suddenly huffed a short laugh, nodding at her words. „Yeah. Two days. How laughable that seems now.“

„It sure does. But we made the most of it, didn’t we? How did we keep ourselves distracted back then?“ 
Clint pushed himself away from the shelf with a smile, his thoughts obviously shifting from the dark corner of his mind to a brighter one. Natasha’s smile widened.

„Well, you took an awful load of time to find out that I repeatedly wrote the same word during our Hangman matches.“

Natasha had to laugh out loud at that. „Okay, to my own defense: I did not yet know how stupid you actually were back then!“

„Touché,“ Clint grinned, the shadows under his eyes vanishing slightly. „You did find out about quite a few things while we were hiding out up there. The worst part being that you discovered how ticklish I was. Not exactly fun times for me.“

Natasha smirked at the memory. „Oh no, those were actually reeeeally fun times for you. I remember you laughing incessantly in fact.“

„Do you now?“ Clint squinted his eyes at her in mock anger, a warning spark shooting through them.

„Especially when I tickled you in that one particular spot… where was that again? I think you actually begged for me to stop when I got you th-“

„Tz, shut up!“

Natasha gasped in fake indignation as Clint suddenly turned his back to her, his voice altering to a slightly more embarrassed tone and his hand waving her off, as if to tell her not to dwell on it too much. Of course, that was, in her opinion, the most adorable reaction he could have possibly chosen and she would now dwell on it even more than before. Slowly she moved out of her cross-legged position on the floor, threateningly wiggling her fingertips around. Wasn’t this actually the perfect way to cheer up her favorite person in the world? Why hadn’t she thought of this before?

„Wait, I think I actually do remember. Would you mind if we test this memory, just to make sure-“

„Now is not the time, Natasha.“ He gently tried to reason with her, a meaningful look in his blue eyes when he shortly turned his head around to glance at her.

Natasha lowered her hands. But a teasing smirk remained on her face. „The time for what?“ Clint tried to appear unimpressed by her attempt to make him say it. He seemed determined not to step into her trap this time. Not after all those times he’d already made that mistake.

„You’re not gonna make me say it.“

„Say what, Clint?“

Natasha noticed that he kept looking over his shoulder ever so slightly, as she started approaching him, taking note of her sneakily coming closer. The smallest smile played around the corners of his lips.

„I said you’re not gonna make me say it.“

Natasha felt a wave of happiness course through her stomach at the way Clint’s voice altered ever so slightly. He was smiling, she could tell. Now she was going to make him laugh.

Clint sighed as Natasha came to a halt right behind him. By now he had to be able to feel her breath on the back of his neck.

Natasha’s fingertips were itching to search for some ticklish spots.

„Don’t!“ He said gently, without any conviction whatsoever, the small smile still audible in his words.

„Don’t what, Clint?“ Natasha asked again, her hands slowly nearing his sides from behind.

Clint sighed, his shoulders moving up and down. It was a sigh of defeat. The sigh of someone who had accepted his own fate. Probably already had on the day he’d met her. A fate filled with being Natasha’s favorite victim. She could feel anticipation surge within her as Clint tried to mentally prepare himself for the consequences of his actions. Or rather of her actions.

„Tickle me!“ He submitted with a slightly panicked ring to his voice.

And Natasha didn’t allow him a moment to second guess. „My pleasure.“

Clint was on his knees in no time, dropping the files he’d held in his hands and throwing his head back against the awful feeling spreading on his sides. He instinctively tried to press his elbows to his sides to limit the access for Natasha’s ticklish scratches but she easily wormed her way past his defenses, making his suppressed groans turn into giggles effortlessly.

„NO!“ He huffed, trying to bend over more, further away from her, giggling madly as Natasha’s fingers managed to weasle their way under his arms to scratch at his ribs. „Noho plehease!! Tasha!!“

Natasha chuckled triumphantly and tried to climb her fingertips up higher, tried to get them past his ribcage to wiggle them right into his most ticklish spots, right under his arms. But Clint was trying his utmost to keep her from reaching that spot.

„You are saying no, but you asked me to do this, remember?“ Natasha teased, chuckling when Clint tried to snarl at her, with the emphasis on „tried to“ since any possible effect fell flat due to his laughter mixing in loudly.

„Stahahhaap I mean it!!!“ Clint barked when she suddenly pulled her hands away from his ribs to sling her arms around his chest and pull him down on his back, trying to climb on top of him to pin him down properly. He had to laugh at her antics as he in return tried to grab a hold of her arms or legs or basically any part of her body to have a minimal chance of coming out of this without ridiculing himself senseless.

He didn’t stand a chance though, for his bones and muscles already had to start feeling like useless goo, his laughter wouldn’t seize and he couldn’t see properly through his closed eyes. Natasha couldn’t stop smiling either as she could witness all the beauty of Clint melting underneath her touch - into a tiny puddle of giggles and shrieks.

„No no NOO!! AHahaha GET OHOHFF MEE!!!“ Clint yelled when she accidentally pushed a knee in his stomach in their grappling for the upperhand, resulting in her managing to sit on his hips properly, keeping him down where she wanted to keep him.

„Youhohu fohohoul cheheeater!!“ He laughed when her fingertips started crawling up his sides again and he only had limited space for flailing and turning anymore, his laughetr sounding deeper and more breathless already.

„Cheater? Really? What, just because I hit you here?“ She questioned, making him choke on his laughter when she scribbled her fingers on his stomach.

„Dohohon’t!“ He shrieked, hitting his head against the floor by accident and laughing even more in the aftermath. „IT TICKLES!!“

„I know, honey, it’s why you’re laughing!“ Natasha explained in a playful voice, before she had to free her wrists from one of his iron defensive grips in protection of his upper body, which didn’t stop her for long as she merely had to lean down to blow a raspberry on his unprotected neck, making Clint who had not expected this at all squeal with laughter.

„TH-THAHAT’S NOT ALLOWED!!“ He argued, letting go of her hands and trying to push her away from himself again, laughing helplessly when her fingers were back on their way up his ribs in no time. „Stahahap it already!!!“

„No! We haven’t yet tested my memory!“

„It’s my armpits!! I prhohohomise!! No need for tests, rehehheally!! rEHEHEALLY!!“

Clint kicked out as hard as he could behind Natasha’s back as she managed to wiggle her fingertips the slightest bit underneath his biceps and metal arm to get at the sensitive spots. She smirked and tried to distract Clint by blowing air into his face, chuckling when she saw him squeeze his eyes shut even more. „StAHHAP THAT!!“

„Come on, lemme! Just for a second!“

„Nohoho wahahay!!“

Clint’s laughter was flowing completely freely by then. He had seemingly let go of all things depressing for just this small amount of time, giving in to the unrelenting ticklish feeling and not trying to fight his own laughter anymore. Natasha hadn’t seen him this carefree in years.

She could not stop now, where she was seconds away from making him lose all track of thought. Just for a little while. Determined she moved up a little further on his body, sitting down on his upper stomach and almost making his eyes pop out by the sudden shifts of weight. He couldn’t form a coherent complaint though, since Natasha quickly moved her hands behind her back to dance her fingers down his sides, that were now completely at her mercy due to their new position.

„NHOHOO!! Nohoohoho!! stAHHAHP!! I can’t bREHEHEATHE!!!“ Clint’s eyes were shining from his laughter by now, the bright blue of his iris taking Natasha’s breath away. She grinned at his futile attempts to get a grip of her hands and took this opportunity to push her knees up further, blocking Clint’s ability to defend his armpits any further. He realized this immediately and barked out a single „SHIT!“ before her fingers attacked, making him arch his back and give in to a defeated laughter that came straight from his belly and sounded deeper and richer than all the sounds he’d already made. He couldn’t get another word in, as his laughter kept pouring out of him, merely started shaking his head around and kicking out less than before.

Natasha smiled fondly as she listened to his hearty laughter, the one she hadn’t heard in so long and saw how it brightened up his features.

„I think this proves it alright.“ She chuckled, removing her fingers from his armpit to allow him a breather before she evilly snuck them in again.

„NO NO NO PLEHEHEASE!! STAHAHP!!“ Clint barked out, his laughter sounding a tad bit hysterical as he tried to move out of his fatal position now. But Natasha immediately stopped at his request and gently shifted back to sitting on his hips, allowing his arms to cover his ampits again.

She chuckled softly as he gasped for air, noisily, sounding as if he’d just ran a marathon, his head falling back to the ground. She put her hands on his stomach and grinned when he flinched underneath her touch, gently patting the spot in an offer of peace.

„No more tickling, I promise.“

Clint sighed in relief and moved his head up to look at her again. They glared at each other for a little while, before they both had to laugh - about each other, about themselves, about the fact that they had just done this in the midst of an apocalypse.

Clint groaned and tried to stop chuckling with a pained expression. „Ah, I can’t laugh no more. My stomach will explode!“

„What can I say, Clint, you asked for this!“ Natasha smirked, chuckling when Clint squinted his eyes at her dangerously.

„Oh, you better watch it! I know that you’re not immune to this either!“ Clint tried to poke her in the side, but Natasha snatched his wrist and held on tightly.

„You wouldn’t stand a chance!“

Clint grinned at her, a grin she hadn’t seen in quite a while.

„I’ll attack when you least expect it!“ He purred in a voice that sent a goosebump down Natasha’s arm. Damn, she’d missed this Clint.

„I’ll always expect it then,“ she retorted and stuck her tongue out at him, getting back to her feet and offering him a hand but dropping it again before he could reach for it. Clint chuckled at that. Slowly he pushed himself off the ground as well to get back to where he’d been so rudely interrupted previously.

With his hands on his hips he looked over the shelves of the Archive and sighed. „If you keep doing things like that, we’ll never be done here.“ Clint remarked, bending over to pick up the files he’d dropped earlier.

Natasha waited until he was standing upright again, before she took a step closer to him and threw her arms around him. Clint gasped in surprise, the files flying from his hand to the floor. With a tired huff, he ignored the mess and gently wrapped his arms around Natasha as well. She could feel his warm breath on her head and snuggled closer to his chest.

„It’ll be okay,“ Clint suddenly whispered, stealing her line. She moved her head away from his chest in surprise to look at him. He was smiling, nodding - and she realized that it was all she’d needed from him: reassurance.

She turned her lips into a thin line and nodded as well, a weak smile on her face.

„It will be,“ she agreed, meaning to move away from him and get back to work. But his grip tightened around her. She looked up in horror.

„You didn’t expect that.“ He smirked and Natasha could not believe that he had turned the tables this sneakily until he lifted her into the air, threw her over his shoulder and tickled her sides until her laughter and her fists to his back grew weaker.

[papers4me]

Fruits Basket Manga Review , ch 112 & 113 (part 2)

I hate that this chapter is cut... mainly cuz it deals with the most “ horribly presented” theme in furuba anime.... grief.

-The shame of grieving: “ Rarely discussed theme in Literature”:

When a love one dies... ppl differ in how they deal with it. Some cry their hearts out, some become depressed & painfully lonely, others get angry or cynical, some might deny it, some move on quickly, others move on but years after the realization crushes them, others stay still... Above all, you feel ashamed of yourself if you didn’t move on or if you DID move on.. “ Sometimes ppl around you judge you for it... for your grief”

The later is the theme of these two chapters. Rarely discussed themes & it saddens me that it is cut. You see, Furuba anime doesn’t get grief  at all. To them, it’s a small part of the generic protagonist after she finishes her job of nurturing the real main protagonist. Mothers are strong, they help us cross the bridge between childhood & adulthood. Tohru, the show’s mom, did it so thoroughly & in slow visual & narrative details for yuki. Afterwards, the anime brushed whatever is left of her character, which the anime viewed as sheer suspenseful drama, & collected it thro 3rd person story-telling techniques in one ep “ se3, ep6″ & excessive monologue for 10 minutes in se3, ep9.

In this chapter, Kakeru, a side character, sheds light into this theme. Kakeru didn’t lose a parent by death, didn’t grieve, has no dependent familial bonds with either dead parents “ kyoko & komaki’s dad”. Yet, kakeru stood & judged tohru on how she “ should” grieve. Harshly tearing her down while she’s standing there lonely, trying to hide her shock at the loss of her only pillar in life, broken & traumatized, dealing with the pushed down traumatic feelings from her past where her mom abandoned her as a child..now her mom did it again, this time thro death.. & kakeru, rightfully not knowing all that, but wrongfully lecturing her on how to behave... kakeru isn’t a monster, but he only saw what he wanted: komaki & how the world should grieve with his lover, how he should be the hero protecting her. So self-centered, insensitive, horribly cruel & unbelievably conceited, but above all... what he did is so sadly common... it hurts.

-Judging Grieving People:

As I said many times.. grief is so personal, so unique to the person & as common as it is, so misunderstood. According to kakeru & many ppl I’ve sopken to lately, tohru should have acknowledged komaki. Komaki, the not-traumatized version of tohru, did the right “ tohru-like” thing. Not only felt sadness at the loss of her own dad, but found it in her heart to visit the other orphan, tohru, & give condolences & respect to the dead mother. Such kindness & purity. Very deserving of applaud: To not only see your pain but others’ as well. Tohru has always done the “ right, kind” thing to other ppl. When she can’t now, the author brought another “ tohru” to do the “ right, kind” thing.

Kakeru is so many ppl. During my brother’s funeral. I’ve heard so many gossip on how my mom should’ve stood tall & greeted the visitors.” Being silent , emotionless & non-responsive is not how you show visitors you value their kind words”, they said. How his widow should’ve collected herself & acted properly, respected his memory by taking proper care of herself & her kids. “Being a broken mess is not how you “ honor” loved one”, they said. Kakeru is indeed many ppl & that’s how you discuss a theme by creating characters who sin, screw up & be cruel, even if momentarily.

Kakeru is wrong. There is no “ you should have” in grief. There is no ounce of truth in his demeaning lecture to tohru & I respect komaki for her reaction to him so much. Kakeru did learn & grew from it, apologized to tohru even if he didn’t actually sought her to do so & even if she herself started the apology. But you see, these two chapters are 90% focused on kakeru as a character, his growth, thoughts, the mini focus on his relationship with komaki as an example of healthy relationship & all that is another lesson for yuki to observe & learn. He learned abt tohru’s past, kakeru’s personality & growth & got to observe another example of romantic relationship so yuki can grow as a man & approach machi healthily. But then again... nothing at all stops yuki/machi from being healthy, no past issues, no contradicting personalities “ they’re quite similar” & yuki is the only furuba character that doesn’t screw up big. He learns & teaches. He’s the personification of the author.

-Tohru.. stays a “ tohru”:

Tohru’s part is 10% of the this chapter which is fine as I think/hope it will lead into more tohru depth in the following chapters. But It is for this reason I’m glad this chapter was cut in the 13 eps season of furuba anime, cuz tohru doesnt have much depth in the anime due to the quick wrap up & the la~~~~st  thing I want is another 3rd person story-telling flashback abt tohru in the anime. Honestly, one of the most frustrating aspect to me of the anime & I’ll hold judgement abt manga- tohru till I reach its end. So far~~~ Tohru’s depth & character exploration gets better one chapter, then regress the next one, then moves on, the... it’s a fluctuating process. It has nothing to do with tohtu’s feelings.

you’ see ... kyo himself as a character with issues fluctuates a lot, he does sth good, then does sth bad, chooses right words, then makes a horrible mistake & chooses wrong! which is one of the most well-done aspects of character exploration that is rarely attempted by authors! I highly respect Takaya-san for what she’s doing with kyo in the manga so far. Other authors show us a character doing one big mistake & then he/she learns from it in a dramatic way. But Takaya-san, nope! she decided to approach it in a very human way, making us be frustrated with kyo’s repeated mistakes yet understands where he’s coming from! kudos to her!!

But I’m not yet satisfied with how tohru is portrayed in the manga & this has nothing to do with tohru’s character. Takaya-san is discussing rare themes thro tohru’s character. But what I mean is how tohru is approached thro the viewers/readers eyes. I wont judge until the last chapter. but this is the part that is frustrating to me.

Side Notes:

The flow of the 2 chapters is little off. We go back & forth between the past & the present, between yuki-machi & komaki-kakeru. Again, I’m so glad the anime cut it cuz, nope! they can’t handle such narrative. they’ll reorder it in a such heavily monologing way & insert the comedy abruptly to lighten the mood. Just look at how the comedy is inserted in momiji’s se03 ep!

Komaki is such a tohru with a sprinkle of kagura’s very softened outbursts. lol. she’s fun!

I’m liking yuki-machi interactions a lot. no drama, which is why the anime cut it -_-’, but it progresses healthily. Machi is yuki’s third-stage growth after (1) leaving tohru’s nest (baby yuki), (b) making friends with kakeru/someone who gets him (young boy yuki), (3) finding romantic love (being a man). The anime was so interested in the 2 stages above cuz that’s where the drama is & cut the third. Honestly, the anime didn’t have to include everything as there is never a space in 13 eps, but they certainly could’ve squeezed few panels or even made brand new very short yuki-machi scenes. but the anime weirdly decided after yuki “ saved” machi from her trauma by talking with her in her apartment, he should just marry her.... lol.. that’s why next scene is ep 5 momiji’s ep intro montage where yuki was abt to confess!!! making yuki-machi the least developed couple in the anime!

I love all furuba’s characters, but yuki, tohru, kyo & akito carry the big themes, therefore, I not only analyze their characters, but how the themes are presented thro them & how their presentation affects such themes. This might make it sound as I hate them or am harsh on them. not at all. It is the anime director/ manga author that I’m positively or negatively criticizing most times. Most importantly, my criticism is not the law. It’s just my perspective & my consumption of the material. Feel free to differ with me. I dont mind it. It brings interesting discussions!

When it comes to tohru’s issues... his chapter introduced nothing new. We have seen/read in canon repeatedly that tohru hides her pain behind a smile (heck! even kisa knows that & told us), that she cant stand up for herself much, that she smiles for other ppl not for herself. All this was presented thro so many characters already, which is why I understand the anime’s decision to cut it. What’s new? that yuki didn know tohru’s smile is mostly a mask & that kakleru has depth.

I love this chapter for the grieving themes it discussed that are rarely touched upon in literature, but since such themes are rarely presented, the anime’s decision to cut it, ironically proves my point! lol . They don’t get grief & so, they reduced it to se03 content & two eps worth. sad.. but expected. The anime is indeed another form of “past” kakeru: seeing one side of grieving person. The happy side.

[specialagentsergio]

now i’m getting colder || part two

summary: Emily’s been dating you for nearly a year and she’s never been happier—until her past comes to call. Then she’s gone, and Spencer’s left to pick up the pieces of your broken heart.

pairing: spencer reid x f!reader (unrequited), emily prentiss x f!reader

category: angst

content warnings: (faked) major character death, mentions of / implied sex, swearing, grieving, mentions of drug abuse & addiction, unhealthy coping mechanisms

word count: 5.1k

series masterlist || masterlist

The morning after Emily dies, Spencer wakes up to the smell of cooking bacon. He feels groggy and disoriented as he sits up in an unfamiliar bed. It’s not really a new feeling—it happens often enough with the amount of hotels he’s stayed at through work. This bed, though, feels way too nice to be a hotel bed.

He feels around for his glasses, eventually locating them buried under one of the spare pillows. I’ve got to stop falling asleep with these on. Once he can see clearly, he realizes where he is: one of the guest room’s at Rossi’s house.

It had been nearly four in the morning when the jet got back to Quantico. JJ and Hotch had gone home to their families, and Rossi had insisted that everyone else stay with him. “None of us should be alone right now,” he’d said in a voice thick with emotion.

Spencer tries to ignore the migraine he can feel building behind his eyes as he pulls himself out of bed. He doesn’t know how long he was asleep, only that it wasn’t long enough. He follows the smell of cooking food out of his room and downstairs to the kitchen. Morgan and Seaver are already awake, chatting quietly at the island while Rossi cooks.

“Pretty boy,” Morgan says, noticing his arrival. He pulls out the chair next to him.

“What time is it?”

“Almost eleven,” Seaver answers.

Morgan puts a hand on his shoulder when he sits down. “How are you feeling, kid?”

Spencer shrugs. “Okay, I guess. Where’s Garcia and (Y/N)?”

“Garcia was dead asleep when I got up,” he replies. “I’d guess (Y/N)’s sleeping, too.”

“Food’s going to be ready shortly,” Rossi announces.

Seaver looks to Morgan. “Should we wake them up?”

“I think we should at least check on them.” Morgan stands and pats Spencer’s arm. “Come on, kid.”

He trudges back up the stairs after Derek. He nods towards the door to the room you’re staying in before going into the one he’d shared with Garcia.

Spencer opens the door quietly. You’re barely visible from the doorway, huddled under the covers, but from what he can see, he thinks you’re still asleep. He really doesn’t want to wake you—he wishes he was still asleep himself—so he just closes the door again and waits in the hall for Morgan.

Garcia is with him he returns, her sparkly sleep mask pushed up onto her forehead. She hugs him immediately. “Where’s (Y/N)? Is she okay?” she asks when she pulls back.

“Still asleep,” Spencer says. “I didn’t want to wake her because I don’t think she’s been asleep for very long. The pillowcase was still damp.”

“Oh, poor girl,” she whispers. “I can’t imagine how awful this must be for her.”

Morgan puts his arm around her shoulders. “Me either, baby girl. Let’s just let her sleep for now.”

They make their way back downstairs, where Seaver is helping Rossi dish the finished food onto plates. When Spencer tells him you’re still sleeping, Rossi loads one up with everything and puts it to the side for you to eat later.

It’s quiet as everyone eats. The food tastes fantastic, and under different circumstances, Spencer would be delighted to be eating it. But as it is, he can’t even finish his plate.

“Somebody please say something,” Garcia says suddenly. “I can’t take this silence anymore.”

Awkward glances are exchanged across the table until Seaver offers up, “Um, I’m almost done with the academy training. The written test is just a few weeks from now.”

“Yes, good,” Garcia says. “Your test. Tell me all about the test.”

Spencer rubs one of his eyes, knocking his glasses askew. He’s hit the point where he can’t ignore the pain anymore. “I’m gonna go lie down,” he mutters to no one in particular.

Morgan looks up at him when he stands. “You alright, Reid?”

“Yeah, I’m just tired,” he lies. “Uh, thanks for the food, Rossi.”

Rossi nods in acknowledgement before focusing back on Seaver and Garcia’s conversation, and Spencer shuffles off towards the stairs.

Squinting against the light coming through all the windows, he nearly runs into you in the upstairs hallway. “Oh! You’re awake.”

You look smaller than normal, standing with your arms wrapped around yourself. It’s like you’re trying hide from the world. “Unfortunately,” you murmur.

“Are... are you okay?” he asks hesitantly.

Your laugh is humorless. “Of course I’m not.”

“Yeah, me... me either,” Spencer admits quietly. You don’t reply, so he keeps talking. “Rossi made breakfast. Well, I guess it’s more like brunch now. He saved a plate for you.”

“Alright.” You start to move past him, but he puts his hand on your arm. “What?”

“Could I hug you?”

You think over it for a bit, then nod.

Spencer doesn’t know if he’s hugging you for your comfort or his own, just that it feels nice. But then he puts a hand on the back of your neck and you draw in a sharp breath, pulling away abruptly.

“Don’t,” you mutter. “Em always did that. Don’t—don’t do that.”

“Sorry, I—I’m sorry,” he stutters. “I won’t do it again.”

You take in a deep breath and brush away the tears that have slipped down your face. “I’m gonna go eat.”

Spencer watches you until you’re out of sight, then returns to his room. He can’t stop himself from rubbing his eyes again. The curtains are already closed, but the room still feels too bright. He deliberately puts his glasses on the bedside table before crawling back under the covers. He pulls one of the pillows over his head to try and block out as much light as possible.

The insides of his elbows itch, and he wonders how he’s supposed to get through this.

---

The funeral is hard.

It’s a nice service, but that doesn’t make it any easier. Each member of the team places a rose on the coffin. You kiss your fingertips before putting yours down, pressing them to the polished wood and barely holding back a sob.

JJ drives you home, and Spencer tags along, not wanting to leave you alone in an empty apartment right after burying your girlfriend. But it turns out to be something he doesn’t have to worry about, because when you open your front door, you’re greeted with a meow.

“Sergio!” you gasp. You immediately drop your bag on the floor and pick him up. “How did you get here, buddy?”

“You know how Penelope and I have been feeding him? We both thought he’d be happier here,” JJ says. “I brought him by this morning, but you had already left. I hope this is okay; I just didn’t want you to have to go to Emily’s apartment if you weren’t ready.”

“It’s more than okay. It’s...” There are tears in your eyes. “Thank you, JJ.”

She smiles softly. “His things are by the kitchen table. I wasn’t sure where you would want them.”

“That’s fine. I’m sure we can find good spots for everything, huh, Sergio?” you coo, turning and heading in that direction.

Spencer exchanges a glance with JJ as they both follow. You’ve barely said anything for the past few days, so hearing you chatter away to a cat in a baby voice is a little disconcerting.

“Um, do you need any help?” he asks. “With Sergio, or with, um, anything?”

“Hm? No, I’m okay.”

Sergio has settled himself over your shoulder and is now staring at him and JJ. He shifts on his feet, feeling oddly unnerved by it. “Why’s he staring at us?” he whispers to her.

“I don’t know, Spence. He’s a cat,” she replies. “That’s just what they do.”

You press the side of your face against Sergio’s body and close your eyes. It’s the most content Spencer’s seen you since he noticed you worrying over Emily a month ago.

“You can go,” you say. “I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?” JJ asks. “I don’t mind staying.”

“I’m sure.” But neither of them move, so you open your eyes to look at them. “Guys, I really appreciate all the support. It means a lot. But I also need space. I’ll be fine with Sergio here, I promise.”

“Just as long as you’re sure.” JJ gives you a tight hug. “We’re only a phone call away.”

You nod. “I know. Thank you.”

Spencer hesitates, though. He understands that you need space and privacy to grieve, but he doesn’t know that he should be alone right now.

Your expression softens when you look at him. You gently slide Sergio off your shoulder and onto the table so you can hug him properly. He all but clings to you, turning his head into your neck. It seems to clue JJ into his dilemma, because when you pull away from him, she says, “Why don’t you come visit Henry, Spence? He’d love to see you.”

He sniffles, trying to stop himself from crying. “Yeah, okay.”

He lets JJ lead him out into the hallway. You give him a small smile and a wave before closing the door.

---

Spencer’s never been one to frequent bars. They’re loud and often overcrowded. He doesn’t like the concept of drinking out of a glass that some stranger used the day before. And more often than not, the surfaces—be it a table or the bar itself—feel sticky. It’s just not his scene. But that’s where he’s found himself tonight, two weeks after the funeral. He’s staring down at amber liquid in a glass while his brain is fixated on an entirely different one.

He hasn’t had cravings this bad since Gideon left, and he ended up relapsing that time. He doesn’t want that to happen again. He swirls the glass, watching the ice clink against the sides as he silently debates with himself. Technically, drinking would be considered relapsing, but it’s better than using, right? If it’s between the two....

It’s the guilt that’s driven him here tonight. Guilt over Emily being dead because they didn’t get to her in time. Guilt over not seeing the obvious question, why families, right in front of him, the answer to which would have gotten them to her sooner. But most of all, guilt that he can’t stop craving companionship with his dead friend’s partner. Every time those thoughts come into his head, he feels like he’s betraying Emily.

Spencer feels himself slipping dangerously close to the ledge. So when a stranger sits down next to him, strikes up a conversation, and eventually asks if he’d like to get out of here, Spencer says yes.

It’s not the best decision he’s ever made, but it’s better than the alternative.

An hour later, he’s lying in an unfamiliar bed, staring at the ceiling in the awkward silence that follows a hook-up. The stranger’s name is Ryan, he learned as he slid into the car’s passenger seat. And it was nice—god knows he’s touch-starved—but it was a risky choice. He knows all too well what getting into a stranger’s car can lead to. But he just hadn’t cared. Emily’s dead. They’re supposed to be the best, but they weren’t able to save her. So what’s the point of anything?

When his phone goes off, Spencer quickly scrambles out from under the thin sheet and sorts through the clothes on the floor to find his pants. The display identifies the caller as you. “Hello?”

“Spencer.” Your voice is so quiet, he can barely hear it; he has to turn up the volume on his phone.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. He starts to gather the rest of his clothing from the bedroom floor.

“I...” Your breath catches, and it’s a while before you speak again. “I can’t sleep. Could you come over?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course,” he answers immediately. “It’ll just—it’ll just take me a little longer than usual to get there. I’m, uh... I’m not at home.”

“Okay,” you whisper. “Just use your key when you get here.”

He ends the call and looks through the clothes in his arms, making sure he’s got everything.

“Was that them?” Ryan asks from behind him, and Spencer jumps. He’d nearly forgotten about him.

“Um, I’m not sure what you mean,” Spencer says, turning. He has a strange urge to cover himself, and nearly does before reminding himself that he wouldn’t be covering anything the man hasn’t seen already.

“When we were having sex, you were thinking of someone else,” Ryan says. “Was that them on the phone?”

Spencer opens and closes his mouth a few times, unsure what to say. Eventually, he mutters, “Yeah. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Ryan says easily. “I only noticed because I was thinking of someone else, too.”

“Oh.”

“Mine’s straight,” he says. “How about yours?”

“Um, she loves someone else.” Spencer’s not sure why he’s telling a stranger this, but it feels good to get it out. So good that if you weren’t waiting on him, he could see himself oversharing and telling Ryan everything. But you are, so he says, “I, uh, have to go. Would you happen to know where the closest Metro station is?”

“Yeah, it’s a few blocks north of here. Just turn left when you leave the building and keep going straight.”

“Thanks.”

Spencer gets dressed quickly, double checks that he has everything he came here with, then leaves with an awkward little wave goodbye. He finds the metro easily; it’s right where Ryan said it was. He stops by his apartment to take a quick shower, then decides to drive his car to your place to get there faster.

At your door, he flips through his keyring to find the right one. As he unlocks and opens it, he knocks lightly on the doorframe in the pattern you’d set ages ago, a signal to let you know that it’s him coming in. The alarm beeps and he silences it by punching in the code, another thing he’s known for years.

After shutting and locking the door behind him, he calls your name softly. There’s no response, so he ventures in, eventually finding you on one of the couches, curled up on your side with Sergio in your arms. You’re staring blankly across the room, but you must be vaguely aware of his presence, because when he touches your leg, it doesn’t startle you. There’s a small trash can full of crumpled up tissues on the floor in front of you, and your eyes are red and puffy.

There’s a bit of space on the end of the couch near your feet, and Spencer takes it. He waits a while, but you don’t say anything, so he speaks first. “Why can’t you sleep?”

The breath you take in wavers with unshed tears. “The bed’s too empty,” you whisper.

Sighing, Spencer runs a hand through his damp hair. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“Do you?” you ask. “You weren’t at home when I called you, and instead of coming straight here, you stopped at your apartment to shower. You were with someone.”

He doesn’t have a response for that. He didn’t think you would notice, but of course you did. Whether it’s because you’re a profiler, or because you know him too well, he isn’t sure. Either way, it makes him anxious, and he starts worrying the edges of his cardigan between his fingers. “I... I don’t know what to tell you,” he admits.

You finally look at him properly. “Look, I don’t care about you sleeping with someone,” you say. “Just... just don’t say you know what I mean when you actually don’t. It won’t make me feel any better.”

“Okay,” he says quietly.

You squeeze Sergio closer to your chest; surprisingly, he doesn’t seem to mind. “It’s not the same as wishing you had someone. Emily is the love of my life. You don’t know what it’s like to have that, and then have it snatched away.”

Spencer bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from saying anything else. He wants to explain, to tell you that even while someone had their lips on his tonight, he’d felt incredibly lonely, and that it had only gotten worse afterward. And he absolutely should not tell you that he thinks he does know what you mean. He thinks he’s felt something similar to what you’ve just described, watching you with Emily the past few months. But you buried her. To compare that to him loving someone who doesn’t reciprocate is insensitive, to say the very least.

So he does what he always did before you came along and helped him open up: he bottles it up and shoves it down inside.

You look away from him, and after a few more silent moments, he hears your breath catch in your throat. “Was,” you say, voice cracking.

“What?”

“Emily... Emily was the love of my life,” you correct quietly.

“Don’t do that,” he says sharply, without thinking.

Your eyes fly back to him and hurt crosses your face. “Spence.”

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I just meant, you don’t have to do that. Not with me, at least.”

You don’t respond, just look back at the wall again, and god damn it, he can’t stand to watch you stare blankly at it anymore. “What do you want to do?”

“Nothing.”

“Maybe we could watch a movie,” he suggests.

“I don’t care.”

Spencer grimaces. Loss of interest or pleasure in most or all normal activities. A sign of depression. Of course, you’re grieving the loss of your partner. This type of depression is to be expected; it isn’t clinical. But he still feels uneasy seeing you like this.

“Well, I’m going to put something on,” he says, if only to keep the apartment from being silent.

“Knock yourself out,” you mutter. Then you tilt your head down, pressing your forehead into Sergio’s fur.

He takes the remote off the coffee table and flips through the channels until he lands on Discovery. Right now it looks like they’re showing Mythbusters reruns. He’d probably like it more if he knew less about physics and chemistry, but it’s interesting enough to keep him occupied.

You surprise him when the next episode starts by quietly asking what he thinks the outcome of the planned experiments are going to be. Eager to have something to do, he launches into an explanation. You murmur an occasional, “uh-huh”, but he doesn’t think you’re actually listening. You’ve still got that blank look on your face, but at least it’s focused on the TV instead of the wall. He suspects you just want to hear someone talk, to break the silence that’s been permeating your apartment since the funeral.

The affirmations stop after a while, and he looks over to see that you’ve finally fallen asleep. He stands up and Sergio lifts his head, blinking up at him with wide eyes. “Stay there,” Spencer whispers as firmly as he can, afraid that the cat leaving will wake you.

He looks around until he finds a blanket to put over you, then settles down on the other couch with a second one. Neither the couch or the blanket are anywhere near long enough for him to sleep comfortably, but he doesn’t want you to wake up alone.

---

They had to practically drag you out to the movie tonight.

Things have been up and down since you came back to work, a week after everyone else did. You have good days and bad days. Today has been a bad day. You’d tried to just go home, but seeing that you were in a dark place, Spencer had insisted you come out with them.

“It’s unnecessary,” Garcia says as the five of you trail out of the theater. “There was too much blood and gore and ew.”

“Garcia, it’s a slasher film,” Spencer says, amused. “How do you do a slasher film without violence?”

“You imply it.”

“Baby, the movie is called Slice 6,” Morgan says. “What were you expecting?”

“A refreshing beverage with a twist of comedy. I’m gonna have nightmares for a week,” she complains.

“With everything that we do and see on a daily basis, that got to you?” Seaver asks.

“Listen, newb, you may be all Sigourney Weaver ass-kicking tough, which is awesome, but the mystical mavens of innocence like myself jump at things that go bump in the night.”

“Why are you worried? I’m sure that Morgan will protect you. As long as he’s not jumping out of his chair like a prepubescent schoolgirl,” Spencer says, making no effort to hide his laugh.

Morgan rolls his eyes. “The only reason I jumped is ‘cause you guys woke me up.”

Garcia puts her arm through his. “How could you sleep during that?”

“Easy. You drag me out after a twelve hour workday, for what? You’re telling me that girl didn’t know that the unsub was waiting for her upstairs? Come on, now.”

“Villain,” Spencer corrects.

“What?”

“In movies, unsubs are called villains.”

Morgan barely holds back a snort. “My bad.”

Spencer looks to his other side. You haven’t said anything at all; you’re just staring at the ground as you walk. In an effort to bring you into the conversation, he asks, “D’you wanna know why horror movies are so successful?”

You glance at him, but Morgan’s the one who answers. “Why’s that, genius?”

“They prey on our instinctual need to survive. In tribal days, a woman’s scream would signal danger, and the men would return from hunting to protect their pack. That’s why it’s always the women and not the men who fall victim to the bogeyman,” he explains.

“Well, that’s not the only reason,” you say quietly. “It’s no secret the film industry is sexist.”

“That, too,” he agrees, just happy you’ve said something.

Garcia smiles affectionately. “Count on you, Reid, to break a movie down to science.”

“My favorite thing about horror movies is the suspense factor,” Seaver says, playfully shifting her voice to sound intense.

“Ah, the ticking clock,” Spencer replies.

“The helpless victim walks through the dark, shadows reaching out to get her,” she continues.

He’s got a smile on his face now as he plays along. “A sudden noise draws her attention. Is someone there, or is it just in her head?”

“Still, it’s totally unrealistic,” Garcia interrupts. “No one should be walking through a dark alley by themselves at night.”

Derek clears his throat, feigning offense. “Hello?”

“Ah. No one should be walking through a dark alley without a Derek Morgan by their side,” she corrects. Morgan chuckles in approval.

“But the best part of a horror movie?” Spencer asks, not done with the conversation. “You never know when the end is gonna come.”

Everyone splits up when they reach the parking lot, heading to their own cars. Morgan is driving Garcia, and you offer to drive Spencer home. But before you start the car, you ask, “Will you stay over tonight?”

It’s not really unexpected. He knows you’ve been struggling to sleep alone since the first night he stayed on your couch. He’s done it a few more times since then, and you’ve slept on his couch every now and then as well, when you reach the point where you’re absolutely exhausted and can’t take it anymore. You’re understandably lonely, but he suspects you’re also scared of Doyle returning, if the way you double check your front door, windows and alarm before bed is anything to go by.

“Of course,” he answers quietly.

You stop by his place on the way so he can pick up some clothes and a toothbrush. When he walks into your apartment, he starts to put his things down on the couch, but you take his wrist in your hand and pull him towards the bedroom.

His heart skips a beat. “Wh—what are you doing?”

“You’ve woken up with back and knee pain every time you’ve stayed on the couch. It’s too small for you. This bed is easily big enough for both of us. We’re adults; we can share it.”

“Uh, alright. Th—thanks,” he stutters.

“I’m going to take a shower,” you say. “Go ahead and make yourself comfortable.”

The bathroom door clicks shut softly behind you, leaving Spencer alone to take in his surroundings. He’s been in your bedroom before, of course, but it feels different this time. He can tell what side of the bed you sleep on by the personal effects on one of the bedside tables; he sets down his things on the opposite one. Once the shower has started and he’s sure you won’t be coming back in, he gets changed into his pajamas.

As he pulls back the bedcovers, he tries not to think about how Emily was the one doing this just a few months ago. And he especially tries not the think about what the two of you undoubtedly got up to in this bed, and what your face must look like when you—

Stop that right now, he scolds himself. And there’s that guilt and betrayal again, making his chest feel hollow. He leaves the room to brush his teeth at the kitchen sink (he doesn’t want to bother you or rush your shower), and splashes some cold water on his face after to try and pull himself together.

He’s settled down with a book by the time you come out of the bathroom, your hair wet and the scent of your bath products clinging to your skin. “Uh, how was your shower?” he asks awkwardly, feeling out of place in your bed.

“It was fine.” You plug in your phone to charge and get into bed. You turn off your bedside lamp and lay down on your side facing him, apparently ready to sleep right away. Spencer doesn’t want to keep you up, so he marks his place in the book and turns off the lamp on his side. As soon as he’s adjusted to a comfortable position, you speak.

“Would it be okay if I slept close to you?” you ask in a whisper. Your voice wavers when you continue, “I miss being close to someone.”

Spencer couldn’t say no even if he wanted to. He nods before realizing you can’t see him in the dark. “Yeah, sure.”

You scoot towards him and curl up next to his body, your forehead touching his shoulder and legs pressed against his side. He tries not to tense up so you won’t think he’s uncomfortable with it, because it’s very much the opposite. He’s always liked your touch, and right now your skin is still warm from the shower and you smell so nice.

You fall asleep quickly, your breathing becoming slow and even. It’s the fastest you’ve fallen asleep in weeks. He’s just about drifted off himself when you shift, startling him back awake by moving closer in your sleep. One of your hands settles on his chest and your legs straighten out, one of them slipping between his.

Slowly, hesitantly, he moves the arm closest to you, putting it around your shoulders and resting his hand on your back. You don’t stir, so he closes his eyes again. And if he lets go of the guilt for just a little while and allows himself to pretend that you’ve moved in your sleep to hold onto him because you love him back? Well. You don’t need to know that.

---

It takes ten weeks, but the team finally has Doyle in custody. Morgan’s in the interrogation room with him, but is interrupted when everyone is told to gather at the roundtable. Spencer’s one of the first ones in, followed by Garcia and you. The rest of the team isn’t far behind.

“You get anywhere with Doyle?” he asks Morgan.

“Doyle doesn’t think Gerace has the guts to take him on.”

“But that’s definitely Gerace on the tape,” Garcia says.

Hotch enters the room, looking much different than the last time they saw him, sporting a beard and loose, casual clothing.

“Welcome back,” Morgan says, a bit of surprise coloring his tone.

“Thanks. Everybody have a seat,” Hotch instructs.

Morgan stays standing. “Why? What’s going on? Everything all right?”

Hotch crosses his arms and looks at the table as he begins to speak. “Several months ago, I made a decision that affected this team. As you all know, Emily had lost a lot of blood after her fight with Doyle. But the doctors were able to stabilize her. And she was airlifted from Boston to Bethesda under a covert exfiltration. Her identity was strictly need-to-know. And she stayed there until she was well enough to travel. She was reassigned to Paris where she was given several identities, none of which we had access to for her security.”

“She’s alive?” you choke out.

Spencer can’t process this; it doesn’t make any sense. “But we buried her.”

“As I said, I take full responsibility for the decision,” Hotch says. “If anyone has any issues, they should be directed toward me.”

“Any issues?” Morgan asks, voice shaking with emotion. “Yeah, I got issues.”

“I’ll say,” you agree. But before either of you can continue, you’re interrupted by the sound of footsteps behind you.

---

Ten weeks. Seventy days. One thousand, six hundred and eighty hours. None of it went by without Emily thinking of you.

Ten weeks, seventy days, one thousand, six hundred and eighty hours had passed by painfully slowly as she waited for the call.  

Every time her phone had rung in Paris, she answered it with bated breath, hoping this was the one, the call that meant she could come back to her home, her team. Her family. You.

Unfortunately, it also comes with the news that Declan is in danger.

The glass doors to the BAU don’t feel the same as she walks through them. None of the building does. She had expected to it to feel the way it always had. Warm, full of life, where she belonged. But tonight, it just feels cold.

Through the blinds, she can see Hotch talking to the team, presumably revealing the truth about her death. As she gets closer, she can hear voices.

“... anyone has any issues, they should be directed toward me.” Hotch.

“Any issues? Yeah, I got issues.” Morgan.

“I’ll say.” You.

She stops in the doorway, and everyone turns to face her.

“Oh, my god,” Garcia whispers.

Everyone’s looking at her, but Emily only has eyes for you.

You’re staring back at her, mouth hanging open slightly, tears slipping out of your eyes and down your cheeks. There’s silence until you suddenly push back your chair and stand. Emily drops her bag to the floor just before you slam into her, nearly knocking her over. You cling to her, and she clings back.

Then she feels it. She feels the warmth and life, the sense of belonging.

Here, with you in her arms, she’s finally home.

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

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[midnxghtsunwrites]

“ IT WASN'T YOUR FAULT ”

PAIRING —

andy barber x black! pregnant! reader

SUMMARY —

y/n knew something was wrong the moment she woke up with blood soaked sheets and a tightness in her chest.

WARNINGS —

this imagine will contain possibly extremely triggering content such as mentions of infertility, pregnancy irregularities, loss of pregnancy ( stillborn pregnancy ) , explicit language, sadness, and possible anxiety & depression under the cut

proceed with caution, viewer discretion is advised.

IT wasn't the cool draft of breeze flowing from the vent or the soft hum of the AC that woke you up from your sleep. It wasn't Andy shifting on his side of the bed or the loftiness of your two pillows or the fact that your bonnet slid off during the night.

What made you stir was the long forgotten sensation of something running down your inner thigh — the sinking feeling in your belly. Of course, you've felt it before when you were far from pregnant and set to start your period. Usually, however, you would have a gut feeling the night before which often prompted you to wear a pad to bed.

Tonight was different.

You stuck to just panties as pajamas since pregnancy made you hot when you're supposed to be cold and cold when you're supposed to be hot.

When you switch on the lamp on your side of the bed, Andy is spurred awake by the snap of the switch and the sudden influx of light. Since he was laying flat on his back, he just turns his head to look at you with squinted eyes, still adjusting to the brightness.

He furrows his eyebrows as he takes in the look of worry on your face. He knows you well enough to see that you're freaking out internally.

"Sweetheart, what's wrong?" He begins to sit up, "Is it the baby?"

You don't want to look. You don't want to give yourself less faith than you already have. You can't look.

You've already endured years and years of being told that you would never have a child — and the one moment of happiness you got when you found out you were pregnant with your husband's baby is being stripped away. Just like that.

"I think I'm bleeding." Your voice shakes as you speak.

Andy was always the level-headed one in the relationship. Five years of being together and three years of marriage taught you that. You've seen him through his highest highs and lowest lows — lost cases and cases that kept him up at nights. But you have never seen him so panicked at something you said.

Even though his body language screams alarm, his voice is level and calm. "Okay, let's go to the hospital. I'll call ahead."

You nod, squeezing your eyes shut in frustration, "Okay." You whisper.

THE gel is cold against your stomach, shocking you into reality. You listen for the sound of your baby's heartbeat — the one that will let you know that everything is okay.

Everyone seems to be frozen as your gynecologist shifts the wand along your smooth bump. When the room is deathly silent, the only sound to be heard is your heavy exhale, Andy shakes his head, distress on his face.

"What does this..." He can't even finish his sentence. You squeeze your eyes shut. "Why can't we hear a heartbeat?"

Dr. Moore gives her patients sympathetic glances — this is the last thing she would ever wish on any woman. "I'm sorry, Andy, Y/N. It seems... Your baby doesn't have a heartbeat."

It felt like you were struck by an entire planet. Your thought maybe you didn't hear her properly. "What?"

The doctor bows her head in shame, "I am very sorry. Your baby died in utero a couple of hours ago."

Her words seem to be blocked out as you shake you head profusely. You can't breathe, you can't see, you can't even function. You felt it.

"This cannot be happening." You mumble under your breath. This doesn't feel real. Your cheeks are stained with tears at the news.

Andy is by your side, running a hand over your hair that you barely managed to pull back before you entered the hospital. He's holding back tears, but watching you break was enough for him to allow a tear to roll down his red face.

"I'm going to give you guys some time. A nurse will be in soon to discuss your options with you. I'm sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Barber." Dr. Moore reiterates one final time before leaving you to grieve.

When she closes the door behind her, you take no time to grab on to Andy's hand and curl into him. He rests his hand on the back of your head as you sob into his shoulder.

"I know, baby. I know. I'm right here."

ANDREW was right there when the doctors induced your labor. He was right there when you had to endure a painful delivery to your baby girl. Your beautiful baby girl. He was there when you held her for the first and last time. He was there for the next week when you'd decided to stay in the hospital, needing time to come to terms with how quickly everything happened.

With just a picture of her captivating face as a memento, you guys went home. Without your baby.

You felt frozen — stuck in your mind, thinking of what it would've been like had things gone differently. You would be walking in your house with a car seat and a sleeping or babbling baby, a wide smile on your face. Andy would've been absolutely amazed at what you two had made.

Now? You don't even know how you walked out of the hospital or into the house without breaking down and getting yourself admitted into psych.

You're fixed to the threshold of the door — you couldn't move even if you wanted to, struck by a sudden wave of melancholy. All you can think of is the talks you and Andy had about your shared excitement.

"Honey." Andy's voice draws you back to earth. He's stood behind you, going through his own tide of emotions.

He couldn't even imagine the toll this is having on you.

You close your eyes and lean forward, the palms of your hands pressing against the door jamb. "I just need a minute."

"Okay." Andy nods in understanding, resorting to rubbing your back, gingerly.

Moments pass before you finally step into the house, your breathing shallow with anticipation. Andrew is close behind you, eyeing you cautiously and lovingly. He just wants to hold you, but he knows you need some time to yourself.

That's why he simply nods when you suggest that you should go take a shower and lay down.

"I'll make you some food." He tells you.

Your footsteps seem to echo against the walls seeing as you kept your shoes on. You weren't sure you had the energy to care about tracking dirt inside.

Entering the bedroom, you're overwhelmed with a surge of anger and disappointment.

The bed hadn't been touched since the night you went to the hospital and now you can see the sheet is strewn in the center of the mattress, a pool of long-since dried blood staring at you — "Fuck," You run a hand through your matted hair.

Part of you gets to scrubbing because how else would you take the nap you told Andy about? The other part wants to scrub away the reminder of that night. The panic and pure fear in your veins — in Andy's.

On your knees, sleeves rolled up, and fatigue ramming through you like a train, you attempt to wash away the painful memory. No matter how much elbow grease you put into it, the stain doesn't budge.

Thoughts flood your mind — is this a punishment? Am I getting punished for all the harmless things I've done in my life?

You press down further, sinking the springs in the mattress. The frustration is clear in your gaze — exasperated sighs escaping you. You're so caught up in your action that you don't even realize when a loud and defeated wail renders you a sobbing mess.

You don't hear Andy run up the stairs at the sound and stand at the door, eyebrows furrowed in worry and tenderness. He watches you for a second as you hunch forward and hit your hands against the bed in anger.

"I'm so sorry," You cry to no one in particular, "I should've known something or done something — I should've taken more care of you."

Tears gather in your husband's eyes as he hears your words. He wastes no time in stepping towards you and resting a hand on your shoulder. You flinch slightly, not expecting Andy to have heard you.

You can't even look at him, so disappointed and ashamed of yourself that you can't gather the courage to look your husband in the eye.

"Y/N, come here." He gently goads you to stand, his hand warm on your shoulder. When you rise to your feet, Andy pulls you into him, not caring about the snot or tears that transfer from your face to his t-shirt. He rubs a hand down your back and another over your hair and sniffles, "Don't you dare blame yourself for what happened. It wasn't your fault."

In that moment, his words meant nothing to you. They just drowned under the grief you were experiencing. It was only during the silent night when you two were laying on the couch of the living room after dumping your mattress that you realized how much his words meant to you.

With your head resting on his chest, you crane your neck up and gaze at him, watching as he stares up at the ceiling in thought.

"Andrew?" You whisper, voice cracking after hours of weeping.

He shifts his gaze to you, giving you his full attention. "Hmm?"

You take in his blue eyes which have seemed to lose its sparkle. "I love you."

He presses a sweet kiss to your lips, layered in salty tears, "I love you too."

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[statticscribbles]

Nomenclature

Summary: Cheryl/Jones!Reader Request: After finding out FP is to blame for Jason’s death; what would happen to their relationship and then after they figure out it was actually Clifford Blossom.

Cheryl’s voice floats into your ears. It’s then you realize she’s not talking to you, she’s talking next to you. To the space closest to you without needing to acknowledge you; you hope it’s because she still has feelings for you. Although as she presses herself against the wall as you step forward; you watch her eyes shine and you understand. Cheryl Blossom, your girlfriend, is afraid. You leave deciding you’re unwilling to know if it is fear for you or of you. “I know what Jones’ are capable of!” She shouts after you. You bite your tongue to not shout back. You let your brother pull you into a hug. “I’m guessing trying to explain it to her didn’t go well?” You shrug as Jughead keeps his arm around you, you follow him from the school and towards the holding cell in the sheriff’s station. “I’m only capable of loving her; why can’t she see that?” You kick a rock from the pathway as you trudge towards the station.

“She can; that’s what scares her. She can avoid a murderer, she can avoid me cause I mean nothing to her. Only thing worse than someone who hates you;” He pauses stumbling slightly so you’re forced to turn around. You catch Cheryl jerking back to hide. “Is someone who loves you.” “Jug, she hates me! Did you not hear her threaten to cut me from the Vixen’s earlier, or about how I shouldn’t touch her with “murder child hands” He laughs as you scowl.

“If she hated you she would have broken up with you. Or gotten you expelled” He nods and shoves you towards her. You keep your eyes on the ground. “I can’t forgive your father.” She spits and you nod. “Can you forgive me?” “Why?” You meet her eyes surprised to see her confused. “You didn’t do anything Y/N, you didn’t kill JJ, you didn’t help your dad hide the body, you did nothing wrong.” “My dad did.”

“Yes he did, but I’m not having my girlfriend suffer due to guilt by association. Beside’s Jason would want me to be happy, and being with you is what makes me happy.” You nod at her turning back as you hear Jughead open the door to the Sheriff’s station. “I have to go, visiting hours are tight.” She nods and you try your best to steel yourself for her being gone once you leave.

Your dad’s not angry you’re still with Cheryl, he seems more surprised than anything, offering you and Jughead only one mouthful of advice. To leave it alone. You’re not a hundred percent sure exactly what he means for you and Jughead to leave alone but you find out quickly when they find a usb drive tucked into Jason’s jacket.

There’s no sound on the video, you’re thankful for that and you stare fearfully at Betty as she moves from the now closed laptop and pulls her phone out. You stumble up, towards your bike, trying to shove Jughead off you, but he keeps his hands on your shoulders. “No Y/N. Stay; it’s safer. You don’t know what they’d do if you show up. The daughter of the man that killed their son?” “It wasn’t dad! It wasn’t him! We have; I have to let Cheryl know! She’s not safe there! She’s not safe!” Jughead nods pulling you back towards the shed. “We’ll take care of it. Seriously, don’t worry.”

“You’re telling me that it’s okay to let my girlfriend stay in a house with her father, who murdered her brother, and I’m not supposed to worry?How would you feel if Betty’s dad murdered someone and she was staying with him?” You snap and smirk when he stays quiet. “Well you still can’t just run up and break her out.” You huff and sit back on the couch.

—————————————————————————————- Despite everything that’s happened it’s school as normal. You’re nervous about returning to Cheryl’s side, as the unwavering popularity had fastened itself around her it seemed to slide off of you. What had been glares for being a Southsider, and then glares for being the daughter of a murderer had now morphed back into a surprisingly normal glare, the envy of being popular, the envy of being with Cheryl.

You settle back into the routine of school, of being with the HBIC; you find small things have changed, one of which is Cheryl bringing you home. You’re slowly growing more terrified as you walk up the steps waiting for her mother or nana to appear and demand you leave and never return. The house is empty, void of anything that resembles the home Cheryl would describe to you. She brings you up to her room, sitting on her bed; you’re expecting to go through the photo albums again; to hear more stories of Jason and her as kids. Instead she grips your hands.

“Why are you still here.” Her voice is as limp as her grip on you; you rub your thumb over her skin and tug her hand into your lap as you pull her into a hug. “Because I love you Cheryl.” “I accused your father, I sent him to jail, you could have-“ she starts “Cheryl, that’s not going to happen anymore, that’s in the past. I have to let that go, yes I’m upset it happened, but I don’t blame you. If I did that, if I blamed and held onto everything that could have happened I’d be so angry and hurt all the time. I wouldn’t have anything to do with my dad, or Jughead, or any of his friends. I’d still be at Southside High, I wouldn’t know you.” You shut her down, pulling her back with you as you lay on her bed. “I love you.” You repeat kissing her face until she smiles against your lips.

“Seriously babe, you need to heal, you’ve been through a lot. No one will blame you for not being sad or upset all the time. I’m here for you.” “Why?” She ducks her head cuddling into you. “Because being with you makes me happy.” You watch her frown almost playfully. “You have to come up with your own ideas. Can’t go stealing mine.” “Well you’ve already stolen my heart.” You laugh and she rolls her eyes. “Can you at least think about getting some different cheesy one liners?” “You know you love them.” You nod enthusiastically. “I love them because I love you.” You nod. “Exactly so by default of loving me, you love them. It’s basic math.”

“And what do you know about math?” You grin and she groans. “Babe please don’t-“ “Well I know that me plus you equals forever.” You laugh when she shoves a pillow at you. “Cherylllll stopppp, wait is it true your pillows are stuffed with cash?” “No that’s a dumb rumor, they’re filled with goose down.” “So no cash at all?” She narrows her eyes. “No, why?” You try your best to stifle a laugh. “Cause-“ You don’t finish before the pillow is smacked into your face.

“I warned you Y/N” You nod smiling at her. “You know you should really let more people see this side of you.” “What side? You mean I should flirt and cuddle with everyone?” You shake your head laughing. “No, just be a little less HBIC all the time. Take a break, relax.” “Well that’s what I’m doing now.” “No with other people.” She rolls her eyes. “No, I refuse.” You sit up and she returns to curling around you, the pillows resuming their place behind your heads.

“I was really scared you were going to break up with me.” You look confused as Cheryl runs her fingers through your hair. “Why would I break up with you?” “Because I accused your-“ “Cheryl, we just-“ “No.” You freeze as she snaps at you. “I accused your father, almost got you sent back to the Southside to a foster family and never being able to see you again!” You nod letting her vent and sputter to you, complaining about herself and her faults. You sit watching and nodding along as her voice begins to crackle and it becomes slightly more sobbing than actually words. You pull her in as close as possible tucking her head against your shoulder as you hold her. “I’m sorry.” You speak into her hair as she shakes her head weakly.

“I’m sorry for not realizing how much this was hurting you. I’m not upset at you Cheryl; I’m upset at the circumstances that pushed us apart but not at you, never at you. I want to be with you, I’m making that choice. Just like I’ve made the choice to forgive you for hitting Jughead, for blaming my dad. You were just grieving, you were hurting and I wasn’t there for you. I’m sorry for that. That’s what I’m apologizing for, for not being there for you, my girlfriend, the love of my life. I’m so sorry.” She pulls back to look at you, you move to wipe the tears at the corner of her eyes, and she does the same for you. “I shouldn’t have pushed you away. That’s sort of how I was taught. You either love with everything, or give nothing.” You nod kissing her. “Well then good thing you didn’t push me away properly.” She laughs a little. ‘Can’t even do that right.”

“Hey, babe, stop. I’m here, you’re not a bad person, I still love you. I stayed. I want to stay. I want to be with you.” You rest your forehead on hers and she nods to you. You stay like that for a moment content to watch her, you notice her eyes flickering around you face, you smile and you can see her lips quirk up slightly. “What-“ She nudges your forehead and you close your mouth watching her watch you. “I was memorizing your face.” “Why?” “I want to draw you later.”

“You draw?” You shift on the bed as she nods turning almost shyly from your sight to pull a sketchbook from beside her bed. She holds it out and nods to you, you open it slowly thumbing through the pages. Most are of the Vixen practice, there’s a few of the Bulldog’s practice as well. Reggie and Jason stretching; Archie playing his guitar. Betty and Jughead asleep in the student lounge. Veronica and Josie practicing some song. You look up glancing back as you flip the page, half sketches of you, part of your smile, or your hand brushing your ear. “These are amazing.” She shrugs and pulls the sketchbook back to place it in the drawer she got it from.

“You could ask me you know, to draw me.” You smile and her face lights up, you tilt your head as a grin stretches her face. “Are you asking for me to draw-“ “Cheryl no I want to say it!” She clamps a hand over your mouth. “Draw you like one of those French girls.” She winks and you glare before licking her hand, she wipes it down your face laughing as you cringe.

“It’s your spit, don’t look so disgusted.” “Yes, and it’s supposed to stay in my mouth.” “You say as you lick my hand.” She arches an eyebrow  at you and you shrug. “You stole my line.” “I wasn’t aware we’re on the Titanic now.” You half pounce on her pulling her into as tight of a hug as you can manage. “I’ll never let go Jackkkk” You both end up laughing holding each other as you fall asleep.

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